Fort Pillow Trilogy (Three Spoon River Poems)

Caleb the Bartender

You never cared where I'd come from, Spoon River,
Just so long as I kept your glasses full.
As you guzzled your beer or sipped your whiskey
You confided in me, you asked my advice
As though I was your Father Confessor,
More in tune with the Holy than with spirits.
You fools!  You know as little of truth as I did
Before battle laid bare the evil of my soul.
Could you look into my heart and view my sins
As I've had to, you'd recoil from me in horror.
I did so from myself, fleeing  here from Memphis
With a new last name, hoping to run from my past.
It met me at the railroad station though,
And laid the crime of murder at my feet.
It was at that moment that I realized
That there was no earthly place where I could hide
From the shame of what I'd done at Fort Pillow.
I resigned myself to a slow suicide of spirit,
Pouring drinks, dispensing advice, and at night
Returning home to drink myself into a stupor
That drove everything away but my guilt.

Varina Devereaux

I was so proud when my Caleb enlisted.
To ride with Bedford Forrest; how romantic!
My beloved a dashing Southern cavalier,
A warrior poet, my own Sir Phillip Sydney!
What tales he would weave from his adventures!
But when he returned his muse had scorned him.
Her lodgings were now squatted in by shame
And a self-loathing that clung to his spirit
Like Spanish moss dripping from a gnarled oak.
He tried to tell me of a place called "Fort Pillow;"
Of men driven mad by hatred and blood-lust,
Of curses and snarled rage brutally punctuated
With gunshots and thrusts of blood-soaked bayonets.
I tried everything.  I held him in my arms.
I told him that it didn't matter, that the war was over,
That they were only thieving Yankee niggers
Who deserved what they got for invading our land.
Nothing that I could do or say could console him.
I sadly watched as he drifted out of my life
On a sullen dark sea of despair.

Jefferson Brown

For years my mind smouldered with bitterness,
Its hot coals glowing with resentment,
Blazing into anger when someone called me "Nigger."
I'd think of the rebel devils who'd killed my boy,
Shooting him in the head as he lay helpless
Begging for mercy in the name of their God too.
But when Mr. Caleb had hired me to help him
Lug his bulky trunk from the train station
To that lonesome little room that he'd just rented,
We both got to talking some.
When I told him of my son's death at Fort Pillow,
His face paled as though he'd just seen the hoodoo
That folks say makes its home in Jackson's Swamp.
His eyes filled with tears, and he lowered his head
And whispered "I'm sorry," as though he were Jesus
Reaching down to take upon himself the blame
For the sins of Forrest and his pack of animals.
After that, every so often I'd step out
Onto my porch to find a sack of groceries
Or a bottle of whiskey set next to my door.
I don't know what brought you to Spoon River,
Mr. Caleb, but your sympathy and kindness
Severed the bonds of hatred that had bound my soul.
May God bless you, and may he wrap you in
The all-forgiving comfort of his love.