When Jonny turned, Hamilton was for some reason awash in a watery light. Jonny palmed his eyes, smiled, and put his hand atop Hamilton’s. Briefly he thought of initiating another kiss, there under the vast privacy of the stars, but the instant was sublimely tender, a strange and perfect moment. He feared spoiling it in any way.
They smiled softly, wordlessly at one another.
Then they set off once more, northward. Chicago-bound.
THEY SET up camp well after midnight. Jonny offered to take over the driving so they could keep going, but Hamilton reminded him of how much he’d had to drink, which prompted an out-of-proportion protest from Jonny, which, in turn, made Jonny realize Hamilton probably had it right.
Their provisions included a tarp. Gus had really come through with the supplies. They spread the tarp beside the car and lay together under a blanket. This was still, evidently, the middle of nowhere. They had all the privacy on earth, but Hamilton was bleary with driving fatigue and Jonny blurry with booze, so the opportunity for lovemaking would have to wait yet again.
But it was pleasant to just lie next to the man, to hear and feel him breathe. Jonny thought him asleep, but Hamilton murmured, “Did you mean that before, about—what was it? Never having anything but your body to call your own.”
“’Bout right.” The alcoholic fumes trickling through his brain felt nice, but he wished he’d had absinthe instead. How he missed his old dear friend, the Green Fairy. Still, the liquor put him a reflective mood now, so he unspooled several lengths of his personal history for Hamilton, who grunted occasional encouragement to show he was still awake.
Jonny discoursed on his tenement childhood and pickpocketing teen years and took his tale right up until his departure from New York, which had been almost three years ago. He felt cozy beneath the shared blanket, with Hamilton’s warmth along the left side of him.
“That sounds like a rough life,” Hamilton said drowsily.
“Naw. I mean—yeah. But a good life. My life. Meaning I live it on my own goddamn terms….” He heard chuckling and wasn’t sure if it was himself or the man lying beside him, and the soft laughter broke apart into fragments and scattered over a satiny plain that extended into the infinite distance. He slept.
He woke with a thick, fetid mouth. He also awoke to a welcome, unexpected aroma. “Coffee…?” he mumbled, sitting up. The night had passed, seemingly in an instant.
Hamilton held a tin cup toward him. “I don’t know if I’d call this coffee, but it’s hot, at least.”
Jonny looked for a fire where Hamilton might have heated this but saw none. He blew away steam and had a tentative sip. It was a thick, pungent brew that tasted vaguely like wood, but it delivered a pleasing jolt nonetheless. “How’d you make this?”
Hamilton nodded toward the raised bonnet of the electricar. Jonny swayed to his feet and lumbered over, observing the glowing element of the vehicle’s engine and the small kettle resting atop it. “We brewed tea this way when I was in school.”
Jonny downed more of the crude coffee. It certainly wasn’t anything anyone would have dared to serve in New Orleans, a city that prided itself on the quality of its food and refreshments, but it would do under the circumstances. “Hamilton Arkwright as a feisty schoolboy buck,” he mused aloud. “I’d have liked to have met him.” He offered a leering smile.
“You would have been—what?—seven years old or so.”
“I had an inkling of who I was even then. I would’ve gazed at you with big, longing, confused eyes, I’ll bet.”
When Hamilton looked away, blushing and laughing, Jonny felt a surge of relief. The unpleasantness of last night had disappeared, leaving no residue. So, they had survived their first romantic altercation. That boded well.
They breakfasted. Gus must have ransacked the camp’s stores for all this gear, Jonny thought. Looking through the bundles, he found a pair of boots that fit him and traded in his moccasins. Then it was time to set out again. North, across the open countryside.
Woods started to thicken around them, and the road became better defined. They had still seen no other traffic, no one on horseback or foot either, just deer flitting through the trees. But evidence of previous passengers appeared on the roadside—heaps of trash, a discarded tire. The small car had a canvas top, which they had folded away. The day was warm, the sun shining through a fragile layer of cloud. Hamilton again drove, though Jonny had offered to take a turn.
The excursion had the feel of an interlude. Jonny recalled how delightfully untethered he had felt on the road, making his way south from New York. The muddle and clutter of the world had receded, and he had enjoyed the wide spaces and fresh air.
But, despite how agreeable the morning had been, an anxious question remained between them, as yet unasked. Jonny, a bit dismayed at his own reticence, finally spoke it. “What do you plan to do in Chicago?”
“Find a Fleet unit and report in. Or any military unit at all.” Hamilton said this immediately, without the least hesitation.
Jonny chewed his lip and stared ahead. Well, what the hell answer had he expected?
“Will I ever see you again after that?” The words, frailly spoken, might have been lost beneath the rush of the wind or the drone of the engine.
Hamilton drove in silence for a minute. Jonny couldn’t look at him. He wasn’t going to answer. That was probably for the best. Maybe he hadn’t heard the question. That would be even better, Jonny decided.
But Hamilton said, “If I didn’t see you again… I don’t know how I could live with myself.”
Impossibly, Jonny felt the tears spring again to his eyes. He wanted to laugh at himself but couldn’t. Emotion was raw in his chest. The car was slowing.
Then Hamilton had turned toward him, and Jonny had thrust himself into the man’s embrace. They jammed their mouths together, engulfing, devouring. Desire lit every strained nerve in Jonny’s body. Passion flamed high, a searing heat. His tears vanished, and sweat popped out on his forehead and between his sharp shoulder blades.
In a single unrelenting surge, his cock came fully erect.
His tongue warred with Hamilton’s. He felt the rasp of Hamilton’s stubble. His lips were mashed against his teeth by the pressure of the kiss. Hamilton grunted, deep in his throat. Jonny answered with a savage growl.
He slid down the seat back and was lying prone across the front seat, dragging Hamilton’s eager weight atop him. This wasn’t going to end with a kiss, however ardent. He’d had enough of just kissing this male he so desired. As they grappled and scuffled for proper positioning, he felt Hamilton’s luscious hardness press on his thigh. He would finally have that cock. He would wrap his lips around it and suck it. He would impale himself on it, riding its sweet length until Hamilton jetted a load of tasty cream up into his tight ass.
Trembling, panting, he reached between them as Hamilton lay on top of him. Jonny’s hand closed on the front of Hamilton’s trousers. He felt the stark outline of his engorged cock, the knobby head, the full, eager shaft. He squeezed, and Hamilton groaned into his mouth. Saliva ran down Jonny’s chin. His flesh shrieked. They had to get out of these fucking clothes—
A blast of noise, like something from the scaly throat of a prehistoric beast, tore the day in two. The sound rang painfully in Jonny’s ears, as though a gossamer layer of tissue had just been ripped from both eardrums. He started so badly he felt a muscle twist in his side. Hamilton, just as startled, gave a fearsome jounce and raised his head. Jonny had absolutely no idea what the noise had been.
But now he heard an angry voice as well, a short distance away. Hamilton groaned again, but this time it was a sound of vast annoyance and disappointment. That was when Jonny put it all together. He’d heard enough car horns in the cities. Some drivers seemed to use them for no reason at all, just to add to the chaotic cacophony of urban living.
Hamilton levered himself all the way off him. Jonny’s body cried out its frustration. His hand had memorized the throbbin
g length of Hamilton’s cock trapped inside those trousers. Jonny stayed lying on the seat. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, “Shit, shit, shit!”
With color in his face and hair mussed, Hamilton turned and shouted something back at the angered motorist behind them. He gunned the electricar, and they lurched forward on the narrow road through the wooded tract. There would be nowhere to pull off to let the other pass, Jonny knew with fatalistic certainty. For a scant instant he thought he would cry yet again—a disturbing trend—but his overwrought emotions were suddenly inverted. Before he could stop himself, he brayed laughter.
Hamilton looked down, flustered, frowning at Jonny, and then he too was laughing, a wry chuckle turning quickly into outright guffaws. Jonny had never seen the man laugh so thoroughly before. His heart swelled at the sight and, belatedly, over the words Hamilton had spoken just moments ago: If I didn’t see you again… I don’t know how I could live with myself.
It was as close to a declaration of love as anything Jonny could ever remember anyone saying to him. He wanted to say something like it back to Hamilton, to let the man know he had feelings as well.
They traveled several miles until the road ran perpendicularly into another much wider lane. The car behind them—it was a muddied contraption with a man at the wheel and what looked to be his whole family stuffed in there with him, as well as their earthly goods—pulled immediately past them, with a final blare of its horn. Hamilton made a gesture after the man that Jonny wouldn’t have credited him with knowing.
The larger road was planked and flowing with traffic. Some of the vehicles moved at reckless speeds. Some appeared as loaded with people and belongings as the car behind them had been. The sight seemed to sober Hamilton as they idled at the periphery of the thoroughfare.
“Where are they all going?” Jonny asked. He drank from a canteen and passed it to Hamilton.
“They’re evacuating, scattering,” he said grimly. “These are war refugees. And they’re only the first.” He continued to study the road. “This will be the fastest route north. But it might also turn out to be the most dangerous. I don’t have a choice, Jonny. I must report for duty and aid in this fight. Chicago will have a military presence. The Fleet and the other branches of service will never let that city go. But if you… you would rather get there by some other means—”
“Are you done being stupid, Hamilton? You are? Good. Let’s go. Let’s go!” Jonny gave him a grin and waved forward.
When there was a break in the flow, they turned onto the planks of the main road and hastened northward.
TWELVE.
IT WAS a turnpike. Had been a turnpike, one of those elaborate roads that required motorists to pay a fare for its use. As Hamilton understood it, this was a favorite source of complaint for the Colonists. They thought it dreadfully unfair that they should have to part with a farthing for the convenience of smooth travel. But even with the help of modern building equipment, the laying of such a highway was arduous and costly. The Crown couldn’t simply throw endless funds at these Colonies. The occupants of these rustic territories had to contribute as well.
Was this ultimately the root of the rebellion, then? Hamilton wondered with disgust and dismay as he plied northward along the plank-lined stretch. Did the Colonists think themselves entitled to every privilege and expedience of contemporary civilization without having to pay for it in any way? What a thoughtless, petulant people.
At any rate, this was technically no longer a turnpike, in that no fees were being collected on it. Hamilton had driven past a smashed and abandoned tollgate. The squat guardhouse alongside was now just a frame of charred timbers. He wondered if the burning had been carelessness or a deliberate revolutionary act. Again it seemed terribly juvenile to him, the deed of a peevish child who smashes his bottle of ill-tasting medicine without thought of the sickness in him that still needs curing.
The road streamed with traffic in both directions. Already he and J.C.—Jonny, yes, Jonny was a nicer name—had seen several wrecks. It was remarkable how much damage a vehicle could sustain colliding with another or after losing a wheel and tumbling over on its side. The human cargos inside these unlucky transports often fared poorly. On the roadside there had been wounded and dead.
No one was coming to the rescue, was Hamilton’s sense of the situation. The Colonial Underground was interested in war. It evidently hadn’t made any provisions to keep up aid services. The persecuted people it meant to free from despotic British rule would just have to see to their own doctoring and burials for the time being.
Anarchy. Hamilton shook his head, hands firm on the wheel. He eyed the dial that registered the electrical strength of the car’s battery. It was growing apparent they would need to recharge before reaching Chicago.
They had drawn the car’s canvas top up, which provided little more than a suggestion of protection for its occupants. Motorists on either side threw them frightened or sinister looks. Jonny, without being told, had grabbed up his shotgun and held it across his knees. He too recognized the danger. Refugees were inherently desperate, and they could turn on each other. Hamilton had heard tales from older officers of the African and Middle East campaigns and the travails of those displaced people.
The thump of tires over the carefully laid, sanded timbers of the road made a continual drumming, like the sound of a thousand amplified heartbeats. Hamilton saw more vehicles immobile on the roadside, some appearing to be suffering from mechanical issues. Bewildered drivers stood before open bonnets, peering into the baffling workings of their own transports. Some waved at the passing traffic, beseeching for help.
“Now isn’t the time to be asking for a ride,” Jonny muttered to himself.
Hamilton silently agreed. Activity thickened on the roadsides. It wasn’t all stranded or injured travelers. To his surprise, he saw merchants hawking wares, as one would in a market. Men and women had come to the refuse-strewn edge of the road to brandish goods and call out their prices. They appeared to be selling mostly food—vegetables such as carrots and squash, things that would keep, that could be nibbled at even while one was driving.
There was no pattern to any of it. Some stretches of shoulder were empty, others jostling with vendors. A few had set up crude tables. The selling was working. Motorists were slowing and stopping, snarling the traffic flow as others who didn’t wish to halt veered and blared their horns, just like that thrice-cursed cur who’d come up behind them earlier when he and Jonny were about to at last consummate things. Hamilton’s testicles had ached with longing for miles after that unfortunate interruption. He had meant to have Jonny right on this very front seat. He’d wanted to close his mouth around Jonny’s cock and later bury his own staff in Jonny’s doubtlessly succulent fundament.
Instead they had met with more delay, further frustration. It had seemed comical for a while afterward, but now Hamilton had to wonder distantly if they would ever be able to finalize their mutual carnal longing. For it did appear mutual. Jonny wanted him, despite that foolish but necessary side business with Gus back at the rebel camp. Jonny’s desire for him felt authentic and immediate, truer even than Percy’s passions had seemed at the time. For all he knew now, Percy really had been a spy, which would make this revolution better organized than that camp in the woods had suggested it was. Had things played out differently in Providence, the Colonial Underground might have had an incriminating photograph of Captain Hamilton Arkwright and his male paramour in their possession, an article of blackmail so powerful they might have gotten hold of the Indomitable without using Jonny as a pawn against him.
“Hey!” Jonny called, pointing. “There’s a portable generator. We need to juice this buggy. We should stop.”
Hamilton slowed, eyeing the mechanical unit, which had been hauled to the roadside on the back of a mule-driven wagon. Two men and a woman in rough country dress waved connecting cables at the traffic. A horn blasted behind Hamilton as he edged toward the shoulder.
“When I
get out,” he said, “you slide in under this wheel. Keep the motor on and that shotgun ready. I’ll see about terms.”
The shoulder was soft after the sturdiness of the plank road, but the tires didn’t sink dangerously into the mire. Hamilton stepped out, and Jonny scooted dutifully over into the driver’s seat.
The three manning the generator looked to be hardscrabble rural stock, an image belied by the advanced piece of hardware weighing down the bed of their wagon. Hamilton felt the weight of the two pistols in his brown leather jacket’s pockets.
“I’d like a charge,” he said.
The two men were dull-faced, their hands dark with grime. The woman looked equally untidy, but a shrewdness glinted in her eyes. She waggled one of the cables attached to the generator and named a price. It was, predictably, an outrageous sum.
“I don’t have that much,” Hamilton said truthfully. “Will you take goods in trade? We have….” He wondered dubiously what they had that these folk might want.
“Archer.” Jonny, behind the wheel, kept one hand on the short-barreled shotgun. With his other he held out several notes. “Take this. We don’t have time to haggle. This setup isn’t going to last long.”
Hamilton reached in through the passenger side, took the money with a grave, grateful nod, and handed the payment to the woman. Wordlessly one of the dull-faced men drew the flexible cable toward the vehicle and slotted the lead into the appropriate socket.
Waiting tensely on the roadside, Hamilton observed the highway from a spectator’s vantage. It looked even more haphazard and unsafe from here. The Colonists tended to drive on the right-hand side of a road, a contrary penchant they’d developed, which perhaps might have been seen as an early indicator of a rebellious posture. This general rule alone seemed in effect on the plank-paved roadway. All other niceties had been forsaken. Cars swerved past each other carelessly. They knocked together with clangs of metal. Hamilton watched two electricars go past, which were apparently locked together by their front fenders, side by side, the drivers screaming astounding obscenities at each other as sparks flew up between them. On the far side of the road, an overloaded vehicle tried to go around a slower car, tipped precariously, and went over with a tremendous crash. Goods spilled everywhere. A bloodied body tumbled across the planks. A second vehicle plowed into the wreck from behind, then a third, with a terrible shriek of tearing metal.
Raise the Red Flag Page 13