by Jeff Mann
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A man is standing over me. It’s Sarge. He squats down beside me and gazes sadly into my eyes. He studies my helplessness and my terror, shaking his head. “You’re no soldier,” he whispers. “You never were.” With that, he stands, turns his back to me, and strides away without a backward glance.
“I am a soldier. I am. Please help me, uncle. I’m kin. Don’t leave me here,” I plead, as he vanishes among the trees.
Trembling, I open my eyes. The woods are gray with the first dim light heralding dawn. My bladder is full; my cheeks are wet. My breath makes a cloud. I’m lying on my side, facing the fire pit. The blanket’s draped over me. Silas must have replaced it during the night, during the last of those short naps I took during my hours of futile struggle. The fire’s low but still flickering, still throwing off heat. He must have added wood to it as well. Kind attempt to prolong my life a few hours. Today, short of a miracle, is the day I die. Bitter to lose my parents. Bitter to lose this land. Bitterest of all to lose Drew.
I try to roll over. Between the hours of cold and tight constriction, I cannot. My limbs are without feeling, incapable of more than a feeble shifting. I look about the clearing. No one’s up. They’re still sleeping after all the liquor they enjoyed last night. But any minute now, they’ll rise, stumble out, rub sleep from their eyes, piss, and set to the promised business of my execution. They’ll unbind my feet and lead me out into the woods, as George was about to lead Drew just before the Yankee bombardment gave us that precious opportunity to flee.
“Drew. My sweet man,” I mutter. Violent shaking seizes me again. I’m about to embark on another prayer, a final prayer, when there’s the crunch of footsteps behind me. A hand falls over my mouth.
“Not a sound, Ian,” a deep and blessedly familiar voice whispers.
I stiffen, suppressing a gasp.
“Yep. It’s me, Reb. I’m getting you out of here. Hold still.”
Something sharp slices through the rope tethering my bound wrists to my bound ankles. Grunting with pain, I stretch stiff limbs. I wriggle my still-roped hands and feet, whimpering for further freedom. “No time. Hush now. I’ve got you.” Hands slip beneath me; strong arms lift me. Drew—beautiful, bruised, sky-eyed, sun-gold Drew, like some demigod, like Hercules, Achilles, the god Apollo himself—smiles at me, kisses my nose, then heaves me over his left shoulder.
Drew lopes around the fire, heading for the horses. He’s moving fast, trying to avoid piles of leaves whose crunch and rustle could give us away. We’re almost past the last of the three tents when a man emerges. Drew freezes, pulling a pistol.
It’s Silas. He stares at us. A faint smile spreads across his face. He gestures toward the paddock, then lifts his hands and takes a step back. “Go with God, boys,” he whispers. Ducking, he reenters his tent.
Drew stands for a split-second’s confusion before bounding off. There’s only one horse in the paddock, Stanton’s black stallion. To my surprise, the animal’s already saddled, with our blanket rolls strapped to his back. Drew, my amazing savior Drew, has already prepared the horse to abet our departure. The two dapple-grays are nowhere to be seen. Drew eases me belly down across the horse’s back, unknots the rope tethering the animal to a sapling, swings up into the saddle behind me, takes the reins, and turns our new mount toward the road.
Someone shouts behind us. It’s Hiram. “Goddamn it! Stanton, get up!” Report of a pistol; a ball sings past my head, chunking into a tree we veer past. Drew urges the horse down the hill and onto the road, his strong hand steadying me as I bounce and slide. Helpless a burden as I am, I could be a sack of mail, a poke of meal, a full-up potato sack. We thunder up Craig Creek, through thick bottomland mist. Behind us, Hiram’s shouts recede. The sound of pursuing horses, to my surprise and relief, does not materialize.
By the time Drew slows, having put enough distance between us and my erstwhile captors’ camp, I’m about to piss my pants, what with my bursting bladder and the horse’s careening down the rut-rough course. He directs the stallion into a laurel thicket and behind some great rocks till we’re well beyond sight of the road. Gracefully, he slides off the saddle, tethers the horse, then tips me across his shoulder again. Here too the forest floor is powdered with light snow. Drew ducks beneath green laurel branches, their leaves curled up with cold, and lowers me onto a wide cushion of moss. He stands over me, grinning. I grunt and writhe. “Let me loose,” I plead. It comes out gag-garbled—“Lemmey loo!”—resembling a halfwit’s mumble.
“You’re one precious burden, buddy. Now you know what I felt like all those weeks trussed up in your uncle’s camp,” Drew says. “I like you like this, Reb. Maybe I should keep you this way. What do you think? Maybe I should pull your trousers down, bend you over a log, and take you right here in the leaves. Ain’t that what you’ve been wanting to do to me? Ain’t turnabout fair play?”
For once I’m in no mood for carnal flirtations. “Dammoo.” Gnashing the gag, I twist and kick, catching his shin. “Lemmey loo!!”
“Ouch! Now you’re rhyming. Say please.”
“Plee!”
“All right. All right.” Chuckling, Drew kneels. He tugs and picks at the knot behind my head, then gently removes the rag from my mouth.
“Damn it, Yank! Stop playing around. Untie me and let’s get out of here. Those men might be right behind us.”
“Roll over,” Drew prompts. When I do, he starts working loose the ropes around my wrists. It pains me considerably, causing the raw flesh there to burn anew.
“They’re not right behind us, so relax,” Drew says as he slips a blade under a loosened length and starts slicing the rope. “I took care of that. Lord, lord, your wrists are all torn up. I’m going to need to bandage them later.” With a twist and jerk of the knife, the rope gives, falling from my hands. Groaning, I shrug my aching shoulders and rub my blood-crusted wrists. Drew bends, fumbles, tugs, slices, and soon my feet are free as well.
“Damn, Ian. Thank God I found you.”
“Oh, God, Drew.” I throw my arms around him, pressing my face against his chest. “They were going to shoot me at dawn. That man you saw, Silas, he tried to argue them out of it. He was kind to me, gave me water and fed me, tried to keep me warm, but the other two…they were convinced I was a spy. If you’d gotten there just a little later, I’d have been at the bottom of a grave in the woods.”
“Like the grave I almost ended up in at the base of Purgatory Mountain. That’s what we do, little Reb. We rescue one another.” His big arms envelop me. “Thank God I got there in time. When I got back from chasing those damn turkeys—they all eluded me—I found your belongings by the roadside—which I have, by the way—so I knew you’d been taken. Then I saw the footprints in the snow and freezing mud—thank God for that snow!—then the hoof prints leading along the creek road, and then your cap. I ran all night to catch up. Must admit I stopped long enough to eat the last of Mizz Sadie’s biscuits so as to keep my strength up.” He hugs me hard and kisses the top of my head. “I knew to turn off the road and up that hill because I saw fire flickering—someone must have stirred up the fire about the time I reached the vicinity—and then I heard a horse nicker. Oh, my poor little man, what did they do to your face?”
He cups my chin, tilting my head up. “You’re covered with mud and blood. Your mouth’s all swollen, your lip’s split. And your jaw’s cut and bruised. Did they beat you?”
“One of them did. His brother had died in the war. So he…he was pretty rough. He was the one who took a shot at us as we fled.”
“Bastard. Coward. Beating a bound man. Beating on my little Reb. I should have returned the fire, maybe caught him in the heart.”
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping aside and turning my back. “I’ve got to relieve myself or I’ll split in half.”
“Good idea,” says Drew. Side by side we piss in frost-edged leaves.
“Ooof, that’s better,” I say, buttoning up. “But Drew, why aren�
�t they on our tail? They had two other horses.”
“If they can find them. Before I fetched you, I was a downright coquette with those army beasts. I used to be in the cavalry, remember, before we met. I never met a horse I couldn’t charm.” Chuckling, Drew strokes my hair. “I tickled their chins and fed them a few of those apples Mrs. Stephens gave us. Found their saddles and cut the girths. Then I led those pretty animals off a ways, sliced their bridles into bits, and encouraged ’em to find their own way home. Last I saw ’em, they were trotting briskly down the creek. With luck, they’re likely grazing on Mrs. Stephens’s lawn by now, or taking a cool sip of the James.”
Drew kisses me, very softly. I wince nevertheless.
“Sorry. Your poor bloodied mouth. Come on, Reb. Let’s be on our way. If those men ever find their horses, they might try to come after us bareback, though I doubt it. Thanks to them,” Drew says, leading me from the laurel grove, “we got us a fine mount. No walking to West Virginia for us.”
What with the beating I took, and the hours of bondage, I’m so sore I’m finding it hard to walk. My back’s stiff, my head throbs, and my legs are trembling. Drew’s quick to notice my feeble state. “You’re in bad shape, little friend,” Drew says, draping an arm across my shoulders. “Do you want me to carry you?”
“No. Oh, no. I’ll manage. After all the tortures you endured as my prisoner, the least I can do is muster some strength and keep up.” Gritting my teeth, I limp beside him, trying to be manly and soldierly, only to stumble on a leaf-hidden stone and nearly fall on my face. Drew catches me by the elbow in the nick of time.
“You’re worn out, Reb,” Drew says. “You can’t be strong all the time. God knows when I was weak—hell, downright helpless, thanks to your uncle—you were strong and you were protective, and, well, you were wonderful, you were my salvation. Now it’s my turn to take care of you. We need to find you a bed for the night.”
The horse is exactly where we left him, chewing at quills of wild onions that protrude, the only green in sight, from the carpet of snow-dusted leaves. When Drew pats his shoulder, he emits a soft whinny.
“With this mount, we should be able to make it to New Castle by dusk. He’s a beauty. Big and strong enough to carry us both. Reminds me of that wonderful stallion I used to have…before the Valley and the Burning, and the shakes I got… Lancaster was a fine horse, before one of your bushwhackers laid him low. What’ll we call this one?”
“Jackson?” I suggest.
Drew makes a face. “Grant?” he counters.
I stick out my tongue and grimace. We both snigger.
“Hmmm, here we go again. How about Walt?” I suggest. “After that poet whose work I read you? Or Solomon? He was supposed to have written the Song of Songs, those Bible verses I read you near Lexington.”
“Walt Solomon it is. Ole Walt Solomon, will you carry us up the creek? There’s a soft bed and some good grub waiting for us at New Castle, and a big bag of sweet feed for you.” Drew rubs the horse’s ears and presses his face against the animal’s muzzle. “Yes? Good. Didn’t realize how much I missed the company of horses,” he says, stroking the stallion’s mane.
“They’ve always frightened me,” I sheepishly confess. “They’re so damned big.”
“Scared of horses? And you a farm boy. I thought you said your partisan band was called the Rogue Riders.”
“They were. Don’t make fun. I can ride just fine. I just was never easy on a horse like most men. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.”
“I ain’t making fun. You stay by me, and I’ll teach you a few things about horses. Up y’go, Reb,” he says, helping my battered weakness climb up onto the stirrup and into the saddle. He pats the saddlebags, which are bulging, I assume with our belongings. Opening one, he pulls out my mud-stained kepi and hands it to me. “You wanting some breakfast before we head out?”
“No. Later,” I say, adjusting the cap on my head. “Let’s get as far away from those men as we can.”
“All right.” He swings effortlessly up behind me. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of you.” He kisses my swollen cheek. “Walt Solomon, you got to find my beat-up lil’ Reb here a cozy room and a fire,” he says brightly.
I lean back against Drew. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved my life.”
He takes a deep breath. “Oh, God, oh, God, I’m so glad we’re together again. I came so close to losing you,” he says, his deep voice rising, trembling, and breaking. He swallows hard. ”What would I do without you?”
With his left arm, Drew gives me a firm hug; with his right, he swishes the reins. “Giddy-up!” Our godsent steed trots out of the woods and into the road. We head up the creek through swaths of early morning fog, amidst a deep silence broken only by the horse’s hooves and the cheep of birds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Great intervals of the day are lost to me. Now that I find myself safe, at least for the moment, in my big Yank’s arms, the terror and trauma I experienced in the Federal camp catch up with me, in the form not of lingering, skittish anxiety but bone-deep exhaustion. I lean back against Drew’s broad chest, his beard brushing my ear, and doze.
All morning we follow the rough road leading us farther up the valley of Craig Creek. The creek grows narrower, noisier, purling over rocks, making little cascades and ice-edged pools. The surrounding hills grow steeper and higher, their tops vague with cloud. Thick forest lines the road, broken infrequently by stubbled cornfields, pastures, bottomland farmhouses, many abandoned, flanked by burnt barns, no doubt due to the ravages of war or, even more likely, lawless raiders like the Iron Riders we’ve been warned against.
The sun comes and goes, just like my periods of insensibility. I bounce and sway on the saddle, head lolling, chin bumping my chest. I start awake, crane for the sounds of pursuit, hear nothing, and drift off again. The road leaves the creek, climbs up into low hills, returns to the creek, then meanders off again. Walt Solomon moves at a steady trot, around brown puddles sheeted with films of ice, over frozen, rutted mud. Flurries move over the valley from the west, powdering our shoulders and passing on.
We stop once, in early afternoon, near a white frame farmhouse that seems free of destruction’s black signature. Drew dismounts, helps me down, and leaves me slumped back against a rail fence and shawled with a blanket while he sprints across the road. I nap. It seems like only seconds before he’s shaking me awake. His handsome face is beaming with excitement.
“If the generosity of your civilians had been a factor, you Rebels would have won this war long ago. Look! Fried pies,” he exclaims, kneeling beside me. “The old folks in that farmhouse gave ’em to me. And some ham we can add to our stash. And some feed for Walt.”
I shake off my somnolence long enough to join Drew in gobbling the pies. We each have one, then split a third. They’re flaky with lard, tart with dried apples, and sweetened with maple syrup. “They remind me of my mother’s,” I sigh. “They remind me of home.”
“We’re getting there, Ian. Now that we have Walt’s help, we should make it there much faster.” Drew rises, proffering the handsome stallion a rusty bucket of grain. The horse buries his muzzle, chomping contentedly.
“You’re already half in love with that horse,” I say with a feeble grin.
“I am,” Drew sheepishly admits. “Are you jealous?”
“A wee bit, yes.”
“Don’t fret, Reb. My heart’s big enough for you both.” He runs his fingers through the black mane and simultaneously gives me a blue-eyed wink.
I study the lines of Drew’s powerful body, the way fitful sun halos his golden head and whiskered chin. “You’re goddamn irresistible, Drew,” I sigh, closing my eyes. “Handsomest man I’ve ever met. I can’t wait to lie with you again.”
“Tonight, with luck. The feeling’s more’n mutual. Did you get enough to eat? Want some of that ham?”
“Nope. Better save it for later. So who were those folks in the farmhouse?”
“They’re the Paxtons,” Drew explains as our new mount munches. “They say this place is called Oriskany. When I told ’em that invaders had roughed you up…” Bemusement flickers across his face. “Hell, I guess I was an invader as well, before I met you. Loving you, my little Reb, has somehow made me a Rebel too.” He shakes his head.
“Now you’re the one who’s rhyming,” I say.
“Guess so. Well, at any rate, when they heard that, the lady invited us in to have our meal and rest for a spell, but the old man told us we’d better get up the road, that raiders have been plentiful hereabouts. He said we’d be safer in New Castle. We’re a few hours’ ride from there, they said.”
“Let’s go then.” When I rise, dizziness grips me, and I stagger.
“I got you,” Drew murmurs, gripping my shoulder.
“Pathetic,” I grunt. “Like an old man.”
In a few minutes, with Drew’s help, I’ve managed to mount. With enviable agility he does the same. On the porch of the farmhouse, an old lady in a gingham dress and a gray shawl waves a handkerchief at us as we pass. Drew waves back.
We move up the road at a fast trot. Soon the road threads into another tunnel of leafless trees. I lean back, Drew’s strong chest like a pillow, his thick arms my supports, and fall asleep to the steady rhythm of Walt Solomon’s step.
I wake to a violent swaying. We’re rapidly ascending a low ridge beside the road. We reach the crest, where Drew halts the horse long enough to peer down the road. He curses beneath his breath, then shakes the reins and we descend into a gully on the ridge’s far side.
“Drew, what—?”
“Hold on,” says Drew. “Riders coming this way. We got to hide.”
