David bent forward and left a line of moist kisses on Zach’s stomach and thighs. His lips brushed Zach’s member, moved slowly up the shaft, parted to engulf it with hot rhythmic caresses. Zach’s moans grew louder.
The door flew open simultaneous with a sharp knock. Elliot’s breezy voice called, “Hey Zach, you got a match—” There was a moment of stunned silence. “My God!” Elliot breathed. “Holy Christ! Holy Mother of God!” An eternity of seconds went by till Elliot stepped from the room slamming the door behind him.
David flung himself from the bed. His legs trembled. He made his way to the window and stared blindly at the drawn curtains. In the sudden silence he could hear the creak of the bedsprings as Zach stood, the sounds of his bare feet walking toward him.
“I daresay that’ll teach us a lesson about locking doors,” Zach said at last.
“Christ, Zach—” David broke off, shaking. He leaned his forehead against the pane, the curtain clenched in his fist.
Zach put a hand on his shoulder. David jerked away. Zach stepped closer, gripping his shoulder. “David, listen to me. It’s all right. I’ll have a word with Elliot. He won’t give us away.”
“Have a word with him! God, how can you face him? How can you ever face him again?”
“David, I daresay I’m as embarrassed as you, but—”
“Embarrassed! Oh my God, Zach, did you see how he looked at us? How he saw us? A pair of disgusting perverts— Oh Jesus!”
“Elliot’s no saint himself.”
“Oh Christ, what does that matter? I— I’ve got to get out of here!”
Zach dropped his hand. “I daresay we’ll both feel better after a night’s sleep.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“David! Are you there, David?” Zach burst into his room as he opened the door. “I was afraid you might be taken ill. I thought you’d slept past breakfast, but when you failed to appear for supper as well—” Zach broke off and stared around the room at the empty bookshelves and bureau top, the packed carpet bag and boxes.
“Hell, Zach, you think I could just sit down to table with Elliot after what happened?” David drew a deep breath. “It was bad enough having to go past his drawing table to reach Leslie’s office.” He’d scurried past, sensing Elliot’s stare on his back, not daring to meet the other man’s eyes, picturing his look of scorn and disgust. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Zach dropped onto the chair, still gazing at David’s belongings. “I daresay you’re right. There’s precious little privacy in boardinghouse living,” he said at last. “I’ve said more than once, we ought to seek lodgings together. If we pool our funds, I’ll warrant we can find something more to our liking. A small house, even, if we were to venture as far afield as Brooklyn. It’s not a bad trip on the ferry—”
“I can’t stay in New York! I’d still see him every day at work. Leslie still needs artists with the troops. I told him I’d finally got fed up with copying. I’ll be covering the Army of the Potomac as soon as I can get outfitted and get a pass from the War Department.”
A long moment passed, punctuated by Zach’s indrawn breath. “On your return, then,” he said. “Surely the Rebs can’t hold out much longer. I’ll keep my eye out for a suitable place and—”
“Dammit, Zach! No!” David shoved his carpet bag aside and sat on the edge of his bed. “It’s more than Elliot. Can’t you see that?” He stared down at his hands, not wanting to see Zach’s face. His fingers entwined, clenching together as if for comfort. “We can’t go back to sinning. I mean to break myself of you once and for all.”
“David, for— There’s no sin in loving! David, listen to me—”
“I’ve made up my mind.” David looked at Zach, looked down again. “I’ve made my mind up,” he repeated.
“And our friendship counts for nothing with you? You’ve no concern for my affection for you?”
“You know how I feel—”
“I’m damned if I do!” Zach rose, strode the few feet to David, grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. “You’ve precious little feeling for me, I daresay!”
“Zach, for God’s sake.” David caught hold of Zach’s arms and pulled himself up. “Get a grip on yourself.” Standing, his hands still gripping the tensed biceps, David could feel Zach’s breath ragged on his face, the nearly imperceptible tremors shaking his body. Long seconds went by as they stood, locked in angry embrace.
Zach tightened his grasp, squeezing David’s shoulders with painful intensity. “You’ve never given a tinker’s damn for me, have you?” His voice broke. His arms went limp, fell to his sides.
“Oh God, Zach!” David shook. He moved a step closer, wrapped his arms around him. Zach gave a strangled sob, pressed his lips to David’s. David closed his eyes. His lips parted. He felt Zach’s arms start to encircle him with longing. Oh God, if he could just forget everything, pull him down to the bed— He pulled back and shoved Zach furiously from him.
Zach reeled backwards, grabbing at the bureau for balance.
“I love you! I love you, dammit! I’ve never said that to anyone else in my life. Now get out of here. Just get the hell out!”
Zach straightened. He sucked in his breath. His hand still gripped the edge of the bureau, the gray hairs standing out against his whitened knuckles. “Your love isn’t worth a damn to me, David. Not a tinker’s damn. You needn’t worry about breaking yourself of me. Our friendship is a closed chapter in my life, so far as I’m concerned.”
The door closed after him with soft finality.
Chapter 15 — 1863
FIX YER SIGNATURE TO BOTH COPIES AND SEE YOU READ this here through before you send anything out for publication.” The Federal official shoved the papers at David and sent a stream of tobacco juice into the spittoon beside his desk before drawling, “Next.”
David scrawled his name across the bottom of the parole and duplicate, attesting his loyalty to the Federal Government and his pledge to publish nothing detrimental to its interest. He stepped back, running his eyes down the closely printed paragraphs of the circular detailing contraband information, while fumbling for the kit he’d set behind him. His elbow hit a young man folding a similar pamphlet into his coat pocket.
“Sorry,” David muttered.
“It’s okay.” The youth held out his hand. “Looks like we’re on the same errand. I’m Al Matthews. With the Missouri Republican. I’ll be covering General Meade and the Army of the Potomac.”
David smiled. “I’ve the same assignment, for Leslie’s Weekly. I’m David Carter,” he added, following Matthews from the Army Intelligence office into the crowded corridors of the War Department.
The lawn fronting army headquarters was dotted with displays of captured weaponry. Blue-uniformed army aides and clusters of women clerks bustled across it. Matthews halted, turning to David. “Can you direct me to a livery stable? I just got off the train this morning and I’ve no idea where to get mounted. Fact is, I’ve no idea how to get around this town at all.” He ran his fingers through a cap of closely cropped brown curls and grinned at David.
“There’s one nearby,” David assured him. “Behind Willard’s Hotel. I’m on my way there myself. My editor’s made arrangements for a mount through our correspondent here.” Matthews fell into step with David, darting curious glances around him as they walked the three blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue. His bright eyes topped a smooth cheeked, oval face and short, wiry frame that seemed swallowed up by a coat at least one size too big.
He’s just a kid, David thought. Hasn’t even started to shave yet, by the looks of him. He noticed Matthews’ short, quick steps as he trotted alongside, and slowed his own long-legged stride. “That’s newspaper row.” David waved toward the bustling block of shabby buildings across from Willard’s. “The livery’s just beyond here.”
David stowed his change of clothing and extra drawing supplies in the left-hand saddle bag and walked behind his rented horse to set his field glasses in the righ
t. The animal shied. David jumped back, belatedly recalling long forgotten admonitions never to startle a horse by coming up behind it. From the corner of his eye he saw Matthews, already done dickering with the liveryman, leading his mount toward the stable door.
His own mount stared at him skittishly. The stable owner stepped over and patted the horse on the neck, with a grunt of amusement. He gathered up the reins and handed them to David. “She’ll get used to you. Just talk to ‘er a little, let ‘er know who’s boss.” He watched, chuckling, as David gingerly led the horse outside.
Matthews, already mounted, watched David hoist himself awkwardly into the saddle. The younger man guided his mount around with one hand on the reins, patting the horse with easy affection and grinning at David. “Not much of a beast, is she? Reckon the cavalry’s got hold of anything halfway decent by now, so there’s nothing for it but to make do with these nags.” He gave another grin and started down the street at a lively trot.
David nodded, with what he hoped was a nonchalant grin in return. His horse lurched after Matthews’. He caught his breath and leaned forward, clutching the reins, clumps of shaggy mane caught between his clenched fingers. The ground seemed impossibly far below. Matthews reined in, waiting for him. David caught up, clutching harder as the horse came to a jerking stop in response to his yank on the reins. “The Long Bridge is the best way from here,” he said, willing himself to untangle his fingers from the mane to point out its direction.
“I’ll follow your lead.” Matthews hesitated. “You’ve not done much riding, have you?” he asked.
“Just a few times as a boy.” David glanced at Matthews’ easy posture. He must look ridiculous, he thought. He could feel his pants legs creeping out of his boots, his bare calves sweaty against the stirrup straps. “I’m afraid I never got the hang of it then either.”
Matthews laughed. “I thought as much, the way you’re riding on the neck. You want to sit up straight and stay in the middle of your saddle.”
David inched backwards, trying to emulate Matthews’ ease.
“That’s the ticket.” Matthews smiled encouragingly. “You look pretty athletic. It won’t take you long to catch on.”
“Well, I hope not.” David managed a smile. “It’s a long ride to Culpeper.” Sit up, he told himself. You’re not about to fall off. He breathed a small sigh of relief, nevertheless, as they drew rein for the pass checkpoint at the entrance to the bridge.
Matthews moved ahead of David, his hips moving in rhythm with his steed as its hoofs clattered on the wooden planks of Long Bridge. They were halted for a second pass inspection at the Virginia end. David paused after the guards had waved them through, gazing at the endless rows of tents and fortifications.
“Don’t you know the way from here?”
“What? Oh, yeah. I was just— This is my hometown. My father still lives here. At least he’s managed to hold on to his house. A lot of his neighbors wouldn’t take the loyalty oath and had theirs confiscated. My uncle’s home was taken for a hospital. He spent his last years living with Dad. Now that he’s gone, Dad’s pretty much obliged to offer his spare room to put up army officers.”
“You’re stopping for a visit then?” Matthews asked. His youthful tenor rose in sudden anxiety over the prospect of parting company.
David shook his head. “I’ve just spent a couple of weeks with him, actually. Said goodbye this morning.” And none too soon, he thought. Two weeks of listening to Dad ask if I’ve taken leave of my senses to leave a safe post in New York for the front lines. How in the hell could I give him a reason that made sense? I could hardly tell him—
He tried to shake off his mood. “It’s just coming on all these camps like this. I still find it startling. We’d best get going if we’re to get any distance toward Culpeper before evening.”
Matthews nodded with relief. He spurred his horse on ahead, then reluctantly reined in and waited for David. He grinned apologetically as David drew alongside him. “I’m used to a faster pace, I reckon. Not that there’s much sense breaking our necks getting there. I’d hoped to reach the front lines in time for Meade’s drive against Lee, but now that Lee’s pushed him back again he’ll be content to sit tight in camp till spring.”
“I suppose. I can’t say I mind though. I’m not eager to witness more bloodshed, to tell the truth.”
“You’ve covered the front before then?”
“The home front, mainly. Though even there, with the draft riots— I’ve been drawing for Leslie’s nearly ten years now. I finally got restless staying in New York.”
“I know how you feel. I’ve been getting darn fed up myself reporting Sanitary Commission fairs and politicians’ speeches when the real news is with the armies.”
David smiled. “You hardly look old enough to have been reporting any news for very long.”
“It’s my size, I reckon. Folks always take me for younger than I am. I’m no kid though.”
“Well, I meant no offense.” No point pressing him; the army was full of youngsters from what he’d heard, some not even in their teens. “I thought the Western papers were relying on the Associated Press to cover the fighting here in the East. I didn’t realize any Missouri papers had correspondents stationed with Meade.”
“Don’t reckon there’s many.” Matthews grinned. “I’m just a stringer. They’re paying me by the dispatch. But I figure once I show them my worth, I’ll be able to write my own ticket.”
“Well, I wish you luck.” David sat a little straighter in the saddle, looking at the brash young reporter with amused admiration.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
They left the farmhouse where their Federal greenbacks had bought them a grudging night’s shelter at dawn, pressing on toward Culpeper. David forgot his soreness, straining for a better view as they caught their first sight of the winter camp. The once pleasant countryside, stretching out toward the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, lay stripped of trees and fences. Dirt paths ran through the sprawling array of log huts that had been erected in the few days since Meade’s retreat. The rhythm of axes sounded a sharp counterpoint to the shouts of men, braying of mules and neighs of horses. A blue haze of campfire smoke hung over the site.
General Meade accepted their credentials with scant welcome. An aide directed them from the general’s headquarters to the correspondents’ quarters near Brandy Station: a ramshackle farmhouse abandoned by its fleeing owners. Two Negro servants, also abandoned by their former owners, took charge of their worn-out mounts and stowed their gear in a chilly attic bedroom. The coterie of newsmen lounging in the smoke-filled parlor greeted them with casual scrutiny. “Welcome to the Bohemian Brigade, gentlemen.” Frank Chapman, of the New York Herald, gave a mock bow. David smiled, introducing Matthews to the other New York reporters while committing to memory the names and faces of men from Boston and Philadelphia papers.
The fair, strapping Harper’s Weekly artist, Alf Waud, was recognizable by his flowing beard, as well as his resemblance to his younger brother Bill— who’d himself left Leslie’s for Harper’s. Waud sat on a battered couch talking to Edwin Forbes, a young art student Leslie had hired two years earlier. David joined them. “I’ve been admiring your camp sketches,” he told Forbes.
“I wish Leslie did as much. He keeps reminding me he’s paying for scenes of the war, not men taking their ease.” Forbes smiled ruefully. “When he took me on, I fully expected to be able to seat myself on a hilltop and sketch battles at my leisure.”
David nodded. “I’d been hoping the same myself.”
“The reality’s different, you’ll find out. Still, you can pick up a good bit of detail with field glasses without endangering yourself. You’ve brought a good pair, I hope?”
“As good as I could find. I had to wait nearly two weeks till my pass came through, so I had ample time to provision myself.”
Forbes grinned. “If Leslie’d forseen such a quick end to Meade’s assault at Mine Run, he’d have kept yo
u in New York till spring.”
“If Lincoln doesn’t put Grant in Meade’s place, he might as well keep him there half a dozen springs,” Waud put in.
There was a general murmur of agreement. The talk turned from the likelihood of Grant’s appointment to command the Union armies to tales of besting rival correspondents and gossip about absent colleagues. Newspapers rustled. A stocky Philadelphia Inquirer reporter shuffled cards with a riffling flourish as a trio of newsmen drew up chairs for a game. Flasks and glasses were drained.
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.
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