The Last Martin

by Jonathan Friesen

“Excuse me,” I whisper. “Mr. Reprobate, sir?”

  He doesn’t shift.

  “Um, hmm!” My throat does nothing either. I lower myself onto the long bench outside the cell area. Castiron keys hang above my head.

  This is dumb. What am I thinking? Like some snoozing actor is gonna know anything about two hundred years ago. Go to the origin of the curse? Thanks for nothing, Dr. Death. You have a nice office and nice plants and a nice secretary and lots of years ahead, but I have a little over a week, and I’m feeling dizzy for no reason and I’m only thirteen.

  “I’m running out of time to search —”

  “Who you looking for?” The Reprobate rolls over and groans. “What day is it?”

  “Uh, I don’t even know what year it is. Oops, I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  He winces and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “I don’t deserve to be in here. I didn’t do anything uncomely.” He pushes his hands through his hair. “I just wanted to forget.”

  I peek toward the door and lean in. “Forget what?”

  He shakes his head and buries it in his hands.

  “I know how that feels.” I stand. “Well, I gotta get going. It’s almost noon. Nice to meet you.” I shoot him an awkward wave. “I’ll be around when you get out, so in case I bump into you, my name’s Boyle. Martin Boyle.”

  The Reprobate hurtles himself against the bars and reaches for my coat. “Martin, is that you?” He wipes his eyes. “I knew you looked familiar … But I saw you buried! I dug the hole myself. How — “ His eyes narrow and he whispers, “How?”

  I yank free, trip over the spit can, and fall on my butt. The guard rushes in.

  “What did our Reprobate do to you?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “He did nothing.”

  “Do you have amnesia, Martin?” The prisoner strains his arm through the bars. “It’s me, James. James Delaney, the stonemason. Your neighbor! You saved my family. You saved the entire camp. Don’t you remember me?”

  The guard rounds my shoulder with his arm and leads me outside. “I apologize. Poor man suffers from fits.” He leads me outside, but James’s voice rises to a holler. “It was my hand on the stone. I chiseled it last winter; I would do it again for you. There can only be one Martin!”

  A knife-like pain jabs my leg. I spin slowly and stare at the entrance. Dad’s words. Each year at the cemetery. Those are always Dad’s words.

  “I need to go back in there!” I yank free, but the guard blocks my way.

  “Calm, man. Do you not understand isolation?”

  “Do you not understand curse?” I feint to the left, feint to the right, and leap toward the door and a screaming James.

  The guard swings his musket, catches my foot, and I tumble to the ground. “You’ve just earned yourself a trip to the Colonel.” He yanks me by the sleeve. “Howard!” Another soldier comes running. “Take my post!”

  We stagger across the parade grounds. With each step I move farther from someone who knows something I desperately need to hear. Ahead is the nicest looking building in the whole place. The house. The Commanding Officer’s Quarters. A distant bugle blows — the 12:00 p.m. call.

  Noon. Right on time.

  I’m whisked inside the brick building. It feels modern; at least it probably was in 1820. It kind of looks like our house, which feels years away.

  Inside, kids laugh and race around. One scampers up to me.

  “Squirrel? You live here? You’re the Colonel’s son?”

  He grins. “Daddy.” Squirrel peeks nervously into the back room. “I’m supposed to keep my distance from you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Josiah? Away from that man.”

  “Yes, Father.” Squirrel turns and runs outside. I think to follow him, but three soldiers posted inside the doorframe change my mind.

  “Come, Private.” Colonel Snelling motions toward the back room. I follow him in and he closes the door behind us. Inside are a desk, two chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling post.

  He shoots me a Creaker-look, eases down behind the desk, and lights a pipe. “Private Boyle … with such a name.” He blows a perfect smoke ring. “You know the standard events of this residence. To welcome strangers to the fort, for balls, for celebrations.”

  I straighten. “That sounds fun!”

  He tongues his cheek. “None of these constitute why I’ve brought you here. You cannot plead ignorance to the riotous behavior you’ve caused.”

  “You call a few chuckles riotous? It’s a good thing you don’t serve prunes —”

  “Silence!”

  “Right,” I whisper. “Not another word.”

  “You will find me a fair man, but a harsh one. When a soldier under my authority sparks discord, I act quickly. It is a cancer that must be dealt with immediately.”

  I say nothing.

  “Good, you just took the first steps toward civility by holding your tongue. The cat should finish your journey.”

  “The cat?”

  He strides to the door. “Steward!”

  The Colonel turns back to me. “Remove your shirt and lean against the pole.”

  “You’re kidding. Wait. This is enough. You’re not Colonel Snelling, and I’m not Martin Boyle — well, okay, I’m Martin Boyle — but you’re not Snelling. Your name is probably Leonard or Harry or something and your wife is Tina and you live in downtown Minneapolis. I’m not stripping for —”

  “Strip!”

  “Okay, okay.” I slip out of my shirt. “Why am I doing this?”

  “Nine lashes with the knotted rope should thrash the insubordination out of you.” He turns toward the open door. “Steward!”

  “Sorry, I was havin’ trouble finding the cat.”

  Poole walks in and winks.

  I stare. “How did —”

  “How many lashes, sir?”

  “Nine.” Colonel Snelling puffs out one more blast of smoke. “Then show Private Boyle out.” The Colonel exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

  I stare at Poole. “How did you get this job?”

  “You didn’t bring me along for nothing. Now lean against the pole.”

  “You’re not using that on me!” I back toward the wall.

  Poole drops his arms and his volume. “'Course not. But in case the Colonel steps in …”

  “Oh, good idea.” I wrap my arms round the pole. Poole steps behind me.

  “One!” Poole yells.

  “Oh, stop, I can take no more!” I smile and give my most pitiful howl.

  “Two!”

  “The pain, the pain!”

  We fake the beating, and I pretend to holler in agony.

  “Nine!”

  Whack! The knotted rope rips across my back and I fall forward.

  “Oh!” I stumble up, my back on fire. “Why did you hit me?” I hiss.

  “He might check your back. It should be welted a little. I had to give you one —”

  The door flies open and Snelling stands in the entry. “Steward, you may leave. From the looks of it, our young Private Boyle will cause no more problems. Private Boyle, report to sentry duty at the Half Moon Battery.” Poole leaves. I slip into my shirt and stumble outside. I don’t know where I’m headed, I just need to be out of there; where my friend whips me because some guy named Leonard pretending to be Colonel Snelling tells him to.

  “Half Moon. Half Moon.” I peek back toward the Guard House where James sits behind bars. “I’ll be back.”

  I run up the limestone steps to the top of the battery and my jaw drops. It’s a stony platform that overlooks two huge rivers. I walk to the edge.

  “One hundred feet down.” A voice squeaks behind me. “That there’s the Mississippi, and over there’s the Minnesota. They come together beneath your feet. There’s no more important watch than this.” The sentry on duty walks up to me and extends a hand. “Private Powell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  I shake his hand. “My name’s Martin Bo
yle, uh, Private Boyle.”

  “Funny.” He rolls his eyes, then squints hard and looks at me. “You’re aren’t jesting.”

  “No, that’s me.”

  “Well, all right then, Boyle. You should know your way around.” He frowns. “Where’s your rifle?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Here.” Powell hands me his. “Take mine. I’d be honored.”

  I slowly reach for the gun. “Is it … loaded?”

  “Of course. Ever shot a hostile Indian with a blank?”

  I shake my head. Mom would freak. Absolutely freak.

  “And one more thing. What am I watching for?”

  “Anything.” He points a pretend rifle over the edge. “Indians!” He runs to the other side of the battery and takes aim at the invisible enemy. “British!” Powell drops to his knees, whips his torso around and shoots. “French.”

  “Right.” I turn toward the rivers, and my vision starts to blur. I swallow and lean hard on the rifle.

  Powell descends the stairs behind me. “It really is an honor to have you here.”

  The wind whips over the top of the battery, and I sit down as dizziness returns. This may all be pretend, but it’s the realest pretend I’ve ever known. In time, my legs feel strong enough to support, and I stand and watch mighty rivers converge. In the distance, a speedboat skips over the waves, coming closer, closer.

  “Sentry Boyle spots danger! He rises to his feet. The threat approaches, fast, furious. It’s a speedboat filled with hostile Indians. Boyle must think fast if he is to save the fort. He grabs the loaded gun, realizes not even the crackpots in this fort would give him a loaded weapon, takes aim at the boat, and fires —”

  Kaboom!

  I fall back on my butt as smoke rises from the barrel of the gun. Oh no. I scramble to the edge on my knees.

  Whew! The boat zips on by and I crumble, face against limestone. Soldiers and questions surround.

  “Who were you shooting at?”

  “What did you see?”

  “What are you thinking, man?”

  Strong arms help me, noodly Private Boyle, down the steps and to Colonel Snelling’s quarters.

  The Colonel steps onto the porch and shakes his head. “Two days.”

  “Don’t I get a trial? A phone call? Maybe a lawyer!” I run out of stupid television comments and armed guards shove me across the courtyard.

  “Where am I going? What does two days mean?”

  Guard House, straight ahead.

  Inside my heart leaps. It’s where I need to go. Nothing could be better. I walk back through the doorway on my own power and stop. “Where’s James? The stonemason, where did he go?”

  Spitter doesn’t turn. He turns the key on the cell door and throws it open. “Went mad. The doctor said he suffers from deep confusion. We sent him home not one hour ago.”

  I grab for his uniform, but my escorts are quick and toss me into my new home. “I need to see him. See, my name is cursed and he knew something. I don’t know what, but he chiseled something.”

  “Aye. The cornerstone of this very fort. In Colonel Snelling’s residence. But you won’t be seeing him anytime soon. As we speak, he’s on a boat to St. Louis.”

  No, he’s not! He’s just a guy. A regular twenty-first century guy! He’s probably stuck in traffic right now, so call his cell.

  All three men spit tobacco at the pot and jostle outside. I stagger back to the wooden bed and lie down. It’s hard and cool and damp, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I was an hour away from finding out something. From talking to Martin’s fake neighbor. Now it’s over.

  CHAPTER 22

  A BUGLE WAKES ME FROM MY SLEEP, AND I THROW off my burlap blanket. I’m shivering, my neck hurts from sleeping in a feed trough, and there’s a nail-head indent in the small of my back.

  I reach in my pocket and remove Julia’s chess piece. I turn it over in my fingers.

  “I’m thankful for … I’m thankful for …” I follow a drip of water across a ceiling beam. It grows, wiggles, then splats onto my forehead.

  “Nothing. I am officially not thankful anymore. God, I am tired of being whipped and thrown in jail by a man named Leonard. I’m tired of this crazy place. I’m tired of being alone and I’m sick of “dyink” and I don’t want to kick the bucket and leave Poole and Charley fighting over the girl I like!”

  “That was the most pathetic thankful yell I’ve ever heard.”

  Poole creeps in. “The guard won’t be at roll call long, so I can’t stay.”

  “Fine, fine. Don’t stay. Enjoy your mattress —”

  “Actually, I’m on a feather bed.”

  “Whatever! Go nap on your feather bed and eat your custard pies or whatever they serve —”

  “Wild blueberry —”

  “Wild blueberry pies and then enjoy your grimy years with Julia.” I lie back down on the nail head, wince, and turn away from my friend.

  It’s quiet a long time. I hear shuffling feet. He must have left.

  I half-roll and peek over my shoulder. Poole is digging his toe in the dirt. “Nothing’s going to be the same without you.”

  I don’t want to cry. Soldiers don’t cry. Even dying ones. They lie there on the battlefield and close their eyes all tough-like. I feel a tear and whisper, “Miss you too.”

  I clear my throat. “You better get back to Leonard in the Officers’ Quart —”

  I jump up. “I’m thankful you are such a con artist!”

  Poole cocks his head.

  “I don’t how you got into Snelling’s quarters, but I need you to poke around for the cornerstone. It’s in the Officers’ Quarters. Can you do that?”

  “Why am I doing that?”

  “James knew me, or he knew the first me, or he thought I was the first me — oh, it doesn’t matter. He said ‘There can only be one Martin,’ just like Dad says every year. He said he chiseled my name in a stone, the cornerstone of this fort. You always say words have power. Doesn’t that just reek of curseness?”

  Poole’s eyes grow wide. “I’m on it. You wait here.”

  “Funny, Poole.”

  He’s gone for half the day.

  “Blueberry pie,” I mumble. “Feather beds and blueberry pie.” I munch on my stale bread and dried beef. Finally I hear Poole talking to the guard. A moment later he pokes his head in.

  “Found your cornerstone. There’s nothing.” He pulls out a scrap of paper. “Two names are carved in it: your friend James Delaney and William Goddard. Then there’s a symbol, nothing I recognize. No mention of you. If there was more, it’s gone now.”

  I exhale hard. “Maybe James was crazy.”

  Outside, the guard stands and salutes. Dad walks in, grabs the keys, and opens the cell door.

  “Colonel Snelling has granted my request for time off. I thought I’d explore outside the fort.” He gestures to me and I walk out, slow and stiff.

  “I told him I’d like to hunt.” Dad looks at Poole, then back to me. “I said I’d need a few men to accompany me, in case of Indian encounter. He said I could choose my companions.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “I choose you two.” He leans over. “Let’s go home, son.”

  The three of us walk across the parade grounds and beneath the Gatehouse arch. A soldier at the entrance offers Dad one final salute, and we step out to freedom.

  “That was awesome!” Poole says. “Incredible! Melt-in-the-mouth-turkey, pudding — I’m talking three different kinds — and potatoes? With butter, with gravy, with stuffing … and my room? You will not believe it. You won’t. Ask me about it. See you can’t, because you know you won’t!”

  I can’t say anything. Dad can’t either. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Did I embarrass him? I didn’t mean to.

  We step into the Suburban and turn onto the highway. The present feels strange. Cars, loud horns, the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. I look at my uniform. I don’t feel like I belong here anymore. I don’t feel like I belong
anywhere.

  “My first track meet is tomorrow at 4:00. I didn’t think I’d be back in time, but Dad got me out of jail and my whipping should heal by then.”

  Mom’s jaws tighten.

  “Whipping? Did you say whipping?” Her gaze shifts to Dad. “Gavin. He said whipping. Explain this now.”

  Dad pushes his hand through his hair and shuffles toward Underwear World. He says nothing. I can’t bear not knowing what he thinks.

  Mom jumps in front of Dad’s basement door, and the Owl spreads her wings.

  Dad sighs heavy. “Yes, Elaina?”

  “We did not discuss Martin’s absence,” she hisses.

  “I left a note so you wouldn’t worry.”

  Mom looks over his shoulder at my tattered, foul uniform — an up-and-down, horrified look. “He is dirty, slimy, and grungy. He is teeming with microbes. I smell them. He was beaten? He was jailed? Good gracious, Gavin! What are you doing to our child?”

  Dad lifts his gaze from the ground and turns. He puts both his hands on my shoulders and stares into me. “Letting him grow up.” He leans over and hugs me, hard. “I have never been as proud as I am right now.”

  “Ugh! Come with me, Martin.” Mom turtles her hand into her sleeve, and once germ-protected, reaches for my arm. “We have some sanitizing to do.”

  I step back. “Thanks. But I think I’ll just grab a shower.”

  My father is proud of me. My heart will burst. A happy burst. I can endure it all — the curse, the everything. I jog up the stairs and into the bathroom, my life suddenly full. I check my back, marvel at the stripe of red Poole gave me, and feel a grin.

  “What I said in jail? I don’t mean it. I am thankful for everything.”

  CHAPTER 23

  MARTIN! WHERE’VE YOU BEEN? I’VE FOUND OUT SO much about ancient curses and we have to talk!” Julia pages through her notebook. “Take this one. King Tut’s curse. A guy named Howard Carter opened the pharaoh’s tomb. But his exploring buddy died of a mosquito bite weeks later. Some reports even say a snake ate his canary! But Howard survived, so that was a 50/50 deal.”

  I lean back against the lockers and let my head fall back with a thud. “You wouldn’t believe it, Julia. Not in a million years.”