John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

“Those are your people up there, Oliver,” I say, moving to stay Delamare’s hand.

But his Sam Colt Peacemaker is already out and leveled. “They’ll never know it,” he says, and fires three shots in the western style, his left palm fanning back the hammer. The lower of the two figures stumbles as they pass into the trees. Then all is quiet and bright.

We take cover behind the nearest shack, harkening for any sound above the river and the breeze. “You’ve buried us, Oliver,” I say at last.

Delamare grunts. “I have no sympathy for turn-coat niggers.”

“They had no idea who we were, damn you! Not the slightest notion.”

He puts his repeater by. “They moved as if they did.”

“A couple of scullery-boys to the infantry, that’s all. Most likely we caught them after a dip.” I curse him under my breath. “Now we’re partisans.”

Delamare privileges me with a look of serene contempt. “Some of us always have been, Mr. Ball.”

I brush this grotesque utterance aside. “Think what you like. If we’d let them run—”

“ If we’d let them run we’d have been something less than men,” Delamare says, the blood rushing to his face. “Don’t confuse my role in this back-water comedy of errors with your own. I suffer invasion no more calmly than the next Confederate.”

“The next Confederate won’t be hanged by his country-men on sight, you blessed ass. There’s a price on your head, Oliver. You don’t have the luxury of playing Jefferson Davis any longer.”

Delamare regards me dully for a time. When at last he speaks his voice, normally so sovereign and mild, is greatly changed. All at once I remember that I’m in the company of a nineteen-year-old boy.

“I don’t believe you’ve talked to me that way before, Virgil,” he says. “I was unaware, in fact, that you spoke that way to anyone.” The repeater hangs slackly at his side—; his hand clenches and unclenches on its grip. “I must tell you it may jeopardize our understanding.”

“You’ve most likely just doomed us all with that damn fire-cracker of yours,” I answer, passing a hand over my eyes. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t remain in character.”

“Of course, Virgil! Naturally.” Delamare starts back up the path, to all appearances satisfied with my reply. As I come alongside of him, however, I see that he is knitting his brow together and slapping the barrel of the repeater lightly against his thigh. His face has taken on that expression of noble worry which has served him so well since his adoption by the Trade.

“Have I endangered your cause in the interest of my own, Virgil?” he says finally. “I apologize. But I thought you’d reconciled yourself to the inevitable.”

A sigh escapes me. “I thought so, too.”

He smiles. “But now you’re not so sure?”

“The end will come soon enough, I reckon.” I look up the bluff toward Geburah. “It came for Goodman Harvey just this morning.”

“Goodman Harvey,” Delamare says thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “It’s no wonder someone ran out of charity for that little sniveler.” He coughs softly into his sleeve. “I nominate Kennedy. He’s easily the most murderous of our bunch.”

“He’d like to murder you, Oliver. That’s sure.”

“I know it well. It’s the Confederate in me.”

“It’s the nigger in you,” I say softly.

Delamare slows a moment, cocks one eye at me, then lets out a melancholy laugh. It’s a dangerous thing to call attention to his delusions—; but I’ve become a practiced hand at it.

“Oh! I know that much, Virgil,” he says good-naturedly. “But it’s not as simple as you think. Were I not aware of my birth-right as the son of a Dumaine Street gentleman, fully and indefatigably aware of it—; were I a lazy, whip-scared niggra boy, Kennedy wouldn’t hate me half as much.”

I mull this over. “It doesn’t help your case, I grant.”

“It’s the Southerner in me, first and foremost, that old Stutter hates. That’s why I take such comfort in his loathing.” He rubs his hands together. “Now! What other irredeemable whore-son might we hang it on?”

“Well—”

His voice goes grave. “Not Miss Clementine, I hope?”

No sooner has he said this than my sight grows dim and the ground begins to shudder under me. I know what is going to happen next and feel no terror or surprise, only a mute excitement. An instant later a wheel of transparent fire rolls up the path, still steaming and sputtering from the river. It stops less than a pace from us, near enough that I can feel its heat. The wheel turns silently in place, then slips into the gap between our bodies, resolving before my eyes into a quivering, weeping, scintillating heart.

I should have known that the mention of Clem’s name would bring on a sign. My eyes begin to water from the beauty of it. The second fire-sign of the day—: this night will end in violence as sure as I’m alive.

“No. Not Clementine,” I say.

The wheel sheds a last fiery tear and rolls off into the trees. Delamare grins at me. “Of course you wouldn’t think to blame her, Virgil. You revere her, after all. But Clementine has her natural share of cunning—; all accomplished doxies do.”

If there is malice in this utterance I choose to overlook it.

“Perhaps it was the Colonel himself,” I offer.

“Poison doesn’t suit old D’Ancourt’s character, either—; but I defer to you, of course, being your junior in years.”

Delamare’s bravado has returned to him completely—; the two colored soldiers have been cast aside like corn-husks. Has he decided, then, that his act will have no consequences? It seems as if he has.

He watches me covertly as we walk. Some queer look must have crossed my face, for he says very softly—: “I’ve no further interest in your Clementine, Virgil. I give you my word.”

I keep my balance admirably. “What interest did you ever have in her, sirrah? I’d thought you were the son of a Dumaine Street gentleman.”

But Delamare will not be swayed. “The love of a man for a woman, Virgil, is not to be made light of. I know this, vain and selfish as I am. I won’t trifle with it twice.” He sighs. “There’s little enough to approve of in this nest of vipers.”

“I wasn’t aware, Mr. Delamare, that you had trifled once, ” I say.

Delamare flinches at this—: an honest flinch. “I must tell you, Virgil, that she courted me,” he says. His steady brown eyes do not waver.

The sky behind Delamare pales momentarily. I make a great effort, tuck my hands into my pockets, and manage to return his friendly look. “When was it?”

“This Thursday last.” He frowns. “I don’t pretend to know what sport she’s having with you, Virgil. I do own that it surpasses cruel.”

I turn from him and continue up the path. His last words were meant as a question, but I’ve no strength to answer it this morning. Perhaps another.

“Cruel, Oliver?” I say. Then, quoting from memory—: “ ‘Cruelty is a fable. Every act of violence is a vessel, sometimes clear, sometimes opaque, that carries its justification chaste within it.’ ” I grin at him. “I thought you knew.”

I’d meant for Delamare to recognize this citation, and he does not disappoint me. He curses and kicks at the gravel. “The way you ape his sermons like a smug fat apostle turns my stomach, Virgil. Don’t make a catechism out of him.”

I bow my head beatifically. I am trying to provoke him now. “I do view myself as an apostle,” I say. “He raised us up out of the mud.”

“He left you exactly as he found you,” Delamare spits out. “In the filth, the lot of you together. You were useful to him there.”