The wind blew. There were the chirps of crickets, birdsong, frogs. He listened for coyotes or wolves, or whatever it was that might be roving this untenanted patch of Illinois. Surely it was dangerous. Surely there were natural hazards, to say nothing of hostile country folk or red men. At heart, Jonny would always be a city boy.
“The man back on the ship,” Jonny said. “Your chief. He mentioned a train. Train tracks. Do you know which direction those might be?” There were no human-made features to this landscape, so far as his straining eyes could tell. No buildings, no roads.
Hamilton said, “The Indomitable fired on the railroad at least fifteen minutes ago. That is fifteen minutes of travel before Chief Prichard sabotaged the engines to bring the ship down. The distance from those tracks….” He gestured into the night. “Is impractical.”
The captain’s lifeless tone was starting to unsettle Jonny. “So, no walking back to the train tracks. Fine. What, then? We’re on foot in the wild. Like Pilgrims. No water, no food. Where should we go?” He bit his lip, instantly regretting that last question, particularly the pronoun he’d used.
Hamilton’s eyes focused on him. Jonny had heard the frightened quaver in his own voice. More than the fear of falling from the airship, more than the dread of this surrounding unfamiliar darkness, he was afraid that Hamilton would leave him on his own, right here, right now. Their association finished.
When Hamilton spoke, there was life again in his tone, a hoarse, husky vulnerability, even. “Whatever the destination, whatever the course of action… I think we should go together. Shall we do that, J.C.? Shall we stick together awhile longer?”
SIX.
IT WASN’T a humid New Orleans summer night any longer. Hamilton was warm enough in his uniform, though it had been with some horror that he’d discovered Chief Prichard’s bloody handprint on the front of his coat. Berwyn Prichard had been a brave, capable, pragmatic man. Hamilton suspected he loved the Indomitable as much as her captain did, but the engineer had made the cold-blooded decision to wreck the ship, to bring it down so that the bandits couldn’t use it again for evil.
He and J.C. had set out together. It was important that they stay together. It too was a pragmatic tactic, Hamilton told himself. The young civilian had proven himself quite able to fire that shotgun. There was no saying what dangers were out here. Hamilton was used to patrolling hinterlands like these, but from above, from the armed safety of his ship. In his way he had seen much of the Colonies, but it was some other category of experience to be left to wander on foot in the dark through such wilds.
There was no point in awaiting rescue. In fact, lingering at the crash site could well be dangerous. The attack on the train had certainly been reported. Other Fleet ships must be on the way. It was quite possible the wreckage would have burned itself out by the time any dirigibles reached the area, and so they would simply pass over. Or, worse, an armed airship or two would find the burning vessel, see two figures near the remains, and fire on them. It wouldn’t be the official response to such an emergency—that would be to take prisoners—but the no-doubt extensive casualties back at the railroad might easily incite a captain and crew toward rash action.
This was a trackless scrubland. Luckily the foliage was sparse, so they didn’t have to fight their way through entangling brambles or dense woods. That wouldn’t have been easy at night.
The stars above had given Hamilton a very general notion of where they were. North, definitely. Illinois was something of a guess, but the Indomitable was certainly capable of reaching there from New Orleans during the time allotted. They were walking in their current direction only because it was away from the burning debris of the ship. There was no point in investigating the crash. No possibility of survivors, virtually no chance of salvageable gear. When he had yanked on the cord that released the great canvas billow that slowed his and J.C.’s descent, the airship was still careening earthward. Holding on to J.C. had been difficult. The weight had taxed the personal canopy, and there were moments when it seemed they would hit the ground far too heavily. Yet it had never once occurred to Hamilton to let go of the unconscious man.
He had executed a very decent landing, just like he’d trained for. Once unbuckled, he had turned and watched the last moments of his ship’s life. There was no codifying his feelings as the event unfolded. He had no reference points for such emotions. He had put so much of himself into his craft. He had done his duty as best he could, even the bitter parts of it. And he had watched all that crash catastrophically onto the breast of a distant hill.
The explosion had been muted, despite the size of the fireball that arose. The fuel had ignited, of course. Fuel made the steam that drove the GB-254’s intricate moving parts. Like everything else aboard involving the engines, Prichard had tampered a bit with the fuel mixture to make it incrementally more efficient. It had combusted cataclysmically just the same.
There were procedures for the loss of a ship, of course. Captain Hamilton Arkwright needed, ahead of everything else, to report the disaster. He had to find a crystal communications set. The Fleet frequency was continually monitored. He knew the words he must speak. They felt like ritual phrases as he played them now in his head. He had never thought he would have to utter them.
What would become of him after this? The question felt far-off and forlorn, as if posed by some wretch in a socially conscientious novel by Dickens, one of his anti-technological jeremiads. Actually, the author didn’t hate his country’s mechanical advancements so much as he detested how—in his judgment—the strides weren’t being used to better the plights of the destitute.
But the stark question stood. What fate awaited him, a jackyank captain in the Royal Airborne Fleet, now that he had lost his ship?
“What’s it like being queer in the navy?”
He and J.C. had walked in silence mostly. Neither was injured, but the trauma of tonight’s events was enough to keep their pace a modest one. Also, footing wasn’t too sure in the starlit night. The last thing they needed now was a turned ankle.
“I beg your pardon.” Hamilton gave his tone as much indignation as he could summon. It sounded like rather weak ire, even to his own ears.
“Queer. In your Airborne. You. What’s that like?” It was a more ragged version of the sassy banter of earlier, when they had traded snipes through that vent while locked in the cabins.
Hamilton peered at the younger man in the dimness. J.C. offered up a strained grin. By God, Hamilton thought, he’s trying to bolster my spirits. The realization moved him.
Why not answer? “It is like nothing. Because there are no homosexuals in the Royal Airborne, nor in any of the military branches serving the Crown. In fact, Great Britain itself is utterly and unequivocally homosexual-free. The law says so quite clearly.”
“That’s very droll, Captain.”
“I’m British. We invented droll.”
“Yeah, but you’re not British British.”
“What does that mean?” Hamilton asked, tone sharper.
“Easy there, Archer. I mean I’ve met my share of pompous Brits, and you don’t behave like one—to say nothing of your urge to slide your cock into my ass. Oh! Was that a smirk? Bravo. But you’re a jackyank and a queer and in the navy. Honestly… how the hell have you managed?”
J.C. had couched it in the by-now-familiar tones of snide badinage, but Hamilton sensed his genuine curiosity. He saw the verbal game as a means of keeping his mind from the wreckage some distance behind them now.
So he divulged, haltingly at first. He omitted his upbringing and school and spoke only of his time in uniform, as it pertained to the practice of his homosexuality. There was, predictably, tragically little to speak about in happy terms. So few men. So few opportunities. Such cautions he’d had to take. He mentioned potential sexual partners he had been forced to forgo before they could even become lovers. He recalled come-hither looks from chance males encountered in the course of his training and duties, some o
f the men civilian, others military. Those were silent invitations he’d had to ignore.
It was a narrative of frustration and loneliness. Hamilton realized it should have embarrassed him deeply to be revealing this, yet if anybody would understand, it was—dismayingly enough—this felonious American, who quite openly shared his predilections. For an unguarded moment or two, he envied J.C. and his natural ease. What it must have been to be a youthful buggerer roaming the streets of the decadent French Quarter night after night, where establishments like that pit of Sodom they’d met at were there for the visiting. What freedom. How would one ever control oneself?
“Wasn’t there any one really good time?” J.C. asked, seemingly in sympathy. “I just don’t—I can’t imagine—I’m sorry. I’m not trying to salt a wound. But I sense you’ve got at least one cherished memory stocked away. Some fellow, somewhere, sometime….”
“You’re a mind reader, then?”
“Just like every good full-blooded American queer. Hah! See, you Brits don’t own droll. Tell me, Hamilton. Tell me about him, please.”
“You like saying that word aloud, don’t you? Queer.” But Hamilton was trying to mask his surprise at J.C.’s insight.
“It’s a brief, strong, candid term. It’s also sadly accurate until the world gets over its prehistoric prejudices toward our kind. Come on now. Tell me about that one worthwhile man.” Jonny grinned, well-kept teeth bright in the dimness.
So, as they continued to pick their way through the night, Hamilton imparted the tale of Percy in Providence, Rhode Island. He spared no pleasant and erotic detail, as though to make up for the dreariness of his earlier account of his carnal doings while in the service.
It was like living the splendid night all over again. When he had related the last gratifying fact, he glanced at J.C., saw the troubled expression on his face. Had he made the man jealous?
“What’s wrong?”
J.C. blinked and shook his head, as if he hadn’t meant Hamilton to see his frown. He said, “It’s… nothing. A stupid theory.”
“You don’t believe what I told you?” The thought stung Hamilton to a surprising degree.
“What? No, of course I do. It’s just…. Brixton, the man who stole your ship, he was damn sure you were a homosexual. He must have known your ship was coming to New Orleans. It was all set up. He had that truck. He’d gathered his men. How did he plan all that? Everything hinged on you going to the French Quarter, to a bar where I could openly approach and seduce you.” He coughed. “Just by the way, I never would’ve fallen in with them if I’d known they were Underground. I’m no rebel.”
Hamilton believed him.
J.C. went on. “My stupid theory is this. What if you were set up from the start? This Percy. Suppose he was a part of a conspiracy, one designed to exploit a weakness of yours.”
Hamilton halted, there on the scrubby turf. He didn’t have to summon any indignation this time; it was at the ready. “How dare you!”
J.C. turned. “How dare I think your one-night fuck might not be a prince from a faggoty fairy tale? I wasn’t there, Captain, so I don’t know, but you tell it like this man zeroed in on you and practically dragged you back to his hotel room. You mentioned a photograph. Did dear Percy ask for one of you as well? Did he want one taken of the two of you together, naked, maybe holding each other’s hard cocks and grinning at the camera?”
The photograph had been in his cabin, of course. Now it was ashes. He remembered vividly operating Percy’s handheld device. He remembered Percy wheedling and cajoling, trying to get Hamilton to let him take a photo of him too. It was true, damn it to hell. But that didn’t mean—
“But that doesn’t mean…,” he started.
“No,” J.C. said solemnly. He reached out and touched Hamilton’s arm, squeezing gently. “It doesn’t mean he was going to blackmail you. It doesn’t mean anything for sure. We just don’t know how big this thing is.”
When he let go, Hamilton still felt the press of his fingers on his arm. “What thing? What do you mean?”
“Back at Algiers Point, what Brixton said when he was posing as Major Cobb. He said the Gretna garrison was under siege, and that officer at the field didn’t contradict him. He even seemed aware that something untoward was going on, trouble occurring beyond his field.”
Hamilton felt a frown tighten his brow. “What are you saying? What are you driving at?”
J.C. let out a breath. “I’m saying maybe Brixton was telling the truth. Maybe the American revolution really is happening.”
BY THE time they saw the barn, Hamilton had decided that the possibility of pervasive, even Colonies-wide revolution was more disturbing than the chance Percy had been an enemy spy, setting Hamilton up for eventual downfall by way of his homosexual inclinations. But the idea of Percy betraying him—like J.C. had betrayed him—hurt more.
Inwardly Hamilton gave himself a sharp backhand. What he needed now was a concentrated dose of English stoicism. This was no time for feelings.
“It appears abandoned,” Hamilton said quietly. The dilapidated structure stood ghostly in the star glow. They hunkered a quarter mile away. “What do you think?”
Beside him, J.C. looked wan and dispirited. “I think I’m tired of hiking around in the dark. Let’s go in.” When he started to rise, Hamilton held his shoulder. There was nothing intimate in the touch.
“Stay where you are. This requires reconnaissance.”
“Do you think you’re giving me an order?”
“I am. If you want to remain in my company, you’ll obey me in any situation like this.” Hamilton stared hard into Jonny’s eyes. It wasn’t easy to put up this steely front with him, not when the two had shared a kiss, not after they’d played masturbatory silly buggers together in adjacent cabins.
J.C. held the gaze a moment, then shrugged. “Fine, then.” He sat, cradled his head in one hand, and closed his eyes. He murmured, “Go enjoy yourself.”
Hamilton took the pistol from the waist of his trousers. He’d retained it through the drop and landing. The second handgun was in his uniform coat’s pocket. Crouched low, he circled the tumbledown barn. Its walls were missing planks and half the roof was caved in, but J.C. had the right general idea. They should stop and rest, and here was shelter. A rutted path leading to the barn door was overgrown. No other structures were in sight.
It occurred to him that he was hungry and thirsty. The immediate jolts of tonight’s shocking events had eased. His body’s natural rhythms and needs were reasserting themselves. He went back and collected J.C., who came along somnolently.
Ancient brittle hay was scattered about inside. J.C. went to a corner where it was piled deep and unceremoniously threw himself down. A shaft of moonlight fell through the collapsing roof and brushed his cheek, his closed eye. He had curled on his side and tucked prayerful hands between his drawn up knees. He looked rather beautiful and angelic like that, Hamilton thought.
Unsurprisingly there was no food to be had on the premises, but he did come upon a pump just outside. Rust flaked off the handle when he touched it, and at first the apparatus seemed hopelessly frozen. But after some grunting effort, it gave and issued a squealing torrent, some of which Hamilton caught in a not entirely corroded nearby bucket.
He brought the sloshing container inside and nudged J.C., who made an annoyed sound.
“Here. It’s water. You need some.”
The blond head rose in the faint rays of distant heavenly bodies. “How’s it taste?”
“I haven’t tried it yet. I brought it to you first.”
Something flickered over the younger man’s features. He seemed about to speak, then scooped up a handful of water. He smacked his lips. “Good….”
Hamilton dipped in his cupped hands and drank as well. The water was chill and clean, and though it made him keenly aware of the hollowness of his stomach, it slaked his thirst nicely.
J.C. wiped his chin with the back of his hand. His eyelids drooped,
but he gazed at Hamilton with a certain intensity. A smile tugged his lips. Hamilton remembered how those lips had felt against his own. Longing crept through the hunger and fatigue and gnawed languidly at him. Even with all that had happened, he still wanted this man. Wanted him in every way.
Once more J.C. seemed to have some peculiar insight into his thoughts. He said, “I would love to get naked with you, Archer, and do everything to you and have you do it all right back to me—but I am just too damned tired right now. Lie here with me, though, okay? Hold me. Let me hold you. This hay will do until we can find ourselves a bed someday.”
So they lay together, and exhaustion overtook Hamilton quickly, even as he heard J.C.’s breathing turn deep and slow. There was warmth where they touched, and he felt—oddly enough—very secure in their mutual embrace, as if by clutching each other they could fend off any danger that might seek them out.
SEVEN.
NORMALLY JONNY awoke with a hard-on, and this morning was no exception. His cock thumped in his trousers, the ever-needy serpent. He hadn’t dreamt of falling. As expected, that particular nightmare was probably gone forever from his unconscious mind, as it could never be more frightening than what he retained in his memory.
Instead he’d indulged in salacious carnal fantasies. The pieces of these played across the backs of his eyelids as he stirred, mumbling and stretching. He had dreamt of men, naked men, and himself entangled with the bare limbs, fucking and sucking in a variety of positions. Men—no. Man. One man. One partner, quite specific.
Hamilton. Jonny opened his eyes, blinking. He chuckled rustily to himself. The vestiges of the dream asserted themselves one last time before breaking up into mental debris. Yes. He’d had a sex dream about Hamilton, about making passionate love to the man. It was a wonder he hadn’t shot off his load while sleeping, like a cockstruck boy.
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