Two Rebels, a laramie fanfic

Two Rebels

—by A Michigan Skylark

Introduction: A Plausible Encounter

The great American poet Walt Whitman (1819–1892) described his ideal American as one who combined strength with gentleness, pride with humility, and fierce independence with equally fierce commitment to community.

This sounds like a description of Jess Harper to me.

—

In the ten years between the brutal murder of his family and his arrival in Laramie, Jess was often alone and subject to the worst of human society, to pressures that easily could have turned a good boy into a very bad man. Amidst the unimaginable cruelty and deprivation of the Civil War, how did Jess acquire his core values of honor, humility, and tolerance? Whose influence helped him sustain them?

We don't know what year Jess joined the Confederate army (or even why he did). But considering the staggering casualty rate among southern soldiers, it's extremely likely that he spent some time in an army hospital. One clue we're given to support this comes near the end of "Rim Rock" when he tells Holly Matthews: "I remember the smell [of narcotics] from a hospital during the war."

—

Early in the war, Walt Whitman left New York City and moved to Washington, D.C., to volunteer as a nurse (or "wound dresser") in the city's military hospitals. Though he had no formal medical training, Whitman turned out to be a skilled and selfless nurse. In addition to tending to the physical needs of the soldiers—Union, Confederate, Black, and White—he offered them companionship, sitting by their bedsides, writing letters for them, and using his meagre income to buy them gifts of fresh fruit, candy, books, and tobacco.

In his essay "The Great Army of the Sick" Whitman wrote about one particular patient he'd tended: a desperately wounded young soldier whose stoicism and character impressed him deeply. What if our Jess had been that soldier? What if the old white-haired rebel poet from New York had known our blue-eyed Texas Rebel? What lasting impact might each have had on the other?

—

These are the questions I was considering as I wrote this story.

—

*AS*AS*AS*AS*

—

A Letter from St. Louis

14th and Chestnut Street,

St. Louis, Missouri

10 September, 1873

Dear family,

I hoped to have had a letter from you before now. Is everyone well? Have you had any rain since I left? It has been raining buckets here for a week and we're all mud to the knees.

I am working hard in all my classes, but since we changed from quarters to semesters this year, I will not know if I am passing my level until November at the earliest. I am taking Moral Philosophy, Physiology (we have a brand-new skeleton—the Freshers broke the old one), Elements of Universal History, and Greek (again). Greek is especially difficult this year as the textbook, Goodwin's Grammar, is new and even the teacher struggles with it. Tenney's Zoology is hard going as well (I was able to buy a used copy, Slim, so I economized a little there). My landlady, Mrs. Dilk, kept my old room for me, though I have to share it with a roommate. I like him well enough—he studies a lot and doesn't talk much.

I do have one piece of exciting news—

Tomorrow night the Literary Club is going to a reading by America's Greatest Living Poet! Our advisor, Mr. Fletcher, bought tickets for all the LCs. We're going to meet for dinner then walk over to Armory Hall together (it's a good thing I got that new collar: the old one choked so I'd be red as a beet).

Of course, there is lots of loose talk about Mr. Whitman—some think his poetry is very wicked, but Mr. Fletcher says that's nonsense. He says that Mr. Whitman is a genius. A new edition of Leaves of Grass has just been published, and he's to read from it. Maybe I can get him to autograph the copy you gave me, Jess. Imagine that! Me, talking to Walt Whitman! I bet no one in Laramie has ever met a greatest living poet! I know I won't sleep a wink tonight.

By the time this letter reaches you the great day will have passed, but I will put all the details into my next letter.

Well, it's getting late so I will close for now. I am grateful for my education and all the opportunities I have here, but I will be happy when I can come home again. Write me soon. I miss you all so very much.

Yours most sincerely,

Andrew Sherman

—

*JH*JH*JH*

—

A Reply from Laramie

October 23

Laramie, Wyoming Territory

Dear Andy,

Your letter got here today. I am writing a short reply so I can put it on the eastbound (Mose is giving me the stink eye—he's finished his coffee and is antsy to get going).

Would have written you sooner but all your brother's fences came down with the ague—leastwise we can't keep them all standing at the same time. The rains finally came in with a vengeance. Now all we have to worry about is snow.

This crazy territory—if you ain't frying, you're freezing.

Your news about Mr. Whitman sure was a surprise. Now I have one for you: I know the man—knew him, rather, many years ago, when you were just a tad.

Whatever you hear about him, Andy, believe only the best parts. I can truly say I never met a kinder man.

Your friend,

Jess Harper

P.S.

Your copy of Leaves of Grass is the one that he gave to me.

—

*WW*JH*WW*JH*

—

The Beautiful Boy

Washington, D.C., August 1863

For two days, the thin jumble of clothes had lain so still it seemed to Walt more like an impression a boy had left on a bed than a boy alive. The orderlies who carried the train of stretchers up from the Potomac docks had dropped this lone Secesh on a straw pallet against the far wall, one stop past the end of doctors' rounds, close by the door to the Dead Room. No one expected this grayback to live through the night.

But he had. And the next night, too, while the whitened dead filed past his pallet in silent ranks. Though he'd been consigned to that company by common assent, each time the grim bugler sounded stand-to-horse the beautiful boy refused to report.

When the boy woke at last, Walt could not bring himself to meet his eyes—their blue veiled like a boreal lake in a fraise of rain.

Walt had met the eyes of hundreds of wounded boys—the wrack washed up on his beloved country's contested shore. And he had seen, he thought, every expression that pain could devise. But the "beautiful boy" (as he named him, not knowing his name) looked out through eyes Walt had never seen in man or boy before. It was not until years later, hunting on Paumanok, that Walt was reminded of the beautiful wild look in the eyes of an animal gone to ground, its last defense to out-wait its pursuer's malevolence. Schooled to slow its breathing, to gather stillness around itself like a camouflage of thorns, it was a look of unpitiable silence, of patience worn to a dull and dangerous edge.

At first, the boy would not eat and barely accepted water when it was offered to him, silently refusing every treat Walt brought to tempt him. What had he remaining, Walt wondered, to stoke that stubborn fire? Certainly not his last Confederate meal of boot-sole and mule. It must have been a lifetime since this boy wolfed down the stew of youth with his comrades; years since honor and ego had filled his plate. Courage had provided meals for a month or two; tears and desperation for a week. What was left to gnaw on? What made new blood so more could flow?

Dogged, the beautiful boy refused to turn his back to the Dead Room door, staring straight at it as though facing down a faster and better-armed combatant. In spite of this (or because of it?) day and night, Walt returned to sit with him. "May I write a letter to your people, son?," he asked, "Let the loved ones at home—your mother, perhaps—know that you are safe?" The boy had heard Walt sing this kindly hymn to others, boys without eyes, boys with their legs run off by a gunner's lucky aim. He had his two eyes, two legs, two hands, and no one to offer thanks for them.

"Ain't no one to read it," the boy said at last, in a voice so thin and dry Walt wasn't sure he'd heard a voice or just an emptiness whistling through a tunnel with more tunnel at its end. The answer was so final Walt never asked: No friends? No waiting girl?

"May I read aloud to you, then?" the old poet said, not like one offering a service but one hazarding a plea. When he got no response (the boy having slipped back into unconsciousness or misery) Walt picked up the thin green book and began to read.

That day and the next and the next, hour on hour on hour, the poet's voice built a scaffold of words, and slowly, imperceptibly at first, the sick boy began to climb. Stopping to catch his breath at the line breaks, resting sometimes between stanzas, he climbed word over word, up above the disinfectant-draped walls of the critical ward, up over the gray rooftops of the exhausted city, until he saw before him, at last, a new country rolling out to the west, limitless, clean, and undetermined.

—

*WW*WW*

—

The Ladder

He betrays no sign of hearing me

my voice goes after what I cannot reach

but still I drop these words

and hope some find him where he waits

motionless in his sleep-sided trench

safe from capture or relief.

. . . . . They say farm boys are found this way,

. . . . . at battles' end

. . . . . in holes they've dug with furious hands.

. . . . . Plowless, they furrow the assaulted soil

. . . . . down to a bloodless, boneless loam

. . . . . more like the sweet dark earth they'd known

. . . . . on their father's land

. . . . . and plant themselves—a desperate crop.

. . . . . Sometimes, they're found

. . . . . before their seed coats crack and they take root

—

. . . . . but more often

. . . . . they are not.

—

Here in this wearied soil of splint and clot,

of suture and seep, this boy has built his trench.

I let the words down

one by one like rungs,

I send him boatmen, oxen, the trapper's bride,

the bay mare, wild gander, the wielders of axes,

America, Niagara, and the sufficient earth.

Climb up, dear son, one hand upon the beam,

and one for the rung.

Be at ease with me,

take hold.

I promise, this ladder of words

will bear your weight.

—

*JH*JH*JH*

—

Crowded with the Ghosts

the rocking

the rocking comforts me

the rocking of the old man's voice

a pendulum of words

forward and

back

and forward and back

steady as my papa's tread

on nights he paced the floor with me

—small and fevered on a feather tick

safe in the scaffold of his arms

and miles from morning.

Medicine of movement

the only medicine he could afford

when the doctor's came so dear.

Mama was lying there, awake with us,

the futile milk from her latest loss

weeping through her nightgown,

her face as white and wise as a page.

Too weak herself to cradle me, instead

she read poetry aloud to coax me into sleep,

her lullaby of words floating

on the silver ripple of Papa's spurs:

. . . . . the white road? our Milky Way

. . . . . crowded with the ghosts,

. . . . . and flaring far away to northward

. . . . . an aurora the panhandle would never see

I am not home in that dear room

—burned black and lost

but here where waking pulls the last thread of dream,

and wandering through realms of gloom

this kind old man of thoughtful pace and sad majestic eyes

this old man bending by my bed

whose lull I like

the orderlies snicker at him when he limps past,

their lewd jokes trailing behind his back,

but I can find no fault in him.

I've seen him pull stinking wads of lint

from a drummer's shattered cheek

with the softness of a nun,

seen his white beard run with tears

as he closes the eyes of gray-faced boys

in their last hour.

To die, he tells them,

is different from what anyone supposed

and luckier.

—

*WW*JH*WW*JH*

—

As Roads for Traveling Souls

A Play in One Scene

(Note: All dialog in this play is taken from poems by Walt Whitman. Only the order of the lines and the stage directions are my original work.)

Characters

Jess. . . . . A young Confederate soldier, approximately 18; ill or gravely wounded. His form is mostly obscured by a dark wool blanket.

Walt. . . . . A volunteer wound dresser, 43. His white hair and beard (and extreme weariness) make him look much older. He is dressed in a long canvas coat, workman's pants and shoes, and a coarse, open-necked shirt.

Scene. . . . . A military hospital in Washington, D.C., several hours before dawn. A soft light, as from an oil lamp, imperfectly illuminates the men; the rest of the stage is in heavy shadow. Upper stage left is a tall window.

Lying on a straw pallet, Jess has back to the audience. Walt sits on a simple wooden chair beside him, a carpet bag, a waste bucket filled with dirty bandages, and a green book of poetry on the floor at his side.

Walt: [In a hushed voice, speaking to himself.]

Vigil of silence, vigil for you my soldier,

vigil for you brave boy.

—

Jess: [In a low, hoarse voice, seemingly unaware of Walt's presence.]

There will never be any more hell than there is now.

—

Walt: [Addressing the young man's back. His voice gentle but strong.]

Nor any more heaven.

We stand amid evil and good, there is as much darkness as light.

—

Jess: [Shudders slightly; still speaking to himself.]

The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw. Howls restrained by decorum…

—

Walt: Leave me your pulses of rage—bequeath them to me.

Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone.

Let them identify you to the future in these songs.

[Reaching out, he hesitates and eventually drops his hand to his side.]

This hand, this voice, have nourished, raised, restored to life many a prostrate form.

—

Jess: [His voice agitated though barely audible. He tries to cover his head with his arm.]

Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence. Soon unlimbered to begin the red business…

—

Walt: [Looks up toward the dark window.]

The hands of the sisters, Death and Night, softly wash again, and ever again, this soiled world.

War and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.

—

Jess: [Starts to acknowledge Walt's presence though his back remains turned to him.]

I saw the black clouds, heard the continuous thunder as it bellowed after the lightning.

—

Walt: [Gently, urgently.]

The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious, they shall not long possess the sky,

they devour the stars only in apparition.

Watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge.

They are immortal, all those stars,

both silver and golden shall shine out again

—

Jess: [Bitterly.]

I do not want the constellations any nearer.

I know they are very well where they are.

—

Walt: Be patient. The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.

—

Jess: [Insisting, his voice breaking.] I am the man, I suffered, I was there.

—

Walt: [In a low voice, to himself.] A man, yet by these tears a little boy again.

—

Jess: The horrors of fratricidal war, these come to me days and nights and go from me.

But they are not the me myself.

—

[Both fall silent. Offstage, sounds of footsteps—barely audible—a cart creaking, a door softly closing.]

—

Jess: [Turns toward Walt, his voice calmer.]

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

What do you think has become of the women, and children taken soon out of their laps?

—

Walt: They are alive and well somewhere.

And if there ever was Death it led forward life and does not wait at the end to arrest it. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses.

—

[With increasing conviction.]

—

I will tell you:

the earth, good,

and the stars

good,

and their adjunct, all good.

—

Jess: [Contemplates this. His voice softens.]

I have loved the earth,

sun, animals.

I have stood up for the stupid and crazy,

hated tyrants,

had patience and indulgence.

I will not have a single person slighted or left away

will accept nothing which all cannot have their own counterpart of on the same terms.

—

[He pauses before continuing in a lower voice.]

—

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood.

I have taken off my hat to nothing, known or unknown.

—

[Closing his eyes.] I exist as I am, that is enough…

—

Walt: [To himself.]

I, too, am not a bit tamed,

I, too, am untranslatable.

—

Jess: [No longer appearing to hear Walt. His voice gaining confidence.]

The earth does not argue, does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise,

makes no discriminations…closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts no one out.

—

Walt: [To himself, in a tone of profound respect.]

Through angers, losses, what you are picks its way.

—

[They fall again into silence. A faint groan is heard offstage and the very faint clink of a metal object dropped into a bowl.]

—

Jess: [Begins to drift into delirium.]

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees

Earth of departed sunset—

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue

Far-swooping elbow'd earth…

—

Walt: I fear you are walking the walks of dreams

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands.

—

Jess: [His eyes closed.]

I hear in the distance the sounds of children and of animals early in the day…

I see a great round wonder rolling through space.

—

Walt: [His head now resting in his hands.]

From your memories sad brother …

—

Jess: [continues, at though from the middle of a thought.]

…I know the universe itself as a road, as many roads,

as roads for traveling souls…

—

Walt: [Looks up.]

…I traveled the prairies over and slept on their breast…

—

Jess: …I crossed the Nevadas, I crossed the plateaus…

—

Walt: [Both now in dialogue, though still speaking to themselves.]

…I heard the wind piping…

—

Jess:…there, with my soul, I fed.

—

Walt: …I inhale great draughts of space…

—

Jess: … the earth, good,

the stars, good…

—

Walt: [In a low voice, repeating, with conviction.]

…the hands of the sisters, Death and Night, wash again this soiled world.

—

Jess: …I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own

and that all men ever born are also brothers of my own.

I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man—

in the faces of men and women I see God.

—

Walt: …and the kelson of the creation is love.

—

Jess: Each of us inevitable

Each of us limitless

Each of us here as divinely as any is here.

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines,

going where I list, my own master total and absolute,

gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

—

Walt: [Looking at the wounded soldier with great tenderness. To himself.]

Born to match the gale—thou art all wings.

—

[Another silence. A dim light slowly appears and disappears in the window, as from a quarter moon emerging from and retreating back into a bank of clouds.]

—

Jess: [Raising himself on one elbow, he looks intently into the darkness just over Walt's shoulder; he speaks directly as though addressing someone he recognizes. It isn't clear whether he is lucid or delirious, but his voice is strong and steadier than previously.]

You must be he I was seeking!

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.

I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone.

I am to wait,

I am see to it that I do not lose you.

—

Walt: [In a low voice, to himself.]

They twain, apart from other men.

The brotherhood…how it is with them,

how together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long

through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering,

how affectionate and faithful they are…

—

Jess: [closing his eyes]

…the loving day,

the mounting sun,

the friend I am happy with,

the arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder…

—

Walt: … then I am pensive, filled with envy.

—

Jess: [Addressing the darkness again: stoic and calmer.]

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

but I shall be good health to you, nevertheless.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;

missing me one place, search another.

I stop somewhere,

waiting for you.

—

[Jess rests his head on his bent arm, continuing to look out past Walt's shoulder into the darkness. Walt turns to look where Jess is looking. Lights fade slowly to black.]

—

END

—

NOTE

Lines of Whitman's poetry—set in italics—are woven throughout "Two Rebels." The following is a list of the poems from which I borrowed these lines. As noted, all of the lines in the play "As Roads for Traveling Souls" are Whitman's.

The Letter

· "Song of Myself"

· "The Trapper's Bride"

· "To a Common Prostitute"

Crowded with the Ghosts

· "Song of Hiawatha" (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

· "Dante" (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

· "The Wound Dresser"

· "Song of Myself"

As Roads for Traveling Souls

· "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night"

· "Song of Myself"

· "Spirit Whose Work Is Done"

· "By Blue Ontario's Shore"

· "Drum Taps"

· "Reconciliation"

· "Rise O Days from Your Fathomless Deeps"

· "On the Beach at Night"

· "Song of the Open Road"

· "A Song of the Rolling Earth"

· "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

· "This Is What You Shall Do"

· "Song of the Rolling Earth"

· "To You"

· "Salut Au Monde"

· "Rise, O Days"