John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

The men, singing, turn and wave their hats—

Christ the royal Master

Leads against the foe

Forward into battle

See His banners go!

“It’s just noise, Daddy. You know how elections are.”

“It is rebellion,” he says. “Armed insurrection.”

“Nobody has fired a shot yet.”

“The voting doesn’t start till tomorrow. There will be bloodshed.” The old man’s face suddenly drains of color. “And what is this?”

A group of men dressed as in the photographs of Roosevelt’s famous cavalry appear, riding two abreast. One of them carries the Stars and Stripes, what Daddy calls the Flag of Freedom, on a pole jammed into a scabbard on his saddle.

“How dare they?” says her father.

Miss Loretta feels her stomach clenching. If those men can use that flag for this purpose—

“Sacrilege!” cries Roaring Jack, striding forward to the fence, cheeks flaming now. “You have no damned right to drag those colors through the mud!”

A rider who seems too much the runt for his enormous campaign hat pulls his mount up on the other side of the fence, spurts a gout of black tobacco juice back over his shoulder.

“What’s your trouble, Granpaw?”

“That flag—”

“We fought the Dagoes for that flag, old man. It’s ours now.”

“Never.”

The runty man looks past Roaring Jack to Miss Loretta.

“You want to keep him tied in the yard the next couple days, M’am. Might could get dangerous for people who can’t control what they say.”

“If that was a uniform,” her father says, looking the rider up and down, “you would be a disgrace to it.”

A larger man with a beard walks his horse over. He touches his hat. “Afternoon, M’am.”

“There are laws in this country,” her father continues. “Men have rights by the Constitution. Anybody put themselves in the way of those rights commits treason.”

“You tell em,” says the big man.

“What’s your name?” asks the other.

“Daddy, come away from there.” Miss Loretta stays rooted where she stands, her father as likely to turn his wrath on her if she interferes. “You don’t need to tell them anything.”

“My name is Jack Butler. And you skulking sons of bitches know where to find me.”

Miss Loretta holds her breath. Rolling past the two Rough Riders, past the last of the white men parading on foot, is a carriage with two men in gray tailored suits and derbies sitting impassively in the front. The one with the reins is Frank Manly, beside him his brother Alexander, and though the latter is at least as light-skinned as she with her mother’s touch of Cherokee blood, the word has circulated that he is to be lynched on sight. The carriage is headed north.

Alex meets her gaze for a moment in passing, holds her eyes.

“You gentlemen will have to excuse my father,” she says, moving sideways to draw their attention. “Whenever an election comes up he can become somewhat in flam matory.”

Her mother said a lady can diffuse the most awkward of situations with a compliment and a soothing word. “You all make such a stirring sight, up there on your mighty steeds—” and here she sugars her words with the tiniest lilt of flirtation, “it’s no wonder you’ve got him all riled up.”

“I forbid you to speak with these scoundrels!” snaps her father, turning to her, furious. He slapped her once, only that one time.

The carriage is past, out of sight. In the one cartoon of Alex Manly she has seen, waved in front of her by her father during one of his jeremiads, he is depicted as a coal-black fiend in the loud clothing of a Dock Street procurer, leering at a young white woman with her leg uncomfortably exposed as she steps down from a carriage very much like the one he just drove past in.

Miss Loretta spreads her arms apologetically. “He can be so dif ficult,” she says, nodding at her father. “If you gentlemen don’t mind—”

The big one attempts a bow on horseback and leads away, while the runt turns to glare back at them as he follows.

“Names are being collected,” she says quietly to her father when the riders are gone. “Mischief is being planned. They have lists.”

“Well sign me up ,” says Roaring Jack Butler, standing fast beneath his flag.

It is the piano that makes her cry.

All the way back to Wilmington in the carriage he’s rented she is strong, she is polite and respectful the way her father says she has to be. Dorsey is a good man, like her mother says, and mostly tends to the reins as if he isn’t used to driving, tipping his hat now and then to the loud collections of white men, carrying banners on horseback, who seem to have invaded the city. Dorsey makes no mention of them, as if not acknowledging nasty looks and leering comments means they didn’t happen, and instead compliments her dress, remarks on the Reverend’s beautiful voice. She understands how he can cut their hair all day. His house is on Eleventh just north of Red Cross, smallish, but his own house, he remarks with pride, bought and paid for.

I will bear this, she thinks, this is my life now and I will be strong. Then he opens the door and the first thing there, too big for the room, is the gleaming piano and Dorsey turns to her proud and hopeful, gleaming himself, and it is too much.

“I don’t need you to play for me,” he says when he has her sitting in the one soft chair, Dorsey perched on the arm of it holding her hand in his, patting the back of it as if comforting a child. “Just whenever you want — if you get the notion.”

“I am so sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes and trying to catch her breath. “I didn’t mean to do like this.” My room, she thinks, her heart racing. I won’t ever sleep in my own room again.

“We got lots of time, Miss Jessie.” She hasn’t called him anything yet, not Dorsey or Mr. Love or Dear or anything, just making sure he is looking at her before she speaks. He is always looking at her, sneaking sideways glances, and she wishes he wouldn’t. “Lots of time for everything,” he says. “Aint no hurry about it when you married. You just let me know when you ready for — you know. When you ready.”

She was hoping to get that over tonight, but now, with the piano filling up this room, pushing her back against the wall, maybe not.

“Thank you,” says Jessie. He’s looking at her again, looking at her like she could break and she’s feeling like she might just, might shatter into a million pieces. White men are singing on the street outside, drunken, and she wants him to pull the shades down.

“That’s the deal, being married,” he says again, squeezing her hand. “Aint no hurry about a thing.”

Later, when he is gone to return the carriage wherever he hired it from, she plays a chord on the piano. It wants tuning.

The gunfire begins when the sun goes down. There has been commotion all day, horns and drumming and the devil yells of the horsemen, and now the gunshots, singly and in volleys, accompanied by animal whoops and laughter. Dr. Lunceford can see the reddish glow over their bonfire on Chestnut, can hear the men shouting and carrying on from several directions, the rally having spread throughout the city. Yolanda, still mourning for their daughter, calls him in off the porch.

“No reason to give them the satisfaction,” she says quietly when he steps back into the parlor. “Those kind of people get into the drink, there’s no telling what they might do if they come by and see you out there.”

“This is my house,” says Dr. Lunceford, sitting heavily beside her on the settee.

They have only the one gaslight lit on the wall and the piano throws a long shadow. It is so quiet with Jessie gone.