The Resurrectionist by Matthew Guinn Page B

whiskey!”
    Nemo held out the empty bottle in response and shrugged apologetically. Hampton’s face took on a darker hue of red.
    â€œDon’t you brandish that bottle at me, boy. You get those feet hopping and fetch me some more. I don’t care a damn if you have to run all the way down Gervais for it.”
    Nemo looked at his feet and shook his head sadly. “Doctor Johnston told me not to leave my post, sir. He said so specific.” Behind Hampton, the line was growing restless at the delay. Soon Nemo would have a Confederate mutiny of his own to contend with.
    Hampton reached out his hand and gathered a fistful of Nemo’s shirt in it. He pulled upward until Nemo’s eyes met his.
    â€œI’ll whip you myself, boy, if you don’t fill that tumbler in a minute.”
    Nemo let his eyes widen as though struck by an inspiration. “Well, now, Mister Hampton,” he drawled, “there is one small barrel down the cellar I know of, but the captains tell me it’s off-limits.” He watched Hampton’s face as he spoke. “Tell me it’s aged something special. But they told Nemo to leave it alone. Said it was strictly for a momentous occasion.”
    Hampton’s eyes narrowed. “Would you not say this is a momentous evening?”
    â€œWell, sir, I guess it is something special, now, in point of fact.”
    The hand turned him loose. “Well, get it. I’ll watch out for things up here. I can spoon out punch as well as a nigger, I reckon.” Someone in the line laughed. Nemo picked up a pewter pitcher and started toward the stairway door while Hampton took up his position behind the bar to a smattering of applause.
    Nemo had to excuse himself past a pair of young ladies whispering to one another at the cellar door. As they giggled and moved away, he quickly unlocked the hasp below the glass doorknob. Downstairs, he was glad he had sprinkled an extra layer of quicklime on the floor that morning. The smell was still there, but subtly—little more than a sullen undercurrent to the scent of dry earth, only the hint of decay present beneath the tang of kerosene from the lamp burning on the wall. Tonight the basement looked much like any other, save for the cocky jut of a half-buried rib cage beside one of the brick foundation pillars, dusted with white powder, the last of the cadavers he had cleared for the ball.
    He stepped to the corner where the barrel waited, set upright on one end, and pulled off the lid. He dipped the pitcher into the whiskey and let it fill, careful to keep it clear of poor Minnie Jenkins’s stillborn baby, who floated upright in the amber liquid. Nemo had not opened the barrel since he had brought the baby down here in August and was pleased to see that the whiskey had worked a marvel of preservation. The little boy looked like an angel, he thought, with his tiny hands balled into fists against his cheeks. His short tufts of curls wafted gently as the pitcher rose from the whiskey, and Nemo placed a hand on them for a moment, saying a silent prayer. Then he put the lid back in place and climbed the stairs.
    Hampton was waiting for him in the front room when he hurried in with the pitcher, smiling as he moved through the crowd. Hampton handed a cup of punch to a stout woman in a satin toque and stepped aside for Nemo to fill his cup. Nemo poured with one hand and crushed a sprig of mint into the cup with the other. Hampton took it and tossed it back in a gulp. Nemo cleaned the rim of the pitcher with a napkin very slowly, watching Hampton from the corner of his eye as the white man coughed and wiped his lips. Eyes watering, Hampton stretched out an arm, pointing at Nemo.
    â€œNow that,” he said, “is whiskey. Hit me once more.”
    Again Nemo filled the cup, his smile even broader than before. Hampton turned to the waiting line and raised his glass. “To the Confederacy!” he shouted. The others raised their