White Doves at Morning

Chapter Ten

LIEUTENANT Robert Perry had always slept without dreaming, or at least without dreaming of events or places or people he remembered in daylight. The world was a fine place, filled with bird-song and the smell of horses and wood smoke at dawn and fish spawning in swamps where the sunlight glowed like a green lantern inside the cypress. In fact, in the quietness of the dawn and the faint pinkness spreading across the cane fields and the cabins of the slaves and the horses blowing in the pasture, Robert sometimes believed he was witness to the quiet hush of God's breath upon the world.

Now sleep came to him fitfully and took him to places to which he did not want to return. The geographical designations-Manassas Junction, Winchester, Front Royal, Cross Keys-were names that never appeared in the dreams. His nocturnal recollection of these places came to him only in images and sounds: a night picket cocking back the hammer on a rifle, a man calling for water, another caught inside a burning woods, a stretcher bearer sitting on the lip of a crater in the middle of a railroad track, holding his ears, screaming, kicking his feet.

When Robert would finally fall into a deep slumber before dawn, he would awake suddenly to the whistling sound of a shell arcing out of its trajectory, then discover the world outside his tent was silent, except perhaps for a cook rattling pans in the back of a wagon. He would lie with his arm across his eyes, his palm resting on the coolness of his revolver, breathing slowly, reciting his morning prayers, waiting for his mind to empty of dreams he told himself had no application in the waking day.

The previous evening he had received a letter from Abigail Dowling, one that perplexed him and also saddened his heart, because even though he had already learned of Jim Stubbefield's death, he had not accepted it, each morning waking with the notion Jim was still alive, in the Western campaign with the 18th Louisiana, the youthful confidence on his face undisturbed by either war or mortality. In Robert's haversack was a carte de visite, taken by a photographer at Camp Pratt, showing Willie, Robert and Jim together for the last time, Jim standing while they sat, a hand on each of their shoulders, a gentle scarecrow posed between two smiling friends.

God fashions the pranksters to keep the rest of us honest, Jim. Wasn't right of you to die on us, old pal, he thought, almost resentfully.

But the other portions of Abigail's letter disturbed him as well, although with certainty he could not say why. He sat on a Quaker gun, in front of a cook fire, in the cool, smoky dawn above the Shenandoah Valley, and unfolded her letter and read it again.

Dear Robert,

I saw your father and he said you know of Jim's death at Shiloh. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am at the loss of your friend. Also I need to confide some thoughts of my own to you about the war and what I perceive as a great evil that has fallen upon the land. Please forgive me in advance if my words are hurtful in any way.

I helped prepare the body of a young Union soldier who had been guarding Confederate amputees in the hospital where I have been working in New Orleans. His throat had been cut by men in the employ of Colonel Ira Jamison. Colonel Jamison was offered a parole, but evidently for reasons of political gain he refused it and had a boy of seventeen murdered in order to establish himself as an escaped prisoner of war. I believe this man to be the most despicable human being I have ever met.

I witnessed the hanging of a gambler whose only crime was to possess a piece of a ripped Union flag. The execution was ordered by none other than General Butler himself, supposedly with the approval of President Lincoln. I would like to believe the deaths of the gambler and the young soldier were simply part of war's tragedy. But I would be entertaining a deception. Colonel Jamison and General Butler are emblematic of the arrogance of power. Their cruelty speaks for itself. The young sentry, the gambler, and Jim Stubbefield are their victims. I think there will be others.

Please write and tell me of your health and situation. Day and night you are in my thoughts and my prayers.

Affectionately,

Your friend,

Abigail

The Quaker gun he sat on was a huge log lopped free of branches that had been dragged into the earthworks and positioned to look like a cannon. Robert looked into the cook fire, then across an open field at timbered hills, where, if he listened carefully, he would hear axes chopping into wood, trees crashing among themselves, blue-clad men wheeling light artillery through the underbrush. The wind blew inside the earthworks and the pages of Abigail's letter fluttered in his hands.

"You think we're going across?" he asked a lieutenant sitting next to him.

The man was named Alcibiades LeBlanc. He was heavily bearded and was smoking a long-stem pipe, one leg crossed on his knee. When he removed the pipe from his mouth his cheeks were hollow and his mouth made a puckered button.

"Perhaps," he said.

Robert stood and looked across the field again. There were two round green hills next to each other in the distance, a stream that fed between them and woods on each side of a dammed pond at the bottom of the stream. A Union officer rode out of the trees and cantered his horse up and down the edge of the field. Robert thought he saw sunlight glint on brass or steel inside the trees.

"What troubles you? Not the Yanks, huh?" Alcibiades asked.

Robert handed him Abigail's letter to read. The earthworks were stark, constructed from huge baskets that had been braided together out of sticks and packed solidly with dirt and mud and rocks. Logs supported by field stones were laid out horizontally against the walls of the rifle pits so sharpshooters could stand on them and fire across the field. Alcibiades finished reading the letter and refolded it and handed it back to Robert.

"She wants to marry you," he said.

"It's that simple?" Robert said.

Across the field a shell exploded in a black puff of torn cotton high above the mounted officer's head. But the officer was unperturbed and wheeled his horse about and cantered it along the rim of the woods, where men in blue were forming a skirmish line behind the tree trunks.

"I don't know how many times we have to whip them to make them understand they're whipped," Alcibiades said.

"You didn't answer my question," Robert said.

"She loves you dearly, no doubt about it, and she'll marry you the day you turn your slaves loose and denounce all this out here," his friend said, waving his hand at the churned field, the horses that lay bloated and stiff in the irrigation ditches, the dead soldiers who'd had their pockets pulled inside out and their shoes stripped from their feet.

Robert put away Abigail's letter and stared at the shells bursting over the hills in the distance. Ten minutes later he advanced with the others in a long gray and butternut line through the whine of minie balls and the trajectory scream of a Yankee mortar Southerners called Whistling Dick. On either side of him he could hear bullets and canister and case shot thudding into the bodies of friends with whom he had eaten breakfast only a short time ago.

The hills in the distance reminded him of a woman's breasts. That fact made him clench his hands on the stock of his carbine with a degree of visceral anger he did not understand.

JEAN-JACQUES LaRose loved clipper ships, playing the piano, fist-fighting in saloons, and the world of commerce. He thought politics was a confidence game, created to fool those gullible enough to trust their money and well-being to others. The notion of an egalitarian society and seeking justice in the courts was another fool's venture. The real equalizer in the world was money.

Early on he knew he had a knack for business and how to recognize cupidity in others and how to use it to drive them against the wall. In business Scavenger Jack took no prisoners. Money gave him power, and with power he could flaunt his illiteracy and whorehouse manners and stick his bastard birth status in the faces of all those who had sent him around to their back doors when he was a child.

According to the gospel of Jean-Jacques LaRose, anyone who said money was not important was probably working on a plan to take it from you.

He was childish, slovenly, sentimental, a slobbering drunk, a ferocious barroom brawler who could leave a saloon in splinters, true to his word, honest about his debts, at least when he could remember them, and absolutely fearless when it came to running the Union blockade out on the salt.

He also loved the ship he had bought five years before the war from a famous French shipbuilder in the West Indies. It was long and sleek, and was constructed both with boilers and masts and could outdistance most of the Union gunboats that patrolled the mouth of the Mississippi or the entrances to the waterways along the wetlands of Louisiana.

In no time Jean-Jacques discovered that the Secession he had opposed was probably the best stroke of historical luck he could have fallen into. He took cotton out and brought coffee and rum in, with such a regular degree of success two men from the state government and one from the army came to him with a proposal about slipping through the blockade with a cargo of Enfield rifles.

Seems like the patriotic thing to do, Jean-Jacques told himself.

He picked up the rifles in the Berry Islands, west of Nassau. Cockneys who carried knives on their belts worked all night loading the hold, and the ship's captain Jean-Jacques paid in gold coin was an evil-smelling man who had a rouged West Indian boy in his cabin. But at false dawn Jean-Jacques' visitors were gone. The sails popped with a fresh breeze, and as the tide lifted him over the sandbar at the entrance to the cove where he had anchored, the waves were green and the coconuts floating inside them thudded against the solidness of the hull and the gulls hung on the breeze above his wake like a testament to HIs good fortune. It was going to be a splendid day, he told himself.

At noon he passed over reefs of fire coral, through small islands that swarmed with land crabs, and saw the steel-gray backs of porpoises arcing out of the water and stingrays and jellyfish toppling from the waves that slid against his bow. The air was hot and close and smelled like brass, like hurricane weather, but the sky was clear, the water lime-green with hot blue patches in it like floating clouds of India ink. He saw a ship briefly on the southern horizon, one with stacks and black smoke trailing off its stern, but the ship disappeared and he gave it no more thought.

Not until he was south of Dry Tortugas, in no more than fifteen feet of water, when the wind dropped, his sails went slack, and a Parrott gun at Fort Jefferson lobbed a round forty yards off his bow.

His boilers were cold. Jean-Jacques ran up a Spanish flag. Another round arced out of its trajectory, this one a fused shell that exploded in a dirty scorch overhead and showered his deck with strips of hot metal.

Then he felt the wind at his back, like the collective breath of angels. The sails on his masts filled and soon Fort Jefferson and the Straits of Florida were just a bad memory.

He sailed on a westerly course far south of New Orleans to avoid the noose the Yankee navy had placed around the city, then turned north, toward Cote Blanche Bay, leaving the murky green pitch and roll of the Gulf, entering the alluvial fan of the Mississippi that flowed westward like a river of silt.

He waited for nightfall to go in. But even though the moon was down, the sky flickered with heat lightning, and at three in the morning two Yankee ships opened up on him, at least one of them using cast-iron cannonballs, hooked together with chain, that spun like a windmill and could cut a deckhand in half.

The twin paddle-wheels on his port and starboard were churning full-out, the boilers red-hot, one mast down on the deck, the sails ripped into shreds. Lightning rippled across the sky and in the distance he saw the low, black-green silhouette of the Louisiana coastline. But he knew he would not reach it. Grapeshot that was still glowing rained across the entirety of the ship, fizzing when it hit the bilge down below, blowing the windows out of his cabin, setting fires all over the deck. Then a Confederate shore battery boomed in the darkness and he saw a shell spark across the sky and light up a Yankee gunboat as though a flare had burst inside its rigging.

As if obeying a prearranged understanding, all the firing ceased and Marsh Island slid by on his port side and he sailed into the quiet waters of Cote Blanche Bay at low tide, scraping across a sandbar, drifting into the smell of schooled-up shrimp and flooded saw grass and sour mud and huge garfish that had died in hoop nets and floated swollen and ratchet-jawed to the surface.

He believed it was the most lovely nocturnal scene he had ever set his eyes on. He breathed the night air into his lungs, uncorked a wine bottle and, with the bottle up-ended, drank most of it in one long, chugging swallow, until he lost his balance and fell backward over a shattered spar. One by one, his four crew members found him, all of them still scared to death, none of them seriously hurt. They threw roped buckets overboard and drenched the fires on deck, then drank a case of wine and went to sleep on the piles of canvas that had fallen from the masts.

The next day Jean-Jacques discovered his real problems had just begun.

Two dozen mule-drawn wagons and twice that many blacks and Confederate enlisted men arrived in a forest of persimmon, pecan, and live oak trees to take possession of the Enfield rifles. The floor of the forest was dotted with palmettos, the air hazy and golden with dust. The officer in charge of the transfer was Captain Rufus Atkins.

"I thought you was off fighting Yankees," Jean-Jacques said.

"Currently on leave from the 18th Lou'sana," Atkins said.

It was warm inside the trees. The wind had died and the bay looked like a sheet of tin. Atkins wiped his face with a handkerchief.

"We need to settle up," Jean-Jacques said.

"This is Mr. Guilbeau. Assistant to the gov'nor. He'll make everything right for you, Jack," Atkins said.

"I don't use that name. My name is Jean-Jacques, me."

"Sorry, I thought your friends called you otherwise," Atkins said.

The man named Guilbeau was tall and had a long face, like a horse's, and a narrow frame and a stomach that protruded in a lopsided fashion, like a person whose liver has calcified. He dropped the tailgate on a wagon and set a crimson carpetbag on it that was woven with a floral design. He unsnapped the wood laches on the bag, then lifted a gold watch from his vest pocket and clicked it open and looked at the time.

Jean-Jacques stuck his hand inside the bag and picked up a sheaf of bills that was tied with string.

"Script?" he said.

"It's the currency of your country, sir," Guilbeau said.

"Wipe your ass wit' it," Jean-Jacques said.

Guilbeau hooked his little finger in his ear, then examined the tip of it.

"Would you prefer a promissory note?" he asked.

"I paid gold for them guns."

"Sorry you feel so badly used. Maybe you can share your complaint with some of our boys who had to fight with flintlocks at Shiloh," Guilbeau said.

"I seen you befo'. Wit' Ira Jamison," Jean-Jacques said.

Guilbeau put a twist of chewing tobacco in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully in one jaw. He spit in the leaves at his feet and lifted the carpetbag from the tailgate of the wagon and walked it down to the bank and dropped it in the rowboat in which Jean-Jacques had come ashore.

Jean-Jacques watched the black men load the cases of Enfields into the wagons. Most of them were barefoot, their clothes in tatters, sweat sliding down their faces in the heated enclosure of the trees. His own men were hung over and sick, sleeping under a shade tree on the bank. He no longer felt like a ship's captain but instead like an object of contempt who stands by impotently while thieves sack his house. He opened and closed his hands and bit down on his lip, but continued to do nothing while the black men crunched back and forth in the leaves and flung the British rifles heavily into the wagons, case upon case, latching up the tailgates now, the armed enlisted men in the wagon boxes lifting the reins off the mules' backs.

"Ain't right what y'all doing," Jean-Jacques said.

"We'll be mixing it up with the blue-bellies soon. You're welcome to join us. Be a lot of opportunities if this war comes out right," Atkins said.

"Ira Jamison got his thumb in this," Jean-Jacques said.

"That's about like saying there's crawfish in Lou'sana, Jack," Atkins said.

"'It'll him the man who steals from me don't just walk away, no."

"My regards to your sister. She's an exceptional woman. Two thirds of the soldiers at Camp Pratt can't be wrong," Atkins said.

He mounted his horse and rode to the head of the wagon train. Jean-Jacques watched as the wagons creaked over the live oak roots, snapping pecan husks under the iron rims of the wheels, the sun-heated dust floating back into his face.

SATURDAY afternoon he rode his horse to the brick saloon next to his sister's brothel and stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey. The bartender served him without speaking, and others returned his greeting obliquely, an obstruction in their throats, their eyes not meeting his.

A bearded man with a pinned-up sleeve, his arm taken at Manassas Junction, looked him boldly in the face, then tossed his cigar hissing into a spittoon six inches from Jean-Jacques' shoe.

"I'm glad you got a good aim, you," Jean-Jacques said.

But the ex-soldier studied the brown spots on the back of his hand and took no pleasure in Jean-Jacques' sense of humor.

A cotton trader from up on the Red River, whom he had known for years, was sitting at a table behind him, one corner of the opened newspaper he was reading held down with a beer glass to stop it from fluttering in the breeze that blew through the door.

"Pretty damn hot today, huh?" Jean-Jacques said.

"Why, yes it is," the man said, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes focusing outside.

Jean-Jacques picked up his whiskey and approached the cotton trader, but the cotton trader rose from the table, gathering up his hat hurriedly, and went out the door. Jean-Jacques stared after him, then looked about for an explanation. Every back in the saloon was turned to him.

He looked down at the opened newspaper and tried to make sense out of the headlines. But the only words he recognized on the page were those of his own name, in the first paragraph of an article that might as well have been written in Chinese.

He ripped the page from the newspaper and stuffed it in his pocket, then walked out of the coolness of the building into the late afternoon heat and angrily swung up on his horse. Inside the bar the customers were talking omong themselves again, buying drinks for one another, their cigars glowing inside the dim bourbon-scented darkness of the Saturday afternoon haunt he had always taken for granted.

He rode to the cabin he owned on the bayou south of town, among a grove of cypress trees that stood on high ground above the floodline. He kept a pirogue there and fishnets and cane poles, a worktable where he carved duck decoys for his hunting blind, a pantry full of preserves and smoked fish and beef and corked bottles of wine and rum. Red and yellow four-o'clocks bloomed in the shade and bamboo and elephant ears grew along the water's edge. It was a place that had always made him happy and secure in his feelings about the world and himself when no other place did, but today, in spite of the gold-green evening light and the wind blowing through the trees, a pall like a black film seemed to descend on his soul.

He snicked away at a mallard duck he was carving from a block of cypress wood, then felt the knife slip with his inattention and slice across the edge of his finger.

He crimped his finger in the cone of his right hand and went outside to fill a bucket with rainwater from the cistern. Next door the slave girl named Flower, who worked at the laundry not far from his sister's brothel, was buying carp off a flat-bottomed boat piled with blue-point crabs and yellow catfish that looked like mud-slick logs.

"You hurt yourself, Mr. Jean?" she asked, setting down her basket and taking his hand.

"I passed my hand under the knife and it cut me," he said, dumbly, looking down from his height at the top of her head.

"Here, I'm gonna wash it out, then put some cobweb on it. You got some clean cloth we can tie it up with?" she said.

"No, I ain't got nothing like that," he said.

She went to the buggy she had driven to the bayou and removed a clean napkin from a basket of bread rolls and came back, shaking it out.

"Here, we're gonna get you fixed up. You gonna see," she said.

She went inside the cabin with him and washed and dressed his hand. It felt strange having a black woman care for him, touching and examining his skin, turning his wrist over in her fingers, when he had not asked help of her and when she was not obligated to offer any.

"Why you came back from New Orleans, you?" he said.

"This is where I? live," she replied.

"You could have been free."

"My family ain't… it isn't free. They're still up at Angola."

She held his hand tightly and when she pulled the bandage knot tight with her teeth he felt a reaction in his loins that made him glance away from her face. She put his hand down and made ready to go.

"Why you look so sad, Mr. Jean?" she asked.

"I was in the saloon. People treated me like I done somet'ing wrong. Maybe I was drunk in there and I done somet'ing I don't remember."

"Sometime people are just that way, Mr. Jean. It don't mean… it doesn't mean you done anything wrong."

He was seated in a chair by the window. He looked out on the bayou at a white man in a pirogue raking moss from the tree limbs that the man would later sell for stuffing in mattresses. Jean-Jacques remembered the crumpled newspaper page from his pants pocket and smoothed it on the tabletop. His finger moved down a column of print and stopped.

"My name's right there. See? But I don't know why, me. Maybe they're writing in there about my ship getting shot up, huh?" he said.

She walked around behind him and peered over his shoulder. He could smell the red hibiscus she wore in her hair and a clean, crisp odor in her clothes. Her breastline rose and fell on the corner of his vision.

"You a good man, Mr. Jean. You always been good to people of color. You ain't got to… I mean, you don't have to pay attention to what somebody write in a paper about you," she said.

"You can read that?" he said, turning in his chair, his finger still spear-pointed in the middle of the article.

"I reckon," she said.

He stared at her stupidly. Then his eyes blinked.

"What it say?" he asked.

"'Unlike Colonel Jamison, who risked his life to escape from a prison hospital, a local gentleman by the name of Jean-Jacques LaRose tried to extract gold from our treasury in payment for rifles that should have been donated to our soldiers. This man's greed should sicken every patriot.'"

Jean-Jacques looked at the man harvesting moss from the trees limbs that extended the bayou. The man was white -haired and old, his clothes mended in many places, and he was struggling to free his rake from where it had become entangled in the branches over his head. If the man was lucky, he would make perhaps a half-dollar's wage for his day's work.

"Men who work for Ira Jamison cheated me. They give me script for guns I bought with gold. Then they made me out a traitor," Jean-Jacques said.

It was quiet a long time inside the cabin. Flower's weight shifted on the floor boards.

"Mr. Jean, Colonel Jamison is moving all his slaves up into Arkansas. A whole bunch is already gone. Maybe they never gonna be free," Flower said.

"What you saying?",

"Miss Abigail is looking to hire a boat."

He looked sharply into her face. "Boat for what?" he asked.

"I ain't… I haven't said."

"My ship was raked with grape out on the salt. I got one mast down and holes in the boiler." He looked thoughtfully out the window. The old man was gone and the bayou was empty, wrinkled now with wind and sunlight.

"I see," she said.

"But I got another one, me. Tied up in a backwater, just outside Baton Rouge," he said.

SERGEANT Willie Burke stood on a promontory above the Mississippi River and looked down at the gathering dusk in the trees on the far shore. The late sun was molten and red in the west, and down below he could see dark shapes, like the backs of terrapins, floating in the water, oscillating slowly, sliding off logs that had snagged in jams on sandbars. Except they were not terrapins. They were men, and their blue blouses were puffed with air, their wooly hair bejeweled with drops of water, their wounds pecked clean and bloodless by carrion birds that perched on their heads or necks or the pockets of air in their uniforms.

They had been members of the Louisiana Native Guards, originally a regiment of free black men in the service of the Confederacy. After the fall of New Orleans, they had been reorganized by the Federals into the 1st Louisiana Infantry and assigned to guard the railway leading into New Orleans.

There were stories about captured Negro soldiers who were being sold into slavery, and also rumors about Negro soldiers who had not been allowed to surrender. Willie wondered if those floating down had died under a black flag, one that meant no quarter.

Clay Hatcher and another man just like him, rodent-eyed, despised inside the womb, went out each night by themselves and did not tell others of what they did. But at dawn, when they returned to camp, there was a sated gleam in their eyes, a shared knowledge between them, like pride in an erotic conquest.

Hatcher had used a nail file to saw sixteen narrow indentations along the stock of the scoped Springfield that he kept cleaned and oiled in the way a watchmaker cleans and oils the delicate mechanisms inside a fine clock. Hatcher had also taken to wearing a woman's garter high up on his right shirtsleeve, the purpose of which, he claimed, was to keep his forearm and wrist unencumbered when crawling up on a target.

Each day or night a story passed on the river and Willie wondered why those who wrote about war concentrated on battles and seldom studied the edges of grand events and the detritus that wars created: livestock with their throats slit, the swollen carcasses of horses gut-shot by grape or canister, a burning houseboat spinning around a bend at night, with no one aboard, the flames singeing the leaves in the gum trees along the bank, a naked lunatic drifting by on a raft, a cowbell hanging from his throat, a Bible open in his hand, yelling a sermon at the soldiers on the shore, a pimp from Baton Rouge trying to put in to shore with a boatload of whores.

But who was he to reflect upon the infinite manifestations of human insanity, he asked himself. The hardness of his body, his sun-browned skin, the sergeant's stripes that were already becoming sun-bleached on his sleeve, were all a new and strange way of looking at himself, but in truth he didn't know if he had grown into the person he had always been or if a cynical and insentient stranger lived inside him.

He no longer questioned the authority or wisdom of those who had power over his life, no more than he would question the legitimacy of the weather in the morning or the rising and setting of the sun. He also kept his own counsel and did not express his disapproval of others, even when they committed cruel or atrocious acts. The ebb and flow of armies was not his to judge anymore. Years from now the great issues of the war would be forgotten and the consequences of his actions would have importance only to himself. He was determined he would never be ashamed of them, and that simple goal seemed to be honor enough.

He could not believe that to some degree he had probably earned a footnote in history by having scouted for Nathan Forrest at the battle of Shiloh. But if someone were to ask him of his impressions about the colonel, he would reply he recalled little about him, other than the fact he was a coarse-skinned, profane man who bathed in horse tanks and put enough string tobacco in his mouth to clog a cannon, and if Willie saw him amid a gathering of grocery clerks, he would probably not recognize him nor wish to do so.

He watched the cooks butcher a flock of chickens they had taken from the farm of a widow downstream. She had refused the Confederate script a major had tried to give her and had pleaded in French for him not to take her poultry, that they were her only source of eggs for a sickly grandchild. When the major took his brass trainman's watch from his pocket and hung it across her palm, she swung it by the chain and smashed it on a stump.

Willie stared down from the promontory at the body of a dead Negro soldier caught on a snag, the current eddying around the crown of his head, the closed eyes and upturned face like a carved deathmask superimposed on the water's surface. Downstream a flat-bottomed boat was headed north, its decks covered with canvas, a Southern flag flying from the stern, its windows filled with the sun's last red glow.

Willie smelled the chickens frying in skillets over a fire. He got his mess kit from his tent and sat on a log with his comrades and waited for the food to be done.