No Common War

  In 1835, two Salisbury brothers journey to Washington City from Sandy Creek, New York to promote their town. In Washington, they witness a slave being whipped. Mason Salisbury tries to intervene and is struck across the face with the whip.

  Mason becomes an ardent abolitionist. In 1861, his son, Moreau, is at seminary when Ft. Sumter is fired on, beginning the Civil War. Moreau cannot reconcile the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill,” with killing, even given the abomination of slavery. But his mind is changed when he discovers an escaped slave trying to get to Canada. Moreau and his cousin Merrick join the 24th New York Volunteers.

  No Common War presents battle as the Civil War infantryman experiences it, and does not shrink from depictions of the primitive medical treatment of wounds and infection, but it also shows the home front where the families and lovers of the combatants must sit and wait.

  No Common War is based on the war experiences of the author’s great-grandfather, Moreau Salisbury. The photograph on the book jacket is of the same Moreau Salisbury.

  Books by Luke Salisbury

  Fiction

  The Cleveland Indian

  Blue Eden

  Hollywood and Sunset

  Nonfiction

  The Answer is Baseball

  First Class Times: Writing about New College’s Charter Classes (with Lawrence Paulson, eds.)

  Copyright © 2019 Luke Salisbury. All rights reserved. No part of this book mey be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  No Common War is a work of fiction. Except for historical figures, all characters that appear in this book are products of the author’s imagination. Other than historical figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (print): 978-1-936364-29-9

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-936364-30-5

  Black Heron Press

  Post Office Box 13396

  Mill Creek, Washington 98082

  www.blackheronpress.com

  This book is dedicated to

  Sergeant Moreau J. Salisbury

  Company G, 24th New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment

  and

  Private Merrick Salisbury

  Company G, 24th New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment

  Have you seen the elephant?

  —Civil War inquiry about whether a man had been in battle

  This is no common war.

  —General William Tecumseh Sherman

  Mason

  Washington City

  Christmas Day

  1835

  Prologue

  In 1835, Colonel Thomas Meacham, the preeminent citizen of Sandy Creek, New York, recruited local men to take the world’s largest cheese to Washington City. The Colonel made the fourteen hundred pounds of cheddar, with our help, right in the village. His mission was to present the cheese to President Andrew Jackson and give the village universal recognition. Filled with the prospect of adventure, my brother Lorenzo and I volunteered to accompany Meacham and his masterwork to Washington City. We had never been south of the Finger Lakes or out of New York State. The Colonel hoped his giant cheddar, dubbed the Great Cheese, would make him famous. I hoped it would make me famous. I thought there’d be important men, handsome women, superb opportunity in Washington City. I had not reckoned how a single day might so change a life.

  Lorenzo and I saw slaves in Maryland. Neither of us had ever seen a slave. In Baltimore, Negroes unloaded freight and sang carols with a melancholy intensity not easily forgotten. I waved to a man with a sweat-soaked red bandanna and flax shirt that had no color. He just looked at me.

  No crowds greeted the Great Cheese in Washington City. Christmas in the capital was a muddy, lonely business. We found no splendid balls, rich widows, or affable Senators. Everyone, it seemed, had somewhere else to be. The city was a disappointment. The roads were unpaved and the new government buildings far apart. Lorenzo said, “This ain’t a city. This is a hope for a city.”

  The President, we were told, was too ill to meet us. This was a severe disappointment, bordering on insult. We had brought the Great Cheese from the shores of Lake Ontario to the nation’s wretched capital and weren’t even to see Old Hickory, let alone find the doors of the best houses opened. A slave did tip his hat and say, “Welcome, cheese men,” as the gigantic North Country cheddar disappeared into the back of the White House.

  On Christmas Day, Lorenzo and I walked the deserted streets. I was ready to go home and visit a young woman who had been most sorry to see me go. We passed an empty slave pen and whipping post, and I said bitterly, “At least they don’t sell human beings on the birthday of the Savior.” We walked by the White House and considered stopping to inquire about the President’s health. The day was gray and cold, though walking in the damp air felt less chilly than our drafty boarding house. We wore long coats. Lorenzo had a short-stocked shotgun under his greatcoat. He was rarely without it away from the farm.

  We passed a whitewashed boarding house and heard screams and the sound of a whip. Lorenzo and I went around back to the stable where a heavy man, his white, collarless shirt stained with sweat, lashed a Negro. The Negro stood on an unpainted stool, his hands tied together and hung over a rusty hook in a joist. His neck, shoulders, back and feet were bare. His shiny black back was bloody and his ragged pants were bright with blood. Three stable hands passed a jug. One of them said, “Put your back into it, John.” They wore soiled black coats and had red, sweaty faces.

  I saw everything in an instant. A white mark on the forehead of a horse in a stall. The gap between the blackened teeth of the man swigging out of a jug. Rakes and bridles on the walls. A saddle in a pile of straw. The upraised hoof of a gray horse in another stall. A lantern on a chest whose varnished top was cracked. The crease in a slouch hat beside John. Manure on their the men’s boots. A cowhide whip. The Negro’s bloody feet on tiptoe on the rough stool. And most of all the red welts, blood flowing on the Negro’s shiny back, muscles and tendons stretched so they might tear.

  We stood in the door. Lorenzo put his hand under his coat.

  “You got business?” said John, and spat.

  We didn’t answer.

  “Costs to watch a cowhidin’,” said the man with the jug. “A quarter.”

  “That ain’t enough,” said a squat man with big forearms and a bulging stomach, who leaned against a stall.

  Lorenzo and I looked at each other. John gave the Negro two hard lashes and grunted with the effort. He evidently enjoyed inflicting pain. The Negro turned and I saw his face by the light of the lantern. The face was old, helpless, begging. Blood ran down to the man’s feet and dripped off the stool. He screamed. John hit him again. The Negro’s face begged us to do something.

  I was humiliated, fascinated, furious. I couldn’t watch; I couldn’t not watch. I felt the raw satisfaction of the stable hands. They guffawed and swigged. I felt the hot arrogance of cruelty in John. The vicious pride. I took off my coat, walked past the hat, lantern, John, the whip. I put the coat over the man’s bloody shoulders. The coat covered him to the ankles.

  “Damn waste of a good coat,” said John, and spat in the straw.

  “He’s cold,” I said.

  “Yankees,” said the hand with big forearms.

  “Yankees don’t know niggers,” said the hand with the jug.

  “He’s cold,” I said again.

  “Thank him,” said John, touching the Negro’s ear with the whip. Tears ran down the black man’s face. He looked old enough to be my father.

  “Do you call yourself a Christian?” I said, looking John in the eye.

  The whip made a cracking, peremptory sound as it stung my face. I doubled o
ver, clutching my face. Lorenzo hit John on the side of the head with the barrel of the shotgun and in the stomach with the butt. John staggered and sat down on the straw. The whip dropped. John put his hand to his head, which was bleeding, groaned and fell to the straw. I watched him wriggle and jerk and cradle his head. I wanted the gun.

  The squat hand reached for a pitchfork. Another picked up a rake.

  “Don’t,” said Lorenzo. He didn’t say it loud. No one moved.

  “Give me the gun,” I said.

  “No,” said Lorenzo.

  The Negro sobbed like a child. The sound was unbearable.

  “I’ll kill him,” I said. I felt a burning wetness from cheek to hairline.

  “It’s his country,” said Lorenzo, glancing at John. Lorenzo moved back, gun leveled at the other men.

  “For now,” I said, and stepped on the hat.

  We walked out of that stable. I didn’t look back. Lorenzo didn’t take his eyes off the men.

  As we moved away, they strung that slave back up and beat him like they were beating us instead. They beat him so hard God could hear his screams. I hear them still and know I am a coward.

  Mason

  Son and Scar

  Sandy Creek, New York

  April 1861

  1

  April 12, 1861. Twenty-six years, four months and seventeen days after I was attacked, Fort Sumter was attacked. A generation of dithering over slavery became thirty-three hours of cannonade. The fort in flames, Union commander Major Robert Anderson, who once taught artillery to Confederate commander Pierre G. T. Beauregard at West Point, surrendered. Major Anderson was allowed to salute and remove his battered flag. His force of sixty-four men (One died in an accident after the bombardment ceased, none because of it) was allowed to leave. The commanders were gentlemen. War seemed decent and honorable.

  Decent or not, it had come at last.

  2

  My son didn’t want to go to war. He went because I made sure of it. I don’t believe in atonement. Only explanation.

  Moreau returned from seminary at Cazenovia after the attack on Fort Sumter. Mr. Lincoln called for 75,000 volunteers. The North Country, New York State, indeed the whole North, was united and inflamed. Everyone was inflamed, I should say, except my son. He seemed to be inflamed against being inflamed, or inflamed against me. Moreau followed the Lord and I was standing for election to the State Assembly in November. We argued mightily. Moreau said God’s commandment against killing was unequivocal. I said slavery was an affront to God, man, and Jesus Christ. A time comes when words no longer suffice, even between father and son.

  Two weeks after Sumter, a runaway slave found his way to Bob Chamberlain’s farm by the bend in Little Sandy Creek, four miles from the Salisbury mill. I would help get the man to Canada, like I had helped several before him. I was often active in the work of the Cause. This was the chance to convert my son to Abolition. With deft maneuver, I might use this starving man for everyone’s good. The runaway would get freedom and Moreau would get the opportunity to see why men should fight. The exchange was the perfect opportunity. I told Chamberlain to bring the man to the creek that afternoon to wait for me, then I took my son hunting.

  The day was bright, the sunlight overpowering, flattening shadows to nothing. We watched Little Sandy run over broken layers of limestone, making hundreds of little falls as it winds through town, collects in millponds, and flows on to Lake Ontario. Our soil is fertile and watered by many creeks. Wind from the lake brings rain and we have two harvests. Winter brings snow that leaves ten-foot drifts, drops temperatures below zero, and may kill anyone caught in a storm. We live with extremes, but today was a spring gift of mildness. We paused in our walk.

  I watched Moreau stare at the creek, no doubt pondering his future. He was the only son of a miller, a Baptist in a congregation where no less than forty people were Salisburys or married to a Salisbury, and the richest man in town had married into the family. His uncles had big farms on the Salt Road. I often told Moreau: For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required. He always answered: The devil can cite scripture for his purpose. Lately we hadn’t been so civil.

  My son wanted the Lord. Now President Lincoln wanted my son.

  The spring creek was swift and swollen. I leaned against an oak and listened to the quick, clear water. Thick underbrush by the tag alders and willows had suffered a particularly hard winter. The buds on the trees were small and tight. Wild flowers that would be a riot of yellow and purple and blue were only a promise. Tangled vines on the moist earth were brown. Spring comes hard in the North Country—not an easy birth.

  My son fiddled with his fowling piece as if it made him nervous. I started. “Why’d you go to seminary, Moreau?”

  His usual answer was “To do right,” and I intended to say, “Never in this nation’s history has right been more obvious.” However, this time he didn’t say anything; this wasn’t to be our usual conversation. Finally I said, “Did God whisper in your ear?”

  Moreau crouched down on his haunches, Indian-style. He took a breath and didn’t look at me. “I went to answer for the Salisbury heads.”

  The Salisbury heads. The first Salisbury in America and his son killed an Indian, on a Sunday in Swansea, Plymouth Colony. Three days later, William and John and five other “soldiers of the King” were killed by Indians and their heads put on stakes over-looking the Kickimuit River. June 1675. The killings—by Salisburys, then Indians—started King Philip’s War. To this day that war remains, per capita, the bloodiest on north American soil. By its end, one of every ten colonists—men, women and children—had been killed. Half the Indian population was dead or sold into slavery in the West Indies.

  My son was obsessed by the tale. He used his “guilt” over his ancestors’ act to glorify himself and puff up his “conscience.” Moreau acted like repenting the sins of his ancestors provided a gravitas and moral depth unimaginable to his father. It must be easier to repent sins one hasn’t committed.

  It was, however, a hell of a story.

  William, the first Salisbury in America, was a Welshman and Baptist. To the Puritans, that made him a Stranger, not allowed in Boston, so he made his way to Swansea on Narragansett Bay, by what is now Rhode Island. It took five years for life to turn sour. By June 1675, matters with Indians had gone so badly men took their guns to church. One Sunday, William and John returned to find three unarmed Indians pestering Mistress Salisbury for whiskey. William ordered John to shoot.

  The Salisbury heads. Little Moreau had nightmares. Many nights his teary face appeared in the bed between me and Mary. The grown man had a “conscience.” I suppose men become ministers for less.

  I looked at slender willows, boxy tag alders, the glittering creek, at my son. Moreau stared at the swift-running water. He had his bearing-the-cross-for-his-ancestors look.

  “Repenting other men’s sins is vanity,” I said.

  “Sin is sin,” Moreau said.

  “America sins now!” I said hotly. “Don’t lament! Act!”

  “Tongues cut out, hands and scalps in trees.” Moreau put down his gun. “Blood dripping down stakes.” He rocked on his haunches and looked at the creek. High overhead a flock of Canada geese V’d their way north. “The heads started me praying. I never stopped.”

  “Don’t you have enough sins of your own to pray over?” I said.

  “Rash and bloody deeds,” Moreau said, looking at the creek, as if the fast water transported his fancy to an age of slaughter and beheading.

  “You were too young to hear the tale,” I said.

  “No one is too young to learn evil resides in God’s world,” he said.

  “You know where evil resides!” I said, harshly.

  The wind came up and half a dozen crows flew off the leafless branches of a cluster of tag alders.

  “Slavery,” said my son.

  At least he knew that much.

  Everybody in Sandy Creek and all the towns
in Jefferson and Oswego Counties talked war now that this country’s flag had been fired on. It might as well have been spat upon. That very Sunday, Deacon Enos Salisbury had roared from the pulpit, “This Union trembles like a stand of popples before a storm!” Enos meant the green and silver pointed leaves of quaking aspens by the lakeshore that shiver and tremble before rain. Enos finished the sermon shouting, “‘For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind!’”

  Amen.

  “War,” I said, looking at my son, who was looking at me now. I ran my hand down the barrel of a fowling piece that belonged to my father. He fought in 1812.

  “‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’” said Moreau. “Matthew 5:9.”

  “‘The Lord is a man of war,’” I said. “Exodus.”

  “You’re asking me to shoot, Father.”

  My son was no friend of slavery. He knew Lorenzo and I helped runaways get to Canada. The main route was through Syracuse to Buffalo and around Niagara Falls, but sometimes tired and frightened men and women came through Sandy Creek. We hid them in the mill among sacks of meal until I could get them to a lumber boat. Safety was eighty miles north and across the St. Lawrence, or a dangerous fifty miles across open lake. Mary and I had taken food and clothing into the mill for half-starved men, and once a shivering woman, who’d come the length of the country with rags for shoes.

  I watched a patch of thick brown underbrush by a cluster of willows, oaks, and tag alders by the creek—the patch I knew concealed the possible herald of my son’s calling. A living, breathing argument for war. Soon, I hoped, we would have no further need of talk. The fowling pieces rested against a log. Moreau stretched in the afternoon sun. He didn’t notice the unusual agitation in the brush.

  “You have a scar from a slaver,” said Moreau. “I have the heads.”

  “We each found a calling,” I said, sarcastically.

  “You have anger,” he said. “I have Jesus Christ.”