Different Sin

by Rochelle Hollander Schwab

  With the exception of an abortive raid aimed at freeing Union prisoners held in Richmond the last week of February, there’d been no military action since the army had gone into winter quarters. Drill took up the better part of the morning, but the rest of the day there was little for the men to do. The sutler’s tent, with its stock-in-trade of tobacco, high-priced canned goods and sweets, became a daily meeting spot. Baseball games, wrestling, foot races and sharpshooting were organized to pass the time.

  Pete and Colin had scratched out a rough boxing ring in the dirt clearing in front of their cabin, conducting daily sparring practice as preparation for an anticipated regiment-wide boxing match. A dozen or so soldiers lounged around the ring as David and Al strolled up. The two boxing enthusiasts had stripped to the waist, and stood jabbing at each other with quick, bare-handed blows.

  “It’s time you were giving someone else a chance.” Patrick McFarland, the bearded man who bunked in the adjacent cabin stepped into the ring. Colin grinned and obligingly climbed over the clothes line serving as the boundary. He picked up a grimy towel from the stump at the corner and sank down next to David, wiping sweat from his neck and chest.

  Patrick grunted as he and Pete traded blows. David watched with fascination, his eyes dropping to his pad just often enough to check his sketch. The rhythmic thud of flesh on flesh, the low cries of the watching men, even the sharp odor of fresh sweat, were oddly exhilarating.

  “Hey Pat, don’t drop your left arm that way!” Colin’s call came a second too late. Pete’s fist thudded into Patrick’s jaw, knocking him heavily to the dirt. Pat stayed on the ground a few seconds, then shoved himself to his feet. He moved woozily as he walked from the ring, cursing his stupidity in a colorful monotone.

  Bert Scanlon, Ezra Hollings and Jack Maroney followed him into the ring as Pete and Colin took turns sparring and yelling pointers. An hour or so went by. The onlookers began to drift away. “Hey, how ‘bout you givin’ it a try, David?” Colin offered.

  David started. “Me? I’ve never done any boxing.”

  “It’s no reason for not trying,” Pete put in. “You and Colin’re nearly matched for size.” He grinned slyly. “Sure and you could impress your chicken here.”

  Christ. David flushed and fixed his eyes on his pad. Did Pete actually suppose— He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers pausing at the site of his old injury. “I— I’d better not take a chance. I had a bad skull fracture a few years back. I don’t want to—”

  “Hey, I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” Colin said. “I know you ain’t no boxer. I’ll pull my punches. I was just thinkin’ you might want to try it, maybe pick up a couple pointers for your pictures.”

  “Well...” David cast a sidelong glance at Pete’s amused expression. “I guess in that case.” He laid his jacket and vest on the log, slowly unfastened his shirt. The air chilled his back and shoulders as he stepped into the dirt square.

  Colin looked him over. “You ain’t badly muscled for a feller who just draws pictures,” he said. David smiled, glad of the hours he’d spent in the gymnasium. “Now you hold your hands like this, see,” Colin told him. “No, get the left one a little higher. You’re right-handed, ain’t you? Now get your chin down against your chest. Yeah, that’s it.”

  David shadowboxed a few moments. Colin watched closely, correcting or praising each swing. The unaccustomed movements began to feel a trifle less awkward. “It’s time you were tryin’ a little sparring now,” Colin said after a few more minutes.

  Sparring with Colin was a hell of a lot harder than shadowboxing. Colin’s fists slid easily past his guard, while his own blows landed uselessly on the redhead’s blocking arms. If Colin hadn’t kept his word to pull his punches he’d have knocked him out long ago, David thought ruefully. He threw a quick jab at Colin’s chest. Colin blocked it effortlessly.

  David’s knuckles began to sting. He hadn’t yet landed a single blow. Hell, surely he’d tried it long enough to call it quits.

  Al rose, moved closer to the ring. “You’re gettin’ the hang of it, David!” he yelled. “Reckon all you need to do now is hit him before he can hit you.”

  Pete guffawed. “Like I said. Sure and you ain’t gotta do much to impress your chicken here.” David winced. He turned to confront Pete. Colin’s fist sailed by his ear. Christ, he’d better keep his mind on what he was doing. He whirled back to face Colin, his left leg straightening to take his weight. His right arm shot out and smashed into Colin’s face.

  Colin’s lip split. A bright trickle of blood started down his chin. David stared at him, stunned. “Oh my God! I—Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Colin managed a grin. He stepped over the rope and held the towel to the cut. “Hey, you did real good for the first time. If you was to keep at it, you might turn into a pretty fine prizefighter.”

  “You do catch on pretty quick,” Al echoed him.

  “Well, thanks.” David smiled, suddenly feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

  Pete turned on Al. “Well, now. It’s your turn, sonny.”

  Al laughed and shook his head. “‘Fraid not. One of you fellers would make two of me.”

  “You can take a turn with Sean here. He ain’t got his growth yet, it’s just goin’ on sixteen he is. Sure and the two of you’d be a pretty even match.”

  Sean got to his feet eagerly, with a shy smile. Al shook his head again. “Reckon not. I don’t much feel like it.”

  I wonder why not, David thought. He’s usually so damn eager for a little excitement. Hell, he’s been bitching all month about Meade’s refusing to let him go along on that raid Kilpatrick tried on Richmond. He’d probably be pretty good at it, too. He can move fast. Look at the way he swings onto a horse. He looked at Al’s stubbornly set face, his body swallowed up in his oversized coat.

  What would he look like without all those clothes? David wondered. He imagined Al stripping down, exposing his lithe, strong, boy’s body—

  “What the hell you scared of, sonny boy?” Pete demanded.

  “I ain’t scared. I told you, I just don’t want to.” Al looked down, scuffled his feet in the dirt, his face reddening.

  Hell, no reason he should be forced into it. David tapped Pete’s shoulder, waited till he had his attention. “Forget Al. When are you all going to have the boxing match?” he asked him.

  “Day after tomorrow if the weather holds. I’d sooner wait a couple weeks, have a bit more time for practice. Don’t want our boys lookin’ bad in front of the whole regiment. But we’re after leaving for home on Monday.”

  David halted with one arm half in his shirt sleeve. “How come? I thought your enlistment wasn’t up till May.”

  “It ain’t,” Pete said. “We’re gettin’ a month’s furlough, account of it’s another three-year hitch we’ve gone and signed up for.”

  “You have? But I thought— How come?”

  “Cause we’re a bunch of damn fools,” Pete said shortly. He searched in his pocket for his pipe, busied himself lighting it.

  “Hey, it makes sense!” Colin exclaimed. He pressed a new part of the towel to his lip, examined it to see if the bleeding had stopped, then wadded the dirty cloth in his hand. “It makes sense,” he repeated. “First off, we get to go home right now, ‘stead of waitin’ for May. And have the whole month free of cares, so to speak. And then we get four hundred dollars in bounty money, plus what the state adds to that.

  “Way I’m thinkin’, it would take a hell of a long time to save up that much from wages. It’s likely Rosie and me would be living with her family for years till we could afford a place of our own. But with this bounty we can get hitched while I’m home and buy a little cottage right off. And then she can save up a lot of my army pay, she’s right fine at saving. Time the war’s over, we’ll be sittin’ pretty.”

  “But still. To go into battle again. Even for hundreds of dollars—”

  “Well Christ’s sake, David, it’s not just for the money. You seen
the kinda recruits we’ve been gettin’ lately: bunch of cowards and bounty jumpers. So we’ve been talkin’ it over and made up our minds to see this thing through.” Colin grinned, a faint flush of embarrassment spreading across his freckles, “It’s thinkin’ we are that Uncle Sam’s gonna need some good men stayin’ in if we’re ever to win this war.”

  Chapter 17 — 1864

  THE BOXCAR JOLTED ALONG TRACKS THAT HAD BEEN LAID AND TORN UP in successive advances and retreats; the rough road buffeted the riders. David sat crowded on the floor with the other passengers, soldiers on furlough for the most part. He shoved a hand into his pocket, fingered the telegraphed message from Mike that his father was suffering from chest pains, asking for him.

  Mike had sent the telegram the previous afternoon, but the grinning young fugitive the telegraph operator had entrusted the message to hadn’t found David till nearly noon. He’d caught the next train leaving Brandy Station. The sixty mile trip had taken the better part of the day. David listened uneasily as the soldiers debated whether the delays were due to operations of Confederate guerrillas. It was nighttime when the cars pulled up to the military railroad station at Duke and Fayette streets.

  Alexandria was occupied by colored troops; the citizens left in town hurried by them with angry, averted eyes. David took little notice, covering the few blocks home at a near run. Mike was coming down the stairs as he yanked open the front door.

  “Is Dad— He’s not—” David gasped.

  “No, he’s much better, thank the Lord. Probably just a case of heartburn. Sorry I alarmed you for nothing. It’s just, at his age—” Mike turned up his hands. “He’s still awake. Go on up and see him.”

  “David?” His father stood on the second floor landing tying the cord on his dressing gown. “I thought I heard your voice. It’s good to see you, son.” He put his hand on the bannister, took a step forward.

  “Wait, Dad, I’ll come up.” David ran upstairs, Mike behind him. He reached his father and embraced him.

  “I’m sorry to have brought you all the way home for a false alarm.”

  “Well I’m glad it was! How are you feeling?”

  “A lot better than yesterday.” Dr. Carter gave a rueful smile. “Michael tells me this is most likely due to indulging myself too freely on Phoebe’s onion pie.”

  David smiled his relief. His father doted on the housekeeper’s savory pie. “I’m glad it’s nothing worse than that.”

  “Just a molehill blown up into a mountain. I have a sound constitution.”

  “You still need your rest, sir,” Mike said. He put an arm around his father’s shoulders. “It’s late, Pa. C’mon to bed. You’ll have plenty of time to visit with David. You can stay on a few days, can’t you?” he asked David.

  “What? Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll stay a while, Dad. Mike’s right.” Funny, David mused. I never heard Mike call him Pa before. At least he’s never brought himself to call him anything but sir or Dr. Carter that I can remember. Well, Dad looks pleased enough about it.

  He followed Mike and his father down the short hallway toward his father’s bedroom. The bedroom door across the hall was suddenly pulled open. The Union captain David had met when he visited in January stepped into the hall. A second, unfamiliar Federal officer followed him. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “We don’t mean to intrude.”

  “Not at all.” Dr. Carter beamed. “David, you’ve met Captain Schaefer. This is Lieutenant Todd. This is my older boy, Lieutenant. He rushed home to be with me when he heard I was under the weather.”

  “Sir.” The lieutenant nodded shortly. “Delighted to see you back on your feet, Doctor. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we’re on our way out.”

  The two officers hurried off. A fragment of whispered conversation rose up from the stairwell, “... must be in his dotage. Introducing his son in the same breath with his nigger bastard.”

  David stared down at the floor, sensed Mike stiffen beside him. If his father heard, he gave no sign. A moment passed; they moved silently to the bedroom.

  “Have you had supper?” Mike asked David when they’d seen their father comfortably settled for the night. He hadn’t. David foraged through the kitchen, found the fixings of a sandwich while Mike heated coffee and poured it into two thick mugs. They settled themselves at the old pine trestle table.

  “Have you any word when Meade’ll start advancing on Lee?” Mike asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” David said. “Though it’s bound to be pretty soon. The officers’ wives are starting to leave for home. And there’s a lot of restlessness among the soldiers. The men are pleased Grant’s made his headquarters in the field, but nobody knows quite what to make of him.”

  “Let’s pray he can win the war for us.”

  “I was talking with Alf Waud from Harper’s the other day. He’s pretty knowledgeable, says Grant’s a man who means business. At any rate, there’s been a lot more drilling going on since he’s taken charge.”

  “At least if there was an exchange of prisoners. The Charleston jail’s right in the path of fire from our own batteries.” Mike twisted his fingers together. “Well, it won’t do Peter any good to dwell on it.” A moment went by. Mike brightened. “Did you get the news yet in camp? The Senate passed the Constitutional amendment to abolish slavery, thank the Lord! Thirty-eight to six.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. It still needs to get through the House and the state legislatures though.”

  “They’ll pass it. I’m sure they will.” Mike drank a swallow of coffee. “I wish Mama could’ve lived to see the end of slavery. She used to tell me it was too late for her to hope for freedom in this life, but she prayed I’d be set free one day. I’ve always regretted she never knew I made it to the North.”

  David pictured Hetty moving around the room, stirring a pot of stew, stamping out biscuits with quick motions of her dark hands, scolding Mike and him for tracking in mud, then handing them each a biscuit hot from the oven. Sending Mike off to the corner pump for water, while he’d reluctantly started his lessons. He’d never have guessed she gave a thought to freedom. “You’d likely never have run off and left her if she’d been alive.”

  “No, maybe not,” Mike said slowly. “I reckon you’re right.”

  David looked around. Except for the cast iron sink, installed after the construction of the town water system, the kitchen looked as he remembered it from childhood. Pine boards worn with scrubbing, crockery and pewter tableware on the open shelves, wood canisters of flour and sugar. He smiled. “You know, sitting here like this makes me feel like a boy again.”

  “It’s taken some getting used to, coming back to this house. I used to sleep in that storeroom.” Mike waved at the small lean-to off the kitchen.

  “But before that, when we were kids, you slept in my room. You’d lay your mattress out on the floor and we’d lie in the dark and talk. How did you come to move into that room anyway? It’s hardly more than a shed.”

  “Lord, I don’t know.” Mike wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Probably so I could sneak in books without you telling on me. And you used to be so all-fired bossy.” Mike smiled. “I remember now. You woke me up three times one night to hand you the chamberpot. Said I was supposed to do it because I was your slave. So I picked up my bedding and marched on down here.”

  “I did? God, I’d forgotten that. Well, I don’t know how you put up with me.”

  Mike laughed. “I don’t recollect that I did very often.”

  “No, I suppose not. I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a brother though.”

  “You weren’t so bad. All children are ugly to one another at times. If you had any, you’d know that. Anyhow, we were hardly brought up as brothers.”

  “Well, how could we have been? Hell, we didn’t even know it.”

  “Oh c’mon, David. It was all over town. Boys were throwing it up to me far back as I can remember.”

  “I don’t remember anyone—”

  “I reckon I didn’t want to admit
it either. But Mama told me the truth herself, before she passed on. Well, no sense dwelling on it now. We oughta get some sleep. I’ve got to get back to the hospital first thing tomorrow. I’m glad you were able to come up and stay with— Pa for a bit. Lord. I’m just about too tired to move.” Mike yawned, rested his head on his arms. He wore his shirt without its removable collar, the top button unfastened. A scar stretched across the back of his neck as he bent forward.

  David stared at it; a memory nudged him. Christ, of course. The whipping the town magistrate had ordered after Mike and his friends had been caught breaking curfew, breaking the ban on blacks gathering in groups, worse yet, being caught with that damn geography book. Right after Nat Turner’s uprising it had been. The whole state had been on edge, fearful of new slave revolts.

  Dad wouldn’t plead for Mike. Said he’d known better, would have to take his punishment. Though you could see how much it hurt him to see Mike cut like that. Mike wouldn’t speak to Dad after. He sat at the table while Dad tended his wounds, as rigid as a trapped animal, his fists clenched in fury. At Dad, most of all.

  Hell, you couldn’t blame him. It must’ve hurt like hell. Mike didn’t talk about it, but he screamed in his sleep for weeks afterward. He remembered Mike’s shrieks catapulting him from sleep—high, piercing, pain-filled. You’d think Dad would hear— David ran downstairs, squatted beside Mike’s pallet, shook him. “Mike, hey Mike, wake up!” The shrieks stopped. Mike moaned. “Wake up, Mike,” David said once more. “You dreaming about being whipped again?”

  “David?”

  “You were screaming in your sleep again.”

  “Oh Lord, they had me tied to that post and kept cuttin’ and cuttin’— Felt like it would cut right through me!” Mike sat up, clasped his knees with his hands. “Lord! Thanks for waking me.”