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 services 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 Philosopher, 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 snapping 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 unpopular 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 i
n 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.”
“How so?”
“Well, for instance, here. You say, ‘Private Commongold walked ahead of me, very steadily, toward the fighting.’ ”
“That’s how it happened. I was careful about the phrase.”
“Too careful. A reader doesn’t want to hear about someone walking steadily. It’s not dramatic. You might say, instead, ‘Private Commongold ignored the shot and shell exploding all around him to such devastating effect, and strode with fierce determination straight into the beating heart of the battle.’ You see how that livens it up?”
“I guess it does, though at the expense of a degree of accuracy.”
“Accuracy and drama are the Scylla and Charybdis of journalism, Adam.* Steer between them, is my advice, but list toward drama, if you want a successful career. In fact, ‘Private Commongold’ is a little tepid, regarding rank, though the name itself is good—so let’s promote him. Captain Commongold! Doesn’t that have a ring to it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Leave these papers with me,” Dornwood said, casting a glance at his typewriter, which had been silent lately, perhaps due to his consumption of fiery spirits. “I’ll give the subject further thought, and render you more useful advice next week. In the meantime, Adam, in the event of further military action, please repeat the exercise: write it up, as dramatically as the facts allow, and bring it to me. If you do that, I may be willing to show you how to work that typewriter you love to stare at, since you’re an aspiring writer of some talent. How does that sound?”
“Excellent, Mr. Dornwood,” I said, all unsuspecting.
* Mr. Easton describes this poignant custom in his novel of 2168, A Union Sailor in the Orient.
* This is the sort of thing I would once have dismissed as another of Julian’s historical fantasies, except that the Dominion History of the Union made passing reference to it. War in the Air!—another of the unimaginable pastimes of the Secular Ancients.
* At the time I took “Scylla and Charybdis” to be New York City editors with whom Dornwood had dealt, or perhaps a publishing firm. In fact they were two great Nautical Rocks, in Greek mythology, which had the unusual ability to move about under their own steam, and had formed the bad habit of crushing sailors.
6
The fighting continued up the Saguenay, and things were mainly quiet around Montreal. There was occasional skirmishing, of course, for Mitteleuropan forces remained scattered through the Laurentians, and they would sally forth now and then for a little fun and distraction. I duly wrote up these exchanges for Theodore Dornwood, in return for literary advice; but there was very little to it. During this time Julian distinguished himself by holding a vital artillery position when it came under heavy fire from the Dutch; and his reputation among the men steadily improved—while Major Lampret’s continued to decline.
But what mattered most to me that summer took place in the City of Montreal, during the weekends on which, after Lampret lifted the ban, we were offered leave.
“So,” Lymon Pugh said, his sleeves rolled up to expose his hideously scarred and muscular forearms, which often frightened strangers, and of which he was very proud, “only the two of us left.”
We were in Montreal, and we had just entered a tavern on Guy Street. Lymon was there to get drunk; but it was the sort of establishment that served food as well as liquor, and I meant to smother my sorrows in a beefsteak, while Lymon drowned his in a bucket of beer. (As for drink, I took a dipperful of plain water from the ceramic jug by the door as we entered. The water was brackish and tasted of tobacco—perhaps one of the previous customers had mistaken the jug for a spittoon.)
“Only the two of us left,” Lymon repeated—by which he meant that Sam and Julian had gone off to separate entertainments this Friday night.
Summer was a fearfully hot and humid time around the City of Montreal. The horseflies, which the locals called Black Flies, had lately come into season, and they patrolled the streets in brigade strength, alert for human flesh. The day had been overcast, and the air was thick as butter, and although we were fresh from camp our shirts were already sodden. We wore what scraps of civilian clothing we still possessed or had recently purchased, so that we would not be mistaken for men on active duty, and would blend in more closely with the local population.
But as I had learned on previous expeditions into the city, a soldier is never quite at home in Montreal. The local citizens did not hate us exactly—at one time they had been under garrison by the Dutch, and the memory of that unhappy time persisted, and the Army of the Laurentians was a more comfortable master than Mitteleuropa had been, taken all in all. But we were their masters, at least nominally, for Montreal was under military law, and many of its citizens chafed at the constraints imposed upon them. The Catholic clergy were especially volatile, still smarting over the Dominion’s interference in their affairs; and local men of Cree descent had been known to challenge soldiers on the street, out of some grievance never fully explained to me.
But it was not difficult to avoid the
worst of such unpleasantness, and the obverse side of that coin was the generous hospitality of the less political residents of Montreal, including restaurant-owners and barkeepers. We had been given a good table in this tavern, which was called the Thirsty Boot, and we ordered what we wanted from a pleasant woman in an apron, and we were otherwise left to ourselves.
“I swear I don’t know what those two do with their time,” Lymon Pugh was saying. “For instance, what on Earth does Sam want with all those damned Amish?”
“Amish?”
“You know—those black-hatted and bearded men he consorts with whenever we come into the city.”
Lymon was laboring under a misapprehension. Judaism was legal in Montreal, and the city had a substantial community of very devout Jews, with whom Sam had begun taking religious services. It was true that the men in that part of town often sported beards, and wore wide black hats, or small ones that sat on their scalps as if glued there. But they weren’t Amish. “I think the Amish live in Pennsylvania, or Ohio, or somewhere like that,” I said.
“You mean to say those men aren’t Amish? They fit every description I ever heard.”
“I think they’re Jews.”
“Oh! Then is Sam a Jew of some kind? He don’t resemble them in his dress.”
Sam had not made any public announcement about his unusual religion (though neither had he gone to any lengths to disguise his association with the Jews of Montreal), and I could not bring myself to indict him quite so frankly. “Perhaps he’s fond of their cuisine. The Jews have their own special menu of foods, just as Chinamen do.”
“The sight of all those beards might inhibit my appetite, if it was me,” said Lymon, who was religious (figuratively) about shaving his chin, “whatever they eat for dinner. But to each his own.”
“Julian wears a beard,” I pointed out.
“What, that fringe of his? Yellow as a female’s wig, and just about as ridiculous. Speaking of Julian Commongold, I’m confused about his habits, too. Once again he’s gone to that coffee-shop, or whatever they call it, down in the narrow streets by the riverside. Did you get a look at the other customers there, Adam? Frail, loose-limbed types—I don’t know what he sees in them. The place is called Dorothy’s, and I’m sure I don’t know who Dorothy is—perhaps the only woman ever to visit the establishment.”
Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America Page 17
