Читать книгу Herotica 1 - Kerry Greenwood - Страница 11

Spring 1863

‘Good day, Sir,’ said the crippled soldier to the Quaker.

‘God give thee a good day, Friend,’ said the Quaker to the crippled soldier.

The grey-clad man held the hawser of a flat boat: in it were seven slaves. Ex-Sergeant Zephaniah Shaw leaned on his crutch and looked at them. They stared back. Their eyes were hopeless, inured to pain and defeat, with just a spark of defiance left. One woman clutched her baby closer, and it began to wail. She hushed it. Zephaniah was suddenly ashamed to be a human. He waved an elegant hand.

‘But I would not delay you,’ he said, ‘in your appointed task.’

The grey-clad man released the boat. They both watched as it floated noiselessly away on the current. The man at the bow had a steering oar. The boat began to turn.

‘They will be across the river before dark,’ said the Quaker. ‘Will thee sit, Friend? I have a small dwelling here. I can offer thee coffee and a cake or two.’

‘I thank you, Sir,’ said Zephaniah. He limped forward. The Quaker offered his arm, and for the first time since he could walk on his own, Zephaniah accepted some help. He leaned into the Quaker, who smelt strongly of soap and tarred rope. ‘I am Zephaniah Shaw,’ he said. ‘I would appreciate knowing your name.’

‘So that thou canst inform on me, Friend Zephaniah?’ asked the Quaker. He was smiling as he said it. A plain, pleasant face, brown eyes, cropped brown hair and ordinary features, which were transformed into angelic beauty when he smiled. Zephaniah very much wanted to make him smile again.

‘So that I can stop calling you sir,’ he replied. ‘I had enough of that in the Army of Northern Virginia. I have travelled a long way to meet you.’

The house was small but clean. It had the usual three rooms, bedroom, kitchen and parlour. It was also blessedly warm with heat from a glowing iron stove. Zephaniah groaned as he was lowered down onto a soft chair. His missing leg should not hurt. It was, after all, missing below the knee. Legacy of a cannon ball at Chancellorsville. He thought it ought to do him the courtesy of staying quiet, since it had left him so discourteously.

‘I am John Wall,’ said the Quaker, ‘a Friend, as thee might have guessed. And thou wert a soldier, Friend Zephaniah. A Man of Blood.’

‘That is true,’ responded Zephaniah. ‘But I am a man of blood no longer. In fact I am not much of a man at all, these days.’ He stretched out the unwounded leg and winced. ‘I am battered and crippled and all my occupation is gone.’

‘Wert thee a slave holder?’ asked John Wall, putting two mugs on the scrubbed table and pouring coffee from an enamel pot.

‘No,’ said Zephaniah. ‘Most people ain’t, you know. Or possibly you don’t. I will be going as soon as I can stand again, if your virtue is tainted by my foul bloodstained company.’

‘Nay, nay, Friend, don’t be so hasty,’ said John, putting soothing hands on his touchy guest. ‘I meant thee no offence. Drink thy coffee and maybe a little improvement from this bottle, here, and allow me to tend thee.’

‘I don’t need...’ protested Zephaniah then subsided with a sigh.

‘I do the same for thy slaves,’ said John Wall, and smiled again. This dazzled Zephaniah long enough so that by the time he had a mind to be offended again, his boots and trousers had been removed and a sure gentle hand was washing and drying his foot, which was blistered with much walking. Then oil was rubbed into the stump, some sort of aromatic, which felt cool then hot and eased the pain so that he sighed again.

‘And the crutch will have galled thy armpit,’ commented John Wall. ‘Since thou hast done me the honour of coming so far to see me, Zephaniah, I must make thee comfortable. Give me that shirt, and I’ll wrap thee in this quilt which the Pennsylvania Abolitionist ladies made for us.’

Overwhelming benevolence can be just as stunning as violence. By the time Zephaniah woke up from a brief drowse into which these kindnesses had sent him, John Wall was mixing biscuits to bake in the hot oven, on which a savoury stew was warming.

‘There,’ he said, slotting his iron skillet into the oven. ‘Supper in a little time. Don’t move, my Friend. I can carry it to thee. It’s just stew. Tomorrow there may be fish. I have all my lines set. Woundy great fish on this side of the river. Thou wilt stay the night?’

‘I will, I thank you, John,’ Zephaniah had never been so comfortable. For the moment, nothing hurt. But it was more than that. John Wall seemed to radiate such goodness and virtue that being in his presence was like lying down in the sun.

‘So,’ said John, sitting down on a chair near the soldier. ‘Why did thee come looking for me, Friend?’

‘I lost my leg, I was sent home,’ said Zephaniah, ‘but it was home no longer. Hungry, scrabbling, greedy, poor – cruel, too. I saw it differently. War changes every man. So I played my pipe with the negroes, listened to their music – I was a musician in the army. They liked me, I brought food, they taught me songs. So my ear was tuned to them, and I realised that they were singing new songs.’

‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,’ commented John Wall. ‘All ye lands!’

‘Slaves started escaping,’ continued Zephaniah. ‘And there was a song. Follow the drinking gourd. That’s what they call the Little Bear. In the Little Bear is Polaris, the North Star. If you follow Polaris you will go north. They were secret songs, carrying secret information. I was interested. I hadn’t been interested in anything, not for the longest time. I meant no harm, you see that?’

He sat up a little, dislodging his wraps. John Wall tucked them back over his naked shoulder. Zephaniah was thin, like most Southerners in these parlous days, with wild blue eyes and a thatch of dark blond hair. John Wall found him Heavenly fair. His fingers lingered on the bare skin, which felt like silk.

‘I know thee meant no harm, Zephaniah,’ he said quietly.

‘And I hope I have done no harm. I told no one. No one will notice that I am missing, if you feel you have to beat me over the head with that skillet and sink me in the Missouri.’

John Wall choked ‘God have mercy!’ and Zephaniah chuckled.

‘It was women, you see, no one listens to the songs of women working at the well, at the washtub, and they’re everywhere on an estate, fetching and carrying. They were saying, ‘The river ends between two hills/follow the drinking gourd/ there’s another river on the other side/ follow the drinking gourd: the old man’s coming to bring you to freedom, follow the drinking gourd.’ So I thought it might be the Missouri. I came north, walking, slowly, so as not to miss any clues. And then I saw the footprints. One left foot, one peg foot, just like the song. And they led me here. To you, my John Wall.’

‘He was called Peg Leg Joe. This is his house,’ said John. ‘One of us has been here ever since he died. I make the marks with a staff. I must take the biscuits out, and then we shall eat. I am so glad to have someone to talk to, my friend. I feel that God has sent thee to comfort me in my solitude.’

‘And you, in mine,’ replied the soldier. ‘I had not realised just how lonely I was.’

They said grace in perfect harmony.

The stew was rich and the gravy, sopped up by the biscuits, delicious. John Wall talked easily about his own city, Pennsylvania, and about recitals he had heard. Zephaniah told him about great orchestras he had heard in London.

‘So was it only that song?’ asked John, still curious. That gave thee the answer to thy question?’

‘No, it was all of them,’ said Zephaniah. ‘Steal away... Deep river – that’s it, out there, I can hear it gurgling, the Jordan – as I thought about it, all the songs I knew were about leaving. Going not to Canaan, but to Canada. Wade in the water, children, to cover your scent from the bloodhounds. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot – the escape is prepared. And so they leave,’ said Zephaniah.

‘Yes, they leave,’ agreed John Wall.’ I send them on, to other depots, other refuges.’

‘And this war will go on until the South is destroyed, and eventually the slaves will be free,’ he said from his cocoon of quilts. ‘And then what will you do, John Wall?’

‘I have a taste for country life, now,’ said John. ‘I will find a small farm, perhaps. Until then, I will stay here.’

‘And, if you want me, I will stay with you,’ said Zephaniah, leaning up out of the wrappings to kiss John Wall on the cheek. John unwrapped him a little and lay down beside him, returning the kiss.

‘Because of the flesh?’ he asked quietly, holding the crippled soldier close in his arms.

‘Because of you, and because we will never be forgiven.’ said Zephaniah. ‘And perhaps I can atone a little. Kiss me again? May I stay with you?’

‘Thee were sent by God,’ said John, ‘to lie with me and solace my loneliness. I love thee.’

‘And I love thee,’ said Zephaniah. The sweet warmth of his Quaker was soothing and arousing his body. Before he lost control, he kissed John again and said, ‘And I have an occupation for which I am uniquely fitted, to further our cause.’

‘And that is?’ asked John, nuzzling his neck.

‘I am the replacement for Peg Leg Joe.’ said Zephaniah triumphantly.

‘I said thee were sent by God,’ replied the Quaker.