Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (29 page)

I’m fumbling with the knots behind his head, trying
to loosen the bayonet, when Sarge appears around the corner of the
tent. “What are you doing, nephew?”

“S-sir, George has moved the prisoner without warning
me. And surely this treatment is too vile even for a foe. I’m
taking this blade out of his mouth. And look at his back. A pig or
dog deserves better.”

Sarge steps forward, grabbing my hand. “Yes, a pig or
dog does. A Yankee doesn’t. You didn’t see the remains of the
Institute at Lexington. George and I did. I attended school there,
Ian, and now it’s a pile of blackened wood and ash, as is—have you
forgotten?—my home. And now another of our company has fallen,
thanks to this fellow’s friends in blue. I gave George permission
to do this. It’s a way of commemorating Ben, a strong way, not the
soft way William has chosen. You will leave the prisoner to suffer.
You may fetch him after supper. Not till then.”

I shake off his grip. I step back, pointing to Drew’s
maimed back. “But, sir, this is outrageous. This man is a human
being. Surely you—”

“
Enough
, Ian. After your fine
fighting yesterday on the ridge, I was so proud of you. But now…I
don’t like your tone. The same old weakness—I see it again and
again—and now, I think, for the first time there’s defiance too.
Unseemly. You owe me obedience, do you not? I’m your captain, your
elder, your kin. And my saber saved your life mere hours ago, did
it not? Did it not?”

What can I say? He saved my life indeed, and right
now I wish he’d never been born. Mute, I nod. I look not at his
face but to his right, concentrating on the play of sun and shadow
in the pines behind him. I don’t dare let him see the naked hate in
my eyes.

“How many times have I saved your life now, since
this long war began? Two? Three?” Sarge waves at me dismissively.
His voice is low, cold, and even. “I’ve tried to be a second father
to you, to make a man of you. I’m weary of it. Take yourself off
now. Don’t come back till nightfall. I mean it. George has lost one
of his best friends. He’s angry. It’s a righteous anger. It
deserves an outlet. It cries out for blood. Blood it shall have
today; blood it shall have in future.”

I take a step toward the camp, fisted clenched, but
Sarge can gauge my intentions. Bushy brows knit, he waves a warning
finger, as if I were a child being scolded for some thoughtless
prank. “And Ian, leave George alone. This punishment was as much my
idea as his, though I gave him the pleasure of implementing it. If
you start a fight with George, I’ll not only cut this Yankee’s
throat myself—ah, I can tell from your face that his fate is of
great concern to you—but, I swear, though you may be my kin, I’ll
have you hung by your thumbs or bucked and gagged like him. As it
is, this little fit of insubordination has earned you picket duty
today from lunch till supper. Now get along with you.”

It’s all I can do not to curse him. I’m turning away
when he adds, “We leave for Purgatory tomorrow. If the prisoner
can’t keep up, you’ll be required to shoot him.”

Sarge shoves aside his tent’s flaps and disappears
inside. Within the tent, something fragile crashes into something
hard and shatters. I sink to my knees by my boy. I pull a kerchief
from my pocket and wipe the oozing blood from his mouth, wipe the
tears from his cheeks, wipe the streaming blood from his
sliced-open back. I look around, make sure no one’s watching, then
kiss the top of his head. “I’m going to hold you tight tonight, in
our tent,” I whisper. “And, when we get to Purgatory—you got to be
strong and take this, hold up just another day or so, till we get
there—I’m going to set you free or die trying.”

Against the cruel gag, Drew groans. He nods once,
then bows his head. I leave him there. I return to my tent. I have
a brief, silent cry, determined not to give anyone the satisfaction
of hearing my grief. Then I borrow an ax from Jeremiah and head out
to gather firewood. Every log is George’s face. The blade cleaves
his nose and sinks into the black muck of his brains. I have a
goodly heap split by the time Rufus announces lunch.

_

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

_

The hours crawl. First, lunch, some fried hardtack
Rufus brings me, which I hurriedly chew before starting my watch.
Then the miserable hours of picket duty, the slow creep of sun
descending with afternoon, as I pace the perimeter of the camp,
then along the crest of the hill, then back, keeping an eye out for
Yankees who—since the sound defeat of General Early’s forces, at
Fisher’s Hill and Cedar Creek, and then at Waynesboro, that last
pathetic attempt of ours—have just about ruled the Valley, damn
them. I smile at myself, feeling that old stab of resentment
against the boys in blue even though now my entire existence seems
wrapped up in the welfare of one of those very foes, a lover whose
efforts with the torch have helped starve the new nation I’m
defending.

By evening, my eyes are tired and my feet are aching.
It’s suppertime at last, the campfires starting up, flickering
among the rough columns of pines. There’s the sound of footsteps in
fallen leaves, and Jeremiah appears, one arm in a sling, grasping a
pistol with his free hand, his face drawn in the dying light.

“You’re excused, Ian. I volunteered to relieve you.
Go get something to eat.”

“You’re wounded, friend. You ought to be resting, not
marching picket,” I say, but he waves me off.

“I’ll be fine. Your big Yank bandaged me up right
nice. He was real careful with me. The boy ought to study
doctoring.” Jeremiah taps his bandaged arm with the pistol butt.
“Just a scratch. Hardly hurts. I’m just a little weary is all. But
Ian? Sarge said to leave the Yankee tied just yet. He said he’ll
send for you tonight when he’s ready for you to fetch the prisoner.
And Ian?” Jeremiah’s voice drops. “Look here.”

He holsters the pistol long enough to pull a bundle
out of his back pocket and offer it to me. “I’ve been saving this,”
he says. Eyebrow arched, I take it, unfolding the cloth to find a
blackened little chunk of beef, a tiny square of cornbread, and a
piece of greasy hardtack.

“What—? But Jeremiah, like I said, you’re wounded.
You need to keep up your strength. Why would—?”

Jeremiah looks around, then says, even more softly,
“Rufus and I been talking. We know your Yank is in the worst shape
ever, after what George did today. The boy’s lost some blood; some
of the men are angry over Ben and, as you might imagine, have been
roughing up the prisoner while you been out here on picket. And we
know we all have another long march tomorrow, and, well, I know how
sore your limbs get after being bucked for hours ’cause I suffered
it once, and… Rufus and I are afraid your Yank won’t be in any
shape to make the march. And…Ian, I followed you to Sarge’s tent,
and I heard him tell you to shoot the Yank tomorrow if he can’t
keep up.”

My legs are wobbly. I sit on a stump, placing my
rifle across my knees. I take a deep breath, hang my head, and
nod.

“We, uh…well, we care about you, Ian, and we
know—well, I especially know—that the big ole Yank is, uh,
important to you, so Rufus and I thought, well, your Yank needs
this food even more than I do, so…”

“Oh, Jeremiah…” I begin, but he’ll have none of
it.

“Now, just get on. Get on to dinner. I’ll be fine
here.”

I give Jeremiah a quick hug. He winces.

“Sorry, sorry,” I stammer. “I forgot!”

“That’s all right. Now get on now. I’m gonna spend
the evening thinking about Pearlene. That oughta keep me warm.” He
scratches his crotch vigorously, then his beard. “Just hope I
didn’t leave her with these frigging graybacks. She’ll twist my
dick in a knot if I did. On the other hand, heavy as her skirts
are, the damn things would probably smother ’neath them.”
Snickering, Jeremiah marches off.

By the fire, Rufus serves me up soup beans and
parched corn. “I heard about Drew,” Rufus mutters beneath his
breath. “I got you a little surprise to take him later. And I
fetched me some fresh bark-grubs just in case George—”

As if on cue, George saunters over and plops himself
into a camp chair. He’s wearing his new hat.

“Lord, lord!’ Rufus says, his face gleaming with
amusement. “Get out from under that! I know you’re in there! I can
see your legs!”

“Shut up and cook,” George growls, tugging irritably
at his moustache.

“Take them mice outta your mouth! Take ’em out! No
use to say they ain’t there! I can see their tails ahangin’
out!”

“Shut
up
!”

“What Yankee corpse you steal that fine headgear
from?”

George flushes. “Shut up!”

Grinning, Rufus turns his back, tending to the
food.

“Nice. A lay preacher, a base coward, and a grave
robber. The combination makes sense to me,” I say, leaning back in
my chair. “If it weren’t for Sarge, I’d have you facedown in that
fire right now,” I say, voice as even as possible.

George purses his mouth, staring at the flames. “I
did hear that you and Sarge would be having y’all a little talk,”
he says, glaring up at me, lips twisting into a thin smile.

I pat my open palm with a clenched fist and smile
back. “I don’t know where you got that black eye, but it becomes
you. Very pretty. At some point, Sarge or not, you might receive
another to match the first.”

George’s face falls. “Here, here,” he sputters at
Rufus, “fetch me some vittles, damn you, and make it quick. I’m
famished.”

“Yes,
sir
,” Rufus drawls.
With exaggerated slowness, he shakes some parched corn onto a
makeshift plate made of half a canteen. “
Certainly
, sir. Why don’t you start with this? I’m sure
cutting on a helpless man has worked you up quite the hero’s
appetite. You’re a true knight of the Southland.”

George snorts. “I didn’t ask for conversation, you
greasy whoremonger. Gimme that food.” Snatching the plate, he crams
a handful of corn into his mouth.

Rufus turns from him, cocks an eyebrow my way, and
smiles. Before he ladles out beans, I see his hand burrow in his
trouser pocket.

“Here we go, hero,” Rufus says, handing George the
steaming cup. “I do hope it’s fittin’ to eat.”

Rufus and I sit back, chewing our portions. We watch
George. He makes a face at us, swallows a few mouthfuls of beans,
and makes a face even more vividly unpleasant than before. “Look at
those sharp lil’ teeth,” Rufus whispers. “I’ll bet he could chaw
through pianer wire. Puts me in mind of a skunk skull my uncle has
on the mantel back home.”

George snarls, ”What y’all lookin’ at?” A few last
hurried bites, a few finger-scrapes of the cup, before he drops
plate and cup by his chair and rises. “Damned nasty,” he growls.
“You’re a sad excuse for a cook, Rufus Ballard. I ain’t eatin’ at
your mess no more. Them beans were bitter as gall.”

“Oh, sir, I’m
ever
so sorry,”
Rufus says, with a giggle and a flutter of his hand. “Son of a
bitch,” he says to me as George disappears behind a wall of wood
smoke. “Cutting on that poor big boy. He’s damn lucky I didn’t piss
in ’em. He don’t
know
bitter.”

_

CHAPTER SIXTY

_

“Yes, take him away. He stinks like a sty.” Sarge
passes me on his way to supper.

“Drew,” I say, squatting beside him in the dusk. “I’m
here to help you.”

My Yank doesn’t respond. He does stink, of blood and
urine. From the thoroughly sodden state of his pants, I’m guessing
the urine is both his and that of various hostile visitors who came
by while I was on picket duty. His head sags upon his breast,
shaggy hair veiling his features. I cup his bearded chin in my
hand, lift his head, and brush the hair away from his face. His
eyes are closed. A black bruise stains his swollen right cheek.
Another mars his right temple. His honey-blond beard is stained red
with gory slobber, as is the hair matting his chest and belly.

“Drew, wake up, please,” I say. His eyes stay
closed.

“Oh, God,” I say, fumbling loose the bloody bayonet
bound in his mouth and then the ropes and rod imprisoning his
limbs. I lower him onto his side in the pine needles. He lies there
in his cuffs and foot-shackles, limp, entirely unmoving. None of
the usual agonized sobs. I press my hand to his chest. Nothing? I
press my fingers to his throat. There, yes, a faint throbbing.

He’s very hard to move, but I don’t want to leave him
alone long enough to fetch Rufus, and Jeremiah’s still on guard
duty. Cupping a hand under each armpit, careful to keep his fresh
wounds off the rough ground, slowly I drag him through the pines to
my tent and into it. His back is crusted with dried blood, but at
least the bleeding’s stopped. I light a candle and study his bare
chest’s shallow rise and fall. I leave long enough to fetch water
and some cold supper should he wake. I clean his bloodstained
beard. I wash, medicate, and rebandage his mutilated back—how many
times have I performed these actions since he was first brought to
camp?—then blow out the candle, hold him beneath the blanket, and
indulge in another very quiet cry.

When I hear Rufus whispering my name, I hurriedly
wipe my eyes before opening the tent flap. “Here, here!” Rufus
says, looking worriedly over his shoulder before giving me a little
bundle much like the one Jeremiah gave me. “There’s a hoecake I
been hoarding for Drew, and a tiny bit of bacon, and”—Rufus
sighs—“a fried pie.”

“Oh, thank you, Rufus!” I whisper, gripping his hand.
“You’re a real friend.”

“That’s all right,” Rufus says. “I feel mighty sorry
for that boy, even if he is a bluebelly. You tell him ole Rufus
hopes he makes it, and to enjoy that pie. It’s the last one,” he
says regretfully, eying the bundle as if he were having second
thoughts about his culinary self-sacrifice. “Figure he’ll need all
the strength he can get to make it to Purgatory now.” With that, he
turns and disappears into the dark.