by Nick Jones

Unexpected kindness is the most powerful, least costly, and most underrated agent of human change. Bob Kerrey

As Charles took another puff off his clay pipe, Isaac poured them both another glass of whiskey. His father had sent the whiskey in a package from home, and Isaac had been saving it for a special occasion. On this dull, winter night he felt that occasion had at last arrived. He and Charles had been working their way through the bottle slowly, making it last a long time, since sundown.

“What time is it now?” Isaac asked. “Three-thirty,” Charles replied. “We’ve got a few more hours to go yet.”

Isaac and Charles were sitting in the guard house, as they had been assigned guard duty for the night. It was a tedious job, as no one would be entering or exiting the barracks in that bitter cold weather.

“Thomas said he may head into town later this week,” Isaac said. “I asked him to bring back some books for us. I’m going to have some of the boys chip in so he can get as many as possible.”

“I’ll contribute to that,” Charles said. “I’ve read every damn book in the

library. Wish I would have left one unread for tonight. Sure would make the time go quicker.” He picked up his glass and took a sip of whiskey, savouring it. “All I ask of Thomas is that he get books of quality. Our library may have many fine history books, but the novels are sorely lacking.”

“I mentioned that to him myself. He’s going to be on the look out for anything good. There’s one I’m particularly keen to read, written by an American quite recently. I told Thomas if he can find that one, I’ll buy him a pint when next we’re having a drink together.”

“What’s the name of this American?” Charles asked.

“Mark Twain. The book I believe is called Huckleberry Finn or something to that effect. I’ve heard only good things about it,” Isaac replied.

“I should like to read it. Whatever is it about?”

“As I understand, it’s about the adventures of a young boy in Mississippi and his travels with a runaway slave. I hear it created a bit of a stir down there; you know how those Americans get about their civil war and their slavery.”

“I’ve never been to Mississippi. I would like to go one day, but I doubt I ever shall. More the reason to read this Huckleberry book; it may be the closest I ever get. Have you ever been to the southern states, Isaac?”

“No, only as far as Philadelphia when I was a boy, and my family was travelling. My uncle, however, is buried in the south.”

“How did he come to end up there?” Charles asked.

“He was part of that underground railroad. From what my mother told me, he was part of it since the beginning.” Isaac took a drink of whiskey and his features grew grim. “We first heard the news of his death from a band of runaway slaves, now free men, thanks to him, who had been travelling with him after they escaped. Some slave catchers were on their trail, and he stayed behind to hold them off, so the others could run ahead.”

“What happened?” Charles asked, leaning over the table, fully engrossed in the story.

“He was killed by those slave catchers. They caught him with a group of runaways and murdered him. The runaways were recaptured, but eventually after the war, they came up here to Ontario to start a new life. They tracked down his family, my own father, and told him what became of his brother.”

“Is that why you’ve always been such an abolitionist, Isaac?” Charles inquired.

“Partly, but you know, Charles, slavery is also condemned by sacred Scripture. In the Book of Exodus it says, ‘And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.’ That was why my uncle became a part of the underground railroad. He believed it was his Christian duty.”

“I don’t pretend to have a stake in such affairs, Isaac. I know nothing of the Americans and their civil war or their slavery.” Charles raised his glass, “But, I will drink a toast to your uncle and his bravery. May we all die such a selfless and courageous death.”

“Indeed. To Uncle Ezekiel,” Isaac replied, raising his glass. The two clinked their glasses together and drank the whiskey in them.

“He died shortly before the war then?”

“Yes, in 1859. So almost thirty years ago. Next April, it will be thirty years to the very day.”

They looked out again into the blizzard, the great white abyss yawning before them.

Suddenly someone coughed behind them. It was Sergeant Pepper.

Charles and Isaac stood to attention. “At ease,” the Sergeant spoke. “I just came to make sure you two were doing your job. Not sleeping, I hope?”

“No, sergeant!” The two answered in unison.

“Good. Stand for inspection,” he said. Charles and Isaac continued to stand at attention. Sergeant Pepper walked over to them and looked Isaac up and down. Even in the darkness of the guard house his keen eye could spot a fault. The sergeant’s standards were unforgiving. After he had finished inspecting Isaac, he nodded his head. Then he moved over to Charles. Once again, he scanned Charles from head to toe, walked around him, inspecting absolutely everything. Eventually he came to stand in front of Charles once more. “Private Wilson,” he said, “why is your pocket button undone?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant,” Charles answered with a detectable inflection in his voice that betrayed his frustration with himself.

“You’re lucky it’s dark in here, private. Otherwise, someone might notice and give you hell for that.” With that, Sergeant Pepper turned and walked out of the guard house and back towards the barracks.

“Did he just let you off?” Isaac asked.

“I think he did, Isaac.”

“Hell has frozen over then.”

Suddenly, Charles noticed something on the desk by the door. It was a pot of coffee – it’s smell unmistakable, still steaming, with two cups next to it. Charles walked over to it. “When did you make coffee?” he asked.

“I didn’t. I’ve been sitting with you the whole time.”

“Then who?” Charles couldn’t believe it. “Sergeant Pepper?”

“I guess so. Stranger things have happened.”

With that the two took the coffee over to where they were sitting and poured themselves a fresh cup. Charles raised his cup to toast. “To your Uncle Ezekiel,” he paused, “and to Sergeant Pepper.”