Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (25 page)

“Mercy! I was led to believe that all you Yankees
were rude-mouthed brutes, especially after Hunter’s beastly raid
through here. But you’re a gentleman, and a handsome one too!”

Drew smiles very briefly, then the smile vanishes. He
hangs his head, clears his throat again, and looks up at her,
something desperate in his blue eyes. “Ma’am, I would like to
apologize to you for any distress my fellow Federals caused. I’m
truly sorry. I’ve gotten to know Ian here pretty well, and he’s
been mighty kind to me—in fact, all these boys you see here have
been kind to me, as the rest of their company has unfortunately
not, but I ain’t complaining, that’s the facts and the nature of
war—but ma’am, I know what we Federals have done has sorried you
all, and I truly, truly regret any part I’ve played to bring you or
any of these here Rebel boys grief. I do pray that this damn
war—sorry, ma’am, I was never known to swear until recently; army
life does coarsen a man—I do pray that this war is over soon, and
that, like Job, you are able to recover all you’ve lost.”

Drew’s voice is shaking. Just when I think he’s about
to burst into tears, he drops his gaze to the ground. “Please do
forgive me,” he whispers, then falls quiet.

All of us stand around Drew, stunned into silence.
Then Jeremiah laughs, a nervous sound. “Damn, Yank! You just made
up for all those days with a gag in your mouth! That was a pretty
speech.”

“Pretty, and much appreciated.” Pearl pulls out a
handkerchief and wipes her eyes. “Honey, honey,” she says, “they
have you collared like a slave. And your poor eyes are black! And
where’d all these scars and welts come from? Your chest and
shoulders look like you’ve been wrestling with a big-clawed
bear.”

“Our captain is mighty hard on prisoners,” Rufus
says. “He’s ’specially bitter, since he lost his wife and his farm
during the Burning.”

“And we’re out of bandages, ma’am,” I say. “I’m sorry
you had to see his wounds. At this point in the war, every little
thing’s a luxury.”

“Well, Lord! That’s why I’m here!” She pats Drew’s
shoulder, then arches an eyebrow at Jeremiah. “Shall I?”

“Yes, indeed, Pearlene.” Jeremiah smiles and steps
back.

“Now you boys just look away for a minute,” says Miss
Pearl. “You too, Mr. Yankee.”

We obey. There’s a great rustling of fabric, some
thudding, then more rustling. What could she be doing?

“Behold!” says Miss Pearl. We open our eyes. We stand
amazed.

There, deposited in the carpet of pine needles before
us, is a veritable commissary. Rufus falls to his knees and pats
item after item, mumbling with reverence. “Oh, Lord God, a ham.
Coffee… And, oh, ma’am, are these fried pies?”

Miss Pearl beams. “They are! Apple! Made just
yesterday. And that flask there is full of homemade spirits to warm
you boys up on gray days like this. And here’s cloth for bandages,
and blackberry extract for the flux, and even some isinglass
plaster to doctor wounds.“

“Oh, Lord, canned meats?!” Rufus gasps. “And beef
jerky?”

“Pearlene here has specially made skirts, you see,”
Jeremiah says. “She’s smuggled many a toothsome tidbit across
Yankee lines.”

Miss Pearl giggles and curtsies, rustling her great
ruffled bell of crinolines. “I just want to take care of our
beloved Confederacy.”

“Ah, yes,” I say, suddenly remembering Jeremiah’s
query about wages yesterday. “But—I risk giving offence by bringing
up the subject of money in the presence of a lady—what amount would
you require?”

Miss Pearl blushes. Jeremiah says, “How much you
got?”

I fetch my haversack, fish my last wages from it, and
add to them the bills Sarge sent me. As worthless as our
Confederate currency is these days, I fear it won’t buy us
much.

Jeremiah receives the money, counts it, and hands it
to Miss Pearl. She strokes it with her gloved hands, counts it, and
sighs.

“Well…” The dubious expression on her face has Rufus
on the edge of despair and has me remembering the myth of Tantalus.
“I don’t think I can—”

“Oh, ma’am! I got no wages left at all, but there’s
this!” Rufus, still on his knees, fumbles a pocketknife from his
trousers.

Pearl takes it from him with a sad smile.

“Here’s my contribution,” Jeremiah says. “No money
either, after last night on the town”—Miss Pearl purses her lips
and nods—“but I have this.” He digs into his pocket and lifts
something gleaming into the light. It’s a blue cameo brooch. “Would
you accept this, Miss Pearlene? It was my grandmother’s. I’ve been
carrying it around the whole war waiting for some lady fair enough
to deserve it.” Taking her hand, he lays the jewelry gently in her
palm.

“Oh, well…is that jet around the edges?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe so.”

Miss Pearl studies it with great care; she strokes it
with a finger. Then something in her seems to give way. She and
Jeremiah exchange smiling glances. “Oh, honey, this’ll do. As long
as you spend the day with me. And as long as this boy here fixes me
lunch.” She pats Rufus’s arm. “And as long as you all share some of
this with your poor prisoner. He’s so well mannered I can’t hardly
believe it. I’m giving y’all an extra discount just because his
apology moved me so.”

“Miss, how about I heat us up some ham and fried
pies? Would that lunch suit you?” Rufus is staring up at her as if
she were the goddess of abundance, which, at this point, I suppose
she is. “With more coffee?”

“As long as you slip just the tiniest dram of spirits
into that coffee. For all of us. It’ll be our Sunday celebration.
We’ll have us a little toast. I would toast to the victory of our
new nation, but I wouldn’t want to offend you, Mr. Yank. How about
‘To the end of the war’?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Drew sighs. “I suspect we can all agree
to drink to that.”

_

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

_

“I
 
ain’t sharing this stash
with the others, especially that son of a bitch George.” Lunch
done, Rufus, mildly drunk and so more profane than usual, is hiding
our new Pearl-bought provisions. “Ain’t no one gonna know about our
Sunday festivity but us.”

In twos or threes, the boys trickle into camp all
afternoon, sluggish after their Lexington immoderation. Most take
to their tents; the more vigorous head into the forest to hunt
squirrels. Rufus, secure in the knowledge that our prizes are well
hidden, snoozes by the fire. Jeremiah and Miss Pearl take a rustic
promenade about the field and forest, billing and cooing like
doves, before Jeremiah escorts his lady back into town. Drew and I
talk and nap; I read to him, alternating Shakespeare sonnets with
the Song of Songs, letting poets of the past declare my love for
me. When no one’s looking, I stroke the matted hair out of his eyes
and hold his cuffed hands. The metal has kept his wrists chafed
raw, so I salve them.

“Sure wish Miss Pearl had her some brogans beneath
her skirts to go with all that food.” I’m applying the newly
purchased cloth to Drew’s feet. “I’ll bandage up the rest of you
tonight once I’ve freed you from this tree. Getting that isinglass
plaster is mighty timely, since I’m running low on my salve.”

“Ham and pie, damn. Finest meal I’ve had since you
captured me,” Drew sighs. “That Miss Pearl was an angel. She
smelled like jasmine. She was a real lady.”

“I think she fancied you, boy,” I say. “She has good
taste.” I look him over: his blackened eyes, his straggly hair and
beard, his bruises, welts, and scars, his prominent ribs and blond
torso-pelt, the still-bulky muscles of his chest, shoulders, and
arms. “Raggedy-ass prisoner that you are, you’re still the
handsomest man I’ve ever seen. You look as sweet as those pies
tasted. Hell, I’d rather taste you than pie any day or night.”

“Flattery, flattery. I told you you ain’t getting up
my ass till you get me out of here.” Drew grins, wiggling his butt
against the moss.

“Agreed, Achilles. You’re a damn tease. But let me
ask you…why did you say all you did to her? All that about
forgiveness? You’ve never been in Lexington, have you? God,
certainly you weren’t with Hunter?”

“No, Ian, but there’s things I still haven’t said.
Could we wait till tonight? When you hold me again?”

“Sure, boy. Let’s just enjoy our time without Sarge
and George and the others.”

I’ve just started another section of the Song of
Songs—“His arm a golden scepter with gems of topaz, / his loins the
ivory of thrones / inlaid with sapphire, / his thighs like marble
pillars / on pedestals of gold”—and am splitting a piece of beef
jerky with Drew when the day goes all to hell. George rides up,
dismounts, spits a gob of tobacco into the fire, then, red-faced,
strides over.

“I seen what’s left of the Institute,” he snarls.
“It’s nothing but goddamn ash. Sarge is all tore up about it. Your
kind did it, Yank. I’m gonna take the whip to you when Sarge gets
back.”

Drew glowers up at him. I rise, taking my customary
position between Drew and any danger. “The Yank apologized just
this morning to a Lexington lady who was here.”

“Lady!” George snorts. “Soiled dove, you mean. A
venal Cyprian. I seen her and Jeremiah in town. I seen her face
paint and her preening. She ain’t no lady, she’s a whore.”

“You shut your mouth, you black-hearted bastard,”
Drew says low. “If I weren’t tied, I’d break your back over one
knee. She
was
a lady. Don’t you dare dirty
her name.”

“
You
shut
your
mouth, Yank. I’m gonna make you bleed soon enough.
Ian, why ain’t this man gagged? Why is he even allowed to speak?
Sarge told me that he ordered you—”

“Sarge also told me to observe Sunday with prayer and
Bible reading, which,” I say, pointing to the book in Drew’s lap,
“is what we were doing. Seems to me you’ve always been more cruel
than Christian.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a lay minister back home. And
what do you know about Christ? Consorting with damn Yankees and
strumpets.”

“Don’t you call her that!” Our shouting has roused
Rufus, who strides over, dander up, face as ruddy as his
chin-whiskers.

“Oh, get away, little man.” George gives a dismissive
wave. “Go sort some beans or stir some gruel.”

“You can suck my ass,” Rufus says and swings. His
fist catches George in the shoulder. George staggers back against a
pine trunk, then turns to run. Rufus tackles him. They roll around
on the ground, Rufus punching, George screening his face with his
forearms and screaming.

“Goddamn you! Get off me! I’ll have Sarge hang you by
the thumbs!”

The New Market twins show up now, George’s
mealy-mouthed minions. One grabs Rufus by the shoulders, trying to
haul him off George. I catch the first twin in the chin, sending
him flying. The second lunges at me; I get him in the gut. Both
sprawl whimpering in the pine needles.

I turn just in time to see George, with a few
desperate kicks, break free of Rufus’ hold. Staggering over to
Drew, he drops beside him. Seizing Drew by his shaggy yellow hair,
he jerks his head back, pulls a penknife, and holds it to his
throat. “I’ll cut him,” George gasps. “Y’all leave me be, damn you.
I’ll cut him. I’ll slit his Yankee throat. Y’all are whore-mongers
and Yankee lovers.”

I step forward, lifting clenched fists. “George, if
you hurt him…”

“Sarge will thank me. He’s incited a camp riot,
that’s what I’m going to say. He’s liable to die in the next few
days anyway.”

George’s hand shakes. He nicks Drew. Fresh blood
dribbles. Drew hisses, “You’re a goddamn coward. You’re a dead man
if I ever get loose.”

That’s when Jeremiah’s voice sounds quietly at my
elbow. “That Yank may be a prisoner, but he’s a decent man. Now you
get away from him, George, or I got a ball with your name on
it.”

Jeremiah’s musket is shouldered, the hammer cocked.
“I got to camp just soon enough to hear what you said about my lady
Pearlene. Brave enough to insult a woman, huh? Impressive. Now if
you want to keep your rat teeth intact—not to mention your eyes,
ears, brain, and filthy tongue—you’d best pocket that piss-ant
blade, get up slow, and take to your tent. For you’re a foul thing
through and through, and I’d take some pleasure in cleaning the
camp of you.”

George does as he’s told. Muttering “Whore-mongers,
every one,” he rises, puts away the blade, and limps off into the
trees.

Rufus cackles. “Thanks for the help, boys. The ole
polecat should keep his distance for a while now. Next time he has
a mind to insult a lady, he’s likely to think twice. And, hell, he
ain’t gonna tattle to Sarge. Too afraid of being punished for
fighting, I ’spect.” He gets up, brushes off his trousers, and
says, “Y’all get extra helpings tonight. After supper, meet me
behind Ian’s tent, all right? I’ll give you seconds. As for George,
if he’s fool enough to take food at my fire, he might find his
beans seasoned with grubs.” Snickering, he heads into the forest,
apparently with insect hunting in mind.

“Thanks, Jeremiah,” Drew says, as I daub at his
throat. Luckily it’s a very shallow wound.

Jeremiah nods. “Glad to do it. Thanks to both of you
for being so good to Pearl. She’s had a hard time of it, and, well,
if she weren’t so pretty, she might have starved by now. If I get
through this war, I hope to get back this way. Want to see a lot
more of her.”

He uncocks his musket, takes a few steps away, stops,
and turns. “You know, I hope to have with Pearl what you boys have
together. I’m glad y’all got one another. I’ll pray for you both.”
Then he’s gone into the shadow of the pines.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

_

“Sorry about this,” I say, pulling the bandana from
my pocket. “Sarge just got back. I’ll sneak you supper later. It
should be good.”