“Yes, Sam, they have… but perhaps you had better sit down again before I tell you about it.”
* * *
I helped Sam dress himself, and comb his hair, and when he was relatively presentable I took him to a nearby tavern, where we ordered eggs and toast from the kitchen. It wasn’t gourmet fare—the butter was maggoty—but it was filling.
Sam admitted that he had been alone since his return to Manhattan. It wasn’t just his grief over Julian’s presumed death that had caused him to hide himself away; it was the loss of his left hand, or the sense of wholeness and manliness that went with it. He ate efficiently with his right hand but kept his left forearm immobile in his lap, and he was careful at all times not to show the stump. He kept his chin down and avoided the eyes of other customers. I didn’t mention his condition to him, or act as if I noticed it, and I thought by that strategy to distract him.
While he ate I shared the story of my adventures with Julian in Striver, and Julian’s unexpected ascension to the Presidency. Sam was greatly interested, and thanked me repeatedly for relieving his mind about Julian. “Not that the Presidency is any kind of safe haven, God knows. I’m glad you came to me, Adam, and I thank you for the meal, but you had better leave me alone after this. I don’t care to see people, as things stand. I’m not what I used to be. I’m of no value to Julian anymore. I’m a useless appendage.”
“The problem is more pressing than that, Sam. Deacon Hollingshead has been making trouble for Calyxa. She and Julian’s mother are both confined under guard, pending prosecution.”
Sam’s eyes, which until now had worn a moist, narcotized glaze, narrowed to a fine point. “Emily is in danger?”
“Potentially, yes—and Calyxa. It was Mrs. Comstock who asked me to find you.”
“Emily!” He spoke the word in a tormented voice. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“Understandably; but we can buy you a bath and a haircut as soon as you finish your breakfast.”
“I don’t mean that!”
“But it might be a good idea in any case. Mrs. Comstock is particular about the odors of things.”
“What I’m ashamed of, Adam, is nothing I can bathe away!”
He was talking about the stump of his arm, of course. “Emily Comstock doesn’t care about that, Sam.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t— I do.” He lowered his voice, though the pain in it was impossible to disguise. “There was a time after I left Striver when I prayed for the infection to kill me.”
“That kind of prayer isn’t welcome in Heaven, and I’m not surprised it wasn’t answered.”
“I’m less than a whole man.”
“Did you feel that way about One-Leg Willy Bass, back when he was chasing us through the wilds of Athabaska? Seems to me you had considerable respect for him, though he lost more of his leg than you did of your arm.”
The comparison appeared to startle him. “Willy Bass was nobody’s cripple. But is that what you imagine I want, Adam—a career in the Reserves?”
“I don’t pretend to guess what you want as a career , but don’t you want to help Mrs. Comstock, when she needs you? That’s the issue right now.”
“Of course I want to help her! But what use is a drunken cripple?”
“None—so you must stop drinking, and you certainly must stop thinking of yourself as a cripple. Show me your injury.”
He bristled, and kept his arm below the table, and refused to speak.
“I worked alongside Dr. Linch at the field hospital in Striver,” I said. “I’ve seen amputations before, and worse things than amputations. You have always been a kind of second father to me, but it seems the role is reversed. Don’t be a child, Sam. Show me.”
His cheeks burned crimson, and for a long moment he sat stiff in his chair. I hoped he would not take offense and strike me with his good right hand, for he was still a powerful man despite his recent debauches. But he relented. Averting his eyes, he raised his arm until it was just visible above the rim of the table.
“Well, that’s nothing,” I said, though in fact it was an unsettling sight, the stump of his forearm terminating in an old bandage rusty with stains.
“It still weeps from time to time,” he whispered.
“We all do. Well, Sam, I suppose you have to decide which you value more—your wounded pride, or Emily Baines Comstock. If the former, go back to your hovel and drink yourself to death. If the latter, come to a barber with me, and have a bath, and let me change that bandage; and then we’ll get our women out of the trouble they’re in, or die trying.”
There was a risk in saying this. He might have walked away. But I had never known Sam to refuse a challenge, bluntly presented.
“I suppose a bath won’t kill me,” he muttered, though the look he gave me was vicious and ungrateful.
* * *
The town’s barbers and bath-houses had already begun to close for Christmas Eve, but we managed to find one of each still willing to serve us. We also visited a clothing shop, and exchanged Sam’s military rags for a more presentable civilian outfit. These purchases just about exhausted the pay I carried with me, and Sam had only pennies in his pockets.
But he wouldn’t go to Emily Comstock’s house right away. He wanted to recover from his debauches first; so we spent a night at the Soldier’s Rest. He slept soundly, while I fought a series of skirmishes with the invertebrates gamboling among the bedclothes.
Christmas morning came. We woke about dawn, and refused the offer of a charitable breakfast. “We should go directly to Mrs. Comstock’s,” I said, “if you’re ready.”
“I’m far from ready,” he said, “but I won’t get any readier by waiting.”
There was a carriage at the brown-stone house when we arrived there. It was a fine full carriage, with three horses to pull it, and gilt embellishments, and the crest of the Presidential Palace on the doors. It was accompanied by a number of Republican Guards, who had overpowered the single posted sentry (not the same man I had treated to a meal), and who were escorting Mrs. Comstock and Calyxa to the vehicle.
Calyxa and Mrs. Comstock caught sight of us as we approached. They beckoned us aboard the carriage. The Republican Guards initially resisted this suggestion—it wasn’t part of their detail—but relented after a tongue-lashing from Julian’s mother. As quick as that, the four of us were confined together in the cabin of the conveyance.
Sam looked at Mrs. Comstock, and she looked at him, and there was a protracted and uncomfortable silence.
Then Mrs. Comstock spoke up. “You lost your left hand,” she said.
I blanched, and Calyxa winced, and Sam turned red.
“Emily—” he said in a husky voice.
“Was it a war injury, or just carelessness?”
“Lost in battle.”
“Can’t be helped, then, I suppose. Your beard is whiter than I remember it. I suppose that can’t be helped, either. And you look frail—sit up!”
He straightened. “Emily… it’s good to see you again. I’m sorry it had to be under such circumstances.”
“The circumstances are about to be altered. We’re off to the Executive Palace at Julian’s request. Is that your best shirt?”
“My only shirt.”
“I don’t think the war has done you very much good, Sam.”
“I guess it hasn’t.”
“Or you , Adam—is that a flea on your trouser-leg?”
“Speck of dirt,” I said, as it leapt away.
“I hope there are no photographers at the Palace,” Mrs. Comstock said grimly.
* * *