Contraband

Army of the Cumberland
February 5, 1862, cold and snowing

Dear Father,More pitiful than packs of feral catsthe horde staggered into camp,their black faces smothered in clay,arthritic fingers mangled with dirt,echoes of tobacco juice still embeddedin their palms. A few naked children skippingahead of their pregnant mothers.Old men, about thirty, supported by their sons.These indigent creatures are a different breedthan Frederick Douglass,the shame he would have over this sight.

One man I’ve christened Joestumbled by my fire using a splinteredspade as a crutch, the metal shedding red snow,the blade duller than his sweaty forehead.He says he wants to dig breastworks.(I have not determinedif his slow speech is due to the mountainousscar across his brow, each gnarled peakbirthed by blows of weighted hemp ropesor by a simple lack of intelligence.)

I cracked Joe a piece of tack.When he groaned at the sight of the saltporkI let him snatch a slab, watched his swollen gumsfight the tough meat, all the while knowingColonel Phillips will command B Companyto return the property to its rightful owners.They will be marched in pairs,guarded by two peachfuzz privates as they ford familiar rivers,drag stubborn feet across frozen mudback to the arms of native fields.Phillips will order the six women,twelve children and innumerable mennot to go in chains.“We do not have iron to spare,those are for deserters.”

I could not bring myself to warn Joe,doing so would cause his legs to give out,his heart collapse: you told me every life is sacred.I could not bring myself to tell him my first name,“Address your superior as Lieutenant King,”for I heard idle chatter among the blacksthe name used to address him was

Thomas