Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (38 page)

I stand there for a moment, trembling. A cold breeze
pats my beard. I look down at the man who almost took my life. I
bend down to him and press my hand to his bared chest. He’s still
breathing. I wonder where he grew up, who loves him back where he
calls home, whether he’ll survive this war. Then I rise, shoulder
my provisions, and follow my savior into the shade of hemlock
boughs.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

_

“Here! Here!” Drew shouts. I follow the sound of his
voice, loping up and over a low ridge, leaves rustling beneath my
feet. He’s standing in the cove below, among a scattering of
moss-coated rocks and patches of lingering snow. The two largest
boulders lean together like fond comrades, shoulder to shoulder, in
the shadow of encircling hemlocks. I slide and stumble down the
slope till I reach Drew’s side.

“Here, Ian. Look,” Drew says, pointing. “A cave.”
Between the two boulders is a low entrance, a leafy ramp descending
into the dark.

I light a candle stub. Cautiously we crawl inside.
It’s a shallow little grotto, low ceilinged, snug and dry, the
floor blanketed with musty leaf mold. No vermin we can see. Too
early in the season for snakes. Wedging the candle upright between
two stones, I begin unpacking the oilcloth and smelly wool
blankets, making of them a little nest. By the time I’m done,
night’s thick outside, the entrance a black almost as dense as the
black stone above.

No cook-fire tonight. We’re not far enough away from
possible pursuers to risk it, and it’s too dark now to gather wood.
Cross-legged, we sit side by side inside the cave, chewing our cold
dinner of hardtack and the unexpected luxury of Yankee cheese.
Candle wax drools onto stone; candlelight jumps and flares;
spasmodic shadow shifts over Drew’s bloodstained face. Outside,
there’s complete silence, broken only by the sound of wind kicking
up leaves. From near-death and the smoking holes of destruction we
have been delivered, to this chamber beneath the forest. My prayer
is sheer gratitude, unspoken but heartfelt.

Done eating, Drew assumes a position I’ve seen many
times since we met, arms folded over his bare chest, trying to warm
himself up. From my haversack, I fetch my flask. We take turns,
small sips, careful to leave some for the future. Drew sighs, leans
shivering against me, then slips to the ground, tugging a blanket
over himself and resting his head in my lap. We look into one
another’s eyes for a while.

“Oh Jesus, this feels good,” Drew says, smiling up at
me. “I’ve been so cold for so long.” With one hand, I stroke the
hair off his brow. With the other, I intertwine my fingers with
his.

“You did it, Reb,” Drew mutters. “You did what you
said you’d do. You saved me.”

“And you saved me,” I say. “George would have blown
my head open. So would that Yankee sharpshooter.”

Still smiling, Drew closes his eyes. “I’m so damn
tired,” he says. “Now that I’m free, I badly ache to return the
pleasuring you’ve given me, but…”

I trace his beard-framed lips with a fingertip.
“Later, Achilles. Right now, this here Patroclus should examine
your wounds. We both got cut up pretty bad in that explosion. And
the lash-marks from that beating George gave you need tended too. I
have the last of the salve, the plaster, and some bandages in my
haversack.”

“Later, Ian, please? I’m so sleepy… Just climb under
this blanket and hug on me, buddy, all right? I just need warmed up
and held.” That beseeching little boy again. A hook in my
heart.

I blow out the candle—one of many limited resources
we must carefully conserve—place my glasses atop my haversack, and
slip beneath the heavy wool. The earth’s hard and lumpy beneath my
back, despite the oilcloth, but a cave’s discomfort is far sweeter
than a comfortable camp-cot now that we’re free and safe. Drew
stretches out on his side, clinging to me, big head on my shoulder.
I wrap an arm around him. “You’re so warm,” he sighs. We lie
quietly, listening to the rustle of leaves in night wind beyond the
cave-mouth. My fingers roam over the bushy fur on his chin, the
rough ridges of his whip-ravaged back.

And his slave collar. I’d forgotten it. I tug at it.
“You want me to take this off? I have the key in my haversack.”

“Not now,” Drew says, huddling even closer. “You once
said you wanted to own me, remember? Well, here I am. Here we are.
I’m free, thanks to you. And I’m yours to own, if you’ll still have
me. We’re here together, safe inside the earth. I owe you my life,
Ian. I cherish you…as a comrade and as…and as a lover. I’ll follow
you through these Southern hills of yours for as long as you’ll
have me.”

I roll over onto my side, facing him. He nuzzles my
cheek, then continues, voice small and tight.

“I’ll wear this collar for a while.” From his pocket,
he pulls out the rag with which he’d been silenced so often. He
smoothes it, folds it, and knots it around his neck. “This’ll hide
it, so when or if we run into folks, they won’t ask any questions.
Guess a white man wearing a slave collar might raise some eyebrows.
Once we get back to civilization, I’ll keep it in your haversack,
but right now I want to wear it. ” His arms encircle my waist.
“This iron used to show I was a prisoner of war, your company’s
whipping post. I was locked away, inside this ring, without choice
or chance of escape. Now it means you own me and that I give myself
to you freely. If that’s what you still want?”

“Yes,” I choke out, thankfulness a dry ache in my
windpipe. “Oh yes. Oh yes. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Drew whispers against me. I fondle his
collar, his chin, the hair sprouting in the pit of his neck. Soon
he’s fast asleep.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

_

“Ian?” Drew’s whisper wakes me. His hands shake my
shoulders. “Ian.”

I bolt up, panting. “Drew, watch out! He’s here!”

“You were dreaming,” he says. “It’s all right. Ain’t
no one here.”

I fumble for my knife in the dark. I seize and
unsheathe it, brandishing it at the night outside the cave.

“He was here! Sarge! He was right there!” I point at
the cave’s mouth, where a shaft of moonlight stretches like a pale
arm. “He was watching us!”

“Naw, Ian, naw. He ain’t here.” Drew pulls me down,
slips the blankets my nightmare must have dislodged back over us,
and embraces me. I rest my head on his chest. The thick fur tickles
my nose, my cheek. I ride his breath’s rise and fall, the thud of
his heartbeart.

“S-Sarge was there, where the moonlight is. He was
hunkered down, watching us. His face was white and his eyes were
black, like clumps of coal.”

“Shhhh,” Drew soothes, rubbing my back, my neck. I
shiver. He rocks me. “Shhhh.”

“T-There was no tent left. Just a b-black hole where
I’d shoved him. He was kind to me. He was kin. I—”

“Shhhh,” urges Drew, patting my cheek. “You’ve
comforted me so often. Let me do the same for you.”

I drift off to the soft caress of his fingers running
through my hair and his strong hand gripping mine.

_

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

_

I
 
rise, leaving Drew still
sleeping peacefully in the heap of blankets, and climb out of the
cave. It’s near dawn, overcast, cold, the sun not yet risen, the
forest gray and silent. Steam rises from my stream of piss. Among
the carpet of dead leaves about me, green tendrils and sprouts of
early weeds rise. I’m tucking myself in when I hear, just up the
mountain, men’s voices. I slip behind a rock, peering up. Blue
uniforms wink among the trees.

I’m under the boulders in an instant, shaking Drew
awake. He jerks up from our warm nest, blinking, his head barely
missing the low ceiling of the cave. Shawling his bare shoulders
with a blanket, he crawls out with me. The voices are more audible
now, getting closer.

“More Yankees,” I say, pointing up the slope.
“Probably sharpshooters. Maybe sent like that last one to find us.
Let’s go,” I whisper, turning back to the cave to collect our
belongings. But Drew doesn’t follow. He’s looking around, brow
furrowed.

“Come on!” I urge, tugging at his elbow.

“No. Wait now.” Drew’s gaze narrows. It’s a rock he’s
looking at, a big one. He strides over to it, bends over, clutches
it with both hands, grunts and heaves.

“What are you doing? We need to leave now. Let’s head
down the mountain.”

“Ian,” Drew pants between deep breaths. “We can hear
them from this distance. So they’ll be able to hear us tearing
through these dead leaves. Just wait. I have an idea.” Another
heave, a muffled cussing, and the rock’s dislodged. He pushes it,
rolling it toward the cave. I doubt that any other man I’ve ever
met would have the strength to do what he’s doing.

“Holy God,” I gasp. “You really are Achilles!”

Drew grins and huffs. “I’m going to seal the cave
behind us. Just in case they come down here. Let’s just hope the
fallen leaves hide our tracks and the rock’s too.”

I slide down the earthen ramp into the cave. Drew
follows, backing up, then falling to his knees and dragging the
rock in place behind him. The light disappears, save for a thin rim
edging the stone. It’s how I’ve heard eclipses of the sun
described.

We’re huddled together now, Drew with the
sharpshooter’s confiscated rifle, I with my pistol unholstered and
at the ready, our ears straining. Beyond the stopper of the great
stone, the voices grow closer still. Three or four men, I reckon.
Someone laughs; someone coughs and spits. The strangers pause just
outside. Oh, God, are they about to make camp?

“Gimme some cracker, Paul.” The rim of light around
the great stone diminishes; the Yank must be leaning back against
it, only feet from us. “Let’s take a breakfast break.”

Drew’s hand squeezes mine. We keep still. I close my
eyes for a few seconds, trying not to pant.

There’s a rustling as men settle haunches into dead
leaves and dig into haversacks. Someone hums, then breaks into
song, a soft, sad tenor.

Let us close our game of poker,

Take our tin cups in hand,

While we gather round the cook’s tent door,

Where dry mummies of hard crackers

Are given to each man.

Oh, hard crackers, come again no more.

“Lord, yes. I’m sick of wild hills and short
rations.” The Yankee just outside our cave sighs. Crunch of cracker
between teeth; resigned chewing. “I think I’d kiss Jeff Davis’ ass
if it’d get me some brined beef, turnips, and Boston brown
bread.”

My belly gives a low growl. Drew grins at me and
rolls his eyes. I poke myself; the growling subsides.

Another deep sigh. “No Rebs left up here, boys. The
cowards are probably hightailing it toward Richmond as we speak.
How about we head into Buchanan and see if there’s any ham or flour
to requisition in the name of Old Abe?”

Mumbles of assent. The Yank’s shadow lifts from the
stone door. There’s a kicking of leaves. “Hand over that canteen,”
someone growls. The tenor takes up another song.

There’s a spot that the soldiers all love,

The mess tent’s the place that we mean,

And the dish we best like to see there

Is the old-fashioned white army bean.

To our relief, the sounds fade. For a long time we
sit tense and unspeaking, still clasping hands in the dim light,
till we’re certain they’re gone.

“Close call, Achilles.” I chuckle. “And I think I’d
kiss Abe Lincoln’s ass for a pot of those white beans…cooked for
hours with some sow belly or side meat.” My hungry sigh’s an exact
echo of the Yank’s.

“Everyone we meet will be an enemy,” Drew says low,
kissing my hand before releasing it. “If they’re Rebels, I’m at
risk, despite these gray trousers I’m wearing. If they’re Yanks,
you’re a prisoner. And all of them are liable to string us up if
they find out we’re sodomites.”

“Yep,” I say, holstering my pistol. “That’s why I’m
leading us up into the mountains. It’s rough terrain, and it’ll
take us a long time to get home. But if we take the easier routes,
if we make our way up the Valley or try to move west along the
Midland Trail, we’re bound to run into soldiers at every turn.
We’re safer among the beasts of the mountains than among men.” I
tousle Drew’s mess of hair. “Let’s stay in here a little bit till
those Feds are well gone. If they find that buddy of theirs you
knocked out, they’ll be back up here searching for us. You want
some breakfast?” I open a poke and commence to rummaging. “Just
hardtack, I’m afraid. Once we get deeper in the mountains, we can
risk a fire, and I’ll make you some flapjacks. No frying pan, but I
could try to use the mess pan I stole. I have some wheat flour
in—”

Drew’s fingers squeeze my shoulder. “Breakfast would
be damn fine… later. But, since we’re stuck here in the dark for a
while…right now, I want to get you naked.”

I turn. Drew’s grinning down at me in the
subterranean murk. He tugs his slave collar. “Yes sir, this does
mean you own me. But come on, little Reb,” he says, unbuttoning my
jacket. “Don’t the owning go both ways? Don’t I own a little of you
too? And ain’t it time I gave back some of the sweet you’ve given
me? I can’t wait any longer. Time I took full advantage of my
new-found freedom.”

“
Now
? It isn’t safe. What if
they come back? What if—”

“They ain’t coming back. We’ll hear ’em if they come
back.”

With that, he’s pushing off my jacket, tugging my
undershirt over my head. He kisses me, then pulls me down with him
onto our rumpled blankets. “I want to do to you what you did to
me,” he sighs, unbuckling my belt and slipping my pants and my
underclothes down to my brogans. I’m hard and aching now, cock
bobbing in the dim light. He takes my naked throbbing in his fist,
rubbing the head with his thumb. I groan, bucking into his grip. He
pushes me down against the earth and mashes his bearded mouth
against mine.