Brave Enemies

by Robert Morgan

  “Will you teach me to play?” I said.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” John said. He kept the flute in a velvet-lined box.

  Everywhere we went there was talk of Lord Cornwallis and Colonel Tarleton. Cornwallis was marching up the Broad River from Charleston. John told me about him and about Tarleton and his dragoons that were sweeping across the land west of the Broad River, killing anybody that opposed them. Tarleton burned the houses of patriots and hanged patriots. His soldiers raped whatever women they caught. Tarleton killed everybody, and he gave no quarter. Gen. Nathanael Greene had been appointed by Congress to command the Southern army. General Greene was camped somewhere near Charlotte, but everybody was scared.

  “If Tarleton comes this far there ain’t nothing to do but run to the mountains,” people said.

  Men joined the militia and got killed, and if they didn’t get killed they fled into the woods and swamps and came home. “Nobody can stand up to Tarleton’s dragoons,” they said.

  I KNEW THINGS could not go on as they had between the Reverend John Trethman and me. I had been lucky and I had been careful. But some day he was bound to find me out. It was certain as daylight that he’d discover my secret. I knew I should just leave, but I couldn’t run away, and I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him I’d lied to him. His tall figure and his kind face had become dear to me. I couldn’t bear to disappoint him, and I couldn’t bear to leave him. He’d taught me things and showed me important things. I had changed from being with him. I couldn’t stand for him to find out I was a liar and an impostor, and a murderer. I was supposed to be saved. I was supposed to be a Christian and his assistant. I was supposed to be a student of the Scripture. And here I was deceiving him in a shameful way. I wanted to confess and tell him who I was. I wanted to ask for his forgiveness, but I couldn’t leave him.

  One cold night not too far into November, I’d climbed up in the loft and was half asleep. John must have stepped outside to relieve himself before going to bed. Suddenly he ran back in and climbed up on the logs and was shaking me.

  “It’s the northern lights, Joseph,” he said. “Come see; the sky looks like the end of time.”

  He reached under the coat and under the blanket by accident. I reckon he was just trying to shake me. His hand reached right under my shirt and touched my breast. His fingers rested there for a second and then pulled away. “Why Joseph,” he said, and climbed back down the logs.

  I was awake in an instant and looked down at him standing in the firelight. He stood like he’d lost his breath. My heart had stopped, for this was the moment I’d been dreading.

  “I meant to tell you,” I said.

  “Who are you?” John shouted.

  I climbed out of the loft wearing only my shirt and got down on my knees before John. I was trembling so I couldn’t stop myself. I had come to the end of everything. I hugged his knees and put my face against his legs to keep from shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped.

  “Get up from there!” John shouted.

  It’s hard to describe what all happened next. John pulled me off the floor and I put my arms around his waist and my cheek against his heart. Would he hit me? Throw me out in the cold yard? He told me to hush my crying and my begging. He shoved me toward the fireplace and he stood there swinging his arms and shaking his head. I knelt beside him. I wanted to pray to him. I wanted to plead with him. I touched him on the shoulder.

  John pushed me away, and he turned away from me.

  “I didn’t mean to fool you,” I said.

  “You have made a fool of me!” he cried. His face was white.

  I had thought about what I would say if this happened, but I couldn’t remember what I’d planned to say. Everything was crumbling, the way it did the day Mr. Griffin followed me into the pine woods. Everything I cared about was breaking to pieces.

  “I’ll go away,” I said. “You won’t ever see me again.”

  John just stood there and wouldn’t say anything else. He drove his fist into the palm of his left hand. He acted like somebody that had been hit on the head and was in a daze. “I won’t be made a laughingstock to my own congregations,” he snarled, and stepped to the door. Before I could answer he disappeared into the night.

  I didn’t have on anything except the long shirt, but I followed him out into the dark. I tried to see into the woods and shadows of bushes. I called his name, but heard nothing except the whispering of the branch nearby.

  But I saw this glow above the trees. It was red as a sunset, but the color was in the top of the sky. And then I saw waves and curtains in the light, and streamers sweep and tremble. Was it the end of time I was seeing? Was Jesus coming in all his glory? Was it a hell glow from the other side of the world, or the hate of the times burning up the world?

  I saw greens and blues in the light and shapes weaving and dancing all across the northern sky. It was pretty and it was awful. I wanted to hide behind something. I turned away and looked at the dark woods.

  And then I remembered what John had said when he came running into the house and reached under my blanket. He had seen the northern lights, and he was so excited he’d reached under my shirt without thinking. It was the northern lights sweeping all across the sky like some ceremony in a dream.

  Some people said the northern lights were portents, telling of things to come. They were sent as warnings. We lived in awful times. I didn’t want to think they were a sign to me.

  “John,” I called into the woods. I wanted him to come back and forgive me. Even if he slapped me and beat me, I wanted him to come back and tell me what the lights meant and what was going to happen to me. I had nothing to depend on but his advice and his wisdom.

  A bird flapped away in the trees, but there was nothing else moving.

  I’d forgotten I was wearing only the long shirt. I was shivering and covered with goose bumps. My teeth chattered when I called out, “I will be inside!”

  The fire was low and I threw on some sticks and pinecones to build it up. I was shaking so I could hardly hold anything. I got the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. But as I held my feet and hands close to the flames and started to warm up, I felt how empty the cabin was. The cabin was just one room of logs, but without John it felt big as a cavern.

  I listened for footsteps outside. I hoped he would open the door and I would hear his voice. I tried to think what I’d say when he came back. I put on my pants and coat, so I could leave if he ordered me to leave. I still had the coins I’d taken from Mama’s bureau. But I didn’t have anything else to call my own.

  The seconds dragged slow as stone boats while I waited. I threw another stick on the fire and turned my side to the blaze. Something squalled in the trees outside. I ran to the door and looked out. The woods were dark and the sky was dark too except for a few stars. The northern lights had faded to a pink glow in the north. I looked out into the cold woods for a few minutes and then went back to the fire.

  I MUST HAVE DRIFTED off to sleep, for when I woke I was slumped and stiff and the fire had burned down to coals. It must have been near morning. I got up to throw some kindling on the coals and maybe start heating water for grits and coffee. I was sure I’d have to take my things and leave when John came back. I might as well have some grits before starting out.

  I was stirring the pot when the door opened, and there stood John looking cold and stunned. I could see he’d been walking in the woods all night without his coat. He looked nearly frozen and worn out. I reckon he had been so confused he didn’t know where he had been.

  “Come to the fire,” I said. “I have some grits ready.” I led him to the chair and poured him a mug of smoking coffee. It was my fault he was so worried and almost frozen. He was so cold he was numb. I wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

  “We cannot go on this way, Joseph,” he said.

  “Josie,” I said.

  “What an example I have set for my flock,” he
said, “living openly with a young woman.”

  “I will go away,” I said. “They’ll never know.”

  “I will know,” John said. “And the Lord will know.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder but he pulled away. “I will gather my things and be gone,” I said.

  John coughed and then he coughed again. He had caught a terrible chill in the long night. As he sipped coffee he began to tremble. He shook so badly he could hardly hold the mug. He coughed again and I took the mug and helped him toward the bed.

  “I will stay until you are well,” I said.

  “Keep away from me,” John said. “Don’t touch me.” He coughed again and again. I wrapped him in the blanket and finally he slept.

  I LOOKED AFTER John for almost a week, until his cold was gone. Every hour I worried about where I would go when I left him. I grieved that I couldn’t stay with him. I asked him where he thought I should go.

  “You must follow the path you have chosen,” he said, and turned away. But after a few days he looked at me, and the tone of his voice changed. I caught him watching me as I worked, and as I climbed into the loft to sleep. It was as though he was just beginning to see me. He talked no more about Paul and Silas, and he didn’t ask me to read anymore from the Bible or The Pilgrim’s Progress. But I read to him anyway.

  One afternoon, when he was better, John sat at the table and wrote. He wrote with his head down close to the pages and the feather moved like a fern worried by wind. I thought he must be writing a sermon or a letter to his superior. I stayed away from the table and tried not to bother him. There seemed to be something sacred about writing.

  When John finally stopped he stood up and took his coat from the peg beside the door. He gathered the sheets and folded them like a letter and then handed them to me.

  “Do you want me to mail these?” I said.

  “Read them,” he snapped, and stepped out the door.

  I felt weak in my chest and smothered, for I knew there couldn’t be any good tidings in the letter. He must want me to read it because the letter said things he couldn’t bear to say to my face. He was probably telling me to leave before he returned. I sat by the fire and read the trembling pages by the light of the flames.

  Pine Knot Branch Nov. 1780

  Dear Josie,

  I am writing this because I must make my thoughts clear to you and clear to myself. I don’t trust myself to speak to you, for I am confused and troubled. I have never had such feelings as I have had in the past week.

  The truth is you have startled me and disturbed me.

  When I discovered you are not Joseph but a woman, I ran off into the woods confused as any schoolboy. Instead of acting like a shepherd to his flock, I acted only dashed and disappointed and frightened. For I saw how my ministry was threatened, maybe ruined. Any rumors that I had a young woman not my wife living in the cabin with me could destroy my testimony among these people.

  I can’t believe it was the devil’s work that sent you to me, much as it may seem that way. I must believe there is some purpose to your entry into my life in these vexed times. For I have felt with you a kinship and connection from the first. Could I have been mistaken?

  Josie, I invite you to be forthright with me, for we must decide what course to follow. I cannot part with you, and I cannot yet talk face to face with you. For I am embarrassed and humbled by my mistakes and weakness. I am unsure of my next step, and sometimes I doubt my purpose. In this broken world I am wondering where my true calling lies.

  While others burn and punish and kill, I am certain I will not fight and I will not kill. I will preach peace and hope and I will preach turning the other cheek, or I will preach nothing. My testimony is of love, and my message is of faith and charity, if I have any message. Though surrounded by hate and carnage, I will preach love and peace, and the Gospel shall be my only sword. And compassion will be my only shield. I will not study war.

  And I still believe you were sent to me for help and comfort.

  Yours faithfully, John Trethman

  I felt out of breath when I finished the letter. My cheeks were hot. I wondered what I could say to John when he returned. Should I take my coat and leave before he came back to the cabin? Should I get on my knees and beg him to take me to Georgia or the Cherokee country? Should I tell him all about Mr. Griffin?

  Suddenly John slipped into the cabin, and I was going to speak to him. I held up the pages of the letter and opened my mouth, but he shook his head. He put his finger to his lips and shook his head. “We will talk of it later,” he said.

  That afternoon was the prettiest fall day you’ve ever seen. The sky was clear and the sun warm on fallen leaves. A few yellow leaves still floated out across the woods. John took his flute out to the branch and sat on a bank of moss. I followed and sat behind him as he played. He played a melody that wandered slow as a cow grazing on a hillside. He made the flute sing simple and cool. I listened and didn’t say a word.

  When John stopped playing he looked up at the sky. There was one white cloud floating just above us, blinding in the sun.

  “Clouds remind us how everything is changing even as we look,” he said. The cloud was fat and perfect in the empty sky. I watched it without saying anything.

  “Clouds are our friends when we have no one else,” John said. “Clouds remind us how little and fleeting we are.”

  I waited for him to go on, but he put the flute to his lips and started playing again. The notes seem to come out of the ground, or out of the sky. I couldn’t tell which.

  ONE EVENING, WHEN his cold was gone, I said, “Don’t you think it’s time I left? I’ll go away in the morning.”

  John looked at me and for the first time reached out to me. He took my hand and pulled me closer. He looked into my eyes, and I thought: Everything will be different now. Whatever happens it will be different. I pressed myself closer to him.

  He touched his lips to my lips and rubbed slowly back and forth. When our lips met I could feel his touch go all over me. I closed my eyes and felt I was rising and beginning to float. So this is what a kiss is, I thought as he put his tongue between my lips.

  Suddenly John pulled away. He stepped back and I opened my eyes. The look on his face was confused, and I thought he might cry. “No,” he said, and shook his head. “No, we can’t do this.”

  I reached out to take his hand but he turned away.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I said.

  “No!” John shouted and turned back to the fire.

  I tried to think what to say to him. I thought about telling him everything that had happened to me, about Mr. Griffin and Mama, about Mr. Griffin locking me in the corncrib and the patriots coming to beat Mr. Griffin, about Mama’s helplessness and confusion, about the spiders, and about Mr. Griffin chasing me through the woods and attacking me behind the hogpen. But I couldn’t tell John about my shame, about Mama clawing my face and accusing me, about waiting for Mr. Griffin in the dark with the ax and chopping his head open, then stealing his clothes and running away into the night.

  “I do not know why you deceived me,” John said.

  I told him the patriots had come to our house and beaten my stepfather. I told him my mama’s mind was afflicted and that I had to leave home. Dressing as a man was my only chance of escape. My only safety and my only hope had been finding him in the lighted church at Zion Hill.

  John said the Lord had tried me and the devil had had his chance with me. I reached out again to take his hand by the fire but he pulled away. I saw the struggle in him, in the way he looked at me and then back at the fire. He was angry with himself, and wrestling with his doubts and his affection. There was nothing for me to do but wait. I saw you could not make a man love you when he was not ready to.

  IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER, after we had been to services at Briar Fork and Solomon’s Branch. We had eaten supper and John played his flute by the fireplace. As I washed the dishes I saw the look on his face. It seemed to me he�
��d made a decision, but I had to wait to find out what it was. He kept staring at me as I finished drying the dishes and placed them on the shelf. His eyes were on me as I stepped closer to the fire and hung the towel on a nail.

  “Come to me, Josie,” he said, and took my hand. He drew me to his lap and put his arms around me. It was the best thing, to be held that way.

  John’s hand was around my back. I moved his hand so it was on my breast. I expected him to pull his hand away, but he didn’t. He kept his hand on my breast like he didn’t know it was there. It was the best feeling. I pressed his hand harder and he didn’t take it away.

  My breath got close and short. He looked away toward the wall and I looked away toward the fireplace. He moved his hand and rubbed my nipple and the sweetness soaked all through me. When Mr. Griffin had fondled me I had been scared, but when John touched me I wasn’t scared at all.

  We sat like that a long time, and I was afraid he would take his hand away. I was afraid he would say the Lord was watching us. But he didn’t say anything. He reached his other hand and put it on my other breast, and then he hugged me closer to him.

  It was the first time I really knew what a touch could mean. A touch connects you and makes you feel a part of everything. A touch makes you feel at the center of something. I leaned back against him, for that was what I wanted to do, to touch him more and deeper. I had to press myself against him and rest myself against him.

  He was breathing sharp and hard then. I felt his heart jumping against my back. He moved his hand down my belly and stroked lower, so I felt itches and sparks around my thighs and groin. The itch was so bad the skin stretched sideways and prickled.

  “Hold me tighter,” I said.

  I felt something soft on the back of my neck, something hot and damp and knew it was his lips. He ran his lips from the edge of my hair to the top of my shoulder. And he pressed his lips to the back of my neck. I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I leaned harder against him.