Different Sin (18 page)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Like Alexandria, Washington had become a city of military encampments and hospitals. David rode the horse car to the last stop, then continued on foot down the muddy, rutted lane northwest toward Twelfth and R streets: the location of Freedman’s Hospital, established by the government for the contrabands, those runaway slaves who’d slipped through the Union lines to freedom.

Hundreds of makeshift shanties stretched beyond the boundaries of the rickety wooden barracks that had been provided to house the contrabands. Half-naked children ran and shouted in the rapidly falling evening, women stirred pots of greens over smoky fires, men lounged together talking and laughing. Chickens and dogs roamed free, squawking and barking, their noise drowned out by the sound of hymns swelling from fire to fire. The smells of people crowded together, cooking pots and poorly drained outhouses hung over the area.

The hospital was a one-story frame building, in little better repair than the fugitives’ barracks. A Negro man wearing the uniform of an army officer was entering the front door. David called him. “Mike! Hey Mike, wait a minute.”

The man turned, startled, then hurried toward David. “Can I help you?” he asked.

David looked at him in embarrassment. From the front he didn’t look much like Mike at all. The same mulatto coloring, but his features were sharper and Mike had never sported a handlebar mustache like that. “I was looking for a colored man who’s a doctor,” he managed.

“Well, you’ve found one, sir.” The man smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Major Augusta. I have charge of this facility.”

David extended his own hand. “I didn’t realize—” He stopped, feeling foolish.

The major smiled again. “That there was more than one colored doctor serving in the army? I believe there’s seven or eight of us stationed in Washington City. Who are you looking for?”

“Mike- Michael Mabaya. He’s—”

“Yes, I know him. He’s here. He should be going off duty about now.” Augusta waved his hand in the direction of the doctors’ quarters.

Mike smiled a greeting, leading the way to a bench outside the noisy barracks. David sank down next to him. He looked older, David thought. His frizzy black hair showed new patches of white at the temples. The same place Dad first started to gray—

David started, realizing he’d missed Mike’s words of condolence on his uncle’s death. Not that Mike could be very grieved, after the way Uncle James had dragged him back to slavery. “Do you see much of Dad?” he asked.

“When I get a chance. We’re pretty well swamped here. The camp’s full of smallpox, yellow fever.” Mike closed his eyes a moment, rubbed them with the back of his hands. “He’s been helping out at one of the hospitals in Alexandria a couple of times a week. At his age.” He smiled tiredly.

“He didn’t say.” David paused. “I— I wanted to ask you—” He broke off. How could he bring himself to ask Mike for his help? They sat in silence a few minutes. Hell, he’d come all the way out here. “There’s something I thought maybe you could tell me—”

“What?” Mike turned to look at him. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying you much mind.” He rubbed his eyes again. “I had my mind on Peter. Truth is, I haven’t thought of much else all summer. God help me, sometimes I think it would be easier if I knew for sure he’d been killed.”

Christ. He’d been so caught up in his own troubles he hadn’t said a word to Mike about Peter. David stared down at his hands. To tell the truth he hadn’t paid much attention to the scanty news stories, following on the heels of the draft riots, of the failed assault on Fort Wagner, spearheaded by the 54
^th
Massachusetts. Nearly a fourth of the regiment had been lost on the flat stretch of sand dunes surrounding the fort or in hand to hand combat on the earthworks that formed its defenses. Colonel Shaw, struck down as he urged on his men, had been buried by the Confederates “in a common ditch with his niggers,” news reports said.

Even when he’d gotten the news that Peter was missing in action, it had barely intruded on his own concerns. He looked back at Mike. “You haven’t heard anything more?”

“Not a thing.” Michael gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “Abigail found one of the boys in hospital, when she went to Beaufort to help with the nursing, who thought he’d seen Peter wounded inside the earthworks. He didn’t know how badly. She was going to see if he could tell her more when he’d recovered a bit, but he died of his wounds before she got the chance.”

David swallowed. “But if he was taken prisoner, surely they’d have put him in a hospital. It might take months to get news of him. You shouldn’t give up hope yet.”

“It’s what I tell myself, what I write Rachel and the children. I can’t make myself believe it though. Oh Lord, David, I’m so scared for him. I keep thinking—if he was captured by the Rebs he might be better off to have been killed outright.”

“Christ, Mike, don’t say that!” David looked at him in shock. “He couldn’t be better off dead than to be a prisoner.”

“The Confederates won’t treat colored as prisoners of war. He could be sold into slavery. I keep thinking of him being chained up, whipped—hanged even, like the prisoners they took at Milliken’s Bend.”

Both the
Tribune
and
Times
that summer had carried stories of colored prisoners summarily put to death. “But since then,” David argued, “Lincoln’s warned the Secesh our government’ll retaliate if they murder colored prisoners or try to enslave them. Anyway, it’s the thought of arming slaves that troubles them. There’s no reason for them to treat free colored any different than white.”

“Free or slave won’t matter. A nigger’s a nigger to them.” Mike’s voice shook. “Those white boys are savages. Get a little liquor in them, there’s no telling what they’ll do. They’re not gonna be stopped by any order from Lincoln.”

It had grown too dark to see Mike’s face but David could feel him tremble. I’ve never seen him so scared, he thought. He searched for words to dispel his fear. The memory of the draft riots rose vividly in his mind. It had taken the force of troops recalled fresh from the victory at Gettysburg to stop the mobs from their mindless violence. He shuddered and kept silent.

Christ. He couldn’t just sit here. David reached out and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders, held him tightly for a long moment. “It’s too soon to give up hope,” he said finally.

Mike drew a deep breath. “I know. Thanks. There’s no use borrowing trouble.” He managed a smile. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

He couldn’t ask him now. Mike had enough burdens as it was. “I don’t remember. I— I guess it wasn’t that important,” David said.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

He continued to cling to Zach’s company through the fall, missing him even the few days Zach was in Pennsylvania, covering the dedication of the cemetery for the war dead at Gettysburg. He admitted as much to Zach on his return.

“And I you. I’d hoped we could travel there together. It’s a shame Leslie decided to rely on photographs.”

David grimaced. “I’ve been copying them all day. I have good news though. Mike’s had word of Peter. He was taken prisoner. They’re being held in the city jail in Charleston.”

“That is good news.”

“Yeah. Though he lost an arm in the fighting.” David shuddered. “Mike wrote he’s just thankful his life was spared. He was so frightened for him.” David fell silent, musing on his visit with Mike and the help he hadn’t brought himself to ask of him.

“Do you ever give thought to how we’re imperiling our souls by lying together?” he asked abruptly.

“What brings that up all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s been preying on my mind since Uncle James passed on.”

Zach grew thoughtful. “I think I can answer you best in verse,” he said, smiling at David.

     “When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand...

     Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom,

     I am silent, I require nothing further,

     I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave,

     But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,

     He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.”

David smiled reluctantly. “More Whitman? But hell, Zach, that’s not enough.”

“It’s enough. I find it so, at any rate.”

“I wish I did. But you know we’ll have to answer for our sins in the next life.”

“Not every religion preaches hellfire and brimstone.” Zach finished unpacking and sank onto his chair. He pulled off his shoes, then slumped back with a comfortable sigh. “I’d sooner spend Sunday mornings other than listening to a sermon, but when I was younger I sought out churches that taught God’s love instead of His vengeance. The Universalists, Unitarians. I’d not mind attending again if you’d like.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You might at least read a few modern religious thinkers. I know you’ve read precious little of Emerson or—”

“Hell, Zach, just because someone sets down his notions in an essay or poem doesn’t make them so.”

Zach’s brows drew together in concentration, preparatory, David knew, to pursuing his argument. David cast about for a change of subject. “Where the hell is he anyhow?”

“Where is who?”

“Whitman. I haven’t seen him around Pfaff’s for months.”

“Washington City. He’s been helping tend the wounded there, I’ve heard. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered. He must have his hands full if he’s helping care for wounded. When I was home this fall it seemed half the houses in town had been turned into hospitals. It’s a wonder there’s any men left to go on fighting.”

“Let’s pray Lincoln can bring it to a speedy conclusion. When I gave thought, at Gettysburg, to how many—” Zach halted himself. “There’s precious little point to such gloomy conversation. What do you say to a glass or two of beer at Pfaff’s?”

“I don’t think so. It’s late to go out. And I ought to finish my letter to Mike.” David took in Zach, still slumped in his chair, and smiled. “Anyhow, by the looks of you, you’d do better to get a good night’s sleep than go out drinking.”

Zach’s smile stretched into a yawn. “I daresay you’re right. Once I’ve got my shoes off, I’m fairly well settled for the evening. Though I’ll probably do a bit of reading before turning in. Speaking of which, why not take my copy of Emerson with you?”

“Maybe another time. I’m too tired to wade through Emerson this evening. Sleep well.” David kissed him lightly on the brow and left the room.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

David slid the completed letter into an envelope. He stood and stretched, walked restlessly around his room. It was still an hour before his accustomed bedtime.

He should’ve taken the essays, he thought, read a few pages. If nothing else, it would’ve pleased Zach. Well, he doubted Zach was asleep yet. He knocked softly, then pushed Zach’s door to as he entered his room.

Zach was in his nightshirt, reading in bed, back propped against the pillow, legs stretched out atop his coverlet. David glanced at the clothes strewn across the chair, and sank onto the foot of the bed. Zach drew up his knees to make room for him. “I hope you ‘re not about to suggest going out for a beer at this hour.”

“Hardly. I came to borrow your book after all, but I’m not so sure I feel like reading either, to tell the truth.” David leaned back against the wall, smiling at Zach’s comfortably sprawled body. Zach’s thick hair was already as disheveled as after a night of sleep, his rumpled nightshirt hiked up to his thighs, exposing the pink tip of his penis.

“You’ll catch yourself a chill, sitting like that.” David reached forward to tug the nightshirt down. His hand strayed to Zach’s thigh, fingers twining themselves in the heavy pubic hair, his palm beginning to tingle as it moved in tiny, quickening circles. Zach gave a sigh of delight. His shirt fell back further, exposing the quickening excitement in his member.

David caught his breath as the tender, wrinkled skin swelled with life. His hand moved between Zach’s thighs and encircled the hot throbbing flesh. God, he thought, all my talk about sin and I can’t be in a room with him five minutes without— Zach’s first moans of pleasure sounded softly in his ears, banishing his dismay. Zach stroked David’s hair, murmuring his name in joyful gasps.

David bent forward and left a line of moist kisses on Zach’s stomach and thighs. His lips brushed Zach’s member, moved slowly up the shaft, parted to engulf it with hot rhythmic caresses. Zach’s moans grew louder.

The door flew open simultaneous with a sharp knock. Elliot’s breezy voice called, “Hey Zach, you got a match—” There was a moment of stunned silence. “My God!” Elliot breathed. “Holy Christ! Holy Mother of God!” An eternity of seconds went by till Elliot stepped from the room slamming the door behind him.

David flung himself from the bed. His legs trembled. He made his way to the window and stared blindly at the drawn curtains. In the sudden silence he could hear the creak of the bedsprings as Zach stood, the sounds of his bare feet walking toward him.

“I daresay that’ll teach us a lesson about locking doors,” Zach said at last.

“Christ, Zach—” David broke off, shaking. He leaned his forehead against the pane, the curtain clenched in his fist.

Zach put a hand on his shoulder. David jerked away. Zach stepped closer, gripping his shoulder. “David, listen to me. It’s all right. I’ll have a word with Elliot. He won’t give us away.”

“Have a word with him! God, how can you face him? How can you ever face him again?”

“David, I daresay I’m as embarrassed as you, but—”

“Embarrassed! Oh my God, Zach, did you see how he looked at us? How he saw us? A pair of disgusting perverts— Oh Jesus!”

“Elliot’s no saint himself.”

“Oh Christ, what does that matter? I— I’ve got to get out of here!”

Zach dropped his hand. “I daresay we’ll both feel better after a night’s sleep.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“David! Are you there, David?” Zach burst into his room as he opened the door. “I was afraid you might be taken ill. I thought you’d slept past breakfast, but when you failed to appear for supper as well—” Zach broke off and stared around the room at the empty bookshelves and bureau top, the packed carpet bag and boxes.