Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (24 page)

“You need more sleep, boy,” I say, smoothing his
shaggy, mud-matted hair. “Enough poetry.” I blow out the candle,
then pull the blankets over us and pull him to me in our now
customary spoon, his back to my chest.

“Damnation.” Drew scratches his side, then his
crotch.

“Lice or fleas?”

“Fleas, I think. Giving me some of that Southern
hospitality.”

I scratch my armpit, then my breast. “You’ve gotten
me started.”

Drew laughs. He snuggles back against me. We lie
there listening to the patter of rain for a bit. Then Drew says, in
a small voice, “Ian?”

“Yes, big man?

“Could you ever hate me?”

“What sort of question is that? I’ve already told you
that I love you.”

“Well, in this war I’ve done things I ain’t proud of.
Things I ain’t told you.”

“I could say the same. I’ve spared you many a detail
of how my deer-hunting skills have brought down a slew of your
cohorts.”

“But this…some of this is different.” Drew takes my
hand, pressing it to his chest. Beneath my palm I can feel his
chest hair, the muscle beneath that, the heartbeat beneath
that.

“Drew, don’t fret. Get some sleep. We can talk
tomorrow.”

“All right,” Drew whispers. “I’m sorry I ain’t up for
loving. I just feel so feeble…”

I hold Drew close while he falls asleep, lines of
Whitman’s washing through my mind. “You give me the pleasure of
your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast,
hands, in return…I am to see to it that I do not lose you.” I
fondle Drew’s thickening whiskers, his navel, his soft cock. Then
my own weariness seizes me; my thoughts grow mazy; I drift off to
the sounds of Drew’s soft snores and the patter of rain on
canvas.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

_

What I do I do half-asleep, half-aware, operating on
sheer instinct. Drew’s groans wake me to myself. My right hand’s
clamped firmly over his mouth; my left hand’s working his cock; my
own cock’s impatiently bumping his bare ass. Drew’s thrusting into
my hand, then rubbing back against me. His tongue wets my palm.

“Oh, hell,” I whisper, ceasing all these randy
operations as soon as I’m fully awake. “I’m so sorry. I want you so
badly that even in my sleep…”

Drew gives a low laugh. “I ain’t complaining, Reb. I
feel a little better now anyway. It was a sweet way to be nudged
from my slumbers, and I reckon we should use what time together we
have, especially with the camp nigh-empty.”

“So you’re saying…”

“To keep on, please. Touch me some more, Private
Campbell.”

I obey, kissing the scars on his back, cupping the
fuzzy flesh of his chest in my hand, fingering a nipple. I’m
stroking the hairy cleft of his ass with a fingertip when Drew
sighs, “You want inside me bad, don’t you, Reb?”

I sigh in reply. “Mightily.”

“One day, maybe. Perhaps that’ll be your reward for
helping me escape. In fact, it’s a deal. You get me my freedom,
and…you can…take me any way you please.”

“Uhhffff! Boy, I’m hard to bursting. Really?”

“Yep!” Another low laugh. “Is that sufficient
motivation?”

“Yes, indeed! But I thought, only days ago, you’d
proudly boasted that you were no whore.”

“I ain’t whorin’! Why, this is a gentleman’s
agreement.”

“A deal then,” I say. “Hell, yes! For tonight,
though, I know you’re weak, so why don’t you just roll over on your
back and lie still while I taste you as I did last night?”

“A deal indeed.” Drew obeys. I start my trail of
kisses on his brow, spend a good bit of time kissing his mouth,
then his nipples, then his belly hair and hip bones. Now, as slowly
as possible, I sheathe his cock in my mouth. He sighs and thrusts;
his cuffed hands tug at my beard and hair, then rest upon my head.
Within minutes, he’s finished on my tongue, I’ve finished in my
hand, and we’re spooning again, both sound asleep.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

_

Sunday morning. I wake before him. I sit beside him
and watch him slumber, my boy, my lover, my captive. I touch his
scars ever so lightly. I pore over him as if he were a beloved
book, my private Bible: his tangled hair, his mussed beard, the
long golden lashes of his swollen eyes. He’s as fine as any sonnet
I’ve put to memory. “For thy sweet love remembered such wealth
brings, / That then I scorn to change my state with kings,” I
whisper to myself before dressing and leaving the tent.

Rufus’s hunkered over a skillet frying bacon.
Dependable as ever, he already has coffee brewed. I join him by the
fire and pour a cup. It’s good, thanks to Sarge’s recent success at
foraging—not that acorn swill we’ve had lately.

“The last of the bacon,” Rufus announces sadly,
flipping the meat. “Got one piece per man. Plus I’m soaking some
hardtack to fry in this grease. Should make it tastier. And softer.
I’m always ’fraid I’ll break a tooth on the stuff. Don’t know how
the Yanks stand it. Let’s pray that Sarge finds us more victuals in
town.”

It’s a gray morning, but at least the rain has
stopped. Bacon done, Rufus is frying the hardtack and, at my
request, simmering rose-hip tea when we hear hoof beats. It’s
George, riding over the crest of the hill and across the field. His
old gelding, a sickly dun, is about as pleasing to the eye as he
is. He comes to a halt at the forest’s edge. Waving a bag, he
shouts, “Y’all git over here. Sarge sent you this.” I glare at him,
then, turning my back, pour another cup of coffee. Rufus obediently
scurries over. They talk for a bit; I add a stick of wood to the
fire. Then George gallops off. Rufus lopes over, toting the bag,
face fallen.

“Sarge sends word that he’s staying in town for a
while yet, to attend church, says the boys should all be back in
camp by late afternoon. This here’s some cornmeal. He says he’ll
bring some cabbage and some beef this evening.”

“Well, that’s good news, right? We’ve been starving
for good beef for weeks. Why’re you moping?”

“George brought this too. He told me what it says.”
Rufus pulls a folded paper from his pocket.

I open it, recognizing Sarge’s blocky letters.

Dear Nephew, I will return by nightfall. My friends
have been, despite their reduced circumstances, most hospitable, so
I should return with provisions sufficient to get us to Purgatory.
Do not, however, waste food on the prisoner, unless it be that
hardtack gone to the weevil. I would prefer that he be bucked and
gagged once more, especially now that I have seen the ruins of my
old school and have heard firsthand the suffering inflicted on the
good citizens of Lexington. But since it is Sunday, you may show
him mercy if your conscience so dictates, and knowing your
over-soft heart, I rather think that it will. Rather than bucking
him again, you may let him spend God’s day bound to a tree. I would
also suggest that you read him the Bible and perhaps encourage him
to pray for forgiveness. He, like all his kind, has much to repent
for. And his days on earth are strictly numbered.

Your Uncle

P.S. Find enclosed a few bills, in case sutlers come
to camp and you would like to treat yourself to some small
pleasure.

P.S. You may use my Bible, if you please. It’s in my
tent, on my camp desk.

P.S. Tomorrow we leave for Purgatory.

I stuff the money in my pocket, crumple the letter,
and toss it into the fire. Hardtack’s sizzling in the skillet. “I’m
sorry, Ian,” Rufus mutters. “I like your poor Yank right well.
Don’t seem a mite different from us. Let’s us give him a good
breakfast anyway. I ain’t tellin’ nobody. And I’ll find him those
trousers you were asking about. No reason for the man to spend what
time he has left looking like a savage.”

I nod. If I spoke, I fear my voice might crack. I
stand by the fire while Rufus browns the hardtack. I’m praying, as
Sarge suggested, though these prayers are silent. I’m thanking God
for kindness.

“Smells like bacon,” Drew says, blinking up at me
sleepily as I enter the tent bearing our breakfast.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

_

Sitting on a stump beside Drew, I read it from
beginning to end. The Book of Job is some comfort, though it
disturbs both of us that Job’s first family stays dead; his faith
only wins him replacements. “Mighty hard to replace you,” Drew
says, grinning as I lift a cup of water to his lips.

I’ve made my handsome prisoner as comfortable as
Sarge’s orders allow me. His hands are still cuffed before him, his
ankles still shackled. He’s got on his new trousers, a very loose
fit I’ve cinched with a rope, though he’s still shirtless, a fact I
both savor for the sight of his manly chest and regret due to the
chill air he’s exposed to. I’ve seated him at the base of a little
pine, on a cushion of moss, and tied him to it by wrapping several
lengths of rope around his chest and arms and knotting the bonds
not too tightly behind the trunk. I intend to spare him the gag
till Sarge returns. I
was
ordered to pray
with him, after all.

“Do you believe in heaven?” Drew says. “Other than
that provided by Rufus earlier. That bacon was so good, and even
the hardtack and that sour tea were welcome. I mean the afterlife
the Bible promises?”

“I guess I do…though lately I think it has less to do
with angels than with the taste of honey and hoecake and
gold-haired Yankee nether regions.”

Drew winks at me. “Well, yes. But seriously, Ian. If
I end up shot through the head, and if you end up blown to bits by
artillery or taking a Minié ball outside of Petersburg, do you
think we’ll ever meet again?”

“Maybe. Maybe we’ll end up making love for all
eternity. Or eating pies for all eternity. After the suffering
we’ve seen, God owes us as much. My Aunt Alicia’s Cherokee, and she
thinks after we die, we blend with mountains and forests and rain.
That sounds pretty fine too.” I wink at Drew. “Maybe you’ll end up
an oak, and I’ll be the summer thunderstorm that moistens your
roots.”

Drew chuckles. “You Southern boys are a hot-blooded
bunch. My root surely was moistened last night, and with
praiseworthy skill. I—”

A sound interrupts Drew, a sound I haven’t heard
since we left Staunton. Somewhere nearby a woman’s laughing. It’s a
high, shimmery sound, like chimes.

I turn. There, cresting the hill now, now flowing
through the field toward us, is a woman, from the looks of her in
her mid-twenties, with Jeremiah by her side. Her hair is black,
heaped atop her head and framing her face in sausage curls. She’s
holding his hand and laughing.

Rufus is out of his tent in a flash. He stands
nervously by the fire awaiting our visitor’s approach. “Wait here,”
I say to Drew, rising. “I believe I will,” Drew says, flexing his
arms against the ropes, then dropping his cuffed hands heavily into
his lap. “Ain’t going nowhere, Reb. Company’s too fine.”

“Too clever for your own good, you Yanks,” I mutter.
By the time I reach the fire, Rufus has offered the mysterious lady
a camp chair, which she’s apparently declined due to the width of
her skirts, and poured her a cup of coffee. Jeremiah looks like his
brief absence from camp has refreshed him considerably. I’ve never
seen the boy with a wider smile. I do believe that he and our guest
might have celebrated Saturday night in a manner at least somewhat
similar to how Drew and I marked it.

“This here,” announces Jeremiah, “is Miss Pearl.
She’s been showing me around her fair town. She’s a true admirer of
soldiers, a solid patriot. In fact, she’s here to help us keep our
strength up.”

Miss Pearl gives another bell-like laugh. Her lips
and eyes are lightly painted. Her buxom upper half is fitted into a
tight velvet jacket of deep purple. Below, her hoop skirt fans out
in shades of purple and black. Her tiny hands are gloved in
white.

“I-I’m Ian Campbell, ma’am. Welcome to our camp. We
haven’t had the b-blessing of a lady’s company in weeks. To what do
we owe this pleasure?”

“Well now,” Miss Pearl says, after taking a tiny sip
of coffee, “Jeremiah—he’s an old friend—said you boys might be
standing in need of certain comestibles, and, well, the local
sutlers are bound to be out here, and they’re
terrible
people, charging poor soldiers like you simply
outrageous prices, and… Oh! Who’s that!?”

She’s pointing at Drew, who’s watching her with the
same fascination she’s evoked in us. As much as I love men,
especially beautiful men like Drew, I’m as starved for female
company as much as any of us after years of camp life and war.

“That’s our prisoner. He’s a Yank we caught up near
Staunton,” says Jeremiah. “He ain’t a bad man, just deluded by
Lincoln like all the rest of them. We ain’t had a chance to send
him to Richmond and prison, since we been up in the mountains for
weeks. Ian here has charge of him.”

“Mercy! I ain’t—I haven’t spoken to a Yank since they
came through last fall, damn them…oh, forgive my language! It’s
just that, I watched the Institute burn, and Governor Letcher’s
home too. That vile toad Hunter had his men take the torch to
building after building…it’s just hard not to hate.” As Pearl
talks, she edges toward Drew. Curiosity seems to be greater than
resentment. “Though I know our Lord said to love our enemies…
Mercy, he’s big!”

“Would you like to meet him?” Jeremiah asks. “He’s
well-tied. He can’t hurt you.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, he’s half-naked. But…well,
yes. Please introduce us.” Miss Pearl, eyes wide, finishes her
coffee, hands Rufus the cup, and, with a swish of skirts over pine
needles, accompanies Jeremiah and me to Drew’s side.

For a few seconds, they just stare at one another,
the little woman in fine clothes and the bare-chested Yankee tied
to a pine. Then Drew clears his throat and says, “Hello, ma’am. I’m
Drew Conrad. I apologize for my present appearance. Can’t be
helped, as you might imagine.” He shifts in his bonds, tossing back
the muddy hair hanging over his eyes; a few drops of lingering rain
fall from the boughs above. “But I’m glad to meet you nonetheless.
Ain’t seen much of women since I left Pennsylvania. You are very
pretty, ma’am.”