Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (21 page)

That was a gauntlet thrown at Lampret's feet, and my concern for Julian escalated to real fear. It was one thing to argue with the Major, it was another thing to bait him. Dominion Officers were traditionally excused from combat.

They carried pistols, not rifles, and they were more useful behind the lines, where they ministered to the spiritual needs of the troops. The commonest slur made against Dominion men was that they were cowards, hiding behind their angel's-wing badges and their big felt hats. I could not, of course,
see
 the Major's reaction to Julian's statement; but a kind of steely silence radiated from the tent like the heat from a smoldering coal-pile.

Then there was a sound of rustling paper. Major Lampret spoke next, evidently quoting from a document.

Lampre t: " 'On consecutive Sundays Private Commongold was observed speaking to soldiers on the parade ground behind the Meeting Tent. On these occasions he talked without restraint or decency about the Holy Bible and other matters that fall within the purview of the Dominion.' Is that correct?"

Julian (less audibly, no doubt surprised by the written evidence): "In so far as it goes, I suppose it is; but—"

Lampret : "Did you, for instance, suggest to these men that there's no evidence of Divine Creation, and that Eden is a mythical place?"

Julian ( after a lengt hy pause): "Perhaps I compared the Biblical account of Genesis to other mythologies—"

Lampret : "To other
mythologies
—suggesting that it
is
 one."

Julian : "Sir, if my remarks are to be taken out of context—"

Lampret ( reading again): " 'Private Commongold went on to assert that the story of the expulsion of the first man and woman from Eden might be understood in unorthodox ways. He claimed that, as it seemed to him, the chief virtue of Eden was the relative absence from it of God, Who created the First Couple in His image and then left them undisturbed in their innocent revels. Private Commongold also suggested that the Tree of Knowledge and its forbidden fruit was a hoax worked up by the Serpent, who wanted the Garden all to himself; and that Adam and Eve had probably been expelled by trickery when God wasn't looking, since God, the Private said, was an incor-rigably inattentive Deity, judging by the sins and enormities He habitually leaves unpunished.' "

Julian ( in an even quieter voice, since he must have realized by now that Lampret had a spy among the troops, and that he was at risk of more than an upbraiding): "It was only a sort of joke, Major. Really nothing but a pleasing paradox."

Lampret : "Pleasing to whom, though?" (clearing his throat): " 'Private Commongold further hinted that the Dominion, though it claimed to speak with the authority of Holy Writ, was more akin to the voice of that Serpent, sowing fear and shame where there was none before, and no pressing need for it.'
Did you in fact say this?
"

Julian : "I suppose I must have ... or words that might be mistaken for it."

Lampret : "The report is lengthy and detailed. It cites apostasies too grotesque and numerous to mention, capped with your enthusiastic endorsement of the ancient and discredited creed of Biological Evolution.

Need I go on?"

Julian : "Not on my account."

Lampret : "Is there any doubt in your mind that these remarks constitute a breach not just of decency but of explicit regulations for the conduct of enlisted men?"

Julian : "No doubt whatsoever."

Lampret : "Do you understand that one of the fundamental ser vices the Dominion of Jesus Christ performs is to prevent harmful or mistaken religious ideas from circulating among the gullible classes?"

Julian : "I do understand."

Lampret ( lightening his tone abruptly): "I'm not in the business of harassing infantrymen without cause. I've spoken to your commanding officers, and they all say you're a competent soldier, and useful in battle, in so far as you've been tested. Some even think you might have command potential, when your greenness and arrogance begin to rub off. And the rank and file seem to approve of you—if they scorned your apostasies we wouldn't need to have this discussion, would we?"

Julian : "I don't suppose so."

Lampret : "Then let's get to the meat of the matter. These atheistic lectures must stop. Is that understood?"

Julian : "Sir, yes, sir."

Lampret : "They must stop
completely,
 along with any denigrating mention of the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth, or any other duly constituted arm of the government. Do you understand?"

Julian ( a whisper): "Yes."

Lampret : "I hope you're sincere about that—I won't be so generous in the case of a second offense. Remember, Private Commongold, it's not
your
soul I'm worried about. I can't control your thoughts—those are between you and your maker. You can absorb heresies until they bleed out your pores, for all I have to do with it. But I can, and will, stand between your vulgar jokes and the integrity of the Army of the Laurentians. Is that clear? Innocent men must not be sent into battle with their immortal souls at risk, just because Julian Commongold is bound and determined to go to Hell."

Julian : "I understand, sir. And I expect I'll see you there." (a pause): "In battle, I mean, of course."

I have been asked many times whether Julian when I first knew him was an Atheist or an Agnostic.

I'm not a Phi los o pher, much less a Theologian, and I don't understand the distinction between those two species of nonbelievers. In so far as I have an image in my mind, I picture the
Agnostic
 as a modest man, politely refusing to kneel before any Gods or Icons in which he does not place his complete confidence; while the
Atheist
, although operating from the same principles, brings a hammer to the event.

Readers may draw their own conclusions about Julian's later career and the convictions he carried into it. As for his Biblical heresies, these must have seemed novel and alarming to Major Lampret; but I had heard them all before—I was an old customer, and jaded. I thought his stories were, in a way, testimony to the close attention with which Julian had read the Bible, even if his interpretations of it were too imaginative by half. I'm an indifferent student of Scripture, myself, and I prefer the sensible parts of that Book, such as the Sermon on the Mount, while I leave the more perplexing passages—the ones that mention seven-headed dragons, the Whore of Babylon, or any of that crew—to scholars, who relish such conundrums. But Julian read the Bible as if it were a work of contemporary fiction, open to criticism or even revision. Once, when I queried him about the purpose of his unusual reinterpretations, he said to me, "I want a
better
 Bible, Adam. I want a Bible in which the Fruit of Knowledge contains the Seeds of Wisdom, and makes life more pleasurable for mankind, not worse. I want a Bible in which Isaac leaps up from the sacrificial stone and chokes the life out of Abraham, to punish him for the abject and bloody sin of Obedience. I want a Bible in which Lazarus is dead and stubborn about it, rather than standing to attention at the beck and call of every passing Messiah."

That was appalling enough that I hastily dropped the subject; but it hinted at some of the motives behind Julian's early apostasies.

I made my way out of the maze of boxed and barreled supplies shortly after Julian left Major Lampret's tent. Since Julian hadn't been sent off to Schefferville, I felt no pressing need to add my penny's-worth to the dialogue Sam and Julian must already be having. But I wanted Sam to know I had done what he asked of me, so I slow- walked back to our encampment, and came in on the end of an argument.

Their raised voices stopped me from interrupting. I gathered Sam had begun to lecture Julian on the importance of not attracting undue attention, or creating any controversy that might snag the attention of the Executive Branch. "We're a fair distance from the Presidential Palace," Julian retorted as I entered the tent.

"Not as far as you think," Sam said angrily. "And the very
last
 thing you need is to become prominent in the eyes of the Dominion. Major Lampret is no Deklan Comstock, but he could have you sent to the trenches just by snap-ping his fingers—especially now that General Galligasken is fighting battles up the Saguenay. You don't act as if you realize that."

"But I do realize it!" said Julian, returning Sam's anger ounce-for-ounce.

"I'm bitterly aware of it! I just stood in the presence of a man not fit to polish my boots, and listened without objection to his insinuations and his sneers! I looked him in the eye, Sam, and as he barked and whined I thought how little he suspected what
I
 could do to
him,
 and how quickly he would genuflect if
that
 truth came out! I wasn't raised to grovel before an Army parson! And yet I did it—I swallowed my pride, and I did it—but that's not enough for you!"

"You might have swallowed your pride a little sooner, and thought twice about holding classes in sedition for the enlisted men! In fact I recall forbidding you to do any such thing."

"Forbidding me!"

Julian stood up so stiff-spined he seemed an inch taller than he really was.

"I was entrusted by your father with the duty of protecting you," Sam said.

"Do it, then! Do as you were told, and protect me! But don't
mother
 me, or
censor
 me, or question my judgment! That was never your province! Do what you were asked to do, and do it like any other sensible servant!"

The words struck Sam as if they had real weight and momentum. His face contorted, then stiffened into a soldierly mask. He seemed full of words, unspoken or unspeakable; but what he said, in the end, was, "All right, Julian—as you prefer."

It was a servile response, and Julian was quite undone by it. All the rage went out of him in a rush. "Sam, I'm sorry! I was just—well, the words came without thinking. You know I don't think of you as a servant!"

"I wouldn't have said so, until now."

"Then forgive me! It isn't you I'm unhappy with—never you!"

"Of course I forgive you," said Sam.

Julian seemed ashamed of himself, and he hurried away without acknowledging me.

Sam was a silent a long while, and I began to wonder if I had become altogether invisible; but just as I was about to clear my throat to signal my presence he looked at me and shook his head. "He's a Comstock, Adam. A Comstock heart and soul, for better or for worse. I let myself forget that.

Don't make the same mistake."

"I won't," I said—but only to reassure him.

Major Lampret made a display of singling out Julian at the next Sunday meeting, in a sermon on Unhelpful Thinking. He denounced Julian's apostasies, and mocked them, and ridiculed the idea of an Army private giving out opinions on theological matters. Then he told us weekend leave was canceled, not just for Julian but for all the men of our company, to punish Julian for treading on the angels' coat-tails and us for being foolish enough to listen to him. It was tactic meant to make Julian unpop u lar among his peers, and undo some of the goodwill the other soldiers felt toward him. And the ploy was successful, at least for a time. Disparaging remarks were made in Julian's presence by men cruelly deprived of the opportunity to squander their pay in Montreal whore houses; and Julian was cut by these barbed comments, though he was careful to say nothing in return.

But that wasn't the end of the matter. Just about then—and for weeks thereafter, in a steady crescendo—a certain libel about Major Lampret began to circulate and gain currency: that the Major was a Colorado Springs cloud salesman who was careful never to get in the line of fire, because of all the immortal souls entrusted to his care his own took first place, and was too precious to be exposed to flying lead—in other words, that he was a coward who reveled in his noncombatant status.

There was no discernible source for this talk; it passed like a fog from one group of soldiers to another, never adhering to anyone in particular; but I noticed Julian always smiled when he heard it.

I was as upset as anyone else over missing my first opportunity to return to Montreal, for I wanted to seek out Calyxa and make myself better known to her. But I consoled myself with the hope that I might get another chance, and I used the empty time to finish my report about the Battle of Mascouche, and deliver it to Mr. Theodore Dornwood, the journalist.

Dornwood had forgotten his agreement to read my work, and I had to remind him of it; but at last he relented and took the papers from me. While he read them I admired his typewriter once more. I took my time looking over the mechanical device, and even fingered the keys, in a gingerly manner, and watched the greased levers rise and fall, and felt the intoxicating power to make Letters—solid
booklike
 letters, not pencil scratches—appear on a blank white page. I was determined to get one of these machines for myself. No doubt they were expensive. But I would save my pay, and eventually I would buy a typewriter, even if I had to go all the way to Manhattan to acquire one.

This I solemnly resolved.

"Not actually bad," Dornwood said, in a thoughtful tone, when he had finished reading my work.

It was as much praise as I had expected from him—more, in fact. "It's all right, then?"

"Oh, yes."

"Would you say you liked it?"

"I'd go that far."

"You might even call it good?"

"I suppose so—in its way, quite good, actually."

I savored that word,
good
, coming as it did from a genuine New York City newspaper correspondent, even at the expense of a little prodding. And not just good, but
quite
 good. I was beside myself with pride.

"Not that you haven't got a thing or two to learn," Dornwood added, deflating me.

"How's that?" I asked. "I tried to write it as truthfully as possible. I didn't include elephants, or anything of that nature."

"Your restraint is admirable—perhaps even excessive." Dornwood paused to gather his thoughts, which could not have been a trivial task, given how much liquor he had consumed ( judging by the empty flasks scattered about the place) and how the aroma of hemp smoke still suffused the air. "As much as I like what you've written—it's clear, grammatical, and orderly—this piece would have to be 'punched up' if it were submitted for newspaper publication."