John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

The other men busy themselves wrapping the body in the hammock, satisfied with the story. You sign up to fight for the flag but at the end it’s only each other you risk yourself for. Coop’s clothes fit Royal fine except for the hat, which slips down over his eyes, and the boots. His feet have gone wide from walking barefoot so long and they pinch like a son of a bitch.

Nilda stands back from the beach, watching from behind the trunk of a big dapdap tree as they file past. Even in the uniform and at this distance she can tell which one is him by the way he moves. And by the way he moves, she knows it is no use following.

Uncle has put on some muscle. Sleeves rolled up, the biceps of his powerful arms bulging as he holds the squalling, ragged pickaninny labeled PHILIPPINES over his knee and administers the medicine, a shoe with AMERICAN MILITARY printed on the sole raised in the other hand. Other urchins in their native costumes — a dark-haired little Spaniard, a big-lipped Hawaiian, a Mexican in a sombrero, a yellow Chinaman, an Indian in breechclout and feathers — nurse their throbbing backsides while kindly Lady Liberty deals out schoolbooks to each and indicates the bench on which they are to sit quietly. An unruly gang of onlookers, German, Jap, Colombian, Russian, even a portly John Bull, observe the thrashing with wide eyes, duly impressed. Uncle fixes them with eyebrows raised and chin thrust forward—

WHO’S NEXT?

They are all colored, the ones who come in, which makes it simple. Hod doesn’t care, it’s all business, but some of the white soldiers and the leftover Spanish do and they are the customer, who is always right. The locals, whatever their color, tend to wait for the time in between trains to come in and he has decided not to put up a sign or make a policy. Let them work it out on their own. He catches the sergeant looking between him and Mei while they handle orders at opposite ends of the counter, the troop with maybe a half hour before their transport is serviced.

“This place has gone through some changes since we last come through,” says the sergeant. It’s clear he means San Fernando, not the lunch room, which has been open just two weeks.

“Earthquakes, Spaniards, American gunboats—” says Hod, “not the first time it all come down.” The sergeant has ordered a hamburger sandwich like most of the others, like most of the Americans who come in off the train. The carabao beef is a might stringy so he has Chow mix a little duck fat into the grind. “But you can’t leave it just sit. Hell — I heard them folks back in Galveston already built their downtown back.”

“Never understood why people want to stay there,” says the sergeant. “I’m from El Paso — the river don’t flood and the earth don’t shake.”

“On your way home?”

There is a looseness to these men, a lightness, that he remembers from when the Colorados got pulled off the line for good. Had your chance to kill me and now it’s gone.

“They send us to some fort,” says the sergeant, looking down the counter at his laughing, shouting soldiers, “and we’ll sort it out from there. Not like you vols, walk off the boat and that’s the end of it.”

Mei touches his arm and tells him she’s going back to help Chow fix the orders. He can feel the sergeant watching them.

“Where you been garrisoned?” he asks. It is no skin off his ass what people think, it really isn’t, but some of them act like if you married a Chinese it’s their business to say something.

“Zambales.”

“Sittin on the beach.”

“Ever walk ten miles over loose sand with your full kit on?”

Hod grins. “Wasn’t any picnic where we was either. How the people up there?”

“Not so different than here. Got some different languages, some folks up in the mountains still carryin spears.”

“I heard about them.”

The sergeant swivels around in his seat to look out the front window. The window cost more than anything else, that much glass a rare item in earthquake country, but the swivel seats were a steal after Hod told the workmen what he wanted, the head fella having seen the real thing on a visit to Manila and able to copy it.

“It’s no wonder my boys just give up and called em all googoos,” says the sergeant. “So many kinds to keep track of.”

“I suppose.”

“The Mexicans, they got names for every kind of mix. Mestizo, castizo, mulato, morisco . Even got something called a salta-atrás —a jump backwards.”

“Which is—?”

“Chinese man and an Indian woman.” The sergeant shrugs. “You figure these folks have their own words for all of it.” He points out the window. “Like what would you call that?”

He is pointing at Bo, who stands on the porch holding himself up by the bamboo roof support watching the other boys hustle their peanuts and cigarettes and bananas next to the steaming locomotive. Mei has scared him enough about the tracks that he will stay there for hours, following the action in the station like it is all a show put on for his enjoyment. He doesn’t look like the other boys here, who could all go for twins, and Hod has never thought before about what name to give. He told the major he’d applied to be British so they’d let him stay, but has let it slide and once the ship sailed with the regiment nobody has questioned him. Bo turns to look inside, and, seeing Hod, lights up with the smile he does with his whole body.

“That,” says Hod, reaching for the water jug to serve the colored infantry, “would be a Filipino.”

If it wasn’t so damned blue. The band is playing When Johnny Comes Marching Home as his son requested and Sally is weeping prettily and half the folks who matter in Wilmington are on the platform waiting. But the first thing the Judge’s eye falls on is the blasted yankee outfit Niles is got up in, and it makes his blood boil same as always. Niles pauses in the doorway of the Pullman, showing his brilliant teeth and waving his arm at them and all the ladies crying now and the men clapping their hands, he looks so heroic, and then there is the sleeve pinned up on the other side and what they’ve done to his face and the Judge has to breathe deep to hold himself together. He steps forward and takes his son’s hand, the right, thank you Lord, and they embrace. The band rushes into There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight , people clapping and stomping as Sally hugs Niles and the people cheer and then he is led to the little platform they’ve set up where Tom Clawson and Mayor Waddell are waiting, the other instruments dropping out to leave just the boy on the trap drum rattling a quiet tattoo to reclaim the military theme of the proceedings and the redcaps stop and set their burdens down, watching respectfully at the edge of the crowd.

“My fellow citizens,” intones the old Colonel, “it is my great honor to welcome home a son of our soil, a young man who has risked his life and sacrificed his health that the light of Freedom might shine on one of the darkest corners of our world. Lieutenant Niles Manigault, our prayers have been with you, you have done us proud, and we offer you our everlasting gratitude and esteem!”

The boy on the trap is joined by three more drummers now and a color guard from the Wilmington Light Infantry steps forward, the master-at-arms presenting Niles with a yankee flag folded in a triangle. He’s paid a damned arm to protect it, thinks the Judge, they might as well give him one for a souvenir. There is more clapping and folks calling for a speech and the drumroll cuts off sharp.