by Jeff Mann
Mrs. Stephens appears in the door briefly before smiling, nodding, and returning to her kitchen labors. I hold Drew and weep for a few minutes myself. When our tears are done, we wipe our eyes, clear our throats, and add logs to the fire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Bacon, buckwheat cakes, and sorghum,” Drew sighs. “Ma’am, I don’t recall when I was last so happy. It’s as if we’ve gone from hell to heaven with the passing of only a few days.”
My Yank and I are sprawled shoulder to shoulder on the settee, covered with an afghan. It took little food to satisfy us, our bellies and appetites having shrunk with sparse rations over the last several weeks. Now, drowsy and content, we lie back sipping brandy while the fire crackles, wind bats the house, bath water warms on the stove, and Mrs. Stephens rocks, spectacles cocked, working on her sewing.
“I’m delighted to have such gallant company,” she says. “And it’s a pleasure to contribute to the Confederate cause so directly. I’ve been sewing shirts and knitting socks for years now, to clothe soldiers at the front, but it’s a true pleasure to cook for our Southern warriors. That, Private Conrad, was one of my husband’s nightshirts. Private Campbell, there’s another one waiting for you in the kitchen after your bath. You’re welcome to keep them. Better they be of use to you rather than remain sad relics. And this,” she says, indicating the fabric in her hands, “will be a warm shirt for you, Private Conrad. Before we retire, I’ll take your all’s measurements. If y’all can stay for a day or two, I’ll send you off with socks and jackets too.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ve been so cold for so long, walking miles shirtless and barefoot.”
“Do you have an axe, Mrs. Stephens?” I ask.
“I do, sir. It was my handyman Frank’s. He left it here when he volunteered. He was last seen in Pickett’s Charge. His body was never identified. Poor Frank. Yes, I have an axe, though it’s in need of a good sharpening.”
“We plan to replenish your woodshed tomorrow,” I say. “Are there any other means whereby we might repay your hospitality?”
“Well, yes,” Mrs. Stephens says, peering at us over her spectacles. “Private Conrad here clearly needs some brogans. I have a proposition for you boys. If things go according to plan, you might be able to aid the citizens of Eagle Rock, give my brother-in-law that lesson in manners he so sorely needs, and also obtain some footwear.”
Drew and I exchange quizzical glances. Mrs. Stephens holds up the shirt, regards it in the lamplight, then recommences her needlework. “Private Conrad, thin as you are from camp cooking, or the lack thereof, you possess quite a physique. A broad chest, muscular arms. You’re quite magnificent.”
Drew blushes. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve always been big for my age, and farm work has blessed me with more than average strength.”
“You should have seen him heave our company buckboard out of a mud-rut, Mrs. Stephens. No one else could budge it.”
“You could be quite the brawler. Have you ever put your hand to wrestling?”
“Yes,” replies Drew. “In fact, I was known for my prowess in that sport back in Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania?”
My throat tightens. Beneath the afghan I grip Drew’s thigh.
Drew coughs. He takes a sip of brandy. “Uh, yes, ma’am. That was well before the war. Before we moved to Virginia, before Ian and I volunteered together.”
“Ah, that explains the Northern inflections in your speech. Well, how’d you like to best a cruel opponent, give this hamlet long-delayed justice, and earn yourself shoes in the process?”
Drew grins. “There ain’t many a man I can’t pin. Who do you have in mind?”
“Brutus,” I say. “Am I right, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Stephens leans forward, bites a thread in half and knots it. “You’re as observant as you are good-looking, Private Campbell. As you’ve discerned, my brother-in-law has been taking advantage of the vagaries of war and the absence of governmental authority to line his pockets. He uses his colossal deacon, Brutus—who’s a deserter like my despicable nephew—to intimidate the citizens of Eagle Rock and extort food from us. That helps explain Philip’s anomalous corpulence at a time when most Southerners are hungry and emaciated. I’m sick of his selfishness. Someone, to be blunt, needs to end his reign of parasitism by giving his hired brute a thrashing from which he won’t soon recover.”
Drew’s grin widens. “And how big is Brutus?”
“As big as you, son. Not as fit. More blubber than brawn. ‘Surfeit-swell’d,’ the Bard would say.”
“And where might we find Brutus tomorrow?” Drew leans forward, eyes gleaming, and rubs his palms together.
“At Philip’s church. It’s on a knoll overlooking the far end of town.”
“Then I think we’ll pay the minister and the deacon a visit on the morrow,” I say. “Gladly.”
“Then, in the morning, I will nourish my champions’ strength with a breakfast of buttermilk, cornbread, fried apples, and ham. My larder’s low indeed, but what I have is yours.”
“That sounds like a grand bargain,” Drew says, licking his lips. “If that meal is half as delicious as that bacon and those flapjacks… You’re an angel, ma’am.”
“Edward always liked my cooking. I learned some skills from our slaves in Charleston. Eugenia, I miss her. She could roast a chicken to a turn, and the flavor of her collards, mercy.” Mrs. Stephens puts her sewing work on a side table and rises with a sigh. “Well, that life is lost, and lost as well the lives of untold thousands of Americans, blue and gray. Still, here we three are, survivors yet, blessed by the Lord with nourishment, albeit plain, and the warmth of a fire. We’ve been saved for some unknown future we have yet to conceive. I believe God sent you boys to me. Now, let’s see if that bath water is hot enough.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The house is silent, other than for the ticking of a clock, the gusting of March winds, the splash and slosh of water, and Drew’s blissful sighs. Mrs. Stephens has retired upstairs, leaving us to our baths in the candle-lit, stove-cozy kitchen. The tub’s too small for two men, especially when one of those men is as large as Drew, so I kneel by it, unraveled bandages at my feet, washing Drew’s damaged back, gently scrubbing bloodstains from his bruised feet. He’s pliant, acquiescent, wincing occasionally as I soap the red welts lingering after his weeks of captivity and torment.
“Aren’t they ugly, Ian? My wounds? My scars?”
“No, Drew. Nothing about you is ugly to me.” I kiss his bushy-bewhiskered chin. “We’re both scarred, you know. That’s just what comes of being a soldier.”
“And a prisoner of war.” His blue eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
“But now I’m free, thanks to you. ‘I once was lost, but now am found,’ as the song says.”
“And I’m damn glad I found you. Close your eyes now, and I’ll wash your hair and beard.”
“Drown those damned lice. Oh, it feels so good. How I love the smell of soap. I’m so tired of the dirt and stink of camp life.”
I lather up his head, studying his nakedness—the pale muscles of his shoulders and powerful arms, the mat of golden hair coating his strong chest and flat belly, the delicate curves of his ribs, the shape of his shaggy thighs. “You make my heart leap, boy,” I whisper, soaping his beard. “I thank God for you.”
“And I for you, little Reb. How I cherish the many ways you touch me.” He leans back, and his half-hard sex rises above the water.
“So I see.” I chuckle. I give his cock a stroke before rinsing his hair and beard.
Drew gets to his knees and I rinse his back and torso with another warmed pitcher of water. He stands, erection swaying. Handing him a towel, I say, “I may have to help you with that impressive member later, my boy.”
“Yes, sir,” he says with a wink, stepping from the tub. Briskly, he dries off in the heat of the stove. I treat his wounds with plaster, then cover them with makeshift bandages I’ve mad
e from the clerical shirts I stole from the church.
“Your turn, Reb. Strip.” Drew pulls on the nightshirt, crosses his arms, and smiles. “Let me see that furry little frame of yours.”
“Lord, Drew, you’re making me feel like a burlesque attraction.” Grinning, sheepish, I pull off my damp wool jacket, then my undershirt.
Drew’s eyes widen. “Just adorable,” he says, running his palm lightly over my chest hair. “Let’s check your wounds.” Stepping forward, he unbandages me, examining the gash in my right side left by that Yankee skirmisher’s bullet; a similar painful groove in my left shoulder, courtesy of the Yankee cavalryman we encountered in our flight along the river; and the injury left by that bombardment at the base of Purgatory Mountain, grapeshot between my shoulder blades.
“You’re healing cleanly, thank God. All right. Let’s get you washed. Pants off.”
“Such a bossy Yank. Yes, sir.” I tug off what are left of my brogans, then my tattered socks, gray trousers, and drawers. I stand before Drew naked. His hands fall on my shoulders; he kisses my brow.
“You’re beautiful, my wounded little warrior. So here we are. Safe for now,” he says.
“Yes. A few days’ sojourn here will let us recover some strength. We’ll need it for the journey to come. Who knows what risks await us?”
“I don’t care about the risks. I feel safe with you, Reb. I don’t think I could ever feel safe again without you by my side.” Drew gives me a quick hug before replenishing the bath with another pail of stove-warmed water. “Get in now. My turn to touch you.”
I climb in. The water feels wonderful on my tired feet after days on end of marching—Waynesboro, then Staunton, then the hills west of there, then to Lexington, then to Purgatory, and lastly the miles we’ve followed the James to reach this warm house tonight. I ease myself down into the welcome heat. The warmth covers my groin, my thighs. I cup water up and pour it over my chest. My wounds throb anew, and itch, though the discomfort now is less the aftermath of metal’s violation than it is the slow knitting together of flesh.
Drew soaps up a cloth, then tenderly washes my injuries. The soap stings.
“We’ll heal, Ian. We’re young yet.”
“I ache all over.” Exhaustion floods me. “I could fall asleep right here.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. We have a bed upstairs, and I intend to hold you in my arms all night, even if I have to carry you up the stairs. Now close your eyes.”
Drew’s firm hands move me this way and that, scrubbing my face, lathering my shaggy hair and beard. His fingers graze my nipples, wrap around my half-hard cock, and soap the cleft between my buttocks. Soon I’m clean, skin flushed and tingling.
“Up now,” says Drew. I haul myself up, thighs trembling. Another pitcher of water, and I’m rinsed. Drew dries me vigorously before returning the favor of medication and bandages. I slip on the nightshirt Mrs. Stephens has laid out; it’s far too big, but it’s warm.
“Come now,” Drew says, lifting the candle-lantern. I gather up our clothes. Drew takes my hand, leading me through the cold hallway, the wooden floors icy against my feet, and up the stairs. The spare bedroom’s set in the front of the house. In the taper-light, raindrops glint on the sole window, which overlooks the street. The space is small, containing little more than a chifforobe, a full bookshelf, a desk and chair, and a bed beneath a gable-angled ceiling, so low that Drew must duck his head. But the bed’s big enough for two—just barely—and it’s covered with heavy blankets. Within half a minute, Drew’s blown out the candle and we’re snuggled together inside the unbroken darkness and the growing warmth. Drew rolls me onto my side, wraps me in his arms, and spoons me from behind. We lie silent, breathing together, while spatters of rain sound against the windowpanes.
“Lord, a bed,” I groan. “A real bed. It’s so soft. After so long sleeping in tents, on cots, or on the ground, wrapped in smelly wool and oilcloths…”
“Pure bliss, no doubt about it. I want to love you now, Reb, but I’m just too tired, and, well, it would be disrespectful, I think, to our hostess. God help us if she heard us or found us in a compromising position.”
“True, Drew. She’s wonderful, well educated—she can quote Shakespeare with amazing ease—but even she might find our kind of loving an abomination. 1865 Virginia is a long way indeed from ancient Greece.”
“Ah, not so far. You’ve got your very own Achilles right here, little Patroclus.” Drew whispers. “So, if we weren’t so worn out, and if we were alone in this house, what would you do?”
“Other than mounting you from behind, as I’ve been aching to do for weeks?”
“Yep. What else?”
I roll over, rest an arm across his shoulders, and press my face to his. We kiss tenderly, mustaches brushing, lips tasting lips, tongue flicking over tongue.
“I’d tie your hands to the head of the bed, my boy,” I whisper, tugging at the iron collar still hidden by the bandana worn about his neck. “You know how powerfully I cherish you when you’re restrained. Then I’d tie this bandana between your teeth, and I’d take your great cock in my mouth and I’d pleasure you with my lips and tongue till you were bucking and begging, till you blessed me with a grand mouthful of your creamy seed.”
“Ohh, yes, Ian. That sounds wonderful. You’re a man of powerful and perverse hungers. How I savor that. How I savor surrendering to you.” Drew slips his hand beneath my nightshirt and grips my cock, which by now is hard against his belly.
I do the same, taking his sex in my own hand. “Your surrender is a beautiful thing, for which I’m thankful every moment of every day. I’m hungry for you always, Yank,” I whisper. “Count on that hunger’s continuance.” For a few minutes, we fondle one another, beard nuzzling beard. Then, as the unremitting tension of the last few weeks drains away in the warmth and safety our hostess has provided, weariness overcomes us. We fall asleep like that, mouth to mouth, cocks gripped in fists.
CHAPTER NINE
Sunlight falls across my face. My nose is cold, but Drew’s body is pure heat against me, his breast pressed against my back, one arm clasping me to him. We’ve slept all night without rising once. I reach for my spectacles and slide them on. The clock on the bookshelf says ten.
I rise, use the chamber pot, slip off my nightshirt, and begin dressing. Drew grunts, rolls onto his back, tugs the covers to his chin, and yawns. “Where you going, Reb?”
“Just downstairs. You sleep. I’ll get you up directly.”
“More time in this heavenly bed? If you insist.” Drew yawns again, rolls onto his side, back to me, and pulls the covers over his head. By the time I’m done dressing, he’s snoring again.
The old stairs creak as I descend them. There’s the smell of frying meat. I find Mrs. Stephens in the kitchen, sifting cornmeal.
“Good morning, Private Campbell. There’s some coffee there on the stove, with sorghum for sweetening. Real coffee beans. The last of them. Tomorrow we’ll have to resort to one of those unpleasant substitutes.”
“We Rebel soldiers do love our coffee, ma’am. Whiskey and coffee. My uncle, he was good at fetching us such luxuries. He knew the right people, I suppose. Or he was gifted with a convincing tongue.”
“Most Southern citizens are more than glad to share with their defenders what provisions they have left. The Yanks, well, what they’ve gotten from me they’ve had to take. And once, at least, they paid a high price.”
I pour out coffee, add sorghum, and take a sip. “Mmmm, this is good. Are you referring to the silver supposedly hidden in the outhouse?”
“Ah, no. That was another caper entirely. I had hives in the backyard. When we heard Yankee raiders were coming, I attached cords to the hives. When the Yanks arrived on my property, with intent to steal my honey-hoard, I tipped the hives around them.”
Mrs. Stephens dusts off her hands and laughs. “My bees were very angry little ladies. A few of the hapless Yanks made it across the road to the river. A few didn’t. You
should have seen their faces. They looked as if they were suffering from the measles. Stray Federals left Eagle Rock alone for a good while after that. I was the heroine of the hamlet for a time. My neighbors called me Queen Bee…though the ‘B’ might have stood for a coarse word, for all I know.”
Returning to the stove, with a fork she turns the skillet-frying ham. “I do have a reputation for avenging wrongs. My brother-in-law has never gotten over the fact that I scorned his advances, and that I married Edward, a man so prosperous, so much younger than I. He’s also never forgotten how badly Edward trounced him once, in the streets of Eagle Rock, in the sight of all, when we’d come back here during those Charleston years to attend my mother’s funeral. Philip has always been careless with his language. He said something improper to me, which my husband overheard. Edward was in no mood to be crossed. Honor was a crucial element of his life, and, well, he had a fiery temper. So do you, Private Campbell, from what I can gauge. Yesterday, you looked as if you might slay Philip outright.”
“I do have a temper,” I admit. “There was a man in our camp, George, who was cruel to Drew. I took great pleasure in treating him to my fisticuffs.”
“You’re a fighter like your friend? Wrestling?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m far too small. But I can box with the best.”
“Well, today you might have your chance. If you can catch Philip. For a man so obese, he’s fleet on his feet. He was a chaplain in the army for exactly two months before a wound in his foot sent him home. Probably self-inflicted. You boys do like fried apples? In bacon grease? Sweetened with sorghum? These little apples are old and spotty, but they have a fine flavor.”
“Ah, my mother used to make fried apples. They remind me of home. Ma’am, we will gratefully and eagerly devour anything you provide. We had a good mess-cook, Rufus, and he did the best he could with what he had, but… As we said, our rations lately have been short and sometimes only half-edible. Some of the government beef was downright mean. We called it ‘mule.’ Sarge used to joke that we’d have to sharpen our teeth with files just to chew it. ‘Next batch’ll be full of hooves and horns,’ he used to say.”
