All Other Nights (24 page)

J
ACOB WAS ASSIGNED TO THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT, ALONE. IT WAS A
perfunctory assignment, protecting the supplies not against any actual enemy raid—for which a single soldier would likely be useless—as much as against spiteful boys from town. It was really a job for a private, but apparently only petty officers could be trusted not to help themselves to the goodies stored in the place. He was provided with a key and instructed to stand guard, watching for imbeciles. At first he paced in front of the inn, trying not to think of Abigail lying sleepless in her prison cell, and resisted the temptation to enter. But after several long and lonely hours, he gave in to curiosity and went inside.

It was completely dark, of course. He took out a match and lit the two large lamps on either side of the door just inside the tavern. At first he was surprised by how long it took his eyes to focus. For a minute or more, he couldn’t see anything but black shadows, as if new walls had been erected in the room. But his eyes had indeed adjusted. The tavern had been filled, floor to ceiling, with wooden crates.

The tavern was unrecognizable. The room had been stripped of its furniture; it was now packed with teetering towers of boxes. The supplies were pushed up against the windows, boxes lining the walls as if the room itself had shrunk. The center of the room was clear and empty; a kind of aisle had been built out of crates that widened after the doorway into an empty space that stretched all the way to the bar. He walked further into the room and lit another match, which he then used to light a lamp hanging overhead. Now he could see not only the crates lining the walls, but also the heaped sacks of flour and corn and potatoes, along with coils of rope and rolls of canvas. There was an enormous castle, taller than he was, built out of smaller jars, which upon closer inspection were labeled as full of marvels largely unknown to the noncommissioned soldier, including sugar, jam, real coffee, and even chocolate. He wondered how much of it had been taken right from the kitchen of Solomon’s Inn. Piled on the bar itself were rifles and boxes upon boxes of ammunition; above the bar, on the rack that had held tin tankards, officers’ uniforms were hanging in a row, like dangling men on a gallows. Behind the bar, where the drinks had been kept, were more crates, carefully labeled as brandy, ale, and whiskey. Apparently the inn’s liquor supply would be accompanying the Union officers en route to Vicksburg. The door behind the bar was open, though the space behind it was dark. There was a clear path through the room to the open side of the bar; he followed it until he was standing behind the bar, and took down a lamp from the wall. He lit the lamp and passed through the doorway where he had seen Abigail for the first time.

The threshold of that door had become a Mason–Dixon line between order and chaos, dividing the carefully organized army supply house from the Solomons’ ransacked home. Just past the threshold behind the bar, he came upon what apparently was once the pantry. As he raised the lamp higher, he saw that the floor was covered with broken jars, hardened puddles of honey and molasses, round stains of spilled milk, scraps of bread and potato peelings. Above the floor were wooden shelves that had been emptied, some of them partly pulled from the wall. Large smears of jam decorated a few of the dangling shelves, embedded with shards of the glass jars that had once contained them, and thoroughly colonized by ants.

He passed through the pantry to the narrow staircase beyond it, and followed the mud-encrusted stairs up to the family’s apartment on the second floor. The parlor had been searched, and apparently looted. Every piece of furniture—a dining table, six ladderback chairs, a chest of drawers, and a desk—had been turned upside-down, as though the room itself had been inverted. A large rectangle of pale paint on the wall marked where a picture or a mirror must have been removed; the drawers from the chest and the desk were lying empty and scattered on the floor of the room. The floor was covered with papers, pen nibs, and feathers that must have fallen out of pillows. In places where the floorboards showed, there was a pair of thick dark scratch marks that ran toward the door like a railroad track; apparently something large and heavy—a sofa?—had been dragged out of the room. Next to an amputated drawer he saw a bundle of letters, some of which were falling loose from the string that held them. He picked them up, examining the envelope at the top of the stack.

His lamp had begun to run low, flickering a bit, and it was difficult to see the entire envelope at once. There was no stamp, and the return address was Abigail’s. He shifted the lamp and glanced at the last line of the address; it was a letter to someone in Richmond. Presumably she had intended to send it more than a month ago, before Holly Springs had changed hands. He held the letter, amazed by the warmth of the paper against his skin, the soft beauty radiating from it that must have come from knowing that Abigail’s hand had held it last. As he stood holding the envelope, the lamp shifted in his other hand, illuminating the whole address. It was addressed to Eugenia Rappaport.

He stood paralyzed in the upside-down parlor, looking at the name inscribed on the paper. For the first few moments he didn’t think at all. Then, when he finally allowed himself to think, all he could think was that it was impossible. Clearly it was nothing more than a coincidence, another woman with the same name. Even the address was wrong; Jeannie had never lived in Richmond. And even if it had really been for her, this letter still couldn’t possibly mean anything at all; it was surely written before Jeannie died, or at least before anyone had heard about her death. But even Jeannie’s name on a piece of paper in his hand was something. In fact, it was everything. In that instant, the letters of Jeannie’s name encompassed the entire world. He heard a noise downstairs, a wooden slapping sound like a door swinging shut. He had forgotten to close the door to the tavern behind him.

He stuffed the letter into his pocket, fighting hard against the urge to tear it open. Then he hurried back downstairs, barely able to breathe as he rushed through the pantry and stumbled around the bar into the room that used to be the tavern. And that was when Jacob saw a man in Confederate uniform standing in the doorway, pointing a rifle at his face.

JACOB REACHED FOR
his own rifle, but it was too late. The other man’s gun was already leveled right at him. He slowly raised his hands until he was reaching for the ceiling, unable to touch the sky.

“On your knees,” the man ordered.

Jacob sank down slowly to the hard wooden floor in front of the bar, putting one palm down to balance himself against the floorboards before raising his hands again. He was sickened to notice how natural this posture felt to him, even comfortable. The man stepped over to Jacob, keeping his rifle pointed at Jacob’s face until he was able to reach around and remove Jacob’s rifle, slinging it over his shoulder, and then Jacob’s pistol, which he tucked into his belt. Somewhere outside Jacob heard shots being fired in the distance, followed by an explosion. It was a real raid. As Jacob held his hands above his head, he saw that the man was looking around the room, peering around the towers of crates, checking to make sure Jacob was alone. Jacob looked down at the floor, wondering how it would end—until he decided not to spend his final moments looking at the floorboards, and instead looked back up at the other man.

He was about Jacob’s age, and about Jacob’s height, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes like Jacob’s, and a thick blond mustache. His nose was like Jacob’s, too, long and narrow, though his skin was rough and chapped, hardened from months of living outdoors. When he turned his head, Jacob saw a long red scar running from the middle of his cheek to the top of his right ear, part of which was missing. Jacob looked beyond him to the door of the tavern, where the lamps he had lit when he first came in were still burning. He listened for more people outside, but he could hear nothing but the other man’s boots on the floorboards, and more guns firing in the distance. Even if the other man’s regiment had successfully raided the town, the man had come to Solomon’s Inn alone, at least for the moment.

Now the man was nosing his way through the boxes, taking inventory of the stacked supplies. He glanced behind the bar, at the liquor packed into labeled crates, and turned back to Jacob.

“How much have you stolen from this place?” he asked, glowering. From one side, he was quite handsome. But when he turned his head, Jacob winced at the sight of the disfigured ear.

“I haven’t stolen anything,” Jacob answered. Then he thought of the letter in his pocket, and felt himself blush.

The man noticed. “You’re lying,” he spat.

“It was looted, it’s true,” Jacob said. “But not by me.”

The kick came suddenly, a swift hard crunch to Jacob’s groin. The burn of his cheek against the floorboards preceded the pain by a long, languorous second, and then his entire body snapped into a tight ball like a spring recoiling. For a moment he was blinded, nauseated, listening to a long, low howl that he only gradually recognized as his own voice. The pressure of the other man’s boot against his spine an instant later felt almost ethereal, a comforting pat on the back, until it forced Jacob’s stomach against the floor. Jacob gagged on bile, retching, before opening his eyes to see the toe of the man’s other boot, encrusted with mud, inches from his nose. Beyond it, a tower of cartons hovered sideways, floating on air. Jacob closed his eyes again and imagined William Wilhelm Williams the Third standing before him, Jeannie cowering at his side. But now there was no one to save him but himself.

The man’s voice came through clearly over the rush of blood in Jacob’s head. “This was my brother’s business,” he said, pushing his heel deep into Jacob’s back. Jacob grimaced, still nauseous, his teeth pressed against the floor. “You have no reason to be here except as a thief.”

A tight knot of thought suddenly loosened in Jacob’s mind. His brother? But that meant—

“You have a choice. You can be captured, or you can be dead.”

—that meant he was—

“Which would you prefer?”

Jacob opened his eyes, wincing as he twisted his neck so that he could see the man’s face. The man’s bristled eyebrows were taut with rage, his jaw clenched into some cruel equivalent of a smile. It was obvious to Jacob at that moment that he had been planning this for days, mentally performing it, fantasizing about how he would make whoever was here suffer. Jacob’s mind raced, delirious, trying to choose the best way out.

“Perhaps you might consider a prisoner exchange,” Jacob finally said, wheezing.

The second, third, and fourth kicks were harder than the first, directed at Jacob’s ribs, knees, and face, and followed promptly by the man’s boot on his back. Jacob gagged again, choking, fighting for air as the man laughed. “You aren’t holding anyone here. Who on earth would I exchange you for?”

Jacob’s left eye was swelling, and it was too difficult to open it. He opened his right eye, and with tremendous effort, he turned his head toward the man. “Abigail Solomon,” he gasped.

The man’s mouth opened in disbelief. He whispered, “Abigail?”

His face utterly changed, as if he had transformed into another person. Jacob watched him soften, his jaw slackening, his eyes widening as he looked down at Jacob’s face. “I heard you expelled them,” he said. “What have you done with her?” The man tried to keep the fury in his voice, but he failed to make it sound convincing. He was frightened.

Jacob’s body was still throbbing, and it was difficult for him to speak. He huffed at the air, grimacing. “I didn’t expel anyone,” he wheezed. “It was an order from headquarters. If I had followed it, I would have had to expel myself.”

Jacob watched as the man considered this. He removed his foot from Jacob’s back and looked down at him, still holding his gun. Even after both his feet were resting on the floor beside Jacob’s face, Jacob still felt his wooden heel digging into his spine. The man’s face was pale and still, the way Abigail’s had been when Jacob named the opposite of meat. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jacob Rappaport,” Jacob gasped. He had forgotten the alias, but it no longer mattered. He had returned from the dead. “And your name is Michael Solomon.”

The man looked at Jacob for a moment. Then he stepped back, and stepped back again, and finally turned to face a column of cartons by the doorway. Jacob curled himself onto his better side, allowing the pain to wash over him, clutching his stomach and breathing hard. Between breaths, he could hear the man swallowing, clearing his throat. At last he turned back to Jacob, his face reddened with shame.

“Is Abigail—is she here?” he asked. His voice was meek, hesitant, like a child asking his father for permission.

It was easier for Jacob to breathe now, though still painful. “She refused to leave,” he said, and pressed his fists against his gut. “She’s being held in the jail in town. Her brothers went to Illinois. I promised I would guard her parents’ things, but I didn’t get here in time.”

The man crouched down next to him, studying him as if he were a fascinating animal, some odd creature he had found in the yard. “Why would you promise that?” the man asked. “Are you in love with her?”

To Jacob’s surprise, it wasn’t a sarcastic question, but a real one. The man’s voice was unsteady, shaken by fear.

“No,” Jacob said, and was amazed that he meant it. “She’s in love with you.”

Michael Solomon stood up slowly, and buried his face in his hands. The light in the room was fading, the lamps going dim as the pain in Jacob’s body dulled. At last Michael raised his head, and looked down at Jacob. “I need to see her,” he murmured. “How can I see her?”

Jacob looked at his face and recognized what was waiting for him, if he wanted it: redemption. “Take me prisoner,” Jacob said, “and exchange me for her.”

There was another explosion outside, louder than the earlier ones. Jacob was still in so much pain that he could barely move, but he found that it was a small relief to remain on the floor. He lay curled on his side and felt oddly comforted, as though the floorboards were a soft, warm mattress. He watched as Michael stepped over to the corner of the room and helped himself to a length of rope. Then he returned to Jacob, bending over him like a father putting a child to bed. He carefully pulled Jacob’s arms around to his back, tying his wrists together with an almost gentle touch. Jacob didn’t resist.