Thoreau in Love (14 page)

Calm restored, the captain, smarting and holding his side, sent Ben to his cabin with the warning, “Remember the yardarm, Somers.” He ordered the sails raised and
Dahlia
continued its journey west.

Henry, in a daze, tried to understand what had occurred, thankful that Susan hadn’t been there to see it. He was wracked with guilt, about everything except kissing Ben. His lips tingled with the memory of Ben’s lips, the inside of his mouth had never felt so smooth. The captain, standing on the poop deck beside the mate and the wheel, seethed at Henry, who decided he should apologize for going up to the crow’s nest. As Henry walked aft, the little man who’d boarded in New London stumbled out of the hatch and stood long enough to say, “Whot’s going on here?” before losing his balance. He wobbled to the starboard rail, tried to steady himself, peered over the side, leaned back to get his bearings, then asked Henry to help him to the “pote” side, as he pronounced it.

Rotund little John Manning was so out of balance that Henry felt as if he was walking a toy top. They careered from barrel to crate to mast to crate, forward two steps, back one, sideways two, John Manning whoa-ing Henry as if he were a stallion, pulling him this way and that, until Henry felt he would have had better luck spinning him across the deck. When they finally got to “pote,” John Manning sat on a rum barrel, caught his breath and said cheerfully, “You remind me of one of my sons, whose name I can’t quite remember at the moment.”

“How many do you have?” Henry asked incredulously.

“That I do remember. Seven sons and five daughters. Paul is the one you remind me of. You have his lips, or rather, he has yours, for he is several years younger than you, I would guess. Kissing lips, the little woman says.” He put his face to Henry’s, making Henry think he had limited sight. “How old are you, young man?”

“Twenty-five,” said Henry.

“No, I never would have guessed. I took you for nineteen or twenty.”

Mrs. Hawke joined them and asked how John Manning was feeling.

“Not nearly so bad as yesterday. It was just yesterday we left New London?”

“Yesterday it was,” said Mrs. Hawke. “I’ve never known you to be sick like this.”

“Drank way too much. All day I tried but couldn’t get anything straight in my cabin.”

“You know we ran aground, John?”

“The ship?”

Mrs. Hawke made a forty-five degree angle with her hand, which John Manning mimicked. “My cabin was atilt?”

Mrs. Hawke nodded, smiling broadly.

“Aground, you say. And I thought. . . . You see, there was this charming young man at the inn where I was taking lunch. He joined me. And ordered rum after rum after rum.” As if the memory rekindled the drink in him, John Manning said, “Oh, Lord,” turned and grabbed the railing behind him and let loose a storm of his insides.

Later, as Henry strolled the deck to exercise his legs, Ben rose from the forward hatch. They tried to act nonchalant, but their smiles and nods and raised eyebrows bespoke their love. Mrs. Hawke, on the poop deck, saw their exchange and gleefully harrumphed. Susan noticed, too; she held the stair rail to the poop deck for support as Ben and Henry, forgetting to move, gazed into each other’s eyes. And then the captain, who’d been scanning the horizon, saw them and launched into another tirade.

“What the hell is going on down there? Wickham, get below and don’t come on deck until I call you.”

Ben gave Henry a last look and went below. Henry, discovering Susan and the captain glaring at him, smiled sheepishly.

“Let’s get this tub moving,” screamed the captain. “We’ve passengers to deliver to New York. Haul in! Lively now!”

Henry went to Susan. “Would you care to join me for a stroll?”

Susan took his arm. Although Henry wished he were promenading with Ben, he was relaxed in the knowledge that circumstances alone forbade it. After several turns around the deck, Susan said, “You and that boy seem like brothers.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “We have a kinship.”

“Were you able to find out anything about what we spoke of yesterday?”

“No, I totally forgot.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so jealous as the captain when it comes to that boy.”

“Have you’ve forgotten Lidian already?”

“True. Lidian. Dear Lidian. One of the saddest people I’ve ever known.”

That evening, the crew assembled on deck to entertain themselves. Ben sang sea chanteys while dancing a jig. The sailors asked him to sing “Tom Bowline.” Instead, he knocked the mast three times and, affecting to be a young damsel, trilled everyone’s favorite:

Who is knocking at my door?

Who is knocking at my door?

Who is knocking at my door?

Said the fair young maiden
.

To which Mrs. Hawke, in her gruff seal voice, blew in:

Open the door

you dirty old whore

said Barnacle Bill the Sailor
.

On they went, making everyone laugh. Afterward, inspired to balance a small jug of rum on her head, Mrs. Hawke sang a ditty as she stumbled her way to the stern hatch. Ben was also ready to turn in, but the crew wouldn’t let him go until he’d sung “Tom Bowline.” After the crew dispersed, Henry and Ben went to the ship’s prow and sat under Henry’s blanket, gazing at the night sky cluttered with stars. “Would you like a star? I can swim up through the black and grab one,” said Henry.

“Would you?” asked Ben. “For me?”

“I’d do anything for you,” said Henry. “Which one do you want?”

“That one?” said Ben, pointing.

“Here goes.” Henry rose from their warm blanket and stretched a hand as high as he could. He climbed onto the gunwale, holding tight to a line. “Just out of reach. I’ll swim.” He jumped back on deck and stroked into the black night.

“You joker. Come here.” Ben pulled Henry into their blanket.

“Did we really do what I think we did this morning?” Henry said.

“We did.”

“I thought so. I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”

“You say that every night when we’re out here. Remember that.”

“How could I forget it?”

“You will. But when you do remember, believe that it was true, that it is true. Promise me you will.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but since you ask me to promise, I promise. As long as you promise to remember this day always.”

“Done,” said Ben. “Let’s go below.”

Giddy with excitement and touching each other the whole time, they gathered up the blanket and stole across the deck. The cabin was so chilly they could see their breath. Henry moved to the bunk to get under the covers.

“Not yet,” Ben said. Ben held him by his shoulders where he stood and whispered, “I want to see your face. I want to look at your nose. I love the way it reaches almost to your lips.”

“My nose is enormous,” said Henry.

“It’s strong. And your beautiful eyes.”

Henry shivered. “Speaking of eyes, I hope that bruiser of yours is going to be all right.”

“I hardly notice it anymore.”

“Would it hurt if I touched it?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wincing himself, Henry touched two fingers gently to the black-and-blue swelling under Ben’s left eye. Ben put his hands on Henry’s sides. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I adore your nose,” said Henry softly, moving his fingers over Ben’s turned-up little nose. “It’s perfect.”

“You are insane.”

Ben undid Henry’s jacket, pulled up his shirt, felt his naked torso.

“Ben. No.”

“Henry, your prick is sticking straight out—”

Henry shook his head. “But that’s just my prick, as you call it.”

“What do you call it?”

“Tree. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Our love is pure—”

“Tree? You call your prick your tree?”

“That’s what John called it. When we were lying in our beds, he’d say, ‘My tree’s sticking straight up. I must chop it down.”

“That’s kind of funny. I like that. I must chop down my tree. Whack, whack, whack.”

“Ben, I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“We’re not going to ruin it, Henry. I swear. Trust me.”

Henry, frigid and frozen, nodded a tight-lipped assent.

Ben kicked off his pants, releasing his perfectly tubular, custard-white prick, which looked like a tree trunk stripped of its bark.

“That’s a tree,” said Henry.

Black and blue blotched Ben’s right arm, the back of his right thigh and his torso.

“Ow, do those hurt?”

“Just a bit.” Henry moved to dim the lamp. “No, I want to see you.” Ben helped Henry pull off his shirt, and then Henry was out of his clothes and Ben took him by his sides and, looking him up and down, smiling wildly, pulled him slowly to him. Henry’s gnarly tree trunk touched Ben’s, and Henry moaned and Ben chirped, and they stood, rocking with the motion of the sea, touching here and there, stomachs, thighs, pricks, and then Ben’s arms wrapped around Henry and Henry could hardly breathe he was in such ecstasy. Ben whispered, “My love isn’t rough, or dirty,” and Henry touched the sides of Ben’s thighs and then ran his hands up Ben’s thin, tubular torso, feeling muscle and bone, skin so soft he wanted to feel it forever. And everywhere, bumpy little moles.

“You’ve got moles everywhere,” said Henry, and Ben moaned a yes, and their mouths met, and their tongues, and their hands were roaming and pulling and Henry grasped Ben’s thin, muscular buttocks and felt inside the crack. Passions he’d never known gushed up, and he swooned, but Ben held him and eased him onto the lower bunk, still kissing, heated by their passion, and they rolled around and around feeling and kissing and touching curious tongues to teeth and gums and necks and ears, rubbing legs and thighs with hands and knees, aching to meld into one, and then after ages and no time Ben rolled Henry on top of him and pulled up his long lean hairy legs and collapsed them so his knees touched his shoulders, and Henry didn’t quite know what was going on and didn’t care and then Ben spit into his hand and took hold of Henry’s prick with his slick hand and rubbed it up and down and pulled it to him and Henry felt a sensation on the tip like he’d never felt before and was so astonished he pushed his prick to feel it more and he lifted off from kissing Ben and gasped and Ben pulled Henry’s buttocks and Henry pushed and all at once he knew transcendental ecstasy, as instinct took over and he pumped in out in out, muttering between kisses and grunts and flashes of bright white light “I’m in heaven” and “This is heaven” and “Oh my God” and at last, “I love you.” And when finally they were spent, they held tight to one another and shortly fell asleep.

7

Twice in the night Henry woke Ben by inserting himself into him, and it was just as passionate and thrilling as the first time, and the sleep after even joyously deeper.

Morning broke clear and warm, and when he went up on deck, Henry felt too his life had cleared after so much obfuscation. Fishing shacks dotted the shorelines along the narrowing Long Island Sound. Nestled in low hills below another clear blue sky were spring green fields, white and pink blossomed trees, small harbors and colorful villages. A magnificent stork soared over them, it’s huge white-and-black wings slowly beating the air, its long legs trailing behind its narrow body. Henry breathed in the fresh air, felt again the joy from the night before and wanted the feeling to go on forever.

Ben came on deck and surreptitiously squeezed Henry’s arm. In the distance, something went pooh, pooh pooh.

“What’s that?” asked Henry.

“Cannon from Fort Schuyler,” said Ben. “Morning and evening, they fire from the forts surrounding New York.” Ben looked around, decided no one could see them and quickly kissed Henry on the lips. “I have lots to do. I just wanted to say hello.” Then he was gone, leaving Henry to glide through the air.

Dories and schooners and sloops, even two steamboats came from the west, all heading east, while before and behind
Dahlia
other ships headed west. Henry asked a sailor if the land ahead was Manhattan, and the sailor said, “You’ll know Manhattan when you see her.”
Dahlia
turned south and soon passed the stone fort that had been booming its cannon. Two steamboats passed them, going toward Manhattan.

Susan appeared on deck in a flutter. She was the last person Henry wanted to see.

“Henry, have you packed? Are you ready?”

Surprising himself, Henry said, “I’m nowhere near ready.”

Susan snickered. “Neither am I . . . packed but not ready. Packed but not willing. Too bad we can’t continue down the coast.” Henry smiled wanly. For once, he agreed with Susan.

Henry turned his attention back to the world ahead. He’d been warned that New York was as close to hell as one could get on earth, so when a grizzled sailor informed him, “We’ll be comin’ to Hell’s Gate soon,” he was taken aback.

“Is that truly what it’s called?”

“Indeed it is, and well named, too, because she’s hell to navigate. Mrs. Captain takes charge from here. She don’t trust Skipper to manage it.”

Hell Gate, as it’s properly known, is the treacherous strait where the placid waters of Long Island Sound merge with the swift-running East River, which is actually an estuary and where, as the sailors say, all hell breaks loose. The Hell Gate currents and rips could turn a sloop sideways and drive a schooner into the rocks, and that was on days when the winds were steady and no waves rose out of the turbid water.