We alter and cut and stitch our act till it is ten jackets in a row rather than just the one. We learn to listen to the house and take our tack from the humours and rapids of particular nights. The stalls is cheap and oftentimes men come in three times a week and the great change to the houses is the women of the town are coming in too. Fine flamboyant lower-type girls and shopgirls and fishgirls and the girls that bag the gypsum. They’re looking to see this strange dame that is as womanly as a woman like them. They want to peer at it, scope out the mystery. I want to show them it. It makes for wild silences and queer plummeting moments. Where things pitch down into bright darkness. Where my stomach drops to my neat and gleaming shoes. Strange business in Grand Rapids and I never do learn the plus and minus of it. Only drawback is we are obliged to get me into civvies real quick instanter after a performance and I ain’t able now to leave by Mr McSweny’s door but John Cole got to take me out through the theatre saloon as two anonymous Joes and out along the alley with the heaps of bottles and spittoon slops. Pistol in his trouser belt snug as a squirrel. Because a few of them Johnnies fall in love with the shimmer and downright strangeness of the act. Guess they want to marry me. Or have me. Meanwhile John Cole says he loves me more than any man since the apes roamed. All the news in the Grand Rapids Courier is that a man was once an ape which John Cole says is no surprise to him considering.
John Cole asides from declaring his love gets Winona to write to Lige Magan in Fort Laramie to see how he is getting on. She got a good hand now from Mr McSweny. Lige Magan writes back to say all is dandy with him and that Starling Carlton is also dandy. She off her own bat writes to Mrs Neale because she got warm memories there. The Post Office faithfully carries these flimsy items back and forth along the perilous trails. They don’t seem to lose one link. Mrs Neale writes to say she is missed at the fort and that the other students have been moved on to Cisco where they have found their niches in domestic service. There is a great furore building on the plains she says and Winona has done well to remove herself and asides from that she says the major believes there are other kinds of war brewing generally. I am wondering what she means by that and I write to the major direct to find out. He writes back and says he is hearing dire news from the east and what do I hear where I am and it’s only then I realise what’s gathering. Guess we were heads down in our own business, the act and just living and loving and such. Fierce stuff fermenting all around right enough and new regiments being formed on every side to defend this that or the other. I never even heard the word Union till I read it in the Courier. Guess that was our lot because I guess we took our tune from Mr McSweny. Ain’t going to be any America unless we fight for it, he says. I ask him that night to fill me in. Suddenly I am all filled in and filled with fervour what’s more. That queer tenderness of heart that rises to fine words. He talks about slaves and the true and proper love of country and the call of Mr Lincoln. Now we’re dizzy with patriotic feeling and desire. John Cole sitting there wide-eyed.
Soon the whole thing goes up and our audience is petering out. Guttering out like a used candle. The buggers is joining volunteer regiments. Flooding into barracks spirited up in fields. Scraps of great speeches in Washington reach our little district like the bits of things dropped by feeding birds. Mr McSweny allows that he is too old to fight. I’m just too old, he says, though everything still working, mind.
Then the major writes again and asks will we join his new regiment that he is raising in Boston where he hails from. Says he is leaving Mrs Neale and the girls in Fort Laramie for safety and heading east hisself and if we present ourselves in a week’s time he will induct us. Now he signs hisself Colonel which is a mighty big handle and I guess that’s what he is now but John Cole says we’ll still call him the major for convenience. The poet McSweny undertakes to keep Winona in bibs and biscuits and we give him some dollars we have kept aside. We lock up our goods in big boxes like coffins, my dresses and John Cole’s stage finery, and all, and we kiss Winona and set off. Surely, says John Cole, we’ll be back soon. If you don’t come back I will set off to find you, says Winona. John Cole laughs and then he cries. He holds Winona and kisses her forehead. Mr McSweny shakes my hand and says not to worry only don’t be gone too long on account of my great age. I says I have noted that. And off we go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SPRING COMES INTO Massachusetts with her famous flame. God’s breath warming the winter out of things. That means something to a thousand boys heaped into camp at a spot called Long Island outside the old city of Boston. Except the endless yards of rain as thick as cloth that falls on us. Battering the tents. But we got new business with the world and our very hearts are filling with the work. That’s how it seems as we set out upon our war.
Mostly muskets and only a few of them Spencer carbines that so put anger into Starling Carlton when he saw it at Caught-His-Horse-First’s side. Pistols and a few of them famed revolvers. LeMats and Colts. Swords and sabres. Bayonets. That’s what we got to bring against the Rebels. New kinda bullets we ain’t seen to shoot Indians with. Not round like the old ones, but the shape of a arched door into a church. The major in his present guise of colonel takes in a whole ocean of Irish out of the Boston reeks. Stevedores and shovel men and hauliers and rascals and big-mouths and small mousy lads. Whatever’s going because we got to swell into a huge army, that’s the main task. Me and John Cole is corporals for the stint because we’re actual soldiers that done soldiering. Major brought in Starling Carlton too and he’s a sergeant and Lige Magan. And Lige Magan because he getting older now is made colour sergeant and will carry the flag. Must be fifty years old is Lige. Everyone else is just privates, volunteers and loyal men and chancers. There’s a thousand faces and the ones we know best will be in D Company. We sign up for the three years and everyone believes this war will take no more or we ain’t Christians at all. Most of the privates sign for ninety days. Want to do their duty and then go home proud men. We’re drilled up and down our scraggy parade ground and the sergeants try and teach the new boys how to load their muskets but by God they ain’t a quick study. Lucky if they get one in ten balls out. Sheridan, Dignam, O’Reilly, Brady, McBrien, Lysaght, a line of Irish names as long as the Missouri river. A few of the boys been in Massachusetts militias right enough so they ain’t so useless. But God Almighty. Maybe Mr Lincoln better start worrying, says John Cole, looking on bemused as all dickens. Making a hash of simple drills, says Starling Carlton. He come in the day before all bluster and friendship and he hugs John Cole and I swear he nearly kissing him for the joy of the reunion. Sweating like a damp wall. Lige Magan shakes our hands and says it sure is a how-do-you-do this new war and how have you been, boys? We say we been good. How’s that Injun girl? says Starling. Oh, she’s good enough, I say. The major he’s as busy as Jesus at a wedding but he come over anyhow and smiles on us in his way and says Mrs Neale sends her compliments to her old soldiers. That has us laughing. Starling Carlton thinks it’s a bigger joke than it is and can’t stop guffawing face-up into the clouds. Major takes no offence whatsoever and Starling Carlton don’t mean to give none. He’s looking around now blinking and knocking the sweat off his old forage cap. You’ll do your best, boys, I know, says the major. Yes, sir, says Lige. God damn it, I guess we will, says Starling Carlton. I know you will, says the major, in his nice colonel’s uniform. You follow your captain, now, boys, he says. Captain Wilson he means, a quiet red-haired Irish. Then there’s Lieutenant Shaughnessy and Lieutenant Brown. Seems like decent Dublin men enough. Sergeant Magan. Two corporals, me and John. Stew then of Kerrymen and other western seaboard starving types. Fellas with faces like old black bog-oak. And the younger ones all smiles and frowns, listening. Eyes and noses and mouths of all descriptions. Mothers’ sons. Seen already the death of their world and now asking pardon of the Fates so that they can fight for a new one. All the faces. Captain Wilson gives a fine speech just the day we setting out for Washington and I still can see all those faces staring up at him on his saddle-box. God damn it, you could weep at the memory if you had a mind. We only ask, says the captain, that you keep the Union in your heart and by that star steer your course. Your country desires of you something beyond any man’s capacities. It wants your courage and your strength and your devotion and all it might have to give in return is Death. Maybe he got it out of a manual. Talks like a Roman, says Starling Carlton, looking dazed as a damsel. But somehow it hurt us into an understanding. Soldiers fight mostly for dollars which in that case were thirteen. It weren’t like that then. We could of eaten the head off our enemies just then and spat out the hair. Nice Wicklow man with a musical Yankee voice.