Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (10 page)

No mercy tonight, that I’ve been told. Sarge hands me
the short stick; the rope I already have in hand, and the long
wooden rod that we’ve used before on other prisoners. “If he gives
you any trouble, let me know, and I’ll send a few men over to hold
him,” Sarge says, then heads toward the campfire for his meal.

I stand before Drew for half a minute before he looks
up, exhaustion in his eyes. “Doesn’t look like bean soup to me,” he
says, smiling weakly in the dusk.

“No,” I say. “You need to come with me.”

“They still won’t let you feed me? Right now I’d kill
for a wool shirt and a piece of pie.”

“No food for you. And you need to spend another night
outside. This is going to really hurt. But you can take it.”

Drew shakes his head, then lifts his face into the
slow fall of snow.

“I’m going to put you right outside my tent. If I get
a chance, tonight I’m going to sneak you some food and cover you
with a blanket when no one’s around. That’s the best I can do.”

Drew reaches over and fingers the rod in my hands. “I
know what you’re going to do. We use this punishment too. A few
times I even helped. The men were all sobbing like children by the
time we released them.”

Grabbing the frame of the cart, Drew pulls himself to
his feet.

“You know better than to fight me, right?” I say,
looking up at my blond giant.

Drew sighs and rolls his eyes. “I know better. Your
Sarge is wearing me down good, and hell, it’s only been a couple of
days. As much as I want to get away, well…” He lifts one foot off
the ground and rattles the short chain connecting his feet. “And,
good as you’ve been to me, I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
He’s briskly rubbing his breast, blue-white now with long hours in
the cold. Those chill-stiff nipples again. I want to warm them with
my mouth.

“Come on,” I say abruptly. Taking his wrist-tether, I
lead him first to the latrine-trench to relieve himself before his
long immobilization begins, then to my tent, which I’ve pitched at
camp’s edge in hopes of relative privacy. Risking Sarge’s
disapproval, I lay down an oilcloth on the hard ground before we
begin.

“You need to sit down now,” I say. “The cloth should
help ease your butt.”

Drew lays one hand on my shoulder. “Wait, please,” he
says, desperate. “Is this some kind of test? Is God punishing
me?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure Sarge would say so. My Aunt
Alicia’s Cherokee, and I like her God a lot better than Sarge’s.
Thanks to her, I see God in places other folks don’t.”

“I want you to tell me about that sometime,” says
Drew, gripping my shoulder hard as I help him sit stiffly down.
“Damnation, my ass hurts,” he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. “Any
chance for salve tomorrow?”

“Yes, I hope so. I have a good bit left.”

“That’d be wonderful. It surely helped my back.”
Looking up at me, Drew musters another grin, mere minutes from the
pain he knows is near. “So you wouldn’t mind rubbing it on my butt,
huh?”

Amazing. The beautiful bastard is downright flirting
with me. “No, Yankee boy.” I chuckle and blush. “Whatever helps
soothe your hurt. I’m selfless that way.”

Our grins match for a moment before Drew drops his
head and lifts his hands, muttering, “Go ahead. Do your duty.”
Using the length of tether, I tie his wrists together more firmly.
With more rope I bind his already shackled ankles very closely
together.

“Draw your knees up and wrap your arms around your
legs. You know how it’s done.”

He does what he’s told. I’m about to insert the rod
over his elbows and under his knees when he says, “Wait, please.
One more minute. I just want to… You’ll be near, promise? I don’t
want to be alone all night.” His voice is lower, huskier than I’ve
ever heard it.

“Promise. I’ll be here in my tent. I’ll only be a few
feet away.”

“Will you talk to me some, while I’m out here?
Please?”

“Yes, Drew.” His arms are so thick with muscle that
it takes me a while to work the rod through. Finally it’s in place;
we’re both silent as I circle and knot rope around his elbows,
forearms, and knees to hold the rod in place. He’s going to be
hurting badly real soon. The lean and limber boys I’ve seen endure
this punishment have taken it a lot better than muscle-bound ones
like Drew.

Drew’s down to a hushed whisper now. “Oh, God, I—I’m
really afraid. I’m afraid I’ll break and cry and shame myself. I
don’t think I can take this all night.”

“I know. Cry if you need to. Hell, we wept together
last night, right? There’s no shame. Just cry quietly so the others
don’t hear you and come over here. They’re sure to mock you or
worse.”

I hold the rough oak stick up. Before I can lodge it
in his mouth, in a rush Drew chokes out, “You’re my only hope, Reb.
I don’t mean the hope of escaping, I mean, just…while I’m here,
hope for kindheartedness. You asked before if I—if I’d forgive you
for touching me. Look, now I—I’m begging you to touch me whenever
you can, as tenderly as you can and as often. It’s all I have
left.”

We stare at one another for a moment before I nod,
brushing his hair with a palm. “I’m going to tie this pretty loose,
so it doesn’t cut your mouth too bad.” Drew whimpers as I insert
the stick between his teeth as gently as I can. The last lengths of
cord I loop over the ends of the stick, tying it in place, knotting
the ends together behind his head.

Done. He rocks a little in his bonds, testing them.
He sags and sighs, biting down on the stick-gag bit. Snowflakes
gather on his bunched shoulders and melt. “I’m going to fetch
myself some food,” I say, brushing flakes from his forehead, “and
pilfer a little for you too.” Leaving my prisoner bucked and gagged
in the snow, I head through violet twilight for the nearest
campfire. What you’ve come to own, I’m beginning to learn, you must
care for.

_

CHAPTER TWENTY

_

More cheese, more biscuit, dried apples, a little
cold soup in a coffee cup, all of which I’m hoarding to feed Drew
later. But not now. Sarge is sure to be over at some point to make
sure his orders have been properly carried out. So I wait. I lie
belly down on my cot, tent-flap half open to keep an eye on Drew
and, beyond the sideways silhouette of his trussed-up form, the
rest of the camp. Quietly, by candle-stub light, I read parts of
The Iliad
to my captive and sip from my
flask. The story’s new to him; I’m hoping the excitement of the
epic will distract him from his pain. I’ll stay up all night if I
have to in order to help him through this hell.

Listening, Drew’s very still, though occasionally he
stretches his limbs as best he can in such a constricted position
and whimpers softly. Sometimes he shifts his weight onto one
buttock to give the other some relief or he works his no-doubt numb
hands around in their rough bracelets of rope. For the most part,
his head droops, chin on chest. Every now and then he lifts his
head to look at me, though I can’t see his face in the dark.

I leave off at the spot where the story seems
uncomfortably relevant: the great Greek warrior Achilles has just
heard of his beloved comrade Patroclus’ death and, in grief, covers
himself with ashes. It’s full dark now; the snow’s tapering off,
the gusts dying down. Moonlight comes and goes through flitting
clouds. When my pocket watch marks midnight, it should be safe to
turn traitor long enough to feed my captive.

Blowing out what’s left of the candle, I leave us in
the dark. Beyond Drew, I can make out the distant forms of a few
men still drinking around the fire. Someone’s playing a banjo,
probably Jeremiah, enjoying himself a little before he starts his
sentry rounds.

“Uhh,” Drew groans around his bit.

“You’re really suffering?”

“Uh.” Drew nods and sways.

“Cold as hell, too, I know.”

“Uhhh.”

“You still want me to talk to you? Will that
help?”

“Uh huh!”

“All right.” I roll onto my back and tug the blanket
over me. The warm weight of it feels like guilt, since I know
Drew’s so cold. Staring at the black canvas above me, I begin. I’m
not much of a talker, but here’s a damned good excuse to try.

Small things first. In between whiskey nips, I give
him some background on
The Iliad
, since
tonight I started reading mid-story. I tell him about
The Odyssey
, how the hero makes it home. I tell him
about how pretty these hills look in the spring and promise him
he’ll live to see the green, the bloom of sarvisberry and dogwood.
I tell him about my first boxing match, and the country ham and
sweet potatoes my family enjoyed during my last Christmas at home.
I tell him about Thom and what close friends we were for a while,
though I leave out the sweet sodomy we shared in the barn and the
fact that Thom wouldn’t speak to me afterwards and moved west soon
after that. I tell him about how bad these camp biscuits are and
how fine my grandmother’s are back home.

I pause, roll back over on my belly, and check my
watch. Two hours till midnight. “More talk?” I ask. Drew grunts and
nods. He’s started a rhythmic rocking in an attempt to warm
himself. Behind him, only a couple of men are left around the
campfire’s low glow. The snow’s entirely stopped, the sky clear.
Moonlight paints purple shadows across the fallen white. I’m
sleepy, a little drunk, but I need to keep talking. Drew’s holding
onto my voice like a drowning man does driftwood, or, more to the
point, like a freezing man does tinder and a flint. So I ramble on,
sipping my flask, moving closer and closer to risky, whiskey-frank
topics. Despite his youth and strength, I don’t know how much
longer he’ll survive, and, as much as he depends on me, I know he’s
not likely to divulge my feelings to the others, so what I mumble
now approaches deep things I’m afraid to admit.

“Keep that rocking up, buddy. Move your fingers and
toes around too, to keep off frostbite. Be patient; I’ll bring out
the blanket in just a little bit. I have some cheese and biscuit in
here for you, and some cold soup. I’ll feed you real soon. Just
hold on.”

Drew’s rumble of affirmation. Shivery call of a
screech owl. Whiskey burning my throat.

“So you like
The Iliad
? I saw
a drawing once, of Achilles and Patroclus, in a book. One was
bandaging the other’s war-wounds. Some things I’ve read say that…
men could be together in different ways then, that warriors who
fought side by side would take comfort in one another.”

Long silence, then another grunt and nod. Remotely,
Jeremiah’s banjo sounds, the first mournful notes of
“Shenandoah.”

“Big as you are, buddy, you look like Achilles or
Hercules, like a Greek hero in chains. I wish I were as tough and
strong as you. Tomorrow I’ll salve your butt and back and bandage
you up, I promise.”

Bit-bent mumble of gratitude. More rocking in the
dark.

“You wanted to know more about where I see God? Well,
right now, in this snow, and the bare tree trunks, and the
moonlight, for sure. The campfire too. And my body, and your body.
And, and y-your beard, and the way your muscles knot up when you
struggle, and the marks on your back, and the hair on your
chest.”

“Uhhhh?” Drew grunts, lifting his head. Surprise or
query? If only I could see his face, know for sure what he was
feeling. The rocking ceases, then starts up again.

Drunk and bold now, these mutters of mine. “I wish
you were in here with me, buddy, all hairy and warm. I know you’re
so cold. I wish I could hold you, rub your muscles into ease. I’m
glad you find my touch a solace.”

The moon’s shifted. Now its light illuminates Drew;
in its gleam his bare skin looks blue. He rocks in silence, my
broad-shouldered soldier, my brave slave. “I wish I had you naked,”
I whisper, closing my eyes. “I wish I had you home.”

_

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

_

When I wake, it’s deeper dark, the moon passed over.
Goddamned fool,
I think.
Drew’s out there starving and freezing, and you fell asleep
beneath your cozy covers.
I’m about to fetch his food from
the tent-corner in which I hid it when I hear again what must have
woken me: a ripping sound, followed by a deep groan.

Cautiously I peer past the tent flap. There’s a man
standing over Drew. Too dark to make out a face, but I can tell
it’s Sarge. Drew looks up at Sarge and shakes his head; against his
gag he’s begging brokenly, last vestiges of pride shattered. Sarge
bends down, grips Drew’s jaw in one hand and with the other tears a
strip of bandage off Drew’s back. Another rip, another groan.

“S-sir?” I say, crawling out of the tent. “What are
you doing?” I want to break my uncle’s jaw but, of course, think
better of it.

“Ah, Ian. Just helping you change his bandages.”
Another rip, more pale cloth hanging from Sarge’s hand. “Tomorrow,
perhaps, we’ll open these wounds up. Unless you object to another
beating. You seemed squeamish the other night, when I invited you
to take your belt to him. Surely a soldier as brave as you’ve
proven yourself to be over the last few years of war should savor
an enemy’s suffering.”

Suddenly it’s there in such a challenge, in another
of Sarge’s endless invitations to cruelty: how to keep Drew alive
longer. I bend down, take hold of a bandage, and rip. Drew gulps
back a sob. In the starlight I see his white teeth gnash the
stick-bit. Sarge laughs, pulling off another strip. I do the same.
We take our turns till Drew’s back is bare, wounds dark against his
back’s pallor even in such dim light, like illegible words cut into
the surrounding snow.

“Sir, I apologize for my weakness. I was very drunk.
And, to be honest, since it was you who lost so much during the
Burning last fall, and since you do clearly savor his suffering, I
think you should reserve the privilege of beating the prisoner for
yourself,” I say. Now I’m feeling like Odysseus: not the strongest
of warriors but sometimes the most devious. “This Yankee’s been a
powerful trial to me; I’m ready to see him punished whenever you
say it’s fitting.”