by James Lear
“Like I told you, sir.” She stood aside.
“Has he left anything behind?”
“A trunk, sir, that I’ll store in the cellar.”
“Nothing besides?”
“Well, sir, he did say something about the eventuality of you calling.”
The wheedling tone of her voice told me what to do. I withdrew my wallet and counted off a substantial sum. “I see.”
She rummaged in her pinafore and drew out a letter.
“I’ll take that. Good day.” I practically threw the money at her and ran downtown to the White Horse. There, at least, I could read my letter in peace.
The front door was boarded shut. One of the boards was crudely daubed with the words CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE in white paint. The shutters were locked, the signs advertising imported wines, Kentucky sour mash, and clean rooms hastily concealed by burlap sacks.
The world was changing faster than I liked.
I continued out of town, to where the Connecticut River divided us from New Hampshire, spanned by what townspeople still called the “new” bridge. The last time I’d crossed it had been with Mick, on one of our adventures in the hills and forests…
He too was gone now.
I stood midway across the bridge and opened Aaron’s letter.
Dear Jack, it began. I thanked God it was not going to be one of his formal, “Mr. Edgerton” announcements. I read on.
You will know by now that I think it best for me to leave Bishopstown. Perhaps I will return one day, when times are better. At present, it is neither wise nor safe to remain. The situation between you and me makes it impossible for me to continue in your father’s employment. I have covered my retreat like a coward with lies and deception; I have neither the time, nor the moral strength, to prepare a more suitable exit.
Jack, you must repair the wreck that you—that I—have made of your life. I know that your appetites are strong. Mine were too at your age, and remain so, but I have made myself their master. For the sake of your family and your future, I beg you to do likewise. The risks you take are too great.
I have told you all that I wish to tell you, face to face, and will not compromise you by reiterating it in writing. Trust nobody, say nothing, and pray for better times.
Do not look for me.
Your friend,
Aaron Johnson
I held the letter out over the wide rushing river, my eyes blind with tears. The wind caught it, tore it from my grasp, and blew it away to God knows where.
IV
I LEFT HOME A MONTH AFTER AARON.
I wish I could say that I packed a bag the very night Aaron left, setting off in hot pursuit of the man I loved, and who I believed loved me. I packed the bag, all right, with books that I thought I could not do without, with paper and a supply of writing materials, with clothes and food and a few personal items that I could not bring myself to leave behind. There was too much, of course, so I unpacked it all and started again. Still I could not carry it. By the fourth attempt, I had worn myself out, and I gave up, hoping that the morning would bring fresh courage.
It did not.
The morning brought only breakfast with the family, dark looks from my father, nervous chitchat from my mother, and, afterward, a rain of questions from my sisters. Where had Mr. Johnson gone? Why was Father in such a temper? Had I done something to annoy him? Why was Mother crying in the night, why were her eyes red and her face pale this morning? Why were they, as “mere girls,” shielded from the Great Matters of the Day? (This came from Margaret, whose every pronouncement seemed to have capital letters.)
I avoided their questions with shrugs and evasions, happy for the time being that they should believe (as I knew they would) that this was serious war business, that they were being excluded from matters fit only for men. The fact was, I was as much in the dark as they—more so, probably, seeing as even Jane took the trouble to read newspapers and keep herself informed about events. I preferred to remain in ignorance, pursuing my own interests. But, as I was fast discovering, I was about to be ejected from my fool’s paradise. Everywhere I turned, another door was closing. Aaron was gone, Mick was gone, the White Horse was closed, my reputation at the spa was (I realized) little more than a joke, my own father was compromised by my behavior, and had it not been for the restraining influence of my mother he would have thrown me out. Far away, war was raging—and how soon would it be on our own doorstep?
One thing was clear to me; I could not, with any decency, stay in Bishopstown, living off my parents and jeopardizing the family business. After breakfast I wrote in haste to my school friend James, upstate in Montpelier, begging him to give me sanctuary; he, like me, was back in the family circle after completing his studies, but was gainfully employed at a large local bank, shaping up to be a pillar of the community, putting behind him the follies of youth. We had been friends, and more than friends, at school, indulging in a little romantic play, although nothing, I now realized, to the real thing as I had discovered it in the bars of Bishopstown. James was now preparing to marry a local girl, his second cousin, I believe, an advantageous marriage that would please everyone. But we had sworn eternal friendship and support, and I knew he was far too honorable to turn me away, however little he might like giving shelter to a black sheep such as me.
Within a week, I was packing a bag in earnest, having received from James the welcoming reply that I had hoped for. He had even read between the lines (I had mentioned something about “still looking for employment suitable to my talents”) and suggested that there was a post for me at the bank, if I would not consider it beneath me. I considered it very much beneath me, of course, but I was grateful for the opportunity to leave Bishopstown with something approaching dignity. I had a job to go to, a (temporary) home, and, as I told my parents, it was time to cut the apron strings and see if I could stand on my own two feet. I mixed my metaphors quite cheerfully, so glad was I to be escaping from an environment that had become insupportable.
James’s parents and mine exchanged letters, and everyone appeared to be very glad at this change of circumstances. His father told my father that he had always thought me “a fine young man,” and his mother told my mother that James’s sisters were “delighted at the thought of another brother to torment.” We all pretended that all was for the best, that I would probably fall in love with one of the girls and come home a responsible married man with a fine set of blond whiskers and a baby in my arms.
I set off for Montpelier early one Saturday morning, the plan being that I would arrive by evening, settle in on Sunday, and start work on Monday.
I never arrived.
I took a coach north out of Bishopstown, my trunk strapped to the roof, sharing with a family from New York who, they informed me at great length, were on their way to relatives in Canada because “we don’t want to get our throats cut by runaway slaves.” We stopped at Rutland and put up in a spacious, comfortable inn, the sort of place where the sheets were clean, the food good and plentiful, and the company agreeable. I ate well, a steak and fried potatoes, washed down with beer.
“Good honest Yankee beer,” a voice behind me in the dining room said. I paid no attention and continued eating.
“Yep, a man needs a glass of ale after being on the road all day.”
This time, I looked around, as nobody else in the room seemed to be in the mood for conversation. My traveling companions had already gone up to their room to settle the children, and my fellow diners were silent.
One figure stood out like a candle in the darkness. Leaning against the bar was a spruce young man in military attire—although I recognized it as neither the gray of the Confederacy nor the blue of the Union. His jacket was red, with gold braid edging. His pants were dark, either black or blue, and as tight as a second skin. He wore boots, the sort of boots that imparted a swagger even to the most unathletic build. But here, they completed an already impressive ensemble. He looked as if he owned the place. His brown
hair, a little longer than was the fashion, was swept up and over his brow, glistening with some kind of pomade. He had a handsome face, what my mother would have called “a little too handsome,” with twinkling eyes and the suggestion of a smile. His shirt, which was white and ruffled, was unfastened to halfway down his chest. He was looking directly at me.
“Thirsty on the road, isn’t it, my friend?”
My instinct was to turn away from such uninvited familiarity, or to mutter something like “Are we acquainted, sir?” But now I was a traveler, an independent young man seeking his fortune, and it ill became me to turn down the hand of friendship, however specious it might prove to be.
“Thirsty indeed.”
“May I join you?” the stranger asked.
“Gladly.”
He snapped his fingers and gestured to my table; the serving girl followed with a tankard of beer. He turned a chair around and sat astride it, spreading his legs and resting his arms on the back.
“Good health, prosperity, and happiness,” he said, holding up his tankard. Foam ran down the side; he swiftly licked it up with a pink, darting tongue.
“Good health to you too.” We drank, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t have been much more than my age, but with his military air, his tanned face, and his swaggering manner he seemed very much my senior.
“Do you travel alone?”
This was the kind of question I had been raised never to answer, but in the event I blurted out, “Yes. I’m going to Montpelier.”
“Montpelier! Christ, that’s a dull place. All bankers and bankers’ wives. What’s a youngblood like yourself doing in Montpelier?” He dragged out the “e”—Mont-peeeeeelyer—to make it sound like the dullest spot on the planet.
“I’m going to see a friend.”
“A friend? A sweetheart, you mean.” I blushed, remembering some of my more tender moments with James in days long past.
“No, I assure you—”
“Ah, you don’t have to assure me of anything, young fellow. Drink!” He drank deep. “Hey! Over here! There are thirsty men! More beer!”
“I don’t think—”
“Good lad. Don’t think. Drink. Here.” He held up his tankard and waited for me to do the same. “Down it goes.”
We tossed our drinks off together. I felt elated, and slightly sick. An earthenware jug of beer appeared on the table between us.
“And what will you do with yourself when you get to Montpelier?”
“I’m working—”
“Ah, don’t tell me they got you in one of those damn banks.”
“Well, yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Vermont State Agricultural Bank,” I said.
“On Woodstock Avenue.”
“You know it?”
“I’ve had dealings there.”
“What a coincidence.”
“Not so great a coincidence. I was the paymaster for my regiment not long back. I’ve had dealings with most of the banks in the state.”
“How interesting.”
“So you’ve not started work there just yet?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know the manager. A Mister Swales. Terrible old bastard, if I’m frank with you. Don’t envy you.”
“I have not yet met him.”
“Don’t listen to me. I’ve no patience with men in stiff collars and ties. I prefer the outdoors, the road, the camps, the fellowship of comrades. It’s a grand life.”
“You’re in the army, I take it.”
“Lieutenant Bennett H. Young, sir, at your service.”
“John Edgerton.”
“Good to meet you, John Edgerton.”
“My friends call me Jack.”
“Of course they do. Well, Jack, here’s to you.”
We drank again.
“What regiment are you with?” I asked, thinking it was polite to make conversation, and in truth charmed by his twinkling eyes, his easy manner. I wished I was like him, the sort of confident young buck always ready with the right word.
“We’re a sort of advance party, Jack, drawn from several regiments.”
“But are you Union?”
“You could say so.” He lowered his voice. “We’re working for the government.”
“The government in Washington? Or the government in Richmond?”
“Ah, if only it were that simple, Jack. We work for the real government. There’s things that you don’t know about. There’s powers behind the powers. You don’t read about that in your Boston newspapers.”
“No.” I was thrilled; it was exactly the sort of thing I’d heard my sister Margaret droning on about for months. Was I about to be inducted into some kind of secret order, some band of conspirators who knew the truth about things like war and money and power?
“I’ve said too much. I apologize for my intrusion.”
“Not at all, lieutenant.”
“My friends call me Bennett.”
“Bennett. I appreciate the company.” It was my turn to lower my voice. “To tell you the truth, my fellow travelers are a little less than inspiring.”
He turned his chair around and leaned toward me.
“The big fat mama?”
“And her snot-nosed brats.”
“The poor old fellow looks as if he ain’t had it in months.”
“Who’d want it, with her?”
“Oh, Christ, Jackie, I’d rather—” He made a fist over his lap and moved it up and down.
I spluttered into my beer. “Hah! I’d much rather do that!” I realized, even as I said it, that I sounded a little too enthusiastic.
“Well, who wouldn’t? Nothing a woman can do for me that I can’t do for myself. Or for a buddy.”
Had I been sober, I might have seen the danger signs at this point, and realized that Lieutenant Young was playing me like a fish on a line. But instead, buoyed up on my second tankard of beer—this was stronger ale than the watered-down bilge they served at the White Horse—I assumed that I was embarking on a wonderful adventure with the new friend of my heart.
“For a buddy?” I said, with what I thought was a seductive expression on my face.
“Sure, why not? We look out for each other in my company. All the guys will…lend a hand.”
“Just a hand?”
“What else, Jackie?”
“Are you staying here tonight, Bennett?”
“Maybe. Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“If your bed’s big enough.”
“I guess it is.”
“Then I guess I am.”
I gulped down the rest of my beer; the tankard was immediately filled.
“I should go and rescue my trunk,” I said. “Don’t go away.”
I pushed my chair back, but Young restrained me with a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s your hurry? Your trunk’s in good hands. Stay and drink with a lonely soldier.”
“Where’s the rest of the company?”
“At camp.”
“Where’s camp?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Jack. How do I know you ain’t a spy?”
“Me? That’s a good one.”
“Yeah, looking at that face I guess I can trust you.” He held my chin between thumb and forefinger. He smiled. “Yeah. I reckon you won’t give me too much trouble.”
“Depends what kind of trouble you’re looking for.”
At that, Young laughed out loud, and, in retrospect, I can see why. At the time, I thought it was because I had made such a witty, suggestive remark.
“So, why don’t you show me up to your room, Mr. Edgerton?” He stood and bowed in a parody of formal New England manners.
“With pleasure, Lieutenant Young.”
“I’m right behind you, Mr. Edgerton.”
I took my key from the porter, and made an inquiry about my trunk. “It’s all under control, sir,” he said, with a glance toward You
ng.
“Told you, Jack! Come on, race you!”
He bounded up the stairs two at a time, his boots raising a hell of a racket that must have sounded throughout the inn. I imagined the family from New York kneeling to say their final prayers, convinced that those runaway slaves had come to cut their throats. In Young’s company, I felt reckless.
When we reached the top landing, he turned and faced me, panting. I could see his brown, slightly hairy chest working away where his white shirt gaped open.
He whooped. “Didn’t think I’d find a friend like you on the road, Jack!” He threw an arm around my shoulder and ruffled my hair. I must have flinched; anyone could have stepped out of their room and seen us. “Hey, shy boy! I like ’em shy. You’re cute, Jack. I could fuck you right here and now on the landing.”
“Bennett!”
“Oh, I forgot. College boy, I guess. Modest and virginal.”
“Not exactly.”
“Wild and willing, huh? Like a firecracker.”
I fumbled with the key in the lock; Young was fumbling with my ass.
“C’mon, Jack. I can’t wait to get you naked.”
I was in just as much of a hurry as Young, and we fell rather than walked into my room, tearing at each other’s clothes, stumbling blindly as we kissed and caressed. Young kicked the door shut with his booted foot as we sank to the floor. I had never known such an eager lover; even Mick, my mentor, had been more restrained than this. Young, however, had his hands down my pants and his tongue down my throat, kissing me as if his life depended on it. He soon had me exposed, my pants around my knees and my shirt up to my chest, the whole expanse of my torso and groin bare to his eager assault. He chewed my nipples and played with my cock like an expert. Soon I had that familiar feeling of mounting heat, a fire that swept away all consciousness.
Young held me in his arms and whispered in my ear. “I need to fuck you now, Jack. I want to be inside you. All night.”
That was just what I wanted to hear, as he had no doubt guessed. I scrambled onto the bed and watched as Young divested himself of that strange assortment of military garments: the scarlet and gold jacket, the fancy shirt, the tight black pants, and the riding boots. He stood before me naked, apart from a pair of white wool socks, from which his tanned, hairy, muscular calves rose in stark contrast. His cock was long and slender, curving upward; his balls hung low. I struggled out of my own clothes as quickly as I could.