Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (17 page)

“Would you like a turn, nephew?” says Sarge, offering
me the whip.

I take it. It’s heavier than I remember. I carried it
to this whipping place only minutes ago, but somehow it’s twice as
heavy, as if the flesh and blood it’s eating this afternoon were
like the overabundant feasts that can make a man fat.

I hand it back, trying to suppress the quivering that
runs along my fingers. “No, sir. As I’ve said, after all you’ve
lost, this is a righteous pleasure you shouldn’t have to
share.”

“Yes. All I’ve lost.” Lips set, Sarge grips the lash
and gives it a shake. Every time he tortures or kills a foe, he
must be remembering Aunt Ariminta: all the years they shared, her
sudden death last fall. He never, never mentions her, but surely
she haunts him just as powerfully as Drew has come to haunt me.
Perhaps, if Drew were taken from me so brutally, I’d be as full of
hate as my uncle is.

“Lay it on, sir!” George shouts with glee.

“With pleasure,” Sarge says, recommencing his
efforts.

Part of me is here, listening, obeying, watching
Sarge’s arm swing back, then forward, hearing the crack, seeing the
body before me jerking and swaying, the snowy skin staining like
parchment smudged with scarlet ink. Part of me is in Drew, taking
that sharp tongue across his back again and again, biting down on
rope, staring down at George, fighting back screams, feeling
youth’s skin part and trickling blood tickle.

Sarge stops, panting softly. I stare at his handiwork
as at a tapestry hung up for my inspection. The muscles of the snow
are all red now, pretty parallel bars, red raspberry juice. And
still Drew isn’t crying. Why the hell isn’t he doing what I told
him to do? He’s simply swaying and jerking, infrequently releasing
a soft gasp or groan. This is not the show Sarge wants.

As if Sarge were reading my mind, he says, “You
promised me the Yank would give us blood
and
tears, nephew. Let’s carry on. Let’s see if I can
catch the belly or chest once more.”

My uncle swings. I feel Drew’s right nipple open up.
His breast is dripping not mother’s milk but warrior’s gore.

My uncle swings. I feel Drew’s golden-hairy belly
open now, red furrow of plow in clay.

“You should see his face!” George laughs. “Lord, does
this boy hate us!”

No time now, no seconds or minutes, just Sarge’s
rhythm. Right, then left. Right, then left. Right, then left.
Stepping forward and back, forward and back. Breast, belly,
shoulders, back. Breast, belly, shoulders, back. Breast, belly,
shoulders, back. Our captive’s gasps become whimpers, and now he’s
silent, and now his spastic jerks beneath the whipcrack have become
a heavy slumping.

“Sarge?” George has left his long study of the
prisoner’s face and strolled over. “He’s passed out. You look
tired. May I try? Why don’t we drop his pants and mark him up
below?“

“That’s enough,” I say.

Both men look down at me, frowning.

“The prisoner’s unconscious. He’s had enough. I won’t
have him die on me.”

“Sarge! I told you that Ian’s gone soft on this pig.
I told you—”

“Shut up, Private.” Sarge tosses the dripping whip
onto the ground. The grass beneath the whip is faintly green. “Ah,
that was glorious. That was enough. Yes, Ian, cut him down. You can
nurse him and treat him easy today and tonight. Tomorrow, though,
buck and gag the man again.”

George sputters, then falls silent beneath my uncle’s
cold stare. Sarge strides off. Jeremiah steps forward. He props the
unconscious prisoner up while I untie the rope from which he hangs.
Released, Drew slumps on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Shit, he’s massive,”
Jeremiah grunts, lowering him into the grass. Jeremiah takes one
arm, and I take the other. He’s almost too heavy to move this way,
but Rufus joins us, and laboriously we half-drag, half-carry him to
my tent, depositing him on the ground inside.

I thank Rufus. He nods and heads off. “Good luck with
him,” says Jeremiah, patting my shoulder as he leaves. My Yank lies
on his belly, hands thrown above his head. I ungag him and, as an
afterthought, work an oilcloth beneath his dead weight. I trace the
wounds across the arch of his back. I lift my stained fingers to my
mouth. His blood tastes like all men’s blood, the blood that
flooded my mouth in boxing matches when I was younger and often
lost. It’s salt and iron. I rub it across my forehead, across my
lips, across my tongue.

_

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

_

“Damned fool,” I mutter. “Why did you have to be so
frigging brave?”

Unconscious still, Drew’s in no position to respond.
He’s a mountain of bare skin I’m daubing blood from. Water I’ve
heated over the campfire steams in a pail, growing foamy with the
precious soap Sarge gave me earlier today. The white cloths and the
water slowly redden. The wounds Sarge inscribed streak Drew front,
sides, and back, as if my big Yank had been waylaid by a bear.

I’m wiping blood from the deep slashes crosshatching
the small of Drew’s back, where, astride his spine, a little patch
of yellow hair spreads, when he groans and shifts. “Ian?” he
mumbles, lifting his head. Then “Oh, God,” he gasps, pressing his
face against the oilcloth beneath him, agony stiffening the body
beneath my hands. “Oh God, oh God.”

“Easy, buddy, easy. These wounds really need to be
cleaned, salved, and bandaged. Can you take that?” I run a finger
between his shoulder blades, where purple and red paint what once
was freckled white, where swollen stripes groove what was smooth.
“I’ll take it slow; I’ll be as gentle as I can. It really needs
doing.”

“Yep,” Drew says. “Get on with it.”

“Want some whiskey? I got a flaskful.”

“Courtesy of your devil-kin, right? Hell, yes.”

I slip the flask into his hand. Cocking his head to
the side, he takes a long drink. Then he corks the flask, hands it
back, and buries his face in the oilcloth once more.

I recommence the washing and the ringing out. Drew
hisses. His fingers claw the grass in slow motion. He shakes his
head slowly. “Goddamn. Goddamn.” I wipe him dry, as lightly as I
can, and spread the salve across his welted shoulders, his upper
back, down his spine, over his lower back. Drew shivers and groans.
Beneath my fingertips, the muscles knot up and slacken again and
again.

“Done,” I say. “Roll over. Your chest and sides are
pretty ripped up too.”

With agonized slowness, Drew begins to move. “Easy,
easy,” I say, helping him. “Arms over your head.”

On his back now, Drew’s blinking up at me, grimacing,
then looking down, half-dazed, at the gashes crisscrossing his
chest and belly. Blood’s stained the hair a ruddy gold, the color I
imagine Bronze Age armor might have been, the breastplate worn by
Achilles. “Good boy,” I say, gently cleaning the thick mounds of
his torso, the hunger-lean belly, concave beneath his rib cage, and
the ribs themselves, prominent after months of war ration and days
of Sarge’s enforced starvation.

Beneath my ministrations, Drew lies back, closes his
eyes, and sighs. Occasionally he gives a jerk or flinch as the
washcloth meets some particularly deep wound, but for the most part
he’s still as my hands guide the wet, pink-tinged rag over his
great body. This, it occurs to me as I daub clotted blood from the
slash that Sarge’s effort cut across his right nipple, is how a
hero should be shaped. When I try to gauge what exactly has me so
enamored, what combination of line, shape, and color has driven me
into devotion, all I can come up with is the way that Drew combines
a hero’s frame with a boy’s vulnerability. That’s what has seized
me up so utterly. One side of me is praising God; one side of me is
damning myself for a fool.

“Clean my armpits too, Ian, please,” Drew whispers.
“I’m tired of my own stink.”

“The soldier’s life does encourage an aromatic high
state,” I laugh. “If I ever get you back to West Virginia, there’s
a swimming hole I’ll have to take you to. Damned sweet spot after
an afternoon’s haying.” I scrub the furry nests beneath his arms,
then, as an afterthought, unbutton my jacket, shrug off my
undershirt, sit by Drew’s feet, and scrub my own armpits, chest,
and face. Sunlight’s slanting against the side of the tent, and the
air inside this closed space is warm, a welcome change after months
of sleet-moody skies.

Eyes open now, Drew watches me down his body’s long
length. “You’re using that water to wash? It’s blood-dirty now,
ain’t it?”

“Yep, guess so. Easier than heating up another
bucket, though. Water’s still warm. I don’t mind. Besides, your
blood’s my fault.”

Drew smiles. “You ain’t Cain. You’re Ian. But your
uncle sure did beat the hell out of me.”

“Yes, he did,” I sigh, scrubbing my forehead. “And
why the
fuck
didn’t you cry? You are one
stupid boy. I told you to—”

“Hand me that flask, will you?”

I do so, then start in on the scolding again. “One of
the reasons he felt obliged to whip you so damn long was ’cause you
wouldn’t cry. And I
told
you to pretend to
pass out. Did you? Seemed to me you were really unconscious.”

“Right about that, Reb. I managed a dead faint, for
sure.” Drew’s eyes range over my exposed chest. “You sure have a
fine little form for a scrawny kid.” He flourishes the flask in my
direction. “Here’s to my Confederate captor, jailor, nurse.” He
takes a big swig. “Between your salve and this liquor, I’m sure to
heal up fast.”

I look down at myself, at the hard muscles, the wet
smudges of black hair upon my breast and belly. Nothing heroic
here, nothing special, nothing that a man as splendid as Drew would
find worth loving. He’s got me smiling, though, and almost off the
subject. Stubborn, I veer back.

“I’m no kid. I’m five years your senior. Anyway, back
to the topic at hand. He wouldn’t have hurt you so bad if you’d
only have—”

Drew rests a forearm over his eyes. “I could sense
you there,” he says quietly. “It was like before, when he took the
belt to me. It hurt bad, but I could feel you there, inside the
pain, and that kept me warm, gave the punishment some meaning…and,
hell, some of the things I’ve done, some of the orders I’ve obeyed,
well, maybe I deserve to bleed. Look, Ian, I know I should have let
myself break; it would have been easier on us both, but don’t you
understand? I hate these men. They hate me. I don’t want to give
them the pleasure of my tears. I’m harder than I was when I was
first whipped. Hell, it’s only been a few days, but…”

“Keep talking,” I say, dipping up a waxy clump of
salve and smearing it along a gash in his side. “Just keep your
voice down. Sarge told me to keep you gagged, remember, and I don’t
want him to catch us talking. You’ll be in George’s keeping fast if
I’m caught disobeying orders. And George won’t be interested in
your scruples regarding the sanctity of your ‘cherry,’ as you call
it.”

Contempt twists Drew’s face. “That bastard makes me
want to puke. Well, anyway, that’s about all I wanted to say,
except…at the same time that this abuse is making me harder inside,
it’s breaking down my body. I don’t think I can take many more
beatings like the one today.”

“I should tell you now, Drew. Sarge has said when you
get too weak to keep up—we’re going to be moving a lot in the next
few days—that we’ll have to…”

“I understand. I’ll be left in a shallow grave like
one of those poor bitches in the ballads, right?”

A welt across his belly now, bisecting his navel. My
greasy fingers part the fur, following the swollen trail the
braided leather left. “Yes. And he means to keep you bucked and
gagged a good bit till we leave. So that…”

Drew nods. “Pretty soon I won’t be able to walk. As
soon as I slow your company’s progress down, I’ll be on my knees in
the mud on the side of the road and your pistol will be pressed to
my head.”

“That’s not going to happen. I’m not sure how, but
we’re going to get you out of here before that time comes. One more
thing, buddy.” The damaged flesh is hot beneath my fingers. Bruises
are darkening like mud puddles beneath his skin. “Sarge says, since
the weather’s warming up, after we get to Purgatory Mountain,
you’ll be kept outside as before. Which means…”

“We won’t be able to hold one another at night.”
Drew’s voice catches. “Oh, damn, Ian, your touch was the only thing
getting me through all this. I won’t last long without you.”

I put away the salve, take a drink from the flask,
and cork it. “We have a few nights yet, I think. Depends on how
fast the company moves. A night near Lexington, probably, then
another on the way to Purgatory. We need to make that time count.
Meanwhile, if you’ll sit up, I’ll bandage you.”

“You got any more salve?”

“Yep. Why?”

“Hell, Reb, you ain’t forgotten, have you? When I got
my butt beat bloody a few days back, you promised to salve me down
there, and you
still
ain’t gotten around to
it. From what you’ve said, time’s awastin’.
 
” The smile on Drew’s face is strained, but it’s a
smile nonetheless.

“For a man who’s never done more than kiss, you’re
sure eager to get my hands on your ass,” I mutter. “You’ll get your
salving down below. Tonight, I promise. Right now, you should nap,
get your strength up. I need to leave you alone for a few hours.
Promised Jeremiah I’d help him gather and chop wood. You hungry?
I’ll fetch you some food.”

“Once you’re done with the wood,” says Drew. “Until
then, yeah, I’ll get some sleep.”

“I’m not going to cuff your hands behind you like
Sarge ordered. If he checks on you, I’m going to tell him you’re
just too torn up. Right now, though, you need bandaged.”

When Drew sits up, I begin, unrolling long strips of
cloth and wrapping them over his wounds. He’s been so thoroughly
worked over that the bandaging takes a long time, and by the time
I’m done his torso is almost entirely swathed in cotton.