“John!”

Henry caught up to John fifteen minutes later, just outside the docks.

John had not actually expected Henry to come after him, but now that he had done so, he found it impossible to believe he could have been put off so easily. He’d spent five hundred miles eating terrible cheese in the hope that it would change after all.

“Henry.”

They looked at each other.

“I’m leaving,” John finally said. “My arm’s healed, and I know where to go. I’ve a letter that’s a mere week old that says everything’s well. And the longer you wait, Henry, the harder it will be for you to return.”

“I know,” Henry said. “I know. And, John…I need to go back to my family. I want to prove I can make something of myself.”

“That’s nonsense. You are something. You, as yourself.”

“I want to make something more. I didn’t hunt you down to argue with you, John.”

“No?” A glimmer of amusement touched John’s lips. “That’s a first. Why did you hunt me down, then?”

“To tell you…thank you.” Henry swallowed. “And to beg you to write to me. I want to know…”

Everything, Henry didn’t say. John didn’t know how he heard it anyway.

“Thank you,” Henry said. “For saving my life just now. For the entire journey. It’s not that you changed my life. You made me see I was changing it.”

John looked over at Henry. They were in broad daylight, on the docks. They couldn’t embrace. They couldn’t even touch. They were drawing eyes enough as it was.

“Thank you,” John said, “for giving me something to believe in. Maybe a slave owner wrote those words, but they convinced people to fight for the proposition that all men were created equal.” He looked around the docks, saw the suspicious looks cast in his direction. These people had tossed his family out; equals they were not. Not yet. Still… “Maybe,” John said, “some day, some of them will even believe it. I cannot tell you how utterly necessary you have been to me.”

“As necessary as you are to me,” Henry whispered. “No matter where I go, or what I do, you and our time together will always be the foundation.”

“Go.” John’s voice broke. He could not help it. “Henry, go now, before I do something foolish like grab hold of you and refuse to let go. Go.”

“Write to me,” Henry said. “Write. You can reach me at my terrible father’s home. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a letter delivered. Just send it care of, um…the Duke of Scanshire?”

“Oh God.” The roll of John’s eyes was affectionate. “Of course he is a duke.”

“He’s definitely terrible. You’ll write?”

John turned away, but not so quickly that Henry missed his reply.

“Every day,” John said. “Every morning. Every night.”

* * *

The letters from John’s sister were comfort and companion on the remaining weeks of John’s journey.

We were told to leave, the letter that she had left with Allan said. Now that Noah’s freed, there’s talk of us becoming a burden on the charity of others. Never mind that we’ve done well enough for ourselves all these years. Still, we’re leaving. We’ve met up with other freedmen, and we’re heading north…

Then, the latest letter: We’ve found a space in Maine, where it can just be us, nobody else to bother us. Come join us as soon as you’re able. May our love speed your feet.

Some kind of love sped his feet—her letters, the thought of his mother in a safe space before a fire as winter came on. Imagining Henry’s return to his terrible father. Henry was not here, but John imagined them having a conversation every day. It would flow over every possible topic.

He thought of Henry with every meal, with every bite of cheese that was insufficiently terrible, with every silent dinner where there was nobody about to exclaim Squirrel! Who knew squirrel could be so delicious?

* * *

It was early December when John found himself at the outskirts of the village, standing beside what was undoubtedly a farm. The directions had taken him this far, but no signs declared names. There was, however a black woman tending the winter frames in her garden. She looked up when she saw him and smiled.

“Ahoy.”

“You. You seem familiar.” She took three steps toward him, squinting. “Ah, that’s it. You’ve the look of Lizzie Hunter.”

John’s heart leapt in his chest. “Lizzie Hunter? Not Lizzie Allan?”

“They’ve taken her name. You must be that fine older brother she’s always boasting about.”

They were here. John inhaled and felt almost weak. “She does…go on a bit.”

The woman straightened and held out a hand. “Mrs. Wexford. My husband is about, and— Alice!” That last came out on a bellow.

A young woman materialized from the barn, skinny and gawky. “What, Ma? I milked the cow. I told you already.”

“Alice, this is Corporal Hunter. He’s home from the war. Take him to his family, and for God’s sake, let everyone know he’s back. There’ll be a feast tonight.”

Home. John had never been to this place, but he felt himself growing roots with every step.

What was home, then, but a place where people cared about your life, your liberty, the pursuit of your happiness? Mrs. Wexford had only just met him, but she smiled at him, misty-eyed, because he belonged here and he’d come back.

He’d never been here before, but that was precisely how it felt—as if he had just come back.

This village felt like home in a way Newport never had. He felt that sense of belonging more and more with every step. Black children rolled a hoop down the street, laughing at each other. Every two steps they were interrupted by another person demanding an introduction. Was this Lizzie’s brother, finally? They’d heard so much about him. They felt like they knew him already.

He felt as if he knew them, too, brothers and sisters in a war for independence that they had not yet stopped fighting.

“Here.” Alice Wexford stopped in front of a door. Instead of knocking, though, she called out. “Mrs. Hunter! Your brother’s come! Hurry!”

The door opened a scant few seconds later.

Lizzie, Lizzie. His little sister—now round with child like a prize pumpkin—her hair back, a floury apron wrapped around her—

She burst into tears and threw her arms around him. “John. You’re back.”

He hadn’t let himself dream of this moment, not truly, not until now. She smelled of bread and Lizzie and home.

“There, there,” John said. “I promised I’d come back, didn’t I? You should believe me more often.”

She sniffed. “You should promise less and stay home more.”

He was home. Everything was perfect.

There was a feast that night, and introductions to people he’d never met but who felt like old friends nonetheless. Home. He was home.

Still, that evening, he slipped away from the impromptu gathering and wrote his first letter, because sometimes home could be two places all at once.

* * *

 

 My dear Lord Henry,

My family is alive and well. They’ve joined a community of freedmen, and between the dozen of us, and with some help from a Quaker parish who feels the injustice done to us, we have every intent to purchase an island of our own. It is large and entirely inhospitable—hence our being able to afford it—but we have hope and determination, and so long as we make it through this first winter, all should be well…

My dear John,

I told you to desist. I must repeat myself. If you ever call me “Lord Henry” again, even in jest, I shall be forced to take drastic measures. It turns out that I am as good a liar as you believed. My superiors were, primed by my prior mishaps, all too willing to believe in my stupidity. After everything I’d done amiss before, my hitting my head and not remembering a thing and waking up naked in Yorktown? Apparently it was all too believable. The court-martial was nothing. They were delighted by my plan to sell my commission, as I am demonstrably less than useless as an officer.

I spent a week thereafter delighting everyone. It will never happen again.

My father was initially overjoyed by my plan to stand for election to Parliament at the next opportunity. He crowed to all and sundry that he had finally “made a man of me”—as if he were personally responsible for you Americans deciding to revolt and all that—and held a grand dinner so I could meet his friends.

In his mind, I am still not intelligent enough to develop thoughts of my own, so imagine his shock when I spoke in favor of abolition of the slave trade. Our discussion on matters of the East India Company were also helpful. I broached the concept, and someone asked, “But how will we have our cotton?”

I thought this a reasonable response: “Well, if we cannot have cotton except by means of threats, bribery, and corruption, perhaps we should not have cotton.”

You would have thought I had shot a man. I published an opinion piece in the Times the next week, entitled “Perhaps we should kill fewer people” and it has caused a scandal. It is, perhaps, not the scandal my father expected me to cause in my youth, but he has expressed absolutely no gratitude for my circumspection. There is no reasoning with him on the matter; he stands firm. Killing a man for his coin is definitely wrong, but killing giant masses of men for tea, cotton, and sugar is our particular national business and must not be scrutinized.

Being a pariah has never been so much fun…

 

My dear Henry,

…Over winter, I intend to oversee our first major project—the creation of a handful of sloops meant for fishing. Fish can be salted and saved for the bitterest days; they can also be traded for warmer clothing, which is a necessity. But I’m hoping for something a little more frivolous. I dream of goats—there’s cheese to be made, if you recall.

I have told tales of the cheese. The cheese is legendary here already, and nobody but me has ever eaten it.

The grand experiment will take longer, but my hope is that in a few years’ time, we will have our first real trading vessel.

Along those lines, I finally told my mother and sister who I’d been writing to these last years. I had no choice in the matter. My mother looked at me, and there’s nothing to be done when she looks like that.

Dozens of letters, she said. Is it a friend from the infantry? If so, how does he live in England?

I told them everything.

I never expected them to dislike me if I confessed the truth about my leanings—we’ve been through too much together not to love one another—but I did wonder if they might doubt my judgment or my character. My sister just held my hand and told me that there were enough people who thought us beneath them. She saw no point in adding to that score.

She then suggested that Patrick was single and didn’t seem to have much interest in women. I had to explain that Patrick does not talk enough for my tastes…

 

My dear John,

I did not expect to win a seat in the House during the elections, but I must admit that my resounding defeat—which I have been told is an “emphatic rejection” of my “hasty and ill-conceived beliefs”—is a blow to even my inexhaustible optimism.

Even my allies tell me I must move slowly—that if we are to win hearts and minds on the abolition issue, we must hold firm on India.

Pah. I cannot stomach the thought of power won at someone else’s expense. I also find that I am particularly unsuited to a career in politics. It turns out that one skill politicians must have is the ability to not say “you must be extraordinarily cruel” when someone says something that is extraordinarily cruel.

I am unsure what comes next.

I am only certain that without your correspondence, I do not know where I would be. Years may have passed since last we spoke in person, but you have always been—and will always be—the most fundamental necessity to me…

* * *

Number 12, Rygrove Square in London was a small house—perfect for a political eccentric like Henry who had been disowned by his father but whose mother and sisters still came around for the occasional visit.

Over the last handful of years, Henry had gradually developed a knack for political essays. His tutors would never have approved of them—he still tended to ramble, and his style was shockingly familiar instead of tendentiously formal.

But his words were fun to read, and perhaps he would change a few minds here or there.

Sometimes he dreamed of more. Sometimes he dreamed that he’d answer the milkman’s knock on the door and that it would not be milk.

That was an impossible dream, one he’d learned not to indulge in too often. Henry had always been a creature of high spirits; he preferred not to lower his mood with memories of a five-hundred-mile walk.

And so it was that on a fine November morning, a knock sounded on his door.

The milkman, of course.

Henry set aside the essay he’d been writing—somehow he’d dropped a four-page aside on cricket in the middle of the thing, and it would not edit itself down on its own—and went to get the milk.

This morning, it was not the milk.

John stood on his doorstep. He looked—no, not older. His head was shaved completely; he stood taller than Henry remembered. He caught sight of Henry and smiled.

His smile. God, his smile. It felt like a shaft of sunlight piercing straight through his soul. It lifted his heart.

Oh, Henry thought. Oh, this. This feeling. He hadn’t let himself remember it except in his not-so-rare lapses in judgment. He only let himself feel like this on letter-days, when he perused the pages that had come across the ocean, committing them to memory.

“Good God,” John said. “You wear spectacles.”

Henry yanked them away. “Only when I write—which—good God, John.” His heart hammered. All the wishes he so rarely let himself feel came racing to the fore. He wanted another journey. He wanted to walk around the world with this man and never stop. “John.”

John held out a block of waxed paper. “I brought you some cheese.”

“Is it…?”

“No, no. It’s not the cheese. I think some days that that cheese may never really have existed. But it’s…something we make on the island. Someday, it might come close.”

Henry took the package. “See?” He turned, gesturing John to come in. “I knew it was milk at the door and behold. Just the milk I needed.”

Henry did not manage to sort out his emotions on the short walk to the pantry. Slicing bits of crumbling cheese did not help him put his thoughts in order. His feelings filled his chest like shimmering tears. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted still, and he didn’t dare ask if this was just a visit, or…?

Their journey felt like a dream now—one where he could forget the cold and discomfort and just…remember.

Ought he to embrace John? Kiss him? Beg him never to leave? All options seemed unfair, each in their own way.

The cheese was sharp and salty with a hint of musk, a deep, rich flavor that lingered on his taste buds.

It wasn’t the same cheese. It would never be the same cheese.

“It’s good,” he finally said.

“A bit immature,” John replied with a shrug. “We’ve only had it twelve months now. The flavors will deepen with age.”

The pause that followed lingered in awkward curiosity, like a cat that had chosen to sit atop the newspaper when one had hoped to read it.

John smiled at him. “You never used to be quiet.”

“I have too many thoughts, all stampeding their way to the forefront of my mind,” Henry explained. “Eventually, all but one will be trampled to death in the crush, and I shall blurt it out in triumph.”

Another long silence. Their eyes met. John squared his shoulders but didn’t speak.

Henry gathered his courage. “John, I—”

John spoke at precisely the same time. “Henry, I—”

They both stopped. They looked at each other.

“Well,” Henry said. “This will never do. We can’t trample each other, or whomever will we speak to?”

“Ah.” John rubbed his hands.

“You first,” Henry said, because he was a cheater.

“I’ve seen the newspaper,” John said. “Now that you’re not running for political office, I imagine you’re at loose ends.”

“Well, there’s always next election.” Henry had thought as much to himself. Next time, next time, next time… Even Henry’s naturally buoyant spirits quailed at the thought of applying himself to the Herculean task of altering the British national conscience, one person at a time.

“It seems a waste of unappreciated talent. I’ve heard there’s a position open,” John said. “You might take interest in it.”

“A position?”

“There’s a new trading company in the process of registering,” John said, “one that is determined to do things differently. You may have heard of it.”

“Ah?”

“They’re registering as the Lord Traders,” John said.

“Cheeky bastards.” Henry’s heart pounded in his chest. “I like their style.”

“You would.”

“I must confess—I know nothing of trade. Just what I’ve written in my silly little essays, you know.”

“Yes, well, it’s not a position as a trader I’m offering.” John looked over at him. “You see, after considerable thought, we find ourselves in need of a personable white man with a fancy accent.”

“Oh.” Henry swallowed. “These are…qualifications I possess.”

“Someone who can say, ‘My dear sir, what’s holding matters up? This permit ought to have issued six months ago.’”

Henry’s heart fluttered in his chest. “I am exceedingly good at uttering words.”

“I was thinking to hire someone who could wander into a customs office and talk and talk and not leave until everything was settled.”

“This seems suited to my talents. How do I apply?”

“The pay is, for now, quite limited. And you’d have to travel with the captain. You’d be on ships for months at a time. It’s a hell of a bad deal, Henry, and the only reason you should consider taking it is because if you stay here, you’re likely to lose your temper eventually and say something that will get you arrested.”

“Oh, I’d say that’s almost inevitable.” Henry stood. “My father threatened me with it just last week, and only desisted when my mother told him to be nice.”

“I haven’t even come around to the worst of it.” John swallowed. “I should mention that I love you.”

“Oh.” Henry’s head spun. His heart beat, far too many times. “Oh. That’s—oh. I need a little time to think this over.”

John straightened and looked away. “Of course. I’ll be staying here for a week. If—”

“No!” Henry took hold of his arm, turning him back. “A week would be a great deal of time. I needed…oh, two seconds. I’m already done thinking.”

The stiff look on John’s face softened, and he laughed. “I should have guessed.”

“I had to think about the salary, not anything else. I will require a larger salary.”

“Henry…”

“I inherited some money from my aunt, as you may recall. I thought…perhaps…your organization might need a little capital?” Henry swallowed. “I figured that if I was paying my own salary, I could raise it a bit. That’s all.”

John’s eyes had widened on this at first, and then narrowed. He shook his head. “I could not ask you to do that.” But he didn’t pull away from Henry’s grip.

“You don’t have to ask.” Henry shrugged. “It’s already done in all but legalities. You already have my heart and my soul and my body. Why quibble about my fortune on top of those?”

John looked over at Henry. His eyes seemed dark and still, like an ocean at night. John reached out a hand, clasping Henry’s fingers.

“If you need someone to say words for you,” Henry said, “then I am your man.”

“Henry.” John’s eyes shone.

“To be quite clear,” Henry said, “I have never stopped being your man. Not since I started, sometime on the road from Virginia to Rhode Island.”

“It’s not bad, my life,” John said. “My family is the best, my sister has little ones, and…I’m babbling, Henry. I miss you. In your last letter, you said I was necessary. Everything has been perfect except one thing. You’re necessary—the most necessary person I’ve ever encountered—and you’re wasted here.”

“Oh.”

“I ache, every time I get your letters.” John tapped his heart. “We’ve tried being apart. Can we try being together?”

“How long?”

“I don’t know how to measure the length of my wanting. Until the stars die and empires fall.”

Henry smiled, his heart too full. “Until all men are treated as equal,” he whispered. “Until everyone is allowed life, liberty, and the pursuit of…” He trailed off. Happiness was not enough to describe his emotion. He felt an incandescent joy, a sense that he’d finally clicked into place.

“The pursuit of home,” John told him. “I told you that once, when we went our separate ways. Let me tell you it again, now.”

The pursuit of home. That was precisely it, the thing he’d been searching for all these years on battlefields, in his father’s parlor, in his political essays.

“Lizzie told me to tell you that you’d be welcome,” John said. “That we’d be welcome. You’ll like her, you know. And business will take us back here, and you can visit the members of your family who aren’t terrible.”

Home. Henry might have wept. Instead, he wound his hands in John’s and let their fingers and their futures intertwine.

“I love you,” he said again. “Please don’t be disappointed when you help me pack. There’s a great deal of ridiculous nothings that I’m terribly attached to and will have to bring along. I am something of a frivolous fellow.”

John just smiled. “Tell me the story of everything on the voyage, then. We’ll have all the time we need.”