Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War (22 page)

“Good boy. But here’s a complication. I got something
not so nice as bacon to report,” I say, handing him my cup of
coffee to finish. “Your boots and clothes are gone. Stolen last
night. My fault. I left ’em outside after I washed ’em. Never
thought that anybody’d take ’em.”

Drew’s face falls. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, damn. What? I got
to walk to Purgatory barefoot and naked?”

“Well, the naked part would please me, just ’cause
you’re so damned pretty,” I say, mustering a half-smile. “But the
barefoot part, that would give George and my uncle and the many
rat-faced and small-souled boys in this company too much delight.
Sarge gave me leave to find you another pair of trousers, but not
till we get to Lexington. Meanwhile, let me see here…” Flipping
open my haversack, I start rummaging for scissors and spare bits of
cloth.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

_

If Drew’s torment reminded me of Christ’s before, it
does even more so today. During his week of captivity, his beard
has filled out and his hair has grown shaggier. He’s like a
German-blond version of Jesus. This morning he’s white,
bruise-violet, and gold, a cuffed, rag-gagged, black-eyed savior
wrist-tethered to my cart, trudging beside me along the road to
Purgatory. He’s naked, save for slave-collar, layered
bandages—those with which I’ve plastered his lash-maimed back,
those which I’ve knotted into a makeshift loincloth about his
hips—and a spare undershirt I’ve torn into pieces and bound about
his feet. All that are missing are the crown of thorns and the
Cross. Or rather, those take another form, the racked and bruised
body he carries stiffly down the road.

The day’s travel is all downhill or on relatively
level terrain, the only blessing I can discern. Leaving the western
hills, we descend into the Valley, following switchbacks through
gray groves of trees, then head south along back roads skirting the
hills, wary of Yankee troops or ranging Federal scouts. Here and
there, like dark scars on the rolling valley floor, are the
reminders of last fall’s raids: burnt farmhouses and barns,
scorched fields and pastures, ruined orchards charred blacker than
Drew’s bruises. Occasionally, as we pass a new ruin, George or the
New Market twins gallop up long enough to curse Drew and slash him
with their crops. Drew grits his teeth around the rag, hangs his
head, and makes no protest. Fresh blood streaks his shoulders and
back. I shout them off, but, as much as I despise their cruelty,
it’s hard to blame them. I’ve heard their stories around the
campfire: their farmhouses torched, their stores stolen, their
livestock shot, their kin left homeless.

The sky grays over; a cold breeze picks up; in late
morning a small rain falls and doesn’t cease. My uniform jacket
grows heavy, cold, and sodden. My Yankee stumbles often, on rocks
or sticks, as our company makes its way down the uneven road.
Occasionally he falls. When we cross a thigh-deep stream, he slips
on slick stones and goes under. The men behind us jeer and applaud.
I rein in the cart-mares, vault off the buckboard, and haul him up.
He sputters, gasps for breath, and rights himself with difficulty.
The creek’s gray rills off his bandaged back and drips from his
beard, droplets winking in dim rain-light.

Up the Valley of Virginia we make our way, south
toward Lexington, as rapid a march as we can manage. The company
pauses at noon, in a leeward dell thick with pines and sheltered
from today’s chilly gusts. Drew slumps to the ground by a
cartwheel, leans against it, hugs himself, and closes his eyes. I
let him nap in the slow rain, waking him just before we leave to
pull the rag from his mouth and press a few fragments of hardtack
into his hands. “Don’t look, just eat,” I whisper. Hardtack, Sarge
has always been fond of saying, is best consumed in the dark, where
infesting insects can’t be seen. Drew nods, stares over my
shoulder, and chews. I adjust his makeshift footwear, already
half-tattered and pink with blood, daub new wounds the crops
inflicted, replace the rag between his teeth, and we’re back on the
road.

The rain falls fast and steady into late afternoon.
We’re only a few hours from Lexington, say the scouts, when, in a
vale between two low hills, where a rill’s made thick mud of the
road, the cart jolts, tilts, and comes to an abrupt stop. Its right
rear wheel is stuck. I urge the mares, but they’re as weak with
short rations as we are. The cart rocks a bit, then stubbornly
returns to its hindering ditch. Rufus appears, puts his shoulder to
it, and has no success. Jeremiah joins him. The duo shouts and
grunts; I lash the mares. The cart lurches forward a few inches,
then sinks deeper into mud. My messmates try and try; two more men
lend their efforts; two more men grab the mares’ bridles and pull.
The mares strain and steam in the rain. The cart sinks deeper.

“Uhh.” It’s Drew, gripping my elbow. He tugs at the
rope tethering his wrists to the buckboard. He arches his eyebrows;
he cocks and flexes his great arms.

I stare at him for a few seconds, growing hard
beneath my wet trousers—I can’t help it, for, in all this cold gray
of landscape and sky, he’s a hairy golden colossus, a veritable sun
god. Then, nodding, I unknot his tether from the cart frame.
“Rufus, get up here and lead,” I say. Rufus obeys. Hopping down,
with the tether I guide Drew to the back of the cart. Jeremiah and
the other men step back; Sarge and George ride up, frowning, no
doubt curious as to the cause for delay.

A little crowd is gathering around us, curious to see
what my Yankee can do. Drew stands there for a full minute, rain
rolling down his back, gauging the situation. He gives the
buckboard a few exploratory nudges. Then he turns, looks up at
Sarge, and lifts his cuffed and tethered hands.

Sarge tugs on his moustache, then nods. “Yes,” says
Sarge. “Free one hand, Ian. George, watch him.”

I fetch the key from my haversack; George unsheathes
his pistol and points it at Drew’s head. I remove the rope-tether
and unlock one wrist. Drew rubs it briefly, then digs in his heels,
gripping the buckboard with both hands. When he’s got sufficient
purchase, Drew nods.

“Go,” Sarge shouts. “Gitty-up!” Rufus yells. Snap of
the reins. We all watch as Drew’s broad, bandaged back strains,
muscles popping up beneath the hate-torn skin as he bends into the
task. His white teeth gnash the gag; he gives a long groan; his
face contorts. He gives another shove, then another. The wheels
creak; the frame shakes; the cart inches forward. Drew props his
crop-bloodied shoulder against the frame, growls, pushes, pants,
gives a great heave…and the supply-heavy cart bumps forward and
rolls out of the rut, so abruptly that Drew falls on his face into
the mud.

A few men cheer; a few clap. The crowd disperses in
the thickening downpour.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” George mutters, lowering his
pistol.

“Good for something then,” says Sarge.

I help Drew to his knees, then his feet. He’s smeared
with brown-gray from brow to bloody-bandaged feet. He wipes mud
from his nose and beard, wrings out his rain-sodden hair, then
looks up, first at Sarge, then at George. He smiles around his gag,
an expression full of pride and menace. George lifts the pistol
again, as if Drew had just voiced a threat. Drew snorts. He turns
toward me, stretches his frame, muddy muscles bulging, then smiles
at me. This smile is just as proud, but full too of fondness mixed
with triumphant glee.

“Impressive strength, yes,” says Sarge, begrudging
admiration in his voice. “And more proof he needs to be kept bound.
Cuff him.”

I’ve just secured Drew’s free hand in the rusty
bracelets when there’s a commotion in the front of the line. “Sir!”
a man yells. We all turn to see her, the first woman we’ve
encountered in days, since we marched exhaustedly through the
streets of Staunton. She’s about forty, I’d guess, short and
bedraggled, dirty dress clinging to her thin frame, gray fabric
spotted with faded blue flowers. Her gray-streaked hair’s pulled
behind her head in a messy bun. She’s running toward us, clutching
a small cloth bag. She slips in the mud, almost falls, rights
herself, then drops to her knees in front of Sarge’s horse.

“Sir,” she says. “I heard your shouting from over the
hill. Have you any food to spare?”

Sarge’s brow furrows. “Madam, very little. We’re on
our way to Lexington, and—”

“I’m Mrs. Trent. Sir, look!” Opening the bag, she
dumps the contents into the mud. “My children and I have been
living in the woodshed since the Yankees burnt our house and
gardens last autumn. We’re nigh unto starvation, but we’re proud
nevertheless. I’m not asking for charity; I’m willing to trade. My
children and I have been scouring the country for these. Can’t you
use them? Aren’t they worth at least a bit of bacon or a cabbage or
two? I’m the widow of a Confederate soldier, sir. He died at
Gettysburg. I—”

The woman emits a choked sob and falls silent. Rising
to her feet, she places a hand on Sarge’s boot, staring up at
him.

“Ian,” says Sarge, clearing his throat. “Please count
them.”

I kneel. I pick through the Minié balls, returning
them to the poke one by one. “Fifty, sir.”

Sarge sighs. “Mrs. Trent, we owe you greatly for this
ammunition. With any luck, each one will find its billet in the
heart of a Yankee, among them hopefully the men who burnt your
farm. Rufus, fetch Mrs. Trent some cornmeal, some side meat, some
field peas, and what beef we have left. Mrs. Trent, better luck to
you. I wish we could spare you more. Our country owes women like
you a debt too great ever to pay in full.”

“Bless you, sir!” Mrs. Trent pushes strands of hair
out of her face. Sarge and George ride off; Rufus begins rummaging
through boxes on the back of the buckboard. Mrs. Trent studies
Rufus’ every movement, eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling
rapidly. It isn’t until Rufus has the bag filled that Mrs. Trent
notices the near-naked giant standing cuffed and gagged by the
cart.

“A prisoner? He’s a Yankee?” Mrs. Trent stiffens,
staring up at him. Before I can respond, Drew nods.

The little woman is just tall enough to slap Drew
across the face if she reaches high and rears up on tiptoe. And so
she does, fast and hard, before I can stop her. Then she grabs the
poke, murmurs, “Bless you” to Rufus, swivels, and heads off down
the road. Drew bows his head, refusing to look at me. The order to
move passes down the line. I rope Drew’s wrists to the cart frame
again, stuff the little poke of bullets in my haversack, and we’re
on our way to Lexington.

_

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

_

It’s still raining, just coming on dark when the
tents are finally pitched in a sheltering grove of pines edging a
field near Lexington. The rain’s washed off some of the road-mud
that matted Drew, but he’s racked with shivers, leaning feebly
against the cart as Rufus and I unload the last of the supplies.
After untethering my Yank, I foot-shackle him, help him relieve
himself in the woods, then help him crawl into the tent, where he
slumps facedown on an oilcloth and passes out. I tuck a blanket
about him, wipe mud from his hair, and for a few minutes watch him
sleep. Leaving him there to recover from the march, I’m about to
help Rufus gather firewood when Sarge rides up, clad in greatcoat,
cap cocked against the continuous drizzle.

“Ian, I’m heading into town to visit some old friends
and to see the damage that Hunter and his men inflicted last fall
on the Virginia Military Institute. I also want to pay my respects
at Jackson’s grave and fetch more provisions. I’ll be back tomorrow
morning. Where’s the prisoner? I assume he’s appropriately
restrained. His display of strength today just convinces me that
he’d be a great cause of damage to us given a chance.”

“In my tent, sir. He’s collapsed. I have him
shackled, cuffed, and gagged as is usual. You did say I could
shelter him till we got—”

“To Purgatory, yes, yes. But what happened to his
clothes? Hasn’t he been near naked since we broke camp? It was
unseemly for Mrs. Trent to see him in such a state of undress.”

“His boots and clothes have been stolen, sir. I’d
rinsed them and left them outside to air out last night, but this
morning…no sign of them.”

Sarge laughs, a full-throated sound. “Ah, some of the
boys are having their fun. Can you blame them when blackened
evidence of Yankee depredations are all around us? Well, we should
be safe here for a day or so. The scouts tell me that few Federals
are in the area. Most of them, I suspect, are helping that devil
Grant lay siege to Petersburg. Since it’s Saturday, I’ve given all
of the boys save those on picket duty leave to head into Lexington
and spend the night if they’d like, perhaps to join me in church
tomorrow morning. God knows we all could benefit from a little
break from camp life. If you want to join us, just cuff the
prisoner’s arms behind a tree and leave him. Rufus has offered to
watch the camp.”

It takes some effort to conceal my relief and delight
at Sarge’s imminent absence. “Thanks, sir, but I’m really tired. I
think I’ll stay here and write some letters to post before we leave
for Purgatory. I might read a little too.”

“The Bible, I hope. Other books are of no
consequence.” With that, Sarge nods, wheels his horse, and heads
off into nightfall, toward the distant lights of town.

Rufus and I have a little pile of wood collected by
the time the rest of the boys, including George and the vindictive
New Market twins, ride or stride out of camp. Jeremiah lingers long
enough to help Rufus and me start up a fire before he announces his
disinterest in campfire cuisine and his intention to spend the
night in town. He cocks his foraging cap over his brow, studies his
face in the tiny mirror we pass around when or if we shave,
smoothes his beard, and winks at himself. “Either of you boys got
any wages left?” he asks.