in the dark, after days of river travel, Higginson was proud of these men, the most disciplined he had ever worked with. He said so in his dispatches, although he doubted Union Command believed him. They had taken a risk creating an entire regiment of colored troops, mostly freed slaves, all of whom had been in a martial mood much of the month, ever since word of President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation reached them.
A strange clip-clop, then the whinny of a horse, and a shushing. Higginson's breath caught. His men had no horses. They traveled mostly on steamers, and hence had no need of horses, even if the Union Army had deemed such soldiers worthy of steeds—which they did not.
He whispered a command. It was all he needed to stop his troops. They halted immediately and slapped their rifles into position.
He had a fleeting thought that made him smile—a Confederate soldier's worst nightmare: to meet a black man with a gun—and then waited.
The silence was thick, the kind of silence that came only when men listened, trying to hear someone else move. Breathing hushed, each movement monitored. No one wanted to move first.
Then Higginson saw him, rising out of the trees as if made of smoke—a black-robed figure, face hidden by a hood, carrying a scythe.
Higginson's breath caught. What kind of madness was this? Some kind of farmer lurking in the woods, killing soldiers?
The figure turned toward him. In the darkness, the hood looked empty. Higginson saw no face, just a great, gaping beyond.
His heart pounded. He was forty years old, tired, overworked and overwrought; hallucinations should not have surprised him.
But they did, this did.
And then the hallucination dissolved as if it had never been. One of his men cried out, and a volley of shots lit up the night, revealing nothing where the hooded figure had stood.
All around it, however, horses, men, Confederates—white faces in the strange gunlight, looking frightened and surprised. They surrounded his men, but could not believe what they saw—for a moment anyway.
Then their weapons came out, and they returned fire, and Higginson forgot the hooded figure, forgot that moment of silence, and plunged deep into the battle, his own rifle raised, bayonet out as, around him, the air filled with the stink of gunpowder, the screams of horses, the wild cries of men.
The battle raged late into the night and when it was done, rifle smoke hung in the sky, the trees nearly invisible, the wounded crying around him. Thirteen bodies—twelve of theirs, one of his—gathered nearer each other than he would have liked.
Near the spot where he had seen the hooded figure, where he had imagined smoke, in that moment of silence, before the first shot was fired and the first smoke appeared.
Forty years old and he had never been frightened—not when he attacked Boston's courthouse trying to rescue escaped slave Anthony Burns, not when he fought with the free-staters in Kansas, not when he met John Brown with an offer to fund the raid on Harper's Ferry.
No, Thomas Wentworth Higginson had never been frightened, not until he saw those bodies, scattered in a discernable pattern in the ghostly wood where a spectral figure had stood hours before, and wielded a scythe, creating a clearing where Higginson would have sworn there had not been one before.
He reassured himself: every man was allowed one moment of terror in a war. Then he resolved that he would never be frightened again.
And he was not. In the war, anyway.
But he would be frightened again, and much worse than this, in a small town in Massachusetts where he met a slight poetess, seven years later.
May 23, 1886
The Homestead
Amherst, Massachusetts
Lavinia Dickinson stood in the doorway to her sister's bedroom. It still smelled faintly of Emily—liniment and homemade lavender soap, dried leaves from the many plants she'd preserved, and of course, the sharp odor of India ink that seemed embedded in the walls.
The
A strange clip-clop, then the whinny of a horse, and a shushing. Higginson's breath caught. His men had no horses. They traveled mostly on steamers, and hence had no need of horses, even if the Union Army had deemed such soldiers worthy of steeds—which they did not.
He whispered a command. It was all he needed to stop his troops. They halted immediately and slapped their rifles into position.
He had a fleeting thought that made him smile—a Confederate soldier's worst nightmare: to meet a black man with a gun—and then waited.
The silence was thick, the kind of silence that came only when men listened, trying to hear someone else move. Breathing hushed, each movement monitored. No one wanted to move first.
Then Higginson saw him, rising out of the trees as if made of smoke—a black-robed figure, face hidden by a hood, carrying a scythe.
Higginson's breath caught. What kind of madness was this? Some kind of farmer lurking in the woods, killing soldiers?
The figure turned toward him. In the darkness, the hood looked empty. Higginson saw no face, just a great, gaping beyond.
His heart pounded. He was forty years old, tired, overworked and overwrought; hallucinations should not have surprised him.
But they did, this did.
And then the hallucination dissolved as if it had never been. One of his men cried out, and a volley of shots lit up the night, revealing nothing where the hooded figure had stood.
All around it, however, horses, men, Confederates—white faces in the strange gunlight, looking frightened and surprised. They surrounded his men, but could not believe what they saw—for a moment anyway.
Then their weapons came out, and they returned fire, and Higginson forgot the hooded figure, forgot that moment of silence, and plunged deep into the battle, his own rifle raised, bayonet out as, around him, the air filled with the stink of gunpowder, the screams of horses, the wild cries of men.
The battle raged late into the night and when it was done, rifle smoke hung in the sky, the trees nearly invisible, the wounded crying around him. Thirteen bodies—twelve of theirs, one of his—gathered nearer each other than he would have liked.
Near the spot where he had seen the hooded figure, where he had imagined smoke, in that moment of silence, before the first shot was fired and the first smoke appeared.
Forty years old and he had never been frightened—not when he attacked Boston's courthouse trying to rescue escaped slave Anthony Burns, not when he fought with the free-staters in Kansas, not when he met John Brown with an offer to fund the raid on Harper's Ferry.
No, Thomas Wentworth Higginson had never been frightened, not until he saw those bodies, scattered in a discernable pattern in the ghostly wood where a spectral figure had stood hours before, and wielded a scythe, creating a clearing where Higginson would have sworn there had not been one before.
He reassured himself: every man was allowed one moment of terror in a war. Then he resolved that he would never be frightened again.
And he was not. In the war, anyway.
But he would be frightened again, and much worse than this, in a small town in Massachusetts where he met a slight poetess, seven years later.
May 23, 1886
The Homestead
Amherst, Massachusetts
Lavinia Dickinson stood in the doorway to her sister's bedroom. It still smelled faintly of Emily—liniment and homemade lavender soap, dried leaves from the many plants she'd preserved, and of course, the sharp odor of India ink that seemed embedded in the walls.
The
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