Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (36 page)

I do so. I’ve dried his face and am putting away my
handkerchief when George swaggers into the clearing. I stand,
taking my usual stance between Drew and any danger.

George leers around me at Drew’s exposed privates.
“That Yank’s big everywhere, ain’t he? I’d like to kick that thing
between his legs right off, but ain’t got time for that now. Sarge
is asking to see you at his tent. And he says to gag and tether the
Yank and bring him along. Time he took a walk.”

“Walk? What do you mean? What’s going on?” Clenching
my fists, I take a step forward.

George frowns. “No more chances to punch me, you
scrawny boxer-boy. No more chances to sweeten this prisoner’s
days…and nights. The scout says Nelson’s about here. Time this
bastard took a long walk in the woods.”

Oh, God. It’s not time to walk, it’s time to run. But
got to get Drew untied first, so he can run too.

“All right,” I say. Bending down beside Drew, I fill
his mouth with rag and rope. His eyes are welling up again. He
emits a stifled sob.

“Go on,” I say to George, as casually as I can. “Tell
Sarge I’ll bring him right along. Got to untie his feet and knees
first.”

“That’s quite all right. I ain’t got other
appointments. So I’ll just escort you both.” George seems far too
satisfied for my comfort and is showing far too many of his sharp
snaggle-teeth. He pats the pistol on his hip. “See, Sarge and me,
we don’t trust you any more, Ian. We have reason to believe you’re
not the upstanding soldier you appear to be.”

“What the
hell
do you mean by
that?” What do they know? A snake’s twisting in my stomach.
Something slimy and cold. It won’t keep still.

“You’ll find out here soon enough. Get on with
it.”

Hands shaking now, I pick at the knots, loosening and
removing the rope binding Drew’s ankles to his wrists. More knots,
hard to pick apart, slow to give, about Drew’s ankles and his
knees. I take my time, thinking, thinking.

George has his gun out now. “Leave his top half tied.
Tether his neck.”

“Let me at least fetch his trousers.”

“No need for those. Naked will do. Naked he came into
the world, and naked he’ll leave it. Let’s go. Sarge is
waiting.”

Gripping Drew’s elbow, I help him rise to his knees,
then his feet. He looms over us, blue eyes wide and edged with wet
silver. I loop a tether-rope around the slave collar and knot
it.

George pushes the pistol into my ribs. “I told you
I’d make you pay. You shouldn’t have said all you did in Buchanan.
Not when you had so much to hide.”

“Goddamn you,” I say, as evenly as my fear will
allow. “What have you—?”

“Get on now,” says George. “You’ll see directly.”

Drew walks beside me; George walks behind us. We
leave the little clearing about the whipping-tree. Over the tents I
can see coils of smoke rising, a buzzard drifting, and the white
cloud, disintegrating, that blooming sarvis makes.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

_

Sarge is sitting in a camp chair before his tent,
taking in the sun. The pokes of supplies I stole are there at his
feet. He rises at our approach. There’s a look on his face I’ve
never in my life seen there before.

“Stay here,” I say to Drew, dropping his tether.

Walking toward Sarge, step by step I sift through a
long array of possible lies. They’re all hollow, purposeless, like
a hickory shell picked clean. Let me come to the truth at the end
of this. Let me die with it.

I stand before my uncle now. He crosses his arms; I
cross mine. Our eyes meet. I do not drop my gaze. Let me be a man
about this, finally. Let me not shame myself.

“George found these bags in your tent, Ian. What have
you to say?”

There’s something else beneath the tight rage in his
voice. Something else.

“Say it. Say it before us all. Nelson’s nigh. We
don’t have a plentitude of time. You were planning…what? To help
this boy escape?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sarge’s mouth goes slack for only a second before
returning to its usual set firmness. “I’m your kin. These men are
your comrades. The punishments you deserve… Shall your face be
branded? Shall it be hanging or the firing squad?”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man, sir. You’re no Christian.
This Yankee boy, I’ve come to care about him. He doesn’t deserve
what you’ve made him suffer. The Lord’s made him a friend to
me.”

“The Lord? I doubt it. So where were you going? Over
to the enemy?” Sarge rubs his forehead and shakes his head. Far
away, something booms. Thunder, no doubt, ready to soak fresh grave
mounds.

“You’ve heard all you need to know, sir. I have
nothing more to say.”

“I’ve known you since…” His voice rises and breaks.
“How could you do this? How could you betray your country, your
kin?” Sarge turns away, rubbing his eyes. “After what happened to
Ariminta?”

It’s as if a sword blade wept or a boulder keened.
That he could be hurt? Impossible.

“You’ll be hanged, Ian,” Sarge whispers into a rising
breeze. “I’ll see to it. No more favors for family. I won’t be
accused of favoritism. I’ve tried to show you how to be a man, a
soldier…”

Sarge faces me, himself again. “George, bring the
prisoner over here.”

Choking sound behind me. I turn to see George yanking
on the tether, dragging Drew forward by his neck. He shoves Drew to
his knees beside me and presses his gun’s barrel to the back of
Drew’s head. Once more, thunder booms to the east.

“I will pardon you, nephew, if you finish him here.”
Gripping my shoulder, he pats my pistol in its holster. “Put a
bullet through his skull and drag him into the woods. We have
little time. Nelson’s due. Renew your loyalty. Show me your
remorse. Wipe out his memory. Let us both forget him.”

“But, Sarge, Ian’s…he’s…he’s guilty as hell. What
he’s done, it’s nigh onto desertion! It’s treating with the enemy!”
George is sputtering.

“Shut up, private. Ian, do it. Do it, and be
pardoned.”

I look down at Drew. He stares up at me, tears
glistening on his face. He nods.

“Look! Look there! He
is
your
friend. Even
he
agrees this is best.”

My hand falls on Drew’s shoulder. Sarge’s hand rises
from mine.

“No, sir. I won’t do this. If you’re going to murder
him and have me hanged, I’d just as soon you ended us here,
together. One grave’ll do for both of us.”

Sarge’s face stiffens, skin a gray bark. “You will be
hanged, as is proper. He, on the other hand…”

Taking Drew’s tether, he hands the rope to George.
“Take him to the woods.”

George smiles. “Come on, Yank. It’s finally time.” He
jerks the rope. Drew chokes and huffs, stumbling to his feet.

“No!” I’ve seized George by the back of the neck when
I feel Sarge’s pistol between my shoulder blades and his breath in
my ear.

“Easy, nephew. Don’t make this worse. George, get on.
Get it over with.”

I stand stiffly. “Do it, uncle. Damn you. End us
together.”

George shoves Drew. Drew trips over one of the
stuffed pokes, then rights himself.

Thunder booms closer, just over Purgatory. A shout
goes up at the far end of camp. Rufus runs into the clearing,
screaming, “Yankees! From the Valley! Yankees!”

It’s pure grace, this chance. Sarge lowers his gun,
surprised. I pivot on one heel, catching my uncle on the chin with
my elbow. His pistol goes flying. Another blow, this one a fist
into his gut. He staggers backward. I punch him in the jaw. He
spins, slams into the side of his tent, and he’s down.

I turn. George points his gun at me. Drew, yelling
against his rope and rag, slams his torso into George’s shoulder.
Off-balance, George fires. The ball whizzes past my head.

And then, behind me, a force and a flame catch me by
the waist, lift me up, and throw me down onto my face. Clods of
earth are flying, and yellow sparks. God has brought his bullwhip
down, his hammer, his thunder-dark palm. I am nothing now, nothing
but a gray grub sheltered by Southern soil.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

_

Something muffled, a voice. Muffled like my senses. I
turn like a worm in a cocoon, onto my back. I open my eyes. There’s
his sweet face hovering over me. My brother, my lover, naked and
bound. So beautiful, the bush of his beard, the blue of his eyes,
the rope between his teeth. I smile at him, reach up, touch his
red-dewed cheek.

The earth rocks beneath me. Earth or sea? Sea rocks,
not earth. What river or lake bears us up? We are riding a river
home.

Drew’s roaring. Got to get that rag out of his pretty
mouth. Don’t understand a thing he’s saying. Pull that bloody gag
out and kiss him hard.

I grip Drew’s naked thigh, hoisting myself into red
mist, flakes of fire. I stare up at Drew’s face, at the mud and
blood and tangled hair, and the mist begins to rise, as it does
back home, the Greenbrier River on autumn mornings.

Drew’s my support, the tree-hairy hill-slope from
which cometh all strength. I clamber to my feet. Shaking Ian,
brittle Ian, sway of winter weeds. An ache stabs my shoulder
blades, jabs my right side. Here’s a hole in my raggedy gray
uniform jacket; here’s blood. Where has youth gone? Is it night or
afternoon?

I look around. There’s George, asleep on the ground.
There’s flame arcing in from the east, a comet flying over the
camp, descending with a thud and a boom. Where is Sarge? Where is
his tent? There is only a hole. I walk to its edge, look down into
steam, a black chute, a few sun-sparkles and smolders.

This is the smoking crater of God’s war-will. This is
the goblet of bones and gobbets.

Ah. Now. Yankees. Now I see. I once was blind but now
I see. The narrow, snarled stream of seconds favors us for once. I
snatch up the pokes, grab Drew by the arm, and run. Smoke swallows
the sunlight, casting our flight into shadow. Behind us, another
shell makes flying flame and leaping earth of our camp.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

_

My tent’s still intact, here beside the little
sarvis. Inside, I seize haversack, oilcloth, cartridge boxes,
rifle, and blankets. No time to dismantle the tent and take it with
us. Loaded down, I emerge. My naked giant grunts, flexing his roped
arms, wanting release. “Soon,” I tell him. “Let’s get out of here
first. Keep close behind me.”

Only yards away, another shell drops, and more earth
goes flying with a fiery boom. My company-mates are darting every
which way, shouting, crazy-eyed. No sign of Jeremiah or Rufus. As
we pass the whipping-tree, I bend in my flight, snatch up Drew’s
trousers, and keep running. About us, walls of smoke where tents
used to be, the whizzing of bullets, the crash of shell-splintered
tree limbs. Behind us, gunfire, screams, the screech of shells.

Camp’s edge now. The paddock’s empty, the horses
scattered in terror. “Goddamn, we got to walk it.” I curse and
spit, then lead us west into the woods, toward the mountains.
There’s a narrow road here skirting the James, a rough groove of
mud through steel-gray tree trunks. We run along it, finally out of
range of the Federal artillery. Already my armful of burdens has me
panting. “Craig Creek. We got to get up the James, get to Eagle
Rock, get on up Craig Creek.” I’m muttering, more to myself than to
Drew. “Why, oh, why, couldn’t there be a horse or two? ‘My kingdom
for a horse.’
 
”

That’s when we hear the thud of hooves in front of
us, around the bend of the mountain’s base. “Oh, damn! Off the
road!” I grab my naked Yank by the elbow, hustle him into the
woods, and shove him onto the ground beneath the thick evergreen
shade of a rhododendron bush. “Lie still,” I whisper, lying on top
of him. At the last minute, I scoop handfuls of leaves over us as
makeshift camouflage. It feels good to feel his scarred and scabbed
nakedness beneath me, even as my heart’s beating hard in the face
of death or capture.

They pass us at a full gallop, a blur of blue.
Federal cavalrymen, damn it, at least ten of them. Heading in from
the west, heading toward the skirmish, too intent on the sound of
artillery to notice us there in the leaves. They’re barely out of
sight when I help Drew up. “Can’t go up the river now,” I gasp.
“Got to avoid your buddies in blue. Got to go up the mountain till
things die down.” I look up, at the layers of fog on Purgatory’s
peak, at the arduous slope awaiting us. At this point I want to
bury our damn supplies rather than lug them, but there’s nothing to
be done for it.

“Ian!”

Shocked, I turn toward the sound of my name. It’s
Rufus, running with a heavy limp along the road in our direction.
Behind him is a sole blue-coated cavalryman, a thin, clean-shaven
man with a confident grin, riding a dapple-gray, trotting only a
few yards behind Rufus.

Now Rufus stumbles and falls. Now the Yank sees Drew
and me. The grin disappears. He pulls his pistol and aims at
us.

“Down!” I drop my load, push Drew to the ground, pull
my pistol, aim, and fire.

The explosions seem simultaneous. The Yank’s ball
grazes my left shoulder—quick rip and sting, as if a bent twig,
released, snapped back to slash me. The Yank falls from the saddle.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” He’s gasping, convulsing in the muddy road.

Poor bastard. I have no time for his suffering. He
might have comrades near, near enough to hear the pistols’ reports.
I move toward his horse, hoping to grab the bridle and get us a
faster way out of here, but the damned thing rears, bolts, and
gallops east.

“Hell,” I growl, then “Come on!” I shout, helping
Rufus to his feet. “Hand here some of that load, Ian,” he says.
Gratefully, I pass him the pokes of stolen supplies, help Drew up,
and off we three lope into the woods. Behind us, the Yankee
horseman has fallen silent.