Father Kerry's Pistol

“The Lord could never forgive my sins, Father. Not after what I’ve done.”

Blake was slumped over on the stool in the confessional booth. He’d never visited a church to seek atonement during a voyage before. Like all other sailors, he always went to a tavern for whiskey and whores when his ship came to port. Coming home when the voyage was finished…that was the time for confession. The things he did while he was at sea always demanded penance.

But this time, he couldn’t wait. The guilt he felt for his crimes on this voyage was unbearable. So here he sat, in an unknown church in a foreign land, begging forgiveness from this man called Father Kerry.

“What you have told me is terrible, my son,” Kerry said. “And it is right that you suffer. But you can be cleansed. Look under your feet.”

Blake couldn’t see in the darkness of the booth, but he reached down and felt a loose board at the base of the stool. “What is it, Father?”

“Pull it up.”

The splintery wood gouged his fingers as he pried up the plank.

“Reach inside.”

There was a pistol in there.

“Now use it, my son. ‘Tis the only way to cleanse yourself.”

Blake sprang to his feet and ripped open the door to the priest’s side of the confessional. It was empty. Turning around, he saw an old woman kneeling near a pew in the back of the church.

“Where is Father Kerry?” he shouted.

“Father Kerry?” she said. “He’s been dead nigh twenty years, God bless. Took his own life with a pistol in this very church.”

****

“Aye, I remember Father Kerry,” the barman said as he poured another whiskey. “He was my priest when I was a boy. Never been a better man in this town.”

Blake still had the pistol tucked into his belt, but he kept his coat pulled down to hide it from any suspicious eyes in the tavern. This wasn’t a night for companionship, either from his shipmates or the plump trollops who moved from stool to stool, hunting for the next foolish rummy who would follow them upstairs. No, Blake wanted none of it. He wanted whiskey, and answers.

He leaned forward across the bar, careful to keep his words from others. “As God is my witness, I was speaking to him tonight. I went to the confessional to receive penance, and he told me to…”

“Wasn’t him, lad,” the barkeep said. “It couldn’t have been. He’s with his maker. Sure as you’re born, I was at his funeral. He lays at rest in the cemetery behind the church.”

Blake slugged back the whiskey and banged his glass down for another. “Took his own life, they say?”

“Aye.” The barkeep poured again.

“What is your name, good sir?” Blake asked.

“Jonas.”

“Peace be with you, Jonas. But I must know, if you can tell me. Why did Kerry…” He drained his glass into his throat, fearful to even utter the words.

“I don’t know, lad. Nor would I tell you if I did. His passing struck this town in the heart. He was one of us. His private matters were of no concern to, and you’ll excuse me for saying, a wayward sailor come to port.”

Blake reached under his coat and felt the smooth wooden butt of the handle. The revelers in the tavern were singing, happy and free from the emptiness he felt in his soul. No one knew him. No one cared if he lived or died. And certainly, no one would be bothered if he went into the back alley and used Father Kerry’s pistol to end it all. On this loathsome night in this strange town, only two things kept the barrel from his mouth.

He had to receive forgiveness to free his soul from eternal damnation.

And he had to know what led Father Kerry to ruin.

“Be on your way, lad,” Jonas said. “Go, and may the Lord keep you from harm.”

“You said Father Kerry lies in the graveyard behind the church?”

“Aye.”

“And you were at his funeral?”

“I was.”

“Please Jonas, will you come to the church with me to pray? I’m alone in this world. I just want…” Blake trailed off, staring into his glass.

“You’re on your own, lad,” Jonas said. “I haven’t been to that church in twenty years. I fear it. And I fear you. The hounds of hell are all around you. I can see their shadows along your shoulders. Leave now, and never return.”

****

Blake fumbled through the graveyard, staggering from stone to stone, trying to read the inscriptions from the flickering light of the candle he held. So many souls are at rest here. So many lifetimes. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters. They died happy, I’m certain. They spent their last days surrounded by family and love, before they passed on to their reward. They lie here now, their spirits content. None of them died with their hearts in agony, like Father Kerry and I. None of them spent their last moments with a pistol, lonely and tormented by their own actions.

KERRY

Beloved Son, Servant of the Lord

Heaven holds the faithful departed.

The headstone was unmistakable. This was the final resting place of the man who guided him to that loose floorboard. The man who told him the way to cleanse his sins. Whether it was a ghostly spirit or not, the words were clear. Blake’s forgiveness could only come from a cap and ball.

The graveyard was a small area hidden behind the church, completely concealed from the light and noise of the town’s streets. As Blake’s candle flickered out, he sat down at Kerry’s grave and pulled the pistol from his belt.

“Is there no penance for me, Father?” he mumbled. “Isn’t the Lord supposed to care for all his children?”

“The Lord cares for us all,” a voice said in the blackness. “But the Lord also exacts justice for man’s evil.”

Blake recognized the voice from the confessional. “Is this God’s justice for me? To die alone in the night, next to the grave of a man whose own deeds were as wicked as mine?”

“My soul was darker than the depths of Hell,” the voice whispered. “That pistol took it all away and sent me to eternity in Heaven. The Lord’s mercy found me. It will find you too.”

Blake cocked the hammer. “What were your sins, Father?”

“You can only know that when we meet face to face. And for that, you have to cleanse yourself.”

Tears rolled down Blake’s cheeks. “I’m so tired of this world, Father. There is nothing for me here.”

“I know, my son.”

“Is there happiness where you are, Father?”

“Yes, my son. You will see.”

Silence…

Back in the tavern, the patrons had left for their homes. Jonas enjoyed the quiet as he cleaned the bar with a rag and locked the door, anxious to go to his wife and his bed. But when he heard the loud crack of a gunshot, he knew the night was not finished.

****

“'Tis a pity,” Captain Marron scoffed. “Blake was a fine sailor.”

Jonas and the captain stood at the pier in the early morning daybreak, with a crude wooden box at their feet. Four deck hands hefted the box to load it onto the ship while the rest of the crew prepared the rigging for another departure.

“You’ll see he returns to his family?” Jonas said.

“I know nothing of his family, but we’ll return him to his homeland. Perhaps someone on the crew will have the name of his kinfolk. I can promise we’ll search. If we find no one, he’ll be buried as a pauper.”

Jonas nodded. “Thank you, good sir. Godspeed to him, and you as well.”

“Did you know Blake?” the captain asked. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“I only met him last night.”

“Do you know why he did this to himself? Did he say anything when you spoke?”

Jonas lit his pipe and pulled his coat tight against the cold wind blowing from the sea. “Bad things have happened in this town, captain. Those of us who were born here know the signs, and we know the spirits that have never found peace. I have seen sailors like Blake before. Their hearts are full of darkness. When they come here, the spirits of this town can find that darkness.”

“Aye,” Marron said. “I’ve been at sea my whole life, since I was a boy. Sometimes, the terrors we find on land are more dastardly than the ones that swim in the depths. Thank you for bringing him to us, Jonas. We shall take him home.”

Jonas walked across the creaking planks of the pier as the captain and his crew readied their vessel for another voyage. He had several hours before it would be time to open the tavern. The town, his town, began to come to life as peddlers wheeled their carts into the streets and mothers hung their wash out to dry. There would be many things to tend to today, but the first was to return Father Kerry’s pistol. It would go back under the loose board in the floor of the confessional, where it belonged.