by Jeff Mann
“We’ll find somewhere safe. Perhaps, once we get as far as New Castle, we can even stop over at the hotel, if Mrs. Stephens’s cousin proves as kind as she.”
“These nightshirts are warm,” Drew says, tickling the back of my knee, “and I’m grateful for them, but they’re an interference. I want you naked, Reb. I want us skin to skin. I want to do more than snuggle and sleep. I’m powerfully eager to lie with you.” His hardness bumps my back.
“I can tell.” My snicker matches his. “And I with you, my handsome boy. Soon, soon. Right now I want to roll over and take you in my mouth, but we’d best not just yet.”
“You’re right, Ian. It wouldn’t be proper. It would be disrespectful, as we’ve agreed. But once we’re out in the forest together, in some sheltered place…”
“Oh, yes! Then I plan to satisfy both our hungers.”
We lie quietly for a while, resisting the urge to grind our loins together, as beneath the blankets the heat of our bodies builds up around us a snug cocoon.
“How about a less lusty kind of touching? Still sore, Reb? Want me to rub your back?”
“I’d be very grateful, big man.” When I roll onto my belly, Drew straddles my hips. For long, sweet moments, his strong hands knead the tight hurt from my lower back and shoulder blades while I sigh and grunt. “Oh, yes. Ohhhh, yes. Mighty fine. Such strong hands.”
“I’m glad to give you pleasure.”
“You give me pleasure every moment you breathe, every moment I can touch or see or hear or smell or taste you. You were magnificent today, boy,” I murmur. “What a warrior you are.”
Drew chuckles. “Well, I’ve seen you box, giving that hateful George a sound drubbing, so now you’ve seen me wrestle.”
“You spent so much time restrained in camp—in shackles and rope and cuffs—that I think I’ve never really seen how powerful you are, other than that time you moved the wagon out of the mud. And when you shifted that great stone to hide us in the cave. But your size, your strength, those are only two of the many things that I find so damned attractive about you.”
“You like me powerful, yet you like me helpless. I well remember that night in your tent when you admitted how aroused it made you, seeing me bound and suffering, in your control and dependent on you. You’re a complicated man, little Reb.”
“Desire’s one of the great mysteries. Your turn, Achilles. On your belly.”
We trade places. Drew moans as I work his lower spine with my palms. “Yes, that’s it. Harder. Yep.”
We fall silent for a few minutes, each focusing on the sensations. Beneath my fingers, I can feel the hard bumps of his bones, and the tension of his muscles slowly lightening up.
“You like being on top, don’t you, Reb?”
“Ohhhh, yes,” I admit, digging my thumbs into the dip between his shoulder blades.
“Well, that’s a fact I relish indeed. I like you on top too. I’ll be giving you power over me and submitting to you as often as safe circumstances allow. I told you before: you own me. This collar’s emblematic of that.”
“And you own me. You enjoy surrendering to me, don’t you, Drew?” Patting a nightshirt-concealed buttock, I slip off him.
“You know the answer to that.” Drew rolls onto his side, his back to me. I recognize the invitation. Scooting over, I wrap him in my arms, my chest pressed against his back.
“I need to hear it again,” I coax.
“Yes, I do. Submitting to you makes me feel cared for and makes me feel safe.”
“I don’t know how safe we’ll be till we get to my family’s farm, but I swear I’ll protect you or die trying.”
“I know you will. And I swear the same, Reb.” He takes my hand in his and soon is snoring. Heart brimming with gratitude, I drowse off, my face buried in his thick hair.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One second I’m fishing for minnows with Sarge, the next I’m awake, flooded with bitter remembrance of the part I played in his death, and the next I hear a fast rapping close by, and a harder pounding downstairs. Mrs. Stephens throws open the bedroom door. If she’s surprised to see how closely we’re wrapped up together, she doesn’t have time to express it. Instead she says, “Up, boys, for God’s sake. The bluecoats are at the door.”
Vaulting from the bed, Drew and I seize up our weapons. Opening the curtain just a crack, I can make out several mounted blue-clad cavalrymen milling about in the sunny street. “We’re trapped up here, ma’am,” I say.
“Trapped? Well, you definitely won’t be able to leave here until they do. Usually they don’t even come upstairs; they’re too busy paying assiduous and rapacious attention to my larder. But just in case, let’s conceal you. Use that Herculean physique, Private Conrad, and move that bookcase. I needn’t add that you should do so hurriedly, but, well, I just did.”
Drew pulls the book-heaped shelf away from the wall. Behind it, to my surprise, is a little door. When our hostess nudges it, it swings backward into darkness.
“It leads into the attic,” Mrs. Stephens says. “Y’all fetch your things and climb back in there. It’ll be cold, so take you some blankets. Push that door closed behind you, keep very, very quiet and very, very still—that space is directly over the front parlor—and I’ll come for you when they’re gone.”
We move fast, gathering our belongings. I climb in first. It’s a low, tight, triangular space with angled beams. Here and there, initials are whittled into the wood. Former occupants, I assume. I push haversack and musket into the corners, roll out the oilcloth, then beckon Drew to follow.
“Go in backwards, son. You’ll see why,” Mrs. Stephens instructs. Drew does so—his broad shoulders just barely fit. “Rings? Ingenious!”
Curiously, I peer around his shoulder, only to make out circles of metal set into the back of the bookcase. With Drew pulling and Mrs. Stephens pushing, they manage to edge the concealing piece of furniture back into place against the wall. Drew shuffles about, bumps his head, cusses, then pushes the entrance door to, sealing us in complete darkness. His hands find me. He crawls onto the oil cloth, pulls me into his arms, and tugs the remaining blanket—still smelling of the camp’s damp, campfire smoke, and years of my own body odors—over us. We lie there, panting quietly, hugging one another, hearts pounding.
“Arrest, or a firing squad. God help us,” Drew whispers. “Dog’s options. I’m a soldier. I’ll rather die fighting. Hand here that knife.”
“Drew, if you told them you were a Federal soldier, then you’d—”
“And see you hauled off? Haven’t I made myself clear on that point, Private Campbell? As I said, hand here that ferocious Bowie of yours.”
I do so before cocking my pistol. We shift around, facing the door.
“So,” Drew whispers, “if they find us, we fight, right? We fall together.”
“Yes. Absolutely. I can’t imagine a better way to leave this world.”
“My brave little man. I love you, Ian.”
“I love you, Drew. You’ve made me very happy. I wish—”
Then loud voices ring out downstairs and our speech ceases.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They stay for a long and agonizing stretch of time. But it’s not just the larder they focus their attentions on. They seem to be searching for something more than a meal. Their heavy footfalls and shouts echo throughout the house, first on the ground floor, then up the stairwell. Drew and I clench our weapons and lie as motionless as battlefield corpses as they enter the room. There are scrapes and bangings, the sound of furniture upending, a string of curses. Glass shatters, perhaps the window, perhaps the clock. We hold our breaths, clasping hands hard, as they move around the room, from the sound of it destroying everything within reach.
Then the ruckus of their rampage recedes, as abruptly as a summer storm. From what must be Mrs. Stephens’s bedroom down the hall, more noises of damage resume: glass breaking, heavy items thumping to the floor. When at last their footfalls descend the stairs,
Mrs. Stephens’s voice rises to a piercing shout. She berates them—with her knowledge of literature, I’m sure the insults are priceless. Male laughter is answered by shrill female tones, which are then overlaid with male curses. The din of both human voices and destruction moves to the back of the house.
“Goddamn them. Goddamn them. This isn’t what we Northern boys signed up to do,” Drew growls. “Treating a good lady like that. I’d like to cut their—”
“Shush, boy. Shush.”
And so we lie there in our dark hiding place, shaking with rage, fear, and helplessness for what feels like hours. Downstairs, the violent noises cease, replaced by more male laughter and low conversations. The Yanks are relaxing, from the sound of it, in both kitchen and parlors, probably eating up everything Mrs. Stephens has.
Footsteps climbing the stairs again. Heavy boots entering the room. A sigh, a creaking. Snores. Good God, one of them is taking a nap on the bed, only feet from us. Drew squeezes my hand harder.
Another long, torturous space of time passes. The sleeper snores harder. The dark around us grows colder. My bare toes go numb. My stomach growls. Despite the blanket covering us, both Drew and I commence to shivering in our nightshirts.
More feet ascending. Mrs. Stephens’s voice. Sharp rebukes. “Yankee pig,” “carrion,” and “fiend of hell.” Despite our perilous situation, I smile. Bed-creak, thud of boots on floorboards. Growled vulgar phrases a man should never call a lady. Then both heavy and light footfalls move away, and the room is quiet.
Downstairs, thumping feet, a few more shouts, voices moving out to the porch, the front door slammed hard. Men mounting up, orders given, hoof beats hammering and fading. Then it’s as if the entire world’s fallen silent.
Drew shifts against me. “Should we?”
“No. She’ll let us know when.”
In the room below us, a woman weeps. Soon, she ceases. The front door opens and closes. Steps cross the porch. Then all is silent again.
Drew and I wait and wonder for yet another long interval. After a time, we put down our weapons and simply hold one another. “Not ready to lose you yet,” Drew whispers, nuzzling my hair.
Footsteps again crossing the porch. Door opening and closing. Creak of the stairs. Mrs. Stephens’s voice, low and firm. “Gentlemen, they’re gone. Let’s move this bookcase.”
With difficulty, Drew and our hostess shift the furniture aside. We crawl out, stiff and shivering. Shaky-legged, we stand before her, still clutching our weapons and blinking after so many hours in the dark. Around us are the shattered clock and water pitcher, a scatter of clothes apparently ripped from the chifforobe, and the chifforobe itself, which has been tipped over onto one side.
Mrs. Stephens’s eyes are red, her hair disheveled, loose around her shoulders. She crosses her arms upon her breast and laughs. “The bastards, they never think to bother the bookcase. Trashy illiterates. Well, aren’t you two a sight? A pistol, a dagger, and covered with dust. My knights in nightshirts.”
“How long were they here, ma’am?” I ask, brushing cobwebs from my beard.
“Five hours. What a plague of locusts. They destroyed what they could, ate up what food there was, swilled what spirits they could find, insulted me—not that I didn’t give as good as I got—and when they could find no more to devour, they moved their orgy of destructive disrespect down the street to the tavern.”
She bends, picking up a blue-and-white shard of pitcher. “This was my mother’s. Irreparable. Our world’s irreparable. Surely Mr. Lincoln didn’t have this in mind when he declared war on us.” Dropping the shard, she turns to the window and inspects the street below. “You boys should stay up here until nightfall. After dark, we’ll get you down to the riverbank. Mr. Preston has a boat you can use to skirt the guards watching the bridge.”
“But ma’am,” I say, “why did they tear up the house so? Are Northern soldiers usually so vindictive and destructive?”
“No. Some of them over the years have even been polite and have reimbursed me for what they took. This crew…they didn’t come here primarily for food.”
My heart sinks. “Ma’am? You mean—?”
“They were hunting for you two. They upended the house looking for you.”
“What?” Drew gasps. “How did they know that—that—”
“My wretched brother-in-law kindly alerted them to your presence here. I told them that you had already moved on, but they clearly didn’t believe me.”
“Oh, ma’am, no! It’s our fault then.” Drew steps forward. “They ruined your beautiful house because of us.”
“Don’t you say that!” Mrs. Stephens grabs Drew’s hand. “Don’t you say it! You’ve fought for your country, and you risked yourselves at the church because I asked you to! It is not your fault.”
“But you sheltered us, ma’am.” Drew’s lower lip quivers. His eyes grow wet. “They might have hurt you. They never would’ve come here if—”
“I sheltered you because I wanted to!” she shouts, eyes flaming. “Because you needed help and I had it to give. What have I left, with Edward gone, and my son at the front, but to care for boys like you? You are my sons! I would have helped you even if I’d known they would burn the house down around me. Do not blame yourself. It’s Philip’s fault, sending those soldiers after you like a pack of smelly hunting dogs. We’ve all had enough of him in this town, and it’s time he paid.”
Drew falls to his knees and clears his throat. “I’ll kill him, ma’am. I’ll throttle him with my bare hands. He’s wronged you. He’s—”
“No, you will not get near him.” Mrs. Stephens shakes Drew by the shoulder. “You two need to leave here tonight. These men are a bad batch. If they find you, you’re both sure to be shot. I’ll deal with Philip. His reckoning is nigh, and it’s been a long time coming. You promise me you’ll leave him to me…and to the rest of the town. Miss Sadie is so furious that Philip informed on you that she’s looking for her shotgun and her can of lamp oil. Promise?”
Drew and I exchange glances. We both nod.
“We promise, ma’am,” Drew rasps. A big tear slides down his cheek.
Mrs. Stephens pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wipes his face. “Such a tender heart. How ever have you survived this war, boy? Get up now. If you’ll straighten up this room as best you can, I’ll fetch you dinner. I have nothing now, thanks to those Northern thieves—other than my son’s bottle of brandy, which they miraculously overlooked—but Miss Sadie’s promised to bring over a guinea hen, Mr. Preston has some bacon, and Sarah’s bringing some potatoes. Other than that ‘elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog,’ Philip—yes, that’s more of the Bard—you two have nothing but friends in Eagle Rock. Stay up here. I have some chores to do about the town. Tonight we’ll feed you well and then see you safely off.”
Before we can thank her, she drops Drew’s hand, kisses his cheek, and, with a rustle of skirts, leaves the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In our hostess’s absence, Drew and I dress and pack up our belongings, readying ourselves for departure. We sweep up pieces of broken glass and ceramic. We lift the chifforobe from the floor, retrieve the scattered clothes, brush them off, and pack them away. We part the curtains long enough to glimpse a few Union soldiers on horseback trotting by. Finally, we climb onto the bed, watching the light fade. Drew wraps his arms around my waist, presses his face into my uniform jacket, and starts to cry.
“I don’t know why I’m…forgive me, Ian, I…” he mumbles between bouts of tears, rubbing his eyes. “I feel so terrible for Mrs. Stephens’s loss. With men like that, no wonder you Southerners hate us Yanks. I feel so guilty and ashamed. In just a few days I’ve grown so, so fond of her. She’s so kind, and she reminds me of my mother back home, and I miss Ma so much, and I don’t even know if she’ll still be alive by the time I get back, if ever I do, and…”
“Sssshhhh. I understand, boy. I do. You just cry all you want, but do it quietly.”
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br /> I rock Drew. He falls asleep in my arms. Darkness fills the room. I slip into slumber myself, waking with a start. A thin streak of moonlight bisects the floor; wind gusts against the house. Downstairs, the back door closes. Then someone climbs the steps. We slide off the bed as before, crouched, weapons once more at the ready.
“Supper, gentlemen?” Mrs. Stephens says, just outside. “Would you kindly open the door for me? My hands are full.”
When Drew obeys, she enters with a tray, upon which are plates and a lit candle. The delicious aromas of warm food fill the room. “This is Sadie’s stewed guinea hen, these are Sarah’s potatoes fried with Mr. Preston’s bacon.”
We fall to, murmuring our thanks. In a few minutes, our bellies are full and our plates are empty.
“Now, Private Conrad, Private Campbell,” says Mrs. Stephens, “you must go, before the inebriates down the street decide to come exploring again. I’ve filled your canteen with well water. Here’s a poke of corn dodgers to take with you, compliments of Sarah, along with some of Sadie’s wheat biscuits, and three sweet potatoes Mr. Preston brought over. I added some apples. I’d give you more if I had anything left. Tommy, the boy who brings me game every now and then, is going to show you down to the river, where Mr. Preston’s boat awaits.”
“Ma’am, how can we repay you?” Drew says, taking the poke.
“By keeping safe. By surviving. You boys love one another like brothers, and that’s a fine thing to see. Take care of one another. And, when the war ends, perhaps you’ll come by and stop over again.” She pats Drew’s cheek, then my forearm. “You should see the fare I serve in times of prosperity. I’ll roast a turkey to celebrate your return.”
“We promise.” Drew’s looking close to tears again. “We’ll be back.”
