Frederick Busch - The Night Inspector

One of them cleaned what I thought to be a muzzle-loader. I had heard of them using arrows and bows. The one who stood, who had stared at the woods, wore a blond beard and soft muslin clothing washed almost white, though not recently. They were exhausted, their horses were hollow-looking, and one had cocked his hind leg as if coming up lame. And this was what had defeated us again and again, I thought.

The officer removed spectacles from a pouch and put them on. I knew he was the officer because of his bearing, and because he studied documents. I stowed the telescope. I slowly extended the rifle. I sighted through the scope.

He moved his mouth as the wind shifted, and I heard the laughter of his men. I lost him then because of the shaking. The gray and white bird returned, shrieking, and, as my trembling eased, the officer’s face came up. I squeezed away, and he went down, thank God, before I could see into his eyes. I heard my shot strike.

I reloaded, by the numbers, calmly, and I looked for my second target. The men had scattered, so I put two horses down. Horses were becoming more precious than men. The sound was of a board slapped hard against the side of a building, and then the animal collapsed. I killed the second one, and I was deafened by my own firing. You do not hunt when you cannot hear. I descended the tree. They fired a fusillade into the woods, but I was well on my way.

He had looked so studious in his spectacles, I thought. Though I remembered best of all, I realized, as I gave the day’s parole and walked past the pickets into camp at nearly dusk, how, when his jaw dropped as the shot struck home, his face had looked so soft, and he had seemed about to speak his surprise. Instead of the sound of his voice, I heard in my deafness — I was alone in it for part of the night — the smack , once and then again, of the.52-caliber bullets as they tore the horses down.

After the War, I had become, you might say, a careful man. I was reckless as well, I think, but somehow in something of a careful manner. For example, I lived in the Points, although I could well have lived elsewhere. And the Five Points remained, for all the recent fits of municipal zeal, and the declarations by Trinity Church, a great landlord in the district, that moral improvement and the wrath of the Lord were on their way, nothing less than dangerous. I knew it. I had sought it, after all. But I never went unarmed, and I was prepared to do a fatal injury in defense of myself, and I held myself as one such, and they knew me there for a dangerous man. It is not impossible that my neighbors considered me as willing to die as to live, and it is not impossible they found the confusion overwhelming in such a man as myself, and with a face they could not read past the same almost-smiling first page.

As in the War, when I refused a transfer to Berdan’s Sharpshooters because I did not wish to wear their green coat and look like a bottle fly and lie on hilltops with great long rifles on tripods to be picked off, surely, by one of the Rebels with a telescope of his own: I wished to run the risk by myself, I told the sergeant, who told the lieutenant, not lie in a file as they did in Berdan’s. If I had to be shot for a shooter, I would suffer in private. And I did.

I had sought out M. I had met him. We had dined together and had spoken of philosophy, and he had become enchanted, I thought, by my mask. He would have to be. He had spent his squandered or cursed career as an author in writing men who struck through the mask or curtain or surface of things not to do harm by the striking per se , but to learn what lay on the other side. He was drawn by the desire to see it, to know it, as surely as the nation was drawn, on foot and on wheel and on the backs of starving, stumbling beasts, to see what lay beyond the Mississippi River, and the Rocky Mountains, the southwestern deserts, and the hills between the travelers and the sea.

Boarding one of the new, experimental Broadway streetcars — and of course it occurs as well upon entering a restaurant downtown, an office anteroom, the Steinway Hall — I struck those already there into silence. I imagine that I understand their reaction: the bright white mask, its profound deadness, the living eyes beneath — within — the holes, the sketched brows and gashed mouth, airholes embellished, a painting of a nose. Nevertheless. Yet I cannot blame them. But. Nevertheless. I won this on your behalf, I am tempted to cry, or pretend to. The specie of the nation, the coin of the realm, our dyspeptic economy, the glister and gauge of American gold: I was hired to wear it! For you . And by you.

On the Broadway car, breathing to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves as we slowly rolled uptown, and in the lingering silence of the passengers, I remembered the pond in which I swam as a boy in Paynes Corners. You drifted out, your feet left the silt and lifted, and it was cold beneath while hot on your head. But when you paddled over the feeding spring, you gasped in surprise at the relentless cold. It was like that, entering a room, encountering their eyes. I had learned, however, not to gasp. I wasn’t a boy.

No dragonflies followed me over the surface, no clouds of midge above or tickle of bass below, and in the chill of the car I thought of M again. He had eaten precisely, systematically, perhaps seeking in his own pursuit of food a relief from the vision of my forksful as they disappeared under my veil into what he wished to see and not to see. With capable workingman’s broad and long-fingered hands, he cut wedges and rectangles of pale pork and then, like an Englishman, shoveled with his knife to maneuver red pickled cabbage and crumbs of boiled potato onto the morsel of meat, the whole then carried to the mouth like a loading boom to the hold of a ship. He studied his plate as he worked, but looked at my head a flickering instant as the food approached his face. I thought of him as eating in a trance.

The thin lips and tight mouth, the narrow head and curried beard, the exhausted, half-blind eyes to which his spectacles gave little apparent relief, were matched by a soft baritone voice that was given to hoarseness. He seemed to me within a very short distance of depletion.

When I spoke of his The Ambiguities , he seemed to nod agreement; it was as if I had alluded to a relative whose death had long been suspected. But when I spoke of his Whale , even the flesh of his face seemed more alert. This, I thought, was a matter to which I must return. I’d smite the sun if it insulted me, his Ahab raged.

Imagine, I thought, jolting over the street stones: Imagine the engine that ran a man liable, or so he thought, to being insulted by the very sun itself. I swung out of the car and onto Union Square, beneath the morning’s very sun itself.

I killed men in a crowded tent they had erected against the side of a low hill in the lee of a pasture near no place I knew. By then we were a specialized unit, and my sergeant, LeMay Grafton, knew that his war would consist of feeding, protecting, and conveying me. As he scorned my necessary expertise, his superiors, he knew, would scorn but utilize his skill in utilizing mine. He and two privates became my pander and my maids. They escorted me; they kept me alive. They brought me to an area and they found me work, then left me to it. And they then avoided me in whatever place of safety to which they’d extracted me. And then we went on to the next.

The Brigadier’s Capon, Sergeant Grafton said our lieutenant said of me. The brigadier, he feared, would not promote him to captain because he surely must revile the lieutenant’s measure of cowardice in seeing to the shooting down of unprepared and unresisting men. I knew this. The lieutenant knew it. So did the colonel who passed along the commands. And so did Sergeant Grafton. We were one another’s prisoner during our service together.