Legacy
We hunkered down to wait out winter
at Ft. Henry. Too quiet. Too much time
to think. My night on guard. Of a sudden,
a shadow sprung across the dark, like
them ghosts that steal a man's sleep
in the awful hours, when he's sure
daylight's just a dream he had once.
But them eyes, all glitter an' gleam...
they weren't no dream. Not the bony
hand that laid a-holt of my coat, nor
his breath, cloud white, in the
cold moonlight, as he lit in to cussin'
the day I'd been born. Me, meanwhile,
bellied up to the barrel of his gun.
Such a ruckus brought us comp'ny
in a short. The men whooped, pounded
his back, broke out the jug to pass.
Long 'bout then, the Major steps up.
When the commotion sorta died away
I had commenced to somehow savvy
I'd likely live to see the light of day.
Henry shoved the gun aside, then
marched us to his quarters. A fair man,
was the Major. Heard the both of us out;
said but little, though I guess
he could tell Old Glass was after
bigger game than greenhorns
when he growled, "Whar's Fitz?"
Two moons passed. I laid pretty low
'til that old man left out downriver.
By then 'twas plain he didn't aim to
give me what all knew I deserved.
But those eyes followed me, all the time,
even 'round corners, as they had done
every day since I left him for dead.
Henry and the others, they left it lay.
Seems like, I never could. Reckon
the things a man puts his back to
tend to foller him forever, and in the
awful hours, he comes to learn guilt
ain't half as troublesome to tote as
forgiveness he's got no way to earn.
© Lyn Messersmith 9/2002
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