by Jeff Mann
“Here you go, boys!” The Pendletons have returned, bearing huge plates of food. With a proud flourish, they place our meals before us.
“Oh, Lord,” Drew gasps. “What a feast.”
“Take not His name in vain,” admonishes Mrs. Pendleton with a tiny frown.
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that we’re so hungry,” says Drew, face flushing at the unexpected reprimand. “I didn’t mean to offend, truly.”
“Forgiveness granted,” says our hostess, with a fresh smile.
“My wife’s the strict soul of devotion, boys. She’s always herding me off to church.”
“It does your soul good, Donald. Gentlemen, this is pork barbecue, this is slaw, this is kale. And I made these rolls myself. I hope this is all to your taste?”
“Ma’am, bless you,” I say, close to unseemly salivation. “This is a bounteous supper indeed. We haven’t seen its like in many a month.”
“Enjoy, gentlemen.” Mr. Pendleton pats our shoulders, adds another log to the fire, and hobbles off with his wife, leaving us to savor our meal. We each take excited and tentative first bites. It’s all as delicious as we’d hoped. The barbecue is a shredded mix of juicy inner meat and spicy browned crust, the sauce flavoring it redolent of tomatoes, vinegar, and brown sugar. The slaw’s creamy, the kale tender, the rolls light and buttery.
“I’ve heard of barbecue but I’ve never had it,” Drew says, licking sauce off his lips. “It’s so good.”
“Ah, that’s what would give you away, buddy. Barbecue’s the shibboleth.”
“What? What’s that mean?”
“It’s an odd little word I stumbled upon in a dictionary once. It means, well, something that…some distinctive custom that distinguishes one group from another. So, you may be wearing the gray, but if you don’t know good barbecue, folks would know you for a Yankee for sure. Now, look here, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
I split a roll, heap the bottom half with fragrant meat, then cover that with slaw, then top it all with the rest of the roll. “Ummmm,” I sigh, biting in.
Drew follows my lead. For long, rapt minutes, we exchange no words, focusing on the flavors. We’re no sooner done, having left not a crumb, before our host refills our mugs with beer and our hostess lays down plates of pie. “Custard pie,” she says. “My specialty.” She departs, but Mr. Pendleton settles into his former chair and keeps us company.
“Y’all look pretty content,” he says, smiling with satisfaction as he watches us fork up mouthfuls of pie. The crust’s flaky and tender, the interior creamy and quivery, slightly sweet, with the taste of nutmeg.
“I haven’t had custard pie in years. Please tell your wife this dessert is delicious,” I say, smacking my lips.
“Fine to hear. It does an innkeeper’s and a patriot’s heart good. So how’d you boys get so torn up?”
“Well, we got into a little scrape in Eagle Rock. And we’ve both been prisoners. Drew here was treated brutally by the foe.”
“He helped me escape,” Drew interjects. “Risked his own life for me.” He scoops up a piece of pie, sighs, and gives me a fond look, one matching the glances Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton have exchanged. “I’d be long dead if it weren’t for him.”
“And I would have died today, if it hadn’t been for my big buddy here.” Trying to veil my adoration—not that anyone would suspect sodomy of two masculine soldiers—I play-punch Drew’s shoulder. “This very morning, he rescued me from Union troopers. They caught me yesterday, tied me, and beat me pretty bad. They were planning to shoot me for a spy at dawn.”
“Well, I thank God you men have made it here safely. We New Castle folks know all about Yankee ruthlessness. They came through here in June of last year. Thousands and thousands of them—some say twenty thousand—retreating to West Virginia. They were in a foul mood because General Early’s cavalry under McCausland had torn ’em up in that narrow gap at Hanging Rock Mountain, just this side of Salem. The bastards stabled their horses in the courthouse across the street—you can still see saber marks in the newel post there—and they burnt records and spilled ink every which way. Stomped in here demanding food. Cleaned us out. Took their swords to the furniture just out of spite. I ached to shoot them, but of course I—all us citizens were grievously outnumbered. I’ve never felt so powerless.”
Mr. Pendleton frowns. “Well, that’s enough of that. Talking about it makes my stomach churn. You boys want a smoke?” From his shirt pocket he produces cigars. “Don’t have many left, but I’d be glad to share them with you.”
“I’ll have one,” I say. “My uncle, my, uh, late uncle used to treat me to one every so often.”
“Was he a soldier?”
“Yes, sir. He was the captain of our partisan band. He died in the Valley, by Purgatory Mountain. A Yankee shell.”
“I’m sorry, son. Beryl’s brother fell at New Market last spring, and she’s only recently started smiling again. Her faith helps. I’m not as devout as she, but I do believe the Lord has a plan for all of us, in His unsearchable wisdom. An early death for some, maiming for others,” he says, patting his truncated left thigh. “And old age for the fortunate. Well, I’m rambling. Here.” He hands me a cigar, then lifts the candle. I puff; fire flares on the cigar’s tip; fragrant smoke fills my head.
“And you, son?” Mr. Pendleton offers Drew a cigar.
“Thanks, sir, but actually…” Drew pulls from his jacket pocket pipe and tobacco. “Mrs. Stephens gave me this, so I think I’ll indulge in it instead.”
The three of us sit quietly, puffing at our respective smokes. Fatigue fills me, as does the desire to be alone with Drew, but our hosts are so generous, and the saloon is so warm and pleasant, that I don’t mind lingering for a while.
“Sir,” says Drew after a bit, “if you don’t mind, please tell us more about the Federals who came through here. Unless you find the telling too unpleasant.”
“Well, there are stories aplenty, ranging from painful to absurd. Most us folks in Craig County had heard they were coming, so many of us drove our livestock up into the forests and hid ’em. Still, some folks lost chickens, cattle, pigs. Barns were burnt, as well as smokehouses, corncribs, spring houses. Just like in the Valley.”
Drew coughs, rubs his temples, and sighs. “It sounds terrible, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault, son.” Our host takes a long draw on his cigar, blows out a single ring of smoke, then lets the rest rise from his nose. “One lady hid her ham in bed with her and told the raiders she was with child and had taken to bed with labor pangs. We still tease her about that.” He chuckles sadly. “We’re always asking after her imaginary daughter, Miss Daisy Leigh Piglet.”
His gaze wanders the noisy room of patrons, then settles with solemnity on the fire. Stroking his long brown beard, he continues. “One lady up John’s Creek, well, she was truly pregnant. She was getting water from the well when Union soldiers surrounded her. They all pulled their weapons on her. Swords, pistols, muskets. She dropped dead of fright. I knew her, boys. Flora Givens. She was a pretty young woman who’d shown nothing but kindness to her fellow man all her short life. Well, they paid.” A grim smile creases his lips. “The mountains made them pay.”
Drew leans forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on his fists. “How so?” he mumbles around the stem of his pipe. “The mountains?”
“Our grand ladies to the west. Potts Mountain and Peters Mountain. The Yankee army had to cross them—with all their horses, wagon trains, and artillery—to get to West Virginia and safety.” He takes another long drag and emits another slow stream of smoke. “I don’t know whether to rejoice in their woe or pity them. I do both, I suppose. It was hot, they’d found little in the way of provisions around here—much had been hidden, as I’ve said, and what was found the cavalry had eaten up before the foot soldiers arrived—and they were weary from days marching. By the time they finally made it to West Virginia, the road was littered with dead Yanks, dead horse
s, abandoned wagons and guns. It took days to bury all the men who fell up there. The smell of rotting bodies lingered for weeks.”
“My God,” I say.
“Exactly. God punished them. God punished them with the terrible steeps of His mountains. The same slopes that we see here about the town—proof of God’s glory—those slopes that shelter us brought them destruction. When I think of Flora Givens, I hope they’re thrashing in a lake of fire, those Northerners who died there. But then I take up my Bible, and I remember their faces as they marched through town—mere boys from who knows where, Wisconsin, Maine, Pennsylvania, the big cities up north—starving, thirsty, angry, scared…and I pray that they’re resting in peace. Hell, I never told Beryl this, but I buried one myself, a boy I found a ways up Craig Creek. Must have died of heatstroke on the road from Salem. He could have been her brother’s twin, save for that damned Union blue.”
Drew tamps his pipe, then, with the candle’s flame, lights it again. The sadness and guilt in his eyes make me hurt.
“Sir,” I say, deliberating changing the conversation’s flow. “We’re trying to get to the New River. Have you any advice on that score?”
“Well, you could go up over the mountain, though at first the way will be fiercely steep. That road is broader, better traveled. You’d eventually get to the valley of Sinking Creek, which would lead you to Newport. Then you could follow Spruce Run down to the river. Or you could follow Craig Creek, which has led you here from Eagle Rock. That way’s narrow, less traveled, ‘beset with thorns and briers,’ as the old ballad goes. Whichever route you take, keep an eye out for the Iron Riders. They’re a rogue gang who ranges about these parts. Ruthless men, pillagers. They’ll shoot you as soon as speak to you.”
“Folks have warned us about them, sir,” Drew says. “Four of them, right?”
“Five, last they tore through here. They must have taken on a new member. Well, at any rate, both routes to the river lead through high, wild country, though Craig Creek’s less strenuous. Its grade is gentler, more gradual. Depends on your mount’s youth and stamina, I suppose.”
“Oh, Walt Solomon is ready for anything,” Drew says, as if he’s raised from a foal the stolen horse we’ve only had for a day. “He’s a splendid steed.”
“Well, he’s well housed for you tonight.” Mr. Pendleton grasps his crutch and rises. “I’d best get to helping my lovely wife, or soon she’ll appear at my side and be tugging on my ear. May I get you men anything else?”
“Oh, no, we’re sated.” Drew rubs his belly. “Weary as we are, we’re bound to turn in soon.”
There’s the sudden clopping of horses in the street. I start. Turning, I peer through the steamed window. To my relief, it’s not the three Yankee troopers. It’s only an old man tying his mount to the hitching post outside.
“That’s just Mr. Walker coming in for a late supper, as is his wont. Why are you so startled, soldier?’
“Sir, I’m just afraid that… I should tell you that…there’s a chance that those Union troopers Drew here rescued me from this morning might come after us. If they ever find their horses. Drew fairly well scattered them, I think.”
Drew’s response to this is a proud grin and a plume of pipe smoke.
“As much as we’re longing for a good bed and a long, healing sleep, well, do you want us to leave? If those Union men find us here, they might punish you for harboring us.”
Mr. Pendleton emits a harsh laugh. “Let them! They know we’re Virginians. Of course we’ll shelter you. They should expect nothing less of us. Oh, no, you boys stay the night. I insist.”
“They’re a pretty vindictive bunch. Well, one of them is. He’s the one I can thank for all these bruises,” I say. “The others…one was indifferent, the other downright kind. Still, I really don’t want you having to deal with them.”
“I doubt that they’ll come in here, but if they do, I’ll tell them you never came by. The Lord, one hopes, will take my patriotism into consideration and forgive me that lie. I just hope I can resist digging out my musket and shooting them in the street.”
Drew clears his throat. “Speaking of breaking the Ten Commandments, we should also tell you that, uh, our mount, I stole him from those Yanks. If I hadn’t, we never would have gotten away; they would have shot us both. So if they ride through town, and if they spot the horse, they might—”
“Jimmy!” Mr. Pendleton shouts, addressing a freckle-faced boy of about twelve who’s adding a log to the fire. He weaves through the tables of diners, brushing his hands together as he goes, to stand by his father’s side. Auburn hair falls over his face. He regards us with an excited smile, his blue eyes wide.
“Jimmy, this is Private Campbell. And this is Private Conrad. Gentlemen, this is my son, Jimmy.”
“It’s mighty fine to meet you, sirs!” He thrusts out his hand, which Drew and I take turns shaking.
“Jimmy here is a great follower of soldiers. He’s fed many an army steed. Jimmy, we have need to hide the black stallion these gentlemen rode in on. How about that back stall behind the feed crib? Give him a little extra sweet feed while you’re at it.”
“I’ll help you, boy.” Drew rises. “I’d like to curry Walt a little and wish him a goodnight, considering all the solid service he’s given us today.”
“Were you in the cavalry, son?” Our host smiles knowingly at Drew.
“Yes, sir.”
“Every horseman I ever knew in the army doted on his steed. We infantry all envied you boys. Used to cuss y’all, call you ‘buttermilk cavalry.’ Well, the fight’s over for me, thanks to this leg, or the lack thereof, thanks to Second Manassas. But I’m damned glad to be able to help in what few ways I still can, feeding and sheltering men like you. And speaking of shelter, here, I almost forgot.”
From his pants pocket, he produces a key and hands it to me. “It’s the first room at the top of the stairs, on the third floor. Jimmy has already started a fire in the coal stove, so it should be good and warm. Sleep as late as you’d like. You both look like a long slumber would do you good. We’ll have a fine breakfast for y’all—or as fine as the scarcities of wartime will allow—when you rise.”
With that, he offers his hand, which Drew and I both gratefully shake, then shambles off. “Be right back,” says Drew. Pipe in hand, he follows Jimmy out. I sit back, puffing on my cigar, watching flurries scurry down the empty street and wood crumble on the hearth. The warmth of the room and my well-filled belly both have me drowsy, and I’m near to drifting off when Drew returns.
“You look like a boy on picket about to fall asleep in his shoes,” he says, giving my shoulder a gentle shake.
“Sleeping on guard duty?” I say, rousing myself. “That calls for the death penalty…which is what I was facing this very morning, till you hoisted your bound-up burden over your shoulder, tossed him upon a grand black stallion, and took to the road. Sounds like a fairy tale…except both rescuer and rescued are dirty, lice-infested, unkempt soldiers.”
“I like unkempt, Reb,” Drew says, taking his seat. “I like you looking wild, though I’ll bet you clean up nicely. When was the last time you were in civilian clothes?”
“You can guess the answer to that,” I say, yawning. “The day before I joined up in ’61. So how’s your new sweetheart, Walt Solomon?”
“Clean and happy and munching on fodder. Lord, I’m so glad we found that horse. Tomorrow we should buy a bag of feed to take—oh, here comes our hostess.”
“Did you enjoy the custard pie?” Mrs. Pendleton appears at my elbow, bearing an empty tray. Gracing us with a warm smile, she cleans our table.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Pendleton,” I say. “My grandmother used to make those for me back in West Virginia. They’re one of my favorites, though they do fill me with nostalgia for home.”
“For breakfast tomorrow, how about biscuits?” she suggests. “With sausage gravy? And scrambled eggs on the side? It’s Donald’s favorite breakfast, so he suggested y’all mig
ht like it.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am!” blurts my golden giant. “You—y’all—surely know how to cook around here.”
“Donald and I like to share the many blessings Providence has given us, especially with our country’s soldiers. Good night and God’s blessing.” With that, she leaves us to ourselves, returning to her assorted chores about the room.
“It’s funny to hear you say ‘y’all,’ ” I whisper as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Sort of like a verbal disguise.”
“I told you. Loving you is turning me into a Reb,” Drew says, bumping my knee with his.
“Eating Southern cooking is turning you into a Reb.”
“Drinking a certain Southerner’s sex-sap is what’s doing the trick,” he whispers with another of his seductive winks. “I think I’ll be needing me more of that.”
“I believe we can arrange such a sharing soon,” I say, winking back.
Drew licks his lips. “Better’n pie. Have you decided which route we should take to the river?”
“Mr. Pendleton said that Craig Creek’s the less traveled road, so we probably ought to take that, though Lord knows where we’ll stay over tomorrow night. Wild as it is, we’ll probably end up sleeping in the woods. Still, we should get on the road right after breakfast. I don’t want those nasty former captors of mine to catch up with us. Every time I hear a horse, I fear it’s them.”
“That man who beat you, he really frightened you, didn’t he?”
“He was pretty savage. At one point, after he’d hogtied me, when I gave him some fight, he almost throttled me. Then he…threatened to…”
“What?” Drew grits his teeth, glaring.
“To take a burning stick to my eyes. I don’t know whether he meant it or whether he was just trying to scare me, but I gave over my struggle immediately, as you might imagine.”
“Oh, goddamn him,” Drew hisses beneath his breath. “Goddamn him. I hope he and I cross paths one of these days. I’ll—”
