Different Sin (20 page)

He might as well be back in Pfaff’s. David stood restlessly and nodded to the other men. “I guess I’ll take a look at the camp before dark.”

Matthews walked with him as he left the room. They followed the dirt paths from the outskirts of the camp, past the baggage wagons of a Massachusetts regiment, their mules braying in their enclosure.

The log huts erected by the infantrymen for their winter quarters were clustered in closely packed rows, separated by little more than the space of their outdoor chimneys. Smoke curled from a hodgepodge of chimney materials, from neatly laid masonry to open pork barrels, stacked one above another. The chinked log shelters were roofed over with small shelter tents, the two tent halves joined together at the peak. Many of the white duck tents were boldly lettered with the names and companies of their occupants, even decorated with stick drawings of the men.

David paused, smiling at a sketch of two sparring pugilists. The two men, P. Moran and C. Kelley, according to their lettered canvas roof, sat on stumps by their doorsill, peacefully sucking on pipes, their attention fixed on a poker game in front of the adjacent cabin.

A pair of rifles were propped up against the log wall, looking out of place alongside a washboard and two tin buckets. Several pairs of socks dripped from a line strung between two upended logs. A bearded man stepped from the next hut and wrung some additional moisture from the laundry, then sank onto his doorsill, leaning comfortably against the frame. He pulled a boot off his bare foot, and began studiously paring his toenails with a knife.

Zach could make himself comfortable anyplace like that, David thought. He’d enjoy this scene, the split log huts, built for just a few months use but fixed as cozy and homelike as the men could make them, firewood stacked outside and walls papered with illustrated pages showing through the open doors. He could write him that evening, maybe enclose a small sketch of the decorated roofs—

No! Dammit, what was he thinking of? He’d come down here to break himself of Zach. And Zach had let him know their friendship was over, in any case.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Carter?” David started at Matthews’ high, youthful voice, suddenly aware of the young reporter standing anxiously at his elbow. He shook his head, glad to be distracted. Several of the soldiers were staring at him with expressions of amused curiosity.

“No, everything’s fine.” He managed a smile, nodded at the curious soldiers. “I was just reminded of something. I guess we’d best be getting back before it’s too dark to see.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“Sure, if it ain’t our Special Artist! Where’s your chicken?”

“My what?” David stared back at the husky infantryman sitting in front of the hut topped with the sketch of the prizefighters.

The soldier grinned. “Your chicken. The little feller who was here with you the other night.”

“He’s— I don’t know what you mean.” David shifted his feet nervously, clutching his sketchpad tighter under his arm.

“Pretty young lad like that. Ain’t he your chicken?” Christ. He didn’t imagine— “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just met him—”

“Hey, don’t let Pete here rile you.” A lanky redhead stepped from the doorway, grinning at David from a face spattered with freckles. “That’s just army lingo. Now him and me’s been tentin’ together since we joined up, so I call him my old woman, makin’ me the old man. If you’re from Marblehead like us, your chum’s your chicken, ‘specially if he’s a young feller like that.”

“Oh. He’s gone to try and talk Meade into letting him ride along on a scout.” David hesitated, then lowered himself onto a log. He rubbed his chin where the itchy stubble of a new beard was growing in. “How long since you enlisted?”

“Be three years come May.” The redhead sat on the doorsill. “Five months and two days till we’re mustered out. And then this here army won’t see us for our dust. Ain’t that right, old woman?” He nudged his partner with an elbow and grinned again.

“Damn right. Goddamn generals use up men like turkeys at a shootin’ match and what in hell for? This here’s the same ground we fought over back in May. Now they’re sayin’ Lincoln’s gonna put Grant over us. Ain’t gonna make a blame bit of diffrence. He’ll be the same as the others, hold the life of a private soldier ‘bout as much account as one of the baggage mules. It’s gettin’ out I am while my hide’s still in one piece.”

“I don’t blame you.”

The soldier grunted. He clamped a pipe between yellow-stained teeth and shoved tobacco into the bowl with a thick forefinger. He groped in his pocket for a match, then removed the pipe a moment. “Saw you lookin’ at our pitcher when you was here before. Might not look like much to an artist like you, but it suits us fine.”

David smiled. “Were you prizefighters before you joined up?”

“Sure were.” The redhead grinned. “Leastways, we had us a couple matches apiece. Pete here won us a five dollar gold piece once. We’re sparring partners, see, ever since we were boys. So we made up our minds to keep helpin’ each other out and split our winnings.

“Pete even got himself his name in the paper that time. Hey, how ‘bout you drawing Pete and me for the illustrated? That’s Pete Moran, and I’m Colin Kelley. Kelley with two e’s.” He grinned again, with a sudden hint of shyness. “I got a girl back home. I’d kinda like for her to see it.”

“Sure.” David flipped his pad open to a clean page, past sketches of infantrymen drilling, sutlers’ wagons, camp barbers and mess call. “Only I don’t know how many pictures of camp my editor’ ll be willing to print.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

David stretched out on his cot, watching Al Matthews shave—mostly for show, David suspected. Still, Al never skipped a day. He wet his brush in the washbasin and began lathering up with his usual elaborate care. That water’s probably freezing, David thought. He stroked his own new growth. “Why put yourself to all that bother out here in the middle of an army camp? Anyway, beards are the fashion now.”

Al shrugged. “I’d sooner be clean shaven,” he said mildly.

“Well, I guess it’s none of my affair.” David got up and walked over to Al, peered over his shoulder into the glass. His hair was still the dark blond it had been from boyhood, but the new growth of beard was coming in a soft, decided gray. He fingered it again, smiling ruefully. “I’m growing old,” he said.

Al scraped the last bit of lather from his chin. “Nonsense. You don’t look a bit old.” He turned to examine David. “It’s not gray, anyway. More of a silver. Let me see.” He reached up and put a hand on David’s cheek, ran his fingers down along his jawline. “Yeah, it’s silver all right. I think you look very handsome bearded.”

David flushed and pulled back. “Well, thanks. I—we’d best get downstairs before they drink up all the Christmas punch.” He hurried down to the smoky parlor.

“Looks like we’re about to have this celebration preserved for posterity,” Ed Forbes said, winking at David. David turned. Alex Gardner, a one-time assistant to Brady, was setting up the cumbersome photographic equipment he lugged in his “what’s-it” wagon.

“If you’ll gather round the punch bowl, gentlemen,” Gardner directed.

Ed grinned. “Might as well have another glass apiece while we’re waiting.” They stood watching Gardner group the correspondents, peering each time through his camera lens, then making minute adjustments to his tripod.

“Here, you from the
Herald.
Suppose you stand behind the bowl like this.” Gardner waved the Boston reporter to a spot between the two solemn black servants. “And let’s have the little fellow up front here.” He tugged Al Matthews into place. “There. Now everyone stay put.”

The
Herald
reporter raised his glass. “I propose a toast. To a swift and victorious conclusion to this noble struggle! And a swift, telegraphic route for all our dispatches!”

“Hear! Hear!” Glasses clinked. Gardner pressed his camera shutter, admonishing his subjects to hold still. Al came up to David and Ed Forbes. “An A-number-1 device, the camera. You ever worry the photographers will take the livelihood away from you artists?” As if he didn’t have worries enough. “Not unless they can come up with a way to capture their subjects in motion,” David said.

Ed grinned. “By that time I’ll be earning my living from the sale of my paintings, which will hang in none but the finest galleries.” He winked broadly and headed toward the punch bowl.

The posing correspondents broke into groups of twos and threes, returning to their usual pursuits of drinking, smoking, cards and gossip, reminding David once again of Pfaff’s and the evenings spent there with Zach. He rose. “Colin Kelley and Pete Moran are stuck on guard duty,” he told Al. “I guess I’ll ride on out there, take them a drop of punch.”

“Mind if I tag along? I’d like to get a look at the picket line.”

David smiled. “Not if you give me a hand getting saddled.”

They rode slowly, following the directions Colin had given David, letting the horses pick their way in the gathering dusk till they came to the brush lean-to Union pickets had built against a fence. They tied the horses a few yards away.

Pete was stirring the contents of an iron kettle that simmered on a fire a few feet from the shelter. Al sniffed appreciatively. “Mmmn! Rabbit stew! You trap it out here?”

“Didn’t have to. Bought it off of Johnny Reb for a week’s coffee ration.”

“You did what?” David asked.

Pete grinned. “Traded with the Reb pickets. One of them’s a damn fine hunter. Sure and we’ve got ourselves a sight better Christmas dinner than the mess the camp cooks are dishing up.”

“Good Lord!” David looked around apprehensively.

“It’s nothin’ to get rattled about,” Colin said, stepping from the shelter. “They’re in no more hurry to trade shots than me and my old woman here.”

“Oh. Well, here.” David pulled the flask of punch from his pocket. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks. Hey, sit down and warm yourselves. Dinner’s just ‘bout ready.”

“This puts me in mind of home,” Al said as they dug into plates of the savory stew. “My oldest brother was always a good hand at bringing home rabbit meat. Ma used to fix it this way, too, with plenty of onions and salt.”

David smiled. “Well, it’s certainly a lot different from any Christmas I remember.” He looked at the three other men sitting on logs pulled close to the fire. The quiet of the surrounding darkness was broken only by animal cries and the noises of the horses, though the Secesh pickets couldn’t be far away. Colin handed him the flask. He took a long swallow and passed it to Al.

“It’s nothing like Christmas at home. Or at my brother’s house up in Boston either. Of course it’s a lot different for his family this year too. Mike’s an army doctor now; he’s at a hospital in Washington City. And my nephew—his oldest son, that is—was captured by the Rebs. He’s in a prison in South Carolina.”

“Yeah? That’s a shame,” Pete said. “What’s his regiment?”

“Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts.”

“Fifty-Fourth! A nigger regiment!” The two Massachusetts soldiers stared at David in surprise. “He’s an officer like his pa, huh?”

“An—” Hell, David thought. Of course they’d know the Fifty-Fourth. He doubted there was anyone in the state of Massachusetts who hadn’t heard of the first regiment of colored volunteers. Or who didn’t know that only whites served as commissioned officers in the colored regiments—doctors and chaplains excepted.

He was damned if he felt like explaining how he happened to have a colored half-brother. Well, Peter had made sergeant before his capture. “Yeah, he’s an officer.”

“Then the Rebs’ll treat him better than if he was just an enlisted man,” Colin said. “Only thing, if he was leading nigger troops like that, they might be harder on him just to make an example—” Colin stopped. A flush spread over his freckles, visible even in the firelight. “Hey, listen. I shoot my mouth off too much. He’ll be okay.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Now Pete and me,” Colin said at last, “we’re used to roughing it for Christmas. This here’s our third one since we joined up. But next year ain’t gonna be like this. We’ll be outta the army and back home. And my girl and me, Rosie, that’s her name, we’ve been writin’ each other regular and we’re kinda thinkin’ ‘bout tying the knot.” He gave an embarrassed grin.

“Anyways, next Christmas her and me’ll be together. Course even if we do get hitched by then, I figger we’ll have to live with her mother and father till I can put enough by for a place of our own, but....”

David’s attention wandered as Colin talked of the Christmas dinner he and Rosie would share with her family. What would he be doing in a year’s time? Well, if—God willing—the war was over by then, he’d like as not spend it with his father and Mike’s family. He didn’t have anyone else to go home to.

Hell, here he was feeling sorry for himself when he could be a lot worse off. Look at Zach. He hadn’t seen his family in years. Who was he spending Christmas with? Still, Zach would be all right. He had enough old friends in New York. That Byron Roosa, for instance. They might even have rekindled—

Stop it! David told himself. He forced his thoughts back to the circle of firelight, listening as Colin shared his plans for the future. They mopped their empty plates with fresh cornbread and washed down the dinner with strong, hot coffee, parting with a final exchange of Christmas wishes.

“Reckon marriage is all right for him,” Al said, after they’d ridden in silence a few minutes, “but I’m in no hurry to settle down. I aim to make a name for myself first. Though I wouldn’t mind having a family after that. How about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re awful close-mouthed about yourself. Do you have any family besides your father and brother?”

“Some cousins. They didn’t live too far from these parts, but I’ve lost track of them since the war started.”

“No wife and children though?”

“Oh. No, I’m afraid I’m just an old bachelor.”

“Not all that old. How come you never married?” David shrugged, then realized Al couldn’t see him in the dark. “I don’t know. I guess I just never had the inclination.”

“Still, I don’t see how you kept from it.”