I pretty much wrote this on a whim, so it may not be exactly word-for-word historically correct. My friend critiqued it, but that was literally pages ago--these are pages one through three of over forty pages!
I’ve always been terrible at telling people how I feel. I’m a shy, often times peculiar, young man. I’ve been told by my father that I’ll never marry. He tells me that my mother would say the same thing if she were alive, but she died of influenza when I was but a toddler.
I’ve been told by countless young women that I’m attractive but once I start stuttering, they turn away. Thus, here I am in Missouri, literally in the middle of the war.
Union from here on up, Confederate from here on down. Me? I’m a Yankee, as the Rebs would say. Fighting against slavery and everything the South has built up, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I’m not in the war myself, though. Another odd thing about me: for most of my childhood, I was a frail and sickly boy…yet another reason why I’ll apparently never marry. I’m a talented lawyer, but I suppose that doesn’t count. Graduating from Harvard is nothing if you can’t talk like some Southern hick, dazzling Southern Belles. I think I’m the only Yankee boy not swooning over the young, widowed Southern girls.
I rolled my eyes at the thought. Me? Swooning over some girl? Ha! I barely noticed attractive women! I was too busy with my clients, I suppose.
“You lost, young man?”
I turned suddenly, seeing a tall, older man staring right at me. He reminded me of my father; gray hair, green eyes—he would actually speak to me, though.
“Yes, a little lost, sir. I’m from New York, you see. I’m not familiar with everything here yet…”
”Ah, just moved? Joining the army?”
I laughed, but the old man didn’t see the joke.
“I’m not very strong. I’d barely qualify as a drummer boy, sir, but thank you,”
“You look decent enough,” The man argued.
I shrugged.
“Thank you. Um, sir,”
”Yes, my boy?”
“What’re all those people crowding around?”
I pointed to a little shop not too far away with a line of people out of the door. Everyone was crowding around it…but what was it? I squinted, but I still couldn’t see anything.
The old man chuckled.
“Ah, that’s the Arms Dealer,”
“Arms Dealer?” I inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“He can sell arms right there in that little shop to all those people? Legally?”
The man exploded into peels of laughter. I didn’t get it—was selling arms in a shop like that to the public during a civil war legal in Missouri?
“He doesn’t sell guns, boy! He sells weapons in the form of words,”
”Excuse me?” I laughed, utterly confused.
“Songs, poems; you name it, he’ll write it for you. He’s especially popular with the ladies. He writes poems and songs for their lovers. You tell him about the girl you like, and he’ll write wonderful things for you,”
I nodded my head in understanding. Oh, he was an author!
“Say, you have a girl back east in New York?”
I laughed. Again, he was confused.
“I stutter and I have problems confessing how I feel. They’d run to a Reb before they ran to me,” I laughed.
The man chuckled.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
“Ishmael Goldman, sir. I’m a lawyer. Yourself?”
I held out my hand and the old man and I shook hands. I supposed that he was measuring how strong my handshake was, based on the expression on his face. He seemed pleased to my surprise.
“Nathan Hawk. I’m a doctor. You need a place to stay?”
My face lit up. I nodded and took out a pen and a piece of paper.
“Yes, sir, I do! But I think I want to talk to that Arms Dealer first. Can you write down the address and I’ll come later?”
Mr. Hawk nodded and wrote down the address. I shoved the paper into my breast pocket and ran over to the little shop.
“You new in town?” The last man in line asked.
I nodded.
“Ah, where you from?”
”New York. I have a law firm up there,”
”Oh, that’s nice! You must be smart,”
I laughed, nodding.
“Yes, and a good liar,” I admitted.
The man laughed, patting me on the back.
“Good for you, then, huh? You know, this Arms Dealer…he’s quite a funny man,”
“Funny? Wouldn’t he have to be fairly serious to write love songs?”
The man shrugged.
“Well, he’s pretty sarcastic. He has charisma, though. He’s mysterious, too. No one knows his name!”
”Really?” I inquired.
“Yeah, it’s true! And no one recognizes him. They say he lives out of town, and he has to for no one here to know his name or face. If you ask, he just smiles.”
Hmm…there was more to this Arms Dealer than met the eye. Well…I didn’t know what the man looked like yet, but there was more to him than people knew. Hadn’t anyone thought about those facts? If no one knew his name or face, couldn’t he be potentially dangerous? After all, he referred to himself as an “Arms Dealer”…
“It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow. I bought her a ring and I’m going to give her one of his poems,”
The man blushed, putting his hands in his pocket.
I nodded, smiling.
“That sounds nice! Are you coming to pick it up?”
The man nodded.
“Yes! You give him the information a week or so in advance and he’ll have it for you.”
“Like a florist?”
The man nodded again.
Pretty soon, the line dwindled and we were inside instead of standing outdoors. Quite a few people let me go on ahead, seeing that I was new in town and curious about this Arms Dealer. Just talking to people in the line, I discovered quite a bit about this young man.
They said he looked like an angel; his skin was fair, his eyes a pale blue and his hair a pale blonde. He was very polite and talked as though he was very educated; some thought he might’ve been French or Danish, but he had no accent to prove it. I couldn’t see or hear him myself—there were people in front of me blocking my view and it was so loud I could barely hear the person in front of me.
Finally, it was my turn. They were right about his hair and skin color; his hair was a very pale honey blonde and his skin was fair.
“Your name?”
I didn’t know he’d spoken to me until I heard the two young women behind me giggling.
He was seated on an oak bench with an oak desk, scrawling in a black leather memoir book. When I didn’t say anything, too stunned to move, he looked up at me. His eyes were pale blue and he wore gold-rimmed glasses that were slipping off his nose.
”Hello? Cat got your tongue?” he hissed, sliding his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
His voice was…I hated to admit it, but his voice was lovely. It sounded as though his words were made of silk.
“Ishmael Goldman,” I stuttered, embarrassed.
“A Jew?” he inquired, raising his eyes to look at me.
I nodded. Didn’t he see the dark, curly hair, green eyes, and olive skin? Well, I suppose that was a stereotype; my sister was just as blonde and fair as him!
“Yes, sir. Something similar between us?”
The edge of his mouth raised slightly in a smile.
“No…I can only wish,”
I didn’t understand what he meant. How could he wish to be a Jew? My family had fled Germany because of all the terrible laws against us. Did he want to be persecuted?
“So, what do you need?”
”I’m new in town, and everyone seemed to like you, so…”
”Ah, they directed you to me. My personal executioners,” he laughed.
“Yes, they did. I’ve heard rumors…”
”Hmm. Tell me,” he purred, his blue eyes challenging me with a flicker of annoyance.
He didn’t seem too interested, but I decided to babble on, anyway.
“Well, I’ve heard that you’re European, live out of town, are well educated, you have charisma, and no one knows your name,”
“I’m not European, I live here, I’m well educated, I do have charisma, and people do know my name,”
He looked up at me and barely smiled once more.
“Anything else?”
“I...er…well…”
”Time is money!” he chuckled, winking.
“Oh, sorry! I was thinking! Well, it was nice to meet you,”
He nodded and we shook hands. I noticed a scar on his wrist as we shook hands—I hadn’t noticed it before because his sleeve was covering it. As soon as he saw me looking at it, he snatched his hand back and slid it into his pocket.
“Have a nice day, Ishmael.”
“See you around town!” I called.
He snickered under his breath and murmured,
“Good luck with that,”
I turned to look back at him, but it was too late; someone was at the table in front of him and to the side of him. I couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see me.
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