Different Sin (16 page)

David shrugged. Much as he hoped the Democrats’ calls for a negotiated peace would bear fruit, there was no point arguing the matter with Zach. Since their quarrel over Roosa at Brady’s gallery, their differences of opinion had all too frequently ended in angry exchanges. Over the past winter it seemed to David their easy friendship had changed into an uneasy truce interrupted by suddenly flaring combat—and by bouts of eager, explosive lovemaking.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Boston Common was packed with an expectant crowd come to see the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts—the regiment of colored volunteers raised by Massachusetts Governor Andrew in the months since Lincoln had authorized the enlistment of Negro soldiers. David stood at the edge of the area roped off for newsmen, Mike and his family just outside the reserved area. They’d left home early that morning to get the spot; the sun was nearly directly overhead now. David gave a worried glance at his father, wishing he hadn’t insisted—at his age—on seeing his grandson march with his regiment to Battery Wharf and the troop ship South. The elderly doctor stood patiently, his head bent to catch the words of his youngest grandchild, but his facial muscles looked slack with fatigue. David’s eyes met Mike’s, seeing his concern echoed in his half-brother’s face. Strains of band music sounded from the direction of the Charles Street gate. Mike swiveled, straining for a first glimpse of the regiment.

The music of “John Brown’s Body” grew louder. The first ranks marched into view, led by their young white colonel, Robert Gould Shaw, sitting his horse lightly with upraised sword. Cheering broke out, swelling as the white commissioned officers were followed by the six hundred colored troops, crisp in their dress uniforms and waving aloft the flags of country, state and regiment. There seemed no trace in Boston today of the opposition to the war that had grown in New York in the three months since the enactment of conscription in March.

David felt a tug on his arm. “Can you see Peter, Uncle David?” Joshua was standing on tiptoes, his dark eyes shining against the lighter brown of his skin. David smiled down at his nephew, hoisted the youngster to his shoulders a moment. “I see him! I see him!” Josh cried. Peter turned to grin at his family a split second, then marched on in unison with his regiment, his face proud and solemn, his grip firm on his Enfield rifle.

Rachel reached for Michael’s hand. A twinge of fear moved across her face; David thought he saw a corresponding emotion shadow Mike’s expression. He turned his attention back to the regiment, which was lining up in military formation at the foot of the reviewing stand. His fingers flew over his pad, sketching the straight-backed troops and their aristocratic young colonel, the dignitaries on the platform, the leonine mane of the Negro orator, Frederick Douglass, surrounding a face fierce with pride as he looked at his own sons in their Union blue.

He glanced back at Mike and Rachel. Their eyes were fixed on the colored volunteers as the regiment marched across the Common toward the wharf, their fingers still entwined, their faces showing nothing now but hard won pride and determination.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

David closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of images from the long tiring day and get some sleep. Despite the open window, Peter and Josh’s attic room was stuffy, adding to the discomfort of the unfamiliar bed. Still, you’d think he could sleep, tired as he’d gotten traipsing from one end of the city to the other to bid Peter goodbye at the wharf. They’d all been tired from the excitement of the day. Little Josh had nearly fallen asleep at dinner.

Dad looked exhausted too, despite napping the rest of the afternoon. After all, he’s up in his seventies. But when did he get so damned frail? Of course it’s been upsetting for him seeing Peter go off like that. Though Dad’s never been as close to Peter as he is to Abigail and the younger kids. But then on top of that—

David’s thoughts returned to the evening meal. Tired as he was, Dad kept smiling so at Josh’s chatter. And the way Becky never misses a chance to reprimand him. I suppose just to show how grown up she is: nearly through grammar school already. Seems just yesterday Abigail was that age. And to think she’s actually graduating from normal school. Dad’s so proud of her. Well, he should be. She must’ve worked damned hard. It couldn’t have been easy for her, probably the only colored student in the whole school. Not that she’d ever complain. Damn sweet kid. I don’t suppose you’d call her pretty, even if you were colored yourself, but as nice a girl as you could find.

It’s too bad she had to pick this evening to tell Dad she’s going down to the Sea Islands to help teach the contrabands there. Or maybe she’s mentioned it to him before. You could see he was trying to take it in stride. And she ought to be safe, there’s enough Union troops occupying those islands. But then Mike had to announce that he’s made up his mind to enlist as an army surgeon.

Through his closed eyes David could see his father’s face lose its color, his hands shaking on the tablecloth. Hell, he wasn’t as upset at Peter’s going off to fight, and it’s not like a doctor’s going to the front lines. Though I suppose there’s always the danger of a stray shell. And of course, Mike’s his son.

David turned restlessly. You’d think Rachel would be upset, but she didn’t seem distressed. Not that she’d be likely to let on in any case. Look how the two of them held up this afternoon. They must be scared to death for Peter, but they’re not about to show it. The image formed once more of Mike and Rachel’s proud faces, their hidden fear betrayed only by the grip of hand on hand.

At least they have each other to turn to. They needn’t be ashamed of their affections.

The image of Mike and Rachel faded, replaced by the memory of Zach’s angry face the week before. They’d had another of their quarrels. Over that damn pervert, Roosa. “I’m damned if I know what you’re afraid of,” Zach had said. “I told you, Byron’s just asked a few friends in for the evening to celebrate moving into new lodgings.”

“And I told you I’m not going.”

“Well I’ll be damned if I can understand why not. It’s just for an evening of talk, for Lord’s sake. And if I know Byron, there’ll be a sight better food and drink than any we’d see here or at Pfaff’s either. The Fifth Avenue Hotel’s supposed to have the best kitchen in New York. You’ve complained enough about how sick you are of sitting in Pfaff’s night after night. I don’t see what you’re so afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid dammit! I’m just not interested in spending an evening talking to a bunch of perverts like—”

“Like me!?”

David winced as Zach stormed toward him, bracing himself for a blow. Zach grabbed his arm and swung him to face the mirror. “I see two perverts here if that’s what you choose to call us!”

“I didn’t call you— I— I’ve told you before, I’m not— It’s only our friendship that’s made me—”

Zach sighed gustily and dropped his arm. “Whatever you call me, David, I’m at least honest with myself. Which is more than you can say. And I’m not ashamed of wanting to spend an evening in the company of people who accept me for what I am.” The door clicked shut on his rigid back.

David turned again, trying to rid himself of the memory. It had been three days till they’d made up the quarrel. Though they’d forgiven each other readily enough then.

A breeze came through the window, touching his face lightly, recalling Zach’s first tentative caresses when they’d finally mumbled their apologies. They’d grown in intensity as they buried their differences in urgent, heated lovemaking, Zach’s hands pulling him closer, fondling him hungrily, Zach’s mouth moving down his body, engulfing his member with hot, rhythmic strokes till he’d had to stifle his sudden outcries of pleasure.

David moaned. God, how he’d like to reach out and touch him right now, let his own mouth move on Zach’s body, feel his throbbing, joyous release. He tossed restlessly in the narrow bed. His hand crept down and closed on his erect penis.

Christ! Not here! Not in Mike’s house, for God’s sake. With Josh asleep on the trundle bed just a few feet away. If he couldn’t sleep, he’d get up, get a glass of water, maybe read awhile.

David padded downstairs to the kitchen and worked the pump handle in the sink. He set down the glass, thirst quenched, but sleep no closer. He’d find something to read then. He’d left the novel he’d been reading in his room at Mrs. Chapman’s, but there’d surely be something in Mike’s bookcase.

He felt for matches in the dark, then lit the lamp in the front room. The books seemed to have been set haphazardly in their case, the family Bible sharing a shelf with the children’s schoolbooks and Mike’s old medical texts. David looked through them, shoving aside The
Narrative of Frederick Douglass, The Condition and Elevation of the Colored People, Colored Patriots of the American Revolution,
a book of verse by John Greenleaf Whittier. He saw only two novels:
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
and
A Tale of Two Cities.
He had no desire to reread either.

He pulled a book at random from the top shelf: Darwin’s notions on the origin of species. David thumbed through the pages. God. How could Mike read this? He set it back on the shelf and sank into a chair. The table alongside it was cluttered with magazines and newspapers. Well, it might be interesting to take a look at the Boston papers.

David reached for a newspaper from the pile, managing instead to knock one of the magazines from the table.
The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal
. He flipped through it idly. It was even duller than Darwin’s book. He gave a final glance at the advertisements filling the back pages.

“IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: New improved douche chair prevents wasting of vital fluids from the vice of self-abuse. More effective than genital cage in cooling impulses of unnatural venery.”

David stared at the illustration, unable to take his eyes from the description of the chair, its seat open like that of a privy, the zinc pan underneath to be filled with ice water or medicated refrigerant fluid that would be pumped onto the genitals at the first stirring of sexual excitement.

The journal slipped to the floor. David lowered his head into his hands, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. What in hell would the inventor of this damned chair prescribe for the type of unnatural venery that existed between Zach and himself?

Was it possible a doctor could actually cure those desires? Mike was a doctor. For a moment David imagined himself coming to Mike with such a shameful complaint. How the hell could he ever face him again after such a confession?

He couldn’t. If he were ever to break himself of his sin he’d damn well have to come up with the strength to do it on his own.

IF HE COULD JUST GET ZACH TO SEE THINGS HIS WAY FOR ONCE. David knotted his cravat by feel, without bothering to look in the mirror. Hell, he had to struggle against the temptations of the flesh as much as Zach. Zach knew that.

Not that he gave a damn for David’s struggles though. He must’ve told Zach a dozen times in the six weeks since his visit to Boston that he meant to break himself of sinning once and for all. And Zach had dragged out his volume of Plato to argue it was no sin, or those lousy poems by Whitman celebrating the love of comrades.

“Comrades, sure. You know damn well how I treasure our friendship,” David had told him last night. “But we’ve gone way beyond simple friendship.”

“I daresay Whitman had more than simple friendship in mind when he composed these.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what he had in mind!”

“Nor, I daresay, for my feelings for you. I’m not able to turn my affections off so easily as you.”

David sighed. How the hell could Zach accuse him of lacking affection for him? He knew damn well— A rap on the door broke into his thoughts. “Yeah, come in,” David called. The door opened simultaneously with his words. Elliot breezed into the room.

“Hey David, you have a spare collar I can use?”

David fished in his bureau. “Don’t you ever buy anything of your own?”

Elliot laughed. “I’ve gotta save up three hundred bucks in case my name comes up in the draft. I don’t want to be caught short if I need to buy an exemption. You’re lucky you’ve no need to worry about it. Well, I’ve gotta get going. Thanks for the loan of the collar.”

He’d best get going too, David told himself. No use stewing over last night. Let Zach think his affections had cooled. It might make it that much easier to keep them in check.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sweat trickled down David’s neck as he threaded his way up Sixth Avenue two hours later. He yanked at his cravat, loosening it along with his collar. The steamy heat was worsened by the closely packed bodies of the crowd. Sixth Avenue overflowed with angry men and women carrying placards demanding an end to conscription, shoving their way toward a platform at the edge of Central Park where speakers shouted protests against the opening of the draft lottery in New York City two days earlier.

The air was heavy with the mingled odors of sweat and exhaled whiskey. Streams of tobacco juice splashed trousers and shoes. Laborers and longshoremen, who’d walked off their jobs to show their hatred of the draft, wet hoarse throats with whiskey bottles passed hand to hand and roared their applause for the speakers in tones of mounting fury.

David winced as a gob of tobacco spittle hit his ankle. He shifted his position fruitlessly, too hemmed in by the mob to move, and flipped his pad to a new page. At least he’d gotten a few hours respite from his drawing table to cover this unexpected rally.

It was far more hours than he’d anticipated before he managed to make his way past blockaded and destroyed street car tracks back to
Leslie’s.
Outrage against the draft had exploded into violence across the city. News and rumors flew: An angry mob had burned the Provost Marshal’s office at Third Avenue and 46
^th
Street to force an end to the draft selection. Police Superintendent John Kennedy had been beaten. Union veterans in the Invalid Corps had been shot down as they tried to restore order.

David had watched an angry mob set fire to the Colored Orphan Asylum on Fifth Avenue. The mob had allowed mere minutes for orphanage staff to evacuate the children before looting and burning the building. Even after the youngsters were lined up outside, holding hands in wide-eyed fright, women and men glowered and threatened them, stopped from actual attack only by the arrival of a company of firemen, who stood guard with axes and hook poles. David sketched automatically, staring in disbelief at women, faces contorted with hate, screaming, “Kill the damn little niggers!”