Different Sin

by Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  The lead rider, a heavily bearded man of middle years, gazed from one to the other in angry scrutiny, then turned to Zach. “Mister, we don’t want no Tribune reporters in this town.

  “We’re givin’ y’all notice that the citizens of Charles Town ain’t puttin’ up with no nigger lovin’ flapjaws incitin’ our slaves. There’s a train leaving out of here in an hour, and we aim to see you’re on it.”

  Zach spread his hands disarmingly. “Sir, I give you my word I have no purpose in Charles Town other than to report on the trial.”

  The militiaman spat. “Your word don’t count for nothin’ round here, mister. Now you can either get on that train peaceable or ride out on a rail. And that goes for your friend here, too.”

  David winced. Zach smiled ruefully. “You leave me little choice, sir. But Mr. Carter here has nothing to do with the Tribune. We fell into each other’s company by chance on the train to Charles Town. He’s a Southerner himself, hardly an abolitionist.”

  “That so, mister?” The bearded man gave David a suspicious stare.

  He nodded slowly. There was no point in them both getting thrown out of town. “I’ve been drawing for Leslie’s a few years, but I was raised in Alexandria. My people are still there.”

  The man turned away to talk in whispers with the other mounted men. David strained unsuccessfully to make out their words.

  “You swear you ain’t no abolitionist?”

  David nodded. “My father owned slaves, sir.”

  “Well, reckon as how you can stay then,” the man said, his voice still reluctant. “But better watch who you ‘sociate with from now on.”

  “I intend to, sir.”

  The man nodded briefly. He spat once more, in the direction of Zach’s feet. “We’ll be keeping a lookout to see you get on that train, mister.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  “You needn’t have walked all the way back to the station with me.”

  David smiled. “I want to make sure you’re safely on the train myself.”

  “I’m probably safer from our friends there than from Greeley, when he learns how I muffed this assignment.” Zach smiled wearily. “Well, at least I can stop scraping the skin off my face every morning.”

  Zach picked up his bag as the chugging of the train grew louder. “You’d best stay out of sight. I’ll— I’ll miss your company, David.” He walked quickly across the platform.

  The walk back seemed longer than David remembered, without Zach’s company. He fell onto the sagging bed, exhausted.

  At least, with Zach gone, he needn’t fear any more disturbing dreams, he thought, before sleep overtook him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  John Brown’s conviction was a foregone conclusion. The fiery raider was sentenced to be hanged on the third of December, a month hence; the trials of the four followers captured with him remained on the docket. It had been four years since David had been home. He dispatched his sketches to Leslie’s and caught the train to Alexandria for the weekend recess. The town seemed smaller than he’d remembered, the cobblestone streets less trafficked, as he hurried from the station.

  He found his father at home, sitting in the front room with his Uncle James. “Dad.” David embraced him, nodded coldly to his uncle.

  George Carter held onto his son a moment, looking at him fondly. “It’s good to have you here. I was hoping, when you wrote you were going to Charles Town, that you’d be able to manage a visit.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I could. But they’re trying each of Brown’s men separately, so I was able to get away during the recess.”

  His uncle looked at David with a smile. “I take it you still enjoy illustrating court cases more than arguing them.”

  David nodded shortly. “Yes, sir.”

  “You know, I haven’t heard from you in all the time you’ve been up North, excepting through your father.”

  “I haven’t had anything to say to you, Uncle James.”

  James Harrison’s face tightened. He rose. “I’ll leave y’all to get some visiting done, George.”

  David sat in the chair his uncle had vacated. “Why do you go on seeing him after what he did to you?”

  “He’s a lonely old man, same as myself. Why spend what few years are left us feuding? I don’t have many friends in this town, you know.” There was a moment’s silence. “I miss your company, son.”

  “Well.” David looked at his father awkwardly. “You’ll be going up to Boston for Christmas?”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” He paused. “I’ve given some thought to moving there altogether.”

  “To Boston? You’re going to move up there?”

  “Well, probably not. I don’t want to wear out my welcome. And it would be hard to uproot myself, at my age. Still, it would be good to see the children more often. They grow up so quickly. You know, Peter’s graduating from Boston Latin this year. He’s going on to college. Oberlin, I think. He’s made up his mind to become a lawyer.” His face lit up with fond pride.

  “Oh. I imagine he’d make a good one.”

  “Very good, I should think. He’s a bright boy, same as his father.”

  “Still, it won’t be easy for him.”

  “No, it won’t. He’s very determined, though.”

  David smiled. “He takes after Mike in that too.”

  His father sobered. “If only I hadn’t been so shortsighted. I could’ve freed him, sent him to school.”

  “I used to wonder why you didn’t, when I was a boy.” David looked at his father’s face and stopped himself. “Mike did all right though.”

  “All those years, when I didn’t even know if he was still alive.”

  “No use crying over spilled milk, Dad.”

  “You’re right.” George Carter sat up straighter. “I want you to stop harping on the past, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about your attitude to James.” He paused. “He felt he had a legitimate grievance against me. Maybe—maybe with some justification.”

  “He had no justification.”

  The older man waved David’s words aside. “But in any event, you know how much he’s always cared for you. And he’s alone now. You can at least call on him while you’re here.”

  David sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  “So you’ve decided to come pay your respects after all. I suppose I have your father to thank.” His uncle gave David a slight smile.

  David flushed. “I take it you see as much of Dad as ever.”

  “When he’s at home and not on one of his infernal trips to Boston.”

  “He told me he’s thinking of moving up there,” David blurted. He studied his uncle. James Harrison’s blue eyes were sharp as ever, but new lines had etched themselves into his face since he’d seen him last. He picked up his drink from the table between them and gave David another ironic smile.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Wouldn’t be at all surprised. I don’t mean to criticize your father to your face, but George is making a laughingstock of himself running back and forth to see those nigra brats. And the way he was so godawful pleased they gave the last one Carter for his middle name. Joshua Carter Mabaya! My God!”

  David shrugged. “He wanted his name carried on.”

  “Now that’s what you should’ve done for him. If you’d given him grandchildren, he’d never have bothered with those halfbreed brats.”

  He might be right, David thought. He envisioned his father looking forward to visiting him with the same eagerness and pride he lavished now on Michael’s household, dandling his children with the same affection—

  Hell, what he was dreaming of? He’d never had any inclination toward marriage. Just this afternoon he’d run into Martha Ann Simpson, married over three years now, with two infants and another on the way. He’d been hard pressed to fill five minutes with small talk.

  “He has grandchildren, Uncle James. Mike and Rac
hel’s children are his flesh and blood, you know that perfectly well. And they’re a nice bunch of kids, too.”

  “You’re as big a fool as he is, David, though it’s right generous of you to take up for them.” His uncle smiled. “Let’s talk of something else. I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position when you’ve come round to see me at last. How about telling me a little more of what you’ve been doing the last few years?”

  David took a swallow of bourbon and looked at his uncle. He’d always favored him in looks, and doubtless his own hair would fade to just such a silver in time. Would he inherit James’ lonely old age as well? he wondered a moment.

  He set down the glass. “What would you like to hear about?”

  Chapter 8 — 1859-60

  DAVID STOWED THE LAST OF HIS CLOTHES IN HIS BUREAU DRAWER, relishing the comfort of his familiar room after a month spent covering the trial and execution of Brown and his followers. A quick knock sounded on his door. “Come in.” Elliot entered as David spoke.

  “Good to have you back, David. Say, you have a pair of cuffs I could borrow? I’m on my way to see a lady friend and I just realized mine are all in the wash.”

  Elliot was nearly always fresh out of something. “In the top drawer,” David told him.

  “Thanks.” Elliot slouched against the bureau while he wriggled his cuff holders into place.

  “It’s good to be back. I hope I never have to witness another hanging.” David sat on the edge of his bed. “But I have a hunch Zach’s right: Brown’ll be remembered by history. He must’ve been kicking himself for getting thrown out of Charles Town like that.”

  Elliot laughed. “He was. He’s been stewing about it for weeks.” He slipped his jacket on and headed for the door. Halfway there he turned back to David. “Maybe it’s just as well for you, though. I’ve heard some funny stories about Zach. It might be for the best that you didn’t have to bunk with him all month.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t mean to blab, but just between you, me and the bedpost, I’ve heard that Zach’s given to unnatural acts.”

  “Unnatural— I’m not even sure what you mean, but I thought Zach was a friend of yours! What the hell are you spreading rumors about him for?”

  “Keep your shirt on, David. I like the guy. It’s just that since he’s such a good friend of yours, I thought I oughta warn you to watch your step with him. Forewarned is forearmed, they say.” Elliot shrugged. “Well, I’ve probably shot my mouth off too much already. I’d best get going.”

  David stared after him, shaken, his mind going back to the night he’d spent with Zach in Charles Town. There’d been nothing unnatural in Zach’s behavior then.

  The only thing odd about that night had been that dream he’d had.

  Thank God Zach hadn’t wakened! He’d have had good reason to accuse David of unnatural lusts rather than the other way around.

  David shook his head, willing away the memory. It was past time to forget the dream. Dreams didn’t mean a damn thing anyway.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Zach wasn’t alone in his prediction of John Brown’s place in history. Ralph Waldo Emerson prophesied Brown’s death would “make the gallows as glorious as the cross.” Southern hostility toward the North swelled as prayer meetings passed resolutions memorializing Brown and church bells tolled in solemn commemoration of his execution.

  By April of 1860, when the Democratic party convention assembled in Charleston, South Carolina, calls for secession mounted. Southern delegates demanded the inclusion of a slave code plank in the platform, affirming the rights of slaveholders to take their human property into the territories. Northerners voted them down. The 1856 plank calling for popular sovereignty in the territories was reaffirmed, 165 to 138.

  Southerners marched out in a bloc. With insufficient delegates remaining to nominate a presidential candidate, the Democrats adjourned, postponing their convention six weeks.

  “I daresay Leslie’s relieved he decided to rely on sketches from correspondents, rather than send you to Charleston,” Zach said, as they left the dining table for the boardinghouse parlor that evening.

  David nodded. “Though we wouldn’t have been traveling together, in any event.” He stopped short. Why in the world had he said that?

  On his other side, he caught a glimpse of Elliot’s quickly hidden smirk.

  David flushed. Despite himself, he’d kept dwelling on Elliot’s warning. He glanced at Zach, meeting his quizzical gaze, turned quickly away. “I’m feeling a little unwell,” he muttered. “I think I’ll turn in early. Nothing serious,” he added, as Zach’s face took on a look of concern. “Probably something I ate hasn’t set quite right.”

  He made his way to his room. Elliot’s hints and his own disturbing memories refused to vanish. A second disquieting memory surfaced. David crossed to the bureau, pulling out his sketch of Zach—stripped to the waist at Ottignon’s gymnasium—which he’d shoved into his bottom drawer and never brought himself to discard.

  He stared at the drawing a long time, unwillingly recalling the stirrings he’d had as he gazed at Zach. For a moment, he allowed himself to relive that night in Charles Town.

  Suppose, just suppose, Zach had awakened, had turned to him—

  David sat trembling, his imagination faltering. Finally he pulled himself from his unwanted reverie. He thrust the sketch back into the drawer, crumpling it in his haste.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Southern outcries continued as the Republicans passed over radical party leaders Chase and Seward to nominate the moderate Illinois favorite son, Abraham Lincoln.

  Democratic regulars balked at admitting Southern bolters to the new convention that convened June 18th. The party split in two. Northern loyalists nominated Stephen A. Douglas, while a Southern rights convention named John Breckinridge of Kentucky. The remnants of the Whig and American parties formed the Constitutional Union party, nominating John Bell of Tennessee.

  The slavery controversy that was the focus of the presidential campaign overshadowed other news, even the tumultuous reception of the first envoy from the mysterious Japanese islands. Summer evenings in Pfaff’s resounded with arguments between pro-slavery sympathizers, Garrisonian disunionists and the holders of a dozen other shades of political opinion.

  David listened with unwonted concentration. If he could just keep his mind on the election, and off the disturbing thoughts that still plagued him.... It seemed impossible that Zach hadn’t sensed his shameful, furtive notions, despite the efforts he’d made to drive them from his mind over the past few months, the care he’d taken to look anywhere but Zach’s body on their visits to Ottignon’s.

  If only Elliot hadn’t spoken as he had! David glanced at the younger man, sitting happily oblivious to the turmoil he’d caused him, his arm around the bare shoulder of a heavily rouged young actress. David rubbed his forehead, feeling the throbbing onset of a headache.

  Zach paused in the midst of a spirited defense of the Republican presidential candidate. “You’re feeling unwell? It’s no wonder, in this damnable heat and noise. Let’s call it a night. I daresay you’ll feel better when we’ve gotten out in the fresh air.”

  David followed him upstairs, nearly running into a florid, bewhiskered man in workman’s clothing, a red undershirt showing at his open collar. Zach greeted him, beaming.

  “You recognized Walt Whitman?” he asked, as they walked down the street. “I would’ve stopped for a few minute’s conversation with him, if you’d been feeling better.”

  David nodded, glad of the distraction. “I’ve seen him at Pfaffs before. He doesn’t look much like a poet though.”

  “Yet I warrant you, he’ll be remembered as one of the finest poets of our day, no matter how he dresses. In fact, he’s just had a new edition of Leaves of Grass published by Thayer and Eldridge of Boston. I’ve treated myself to a copy, matter of fact.”

  “But I thought you already owned a copy.
”

  Zach chuckled. “I do. But Whitman is forever expanding his magnum opus. This new edition has a number of poems he’s completed in the past year or so. If you’re feeling a little less under the weather, why not stop by a few minutes and I’ll show you it,” he added, as they entered the boardinghouse.

  David sat on the edge of Zach’s bed as Zach thumbed through the book. “Here, this whole section—Calamus—is new in this volume.” Zach settled himself next to David, reciting aloud as he held the opened book between them, “... the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades... Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment... Bequeathing hence types of athletic love...”

  David swallowed. “I’m not sure I follow his meaning.”

  “He’s not always an easy man to understand. But I greatly admire his sentiments of friendship.” Zach turned a few pages, murmuring lines aloud from time to time. “Publish my name... as that of the tenderest lover... whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain apart from other men...”

  He paused, settling himself more comfortably. David felt the pressure of his thigh, warm against his own. The pages rustled as Zach turned to a new poem.

  “...when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way

  coming, O then I was happy...

  For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

  In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,

  And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.”

  Zach’s voice trailed off, the last words nearly a whisper.

  David turned toward him questioningly, just as Zach turned on his own account to David. Their lips brushed lightly, momentarily, accidentally. David drew in his breath, willing himself to draw back. He couldn’t. He sat motionless, feeling Zach’s breath warm against his face.

  “David?” Zach’s voice was still a whisper. He took David’s face gently between his hands. His kiss was soft but deliberate.