Different Sin

by Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  A Different Sin

  By

  Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  Orlando Place Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief passages quoted in reviews. For further information, write:

  Rochelle Schwab

  c/o Orlando Place Press

  3617 Orlando Place

  Alexandria VA 22305

  (email orlandoplacepress@comcast.net.)

  Cover illustration and design by Ginny Schmidt.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data 92-077821

  A Different Sin

  ISBN 1-879603-08-X

  Originally published in 1993 as a trade paperback by Los Hombres Press of San Diego, CA and printed in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 1993 by Rochelle H. Schwab

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALSO BY ROCHELLE HOLLANDER SCHWAB

  A Departure from the Script

  In a Family Way

  As Far as Blood Goes

  PRAISE FOR A DIFFERENT SIN

  “I’m sure I’m not the first (or the last) to hail this book as the queer Gone With the Wind!.... beautifully written and carefully researched... the love scenes are wonderfully sensual and moving...”

  — Dr. Diane Raymond, Department of Philosophy, Simmons College, co-author with Warren J. Blumenfeld, Looking at Gay and Lesbian Life

  “a well-researched, well-written, fiery historical gay novel... The sex is erotic and tasteful... All in all, an excellent novel.”

  — John Starr, OUT in Virginia

  “Schwab's depiction of war's horrors has the ring of truth... Civil War enthusiasts will find much that is diverting in 'A Different Sin.'”

  — William Lyons, Alexandria Gazette Packet

  “... a dramatic story, well told, presenting homosexuality in an intensely human way. Rochelle Schwab calls out of her readers a higher consciousness and a deeper humanity while forcing prejudice and ignorance into retreat.”

  — The Right Reverend John S. Spong, D.D., Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Newark, author of Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism

  “Hard to put down.... a story with a twist.”

  — Tere Rios, author of The Flying Nun

  “A Different Sin brings us a story of romance, love, and perseverance set in the most unexpected of places—pre-Civil War America.... At a time when love between two men is all but unheard of, David and Zach take their friendship a step further.... Rife with plot twists and surprises, A Different Sin is rich with descriptions of wartime events, often jarring the reader from a place of comfort to the battlefield.... In addition to presenting a good tale, the story offers insight into one of the most turbulent and formative periods in our nation's history. For someone looking for a good historical drama, A Different Sin is a must-read.”

  — Elizabeth Conley, The Independent Gay Writer, March 12, 2003

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also By Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  Praise For A Different Sin

  Chapter 1 — 1854

  Chapter 2 — 1854

  Chapter 3 — 1855

  Chapter 4 — 1855-56

  Chapter 5 — 1856-57

  Chapter 6 — 1857

  Chapter 7 — 1859

  Chapter 8 — 1859-60

  Chapter 9 — 1860

  Chapter 10 — 1861

  Chapter 11 — 1862

  Chapter 12 — 1862-63

  Chapter 13 — 1863

  Chapter 14 — 1863

  Chapter 15 — 1863

  Chapter 16 — 1864

  Chapter 17 — 1864

  Chapter 18 — 1864

  Chapter 19 — 1864

  Chapter 20 — 1864

  Chapter 21 — 1864

  Chapter 22 — 1864

  Chapter 23 — 1864

  Chapter 24 — 1864

  Chapter 25 — 1864

  Author Biography

  Chapter 1 — 1854

  THE THUD OF THE GAVEL RELEASED THE COURTROOM SPECTATORS from silence. Voices rose in a babble of argument, approbation and anguish: assured, broad-voweled Brahmin accents, loud Irish brogues, the softly slurred tones of blacks who’d found Boston a tenuous refuge and gazed at the manacled defendant with helpless fellow feeling. Not, David thought, that the proceedings could be termed a trial. The Fugitive Slave Law empowered United States commissioners to rule a man a fugitive solely on his alleged owner’s affidavit, with no testimony on his own behalf.

  From his seat in the third row of newsmen, David Carter stared over the heads in front of him at the parade of witnesses called by the accused fugitive’s attorneys to testify that the apprehension of Anthony Burns was a case of mistaken identity: the one possible defense. Burns’ volunteer attorney, the renowned Richard Henry Dana, proceeded with an assurance matched by that of Robert Morris, his young colored assistant. David’s thoughts strayed from the hearing as he studied the dapper, colored lawyer, admiring his poise in front of the crowded courtroom.

  He’s a hell of a lot more comfortable up there than I’d be, David admitted to himself. Wonder how the hell he got to be a lawyer? Couldn’t have been easy for a Nigra, even up here in Boston. Though Mike managed to become a doctor. Done a damn sight more with his life than I have despite Dad’s insistence on putting me through university.

  David wrenched his attention back to the efforts of the two attorneys to prove Burns’ arrest an error. It seemed damned unlikely they’d succeed. He studied the accused fugitive. Burns’ face was an ebony mask, his apprehension betrayed by the drops of sweat beading his forehead, his quick sidelong glances at Colonel Charles Suttle, who’d journeyed from Virginia to claim him as his property. The manacles clanked as he shifted position. Why in hell couldn’t Suttle accept a fair price for Burns from the abolitionists, instead of dragging him back to slavery? David wondered. Though he supposed the irate slaveowner wanted to make an example of him. David felt a quick rush of sympathy for the runaway.

  There wasn’t a damn thing he could do though. Anymore than he’d been able to help when Mike, his own half brother, had been carried back to slavery under the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Law three years earlier. David glanced at his scribbled notes, hoping he could make enough sense of them to wire a coherent report. It was as an illustrator he hoped to establish himself, not a reporter. But his costly wire to the editor of his hometown paper had brought him only a request to forward an account of the trial. At least the Gazette’s return telegram had gained him admittance to the courtroom. He could do a quick sketch or two during the recess. He turned his pad to a clean page and set to work.

  He drew the courtroom scene, then did a rough outline of Burns’ figure before stopping to massage his cramped fingers. He stood and moved toward the aisle to stretch, muttering apologies as he climbed over the feet of scribbling newsmen.

  “It’s a long sit in such cramped quarters, isn’t it, but not half as long I daresay as for that poor devil chained up there.” David turned at the words of the man standing in the aisle beside him. The other man waved his hand in the direction of the manacled fugitive, then offered it to David in a handshake. “I’m Zachary Walker, with the New York Tribune. Which paper do you write for?”

  “Alexandria Gazette. Alexandria, Virginia.” No point in explaining further.

  Walker withdrew his hand, an expression of apparent distaste crossing his good-humo
red face. “Virginia, eh. I suppose you’ll be glad to see this poor fellow dragged back into slavery then.”

  “Hardly, sir,” David said. These damn abolitionists were all alike-tarred all Southerners with the same brush. “I have a half brother who’s colored, who was taken as a fugitive three years ago. I’ve some idea what Burns is going through.”

  Walker’s eyebrows rose, two bushy white question marks under a high, ruddy forehead. Dammit, David wondered, what had made him blurt out his family’s private affairs? The bailiffs cry ended the recess. David returned to his seat with relief, thankful to be spared further embarrassment.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Michael peered down the tracks at the approaching train, turned to David. “I wish you’d stay longer. You’ve hardly been here two weeks.”

  “Dad’ll be with you, though. And I’d like to show these to the editor of the National Era.” David tapped the portfolio of sketches he’d done: of Burns’ hearing and of the contingent of troops that had marched the fugitive to the Virginia-bound revenue cutter the day before. “I’m hoping he’ll want to run some of them.”

  “They’re good drawings,” Michael assured him. “But it hasn’t been much of a visit, has it? I haven’t been able to think of anything but trying to rescue Burns—” He raised his voice over the noise of the locomotive. “Don’t wait another three years to come back, hear?”

  David nodded. He could hardly tell his half brother that his infrequent visits to Boston, undertaken only at his father’s urging, made him feel even more inadequate than usual. His own poor showing as a lawyer, too unsuccessful in his halfhearted practice to move from under his father’s roof, was galling enough, without seeing Michael’s success at overcoming the handicap of color to become a physician. “I won’t, Mike,” David said, holding out his hand.

  He sank into a window seat on the train and slipped a sketch he’d done of Burns from his portfolio. Crossing his legs at the knee, he propped up the drawing, studying it thoughtfully, his pencil held loosely in his fingers.

  “Poor devil was scared to death, wasn’t he? I see you’ve caught the way he couldn’t take his eyes off his master’s face. You do good work.”

  Startled, David turned toward the man who’djust dropped into the adjacent seat, then winced inwardly as he recognized the Tribune reporter who’d accosted him at the hearing. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “Zachary Walker. We spoke at the so-called trial. I never did get your name.”

  “Yes, I remember. I’m David Carter.”

  Walker held out his hand once again, enveloped David’s fingers in his firm grip. “You piqued my interest with your remark about your colored half brother. I’d like to hear more of the story.”

  David silently berated himself for shooting off his mouth at the hearing. He studied the reporter a minute. Walker appeared some five years past his own age of forty, though the whiskers wreathing his full face were nearly white, as was his crown of wavy hair. His gaze pinned David with eager interest. “There’s not that much to tell,” David demurred.

  Walker’s eyebrows rose as they had at the hearing. “I shouldn’t think it’s an everyday occurrence.”

  “It’s not that uncommon.” David flushed, feeling the heat spread downwards. He tugged awkwardly at his stiff collar, loosening his cravat. “My father owned Hetty, that’s Mike’s mother, and he, well, he bedded her. I understand my mother was an invalid at the time. Mike’s a year younger than me.”

  “You call him your half brother. I gather your father owned up to it then?”

  David sighed. “He was far too ashamed to admit he’d fathered Mike, though any of the town gossips could’ve told you. I know Mike knew. His mother died when he was a boy, but I’m certain she told him before she passed on.

  “I suppose Dad might’ve sold Hetty and Mike out of consideration for my mother’s feelings, but Mother succumbed to her illness shortly after Mike was born. I’ve no memory of her at all. So Dad held on to Hetty. She was a well-trained housekeeper; it was the easiest course. I doubt he ever bedded her again.”

  “And the boy?”

  David sighed again, seeing the unslaked curiosity on the other man’s face. “Well, of course Dad kept him too. He’s not the sort of man to have sold a child away from his mother. Mike and I played together when we were boys.” He smiled slightly, remembering. “Once I’d started school, of course, our ways parted.”

  Walker frowned in thought. “Your father never gave him any schooling? Even though he was his son?”

  “He couldn’t have, not without sending him up North. And it was his belief that Nigras were better off not trying to shift for themselves. He was doing his best by Mike as he saw it.

  “Mike managed to learn on his own though—talked other boys into teaching him his letters, then read everything he could get his hands on. Dad’s retired now, but he practiced medicine most of his life. He used to have Mike help out in his office. Mike got it into his head that he could become a doctor himself if he could get his freedom. You could see Dad was secretly proud of how bright he was. But as I said, he felt the colored were better off in slavery. So he told him it was out of the question.”

  “So Mike ran off from your father then?”

  “Not then. He was only thirteen or fourteen at the time. But he started sassing Dad more and more. Of course Dad resented his attitude. They used to have words fairly often, as I remember.

  “Finally, Mike defied some order Dad gave him. I’m not sure what. I was away at university by then. But Dad felt he’d completely lost control of him and sold him to one of the slave traders in town. Luckily for Mike, he managed to escape from the trader and make his way up North.”

  David stopped, uncomfortably aware of the shock and outrage spreading across Walker’s face. “I couldn’t understand it either—how Dad could sell his own flesh and blood. It wasn’t like him to do a thing like that. But he lost his temper and acted before he came to his senses.

  “He regretted it afterwards. He spent years fretting over Mike. I know he missed him—even if he never said it in so many words.” David stopped, feeling the onslaught of a headache. He leaned back and rubbed his forehead.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Carter?” David was surprised at the concern in the other man’s voice.

  “I’m fine, sir. I suffered a head injury a few years ago. I’ve been prone to headaches since. I think the motion of the train is bringing this one on.”

  Walker smiled. “I feared I’d pressed you too hard with my confounded curiosity.” He reached into his coat pocket for a flask. “A swallow of this may help.”

  “Whiskey makes it worse, I’m afraid.” David smiled regretfully, watching Walker take a swig.

  “I don’t mean to press you, if you’re not up to conversing.”

  David turned his head, meeting Walker’s eyes. Reluctantly he smiled at the almost childlike disappointment on the bearded man’s face. “I don’t mind talking, Mr. Walker.”

  Walker beamed. “You said he was recaptured. I’ve covered most of the fugitive cases for the Tribune since the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law. I don’t recall a runaway by the name of Carter.”

  “Mike took a new last name after he escaped: Mabaya. He claims it was the name of some African ancestor. Anyway, he was right about what he could accomplish. He found a medical school in New England willing to accept colored students. He’s practicing in Boston now.

  “We’d still have no idea where he was if Dad hadn’t been leafing through a medical journal. He stumbled on a letter to the editor taking exception to a paper that Mike and another doctor—a Hebrew friend of his—were about to give at the medical society there. When Dad saw the name, Michael C. Mabaya, together with the information that he was a colored man, he dropped everything and went running up to Boston to see if it could possibly be Mike.”

  “And saw that it was, I take it.” Walker beamed again. “I remember the case now. Just a few months after the passage o
f the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850, if memory serves. How could your father have brought himself to drag him back to slavery?”

  “He didn’t. Dad was delighted to see him doing so well—a lot happier than Mike was to see him. He came home intending to buy Mike back from the trading company so he could free him legally. My mother’s brother—my Uncle James—dropped by that evening, and Dad told us both of his intention. He couldn’t stop talking about Mike all evening, in fact.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, sir, what Dad and I didn’t know was that my uncle had purchased Mike as a speculation, years before—a few months after he ran off. The slave traders were willing to sell him dirt cheap, since there was no guarantee he’d be found.

  “Of course, he’d long since given up hope of tracking Mike down. But when Dad told us his news, Uncle James telegraphed Boston and had him apprehended. Dad and I knew nothing about it till it was a fait accompli.”

  Walker nodded. “I see. Didn’t your uncle have him jailed once he got him back to Virginia?”

  “I’m afraid so. Uncle James refused to accept funds from the abolitionists to buy Mike’s freedom. He wasn’t interested in money; he’s well off. But he had the notion that Mike’s birth killed my mother-that Mother lost her will to live rather than be shamed by having her husband’s nigger bastard under her roof. So he was seeking revenge on Dad as well as Mike.

  “You’ve no idea what he put my father through. Dad walked the floor night after night, blaming himself for Mike’s predicament. It was a terrible strain on his health. I’ve never been able to forgive my uncle for that.

  “I tried reasoning with Uncle James. But he wouldn’t speak to me because of a sketch I’d done at the hearing—of Mike holding his little girl after the commissioner ruled him a fugitive. She was terribly distressed. She’s very attached to her father.”

  Walker nodded again. “I remember your drawing. A very affecting piece of work. It circulated as a broadsheet, as I recall. But I take it your uncle finally relented?”