Different Sin (13 page)

David let himself be reassured by Ellsworth’s prediction that there’d be no bloodshed such as had greeted Federal troops passing through Baltimore five weeks before. In the days that had passed since Leslie assigned him to accompany the Fire Zouaves to Washington City, David had come to respect the quick thinking and daring of the handsome young officer.

His opinion was shared by the inhabitants of the Federal city. The Fire Zouaves became local heroes as the former firefighters swarmed up a human chain to douse flames threatening Willard’s Hotel.

David jotted a few notes now, to one side of the new sketchpad Leslie had supplied him, with the publisher’s copyright in the bottom left corner. A half-finished sketch of Ellsworth occupied the rest of the page. David returned to it as the young officer busied himself with preparations for landing, penciling in Ellsworth’s mobile, sensitive face in its frame of wavy brunette locks, his contemplative expression as he gazed across the water to Alexandria, one hand resting lightly on his sword.

David followed his gaze, suddenly touched with a sense of unreality. He’d hoped to squeeze in a visit home during the course of this assignment. Instead, he found himself aboard a troop ship, accompanying an invading army to his home town.

Less than twenty-four hours before, on May 23
^rd
, Virginia voters had approved the ordinance of secession drafted by the state convention in April. Much as he wished Lincoln would let the Southern states go in peace, conflict seemed inevitable. It would be folly for Federal forces to ignore the presence of what was now enemy territory, so close to the capital city.

The steamer docked with a slight thud. The Fire Zouaves scrambled off the steamships as the sun rose, greeted by the news that Confederate soldiers had already begun a retreat from the city. David breathed a sigh of relief.

Ellsworth ordered his men to fall into companies, seemingly disappointed at the lack of a fight to test their mettle. The young officer drew himself up decisively. “There’s the railroad station and telegraph office to secure still.” He detailed the main body of his men to reinforce Michigan troops at the Orange and Alexandria depot, while he headed for the telegraph office with a smaller detachment. David fell into step with Ellsworth’s file.

They marched double-time up King Street toward the telegraph office, met by stares of sullen curiosity from onlookers in doorways and windows. David wondered a moment how many of his old friends and neighbors were accounting him a traitor as they watched him walk up King Street in company with the occupying soldiers. He forced the question from his mind. If the choice had to be made, the Union was still his country.

Many shops and houses were deserted, abandoned by townsfolk fleeing South in anticipation of a Federal attack. “We’ll be marching through Richmond by fall,” Ellsworth predicted, as he studied the scene. He stepped jauntily, his bearing commanding despite his short stature.

David’s spirits rose at the thought that the rebellion would surely be of short duration. He strode along a few feet behind Ellsworth, exchanging comments with Bobby Maguire, a redheaded Fire Zouave from Brooklyn, and Edward House, a
Tribune
correspondent with whom he had a nodding acquaintance.

The detachment reached the corner of King and Pitt streets. Ellsworth halted. “What’s that rag doing up there?” David followed his gaze to the Confederate flag flying from the roof of the shabby Marshall House hotel.

Ellsworth grinned. “I’ll soon have it down.” He bounded into the tavern, followed by a half dozen of his men.

David entered the dim lobby after him. Ellsworth’s footsteps were already pounding up the stairs to the roof. David waited a moment till his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then headed upstairs.

The trapdoor to the roof thudded shut above him as David neared the second landing. Ellsworth appeared again, his grin curving up into his mustache, the Confederate banner clutched triumphantly in his hands.

A man suddenly stepped from a doorway on the landing, leveling a double-barreled shotgun. David gasped. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, simultaneously with the shotgun’s blast.

There was a short, anguished cry as Ellsworth fell. A second burst of gunfire sounded and his attacker fell to the floor beside him.

David’s feet continued the climb to the landing without his volition. A shocked hush had fallen over the huddled soldiers, broken only by the sobbing of Ellsworth’s lieutenant as he cradled the youthful officer’s body in his arms. A young private, rifle shaking in his hand, stood over the body of the second dead man: Jim Jackson, the tavern’s proprietor, David saw numbly.

He looked back at Ellsworth. The dead man’s mouth gaped open, his sightless eyes stared upwards, blood spurted from the cavity in his chest, drenching his brass-buttoned uniform and the Confederate trophy still dangling from his fingers. The stench of loosened bowels hung over the stairwell.

David was overcome by nausea. He grabbed for the bannister behind him, clutching the hard wood railing as he retched. Long minutes went by. Finally he straightened up shakily and rubbed his mouth with his handkerchief. He stood trembling another moment, then slowly opened his sketchpad and set to work.

THE HORROR AND DISBELIEF THAT SHOOK THE NORTH at Ellsworth’s death had given way to grim expectation of mounting casualties. The abandonment of hope for a quick victory after Bull Run was followed by the bloodbath at Shiloh and mounting losses in the Virginia peninsula as the war entered a second summer.

David set his pencil down on his drawing table and rubbed his aching fingers, studying his copy of Henri Lovie’s sketch of a skirmish on the Western front. Shock and anguish mingled on the faces of soldiers drawn as they fell, mortally wounded.

“Hey, David, you’ll be all night getting those on the blocks if you just sit and stare at them.”

David started at Elliot’s voice. “I was thinking how much bloodshed there’s been. It’s hard to picture so many men dying in just a year.”

“Be glad you’re here copying those and not with the army getting shot at.”

David picked up his pencil again, glancing at Lovie’s scribbled instructions before adding a line of trees to the top of the drawing. “To tell the truth, I find it pretty tiresome. As many new artists as
Leslie’s
hired to cover the fighting, there’s precious little chance for us to do much else besides copying.”

“I thought Leslie offered you the chance to stay with the troops before he sent Art Lumley down.”

“He did.” David smiled ruefully. “After Ellsworth, I couldn’t face up to seeing anyone else get shot.”

Elliot snorted. “Or getting yourself shot either. Not that I blame you. It’s all the same to me what I draw, so long as my hide stays in one piece. You got much more to do on those? I’m tired of that damn boardinghouse food. Join me for beer and oysters at Pfaff’s after we knock off?”

“I’ve already told Zach I’d meet him there, to tell the truth.”

“So? I’ll join you, then. You two courting or something that you can’t stand a little company?”

David winced, then prayed Elliot hadn’t spotted his twinge of fear. Elliot was given to shooting his mouth off, he told himself. His remark meant nothing.

He managed a weak laugh. “Listening to Zach rehash McClellan’s mistakes for the hundredth time, more likely. I’ll be glad to have you turn the talk to cheerier subjects.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The din of Pfaff’s bar and dining room assaulted David as he entered. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and peered through the haze of tobacco smoke. Zach was already seated, at a table close to the far wall. He waved at David and Elliot as they threaded their way through the crowded room, then turned back to talking with two of the
Tribune’s
writing editors.

Pfaff’s never changed, David thought, as he squeezed into a seat across from Zach. Most of the young reporters who’d been their regular drinking companions had scattered—a few enlisted like Dick, others as correspondents with the Army of the Potomac or on the western front. Elliot, lounging comfortably alongside him, was one of the few familiar faces. Yet the packed tables and echoing arguments were no different than the first day he’d walked in here.

True to David’s prediction, Zach was engrossed in discussion of McClellan’s generalship. “If the man had attacked instead of falling back after Malvern Hill, I daresay we’d be reporting now on the fall of Richmond!”

Elliot nudged David in the ribs. “If it’s cheerier conversation you want, you won’t find it in our present company.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Bessie told me she might be bringing someone for you to meet. Yeah, here they come now. Take a look over there.”

David looked across the room where the latest of Elliot’s lady friends was settling herself at a table, smoothing her skirts as she chatted animatedly with a second heavily-rouged young woman.

“That’s the sort of company you need to cheer you up. Take a look at those tits, will you!”

The young woman’s breasts bulged roundly above the tight bodice of her gown. As David watched, she produced a handkerchief and daintily patted her cheeks and forehead, then languorously passed the cloth over her expanse of bosom. Elliot’s lady friend leaned over and whispered in her ear. Both young women turned to smile in their direction, then leaned together again, bursting into subdued giggles. David flushed, lowering his eyes. He felt Elliot nudge him again. “Bessie’s cousin. Whaddya think?”

“She’s very— very good looking.”

“A beaut. And Bessie says she’s hoping to be shown a good time while she’s in New York. If you get my meaning.”

David smiled faintly.

“C’mon then. I’ll introduce you.”

“I— I don’t think so.”

“Hey, you don’t need to worry about disease with her. She’s not a hooker, she’s just looking for a little fun.”

“Maybe some other time, Elliot.”

“Suit yourself.” Elliot smoothed the ends of his mustache and pushed back his chair. “But for chrissake, David, you oughta get yourself a woman before people get to thinking you’re as big a nancy as your friend Zach.”

David froze, unable to move as he watched Elliot saunter across the restaurant. Why the hell couldn’t he have brought himself to take Elliot up on his invitation?

He managed a glance at Zach, hoping he hadn’t heard.

Zach nodded goodnight to the two editors and turned to David. “I didn’t mean to leave you sitting alone.” He paused. “You all right, David? You look troubled. I keep forgetting the fighting’s been largely in your home state.”

He couldn’t have heard Elliot, David told himself. “I’m fine. I wouldn’t mind getting my thoughts off the war, though.”

Zach smiled and gestured toward the table behind them, adjacent to the one Pfaff saved for his fashionable crowd of literary Bohemians. The men at this table were young, dressed in the rough clothing of stage drivers and ferryboatmen. At one end sat Walt Whitman, garbed in sturdy blue flannel, his eyes riveted on a swarthy, muscular young man in workman’s coveralls.

“There’s an empty seat or two there,” Zach said, “and I daresay the talk will be livelier.” David sighed under his breath as he picked up his tankard and followed Zach.

Whitman greeted them with a nod, then turned his attention back to the young man, prompting his words with a question now and then, in a voice as unexpectedly soft as a caress.

You’d never take him for a poet, David mused, uncertain he’d ever understand the fascination Whitman held for his friend. Zach sat in unwonted silence, happily spearing Pfaff’s plump oysters with his fork. He resembles him a bit, David thought, that mane of a beard and gray head of hair, and their size. If Zach were to dress as unconventionally as Whitman—

“Zachary! What a pleasure to see you!”

David looked up from his reverie at a smiling, well-tailored man in his mid-fifties, silk cravat elegantly knotted about his neck. Zach was pumping his hand heartily, beaming in turn.

“This is my good friend, David Carter, one of Frank Leslie’s prize sketch artists. Byron Roosa, David. We labored on the
Tribune
together before he left to pursue the higher callings of essayist and novelist.”

Roosa took David’s hand between both of his own, bowing slightly as he spoke. “A most valuable apprenticeship, and one I’ve often recalled with pleasure. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carter, and to renew Zachary’s. I’ve been traveling about the Continent so long, I fear my old friendships are in sad disrepair.”

David smiled, watching Zach and Roosa launch on a spirited reminiscence, the two men a study in contrast. Zach beamed happily, sitting comfortably at ease in his rumpled coat. Roosa sat straightbacked, his long fingers balancing his tankard as delicately as he might a crystal wine goblet. He pulled a gold watch from his pocket, then gestured gracefully. “My affairs call. Another day, I hope.” He turned to David, pressing his hand once more.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he murmured. “Do you ever take occasion to visit any of the public baths?”

David started, taken aback at such a personal question from a stranger. “Once in a while, but I generally content myself with my washbasin,” he stammered finally.

Roosa chuckled softly, his voice even softer. “Ah yes, cleanliness is next to Godliness, I daresay, but I had other enjoyments in mind.” His hand lingered on David’s. “It would be my pleasure to show you, sir.”

David stared at Roosa in slow, unwilling comprehension, his flush of embarrassment mingling with the heat of rising anger. He jerked back his hand. “You can go straight to hell!” He glanced momentarily at the consternation on Zach’s face. “I’ll settle my bill with you later, Zach. I’m getting out of here.”

He’d reached the front door of the boardinghouse when he heard Zach’s footsteps behind him.

“You might’ve refused him a little less rudely!”

“Rudely! Do you know what he wanted!”

Zach gave a slight, breathless chuckle. “I can imagine. But I fail to see why you were so offended by it.”

“You don’t see— For God’s sake, Zach!” The silence following his words stretched between them.