by Jeff Mann
I grip the saddle horn. Our mount leaps over a tiny stream. Drew urges him toward a green thicket.
“Duck,” advises Drew. I do. Soft hemlock needles brush my cheek and the back of my neck. Drew halts the stallion inside the evergreen stand. “Quiet now,” he orders.
Over the ridge, galloping hoof beats resound. A man laughs; another man shouts. A pistol cracks, echoing through the valley. Within a minute, they’re well past, heading down the creek. Another couple of minutes, and the noise of their passage has faded into the distance.
“Those weren’t Federal cavalrymen,” Drew says. “Too wild. Undisciplined. Got to have been guerillas.”
“Sounded like four or five of them. Those Iron Riders we’ve heard talk about?”
“Maybe. Just glad they weren’t riding toward New Castle like us. Don’t think I’d want to run into ’em, especially if they’re as nasty as everyone tells us.” Drew opens his canteen and we take a swig apiece before returning to the road.
The rest of our ride is uneventful. I continue to slip into intervals of slumber. Every now and then Drew hugs me or kisses my cheek. The valley widens considerably and levels out. Intermittent sunlight splashes the meads lining the creek. The mountains are grand up here, frosted gray upon the peaks. Over us, high, tattered clouds are rushing; the sky above, as dusk approaches, moves from a cold, pale blue to a deep indigo. By the time we can make out the first lights of New Castle, twilight’s lavender dominates the heavens, and gusts of wind chase dead leaves across our path and cause us to turn our collars up.
A dwelling or two appear along the road, then more and more, until we find ourselves in a proper town. One grand edifice, sporting a belvedere and white columns, appears to be the courthouse, and, right across the street from it, is the brick hotel we’d been told about. It’s a solid three-story building, with square brick columns supporting a double porch. The windows are welcoming with lamplight. After all the frights and trials of the last couple of days, it looks like the safe haven we’ve been hoping for.
Drew reins up before the building and we dismount, tying Walt Solomon to a nearby hitching post. “Wait,” says Drew. He fetches a cloth from a saddlebag, wets it in a horse trough beside the hitching post, and dabs at my face. “Blood and mud. You look like a wounded heathen. Might scare the ladies. Let me clean you up first.”
I stand patiently as he gently scrubs, only flinching when he dabs at the wound on my cheek. “I’ll bandage you up later,” Drew promises. He stands back, pockets the moist cloth, studies me, and nods. “Much better.”
Drew strides and I limp onto the porch. Inside, there’s the din of socializing characteristic of saloons. We’re about to enter when he says, “You still got that letter, Reb? The one Mrs. Stephens gave us? It might help us get a room. God knows we got next to nothing in the way of payment.”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten,” I mutter, fumbling through my jacket pocket. Here’s an envelope. When I open it, to my surprise, I find not only two folded papers but a wad of bills.
“Drew! Look! Money.” Hurriedly, I count it. “There’s a hundred and fifty dollars here. How could she spare it?” I unfold one paper, bend into the lamplight pouring from a window, and read it out loud.
Cousin Don,
Please give shelter to these soldiers. Their names are Drew Conrad and Ian Campbell. In addition to having fought for their country, they have done my hamlet of Eagle Rock a great service, have defended my honor, and have been the soul of courage and heroism. Shower on them the hospitality of which I know you are preeminently capable.
Sincerely,
Irene Stephens
P.S. I will requite your kindness to these boys with a grand feast once this abominable war is over. You and Beryl must come for a visit.
“Oh, bless her, bless her,” Drew gushes. “What does the other one say?”
I unfold the second paper and read it aloud as well.
Gentlemen,
Your presence in my home has been a boon past any other in recent remembrance. As brief as has been our acquaintance, already I think of you as my foster-sons, and I will pray that your journeys are safe and that you survive the war and thrive together in the days that come after. Victory or defeat, peace will come. Soon, I think. I pray for peace and I pray for you.
Lovingly,
Irene Stephens
P.S. Do not fret over this money. I told you Edward left me well provided for. I hope it smoothes your path and speeds your way.
We stand unspeaking for a moment before I pocket the money, then carefully fold the second letter and return it to my jacket pocket.
“Shall we?” Drew says, opening the door.
I nod, fighting a sudden wave of vertigo. With our letter of introduction in hand, my big Yank right behind me, I step inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The entrance hall is cheery with floral wallpaper and yellow lamplight. Before us, steps ascend to the upper floors. To our right, through an open doorway, is a dim room emitting the bustle of a saloon. “Beware, Yank. Sounds like a parlous nest of liquor-happy Rebs,” I mutter beneath my breath. “Follow me.”
The warm room is full of laughing and drinking locals, the aromas of food, tobacco, and wood smoke. There’s an ornately carved wooden bar to the left, a muddle of occupied tables in the middle, and, to the right, a big brick fireplace, full of burning logs. As soon as we enter, conversation dies. The patrons, observing our C.S.A. garb, cheer. An elderly gentleman at the bar lifts his glass. A well-dressed lady by the fire does the same. “Our brave defenders!” she exclaims.
Behind the bar, pouring beer into a mug, is a tall, handsome man in drab clothes, with gray-streaked brown hair and a great bristling length of beard. By his side, holding a tray of empty glasses, is a short, pretty woman in her thirties, wearing a gray homespun dress beneath a white apron. Her auburn hair’s piled atop her head. Upon her breast, a cross gleams upon a delicate chain. Both smile warmly.
“Come in, soldiers. Come in,” says the man. “Welcome to my hotel.” He grabs a crutch and shuffles from behind the bar. The man’s left leg is missing. He moves quickly nonetheless, negotiating the space between tables with a practiced ease. In a trice, he’s shaking our hands.
“I’m Ian Campbell, sir, and this is my messmate, Drew Conrad.”
“Very, very pleased to meet you,” he says with palpable excitement. “I’m Don Pendleton. That lovely lady behind the bar’s my wife, Beryl. Here, here,” he says, leading us to the only empty table in the place, set in a corner beside a steamy window. “Welcome, welcome! Want some liquid refreshment? Some food? Are you in need of a room for the night?”
“All three sound wonderful. We’ve been on the road for days. This is a fine establishment, Mr. Pendleton,” Drew says, sitting down with a relieved huff. He pulls off his jacket and cap and rubs his temples. Wrapped up as I’ve been in my own exhaustion all day, it only now occurs to me that, the same hours I was fighting to free myself, Drew, hefting along all our belongings, was dashing up Craig Creek Road searching for me. He must be as dog-tired as I.
“Sir, you’re mighty hospitable,” I say, shaking his hand again before removing my jacket and cap and taking a seat myself. “We’re standing in need of both room and board. But first, if you’d kindly read this.” I hand him Mrs. Stephens’s letter.
Mr. Pendleton lights a candle at our table, then, in its restless light, cons the letter. His brow furrows; his eyes squint; his lips twitch. With a sigh, he hands it back to me.
“I never could read well to begin with, and after Second Manassas”—he pats the stump of his leg—“well, not only did I lose my leg but a head wound has fuzzed up my sight. Would you read it to me, soldier?’
“Certainly.” I do so. During my brief recitation, our host’s look of curiosity metamorphoses into one of glowing delight.
“My God, you’re friends of Irene? Well, then. You’re doubly welcome. Beryl! Bring these boys some beer!” Grabbing an emp
ty chair from an adjoining table, Mr. Pendleton straddles it, arms crossed along the back. “How do you know Irene?”
“We’ve been on furlough, after our company fell afoul of a big batch of Yanks in the Valley, and we were passing through Eagle Rock. Mrs. Stephens took us in. She was so kind to us. She hid us from Federal raiders. She fed us well. We hadn’t had much to eat for a long time.”
“That’s evident by the looks of you, gentlemen. Flat bellies, bruised-up faces. It’s clear you’ve been through hell, like all our Rebel soldiers. So what’s the service she mentions, the one you two did for Eagle Rock?”
“Well…” I hesitate. Terrorizing an avaricious minister and drubbing his massive minion were grand fun, but I don’t know my host well enough to gauge how he’d feel about such a lark.
Mr. Pendleton claps my shoulder and guffaws. “Ah, Irene! She was always into something. No need to tell me the details. I suspect I’ll hear soon enough. It’s wild country between here and Eagle Rock, but news travels fast nevertheless.”
“Sir,” says Drew, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have a horse outside, a black stallion, we call him Walt Solomon, with full saddle bags and our blanket rolls. He’ll need stabling and feeding. Where might we—”
“You boys take your ease. We’ll handle your Walt. Our son Jimmy will take care of him posthaste.”
Mrs. Pendleton appears with a tray bearing three ceramic mugs full of foaming beer. “Here we are, gentlemen,” she says. “You’re more than welcome here. Our blessed Father has brought you two our way, praise His name. We Craig County folks are great patriots—other than a nasty nest of godless Yankee sympathizers up the road a piece—and we love to shower our soldiers with what comforts we can.”
Despite her proper hairstyle and prim clothes, she’s very pretty, with eyes the color of sherry wine. Judging from the fond glances she and her husband are exchanging with regularity, I’m guessing that they’re very much in love. Again I find myself envying the common ardor of man and woman, an affection that can be honestly expressed without fear of censure.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. “Our road’s been long, and we’re mighty glad to get here.”
“May a kind Providence preserve both our nation and her brave soldiers,” Mrs. Pendleton effuses before moving back to the bar.
“I made this brew myself,” Mr. Pendleton says, with obvious pride, lifting his mug. “To the Confederate States of America!”
Drew, flashing me a quick look, hesitates only a second before clinking mugs with Mr. Pendleton and me. We sip, then gulp. The beer’s bitter, rich, spicy, downright luscious.
“Oh, Lord, this is superb. I haven’t had beer this flavorful since Pennsylvania,” Drew says. The innkeeper has time enough only to raise a quizzical eyebrow before Drew adds, “That was long before the war, long before I met Ian in the army and we got to be fast friends. Those Dutch up there can brew beer. But none of it’s better’n this.”
After weeks together, Drew’s getting as silver-tongued as I. Then again, with the obvious gusto with which he’s drinking, his words seem more like sincerity than calculated flattery.
“To the citizens of the South,” Drew adds, “whose hospitality has been our salvation again and again.” Our three mugs meet a second time before each of us enjoys a healthy swallow.
“Sir,” I say, licking foam off my swollen upper lip, “this is indeed a fine beer, and greatly appreciated, as is your friendliness. So y’all do have a room to spare tonight? We’ve been riding long and could surely do with a good night’s rest before we continue our journey.”
“Yes, we do. There are a couple of rooms upstairs not yet occupied. I’ll give you the better of the two. We call it the Honeymoon Room, so the bed’s small. But there’s a coal stove, so it’ll be warm. I think you could share the bed. Though you, soldier,” he says, giving Drew a dubious look, “as big as you are… Would you prefer separate rooms? I doubt that we’ll get any other boarders this evening.”
“We’re used to sleeping on the ground wrapped in dirty blankets, sir. A proper bed is a priceless luxury to us, and sharing a bed would be no hardship,” I say, trying to conceal my eagerness at the thought of snuggling against Drew all night. “But, I should warn you,” I add, face warming with humiliation, “as we warned Mrs. Stephens. Both Drew and I, we both…in camp we caught…well, sir, we’re both suffering from…vermin.”
“Son, I was a soldier, remember? This is no surprise. Beryl has her tricks. She has a passion for cleanliness, and, when it comes to vermin, eradication.”
“As for payment—” I fumble in my jacket pocket.
“Payment? No payment. We don’t charge our country’s soldiers.”
“Sir?” says Drew. “But we—”
“But we have money, Mr. Pendleton,” I protest. “I know times are very hard across the South. We’d be glad to pay our way.” I pull out several of the bills Mrs. Stephens had hidden in the envelope.
“Put that away, son.” He waves dismissively. “Good of you to offer, but Beryl and I never take a soldier’s money. Yes, Private Campbell, hard times, indeed. Days of war gouged like saber-scars across the South. Across her defenders’ bodies and countenances.” He nods significantly, first at Drew’s blackened eyes and swollen lip, then my bruised and cut face. “To speak less generally, gouged as well on the chair in the hallway. And in the courthouse next door.”
“So the Yankees have been through here?” Drew says, with such clear concern that for a split-second I forget that he’s a Yankee himself.
“Oh, yes. Lots of ’em. Hunter’s whole miserable army. I can tell you about that later. First, I see those beers are about gone. The wilds of Craig Creek have sharpened your thirsts. Would you like another round?”
Drew rubs his hands. “Yes, sir!” he says, with that simple childlike enthusiasm I’ve so come to love in him. “That would be glorious. Oh, yes, please.”
“And, after that, would you like supper? Have you any preferences?”
“Mr. Pendleton,” I say, “before we met your gracious cousin in Eagle Rock, we’d been subsisting on old bacon, cornbread, and assorted ratty vegetables for weeks and weeks. Well, other than a fine meal courtesy of a fine lady—a sutler-ess of sorts—in Lexington. We will feast with abject gratitude on whatever you see fit to serve us. Several folks have told us that your food’s excellent.”
“It’s good. It’s good. Thanks to Beryl. We can certainly do better than the sad bill of fare war’s privations have accustomed our soldiers to.” The innkeeper grips his crutch and rises. “Beryl, my love!” he says, hobbling toward the bar. “While I fetch these men more beer, would you tell Jimmy to stable their horse—it’s the black stallion on the hitching post—and carry their belongings up to the Honeymoon Room? Then get them some supper, please. And heap those plates up.”
Behind the counter, our hostess waves gaily and disappears through a door. With emptied mugs in hand, I follow Mr. Pendleton to the bar so as to spare him a trip back to the table. He fills the mugs, then heads off to help his spouse. A gauntlet of smiles lines my return to the fire; everyone here, with the exception of a few wounded veterans like Mr. Pendleton, is elderly or female—all hale men having been bodily removed by the necessities of war—and all gift me with that look of mingled respect, gratitude, and affection with which Southern civilians have been regaling me since I volunteered.
Drew’s leaning back in the chair, feet extended toward the hearth, smiling contentedly. “What wonderful people. What a fine refuge.” He yawns. “I’m so hungry, but I’m so drowsy too. Guess it’s the beer. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep before the food arrives.”
“You were too busy to sleep last night, big man. You had a pressing engagement.”
“Yep?”
“Yep. To swoop into that camp and rescue me. To become my savior.”
“As you have been mine.” Drew chuckles. His voice drops; he gives me a wicked grin. “I should have left you trussed up. I should have raped
you in the woods.”
“Like I’m going to truss and rape you tonight?” What with the noise of our fellow patrons, our titillating conversation can be conducted almost as well as if we were alone. “Is tonight the night?”
“If I don’t fall asleep first.” Drew rubs his eyes. “What would they say, Ian, if they knew I once were a Union man?”
“Once?”
“Yes.” Drew interlocks his fingers, stretches his arms over his head, and yawns again. “I guess I’m your man now,” he says, tugging at the iron collar he’s still wearing, concealed now not only by the bandana knotted around his neck but by the handsome jacket Mrs. Stephens made for him. “Not a Union man. Especially after seeing how kind Southern civilians are to us. And especially after seeing how my cohorts treated Mrs. Stephens. And you. Their ruthlessness and disrespect make me ashamed. Their behavior reminds me of helping General Sheridan torch the Valley last fall. It makes me want to cry, to be frank.”
“It’s war, Drew. Men are men. Men can be cruel. That Yank back in the camp treated me real bad,” I say, cupping my wounded cheek, “but he didn’t treat me any worse than George and Sarge treated you. Their treatment of you made me ashamed.”
“Yeah.” Drew releases a long sigh. “The wrongdoing’s sure spread out, ain’t it? Maybe Mrs. Stephens was right. Maybe I’m too tender for war. Seems like I’m always on the verge of tears. Especially when I think about how close I got to losing you. Maybe I’m weak.”
“Weak? You’re the strongest, most heroic man I’ve ever met. Weak is one thing, tender is another. I cherish your tender heart, my big man. I want to hold you all night in that bed upstairs.”
“If we can both fit in it. ‘Bear,’ wasn’t that what that preacher called me?”
“Oh, we’ll manage,” I say, with a wink. “For my part, I wonder how these folks would treat us if they knew I was a deserter. If they knew how much I want to lie with you tonight.” Slipping a hand beneath the table, I pat his hard thigh. “You’re a beautiful man, Achilles. Tonight I want you naked. I want you—”
