The Two Deaths of Antwan Hearts

He was in the barn with Herold. He sat on the hay with both legs stiffly extended in front of him, one to stretch the tendons, for it had been an inhuman ride from Washington; the other because it was set, bound to a weathered plank Mudd had pulled from his cellar. The reverberations of the pain were still there, that tender anticipation, breath held, menacing from the eaves like a displaced headache. He was hungry as well. The farmers had practically thrown stale biscuits at him. They hadn't even bothered to wash the vegetables. Antwan just was not accustomed to the treatment. Though it had been a year since he had last performed on stage, he was nonetheless an actor. He was not a faster or a rationer.

For five days they had hid in a grove of trees by the Potomac, and for five days his heart raced. The visitors did not bring food, would not bring food. They spoke to Herold and were quickly gone again in the brush. He would see Herold turn around ten times and ten times walk slowly back towards their beds. They had nothing to do but to lie back down and sleep the time away. Antwan found it hard to sleep out of doors. The sun lit up the insides of his eyelids and the air was still, thickening in the middlespring heat. In spite of himself his hope slipped away in the absence of food or any reassurance from Herold. That man had met him and escorted him to Mudd's, had helped prepare for the escape, but he was sullen and taciturn. Perhaps the sight of Antwan's badly broken leg had unmanned him, shattered the clean, loping fantasy of what he was supposed to do. Antwan remembered the first night only dimly, and only the troughs between the adrenaline surges and the whiskey.

The barn doors were locked from the outside. Old Garrett was adamant that they not be discovered. The old man seemed truly sympathetic, though very gruff, actually even a little hostile. Still, they were safely away from sight, waiting for the vertical slats of white ribbing the musty dark to sink away. Virginian courtesy. He had hoped for perhaps a handshake or the uneasy reverence of Garrett's boys, but they were all very grim, too. Herold slept at the other end of the barn. Antwan could not make out his form, but he heard the rustling of hay when the other man shifted. When he thought about it, Herold had not said a word to him in a day and a half.

He dreamed he was playing Brutus in Julius Caesar, in New York. The noble man seduced into conspiracy was later hunted by the very nation he served. Brutus was a pariah, the kind he loved to play with downcast eyes and a mustachioed mouth turned down subtly. Caesar's ghost was appearing before him when there was a clatter of arms, spears falling together. He awoke and saw Herold's silhouette fragmented against the slats. He was gathering his bedding. There was a sharp bang at the door. Both men froze. After a minute there was another bang. Then there was audible the sound of the lock being turned. A faint murmur could be heard outside. Then the Lieutenant spoke.

"You fugitives in there, I command you to surrender yourselves." There was no noise in the barn. Antwan looked for Herold, but in vain. Herold did not make a sound in the dark. There were two pistols in his sack, and a knife.

"For whom do you take me?" Antwan finally called out.

"It doesn't make any difference," replied the Lieutenant. He sounded disinterested. "Come out."

Antwan heard a rustling in the straw. Herold was going for his bag. The old fellow was finally getting his nerve back! Antwan's stomach turned with a fatal sense of heroism. "Leave me the knife," he hissed into the dark. To the door he called, "I am a cripple, and alone." And he felt the words, as if they carried his spirit out of his body for an instant and directed him to gaze down upon his sprawled form, hobbled, haggard, exhausted.

"I know who is with you," shouted the Lieutenant, "and you had better surrender."

"Where is your shirt?" Herold hissed in the dark. It took Antwan a moment to realize what his companion meant. He had worn his fine shirt to Ford's Theater but had packed it away for the ride. He had taken it off at Mudd's house, when he was into the whiskey. It was then he had told one of his favorite stories. The scene became clear now. His memory began to knit itself back together. He had told Mudd and Herold the story about his schoolchum's dalliance with the rabbit!

"Where is your damned shirt, Antwan?" Herold said again.

"I may be taken by my friends, but not by foes!" Antwan screamed giddily. "Why do you want my shirt?" he said to the dark.

"If you don't come out, I'll burn the building," shouted the Lieutenant. There was the sound of footsteps outside. Inside, Antwan heard metallic clinks as Herold emptied his sack on the ground.

"If you come back here I will put a bullet through you," Antwan warned. Herold was stumbling to his feet now. Antwan remembered his dream bitterly, and smirked at his co-conspirator's dark shape. He put on his best honeyed southern accent: "Oh captain!" He sniveled. "There's a man here who wants to surrender awful bad."

"You had better follow his example and come out."

"No, I have not made up my mind," he yelled back. The room was spinning now and there were bright flashes in his head. Finally he was on his feet, teetering on the makeshift crutch. "Draw your men back fifty paces and give me a chance for my life!"

"I have not come to fight. I have in my charge fifty men. You don't have a chance."

Herold was at the door now, and was fumbling with the handle in the dark. Antwan felt with his good foot along the floor for his pistols. "Well, my brave boys!" he cried as he shuffled along, "prepare me a stretcher, and place another stain upon our glorious banner!"

Herold was out into the light. He was halted and the soldiers demanded he turn over his arms. He stammered that he was unarmed. The soldiers replied that they knew what arms they had. Antwan began to hobble to the door. His mind's eye had pulled back again. He could see the room. He could see that the contents of his sack were spread out across the ground, his bullets trampled in the dirt and straw. The carbine was leaned against the wall by the door, but it was useless without those lost bullets. Antwan began to chuckle at the wretchedness. "I own all the arms!" he shouted as he moved, "and I may have to use them on you gentlemen!"

He was at the door now, past Herold, and moving toward the squad in the lopingest limp he could fashion. The Lieutenant, for he could see now the bars on the man's blue coat, the Lieutenant was ordering Herold to put his hands up. Antwan swept his eyes back across the field of bluecoats and his eyes caught on one trembling form, unibrowed, tears streaking the man's grimy, rosy cheeks. The soldier was blubbering, his thick lips spewing glistening spittle. His rifle was raised, and he began to wail in great tongueless sounds.

"Oh," he said.