by Jeff Mann
“Stop it,” says Silas.
“Or you want to get this war over with and die tomorrow? Wouldn’t take long. Tie you to a tree, blindfold you, and shoot you through the heart. Bury you in these woods. Sad way for a boy so young to end. Bet you’re regretting powerfully bad having leapt to the Old Dominion’s defense, aren’t you, son?”
“Stop it,” Silas shouts. “There’s no reason for you to torture the lad.”
“His kind killed my brother, you fucking fool. Why can’t you understand that? I have nothing to spare for him but a bullet.”
“I’m tired of your quarreling. Let’s take a vote,” says Captain Stanton. “All those in favor of sending him to a prison camp, say ‘Aye.’ ”
“Aye,” says Silas.
“All those in favor of shooting him for a spy tomorrow at dawn, say ‘Aye.’ ”
“Aye,” says Hiram. “How about you, Stanton?”
“Let’s see how the Rebel votes. Boy, which fate would you prefer?”
Wrists throbbing, trembling with cold, I work myself up onto an elbow. I stare at them over the fire, these men from who knows which Northern states, men I’d never seen before today, men who have no reason to hate me and who have every reason to hate me, men whom fate might very well have chosen to be my death tomorrow. I do my level best to keep my voice steady, but it comes out shaky nonetheless, full of the stammer I get when I’m unnerved. “Gentlemen, I’d prefer a third option. How about you untie me and we g-go our separate ways? I’m done with this war anyway. My company was d-d-decimated at the foot of Purgatory Mountain only days ago. I just want to go home.”
“That’s not an option,” Hiram says. “You may be done with the war, but the war isn’t done with you.” He pulls his pistol from its holster and makes a show of polishing it with a cloth.
“Then I guess I’ll choose prison camp.”
“Your vote doesn’t count.” Stanton gives me a broad smile. I’d find him handsome under other circumstances. “Aye.”
“Aye to…?” Hiram says.
“To a firing squad of three tomorrow.”
“I’m not doing it, and you can’t make me,” Silas says quietly.
“To a firing squad of two tomorrow. I don’t want to drag this boy up and down the valley. We have better things to do, like tracking down those bushwhacking bastards from Iron Gate. It’s decided. Now I’m going to bed.” Stanton rises, yawns, puts the flask on a hardtack box between the camp chairs, and disappears into the tent behind him.
“Me too,” says Hiram. He holsters his gleaming pistol and gives me a crooked grin. “After I make sure our little butternut boy doesn’t decide to spurn our hospitality during the night.” He enters an adjoining tent long enough to fetch rope. Striding over, he makes a slipknot, works it around my ankles, and binds my feet together, so tightly I gasp.
“That’ll hold you,” he says, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. Turning, he brushes snow off his shoulders and reenters his tent. He reappears just long enough to snatch the flask off the box, then drops the tent-flap behind him.
Silas lifts his finger to his lips, encouraging silence. Bending, he stirs up coals. Quiet minutes pass. Snores rise inside the tents. Silas uncovers the pot cooling on the ground near the fire and dips up some of the contents with a tin cup. He replaces the pot lid, careful to make no noise. Then he kneels beside me, lifts my head, and holds the fragrant cup to my lips. I gulp mouthfuls; it’s still warm, delicious with chunks of turkey, onions, and potatoes in a thick broth that dribbles over my lips. Swollen and sore as my jaw and mouth are after Hiram’s beating, it hurts to chew.
“There you go, son,” Silas whispers, once the portion’s done. He lowers me back onto the ground.
“Thank you so much,” I murmur, wiping my messy beard against dead leaves, only to have them stick to my lips. Silas disappears inside the third tent, long enough to fetch the blanket he spoke of. He drags me closer to the fire, covers me with a blanket, wipes the leaves off my mouth, and arranges my head on a mat of moss. “That’s all I can do for you, son. I’m sorry.”
“Sir, couldn’t you—?”
“Don’t even say it, lad. To free you would be treason. My comrades would arrest me. I wish I could, but…”
Abruptly, he rises. “Pray, Private Campbell. That’s the last thing left in this world still in your power to do. Tomorrow, perhaps, you’ll rest in the bosom of our Creator. That’s the only hope I can offer you. I’ll keep the fire going a little longer, so you won’t freeze to death before the morning. Though perhaps dying of exposure would be a blessing. Being shot as a spy is a wretched and dishonorable way to die.”
Silas adds wood to the fire and pokes up the flames. “Goodnight, son,” he mumbles. Leaving me there, he disappears into his tent.
I lie on my side, the ground cold and hard beneath me. The blanket’s welcome, but it does little to slow my shivering. Again I try to get free. I kick and wriggle my feet; I twist my hands around in their bonds. This time, my wrists begin to bleed. The blood’s slippery, though, allowing the rope to slide down my hands the slightest bit. Frantic with hope, I fight harder, despite the considerable hurt my struggles cause me, hooking a thumb beneath a rope and tugging, clawing at knots with my fingernails. Maybe, if I keep at this, I can work myself loose before the sun rises and the bullet waiting for me lodges in my heart. Or before the fire dies, the night grows colder still, and I freeze to death. As Silas suggested, perhaps that would be a better end. At least it would be the amoral laws of nature ending me, rather than a vindictive foe.
I’m so intent on my attempts to work free that I don’t notice Hiram coming my way till he’s circled the campfire. He sways above me, smiling, cap cocked over his brow.
“Not sleeping yet? But you look so cozy.”
He tears the blanket off me and tosses it aside. “Damn weak-headed Silas.” Hunkering down, he examines my bonds.
“Trying to get loose, huh? Don’t blame you, considering what you’ve got coming to you tomorrow. Hell, you’re bleeding. You graybacks are a determined lot, I’ve got to give you that.”
His boot nudges my cheek, then my temple. For a second, I think he’s going to stave my skull in. Instead, he grips my shoulders and drags me closer to the fire. He staggers to his tent, only to fetch a hank of rope. Standing over me, he gives me another crooked smile, this one full of menace.
“You give me any fight, little man, and you’ll regret it. Understand?”
I choke back my hate. In this context, it will do me no good. Indeed, it might hasten my end. Goddamn it. If I could only get loose, I’d punch his smiling face in.
“Yes.” I pause, licking my lips. “I understand.”
“That’s the kind of cowed obedience you crazed fire-eaters should have shown from the beginning. I wish Ole Abe were here so you could kiss his ass. You resist me, and, speaking of fire-eaters, I’ll shovel some coals in your mouth. Hell, I’ll heave that scrawny carcass of yours onto the fire.”
His warning, as he’s correctly guessed, is more than sufficient to insure my compliance. I lie still as he shifts me onto my belly, then binds my wrists more extensively, then hogties me, trussing my hands and feet so closely together that my little fingers can brush my heels and my limb-joints throb. Finally, he fetches a camp chair, positions it beside me, and sits heavily down.
“That’ll hold you,” he sighs, tugging on the ropes securing my wrists to my ankles. “We’ve caught lots of you Secesh boys before. Thanks to Stanton—he’s ever so ethical—and Silas—he’s pitifully softhearted, and keeps seeing his traitorous kin inside half the Rebs we catch—most of them we’ve sent off to camps up north. In the civilized states. But, lately, we’ve been tired, so, more often than not, our prisoners have ended up as you will tomorrow. War is harsh, as the journalists say. Hasty, neat death. Faster and less painful than many of our boys have got. It took my brother hours to die. Hours of agony.”
My captor pulls the flask from his jacket pocket and swi
gs it. He’s clearly drunk, which does not bode well for me. Some cruel men are made easy and amiable by strong drink, and some easy and amiable men are made cruel. I fear this might be a time when drink makes a cruel man crueler.
“Let’s have a little talk, Reb,” he says. He bends over me and pats my head. Once more his muddy boot nudges my cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“You want some of this?” he says, waving the flask.
Grunting, I shift, rolling off my belly and onto my left side, so that we can face one another. How Drew endured this kind of cruel restraint as long as he did back when he was our camp’s prisoner, I don’t know. The fiery ache in my elbows, shoulders, and knees is unpleasantly matched by the icy numbness prickling my hands and feet.
“It’s good whiskey,” he teases. Angling his foot, he brushes his boot sole across my face, smearing my bearded cheek with mud. Very gently, he does the same to my nose.
“Is this what y’all consider hospitality up North?” I growl. “Yes, actually, if you bastards are going to execute me tomorrow, I might as well enjoy some spirits. Or are you just tormenting me? You seem to have quite a talent for that.”
“You don’t sound as unread and ignorant as your cohorts, boy. Can you read?”
I snort. “I read Shakespeare, Yank. And Homer, albeit in translation. Are you going to share that flask with me or not? It’s the least you can do, after the vicious way you’ve treated me.”
“Yes, it is,” he says, boot-smearing my brow now. “Yes, it is the least I can do.” He slips off the chair, squats beside me, and waves the flask under my nose. “Were you at Trevilian Station, boy?”
“What?”
“Where my brother died. Were you there? For all I know, you were the one who shot him.”
I shake my head. “That was a cavalry battle. I was infantry. My company wasn’t even there.”
“You swear?”
“I do.”
“You swear by what? Jefferson Davis? Jesus?” He guffaws. “Your holy Southland, your holy Confederacy?”
“Yes. All of those.”
“Then I guess I’m convinced. Here you go.”
Hiram lifts my head, tips the flask against my mouth, and pours. Choking, I swallow what I can. More spills over, running through my beard and onto the ground.
“Messy, messy. Wasteful.” Hiram takes a swig, pockets the flask, and returns to his camp chair. He wipes his mouth, lies back, and looks up. Above us, stars glitter between breaks in the clouds. Flurries still drift down, sprinkling his wide shoulders and his cap. Around me, the grass is white.
“I’m from Philadelphia,” he says softly. “The nights are never as dark and the stars are never as bright there as they are down here. You have a pretty country, boy, albeit it’s a lawless Bedlam, crawling with hotheaded planters and pop-eyed niggers, and every other manner of backwards beast. Right? Aren’t I right?”
He stares down at me, face flushed. “Dirty-faced scum. And a spy. Isn’t that what you are? Answer me.”
Falling to his knees beside me, he heaves me over onto my back and seizes me by the throat. “Answer me.”
“I’m afraid to,” I whimper. “You’re drunk and you’re mean. Hell, you just told me you might toss me into that fire. You seem bent on killing me, and I’ve never done anything to you.”
“You’re a spy, aren’t you? Or a bushwhacker? A sharpshooter? How many of our soldiers have you killed?” he says, thumbs pressing against my windpipe. “A goddamn Rebel sharpshooter downed my brother.”
“I’m…not…I’m just…on leave. I was infantry, I swear. Never bushwhacked. Please…Yank!”
“My brother took a ball through the belly. His death was horrible. I watched it all. How many? How many men have you killed?” Hiram tightens his grip. “Tell the truth.”
“Can’t…recall.” I thrash beneath him, fingers scrabbling at grass. “Many. Many. We’re…both—uhhhh!—soldiers…Yank. We kill. How many—uhhhh!—have you?—uhhh.” Another minute or two of that pressure on my throat, and I’m done for.
“What was your brother’s name?”
“My brother?” I gasp.
“Yes. You said you lost your brother at Antietam.”
“His name…Jeff,” I wheeze. Blue spots are marshaling along the edges of my vision. A top’s spinning in the center of my brain. Oh, God, I’m about to pass out. “Please, Yank…”
He releases me as abruptly as he’d seized me. “Did you love him?”
Throat throbbing, I suck in air. “Y-yes. Of course,” I manage to choke out.
“Of course you did.” Hiram gives my muddied cheek a pat, almost fondly. “Don’t you hate us Union soldiers? The men who killed him? I surely hate you. As you’ve surmised by now.”
For a good minute, my hacking and gasping make it impossible for me to reply. My captor waits patiently, kneeling at my side.
“I hate…the man who shot Jeff. Yes,” I admit, once I’ve regained my breath. “But I don’t hate all Yankees. One of my closest…comrades is from Pennsylvania. He was in the Federal cavalry…like you.”
“Was? Where is he now?”
“God knows.” Years of being coached in good manners have made me an effortless deceiver when the context calls for it. “Last I heard, he was with Sheridan, on the way to Petersburg. What was your brother’s name?”
Hiram turns his face from me, staring into the woods’ thick black. He brushes snow from his coat and sighs. “I don’t want to talk about my brother. Especially not with a murdering Rebel.”
“Don’t you think I know how you feel, Yank? I saw my brother die as well. We fought side by side at Antietam. I saw him fall. Jesus, a ball through the skull.”
“It’s not the same. Shut up, Reb,” he growls, removing his cap only long enough to brush snow from it as well. “I don’t care about your brother. He got what he deserved, turning on his country. A traitor’s death. Well earned. You’ll join him in death at dawn.”
“It is the same, damn it! What’s the goddamn difference? And you have no right to execute me! I ain’t a spy! I swear it! I’m a soldier!”
“I’m tired of talking. I need some sleep now. I have a grave to dig in the morning.” He pulls his pistol and strokes the barrel. “Here’s the reward for your Southern patriotism.” He nudges my temple with the muzzle, then reholsters it. “It’s loaded and ready for you. So your brother’s dead. Any family at home?”
“Y-yes. My father and mother.”
“Well, pretty soon your mother will be sobbing just as hard as my mother did. She’ll have to take what comfort she can.”
“No, Yank! Please.” The shivers wracking my limbs are as much panic now as bone-gnawing cold. “We’ve all suffered, and we’ve all lost. That’s no reason…show some mercy, for God’s sake. Don’t—”
“That’s enough. You’re Rebel scum, and you’ll die tomorrow.”
Anger once more submerges panic. “Damn you,” I growl. “If I could get loose, I’d make you pay.”
“I said that’s enough.” From his back pocket Hiram pulls a bandana, which he folds into a roll, then knots in the center. Throwing himself upon me, his weight dislodging my breath, he shoves the fat knot against my mouth. I swear at him, clench my jaw, and toss my head, but it does no good. In another moment he’s forced the rag between my teeth, jerked it taut, and tied it behind my head. It’s so tight the corners of my mouth ache. For a split-second I think of Drew, how beautiful I find him with a gag between his teeth, his blue eyes looking up at me with complete trust. This is different. This latest in a series of humiliations only maddens me more. I thrash and curse beneath my captor, till he rolls me onto my belly, grabs me by the hair and slams my face against the ground once, then twice, stunning me.
“Goddamn you. Goddamn you,” he hisses. “Be silent, Reb, or by God, I swear—”
Gripping me by the hair, he jerks my head up to face the fire. With the other hand, he lifts a half-charred stick. Its tip glows red. “I’ll
brand U.S.A. on your cheek,” he snarls, waving the smoking stick under my nose. “I’ll poke out your eyes. You want that?”
“Uhh uh! Uhh uh!” I grunt against the gag, giving my head a panicky shake. My God, he’s like a rabid dog, foaming with hate. It’s that savage mix of the patriotic and the personal that fueled Sarge’s ruthless detestation of Union men.
“You done?”
Terrified, I nod, instantly ceasing my struggle.
Hiram drops the stick into the flames and clambers off me. “Jesus, you’re trouble. I’ll be glad to be rid of you tomorrow.”
Throat tight, I roll onto my side. My head’s abrim with a sloshing dizziness; my bound limbs shake violently. Hiram straddles my head. For a few seconds, we just stare at one another. Tears spring to my eyes; unmanly pleas spring to my lips. Blinking, panting, I fight both back.
Fumbling in his pocket, Hiram removes the flask, tips it back, and gulps till it’s done. With exaggerated disappointment, he upends it over me. One drop splashes my chin.
“We’re done. We’re done. All gone. All run out.” He bends long enough to pat my shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few hours, boy.”
He rises. The look in his eyes transforms in an instant from hate to sorrow. “His name was Abner. My brother. Oh, God, he was a fine man. Oh, sweet Jesus, I miss him.”
Putting his face in his hands, he begins to weep. For a good minute, the big man heaves with deep, violent sobs. Then he curses, straightens, spits into snow-whitened leaves, and wipes his face. He pisses into the fire, a loud, lengthy stream that makes hissing smoke and acrid ash of warm embers, then staggers over to his tent and into it. Within seconds, he’s begun to snore.
Alone at last, I cry quietly. Snow covers me. Savage shivering courses up and down my trammeled limbs. Hysteria reams my throat. I gnash the gag between my teeth. I writhe and thrash. I tug and claw at the ropes. My bonds feel like tangible doom. My wrists bleed anew. My breath forms clots of ice in my mustache. Finally, I pray. Not to end this way. To be given strength if I must end this way. For Drew to save me. For Drew to be safe and far, far away.
