Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (27 page)

Drew keeps up today. Yesterday’s ease and unusually
filling meals have rescued him from his feeble state. He trudges on
beside my cart, eyes straight ahead, ignoring me, gritting the rag
between his teeth and grunting with pain every so often as the
terrain punishes his bandage-wrapped feet with stones or thorns. I
try not to look at him, but I catch myself studying his half-naked
body again and again, as we follow a little stream-skirted road
west and then south. One minute, I look at him and see him in the
blue uniform he wore the day we met; I see those women of the
Valley screaming in the sparks, cinders, and smoke. Another minute,
I look at him and see the beautiful blond giant I’ve cradled in my
arms after a bloody beating, the frightened boy I’ve made love to,
the broken soldier whose guilt-wracked sobs filled our tent last
night.

Lunch stop, in a neglected orchard by a ramshackle
farmhouse. I expect another poor woman to dash out, desperate for
provender, but no one appears. A few crows settle in the limbs
above us as Rufus doles out stiff squares of hardtack. “Sarge said
to make it quick, boys, so this is all you get,” Rufus says
apologetically. “Damn stuff’s so hard you could knock a bull down
with it. Tonight, though, I’ll make us cush and parched corn, I
promise.”

It’s late afternoon when Sarge leads us along yet
another small road, this one skirting a high, swift stream. The
sky’s overcast, the air’s moist and chilly, and light gleams on the
rock-ruffled water like gray gunmetal. The road narrows as we pass
through a little glen squeezed in by low ridges with steep slopes.
Over us, the limbs of pawpaw trees, still bare, stretch and mingle,
twigs brushing together in the breeze like black finger bones. I’m
looking at Drew as he hangs his head and picks his barefoot way
over potentially painful obstacles, trying to make sense of what he
said last night, thinking of how good tonight’s cush will be, and
realizing, despite the shock evoked by his confession, how much I
want to brush the muddy hair from his brow, when I hear it, the pop
I’ve heard from triumphant First Manassas in July of ’61 till that
last hopeless battle near Waynesboro only days ago. Someone’s
firing on us.

“Yanks! Up on the ridge!” That’s Jeremiah shouting
ahead in the line. There’s another pop, above us, there where a
puff of smoke marks a musket’s ignition. Jeremiah curses, drops his
gun, grabs his left arm, and falls to his knees.

I’m off the cart seat in a second. There are few
places to take shelter in this narrow dell—a few rocks behind which
most of the company have already fled—so I seize Drew by the arm,
slice his tether with my Bowie knife, and shove him beneath the
cart. “Stay here,” I growl, then, my head down, lope over to fetch
Jeremiah. Another pop; a familiar whizzing past my eye. A few more
inches, I think with utter calm, and that ball might have taken off
the right side of my face. Jeremiah’s bleeding, teeth clenched,
face knotted up with pain. I haul him to his feet and tug him
toward the cart. More balls sing past us, audibly pocking the mud
about our feet. There’s the thudding of hooves—what cavalry we have
probably trying to outflank our attackers—more popping gunfire, and
then a scream, shrill and short. We duck beneath the cart, joining
Drew, who’s lying on his belly in the mud. Clearly relieved to see
me unharmed, Drew seizes my hand and squeezes hard. There’s the
dull sound of balls embedding themselves in the buckboard bed above
us. A few more bullets kick up small explosions of mud around the
cart, a few feet from our faces.

I look at Drew and Jeremiah, both wide-eyed, one
bleeding. I can’t stay here. The men shooting at us from the ridge
may be Drew’s Federal compatriots, but if someone doesn’t stop
them, they might well kill us all, Drew included.

First, though, I help Jeremiah remove his jacket,
then his undershirt. He’s very lean, his chest and belly covered
with rich black fur; dimly I remember that other world, back home,
our youth, how I loved to look at him when we swam naked in the
river. Long, long ago. Now there’s a hole clean through the flesh
of his upper left arm, bleeding copiously. I tear off my own
jacket, then my undershirt. As old and tattered as all our clothes
are—who can afford a new uniform this deep into the war?—it takes
very little effort to rip one sleeve off my undershirt.

“Bind his wound with this as best you can,” I order
Drew. “I’ll be back.”

Drew shakes his head, trying to grab me by the belt,
but I elude him, rolling out from under the cart before he or
Jeremiah can stop me. I check my pistol in its holster, cock my
cap, then race up the hillside.

The red mist is here again. I rush through its
tunnel, the gray slope and woodland smearing into swirls of
crimson. Someone needs to die. I’m young and strong, despite months
of low rations. I dodge from one thick tree trunk to another,
panting and cursing. More singing balls, the thump of them against
wood columns sheltering me. Behind me, another scream. Drew?
Jeremiah? No, they’re smart enough to stay where they are. From the
far side of the ridge, hoof beats and shouts. Sarge is taking their
rear.

Teeth gritted, I zigzag bare-chested up the slope. A
volley of balls. This rock ledge, a nice haven. Pause. Deep breath,
deep breath, deep breath. Up again. Bowie knife I hip-pat, at the
ready. Up, up. And there’s the blue—blue uniform, blue eyes—a mere
boy, could be Drew with that golden hair—aiming. The mouth of the
musket, a black trumpet flower. Flare of fire. The merest edge of
something catches my right side. A pang, the sudden, expected wet.
And, aflame with luck, I’m atop the ridge, slamming into the Yank.
We roll together. He’s bigger by far, like most men, damn my size,
but I box his temple, he grunts and falls. Before he can rise, my
knife’s in his chest. I would stab and stab, but there are others
and I turn to them. One’s got his pistol aimed at me. Sarge’s saber
flashes; the Yank’s hand and firearm roll off together. From
behind, arm about my neck now. I twist and punch. Growling, I push
off the weight. I pull my pistol and fire. The man at my feet now,
gasping, is gray-haired as my father. I kick him nevertheless. I
kick him and kick him, and then he stops gasping and I stop kicking
and the shouting atop this ridge has ceased and it’s very quiet now
and now I wipe the drool from my beard and the blood from my bare
side.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

_

“Foes don’t deserve the dignity of a grave,” Sarge
says. “You boys, toss the dead Yanks in the creek. You all, load
our wounded in the cart. The rest of you, bury our dead at the base
of that boulder.”

I’m grateful for orders. I’m too numb to do more than
what I’m told.

“All of you, work fast. One of those Yankee swine
escaped, and we’re in serious trouble if he makes it to any of his
compatriots nearby. We need to leave this place as soon as possible
and find a safer spot to pitch camp. It’s too late now to make
Purgatory by nightfall.”

One of the New Market twins, badly wounded in the
belly and bleeding freely, is moaning in the cart. Jeremiah’s
bandaged up, as I’d ordered, his arm in a sling. It’s a flesh
wound, painful but not mortal, thank God, the bleeding nearly
staunched. He slumps on the buckboard seat, waiting for our
departure. Two of our company, both from Winchester, are dead: a
skeletal man named Bob, shot through the chest, and an older man
named Edward, shot through the head. They never said much; they had
their own mess and kept to themselves. Now they’re fitted into the
earth side by side.

George indulges in his customary corpse robbing,
confiscating the dead Yankees’ guns and cartridge boxes, then their
uniforms and shoes. Stripped, their corpses lie splayed on the
earth in nothing but underclothes. Sarge has ordered my prisoner
uncuffed long enough to help me dispose of them. Drew and I haul
the five dead Federals down the hillside one by one and give them
to the stream. When we get to the last man, the first one I killed,
I retrieve my Bowie knife from his chest, wipe it off on my sleeve,
and slip it into its sheath. Drew bends over him, takes a sharp
breath, then hunkers down beside him and touches his gray child’s
face. My big Yank gazes up at me, blue eyes wide with surprise,
white teeth sunk in his rag-gag.

From the dead grass, I fetch my forage cap lost in
the struggle. Near it lies the Yankee hand Sarge cut off. The body
it belonged to has already been washed downstream. I leave it where
it lies.

“You knew this boy?” My voice is wispy, hollow.

Drew nods. He grabs the soldier’s shoulders; I grab
the feet. The body swings between us like a hammock as we slip and
slide down the hillside’s carpet of dead leaves, across the mud-rut
road, and to the stream. It gurgles grayly over smooth rocks.

“He shot me,” I say, staring at the water, then at
Drew. “I’m sorry,” I say. Drew nods. We swing the body, gain a
little momentum, then release it. There’s a soft splash, then the
blue uniform and gray face are cupped by the current and carried
off.

My wound is only a nick, but it’s bleeding profusely,
a little scarlet waterfall down my side, staining my trousers,
moistening my underclothes. Drew turns from the stream’s busy
coursing to me. He touches my ribs. He cups up water from the
stream. He washes away the smeared blood, wiping his fingers on his
borrowed trousers. He tugs off one of the cloth strips
crisscrossing his chest and back, one of the new ones Miss Pearl
sold us. Tightly, tenderly, he bandages me. The white strip blooms
with slow red, as if a poppy were spreading its petals against my
skin.

From the head of the newly formed line, Sarge shouts
the order to march. I slip on my one-armed undershirt, then my wool
jacket with its damp scent. I cuff Drew, tether him to the cart,
climb into the buckboard seat, and we’re off at a rapid clip,
bouncing over the rough road. Jeremiah winces as we hit ruts; he
leans against me. Occasionally I wrap an arm around him to steady
him. Behind us, the wounded New Market twin groans with each jolt.
“God! Oh, for God’s sake, take me out! Take me out and leave me to
die on the roadside! Please!” Eventually, he passes out, and there
are no sounds but the tramp of men, the creak of the cart, the
purling of the stream, and the caw of crows in treetops.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

_

I
 
do what I can. Save for
what little we bought from Miss Pearl, we have no medicine, thanks
to that damned Federal blockade, and I’m almost out of salve,
having used so much of it after Drew’s beatings. I doubt that salve
or isinglass would make any difference anyway. The wound in his
belly is too deep. I can’t stop the bleeding. I’m no surgeon. The
nearest town is Buchanan, at the base of Purgatory Mountain. Sarge
has ridden there to try to find a doctor. I fear his efforts are
for naught. The wounded New Market twin is fading fast.

He lies on a cot by the fire, covered in blankets.
His name is Ben. He is, I think—I’ve always gotten the two
confused—the one I punched in the chin outside Lexington when he
tried to pull Rufus off George. His brother is William. They’re
both pale, freckled, red-haired, and sharp-featured. But it’s easy
to distinguish them now. One is significantly paler than the
other.

William hovers around Ben, face tear-streaked. He
falls to his knees by the cot and holds his brother’s hand. Ben
smiles up at him, then closes his eyes, drifting in and out of a
doze. I dip rags into hot water Rufus has boiled up, wring them
out, and press them against Ben’s belly, trying to stop the
bleeding. Ben groans. The cloths rapidly turn red. I wring them out
again, soak them in hot water again, apply them again. Ben gulps
down water that George proffers, swallowing eagerly but with
visible effort one tin cup full, then two, then three, then four. I
cup his brow in my palm. He’s very cold. He grits his teeth in
pain, shudders, then musters another weak smile. “Thanks, Ian.
Thanks, George,” he mutters. “Yeah, thanks,” William says, nodding.
George, tight-lipped, stalks off to fetch more water.

Briefly I leave Ben there, in his brother’s care, to
fetch my flask of whiskey from the cart. A few sips are bound to
ease him. Our new camp is pitched atop a low hill, in a grove of
pines like the one near Lexington where we met Miss Pearl. It’s
sheltered to the east by a razorback ridge Sarge hopes will keep
Yankee troops on the Valley Pike from noticing us. To the west are
mountains we’re poised to retreat to, if necessary, high horizons
edged now with sunset’s pale gold and apple green. When I get to
the buckboard, I find Jeremiah curled up in the cart-bed beneath an
oilcloth, fast asleep. Drew’s asleep as well, exhausted with
another day’s foot-march. Obeying Sarge’s hasty orders, I’ve cuffed
my Yank to the cartwheel. He lies on his side, head lolling in the
grass, dead to the world. Fetching a blanket from the cart, I cover
his snoring frame, remove his gag, and slip my haversack under his
head to serve as a pillow. Sarge has more important things to worry
about tonight than insuring the prisoner’s discomfort.

By the fire, Ben takes sips of my whiskey with
grateful murmurs. As promised, Rufus prepares cush—frying chunks of
leftover cooked beef in bacon grease and adding crumbled
cornbread—then parches corn. Ben takes a few bites of cush, refuses
the corn, asks for more water, gulps and gulps, coughs violently,
and passes out. The remaining members of the company talk low
around campfires. Night falls; stars glimmer among the pine boughs.
Someone tries to pluck Jeremiah’s banjo with a singular lack of
success. Rufus breaks out his precious stash of Miss-Pearl coffee
and makes us a pot. Conversations flare up and die down in the
firelight. We eye one another, eye the wounded man on the cot.
George chews tobacco and spits into the fire, hissing wads that put
off acrid smoke. Ben’s breathing grows loud, irregular, shallow.
William sits cross-legged by his brother’s cot and mumbles
prayers.