Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (2 page)

And here’s Rufus, our ever hungry cook, auburn chin
whiskers looking red-golden in the firelight as he simmers beans
with what’s likely to be the last of the bacon. As good hearted a
man as I’ve ever known, with a wonderfully foul mouth when he’s in
his cups, which is as often as Sarge can procure us strong drink. I
think Rufus has handled a gun only six or seven times in these four
long years of war. His genius isn’t slaughter; it’s keeping
warriors alive. Bless him, he can start up a fire and make a good
meal out of next to nothing faster than anyone I’ve ever known, and
that includes my mother and that slew of aunts back home.

Beans, cornmeal, hardtack. That’s all we’ve eaten for
weeks, ever since we left winter quarters near Staunton. We’re all
lean as split rails. Little left ration-wise, plus we’ve been on
the move the last week and have been in no position to receive
packages from home. God, I remember the war’s first years…the boxes
of cookies and fried chicken and canned milk and fruit pies my
parents sent me. Damn, I just want to be home by the fire, smelling
the wood charring on the hearth and one of my mother’s pies
baking.

“What y’got there?” Rufus nudges my elbow, sniffing
at the mysterious poke I have yet to examine.

“Don’t know yet,” I say, fumbling it open. “Here,” I
say, knowing how much Rufus loves to handle food. “While don’t you
tell me? A slave girl back in Waynesboro gave it to me. Said it was
from her mistress. The way she looked, poor haggard thing, I doubt
that household could much afford it, but here it is
nonetheless.”

“Ah, Virginia! Her citizens take care of their brave
defenders, as Sarge would say.” Smacking his lips, Rufus rummages.
“Let’s see… Ummm… Well, lookee! Dried apples! Ain’t that nice? And
these funny thangs? Lil’ red beads? Ain’t those—”

“Yep. Rose hips,” I say, peering over his shoulder.
“My Aunt Alicia says they keep off the scurvy. She used to send
them to me back when we got packages from home. Remember? You’ve
made me tea with them.”

“Yeah, right. Ruby-red and sour as hell, in need of
about four cups of cane sugar! Helps keep off scurvy? Hell, ain’t
she half-Indian?”

“Cherokee, yes.”

“Well, I question her judgment, if you don’t mind
me—”

“I do mind you saying so. Keep in mind that I’ve got
some of that Indian blood too. What else we got there?”

Rufus can be a little backward. God knows what he’d
say if he knew about my desires for men. Fortunately, he’s also
easily distracted by anything edible. “Oh, well, now…a loaf of
bread!” he gasps. “Praise the Lord! Any sweetenin’? Yep, here’s
some honey. And, ummm, a slice of ham! That, hmm, well, that’s it.”
He releases an exaggerated sigh. “I sure could have done with
a…”

“Chicken pot pie? Beef roast? Half a hog?”

Rufus grins, swatting my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Any
of that. Here, now. Y’hold onto that,” he whispers, handing me the
poke. “And don’t let George have any. The bastard called me a
hell-bound mooncalf and a heathen, just ’cause I took me a little
nip last Sunday. I’m not feeling especially charitable toward him
lately, Lord forgive me.” Rufus spits onto the frozen ground and
returns to his pot of beans.

The sleet clouds have dispersed. A few stars wink
overhead. We sit in silence around the fire while Rufus cooks.
Jeremiah fiddles with his banjo, plays a bar of one melody, then
shifts to another, then stops. Normally, this is the time a few of
us would sing, and I might even tell a bawdy story, but after
today’s defeat, no one’s in the mood for anything but a meal and a
bedroll. God knows where we’ll be marching tomorrow.

“How’d Sam die?” George asks. He’s put away his
Bible; now he’s whittling a stick with jerky movements.

“Ball in the chest,” I say. “Just before Custer’s men
came in from our left. He faded fast, was dead by the time we
retreated. Poor boy fell with the flag wrapped around him. Eighteen
years old. Crazy kid,” I shake my head and smile, wiping some wet
out of one eye. ”The boy sure could dance a jig. Don’t think any of
us ever beat him at cards. And that spasmodic pet squirrel of
his…”

“Damned fine eating, that critter was, especially
with the peanut sauce Rufus made.” Jeremiah laughs. “We told Sam
that miserable thing would bite him to the bone sooner or
later.”

“Custer,” snarls George. “Sheridan and Custer. God
damn them. May those names live in infamy. May they end in agony.”
He shakes his head and spits tobacco juice into the fire. “Too
damned many of them. Our left was hanging in the air. What did
General Early expect us to do?”

“He’s done the best he could with what he has,” I
say. “We only have a thousand or so men left.”

“
Had
a thousand men. Most of
that number never made it out of Waynesboro.” George releases
another arc of brown spit. “Look around you. We’re the end of it,
boys, the end of it. All that’s left of the grand Army of the
Valley. If Sarge hadn’t gotten us out of there… Damn. All those
prisoners. Poor bastards’ll end up in prisons up north. Elmira.
Camp Chase. You think we’re starving now, boys, imagine being in
one of those hellholes.”

“They got all the flags too,” says Jeremiah, giving
his banjo a mournful pluck before putting it back in its battered
case. “And the wagons. And our artillery. Even got General Early’s
headquarters wagon. “

“Caught Dr. McGuire too, dammit. Of course they beat
us. Those bluecoat bastards had thousands, as usual. Thousands.
Thick as fleas. As lice.” George claws his crotch meaningfully.
“Legion. The Bible says it. ‘Their name is Legion, for they are
many.’ Damn them. I hope the Lord has a special space in hell for
every one of them. Especially after the Burning last fall. I know
the Bible says to forgive, but, Lord, how can you forgive men who
torch your home and barn and shoot your livestock?”

We’ve all heard this rant before, and none of us
blames George for it. He lost everything when the Yanks under
Sheridan burned the Valley. So did Sarge. Seems like justified
hatred to me. Still, it’s safe to say that we don’t want to hear
such words tonight. It only makes us feel more like failures.
Instead of exacting grand and brutal revenge on the invaders, we’re
huddling atop the Blue Ridge, a broken little crew.

“Where do you think we’ll march tomorrow?” I say,
trying to change the subject.

“Petersburg, maybe? To join General Lee in the
siege?” Jeremiah says, scratching his armpit. As hairy as he is,
the lice we all suffer from must be building little villages all
over him. As much as I love a furry chest, it’s a handicap when the
graybacks come to call. I should know, possessing some slight body
hair myself. Sometimes I think I can feel the goddamn things
crawling over me at night, looking for new nooks to invade.
Sometimes I think about shaving off my beard to get rid of them,
but as small-built as I am, my beard’s one of the few things that
make me look like a man.

“Petersburg, then!” George runs his hands through his
hair and coughs. “Damned hair’s falling out,” he says, shaking
strands off his fingers. “Petersburg. Lots of Yanks to kill
there.”

Supper spares us more of George’s vitriol. “It’s
ready, boys,” says Rufus, circling the fire, ladling beans into our
tin cups. I take a bite; the beans are tender albeit few, not
nearly enough to satisfy, and the bacon’s tough, its taste edging
toward rancid. Still, it’s a better meal than I’ve had for days, so
I eat eagerly.

After dinner, we roll out our oilcloths by the fire.
I’m still hungry, and I’m exhausted and sad, thinking of Sam.
Before bedding down, I slip into the darkness to piss. Here, in
ceaseless wind, is a flat ledge overlooking the valley. Those
flickering lights, miles down the Blue Ridge, are the lamps of
Waynesboro, and, just beyond, the campfires of the enemy, a huge
lake of pinprick fire. Who knew an ideal as vague as Union would
bring them down here and keep them down here for so many years? Why
can’t they just leave us be? If we Rebs had known there were so, so
many of them, would we have ever volunteered for this war?

Well, yes. I would have, though I’m bone weary of it
by now. I want it over—God help me, even if it means losing. I just
want to get home. I want my own little farm in the mountains where
I grew up, even if I have no one to share it with. Men like me, I
don’t know if we’re ever lucky enough to find mates. Lord knows
Thom couldn’t leave me fast enough.

I relieve myself over the ledge, and then I head back
to the welcome warmth of the fire. There, exhausted as I am, still
I do what I usually do before sleep: reread letters from home. I
lie on the hard, sleet-scattered ground, wrap myself in my
oilcloth, pull the packet of letters from my haversack, and study a
random few by firelight.

_

CHAPTER TWO

_

November 14, 1861

My dear Ian,

I take pen in hand so as to inform you of our doings
at home, as you have requested. We are sorry not to have written
sooner. The harvest was difficult this year, and sparser than
usual; the corncrib is only half full. Though I am so, so proud
that you and your brother Jeff are soldiers, it does make keeping
up the farm far more difficult. Your father’s back is no better
than ever, poor soul! After the harvest, he spent a week bedridden.
Since then, it has snowed every week. Please let us know if you
boys need more blankets.

We miss you so. Last weekend, your Aunt Alicia had
us over for fried chicken after church and we all so wished that
you and Jeff were there. She made an extra batch of rolls and a
dried apple pie for you two. Now that you are in winter quarters,
we know where you are and have mailed a box full of such good food
to you.

Susan sends her regards. She is such a lovely girl.
She is making you and your brother socks. She asks after you both.
I believe she is waxing fond over you, son. Perhaps when God sees
fit to end this terrible conflict and you come home, you can court
her. Her family is one of hard-workers and churchgoers.

Greetings to your father’s dear brother Erastus, or
Sarge, as you persist in calling him. He always swore he would make
you a fine soldier, even if it killed him. I do hope he’s managed
the former without having to endure the latter! Please share this
letter with Jeff, and assure him that we will write him as well.
Take good care of each other.

Your Loving Mother

_

June 1862

Son,

Your mother’s handwriting is much clearer than mine,
and my hands are cramped up, due, I think, to too many years
gripping an axe or plow, so she is writing this for me.

We are so sorry to hear of your hero’s death.
General Ashby was a Great Knight of the Valley, all agree. An
exemplum of manhood.

We wish you were home, but you must keep to your
duty. Haven’t you boys whipped those invaders yet? Yanks are a
spoiled, degenerate set. I’ve heard tell that one Southern boy can
whip ten Yanks at a time. They are not an outdoors sort. Sitting in
factories has made them soft.

Please find enclosed more of that odd salve your
mother’s sister has made. Good for wounds, Alicia says. I’m
dubious. We’ve also sent, as you’ll see, some potatoes.

The gardens are thriving, though folks farther down
the hill had their stores stolen by Federal raiders. If they come
up here, I will shoot them. (“I won’t let him,” your mother insists
on adding. Her heart is a woman’s heart.) We have lettuce in, and
peas. The corn is growing fast. We miss your shooting skills,
though, and the venison feasts you used to provide us. Our hog,
however, is growing fat and will make some fine meals. We shall
send you boys some salt-cured ham come November. (We have named the
pig John Brown so it will be easier to slaughter. You know how
attached your mother gets to animals.)

We thought of you today. We were taking a cart of
wheat down to the mill to be ground and passed your swimming hole,
where you and Jeff and Jeremiah spent so many hours. And then we
passed the chinkypin tree, where you all used to feast on nuts.

Your cousin has sent you more books. I will forward
them. (Last week, Neighbor Atkins—you might enjoy this—made a
mocking comment about how much you read and how small-built you
are. I reminded him of how badly you beat his son in that boxing
match the spring before you left home. He suddenly seemed eager to
discuss the hay harvest instead. Even your mother laughed.)

You are a fine son. Your mother tells me I should
make that clear. You are as fine a son putting up hay or digging
turnips as you are a scholar. I am so sorry that we have
insufficient money for you to continue your education at a
university. We will need you boys on the farm more than ever when
you return. A man’s fate, as you no doubt feel deeply in your
present circumstances, is rarely in his own hands. But you have
already shown, again and again, that you put duty before desire, as
a man must.

Stay brave. Conquer those city boys and then get
home. The forests you so love await you. We await you.

Father

PS. Jeff tells me that Susan is writing him now.
She’s as pretty as a wild azalea! Why didn’t you court her? As fine
a writer as you are, you could have won her over with sweet words.
You had your chance, son! (Your mother agrees.)

PS. Stay away from those town vixens if you get to
Richmond! They are devious and, shall we say, not of the purest
fiber.

_

October 10, 1862.

Dear Ian,

I share your sorrow. To me, the word Antietam will
always mean the end of love and the death of hope.

From Susan. I fold up the wrinkled paper fast. I
don’t want to read this one. My eyes are tired and the firelight’s
dying.