Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (15 page)

Drew stretches now, rubs his eyes like a little boy,
and looks up at me. For a second, he looks confused, as if he can’t
recall how he got here or who I am, but then I can see memory
sparkling in his blue gaze. He grins, a wide white grin, happy,
mischievous, then sits up to take the cup.

“Beware,” I say. “It’s nasty. Got acorns in it. We’re
about out of real coffee, and there’s no breakfast.”

Drew sips, makes a face much like Jeremiah’s, sips
some more, shakes his head, and stubbornly sips some more. In the
silence his stomach rumbles. “Drew,” I begin, “last night was,
well, thanks for—”

Drew chuckles. “My very sentiments, sir. Now how
about that wondrous salve on my tore-up butt?” Grin widening, he
rolls over on his belly, rump in the air. “Just salve, though. As I
said last night, I ain’t prepared to give up my cherry right just
yet.”

I’d do anything for a man with a face and body like
that. “Surely,” I say, reaching for the haversack where the jar of
salve’s kept. “Those wounds do need tending.” As much as I’d relish
riding him, just massaging his bare ass will be distilled
bliss.

That’s when we hear the commotion of horses. A few
cheers go up. A stern, all-too-familiar voice shouts orders. Sarge
has returned to camp.

Drew’s eyes widen. “Oh, no.” He swigs the last of the
coffee and hands me the cup. “I’m ready,” he says.

“Listen to me,” I say, bending forward to grip his
arm. The thick muscles flex and tremble beneath my fingers. “Make
as much noise as you can when he beats you. Just let go. Struggle
and scream. That’s what Sarge wants: a real spectacle. Don’t try to
be stoic. Let loose. I’ve promised Sarge both your blood and your
tears.”

Drew squares his jaw, seizes my hand, and nods.

“Take it as long as you can, bawl like a baby, give
Sarge what he wants. He wants to see you broken, so break.” What is
on my lips unsaid is that I want to see Drew broken too. Beauty
broken down moves me like none other. But I think Drew knows that
by now.

“Then pretend to pass out. When you do, he’ll stop.
Salve and a bath are waiting for you on the other side of
this.”

“And more nights like last night?” Drew sounds like
he’s asking for another piece of cake. He’s squeezing my hand so
hard it hurts.

I can’t help but smile, despite our situation. “Yes,
big man, I promise. As long as Sarge lets me keep you out of the
cold and as long as you welcome my touch, that’s the way your
nights will be spent.”

I drop his hand, adjust my uniform, slip on my cap,
and am halfway out of the tent—greeting Sarge seems like the
politic thing to do, especially if George has been bad-mouthing me
during their foraging mission—when Drew says, “Wait, Ian. One
thing.”

“Yes?” I say, turning. He’s sitting cross-legged amid
oilcloths, hugging himself again, the golden pelt on his breast
curling in a shaft of sunlight the parted clouds and tent flaps
permit.

“If the time comes, if your uncle wants proof of your
loyalty, will he ask more of you?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, will you be the one to…when he tires of
me, will he order you to execute me?”

I drop the tent flap. The shaft of sunlight vanishes.
A big, broad-chested boy looks up at me in the sudden shadow just
this side of spring, speaking with utter calm about the likelihood
of his violent end.

“And if so ordered, will you obey?”

“No, I—”

“If I have to die, Ian, I’d just as soon a man who
cared for me was to be the one. If you have to do it, just make it
fast, please? I’m begging you. I don’t want to shame myself any
further.”

“No one’s dying,” says a firm voice I’ve never known
before. “Especially after last night. No one’s dying this time.” I
part the tent flaps and step out into the sun.

_

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

_

Sarge has done it again, whether by charm or
coercion. We haul off the cart several bags of beans, coffee,
bacon, field peas, and corn meal. Rufus, in between armloads, does
a little dance of jubilation. George is nowhere to be seen.

I’m helping Rufus mix up some corn pone when Sarge
taps me on the shoulder. “Come with me,” he says. I follow him to
his tent, head prickling and belly pinching. How did the man who
used to take me hunting and teach me how to box become this thing I
so fear?

Inside, Sarge settles in behind his desk; I take the
proffered sling chair. As is usual for our conversations, his
attention is for the most part reserved for the papers he’s
shuffling through.

“Welcome back, sir. Looks like you were successful in
fetching supplies. You’ve always been a wonder at foraging. God
knows all us men were depending on you. The food hoard was next to
empty.”

Sarge is like most men: he lives for praise. He gifts
me with a sidelong smile.

“Yes, indeed. In fact, I’ve got some presents for
you, nephew.” Sarge gestures to a bucket by my chair. In it, I make
out a flask, a waxy rectangle, a poke, a couple of jars, and
something with a metallic gleam. “Whiskey and your own coffee
store. Soap and a little sorghum and honey.”

“Many thanks, sir! I’ll very much savor—”

“At present the Valley’s fairly free of Yankees. Day
after tomorrow, we move south, keeping to the back roads. We’ll
pitch camp near Lexington. On the next day, or the next, if there
are no Feds in evidence, we’ll head along the Pike towards
Buchanan, at the base of Purgatory Mountain. Word is that Nelson’s
forces can meet us there in a few days. After we join up, we can
traverse the Blue Ridge, get to Lynchburg, then head on to
Petersburg. The city’s still in a state of siege; the least we can
do is try to help. See here?”

Sarge shakes out a map, tracing with one finger a
line I can’t see. A map of allegory, perhaps? Moving from Hell to
Purgatory sounds like a shift in the right direction.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure the men are ready to—”

“What condition’s your prisoner in?”

“Pretty weak, sir. He’s had little food. He’s still
in pain from the night he spent bucked.”

“If he isn’t mobile, he’ll have to be left,” Sarge
says. “Like we left the others. Enemies don’t deserve the luxury of
a cart-ride.”

In my lap, I clutch one hand with the other to hide
the trembling.

“No, sir, certainly not. But he’s mobile. I’ll tether
him to my cart as we did before. As I’ve said, I want to keep him
around so that you can—”

“George spoke to me last night,” says Sarge, dropping
the map and shaking out another. “He said you punched him in
defense of the prisoner. Even dislodged one of his teeth.”

“Sir, you know that George is—”

“Why did you do that, Ian? Seems nigh-treasonous to
me.”

Always a bad sign when his glance falls on me and
fixes. It’s always taken a good bit of my meager courage to meet
his eyes. But this is a question I expected.

“Sir, George was drunk. He was abusing the Yankee,
which is, of course, certainly allowable. I know you’ve let the
boys work out their frustrations on prisoners before, and it’s a
fine outlet. But I think that George was planning to…well, you
recall what he said by the campfire that night. George wanted to
‘poke’ the prisoner, you recall?”

Now I reach for that word, the one Sarge has used,
Jeremiah’s father has used, with such crawling contempt, the word
that describes the secret desire that Weasel-Teeth and I seem to
share. “Isn’t that called sodomy, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” The awful rifle sights of Sarge’s
attention return to his maps. “All right, Ian. All right. But you
should know that George has been complaining around the camp and in
our overnight bivouac. Now some of the boys are wondering why the
prisoner is allowed to luxuriate in the shelter of a tent while
they sleep out in the elements. The weather’s improving; spring
seems near; there’s little likelihood that the prisoner will suffer
the frostbite you fear. I’ll allow you to shelter him until we get
to Purgatory Mountain. After that, he stays outside. While we have
sufficient supplies, you may feed him. But when those supplies
dwindle, starve him. I won’t have him coddled.”

Tight grip of lichen on gravestone, my clenched hands
in my lap. “Yes, sir.”

“Ian, do you know why I’ve always given over the care
of prisoners to you? The ones I keep?”

“No, sir,” I say. But I’m lying. I think I do.

“Because you’re too kind, Ian. Just like your
parents. There’s a weakness there, a legacy of weakness. Each
prisoner is a test. Will pity make you weaker, or will duty make
you stronger? You were weak with that Boston boy, Brandon. I
strangled him for your sake. You were stronger with the others.
This one…what is his name? No matter. George says you’re weak,
though your words and actions so far indicate the firmness I’ve
always prayed you’d develop. Watch yourself, nephew. Compassion is
a deadfall. Especially in wartime.”

Sarge looks up. “I anticipate being on the move a
great deal in the next few weeks. I also plan for the prisoner to
be whipped and bucked often, which means he’ll weaken fast. Strong
as he appears, he’s liable to last another week, two at the most,
before he becomes too much of a burden. As soon as the prisoner
can’t keep up, he dies. Do you understand? When that time comes, I
expect you to dispatch him. You’re old enough for that duty
now.”

Execution. Drew was right. Here’s one future
announcing itself: my pistol, the one Sarge gave me when I joined
up; tiny movement of my crooked forefinger; a fiery flash, an
aureole of smoke; that golden head I’ve stroked and kissed sundered
in a second, temple oozing red.

In my throat’s a dam I force words past. “Yes, sir,”
I say, bowing my head.

“And this afternoon, I will give the camp a fine show
with the bullwhip. You have it, do you not?”

“Yes, sir. It’s cleaned, as you ordered. It’s in my
tent.”

“After lunch, then. That’s all. Enjoy your coffee and
whiskey.”

“Thank you, sir.” Picking up the bucket of gifts, I
stand.

“Oh, and Ian? There are handcuffs in the bucket too.
They’d been lost. George found them. Please apply them to the
prisoner. No use taking a chance that he’ll work his wrist-ropes
loose. When you need to leave him alone, be sure his hands are
cuffed behind his back. That should insure his continued presence
in our little camp. Might as well keep him gagged too, unless he’s
being fed. There’s no reason to permit him speech. No one cares
what he has to say. I interrogated him when I first captured him.
He knows nothing we need.”

Nodding, I depart. Outside, frayed clouds disperse.
Spring’s almost here. Soon, the sarvis will be blooming, and the
redbud trees. Sarge’s words have made the sun’s warmth a curse.
Soon, we will reach Purgatory, and Drew and I once again will sleep
apart. Soon, unless I act, Drew will be dead.

_

CHAPTER THIRTY

_

Drew and I say little, sharing fresh corn pone and
coffee in the tent. I sit in the camp chair; he sits cross-legged
at my feet. I offer no information; he asks for none. He has the
bullwhip to endure today, so what Sarge said this morning I’ll
relay some other time. I dribble honey on the pone and hold it to
his lips. He thanks me, chews, and gulps coffee. Outside, my
compatriots are laughing, a little giddy with the sudden sun, the
apparent departure of winter.

The paltry portion of pone’s done. Now I hold out the
handcuffs. “Sarge found these,” I say.

Drew lifts his head, looks at the cuffs, hangs his
head, and holds out his roped hands. “Go ahead,” he says, so I do,
locking the metal about his wrists, then unknotting and removing
the bloodstained ropes that have bound Drew’s hands since he first
was captured.

“When?” Drew mumbles.

“After lunch,” I say. We both gaze at the bullwhip in
the corner, curled up like a black snake.

“Do you want me to salve and bandage you now?”

Drew shakes his head. “Might as well save it
till…after. Suspect I’ll be needing it from head to toe by then. Do
you have enough?”

“Yes,” I say. “I got a jar of it from Aunt Alicia
last autumn, and I made a good bit of it too, while the herbs were
available. I have enough for…a goodly number of uses yet.”

“A goodly number of beatings, you mean.” Drew stares
at the ground; I stare out the tent flap.

“Yep,” I say. I hold the cup of coffee to Drew’s lips
and he slurps. A little dribbles from the corner of his mouth. I
wipe it off his soft-bristled chin with the back of my hand.

“Sorry,” I say, “that there was so little pone. I had
to fight the boys for what measly bit I got. They get surly if I
fetch two helpings, ’cause food’s so sparse that they resent every
bite I reserve for you. ‘Good food wasted on the Yankee pig,’ to
use their words. So we’ll just have to make do, sharing one
portion.”

“It was good, Ian. You’re mighty kind to share your
food with me,” Drew says. “I love honey on cornbread. We had hives
back home.”

“The key to your ankle shackles is in my haversack,”
I say, “which is where I’ll be keeping this cuff key too. If you
were to knock me out, tie me up, and make a run for it… If you’re
careful, you could make it past the sentries.”

Drew stares at me hard. “What’s changed? A couple of
days ago you said you weren’t willing to help me escape.”

I’m not ready to tell him about Sarge’s new orders
quite yet. Tonight, during the salving, maybe.

“A couple of days have made me care more. For God’s
sake, man, last night we—”

“Wouldn’t you be shamed and punished if I got away?
Wouldn’t your uncle be suspicious?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ian…?”

“All right, yes,” I say, gulping the last of the
coffee. “A prisoner escaped once, on Jeremiah’s watch. This was
soon after Jeremiah and I joined up. Sarge tracked the Yankee down
in the woods and shot him. Jeremiah spent the next ten hours bucked
and gagged as punishment. He broke just like you did.”