Counternarratives (28 page)

After that there weren't any more close scrapes and we spent most of our
time at the Navy Yard in Washington, where Professor Lowe and the rest were
assembling a series of balloons as well as a balloon boat, as Mr. Edward called it,
to carry and tether several of them at once up and down the Potomac. One afternoon I
went to run errands for Mr. Edward, dropping off his post and, though I didn't tell
him, mine: a letter to Jonathan and my mother, one to Horatio, and, on an impulse,
one to Rosaline, recounting the vague outlines of my experiences thus far. I also
was buying his favorite tobacco, Lilienthal's, coffee and tea, some lead-tin solder,
and a few other things from the general store, taking good care to avoid any
trouble. I checked my watch after I left the main post office and saw I had some
free time, so I decided to head up to where Dandy and me had stayed when we first
came to town, to see if anybody had seen or heard from him.

I retraced my steps back there, straight up 7th St. through Mt. Vernon
Square, past the market and the shops, every street, every tree, every building both
strange to me and yet so familiar, to 9th and Q, where I saw the shack, so tiny and
filthy it was hard to imagine that seven or more of us had slept and eaten in there
at the same time! As I approached it I saw a woman I recognized, though her back was
turned to me. Her name was Mary Agnes and she had arrived just before I left. She
was standing outside the front door. “How do, Miss?” I called out to her, asking if
she had seen or heard from Anthony Smith. That name made her whip her head around
towards me, and snap, “Who the hell asking?” I answered, “His cousin, I even stayed
here with you, Mary Agnes, don't you remember, when we first came to the city—” and
before I could finish the sentence she was shrieking, “Y'all, y'all, come out here
right now, it's one of them northerners that run a game on us,” and I said, “No, no,
I didn't run no game,” and she yelled even more loudly, “You gonna pay for what you
did,” and I said, “No, you got the wrong person, ask Cyrus,” because I had even
brought them food and left them money, but two men, both twice my size, came
scrambling from the shack and across the street I saw another, wielding a carving
knife, and I took off running, coiling my bag around my hand so I didn't drop it,
and cut a left on what I guessed was P and just zigzagged across the street, even
hearing a gun go off behind me, three times, but didn't stop running all the way to
Mt. Vernon Square, where I darted behind one of the stalls and dropped to my knees
to catch my breath and examined myself quickly to make sure I hadn't gotten shot.
Only then did I consult my pocket watch. When I peered out at the street I didn't
spot anybody chasing me, but I thought I should be careful so I turned my coat
inside out and tied a kerchief around my head, figuring as I did so that I ought to
take the roundabout way back, while also realizing that Mr. Edward was going to be
cross if I returned too late. I started running again, but nevertheless the evening
was already filling the sky by the time I reached the Navy Yard grounds.

Soon as I entered our encampment, I first heard then witnessed Mr. La
Mountain once again yelling at Professor Lowe, this time letting everyone nearby
know that down at Fort Monroe he was able to fly unsecured above the Confederate
territory without a problem and was convinced that if they could just get the
go-ahead from General McClellan, which Professor Lowe alone could guarantee, given
that he had “the President and Congress in his pocket,” he, Mr. La Mountain would
eagerly do so. He added, even more loudly, that he had never suffered the kinds of
mishaps Professor Lowe and Mr. Wise had, downing balloons, crashing into enemy
territory, that he could fly a balloon from “here to New York or New Orleans, if
need be,” with his eyes closed and hands tied behind back. For his part Professor
Lowe as usual was ignoring him and speaking determinedly with other members of the
staff about their projects. Mr. Edward, an observer to the quarrel like everybody
else, sidled up to me and said, “You would think that man is on the other side half
the time.” While he spoke he extended his hand for the things I bought him,
registering nothing about my lateness. When we were through I inquired of Ulysses if
he needed any help, since I knew he had spent the entire afternoon assisting various
members of the Corps' assembly team attaching and reknotting the web of ropes from
one balloon to its basket. He said he didn't, he was done. But he asked me to fetch
them, and by implication him, some water. At the pump, as I was filling the pitcher,
Mr. La Mountain stormed over and shoved me out of the way to fill his cup. My first
thought was to say something, though I wasn't sure what I could say to someone of
his rank and stature and not get punished for. Instead I brought Ulysses the pitcher
and headed off to help Patrick, if he needed me, with mess.

That night, before Mr. Edward sent me on my way, he asked me to stroll
with him out toward the river. “Sir, is it safe,” I asked, and he said, “Theodore,
why are you always so yellow with fear? There are federals all the way south to
Alexandria Town, and more troops all along the Maryland coastline”—indicating these
phantasms with a sweep of his hand—“so there is simply no need to worry.” Yet
even after being down here for nearly a month, I didn't ever feel secure, so I aimed
as slyly as possible to keep him between the water and me. “I had to tell someone,”
he was still going on, “since Johann—John Steiner—confirmed what Professor Lowe had
promised, which is that I will get an opportunity to go up in the balloon first
thing tomorrow!” I thought and then said, “Sir, that's your wish come true, Mr.
Edward, just wonderful,” and he said, “
Neddy
—and it is,
Th
eodore, I almost can't believe it. You'll have to be up
earlier than usual, because I need to be ready, and whatever trick you use to stay
so punctual use it so that you are by my side as soon as the sun's up.” Sure as the
sun rose, I was.

The morning sky looked like it would split in two. For a while a heavy
wind boxed the small balloon around, but it didn't rain and things calmed enough
that once it had filled with gas Mr. Edward could ascend to test it. I stood beside
Professor Lowe, who this time, rather than me, was holding the telegraph wire,
Misters Steiner and Starkweather, and several assistants, who were manning the
cables. We all watched Mr. Edward as he opened the valve to regulate the height, and
backed up when he urged us to as he snipped open sandbags to ascend. All the while
he was calling out various things I committed to memory, knowing that although he
had taken his notebook with him he wasn't yet writing anything down. There was
enough wind and slack that after he initially floated above the dock he hovered
westward over the inlet, then rose higher and balanced not far from the buildings on
M Street.
Th
e wind was strong and he coasted upward and
eastward, until he was hovering above the neighboring market, then he floated over
the open water, holding there for a while as most of the others, except the men on
the cables, dispersed. Professor Lowe handed me the telegraph wire, and left with
Mr. Steiner for a short while, both still talking animatedly about various
aeronautical issues when they returned.

I trained my attention on Mr. Edward, who had gone so far up and
grown so quiet I imagined he either was thinking or calculating. After a stretch of
silence I grew nervous, and considered calling out, “Sir, everything well, Mr.
Edward?” especially when out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. La Mountain and
Mr. Wise watching me, and when Professor Lowe and Mr. Steiner returned, they began
glaring at them. The professor broke off his conversation with Mr. Steiner and said
to no one in particular, as he stroked his thick mustache and studied his own
notebook, “Linde should be brimming with observations.” He called out, “Everything
well, Linde?” to which Mr. Edward cried back, “Optimal, Professor,
summum
visum
,” then “I am beginning my descent!” Professor Lowe turned to find me
still by his side, which startled him, and ordered me to not let go of the telegraph
cable and retreat a little, while my boss slowly and carefully returned to the
earth.

During a lull that afternoon, as most of the men played an impromptu
game of baseball or listened to one of the naval bands, I went to fetch the mail,
tobacco, stationery, and a newspaper. Along with the letters from Mr. Edward's
family there was one I could see from Jonathan, care of Mr. Edward, for me. As I
trod along the edge of the canal I passed the letter from palm to palm, eager to
tear it open but afraid to, almost so excited to read it I nearly dropped it into
the murky water. It wasn't until I reached the open expanse of one of the squares
near Virginia Avenue that I grasped I had walked right past the Capitol, nestled
serenely on its promontory, without even noticing. At the South Market, just blocks
from the Navy Yard, I paused and squatted under a linden tree at the stalls' edge,
making sure I stashed Mr. Edward's correspondence away so I didn't lose it. With the
greatest care I opened my letter, which I read, first aloud, then with my eyes
several times, lingering on the large, slanted script:

Phil. Penna.
SEPT
1861

to Theodore,

I write for Mama myself Lucius
Zenobia+Zephira and all the Family when I says we
MISS
YOU
something terrible and hopes you taken care given what we hear
about the War. Follow His Word in everything
BROTHER
.
I speak to Mr. Dameron and he say he'll take you back so please think abt it.
Red do a good Job for Mr. Linde son and we hold you in our
HEART AND MIND
always.

God bless+protect you big bro. Jonathan

At the very bottom of the letter I noticed something scrawled
around a cross but at first I couldn't decipher it. The longer I looked, the clearer
it became, and I grinned when I figured it out:
ra†io
.

I sat there for some time thinking about the letter, about Mama and
Jonathan, about my siblings and in-laws, my nieces and nephews, about my boy
Ho
ra
†
io
,
Ray-Ray
, about my city and my home
and how even though I hated scaling fish or shucking oysters, even if I liked it
less than all of this, a lot less than all this, wringing a chicken's neck was
nowhere near terrifying as huddling at the rear of a fort or riding in a wagon while
gunfire raged nearby, and for a second I began musing about the possibility of
returning back north and how and when I might do so, what exactly I would tell Mr.
Edward, maybe I could head back with him when he quit the Corps because he had
shared with me one evening a week ago, out of frustration, when he thought he would
never get to take to the air, that he was planning on further training in order to
become a professor himself, especially if President Lincoln didn't get around to
awarding him and the rest of them official military commissions, and, he added out
of nowhere, he was going to marry Mr. Peter Robins' sister Alexandra. Soon as I
recalled that I checked the time: I had been far too long in my reverie, so I ran
the few blocks back to camp.

Mr. Edward was standing all by himself near the tents, waiting for me,
his hands behind his back, spectacles on the tip of nose. He said, peeve coloring
his timbre, “Boy, where in stars' name have you been?” I told him that there were
military officers holding up everything all along Pennsylvania, checking papers and
such, and he replied, with obvious vexation, “Well, there are Confederates and their
sympathizers all around us so you should take care not to dally in the city.” He
looked in the direction of the water, which lay beyond the rows of buildings and
boats. “They were looking for you to join Ulysses in a buck dance to entertain them
but I told them you wouldn't be doing so.” I could hear a banjo and clapping in the
distance, so I said, “Yes, Sir, thank you, here is your mail, can I get you
anything?” He raised his right hand, which was wrapped in a gauze, forming a tan
mitt, and returning to his usual tone with me he said that he had burnt himself with
the soldering iron. “Oh, Mr. Edward, Sir, I'm sorry.” I asked him if he had hurt
himself badly but he assured me that it wasn't as bad as it looked, but he would
especially need my help now.

He had me sit down beside him, open and read his passel of letters.
While his mother wrote about the family, her friends and garden and parties, the
return of the fall social season, his father wrote to let him know his account was
full, and to be careful and brave, and use “the sabre” of his great mind. His eldest
brother Albert penned long paragraphs about his wife and children, his clubs and the
insurance business. The middle brother, Frederick, spoke about his position at the
brokerage in New York. His sister Katharine included clippings from the regular and
society newspapers, and mentioned running into Mr. Bache, who urged that “Neddy” pay
him a visit at the Coast Survey offices which sat just blocks from here. Most of his
friends, after perfunctory comments about the “War” and the Corps, nattered on about
the same things, themselves, clubs, businesses, marriages, trips, purchases, though
Mr. Peter Robins punctuated his letter, nested in a copy of a new novel by Charles
Dickens, with the question of whether Mr. Edward was ready to end his “experiment,”
and “liberate your Liberian.” I studied Mr. Edward's face as I read the line, but it
appeared not to provoke any response at all.

When we had concluded the letters I asked to be dismissed, but he had me
read the headlines of the
Washington Daily Intelligencer
—a paper he claimed
to detest but read only because timely copies of the
Philadelphia Enquirer
were hard to find—which I did as swiftly as I could. I raced through auctions,
politics at the local and national level, the war in western Virginia, which he made
me pause on; the demoralization of the poorer classes in Norfolk and Richmond,
debates on the war in Europe, articles on Utah and California, announcements for
theater dramas and farces. I did not utter but winced when I came across the
request, with a $50 reward, for the return of “Hansom,” a “small-statured Negro boy
of sixteen years, light copper colored,” to his owner living southeast of some town
called “Bladensburg.” After that I opened his tin of sardines and he let me have
half the can, so I made sure to save some for Ulysses, then I packed his pipe with
tobacco and lit it so he could smoke it, while he talked about the balloon and how
he had been re-calibrating the altimeter, how he intended to go up at the end of the
week with Professor Lowe, how someone had broken up a fight
with . . . but I was halfway to Lombard Street in my head, paying
attention only when I heard him say, “Thank you, Theodore, you're dismissed.”