Free Hot Valley by James Lear

studies, but was gainfully employed at a large local bank, shaping up to be a pillar of the community, putting behind him the follies of youth. We had been friends, and more than friends, at school, indulging in a little romantic play, although nothing, I now realized, to the real thing as I had discovered it in the bars of Bishopstown. James was now preparing to marry a local girl, his second cousin, I believe, an advantageous marriage that would please everyone. But we had sworn eternal friendship and support, and I knew he was far too honorable to turn me away, however little he might like giving shelter to a black sheep such as me.
    Within a week, I was packing a bag in earnest, having
received from James the welcoming reply that I had hoped for. He had even read between the lines (I had mentioned something about “still looking for employment suitable to my talents”) and suggested that there was a post for me at the bank, if I would not consider it beneath me. I considered it very much beneath me, of course, but I was grateful for the opportunity to leave Bishopstown with something approaching dignity. I had a job to go to, a (temporary) home, and, as I told my parents, it was time to cut the apron strings and see if I could stand on my own two feet. I mixed my metaphors quite cheerfully, so glad was I to be escaping from an environment that had become insupportable.
    James’s parents and mine exchanged letters, and everyone appeared to be very glad at this change of circumstances. His father told my father that he had always thought me “a fine young man,” and his mother told my mother that James’s sisters were “delighted at the thought of another brother to torment.” We all pretended that all was for the best, that I would probably fall in love with one of the girls and come home a responsible married man with a fine set of blond whiskers and a baby in my arms.
    I set off for Montpelier early one Saturday morning, the plan being that I would arrive by evening, settle in on Sunday, and start work on Monday.
    I never arrived.
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    I took a coach north out of Bishopstown, my trunk strapped to the roof, sharing with a family from New York who, they informed me at great length, were on their way to relatives in Canada because “we don’t want to get our throats cut by runaway slaves.” We stopped at Rutland and put up in a spacious, comfortable inn, the sort of place where the sheets were clean, the food good and plentiful, and the company agreeable. I ate well, a steak and fried potatoes, washed down with beer.
    â€œGood honest Yankee beer,” a voice behind me in the dining room said. I paid no attention and continued eating.
    â€œYep, a man needs a glass of ale after being on the road all day.”
    This time, I looked around, as nobody else in the room seemed to be in the mood for conversation. My traveling companions had already gone up to their room to settle the children, and my fellow diners were silent.
    One figure stood out like a candle in the darkness. Leaning against the bar was a spruce young man in military attire—although I recognized it as neither the gray of the Confederacy nor the blue of the Union. His jacket was red, with gold braid edging. His pants were dark, either black or blue, and as tight as a second skin. He wore boots, the sort of boots that imparted a swagger even to the most unathletic build. But here, they completed an already impressive ensemble. He looked as if he owned the place. His brown hair, a little longer than was the fashion, was swept up and over his brow, glistening with some kind of pomade. He had a handsome face, what my mother would have called “a little too handsome,” with twinkling eyes and the suggestion of a smile. His shirt, which was white and ruffled, was unfastened to halfway down his chest. He was looking directly at me.
    â€œThirsty on the road, isn’t it, my friend?”
    My instinct was