Wade in the Water Read online

  (The loss of the services of a servant is great),

  But for our own good we have to answer

  For all that has happened. Please. All.

  I WILL TELL YOU THE TRUTH ABOUT THIS, I WILL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT

  Carlisle, Pa. Nov 21 1864

  Mr abarham lincon

  I wont to knw sir if you please

  whether I can have my son relest

  from the arme he is all the subport

  I have now his father is Dead

  and his brother that wase all

  the help I had he has bean wonded

  twise he has not had nothing to send me yet

  now I am old and my head is blossaming

  for the grave and if you do I hope

  the lord will bless you and me

  tha say that you will simpethise

  withe the poor he be long to the

  eight rigmat colard troops

  he is a sarjent

  mart welcom is his name

  Benton Barracks Hospital, St. Louis, Mo. September 3 1864

  My Children

  I take my pen in hand to rite you A few lines

  to let you know that I have not Forgot you

  be assured that I will have you if it cost me my life

  on the 28th of the month 8 hundred White and

  8 hundred blacke solders expects to start up

  the river to Glasgow when they Come

  I expect to be with them and expect to get you

  Both in return

  Your Miss Kaitty said that I tried

  to steal you You tell her from me that if she

  meets me with ten thousand soldiers she will meet

  Her enemy

  Give my love to all enquiring friends

  tell them all that we are well

  Camp Nelson, Ky. November 26 1864

  The morning was bitter cold.

  It was freezing hard. I was

  certain it would kill my sick child

  to take him out in the cold. I told

  the man in charge of the guard

  that it would be the death of my boy.

  I told him that my wife and children

  had no place to go and that I

  was a soldier of the United States.

  He told me it did not make any difference.

  He had orders to take all out of Camp.

  He told my wife and family that if they

  did not get up into the wagon he would

  shoot the last one of them. My wife

  carried her sick child in her arms.

  The wind was blowing hard and cold

  and having had to leave much of our

  clothing when we left our master, my wife

  with her little one was poorly clad. I followed

  as far as the lines. At night I went in search.

  They were in an old meeting house belonging

  to the colored people. My wife and children

  could not get near the fire, because

  of the number of colored people huddling

  by the soldiers. They had not received

  a morsel of food during the whole day.

  My boy was dead. He died directly

  after getting down from the wagon.

  Next morning I walked to Nicholasville.

  I dug a grave and buried my child. I left

  my family in the Meeting house—

  where they still remain.

  Nashville, Tenn. Aug 12th 1865

  Dear Wife,

  I am in earnis about you comeing

  and that as Soon as possible

  It is no use to Say any thing about any money

  for if you come up here which I hope you will

  it will be all wright as to the money matters

  I want to See you and the Children very bad

  I can get a house at any time I will Say the word

  So you need not to fear as to that So come

  wright on just as Soon as you get this

  I want you to tell me the name of the baby

  that was born Since I left

  I am your affectionate Husband untill Death

  Belair, Md. Aug 25th 1864

  Mr president It is my Desire to be free to go to see my people

  on the eastern shore my mistress wont let me you will please

  let me know if we are free and what i can do

  Excellent Sir My son went in the 54th regiment—

  Sir, my husband, who is in Co. K. 22nd Reg’t U.S. Cold Troops

  (and now in the Macon Hospital at Portsmouth with a wound in his arm)

  has not received any pay since last May and then only thirteen dollars—

  Sir We The Members of Co D of the 55th Massechusetts vols

  Call the attention of your Excellency to our case—

  for instant look & see

  that we never was freed yet

  Run Right out of Slavery

  In to Soldiery & we

  hadent nothing atall &

  our wifes & mother most all of them

  is aperishing all about & we

  all are perishing our self—

  i am willing to bee a soldier and serve my time

  faithful like a man but i think it is hard to bee

  poot off in such dogesh manner as that—

  Will you see that the colored men fighting now

  are fairly treated. You ought to do this,

  and do it at once, Not let the thing run along

  meet it quickly and manfully. We poor oppressed ones

  appeal to you, and ask fair play—

  So Please if you can do any good for us do it

  in the name of God—

  Excuse my boldness but pleas—

  your reply will settle the matter and will be appreciated,

  by, a colored man who, is willing to sacrifice his son

  in the cause of Freedom & Humanity—

  I have nothing more to say

  hoping that you will lend a listening ear

  to an umble soldier

  I will close—

  Yours for Christs sake—

  (i shall hav to send this with out a stamp

  for I haint money enough to buy a stamp)

  Clarksville, Tenn. Aug 28th 1865

  Dear husband,

  I guess you would like to know the reason why

  that I did not come when you wrote for

  and that is because I hadnot the money

  and could not get it and if you will

  send me the money or come after me

  I will come they sent out

  Soldiers from here After old Riley and they

  have got him in Jale and one of his Sons

  and they have his brother Elias here

  in Jale dear husband If you are coming after me

  I want you to come before it Get too cold

  Florence, Ala. December 7th 1866

  Dear sir I take the pleashure of writing you

  A fue lins hoping that I will not ofende you

  by doing so I was raised in your state

  and was sold from their when I was 31 years olde

  left wife one childe Mother Brothers and sisters

  My wife died about 12 years agoe and ten years

  agoe I made money And went back and bought

  My olde Mother and she lives with me

  Seven years agoe I Maried again and commence

  to by Myself and wife for two thousande dollars and

  last Christmas I Made the last pay ment and I have

  made Some little Money this year and I wish

  to get my Kinde All with me and I will take it

  as a Greate favor if you will help me to get them

  Fort Bliss, Tex. March 9th 1867

  My dear sister I write you this letter to let you no

  I am well I ask of you in this letter to go and take

  my boy from my wif as sh is not doing write by him
r />   take him and keep him until I come home if sh is

  not willing to gave him up go and shoe this letter it is

  my recust for you to have him I doe not want her

  to have my child with another man I would lik

  for my child to be raised well I will be hom next fall

  if I live a solder stand a bad chanc but if god spars me

  I will be home

  I am 60 odd years of age—

  I am 62 years of age next month—

  I am about 65 years of age—

  I reckon I am about 67 years old—

  I am about 68 years of age—

  I am on the rise of 80 years of age—

  I am 89 years old—

  I am 94 years of age—

  I don’t know my exact age—

  I am the claimant in this case. I have testified before you

  two different times before—

  I filed my claim I think first about 12 years ago—

  I am now an applicant for a pension,

  because I understand

  that all soldiers are entitled to a pension—

  I claim pension under the general law

  on account of disease of eyes

  as a result of smallpox

  contracted in service—

  The varicose veins came on both my legs

  soon after the war and the sores were there

  when I first put in my claim—

  I claim pension for rheumatism

  and got my toe broke and I was struck

  in the side with the breech of a gun

  breaking my ribs—

  I was a man stout and healthy

  over 27 years of age when I enlisted—

  When I enlisted I had a little mustache,

  and some chin whiskers—

  I was a green boy right off the farm and did

  just what I was told to do—

  When I went to enlist the recruiting officer

  said to me, your name is John Wilson.

  I said, no, my name is Robert Harrison,

  but he put me down as John Wilson. I was

  known while in service by that name—

  I cannot read nor write, and I do not know

  how my name was spelled when I enlisted

  nor do I know how it is spelled now

  I always signed my name while in the army

  by making my mark

  I know my name by sound—

  My mother said after my discharge that the reason

  the officer put my name down as John Wilson

  was he could draw my bounty—

  I am the son of Solomon and Lucinda Sibley—

  I am the only living child of Dennis Campbell—

  My father was George Jourdan and my mother was Millie Jourdan—

  My mother told me that John Barnett was my father—

  My mother was Mary Eliza Jackson and my father Reuben Jackson—

  My name on the roll was Frank Nunn. No sir,

  it was not Frank Nearn—

  My full name is Dick Lewis Barnett.

  I am the applicant for pension

  on account of having served

  under the name Lewis Smith

  which was the name I wore before

  the days of slavery were over—

  My correct name is Hiram Kirkland.

  Some persons call me Harry and others call me Henry,

  but neither is my correct name.

  GHAZAL

  The sky is a dry pitiless white. The wide rows stretch on into death.

  Like famished birds, my hands strip each stalk of its stolen crop: our name.

  History is a ship forever setting sail. On either shore: mountains of men,

  Oceans of bone, an engine whose teeth shred all that is not our name.

  Can you imagine what will sound from us, what we’ll rend and claim

  When we find ourselves alone with all we’ve ever sought: our name?

  Or perhaps what we seek lives outside of speech, like a tribe of goats

  On a mountain above a lake, whose hooves nick away at rock. Our name

  Is blown from tree to tree, scattered by the breeze. Who am I to say what,

  In that marriage, is lost? For all I know, the grass has caught our name.

  Having risen from moan to growl, growl to a hound’s low bray,

  The voices catch. No priest, no sinner has yet been taught our name.

  Will it thunder up, the call of time? Or lie quiet as bedrock beneath

  Our feet? Our name our name our name our fraught, fraught name.

  III.

  THE UNITED STATES WELCOMES YOU

  Why and by whose power were you sent?

  What do you see that you may wish to steal?

  Why this dancing? Why do your dark bodies

  Drink up all the light? What are you demanding

  That we feel? Have you stolen something? Then

  What is that leaping in your chest? What is

  The nature of your mission? Do you seek

  To offer a confession? Have you anything to do

  With others brought by us to harm? Then

  Why are you afraid? And why do you invade

  Our night, hands raised, eyes wide, mute

  As ghosts? Is there something you wish to confess?

  Is this some enigmatic type of test? What if we

  Fail? How and to whom do we address our appeal?

  NEW ROAD STATION

  History is in a hurry. It moves like a woman

  Corralling her children onto a crowded bus.

  History spits Go, go, go, lurching at the horizon,

  Hammering the driver’s headrest with her fist.

  Nothing else moves. The flies settle in place

  Watching with their million eyes, never bored.

  The crows strike their bargain with the breeze.

  They cluck and caw at the women in their frenzy,

  The ones who suck their teeth, whose skirts

  Are bathed in mud. But history is not a woman,

  And it is not the crowd forming in a square.

  It is not the bright swarm of voices chanting No

  And Now, or even the rapt silence of a room

  Where a film of history is right now being screened.

  Perhaps history is the bus that will only wait so long

  Before cranking its engine to barrel down

  The road. Maybe it is the voice coming in

  Through the radio like a long-distance call.

  Or the child in the crook of his mother’s arm

  Who believes history must sleep inside a tomb,

  Or the belly of a bomb.

  THEATRICAL IMPROVISATION

  Finally, a woman stands. Her body tightens.

  She wrings her hands. At first, I didn’t think

  I heard it. Then I saw his face and understood.

  I was pulled and dragged.

  And another:

  I was dragged and choked.

  And another:

  A woman yanked mine from my head and told me

  It was no longer allowed.

  A man hawks,

  Pretends to spit. We want these people

  To feel unwanted. We want them

  To feel that everything around them is

  Against them. He puts a hand on his hip.

  And we want them to be afraid. His free hand

  Hangs in the air to his side as if steadied

  By a tall stick, or a rifle with its butt end

  On the ground.

  And a beat. Strange weather

  Moves across each face. The women pass

  From fright to rage. They circle him,

  Closing in.

  He, too, is changed, steps back,

  Drops. I was asleep outside—it was warm enough

  To sleep outside the station. They didn’t know me,

  I didn’t know them. I woke to their piss in my face. />
  Then they hit me with a metal rod. They broke my

  Fingers, cracked some of my ribs.

  They fidget

  Over him like rowdies, then crouch down,

  Level with his eyes: The only way this country’s

  Going to turn around is—

  It will be a bloodbath—

  Tell him!—

  And it will be a nasty, messy motherfucker.

  The one stands slowly up. The four

  High-five and sprint away.

  The house

  Is dark and not half full. There is a collective

  Clenching in the chest.

  A new actor shifts

  From foot to foot. Cowers in the light.

  Foreign workers gave us paper and told us to draw.

  Some of us drew families fleeing. Some of us drew

  Helicopters in the sky and our houses below burning.

  Some of us drew men pointing guns at each other.

  Some drew boats about to go under. Some filled

  The page with angry water. Some drew our mothers

  And our older sisters kicking their legs and grabbing

  At air when they got pulled away by the hair. He

  Stays there, gaze directed nowhere.

  Others come.

  The line of actors stretches past the wings, out

  Into the street. Some with voices, some whose

  Bodies speak, each dragging something dark,

  Perceptible. A burden given or chosen. Even

  The empty, the bereft—they’re saddled

  With it, can’t without assistance put it down.

  One, black, slim, a boy himself, stands beside

  The child.

  Another, broad, solid as granite,

  Sputters into sudden tears.

  A woman, white-haired, shuffles almost to him,

  But stops, turns back.

  A fat man in a suit, stooped,

  Can still command his arms to flail as he rails Them!

  Them and them and them and them and them!

  Among viewers, there is the dawning sense

  That this is mere rehearsal, that the performance

  Has not yet been contracted, nor scheduled,

  Nor agreed upon, nor even cast.

  Back of the house,

  A single person claps.

  Then erupts a panicked

  Applause that doesn’t know how to end.