Letters From the Hesperus

God strike me for my sinning heart. But how could it be but right? Hair like yours beneath my hands, his lips touched gentle to mine, his scent and body driving upon my senses. Naked. Can I but shudder at the thought? Yet I shudder and do not fear. Naked. Close. How your body lay with mine, that night we first were joined. Marie. No other touch but yours. No other in all my life. But Tom. I damned myself in that touch.

I lay with him through the night. Lips met. Warm against him. I did not – I – spared him the worst dishonor. But Marie. Help me. His face – his eyes. I touched him, and he cried out, and his voice was yours. He came to me, friend of my boyhood, dear companion of all my years – good brother from you, my wife. I loved him, and in his body – so strong, so sweet, so much your own and so unlike – there was love that answered and joined with mine. He came to me as trusting as a child, all the power of him come gentle to comfort and be solaced. I held him, Marie, in my love of him – and my love of you. My love for you both.

I am damned. For I loved him there, close upon my body. God, forgive me. I will destroy this with the first light. But I took him in my hands and touched his taut, smooth body, touched as I longed for him to touch me. He clung to me sweetly, God, as sweetly as my own dear Marie. He called me by my name, his voice so rough and broken that he stung me to tears, and I kissed him, my beloved, and brought him to me. I … was as strange to him as his hands were to me. But forgive me – it was – ah, Marie. Our wedding night. How kind we were to each other. How gentle. How slow and soft to touch our bodies, to learn our ways and find the path to pleasure. I … thus with Tom. Tender. Slow. And – my soul. Ah, my soul. Marie, I was lost, as he beat and pulsed within my hands and moaned against my body. I held him long, my sweet Marie, and I would not put him from me for any thing. I held him close, and when I slept – my God, Marie, did I dream you smiled?

The Hesperus, at sea

February 11, 1865

He has found my letters. God help me, I can hardly write.

He has found them, Marie, and read them, though I begged him not to. Though I would have taken them from him, he would not give them up, and – oh, Tom. My heart broke to see him. He put his head to the desk and wept. His poor broken body. His hair trailing over my letters. His hands that clenched and trembled in fists. I longed to help him, Marie, I did. I wanted to go to him. He was so hurt. So lonely. But then he said –

He was angry, Marie. He would not have said it otherwise. He loves you with all his heart; he is your good, kind brother. He would not have said that thing for all the world, but he was hurt, and torn to the heart, and did not know where to lay his grief.

You know what was. Do not make me say it.

I love you.

Your Richard

The Hesperus, at sea

February 12, 1865

I love you, Marie. I will not give you up. I beg you, do not forsake me. Without you there is only –

Tom. He came to me again. That night, that evening, when the sun was sinking in the sky. God. My mind, Marie. I no longer know day from day, nor night from morning, nor my dreams, Marie, from waking, for you are always there before me, with your golden hair and your eyes like the sea. Your lips touch mine in flesh and spirit, and I am lost between you.

He is so beautiful. That morning, before he found my letters – his touch so gentle – a moment, Marie, I dreamed myself with you, home in our narrow bed, close by the wall of the cottage with the larks singing in the wheat. That moment I saw into heaven, and I drew you to me, the scent of your skin filling my senses, the brush of your hair on my lips.

I knew him, Marie. I knew what I did. And I did it, though I knew with whom. I saw your gentle eyes all the while. But how could I put him from me? His eyes, that soft blue-gray, so trusting … so afraid. He feared the pain that could come from me, who never had any thought of him but love, joy and affection. I could not do it, Marie. I could not put him from me. And I did not want to.

The gray dawn light. Will it ever be day again? I saw him in it, his golden hair touched to lead, his eyes sunk in shadow. He looked so young, with his body curled against mine and his eyes pleading for comfort. I drew him close and kissed his hair, and touched my lips to his. He put his face to my chest, and – ah, Marie. He wept. He wept for you, with a grief as open as a child's. I held him to me, close in our pain, and he murmured low – "We share this, Richard. Let us be true."

I held him close. He needed it, I swear. I could not bear to see again – God, not now – that terrible light that burned in his eye the day we sailed from Portsmouth. That day he went into the Spanish sea for a shilling's worth of rope. I held him until our hearts lay at peace and – Marie. Our bodies stirred.

He would have – given himself. Touched his lips upon me, there where I ached for him. God, can I say this thing? I could not do it, my poor Tom; I could not betray him so. God, forgive me. I tried to do right. What little right was left me. I only wanted that he should be comforted at last. That some day I should see again that bright, soaring lark's joy that he had – my love, you know it well, but how long has it been since I saw it? What love I might bring him, surely I owed him – our sweet Tom, whom I took from you though all my heart protested. And so – I did that thing, I think he would have done for me. I took him, Marie. Unto myself.

Sweet to me. Sweet was the touch of his body. I wish I could lie to you, Marie, but your eyes have always found me out. Even as a child, you knew the truth, whether I wished you to or not. You made me an honest man, for a lie could never pass that gentle gaze. And oh – the touch of him was sweet to me. His hands upon my skin, his lips touching my neck, my chest – God. My belly. Thighs. And there I must, I must stop him, and how else, Marie? How else?

Do you remember that night, Marie, when you first let me kiss where I longed to touch you? Do you recall how long we trembled, my lips upon your thighs, hardly daring to kiss again, softer, higher, where I hungered so to feel you? How your body arched up to mine when my lips came to you at last? How you cried and trembled, so that I half-feared, and lifted my mouth? How you begged me, sudden and wild, stirring my blood beyond all words when you pleaded with me to give my touch again?

It was that night, Marie. From the moment my lips touched upon his thighs. He had that catch of breath, that sudden cry as if for mercy – it works my mind to madness now, the arch of his body, the trembling grip of his hands. It was – oh, spare me the words that can never say, beneath the shame of it, what beauty it was – to see you thus in him.

Yet there was – difference. He was you, Marie, and he was Tom, and my mind ran so upon you both, my heart so torn between you. But the hunger rose up like a trembling fire, and – I took him in my hands.

Warm. Strong. Hard and smooth, like the handle of an axe wrought fresh from the ashwood. Heavy, good to the touch – my God, how can I say this thing? How is it the page does not burn with the ink? But it was good to me, and – Marie. Forgive me. I whispered his name on the skin of his thighs, and raised my lips to kiss his fullness in my hand.

Rich and warm, the skin, the scent, the touch of him. Nothing, Marie, like your own soft body, and yet I tasted him, and when he cried out at the touch of my lips, I saw you there, Marie. My God, my mind has fallen in shatters. You were there by the side of the bunk, your soft white hand upon his brow. How did you come there? What did you do, kissing your Tom as he cried out to us both? Tom, beloved, with his fine strong limbs and the trembling arch of his body. Touching my lips. Sliding slowly into my mouth. God help me, it was a sin terrible, a pleasure so sweet – my Tom. Such wild beauty. His hands twined into my hair; his body shuddered and clung to mine, flung down along my back with his lips kissing my neck. It was good, so good, as I took him to me, woke his spirit, brought him to hungry desire. We are but beasts. I know I shall be damned. But I trembled with the fire that ran through me, and though my hands shook, my heart, Marie – my heart was in rapture. When the moment came – when Tom cried out, and his body shook, and he pressed himself sweetly to my lips – I held him to me, close against my body, and – What words? What words can I say? The taste of him. The touch.

I might have lingered there forever, kissing that body that met my lips. Oh, good Tom. How kind he was to me. He drew me to him and murmured my name, gentle to my ears. Flesh to flesh. Naked. Pure. Tender. And his words, as he held me there – so soft, the brush of his lips on my ear.

"She will forgive us."

The tears stung me, but I fought them. I kissed his body – so wild, so yielding – and all my blood woke to him. It was all I could do to tear myself away and come up to the deck.

And then –

Would that I had not.

Would that I had not gone. Would that I had not written. Would, God, Marie, that I had never sailed that day from Portsmouth, my eyes to the soft green hills and the little dell with the wooded church, and that last, long sight of you.

I would that I had never drawn breath upon this earth – but for that one day. That day long ago, when I woke at dawn to the cool green morning. I walked with you and Tom out to the strand to find the cattle up to their bellies in the dewy grass. Tom ranged wild before us, bold with his wooden sword, and I was but a boy myself that day. I walked beside you, carrying your pail, and felt a slow, warm wonder when my hand touched against yours. My eyes opened and I loved you, Marie, that day and always.

My mind. It will not rest. I have put this letter from me a dozen times, but it lies upon my desk, a cruelty – an accusation. His words are there upon it, though the ink has not yet shaped them. They rise up from the page to torment me. I cannot rest. I cannot think. God, I would that Tom would come to me. But he will not, Marie. He will not. And his eyes burn again until I weep for him, and I fear every moment to hear the cry of the men that will bring me the news of his death. What more is there, Marie? What more is there for either of us?

I came back to my cabin. He was there amongst my letters. He read them through, though I begged him not to. He wept, Marie. And then –

Too much. God, it is too much.

He said.

Marie. I love you.

She is dead, Richard. She is dead these three months and more. Will you not face it? She is lost to us both.

My heart, Marie. My heart.

The Hesperus, at sea

February 13, 1865

Can you ever forgive me those words? I would do anything to take them back. I would do anything, God, never to have heard them. Every time I lift the pen I see them, and – words fail me. Word fail me entirely.

Tom. Marie. What can I do but go to him, knowing the pain he feels? Knowing what sight is in both our eyes – your face, your sweet form – God help me. The churchyard. The dell. The flowers. The blackthorn that blossoms white over –

Over your –

Where you lie. Where I love you. Still. How can I, Marie? How can I release you?

But Tom. My only. How can I put him from me? What else is there left to me in all this world? What other heart like yours? Who knows the joys that we have known, who weeps, Marie, our sorrow – who but our one friend, our sweet companion, in whose company we never felt ourselves burdened, nor without whom, in truth, were we ever complete? That gentle soul sang with the love of both of us. All that was best in us, Marie – it lives in him, who witnessed it. It lives in us together. What other way, but this, my heart – that in us both you linger? You are the love that draws us.

I dreamed this noon in the burning heat. I dreamed, Marie, you smiled.

The Hesperus, at sea

February 15, 1865

My Marie –

He is here. He lies yet upon my bunk with the morning light upon him. So long the sun has been dull, the light from the window gray with dawn. But this morning, Marie, it touches his hair with gold.

I cannot tell you all the beauty of this night. But I need not, need I? For in the depths of the long watches, did I not see you with me? I write these words for you, my angel. I know that you can see.

I went to him. Last evening, when I had done my letter to you, my sweet, my love, my never forgotten. I love you. And so I went to him.

My Tom. His eyes burned, his pain so deep that it shamed me to see him. I had lingered so long on the hurt done to me – on the pain within me still. But it was not I alone who lost you. Can I call my loss more grievous than his, who never knew a day of his life not brightened by you, a moment in which your smile had not lingered upon his? Our Tom. He wanted my help so much, and I failed him. I left him alone on all the ocean to weep his loss – even of me, who should have been his friend. But no more, Marie. No more will I fear the love I bear him. For I have seen you smile.

He came to me last night. When the door had closed and we were left alone, I took him to me and begged his forgiveness. Then our good Tom, so strong for me, and for so long a time, when all the while his poor heart broke – he clung to me, and let out his sobs. I held him close, brother, son, comrade … oh, more than all these things, Marie. More than any of them. I kissed him with all my love on my lips and opened my heart to him.

"We have loved her," I said – and did I not see you there in the cabin, smiling softly to me? Did you not touch your hand upon his head, where it lay against my chest?

"We have loved her," I told him, my heart trembling, for I looked into your eyes. "Let us love one another."

Did I feel at that moment your lips upon my brow? When I looked, you had gone into the shadows, but I saw you there, Marie – all the long and tender night.

I held him long, touching his tears, so strange with his limbs as hard as oak. It was always his way, Tom, that gentle heart so like your own. But himself, Marie. I saw this, in the grace and power of his touch, strong yet gentle upon me. I must love Tom himself, not only for you. I must – and I did. That day, Marie, so many years ago – my hand met yours, and in that one moment I knew that I loved you. This night, Marie, my hands touched Tom. They sunk soft in his golden hair, and I loved him.

You smiled, Marie. I drew his lips to mine, and this time I knew no fear. My soul was released. From torment. To Tom.

He was shy of me. Though my hands touched soft on his body and my lips brushed his own, his eyes turned away. He knew I saw you in him, his hair, his face – so calm and strong, God, how had I never seen the beauty of him? His hurt ran so deep that it struck my heart, and I saw what wrong I had done him. In following you so far, my love – unto the very grave – I had left poor Tom desolate, driven near to follow us both. Grieved with the wrong I have done him, I put all of my heart into a kiss. More – I kissed him, Marie, with hunger, for I saw too well what he feared still – that I made of him only you, that I loved him for his hair and his eyes and his sister, and that my mind was far from him himself.

Poor aching soul. He would have come to me though it were true. All he had, he would have given. But I saw him then, a man himself, and – ah, Marie, my heart. You are within it forever. But I love him. Friend of my childhood, brother of my days of happiness, and – lover in my mourning. Yes. My lover, and I to him.

We came slowly to it. I stroked his hair and kissed him, long, soft kisses that he returned. Still he turned half away; he scarce could put his faith in me. I drew him to my lips, held him close and murmured his name to him. I gave between my kisses my plea for forgiveness and my sorrow for the wrong I had done him. I swore that I would not leave him again – not in the flesh, nor in the spirit. I swore, Marie – and now I know that I need no forgiveness – that I would come back to him, nor spend my days in my heart kneeling by the side of your grave. There was comfort there, comfort and oblivion – but Tom calls to me now with love and solace, and my duty to him is grown a pleasure.

It was strange – so strange I have no words for it. But you saw, I know. How we kissed. How we touched. Naked on my bunk. How his eyes met mine, pleading that I would come back to him. How I longed to bring him peace, so much so that I – did not prevent him. This time. His lips closed upon me. I was glad – so glad. For an instant, Marie, I saw you – it is true. As you were that night when I lay quivering under your touch, and you kissed me in that way I had never known before. Your lips. God, yes. That night came back to me.

But I opened my eyes to him. I looked upon our sweet Tom's face, his eyes to mine, aching only for some little sign, some gesture that he did more than fill your place for a moment's release. Ah, Tom. Never that. Never that at all. I put all my love into my touch, and his eyes closed as I stroked his cheek. His lips – God, his lips drove me to madness. The soft stroke of his tongue, so gentle, shy, and hesitant that I knew what we gave each other this night – both of us clean and shy as lambs in the field, all new before us, bright in the instant, oh, and shining. My soul. For Tom. He took me in his mouth, so soft, so warm, so close about me – I shuddered and clung to him, and sobbed his name as through my body the adoration ran. Fierce. Aching. Ah, and ecstasy at once. I clung and kissed him through the pulse and wild thrill of my body.

Then he grew less shy, Marie – less fearful that I could not love him. Ah, my Tom. Forgive me that I ever put that doubt into your mind. His eyes began to soften and to shine behind the sorrow that had clung there so long, my God, how had I left him to sorrow so long? I kissed him – and what taste there was upon his lips, salt, strong, my own, his taste and mine together. I kissed his lips with a whisper of his name. The deep answer in his eyes – the grateful light that rose and burned there, the aching relief that I answered him at last – oh, how I felt it. The love of him, and how he had suffered for it, all these long months when I sank within myself. I kissed him again and took him in my hands, until he trembled and groaned and cried out near to breaking.

My name, he cried – my own, and yours, pressed to my body in that aching moment. I knew what he told me. He loved me the more for your touch upon me – for that he followed the path of your hands on my body, and took to him the flesh that was once your own. And is, Marie – and is. Yours still in heart, both of us, only loving you more, that we love each other.

This last offering I made him. This act of love together. This one thing between us two – that we could never share, Marie. That Tom alone could ever bring me. This I gave. This I desired.

I kissed his lips and put my hand upon him – his straight, strong length that leapt beneath my touch. I trembled then, for never – never had I done this thing, nor ever thought to do. When I drew him softly to me, he shuddered, though we clung close upon each other. It frightened us both. Were we men still? Were we sinners? Were we true to you, Marie, or to each other? Then he kissed me. Gently. Ah, sweet Tom. His lips upon my neck woke me to passion, and fear fell away in the warmth of our bodies. I, the eldest, ever in the lead, ever the first to order our days – I lay down beneath him and let him soothe me, close in the strength of his arms. The brush of his lips, the fall of his hair where he stooped upon me – God, Marie, it was heaven. I saw you then as you came out from the shadows and touched your hand upon his back. I saw you smile. My angel. It was not to comfort Tom alone that you brought him to me. How did I never see it? I thought you meant me to save him, and with all my heart, I would. But, ah, Marie – you saved me as well, and brought me safely home. God bless you. God rest your soul, for Tom has brought rest to mine.