John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

The soubrette and the tenor, called Aura Lee and Ensign Tom in the program, join in harmony for the last chorus—

Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long

Still to us at twilight comes love’s old song

Comes love’s old sweet song

“Excuse me, old boy,” says Niles, rising. “Got to put out a fire.”

It is a joke between them, recalling the first time the Judge took them on a hunt, and to entertain themselves after the day’s killing was through and the men had begun drinking they wandered back into the thick pines and Niles started a fire in the underbrush using the magnifying glass he’d got for his birthday and they tried to put it out with their own water. Each had consumed a full canteen of lemonade during the day and felt bloated enough to irrigate a cotton field in July, but the fire had outrun their ability to pee on it and the men had to be called to avoid disaster.

“Boys do what boys do,” the Judge had said, leading them deeper into the woods away from the smoke and the mocking hunters, “and men do what men do.” They had supposed he was going to cut a switch and have at them with it, choosing an isolated spot either to spare them public humiliation or preclude intervention if he was truly furious, but he only stopped and took his own out and proceeded to relieve himself for what seemed like the better part of an hour. No words were spoken, just the splatter of almost clear liquid onto dry leaves, the Judge staring into the distance with a placid look on his face.

“I would hope you boys have learned something about fire today,” he said when he’d led them almost all the way back to camp, “and something about bourbon.”

Old Uncle Zip, who had belonged to the Judge’s family before the Invasion and still served as guide for the hunting trips, came to them later with some praline candies he’d smuggled along. He sat on a log with them, sharing the candies, chuckling and shaking his head. “Don’t you boys worry none,” he told them. “The Judge boint down the backhouse at his daddy farm in Delco tryin the same speriment. An he uz years older than either of you.”

Harry watches Niles apologize to the last patron in the row and head back up the aisle. It is unlikely he will return, concocting some story about an old friend met in the lobby the next time they see each other, an old friend in some sort of a scrape that called for immediate assistance. The invitation to join him at the show has been a pretense, of course, a maneuver to put Harry in a genial mood and in a spot where raised voices and recriminations would draw the wrong sort of attention. Niles is devious, but so consistent in his ways as to be transparent.

Captain Sigsbee, played by the runt who looks like Roosevelt wearing a white beard and moustache, orders the young officer to undertake a vital and perilous mission — transporting a message from the President of Our Great Nation past the vicious minions of the Butcher Weyler, through the steaming Cuban jungles, and into the hand of the wily insurgent general, brave Calixto García. Captain and Ensign hold their hats over their hearts to sing The Army of the Free —

For the people of America

We’re marching in the van

And will do the work before us

If the bravest sailors can

We will drive the despot’s forces

From their strongholds to the sea

And will live and die together

In the Army of the Free—

It is a yankee war song, of course, but Harry can feel the audience downstairs loosen to it as they hear the altered lyrics. Who does not want to be a part of the Army of the Free? A few of the colored sports in the balcony are singing along, and it is a stirring moment. As he sings, the tenor exchanges his navy jacket for a torn shirt and places a battered sombrero on his head, climbing from deck to floor on a rope ladder. His Captain sings the final verse alone, an audible gasp of amazement from the audience as the massive white hull of the Maine suddenly melts into a green and brown tangle of jungle—

We will shield our steadfast brothers

Neath the Flag of Liberty

And will live and die together

In the Army of the Free!

The tenor swings a machete and walks in place as the jungle behind him moves in the opposite direction, creating the illusion of travel, the pianist creeping along suspensefully on the bass keys.

A shot rings out, the tenor beginning to run in place as the orchestra leaps into a breakneck snatch of the overture from Rossini’s William Tell, the bows seeming to ricochet off the strings, a stirring, galloping chase motif as two Spanish sentries appear from the wings in pursuit. The jungle behind is nearly a blur now and Harry realizes it must be some manner of diapositive projection that can be twirled at varying speeds, operated behind the translucent hull of the “ship.” One of the Spaniards raises his rifle and fires again and the tenor, wounded in the leg, drops to the ground.

The jungle scenery jerks to a halt, the sentries catching up to take Ensign Tom prisoner.

“Ay, Señor,” says one of the sentries, “soon ju will weesh ju was never born.”

Jessie has read all the books. The ones her tutors have insisted on, Miss Alcott and Mrs. Stowe, and the ones Alma gives her that she keeps hidden beneath the mattress — Charlotte Brame, Metta Victor, and her favorite, Laura Jean Libbey. There are no young ladies of color like her in the books, only a few dusky parlor maids meant to portray someone of Alma’s station, but as she reads she imagines herself in the position of the heroines and by the end of the tale Nell Lestrange or poor Minnie Taylor or Little Rosebud are no longer so pale.

It is from the books and from Alma’s chatter and from the cautionary lectures with which her mother describes the world that Jessie has learned there is but one great adventure open to women.

And that hers has begun.

It was true! What her brother had said was true! He was not above teasing her, despite the moustache he had so recently grown her brother was still a boy in many ways, with a boy’s fondness for pranks and mischief. But when he had said of his handsome fellow soldier “He inquires of you constantly,” her hopes had been raised, and when the young man stood in their parlor, shy and self-effacing, her pulse had quickened so alarmingly she was afraid it would betray her, that her father, with his physician’s skill of diagnosis, would at once sense her infatuation. And she felt a fool, cheeks burning with shame, for at first the young man seemed barely to recognize her presence, exchanging polite conversation with her father, hat at rest in the crook of his arm, stiff with a military bearing that only enhanced his good looks. But his words at their parting—

“I hope to see you again.”

He had said that, he really had, looking straight into her eyes when he took her hand and bowed slightly to say goodbye. Junior was worried about missing the transport and Mother was in tears to see her boy go off possibly to war and Father was cramming in every last bit of advice, which gave them, Royal and Jessie — it makes her flush now, lying back on her bed, just to intertwine their names in her thoughts — gave them an almost private moment. He held her hand much longer than you would if she was wrong about it and he squeezed it, he did, she wasn’t fooling herself about that. Yes, he was saying with that squeeze, you are right. I am too.

They had been children together, he a few years the elder and wonderful in her eyes, sitting bareback high up on their coach horse Boots while his uncle dealt with the harness straps. He let her play with his jacks and his marbles, and pet the field animals he found and cared for awhile, and never taunted her the way some others did for being female or for her manners or for her abrupt departure from their games when it was time for the day’s lesson. And then one day it was over, Mother explaining that she was a young lady now and must learn to dwell in a more prescribed environment, to leave that easy camaraderie of bare feet and imaginary battles behind. Sometimes she would look off from her piano bench, out the window to the side yard, and he would be there, watching her. His clothes were threadbare but always clean, his shoes no doubt several generations removed from their original owner, but there was a dignity in him, calm and kindly, that stirred her in the genteel prison of her parents’ fine house.