Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (28 page)

Leaving William to apply compresses, I take Drew and
Jeremiah dinner. Both are famished. I check Jeremiah’s wound, wash
it, rebandage it, and tuck him back into the buckboard bed. I lead
my Yankee into the woods, where we both relieve ourselves, then to
my tent. He crawls in, curls up on the oilcloth, and sighs. “Can we
talk, Ian? I need to—”

“Later. I think Ben’s dying. I need to watch him. You
just stay in here and keep warm, keep quiet. I’ll be back
eventually.”

I’m halfway back to the fire when I hear the
commotion. By the time I reenter the circle of firelight, William’s
sobbing, his face buried in his hands. Ben’s eyes are fixed on the
starry sky. George is scowling, spitting another tobacco wad into
the fire. Sarge returns with the Buchanan doctor about the time
that William thumbs his brother’s eyes closed and covers his face
with a blanket.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

_

“Ben’s gone,” I say, shouldering aside the tent
flaps.

Drew’s deep voice is a mere whisper. “I’m sorry, Ian.
I really am. Despite the way he treated me.”

I feel for Drew in the dark, find the coarse wool of
a trouser leg, then sit beside him, wrapping my arms around my
knees. “He was easily influenced. They both were. If George hadn’t
been around… Well, he’s gone. It’s too late. He was your age. We’ll
bury him tomorrow morning. William won’t stop crying.”

As if eager to prove my words, a racked sob reaches
us, then the murmur of fireside voices attempting to comfort, then
a few more sobs tapering into silence.

“Ian, I want to talk about what I told you last
night. I can’t stand this coldness between us. Are you going to
tell the others? You should. I’d rather be beaten to death than
live thinking you hate me. You’ve got to believe me, I bear that
guilt every day and night, what I did to all those poor people.
Can’t you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself, but if you could,
well, it would make a big and blessed difference.”

Outside, the fireside sobs start up again. I rock in
the tent’s dark. “When it comes to tears, everyone has to take a
turn.”

“What?”

I sigh. “Next it could be me crying over you, or even
you crying over me.”

“Yes, I know. But—”

“That man I stabbed to death today, who was he? How
did you know him?”

“He was… I don’t know how he ended up in this area.
Last time I saw him he was at…during the Burning, at Edinburg. His
name was Jimmy Wise. We used to drink and play cards together in
the camps. Like you and I, he was at Cedar Creek. I didn’t know him
well.”

“And what was he like?”

“He…well, he could tell a joke. He could throw a
snowball better’n anyone. He was from New York. He was always
cussing the bad beef and the hardtack.”

“And”—I take a deep breath—“did he have a family,
young as he was?”

“Yes, Ian. He got a furlough last fall and went home
to get married. Came back all flushed and happy, shared with me
little cakes his new wife had baked.”

“Well,” I say. “Well.” I tug off my upper garments,
then slip down beside Drew. He gives a great sigh, grabs my hand,
and nestles back against me.

“Seems to me we’re both guilty as hell,” I say.
“Tarred and feathered inside, that’s what it feels like. I guess
that’s what duty does for you, at least in times like these.
Difference is…you were obeying orders when you torched the Valley,
and my guess is you’d have been shot if you disobeyed. Me, today,
I…I was protecting you, and Jeremiah, and my company, yes, but it
was that berserk rage again, that ‘wildcat in war.’ I get hot to
kill. I swing and stab and shoot. Once that killer in me gets
awake, I can’t stop. I get that way when I defend…friends and
kin.”

“And lovers,” says Drew, placing my hand on his fuzzy
breast.

“Yes,” I say. Burrowing my face into his unkempt hair
still scented with mud, I press my lips to the back of his neck,
tasting both his skin’s salt and the metal of the slave collar.
“You forgive me, I’ll forgive you.”

“Yes,” Drew murmurs.

“And speaking of deals, I still want up your ass once
I get you somewhere free and safe.”

“Yes.” Drew laughs softly, rubbing his butt against
me. “Long as you go slow.”

“Ummmm, I’ll try.” Growling softly, I bite his
shoulder and stroke the wool covering his firm behind. “I’m sorry I
was cold to you. I’m so glad we’re together.”

Outside, William’s weeping starts up again. Drew and
I snuggle closer, listening. Finally the jagged sounds of sorrow
cease, and we fall asleep.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

_

Drew’s kisses wake me before reveille. We lie there
on our sides, brushing lips, nuzzling beards, fondling one
another’s hard nipples, rubbing trouser-pent hard cocks together.
I’m just about to unbutton Drew’s pants when there are footfalls
right outside the tent. I push away from him fast and am reaching
for my Bowie knife when I hear Rufus’ voice calling my name.

I crawl out, still shirtless. Rising to my feet, I
rub my eyes and scratch my armpits. Here’s hoping the bulge in my
pants isn’t as obvious as it feels. Rufus hands me a cup of coffee
with an apologetic air. “Sarge says you should help with the
funeral and leave the prisoner cuffed in the tent. Says, since you
read better’n any of us, you should recite a psalm. Don’t worry,
I’ll give the Yank—uh, Drew—I’ll sneak him some breakfast. Got a
little cush left over.”

I dip inside the tent long enough to fetch my shirt,
jacket, and cap. “You heard all that? Rufus will take care of
you.”

Drew nods, smiling. He gropes his own crotch,
whispering, “I’ll be fine. I’ll save this for you.”

The morning bugle sounds. I join the others for
muster. When we disperse, Sarge beckons. I follow him to his tent.
Inside, he leafs through his Bible. Outside, there’s the sound of
shovels displacing dirt. “This one,” he says, pointing to a page.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Dismissed,” Sarge says, with more than usual
clipped curtness.

I settle by the fire, reading over the psalm, sipping
a second cup of Miss Pearl’s coffee—what a luxury to have the real
thing instead of those nasty brews made from acorns, roasted rye,
or sweet potatoes. Across the fire, George is sharpening a bayonet,
probably the one he took from that roadside corpse. His face is
flushed. He ignores me; I do the same to him. Rufus has
returned—hopefully from feeding Drew—and is spooning me out a plate
of cold cush when George rises. He points the bayonet at me. “I
ain’t forgot what I saw in Lexington, those black ruins, and all
those ashes up and down the Valley. Now Ben’s dead, thanks to
Yankees. Mark me, Ian. I’ll see your big boy bleed a good bit yet.”
He hawks a great glob of brown juice into the fire, where it hisses
like a viper. Before I can respond, George stalks off.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

_

First sun in days, albeit still March-chilly. William
sits in a camp chair by the head of the grave, head bowed, hands
clenched together in his lap. Sarge stands beside him, occasionally
patting his shoulders’ slump. The rest of us collect about the
grave’s foot, what’s left of the Rogue Riders. Only twenty of us
now, down from ninety, picked off battle by battle, or from
lingering disease, left to rot in holes in the ground much like
this one. Half of me listens while Sarge prays over Ben’s grave.
Half of me pictures absent faces, remembering my brother Jeff,
remembering boys who began with us in the swelling patriotic hopes
of ’61, boys we’ve buried in hurried ceremonies like this after
Manassas, Winchester, Malvern Hill, Antietam, Fredericksburg,
Gettysburg, Cedar Creek. I remember too those Yankee prisoners
before Drew, boys as innocent and as guilty as Ben, as Drew, as me,
all buried in shallow graves I helped dig. I pray inside my head,
for a future with my big golden Yank, one safe and free and far
from here.

Sarge falls silent. I’m next to speak. I open the
Bible, look down at the freckled face in the earth—we have neither
the time nor the materials to fashion a coffin—then begin.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help.

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and
earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that
keepeth thee will not slumber.

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber
nor sleep.

The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon
thy right hand.

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by
night.

The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall
preserve thy soul.

The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming
in from this time forth, and even for evermore.

“Amen,” Rufus says. I hand Sarge his Bible and return
to the half-circle of men at the foot of the grave. A few lift
shovels, the rest of us preparing to disperse, when George says,
“Wait.” He’s shown up late, halfway through Sarge’s prayer, a
tardiness I find odd, considering what cronies he and the twins
were. He’s also moving unsteadily, as if he’s been drinking despite
the early hour. Beneath a big, floppy-brimmed hat I’ve never seen
before, his right eye’s inexplicably blackened, but there’s still a
strange satisfaction in his expression, a tight smugness, entirely
inappropriate for the occasion.

“May I, Sarge?” he says. When Sarge nods, George
moves to the head of the grave. The lay preacher in him just can’t
resist the opportunity, I guess. From a tree, he’s broken a little
branch with buds just opening, and this he drops onto the chest of
the corpse. He clears his throat again, takes off the hat with a
grand gesture, sweeps his eyes over our little assembly, scowls at
me, and begins.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “I’ll be brief. Ben, our
brother in the great fight ’gainst Northern tyranny, has been laid
low, as have so many of our company-mates since this conflict
began. Those same invaders who’ve done burnt our homes and farms
have murdered him. This should harden our resolve. This should make
us ruthless. This should make us thirstier than ever for Yankee
blood. We have much to avenge.”

A few boys behind me grunt assent. Sarge nods. Rufus
rolls his eyes and makes a disgusted face.

“Do y’all need further proof that all Yanks are
monsters? Seems to me that
anyone
who
befriends a Yank, who shows a Yank
any
kindness…” George continues, glaring at me, but William’s murmur
interrupts what promises to be a tirade with me in mind.

“’T’won’t help. ’T’won’t help.” Rising, William
clutches a handful of earth and sprinkles it over his brother. He
kicks at a clod of earth. Dislodged, it rolls into the hole. “He’s
gone now, ain’t he? Deader’n a doornail, ain’t he? Yankee blood
ain’t going to help, fool.” Tears streaming down his face, he turns
to George. “Now, just you be quiet, fool. You led my brother and me
into unkindness and hatefulness, and now he’s dead.”

George snorts, grabbing William’s arm. William shakes
him off. Sarge sighs.

“Sir,” William says, turning now to Sarge, “I would
much ’preciate leave to take this sad news home to my kin. I would
so much ’preciate…” Choked up, he falls quiet and sits down in the
camp chair, hiding his face in his hands.

Sarge hesitates for only a second. “Yes, son,” Sarge
says, “you can go home. We can’t spare you a horse, but we can
spare you provisions. Rest up till tomorrow, then be on your way,
and God bless you.”

William nods. “Bless
you
,
sir,” he says. Taking a shovel from one of the men, he begins
filling up the grave.

I’m heading back to my tent when George sidles up. “I
had a whole sermon all prepared just for you,” he hisses. “A regret
you didn’t git to hear it, Yankee-lover. Sorrow’s made William all
weak. And speaking of Yanks, just where
is
yours right now? Not where you left him.
Told
you I’d make him bleed a right bit more before he
ends up in a hole like poor Ben.”

“Oh, God, you damned son of a bitch. If you’ve hurt
him—” I grab for George, but he’s ready for my response, leaping
out of my reach and dodging off between the trees. Frantic, I race
to my tent. It’s empty. Drew is gone.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

_

“I
 
don’t know where he is,
Ian. I fed him breakfast, left him in the tent, and went to the
funeral,” Rufus says. “I’ll help you look. Let’s spread out.”

I’ve made half a circuit of the campsite when
Jeremiah runs up to me, face grim. “You looking for your Yank?”

“Yes! Lord, man, have you seen him?”

“Yep. Check in the woods behind Sarge’s tent.” I’m
about to race off when Jeremiah grips my forearm.

“Prepare yourself, Ian. Someone’s treated him awful
bad.”

I tear off. My throat aches as if invisible fingers
were encircling it.

He’s here where Jeremiah said, in the shadow of the
pines. He looks up at me, face twisted. I squat down beside him.
His eyes fill up with tears and overflow. Someone—can there be any
doubt who?—has torn off his bandages and bucked him with rope and
wooden rod. Instead of the usual stick-gag, a bayonet has been
wedged between his teeth and tied tightly in place. The sharp edges
sink into the corners of his mouth. He’s drooling blood. His pained
panting blows bubbles, flecking his lips with red foam. His blond
beard’s stained and dripping.

“Oh, buddy…” I say, touching his shoulder, then
patting his bent back. He winces, whimpering. “What…?” I say. My
hand is wet. I stand, step around him, and see, across his bare
back, a big X cut into him from shoulders to waist, bleeding
profusely.