Philipp Meyer - The Son

It is worth noting that even then, no one thought slavery would last forever. The tide was strongly against it, not just in America, but all the world over. But the plantation owners figured if they could get another twenty years out of the institution, it was worth convincing everyone to fight. That was when the acquisitive spirit began to wake inside me. There was no point being a small man.

AFTER THE SECESSION vote, the state began to empty out. Half the Rangers I knew lit for California — they were not going to die so a rich man could keep his niggers. Close on their heels was any Texan who had ever said a word against the slaveocracy, or the cotton men, or was suspected of voting for Lincoln. And plenty of secessionists left as well. Over many of the wagon trains headed west, away from the war, the Confederate flag could be seen flying proudly. They were in favor of the war as long as they did not have to fight it themselves, and I have always thought that is why California turned out the way it did.

WHILE NOT EXACTLY sound on the goose, slavery struck me as the natural state: we had slaves, the Indians had slaves, you shall enjoy the spoils of your enemies, which the Lord your God has given you. The faces of Christ and his mother have adorned many a sword; all the heroes of Texas had made their names in the fight against Mexico. For them the war had been a golden arrangement and I could not see why this one ought to be any different.

IF YOU WEREN’T lined into a Texas cavalry unit, you’d be drafted and sent east to fight afoot, and so any right-thinking man who didn’t have a horse quickly begged, borrowed, or stole one. I signed with the Mounted Rifles under McCullough (no relation) and we were put under Sibley and sent to take New Mexico from the Federals.

Things went agee from the start. Our leader, Colonel Sibley, found the march considerable boring, and a few weeks into it, he retired to the bed of his wagon, accompanied by two prostitutes and a barrel of who-hit-John. There was an uproar from the fire-eaters, who imagined they were fighting for human dignity and freedom from the northern elite, but more cat wagons were requisitioned and the complaining stopped. The rest of us were already calling ourselves the RMN men — Rich Man’s Niggers — in honor of those brave souls who’d inspired our fight for freedom. As for Sibley, as long as he shared his whiskey, we did not mind him.

THE NEWSPAPERS SAID we’d have an easy fight against the Yankee farmers but it was not long before we detected a miscalculation. There were not many grangers to be found among the New Mexicans. In fact they appeared to have grown up the same as we had, hunting and fighting Indians, and after a few months they got behind us and burned our whole supply train. Sibley became down in the mouth and retired again to his whore-equipped ambulance; the rest of us took a vote and decided to return to Texas. The newspapers said that since New Mexico was teeming with aborigines, we didn’t want it anyway, and thus our retreat was more properly considered a great victory.

RICHMOND WAS FIFTEEN hundred miles away; they mostly forgot we existed. Belts were tight — the new governor was inaugurated in homespun — but everyone had enough to eat. Except for the shortage of young men on the streets, and occasional news of Yankee ships sunk in our harbors, you would not have known a war was going on at all. Being now a lieutenant I could come and go as I pleased, but there were not many places to go. The Comanches had taken back a smart sprinkle of their old territory; the frontier had collapsed several hundred miles. On every stretch of lonely backroad where the Indians didn’t lurk, you’d find the Home Guard. There was a fifty-dollar bounty on Confederate deserters, and if they didn’t know you personally, they were likely to tear up your leave papers, put a noose around your neck, and take your carcass to trade for their pieces of silver.

Judge Black had plenty of pull, so I stayed at his house when I got bored with the barracks, drinking his claret, sleeping in his office, calling for sandwiches on the dumbwaiter. I read a few books but mostly I drank whiskey and smoked cigars and planned my future. It had become clear to me that the lives of the rich and famous were not so different from the lives of the Comanches: you did what you pleased and answered to no one. I saw myself finishing out the war as a captain or major, at which point I’d go into cattle or shipping. One thing I knew: I was done working for other men.

As for the judge’s three daughters, one had died of a fever and the other two were still unmarried. The elder was twenty-two, a cremello like the judge, fair of skin and temperament, with my brother’s tendency toward books and deep thoughts. There had been some scandal associated with her, but no one would discuss it. The younger was more proper, in the exact form of her mother, a dusky beauty with a taste for the finer things and impeccable public behavior.

I abused myself thinking about them, but the judge had expectations that his daughters would marry Harvard men, or sons of Sam Houston, or at least sons of bankers. I was an unreliable lieutenant, whose time on earth would likely be short, and it would not do to make any investment in me. So when the door to my room opened and closed quietly one night, I wagered it was Millie, the quadroon who’d just been added to the judge’s household.

She came and sat on the bed. I looked at her in the light from the window. It was Madeline, the older daughter.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said.

I didn’t. She had pale skin and red hair; her face was covered in freckles but she had big green eyes and a soft mouth. Everything about her was finely done, and though in the past I’d found kissing girls that pretty to be like biting into a green persimmon, I patted the mattress and she lay down next to me.

Her breath was sweet, which I guessed to be from her mother’s sherry. When she saw I would take no initiative, she straddled me. It was not long before I determined that she had waylaid her maidenhead sometime in the distant past.

Unfortunately I felt cowardly as a Dutchman. The judge would never forgive me; at best he’d expect me to marry her. Not to mention she was drunk, and, I thought, slightly crazy; there was no telling how the story might play when the sun rose. She detected my cowardice and lay on top of me. Unlike most of the women who consented to my company in those days, she was sweet and clean. I ran my fingers through her hair — finer than corn silk — but I did not think she’d appreciate the comparison so I kept it to myself.

“Am I not pretty enough?”

“You’re too pretty,” I said.

“But…” She touched me and reminded me of my failure.

“There is a lot on my mind,” I told her.

“Because you’re going back to fight this awful war for the slavers.”

“It’s for Texas,” I said.

“Texas is not Jefferson Davis,” she said.

“This is not good talk.”

“Who will hear me?”

“I can hear you.”

“Don’t be silly. Texas is worth fighting for, but not the slavers. And I am not sure there is a difference right now.”

“This is some house to be a Free-Soiler in,” I said.

“I told my father he was a coward and the reason slavery hadn’t ended was that men like him didn’t speak up. And men like you, who are going to fight for it. Though of course unlike him, you have no choice.” Then she said, “Do you have syphilis?”

“No,” I said.

“He has been warning me against you since I was twelve.”

“Did he say I had the pox?”

“He said if I looked the word up in Johnson’s there would be a picture of your face.”

I was quiet.

“I am joking you,” she said. “I was just wondering. Given your history.”