Elegy for the Native Guards

Elegy for the Native Guards Natasha Trethewey Now that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea... —Allen Tate We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead trailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare— all the way to Ship Island. What we see first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee— half reminder of the men who lived there— a weathered monument to some of the dead. Inside we follow the ranger, hurried though we are to get to the beach. He tells of graves lost in the Gulf, the island split in half when Hurricane Camille hit, shows us casemates, cannons, the store that sells souvenirs, tokens of history long buried. The Daughters of the Confederacy have placed a plaque here, at the fort's entrance— each Confederate soldier's name raised hard in bronze; no names carved for the Native Guards— 2nd regiment, Union men, black phalanx. What is monument to their legacy? All the grave markers, all the crude headstones— water-lost. Now fish dart among their bones, and we listen for what the waves intone. Only the fort remains, near forty feet high, round, unfinished, half-open to the sky, the elements—wind, rain—God's deliberate eye. Copyright © 2004 Charles H. Rowell

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