by Jeff Mann
“I…those three Yanks…I came to tell you…oh, God! Oh, God! You’re not soldiers! You’re abominations!” she screams. “Oh, horrible! Get out! Get out!”
“We are soldiers, Mrs. Pendleton!” Drew scrambles to his feet, careful to keep his crotch covered. “What Yanks? Are there Union soldiers in town?”
She doesn’t answer. Again, she screams, “Get out!” Turning, she rushes from the room. In another second, we hear her shoes clattering down the stairs.
“Oh, God.” I bolt from the bed’s remnant warmth into the room’s chilly air and snatch up my spectacles. “Dress, Drew. We’ve got to get out of here, or we’ll end up strung from makeshift gallows in front of the courthouse next door.”
Drew doesn’t speak; he grimaces and nods. We move faster than we did escaping the fiery destruction of my company’s camp at Purgatory Mountain, pulling on clothes, strapping on blanket rolls, loading rifles, shouldering cartridge and cap boxes, haversack and canteen. We’re poised to dash from the room when galloping hooves sound outside. I peer out the window, only to see three horsemen in the street below. One’s tall and blond, one gray-haired, one dark-haired and thickly built. My belly clenches with frightened recognition.
“Oh, no! It’s them. The Yanks who caught me. Let’s go.” Pulling my pistol, I lead the way out of the room and down the stairs. By the time we’ve reached the second floor landing, there’s a din of voices just downstairs. It’s our hosts quarreling.
“No, Beryl! Don’t.”
“You didn’t see, Donald! Monstrous!”
We’re halfway down the last flight of stairs, when, just before us, the door flies open. The first rays of sun shoot across the waxed floor of the entrance hall. Mrs. Pendleton rushes out the door, screaming, “Help!”
Mr. Pendleton stands by the door to the saloon, rifle in his hands. He stares at us, disbelieving. He lifts the rifle and points it at us.
“Beryl. She said…she said you were, that she caught you in an act of…indecency. I can’t believe it. Boys, you’re not mollycoddles! You can’t be sodomites.”
I don’t have the time or the heart to lie. “We are, sir. But, more to the point, if we don’t leave here now, we’ll be dead men.”
His stare ranges over us, searching, perhaps, for some sort of visible weakness, effeminacy, or deformity, some excuse to wash his hands of us. His search appears to be a failure, for he says, “But you are soldiers, are you not? I know soldiers.”
“Yes, sir, we are,” Drew says hoarsely. “I swear it. And now we’re in worse need of your aid than when we arrived. Please help us, Mr. Pendleton. You’ve been so good to us. Please don’t betray us now.”
“Sir, they’ll surely shoot us down if you do. Those are the very Yanks who captured me, the very ones who were planning to execute me. Please help us. We’re begging you.”
There are those few moments in a man’s life when he can feel his fate shifting, hesitating between two wildly varying paths, when certain salvation and certain doom balance on a split-second’s fulcrum. This is indeed one of those crossroads, as the lean one-legged veteran with the gray-streaked hair and long beard studies us, chews his lips, and tries to decide. Outside, through the open door, Mrs. Pendleton’s screams continue. Voices echo; someone shouts, “In the hotel!”
“Father?” Jimmy appears behind Mr. Pendleton, in the dimness of the saloon. “I’ve saddled the soldiers’ horse as you asked.” He slips into the hall, staring at our three frozen figures. “Why’re you pointing your gun at these men? Shouldn’t they get out of here now? The Yanks,” he says, peering out the open door, “are just down the street. And Mother’s with them. She’s all upset. Why is she talking to them? Ain’t they the enemy?”
Donald Pendleton closes his eyes, rubs his eyes, and opens his eyes. He lowers his rifle. Stepping to the door, he gazes across the street. “Beryl’s leading them this way. Jimmy, take these men into the back office. When you hear me shouting, y’all slip out the side door and around to the stables. I’ll keep them busy here till you men have mounted. Boys, good luck.”
Drew offers his hand. “Sir, bless you. We’ll never forget—”
“No time for that,” Mr. Pendleton says, shaking his head. “I’ll pray for you.” Turning his back on us, he props the musket against the wall, within easy reach, then stands in the door, arms crossed. “Jimmy, go. Go now, all of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Sodomites? Such men don’t exist, as least not in these rural parts. Mythical beasts! You’ve been reading too much Genesis and Leviticus. You might as well be hunting for unicorns and chimeras. Rebel soldiers? They’re all at the front. My wife is addled.” Mr. Pendleton’s voice is loud, belligerent, and our signal that all’s clear to flee.
Quietly, our young guide opens the door leading from the shadowy office onto the porch. A corner of the hotel conceals us from the Yankees’ eyes, though we can see their horses—the two dapple-grays, as well as a chestnut mare they must have confiscated—hitched in front of the courthouse half a block down the street. We dart across the few feet of porch, then around the side of the hotel and down a narrow street to the stable. Walt Solomon is saddled and bright-eyed. When Drew chucks his chin, he nickers, nuzzling Drew’s hand.
“Y’all heading for the New River, right, sirs?” Jimmy’s eyes are as bright as Walt’s. This must be grand adventure to him, to be part of a soldierly caper.
“Yes, son,” says Drew, helping me mount before swinging into the saddle before me. “Up Craig Creek.”
“Aw, that’s easy! Y’all go down the alley, turn left on the next street, go up to the main road and turn left again. That’ll skirt the mountain a good ways, right ’longside the creek. After a good bit, the creek and the road’ll turn to the right, and y’all will climb up into the valley. It was powerful fine to meet y’all!” His small hand stretches up. We take turns shaking it.
“Here, son,” I say, fumbling in my jacket pocket, pulling out the wad of bills Mrs. Stephens gave us, and peeling off several indiscriminately. “I don’t think money will help us much up the wilds where we’re riding. Please give this to your father…and mother. With our thanks.”
“Yes, sir!” The boy takes the bills, then opens the stable door. Drew fondles Walt Solomon’s ears and shakes the reins. Our mount trots out of the stable and down the alley, picking up speed as Drew’s heels urge him on.
“Fast, Walt. Fast,” Drew mutters, as we turn the corner, then tear up the street by which we first entered town. “Those men’ll be after us for sure. Ian…”
“No need to tell me,” I say, drawing my pistol.
As expected, a shout goes up as we gallop across the street separating the hotel from the courthouse. There, at the hotel’s entrance, are the three Yankees on the porch, Mr. Stephens barring the door, and Mrs. Stephens, hand on her breast. “There!” she screams, pointing a finger toward us.
“Goddamn it,” grumbles Drew, as we leave their line of vision, shooting behind the bulk of the courthouse. “And that’s the lady who was going to make us biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast.”
Another block, and there’s the main road. We veer left again, this time having to cross the mouth of the street fronting the courthouse. As we’d feared, the Yanks are horsed and ready for pursuit. A pistol cracks; a bullet careens past us, its high whine parting the mountain air.
“Which one beat on you?” Drew shouts, goading Walt faster. The sun’s just rising to our left, over a distant ridge. Cold air pours over us; houses flash past. Behind us are shouts, the thundering hooves of pursuit.
“The big one. With brown hair.”
“ ‘I’m a crack shot, big man.’ Those are some of the first words you ever said to me. Prove it. Shoot the bastard. Walt and I, we’ll get us all up the creek, but you, buddy, it’s up to you to slow ’em down.”
We’re on the outskirts of town now, trees thickening, replacing the homes of men. To our left, Craig Creek glitters, guiding us on. I shift
on the saddle, left arm around Drew’s waist, right hand aiming the pistol. The three men appear on a rise behind us. Another bullet zips by us, then another.
“Ian!”
“Hold on! Slow down just a little.”
“Slow? Are you mad?”
“Trust me!”
Drew does what I say. The reduced swaying of our mount helps considerably. There’s Hiram. He’s furious, teeth clenched. I wait till I can see the flush of his face before I fire. I miss. He fires. He misses. I fire again. This time he grabs his shoulder, lists to the side, and tumbles to the ground. “Go now, go!” I shout.
“Git, Walt Solomon! Git!”
Drew snaps the reins. The horse rockets over a bridge; about us, the forest thickens with pines. We’re swallowed by chill shadows alternating with bright slants of sunlight. Again and again, I crane my head, finding, to my relief, no riders behind us.
When, after a goodly number of miles, we pause at a crossroads, the only sounds are hard winds soughing through the tops of pines and the purling of the creek. Here, one road leads forward toward Salem, the very path Hunter’s invaders used on their trek toward New Castle and the punishing steeps beyond. Another curves to the right, fording the water and disappearing into woodland.
Drew scratches our mount’s mane. “Good boy! You saved our asses. And you, my Rebel warrior? Did you get him?”
“Yes. I don’t think I killed him—I got him in the shoulder—but he fell from his mount. Hit the ground hard.”
“Good enough. The other two?”
“I don’t think they had the passion for the chase that he did. My guess is that they gave up following us once I wounded him.”
“Good, good. This way?” Drew nods to the right. “ ‘Thorns and briers,’ Mr. Pendleton said. Looks about right. Long way from that sweet little farm I grew up on in Pennsylvania. Looks like it leads into the heart of the wilderness, into the mountains’ very summits.”
“You quoted me, now I’ll quote you. When we saw that painter-cat on Purgatory Mountain, you said that you’d rather run across packs of mountain-beasts than more soldiers.”
“And I still say that. Make that more people of any variety. ’Cept maybe other sodomites and abominations like ourselves. Give us wilderness and the company of beasts. Ain’t that the reason we’re taking this route anyway? Giddy-up, Walt,” he says, patting our steed. “We’ll make do, we three.”
Drew squeezes my thigh and flicks the reins. We turn off the broader of the two roads, splashing into the swollen creek. Water swirls around Walt’s legs, rising above his knees at the deepest point. Then we’re up the far bank and picking our way along the narrow road between pine trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We ride all morning, our route fording and refording Craig Creek, which meanders every which way in its descent of the valley. Here and there, it widens into deep pools coated with gray sheets of ice; here and there, it thins, splashing noisily over frosty rocks, its color steely in the sun. Hoof clop, bird chirp, creek burble, and Drew’s deep voice speaking softly to our mount—those are the only sounds. It grows colder as we ascend; the valley narrows almost imperceptibly, the space between its floor and the peaks about it dwindling with each woodland mile.
Near noon, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a glen thick with alder bushes and little sycamores. From a poke Mrs. Stephens gave us, I dig out the last of the corn dodgers, as well as apples she’d packed for us. Sitting on lichen-crusty stones, we chew up the dodgers, followed by an apple each. A third apple Drew feeds to Walt, who crunches happily.
“I love that sound,” says Drew. “Sound of a horse crunching apples or carrots. I love the soft way a horse’s chin feels. Reminds me of my childhood. Makes me feel safe, like when you hold me. Takes me back to simpler times. We got to find Walt some feed, Ian. We left New Castle before I could do that. How much food we got left anyway?”
“Good question. Might as well take inventory of our provisions,” I say, rummaging through the saddlebags to find my haversack. “Let’s see, we got sweet potatoes, flour, and bacon, some cornmeal, some hardtack, more apples…that flask of applejack Mr. Preston gave us. Tonight, if we can’t find shelter, let’s start a fire and I’ll bake those potatoes in the ashes, maybe fry some bacon on a stick. For breakfast, I can make us flapjacks or hoecakes on that mess pan I stole before we fled Purgatory.”
“Sounds good, Ian. Guess, far as eating goes, we’re going to have to fend for ourselves, now that Rufus ain’t around to feed us.”
“Don’t fret, Yank. I’ve done my share of campfire cooking. I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will. You always do.” Drew smiles sadly, looking out into the thick gray columns of the forest. “I wonder where Rufus is. I hope he’s somewhere safe and I hope he doesn’t think ill of us, though he probably does, after I kissed you in front of him. After I admitted that we’re sodomites. ‘Sodomites.’ What a silly word.”
“He just didn’t understand, Drew. Few folks will.”
“Yeah, I know. I saw the look in his eyes. He seemed afraid to shake my hand when we parted. As if suddenly I were an entirely different person, someone frightening or dangerous. And now…this morning. Oh, God, that was terrible.” Drew’s face belies his words. His look of dismay mingles with a vague amusement. “Guess she’ll have a horror story to scare her grandchildren with. Come on, Walt, let’s get you some water.” Shaking his head, Drew leads our mount over to the creek.
Afternoon’s a long gray length of thickening cloud and biting breezes as Walt carries us farther up the creek. I hold onto my big Yank tightly, trying to warm myself against his broad back. Once in a great while, we pass clearings lined with rail fences, former pastures now empty of livestock, or little yards about small cabins made of logs, or farmhouses built of clapboard, every one of them damaged and deserted. At each dwelling, we pause, so that our mount can graze on what sparse green grass late March permits the yards. In one dilapidated barn, we find a rick of old hay with which Walt Solomon happily fills his belly.
By the time the sun’s disappeared over the western ridge, we’ve reached a region of thick pines, where snow lingers atop boulders and in shady hollows. Drew reins in Walt, giving us time to peer over the landscape in search of a likely campsite. “We need someplace up the slope a ways, and off the road,” Drew mutters. “Behind rocks or inside thick evergreens. Don’t want anybody to surprise us again.”
That’s when I see it, a pinpoint of light up the creek. “See there, Drew! Must be a house.”
Drew clicks his tongue. Walt lifts his head from a clump of green weeds and trots up the road. Another couple of minutes, and Drew halts Walt in front of the house. The dwelling is tiny, with a gable over a covered porch. It’s flanked by a couple of sheds. Lamplight glows in an upstairs window.
“Folks have been real nice to us so far. Long as they don’t catch us making love.” Drew grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Let’s see if these folks have any feed to spare for Walt, maybe even a bite or two for us, or a shed we can spend the night in. You stay here.” Swinging down off the horse, he climbs the stairs and knocks. He waits, knocks again, and cocks an ear. “Someone’s coming,” he says, smiling back at me in the fading light.
The door flies open. A man steps out, shotgun aimed at Drew. Drew backs up fast, raising his hands.
“Whoa! Sir! We mean no harm!”
“What the hell d’you all want?” The man looks to be in his thirties, with a beard-stubbled face and messy dark hair. “Git on out of here!” He stares up at me, then back at Drew. My hand creeps toward my pistol.
“We’re just soldiers looking for shelter, sir.” Drew takes another step backward. “Do you have any horse feed? Our mount’s mighty hungry, and–”
“You’re conscript officers, ain’t you? Ain’t you? Looking for deserters?”
“Sir? What? No, we’re just on leave, we’re traveling up Craig Creek to get to—”
“I ain’t going back. I ain’
t! I was in Spotsylvania! At the Bloody Angle! You can’t make me go back! I ain’t going back to all that blood and mud!” He takes a step forward, waving his rifle at Drew, who backs slowly down the porch steps.
I unbuckle my holster while the man’s eyes are trained on Drew. “We’re no conscription officers, sir,” I say, striving to sound calm. “I was at Spotsylvania too. Many of my comrades died there. I know how you feel. Truly I do. It was terrible indeed.”
Drew edges off the last step and back into the grass. I cock my pistol. The man reaches the top of the porch stairs, then, rifle half-lowered, looks nervously around in the falling dusk. “Where are the others?”
“It’s just us two. I swear,” says Drew. “Put down the gun, friend. Please. We were just hoping to find some feed, a place to stop for the night. We don’t mean you no harm. Honestly.”
The man swivels, pointing the barrel at Drew’s head. “Y’all can’t stay here. Git on! Go ’way now!” He props the rifle’s butt against his shoulder. “GO!”
The gun explodes, tearing up grass at Drew’s feet. “Christ!” Drew blurts. Walt rears with fright, nearly unseating me.
“We’re gone!” Drew shouts, darting from the yard. Another explosion, a puff of smoke, the sing of a ricochet from a rusty wheelbarrow lying in grass by the road. Drew swings up into the saddle. The man aims at us again. Poor bastard; I don’t want to kill him. I draw my pistol, deliberately aiming just over his right shoulder, and fire. The porch window behind the man shatters. With a shrill shout, he ducks, then throws himself inside the door and slams it.
“Shit, shit, shit! Go, Walt, go!” Drew yells, jerking our mount’s head toward the road and urging him on with stirrup-tucked feet. Drew gives Walt his head; the frightened horse tears up the creek at a rough gallop. By the time we slow, once again searching for a safe spot to spend the night, we’ve left the terrified deserter far behind.
