Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (37 page)

“Uhhhhrrrr!” We’re barely off the road when Drew
nudges me and growls, brow folded up with understandable
impatience.

“Yep, buddy, yep. You’ve waited long enough. Hold on,
Rufus. Let me free him.” I pull my knife but think better of it—who
knows if or when we might need the rope? Sheathing the Bowie, I
finger-fumble the knots loose. Elbows, wrists, neck tether. The
rough cords fall from him. He’s free. After long days of captivity
and abuse, my boy is finally free.

Drew sighs. He stretches and flexes. The muscles of
his shoulders and arms ripple. He massages his bloodstained wrists.
He picks at the gag’s knots behind his head. “Here, here,” I say,
helping him. The rope goes lax, dropping over his chin. Reaching
up, he jerks the rag out and stuffs both rope and rag into his
poclet. He smiles down at me, working his jaw around, wiping blood
from the corner of his mouth. “Damnation, Reb… It’s about fucking
time.” Then, incongruously, he seizes my hand and shakes it
hard.

I laugh and wince. My shoulder’s smarting now.

“Oh, damn! You need bandaged.”

“Not now, Drew. We got to get up the mountain and out
of danger’s way first.”

By the time we stop, panting for breath, we’ve
crested a little leaf-strewn promontory topped with a table rock
about a third of the way up Purgatory. Behind us and below, the
battle continues. In the distance, yellow flashes, pillars of gray
smoke shot through with black. From the east, suits of blue are
streaming around the foot of Purgatory, too many to count. From the
south, a sparse gray cloud rolls down the Valley, no doubt Nelson’s
forces come to join our company. We Rebs are outnumbered as usual.
But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Now I have Drew, and he and I
have more pressing business.

“Let’s see that wound, Reb.” Drew’s big hand, patting
my back.

With Drew’s help, I peel off my stained uniform
jacket. He examines me, staunching blood. “Ain’t bad,” he says.
“Either that man was a damned bad shot, or you’re a damned lucky
grayback.” With a wink, he adds, “Thank God.”

“Here’s your pokes.” Rufus hands them to Drew, then
sits on the ground with a pained huff. “Y’all need to keep on.”

“You ain’t coming with us?” I say.

“Naw, Ian. I ain’t no deserter. That company’s all I
got. Though I’m thinking there’s little left of it after this rout.
Plus I think I got some grapeshot in my leg. Something’s hurting me
bad.”

Grape, yep. That must be what’s paining my back and
bloodying my side. That must be what’s streaked Drew’s face with
crimson.

“Ian?” Rufus starts to speak, stops, starts again.
“I’m pretty sure Sarge…”

“I know.” The blood keeps welling up, staining my
undershirt, trickling down my arm. “It’s my fault.”

“’Tweren’t nobody’s fault! I saw what happened! You
had to—”

“Don’t want to talk about it. Did you see what
happened to Jeremiah?”

“Yes!” Rufus’ face lights up. “I think he got away.
We made it out of the artillery fire together, then he peeled off
across a field and headed north. Said, since it seemed to him Sarge
was dead and our company done for, he was gonna head back down the
Valley, maybe borry a horse, see if he could find Miss Pearl.”

Jeremiah. Sweet, furry, loyal friend. “Damnation,
that’s good to hear! But what about you, buddy?”

“I’m gonna hide up here for a while,” Rufus says,
“see how things end up down there. But you…you can’t let this boy
get captured again. If there’s any chance Sarge or George are still
alive…they’ll be wanting to track y’all down, though last I saw
Weasel-Teeth, he was sprawled ass-up in the mud and is liable to be
a prisoner of the Yanks by now. Or a damn homely corpse. Either
way, them’s his just deserts. Anyway, I s’pect you were hoping to
get this big ole Yank away from here. So go on. Git on now.”

“Drew? Should we go or stay?”

Drew’s still rubbing his wrists. He stares over the
edge of the table rock and down the hill, where the blue uniforms
mingle in distant shouts with the gray. Even in this extremity his
sunlit nakedness, set against clouds and mountain horizon, stuns
me. White skin, golden hair, scarlet wounds. My chest clenches;
inside me the sarvis petals gleam, pure white in spring sunlight.
It’s a blessing and a miracle, to feel such delight. We’re here
together, free from constraint and cruelty. For now, at least,
we’ve evaded death.

“You—you could go back,” I say. “We could stay here
and see who wins. If the Feds prevail, you could—”

“’Scuse me, Rufus,” Drew says, turning from the
vista. His hands fall upon my shoulders. He bends down and kisses
my forehead. He wraps his arms around me, then kisses me on the
mouth.

“Oh, Lord,” Rufus whispers, looking away. “George was
right about you two. He said y’all were…”

Drew laughs. My naked Yankee throws back his head and
laughs. Then, slipping his big arms beneath my back and beneath my
knees, he picks me up as if I were a baby.

“Shit, Drew,” I mumble. My half-hearted squirming is
for nought.

“I guess we’re sodomites. Yes sir,” Drew says,
pressing me to his chest so hard I gasp. “We are sodomites indeed.
Rufus, bless you for your help. But you’re right. We got to get on
now. Come on, little Reb. I ain’t ever seen West Virginia. Take me
on home. You got some pies to bake.”

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

_

No pies for a while. If we get back to the Greenbrier
and my family farm, hell, you bet. My kin always has dried apples
on hand. But there’s a damned long ways between here and home. For
now, it’s the same cursed hardtack. We take a few bites—this batch
seems free of weevils, praise God—before taking our leave of
Rufus.

“Goodbye, friend. I hope, well, I hope somehow we
meet again.”

“Yep.” Rufus, eyes lowered, steps back when I try to
hug him, so I simply shake his hand.

Drew shakes his hand as well. “I’d like to thank you
for all the food you’ve slipped me during…my trial. Your kindness
helped me survive, Reb, and I won’t forget it.”

“’Tweren’t nothin’,
 
” Rufus
mumbles, dropping Drew’s hand. “Y’all get on now. Good luck to you.
I’ll pray for you.” He lifts his head, shakes it sadly, and manages
a small smile. “Yes, I will. I will indeed.” Then he turns and
limps down the slope, grabbing saplings to slow his awkward
descent. He looks back once. In a few minutes, he’s disappeared
among the gray forest trunks.

Drew pulls on the trousers I retrieved, cinching them
with his rope belt, before tearing off a bit of my undershirt
sleeve to wrap my shoulder wound and helping me pull my jacket back
on. Using the yards of rope that had bound him, we form improvised
packs, tying the pokes and blankets on our backs. I hand Drew my
haversack and two cartridge boxes. Painfully, I shoulder my rifle,
another cartridge box, my cap box, and my canteen. “We have a few
hours of daylight left, boy. Let’s circle the mountain and make
camp on the western slope. Tomorrow, if things are less explosive
down below, we can make the river trail and head up the James.”

Drew nods. We set out, making our way around
Purgatory’s uneven slopes, moving through thick forest and over
broken boulders. To our left, far below, the river flows, a smooth
gray, edged with willows leafing out in green. To our right, far
above, the mountain rises into cloud. Day fades; the booms of
artillery grow distant and finally cease. Drew, barefoot, moves as
fast as he can, cussing as the rough terrain tears at his soles.
When he falls, I lift him up, wipe blood off his feet, squeeze his
hand, and lead us farther along. While light lasts, we need to put
as much distance as possible between ourselves and the Valley’s
skirmishes.

My Yank and I keep going till the sun’s disappeared
behind the western mountains, the forest’s filling with chill
shadow, and only a little light lingers high on Purgatory’s slopes.
Above us, in the boughs of huge oaks, birds settle, preparing to
roost. Drew and I separate, looking for a dell, or a pile of leaves
sheltered by a rock overhang, or a hollow sycamore trunk where we
might spend the night.

Nothing in this direction but more rock, a few
melting patches of old snow beneath a hemlock grove, and a tiny
stream welling up between exposed roots and trickling down a narrow
gully. Night’s falling fast. The sky above me is indigo, the west
smeared with red, the evening star glimmering above black humps the
distant mountains make. We have so far to go.

I’m about to turn back when I hear the unmistakable
click of a rifle being cocked.

“Keep real still, Reb.” The voice is right behind
me.

“Hands up. Turn around.”

I obey. A Yankee sharpshooter, on a rock outcrop a
few feet above me. On one knee, long rifle aimed at my head.
Unkempt rusty beard streaked with gray, blue uniform, blue cap
cocked over his eyes.

“My captain’s got a good pair of field glasses. He
said he thought he saw a few Rebs heading up here.”

“I’m done with this war.” My gullet feels lined with
briers. I clear my throat. “I’m on my way home.”

“You’re dressed in Rebel gray, aren’t you?” With a
lithe leap, the man descends. He stands before me now, tall, lean,
and menacing. Smiling, he presses the cold muzzle of the rifle
against my forehead. I swallow. I close my eyes.

“Yes.” Sweat’s tickling my brow. I want to wipe it
off, but if I move, he might shoot me. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you aren’t going home, whatever sort of Rebel
dung-heap that might be. You’re coming with me. A prison camp’s
your future, son. Elmira. Or Johnson’s Island. Or maybe I should
just shoot you here and spare us both further trouble. Where are
your mates?”

I open my eyes and stare into his. If it’s my time to
die, at least I’ll go loving Drew. “I’m alone. No one else.”

“I doubt that. On your knees.”

I kneel in the leaves. Please, God, don’t part me
from Drew like this.

“That’s a good little Reb. Now why don’t you unload
yourself of those burdens? Slowly.”

The man backs up. The cool muzzle-metal leaves my
brow. Now it’s aimed at my heart.

First I lay down my rifle in the carpet of fallen
leaves. Then my pistol. I unshoulder my pack, canteen, and
cartridge boxes and drop them beside my firearms.

“Bowie too.”

Hands shaking, I’m fumbling with the Bowie’s sheath
when I hear Drew’s hoarse voice.

“Sir! Please, sir! I’m a prisoner of war. This man
has been holding me.”

There’s the rustling tread of feet across the forest
floor. Drew appears from behind a laurel bush, his hands in the
air.

“You’re a liar.” The man steps back, trying to cover
us both. “You’re a Rebel too!”

“Sir, I’m wearing gray because my Federal uniform was
ruined and then stolen. I’m from Pennsylvania, sir! I swear it. I
rode with Sheridan last fall.” Drew takes two steps forward. “I
helped him burn the Valley.”

The sharpshooter takes another step back. The mouth
of the gun wavers between Drew and me.

“I fought at Yellow Tavern and Trevilian Station,
sir. They took me prisoner outside Staunton, sir, nearly two weeks
ago. They tied me, they beat me, they cut me, they pissed on me,
they starved me. See? They’ve kept me collared like a slave. See?”
Drew tugs at the iron locked around his neck. “Don’t doubt me, sir.
Here’s proof! Look!”

Drew slips his pack off his shoulders and turns,
displaying his scarred and welted back in the twilight.

“Oh, hell, son…” The sharpshooter lowers his weapon
and shakes his head, staring at Drew’s extensive maiming. Then he
turns from Drew, aiming the muzzle at me. “You fucking animal,” he
growls low. “All you Rebs are animals. I’ve heard how you treat
your prisoners. My buddy died in that shit-hole Andersonville.”

“Sir, if you boys hadn’t shelled that Rebel camp
today, this one would have shot me through the head.” Drew takes
another step forward, pointing a finger at me.

“Then that’s what this one deserves. Why bother
taking him prisoner?” Again, the Yank levels his aim at my brow.
Sharpshooters are the best shots, I think, almost casually. And at
such close range, surely I’ll die before I suffer.

I have time for a second’s surge of nauseating
doubt—wondering if, all these weeks, Drew’s been waiting for his
chance to turn on me—before my Yank leaps. His big frame slams into
the stranger’s; the rifle goes off, there’s the keen singing of a
richochet, and then Drew’s wrestled the gun away and sent it flying
into brush. They scuffle for only a few moments, the sharpshooter
cussing like wildfire, before Drew’s fist slams into the side of
the man’s head and he falls still.

“Up, Reb!” Drew says, climbing off the prone body.
“If this man had buddies, they might be near.” He tugs off the
man’s shoes, finds them too small, curses, and drops them.
Hurriedly he searches the man’s pockets, pulls out a wad of paper,
and unwraps it.

“Oh, look! Cheese!” His eyes gleam; he licks his
lips. “I’ll save it for later. And, look! Ammunition! Here!” He
tosses me the Yankee’s cartridge box. “Handy, handy.” He peels the
uniform jacket off the fallen Fed’s limp body, tries to pull it on,
and swears. “Damn it!
Damn
it! Doesn’t fit.
All right, we’ll keep it. Might be able to use it at some point.
Guess I shouldn’t be wearing blue anyway, if I’m going to pass as
your Rebel buddy.”

“I…D-Drew?” Relief’s swamping my head, turbid as the
Greenbrier River’s spring floods back home. I sway a little. I wipe
the sweat off my brow. “Damn, boy, bless you, I—”

“As many times as you’ve saved my Yankee ass, it’s
about time I returned the favor,” Drew says, stripping the man’s
undershirt off before stuffing both it and the jacket into his
pack. “Did you really think I was going to turn against you? Hell,
you should know better than that by now. Get on up.” Drew hauls me
to my feet. I stand, legs shaking. “Here, here.” Drew hands me my
firearms, then lopes into the brush long enough to retrieve the
sharpshooter’s rifle. “Another gun, that’s what we needed. Come on,
Ian. Follow me. We still got to find some shelter, some place to
spend the night.”