Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (35 page)

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CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

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The three of us ride in silence, George on the left,
I on the right, Sarge in between us. The dirt road skirting the
James River curls east around the base of the mountain, inside a
tunnel of leafless trees. Then the valley opens out, and there,
beneath a lowering and drizzly sky, is the tiny town of Buchanan,
with the Blue Ridge Mountains looming beyond it.

“The Kanawha Canal’s around here somewhere, along
which Stonewall Jackson’s body was brought from Richmond via
barge,” says Sarge, breaking the tense quiet. “Over there, across
the river, was Mount Joy, a fine mansion before the Feds burnt it
last summer. After they torched the Institute in Lexington, they
brought their savagery here.”

The history and geography lesson is a welcome
distraction, since I’m fighting a nigh-irresistible urge to leap
upon George, knock out the rest of his weasel teeth, drag him into
the river, and hold him under until the bubbles stop. My suspicion
is that Sarge invited us along in an attempt to make peace between
us. If so, it’s a waste of his time. I’m just thankful that Rufus
agreed to watch out for Drew and defend him as much as possible
from further abuse. My boy had passed out by the time we left camp,
and I’m hoping the brutal whipping he received this morning will
cause the rest of the camp to show him a little mercy while I’m
gone.

The bridge leading over the James and into Buchanan
is a rickety makeshift thing, built alongside fire-blackened stone
piers around which the water curls and races. “There used to be a
covered bridge here. Last June McCausland torched it in order to
slow Hunter’s advance,” Sarge explains. “Then he swam across the
river under a barrage of Yankee bullets. Quite the feat.” Sarge
shakes his head, strokes his moustache, and frowns. “Unfortunately,
sparks rode the wind and spread the flames through town. Ah, well,
Jubal Early taught Hunter and his bluecoats a lesson after that, in
Lynchburg and Hanging Rock. I’d love to have been there when old
Jubal stormed Washington. ‘Major,’ Early supposedly said, ‘we
haven’t taken Washington, but we scared Abe Lincoln like
hell.’
 
” Chuckling, Sarge leads us onto
the shaky little bridge, past the ruined piers, and into
Buchanan.

More fire damage as we trot through town: a burnt
warehouse, charred storefronts. Several citizens stick their heads
out from upper windows and shop doors. Seeing the gray we’re garbed
in, they cheer. We find a hitching post, dismount, and tie up our
horses. A cold wind gusts down the street. The drizzle shifts into
steady rain.

“Boys,” says Sarge, tipping his cap over his brow,
“I’m heading over there, to the town hall. Perhaps this mayor will
be as instructive and as generous as Staunton’s. You two take your
rest there.” He points to a tavern. “If the owners are patriots,
they’ll not charge you. If they do, well, I’ll meet you there in a
bit and pay. Not that Confederate currency will buy much…so, just
in case, limit yourselves to one drink apiece.”

I think of my Yank back in camp, trussed up like an
animal on the ground, new wounds oozing blood. I think about the
rapturous grin on George’s face as he swung the whip. Gritting my
teeth, I growl, “I don’t want to drink with this man, sir.”

“Nor I he!” George spits on the ground. “Weak cur.
Yankee lover!”

“Listen here,” says Sarge, voice low, gray eyes hard,
looking first at me, then at George. “The bone of contention
between you two will soon be gone. Do you understand? That boy will
be dead soon. You, Ian, have proven too kind,” Sarge says, gripping
my arm, “and you, George,” he says with the shake of a finger, “I
might almost say that you have proven too cruel, save that that big
Yank’s a foe and deserves whatever suffering he gets.”

Sarge clears his throat, voice edging lower. “Damn
you both. How will you two fight side by side after he’s dead and
buried? How can I expect you to be good soldiers and to do what
needs to be done—together—if you continue this way? That bluebelly
is nearly a part of our past. We have a future to face. We have a
country to save. God, don’t be small men! After all the South has
suffered, don’t be small men.”

With that, he turns and stalks off. George and I
stand there. My hands are shaking, so I push them into my trouser
pockets. How much more contemptible would my uncle find me if he
knew how much I loved Drew?

“Well, shit,” says George. “Don’t recall when I last
saw him so angry.” He lets fly an arc of tobacco slobber into the
street, then the chewed plug itself. “Come on. I’d rather drink
with you than stand around in this goddamn rain.”

I follow him into the tavern. It’s low ceilinged and
warm, with a small fire on the hearth. The only other customer’s an
old man in the back, drinking alone. “No need for money,
gentlemen,” says the barrel-chested proprietor behind the counter.
“After all you’ve done for Virginia, beer’s the least I can offer.”
Within a minute, George and I have our wet coats off and are
sipping brown ale by the fire.

“I hate you. You hate me. So what do we talk about?”
I wipe foam from my lip, sit back, and prop my left foot on my
right knee.

“How about Petersburg?” George works at a loose tooth
with his tongue, then takes a long swallow of ale. “The city’s
liable to fall before we get there. How can twenty half-starved men
help win that fight?”

“Good question. But what else is there to do? Stop
fighting?” Even as I speak, I know what a hypocrite I am. Am I a
coward, preparing to turn my back on my fellow soldiers and this
war we’ve fought so hard for years? What will Sarge say when he
finds Drew and me gone? What will my parents say if I make it home
with Drew? How will I live with the shame of being a deserter?

“No,” says George. “We keep fighting.”

“To defend home.”

“My home’s burnt, friend. By the likes of your
bluebelly. I fight to make them suffer.”

“Like you made Drew suffer this morning.” I grip the
mug, lift it very slowly to my lips, and take a long sip. I’d like
to swig the rest of the ale and then swing the mug against the side
of his head, but that’d end me up in the guardhouse or hung up by
my thumbs and in no position to help Drew.

George sniggers. He curls his lip, running a finger
along a canine tooth. The bastard looks like a wild dog. “Yes. Were
you jealous, that I swung that whip instead of you? He cried like a
girl, like a whore getting fucked too hard. The Lord’s vengeance,
I’d say. It was a pleasure being God’s scourge. Truly. I made you
suffer too, didn’t I? I know how fond of him you are.”

“I think you’re fond of him too. In some twisted
manner. I think you hate him so passionately because of that
fondness. I think his good looks and his suffering excite you.”

“I think his good looks excite
you
! Are you implying that…are you questioning my
manhood?” George hisses, slamming his mug down on the table between
us.

“Your manhood?” I stretch, making an exaggerated show
of relaxation. “What’s to question?”

“If there’s anyone here who’s displaying unnatural
desire, it’s you, Ian Campbell. So tender with a man who’s helped
ruin our land, who—”

I lean across the table. “You wanted to poke him,
remember? So righteous when you’re sober, so nasty when you’re
drunk. Wanted to ride him like a woman, you said. Sarge says that’s
called sodomy. I can’t imagine how a man as holy as thou could
conceive of such practices.”

George is bug-eyed now; any second, mad-dog foam’s
liable to bubble from the corners of his mouth. “That, that would
have just been a brutal punishment that such a pig deserves. How
dare
you accuse me of…that sin? Nothing’s
more revolting or less natural. And how dare you question my
faith?”

“Your faith? A Christian who beats a man bloody and
proposes to rape him?”

“I
am
a Christian, which is
more’n I can say for you,” George spits. “You have a heathen Indian
for an aunt, for God’s sake! I can’t even imagine the beastly sins
someone as rotten as you dreams of indulging in. You…you’re damned,
Ian, no question of it. A hell-bound sinner! Snugged up in your big
cozy tent every night with the enemy. If anyone’s likely to be
indulging in such abominations, it’s you.” George takes a last gulp
of beer and once again slams his mug upon the table.

“Now you’re the one who sounds jealous.”

“Jealous of weakness and of sin? If you weren’t
Sarge’s nephew—”

“You’d what? Punch me? Or, rather, try to punch me?
We both know how far you’d get.” I snort and roll my eyes.

“There are other ways to teach you a lesson. I’ll
find a way yet.”

“Drew told me what you did to him before you cut his
back. Touching him. His cock, his rear. Is that the kind of beastly
sin you’re talking about, George?”

George jumps upright, so abruptly that his chair tips
back and hits the floor with a thud. His face is twisted, flushed.
He couldn’t look any uglier. “That’s a damned lie! A monstrous lie!
By God, Ian, you’ve gone too far. I’m going to make you pay!”
Snarling, George spits on the floor at my feet.

I stand. “No,” I growl. “I think you’re the one
who’ll be paying.”

“Gentlemen, please,” the bartender beseeches. “No
trouble.”

“Sir, thank you for the ales. Your kindness is much
appreciated. Apologies for the bad behavior. George, how about we
continue this conversation outside?” I rub my knuckles and smile.
“I think I’m going to kick your ass to the far end of town and
back.”

George turns pale. “Now, Ian…”

“Ha! You look like you’re going to faint. Who’s the
cur now? Who’s the coward? Forget it. You’re not worth the time in
the guardhouse.”

I gulp the last of the ale, grab my coat, and stride
out into the rain. I’m barely off the stoop when Sarge appears
around the corner.

“Let’s go, Ian. The mayor said that tomorrow he’d
send along what cornmeal the citizens could spare. Some root
vegetables too. Let’s head back to camp. Have lunch with me. How
about bean soup and biscuits, a little ham from my private stash?
Where’s George?”

I lift my face into the rain, catch the storm on my
tongue, and wipe cold droplets off my hot cheeks. “He’s feeling a
mite delicate,” I say.

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CHAPTER SEVENTY

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The ham I saved from lunch is wrapped in a kerchief
so it won’t create a telltale stain in my trouser pocket.
Cross-legged in the grass, I sit by Drew while he dictates his
letter, and, when no one’s in sight, I sneak him tiny bits of the
meat. He chews fast, then continues speaking.

There’s little paper in the camp, and no ink. I’ve
erased the last pencil-written letter my parents sent and am
scrawling Drew’s words across that smudged and dog-eared sheet. My
writing desk’s the back of a plate I balance in my lap. We’re
taking our time, because I know some of my crueler company-mates
are waiting their turn to release a few frustrations—in the form of
spit, piss, and blows—so the longer this dictation takes, the
better.

Drew’s hogtied still, as Sarge demanded. He lies
naked on his left side, facing me, head resting in the new green
gathering over the earth as April draws nigh. The sun’s out; the
drizzle’s retreated. Sun-slant embraces him, as I at present
cannot: his gold-glitter chest and belly fur, the bush of gold
about his limp sex, the rough hemp rope knotted about his limbs,
the bloodstains that hours of the rope-gag’s chafing have left in
the corners of his mouth. He’s half-addled yet from the beating
George gave him, but a sense of urgency animates him nonetheless, a
sense we share, of time running out. He mumbles, stammers, groans,
and shakes his head, fighting back waves of pain, trying to gather
his thoughts. His eyes cross and close; he dozes; he jolts awake
and continues. His words slog forward like soldiers in mud
ankle-deep. I listen, I write. He licks his lips, takes a deep
breath, and mumbles more. When his arm grows numb beneath him, he
shifts onto his belly, then, after a while, onto his right side,
trying to lessen his discomfort. I adjust my position according to
his, the way sunflowers follow summer sun.

“Dear Folks,” it reads so far, “I pray this letter
reaches you and finds you well. You know I cannot write. I guess I
have always been better at baling hay and eating pie than school.
But I have a buddy here. His name is Ian. He’s a Rebel. He’s
writing this for me. I guess you wonder how I came to be speaking
to a Rebel. This is the bad part. I am a prisoner at present. I
have been treated hard and cruelly for many days. Most of these men
hate me, for I am their enemy and they are mine. But Ian is no foe.
He is my friend. He has been kind to me. He has fed me and bathed
me and tended my wounds. I would already be dead if not for
him.”

I read it back to Drew. He nods. I look around, see
no one, and slip him more ham. I rub his numbing hands and feet; I
wipe blood from the deep new wounds across his back and buttocks.
Settling back down, I take up the pencil. We continue.

“I may not make it home. And this would be a true
pity, not so much for myself, but I know you need me back to keep
up the fields and the farm. And I know it would grieve you greatly
if I die here and am buried far from you. We are all in God’s
hands, I know, I see for sure. So if this is the last you hear of
me, if I am never to see home again, then know I love you and that
I spent my last days in the care of a true friend. Your son and
brother, Drew.”

I read it back. Drew approves. I fold the letter,
easing it into my trouser pocket. I feed him the last shard of ham.
He chews and swallows, tears oozing from his blackened eyes.

“Wipe my cheeks, Ian. Please? Don’t want anyone else
to see.”