by Jeff Mann
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Poor addled soul,” Drew sighs, adding wood to the fire. Sparks swirl along the updraft, joining the glint of stars above before winking out. “Holed up in that little house, terrified every time someone knocks on the door. I feel sorry for him, even if he did almost blow my head off. He was so afraid we were there to drag him back to the war.”
“I don’t blame him. I remember Spotsylvania. It was hell on earth.” I’ve nudged the sweet potatoes into a pile of embers and now am skewering slices of bacon on a sharpened stick to roast over the flames.
“I’d ridden with Sheridan down to Yellow Tavern then, so I missed most of that fighting. But I’ve surely heard about the Bloody Angle.”
“Yep. Find me that flask, would you, Achilles? I could do with a few sips of applejack before supper.”
Drew fetches it from my haversack, taking a swig himself before handing it to me. Wearily, he falls to his knees on the oilcloth spread out near the fire, then stretches out on his back, resting his head on the folded mound made by the tattered quilt I’d brought from home, back in the hopeful halcyon days of ’61.
“We should be safe here,” says Drew, looking about us. We’ve camped atop a pine-thick ridge, within a sheltering jumble of huge rocks that hide our position from the road. The spot’s clearly been used for such a purpose before, for we found a charred fire pit already dug when we arrived, one which we’ve adapted to tonight’s use, starting a small blaze with half-rotten fence rails we found just down the hill, conveniently propped against a pine along the road. Nearby, Walt Solomon, having enjoyed yet another of Mrs. Stephens’s apples, tooth-tugs at weeds on the forest floor.
“Got to find that horse some feed tomorrow, even if we have to steal it,” Drew grumbles. “I just hope whoever split those rails we’re burning won’t be too annoyed we’ve borrowed ’em. Ian? Tell me about it, if the telling ain’t too hard. Spotsylvania.”
“Ugh. All right.” I tip back the flask. “Terrible rain. Men slipping in mud and blood. We Rebs were behind a long line of earthworks, a salient everybody called the Mule Shoe. The damned Yanks—sorry, buddy, the phrase has become a habit—well, you pertinacious Yanks were determined to dislodge us. We Rogue Riders fought alongside General Johnson’s men, with what was left of the Stonewall Brigade. It had rained all night, so hard that, when the Union men attacked at dawn, most of our damned guns didn’t fire ’cause the powder was wet. It was hand-to-hand fighting for most of the day: bayonets in guts, rifle-butts breaking skulls, bodies piled atop each other… I killed ten men with my Bowie knife, two of ’em through a gap in the breastworks. The Yanks pushed us back for a while, but by nightfall we’d driven them back over the works. Sarge’s little crew lost thirty men. The Stonewall Brigade was pretty much decimated.”
“That’s enough, little friend. Don’t mean to take you back to bad times. I’m just glad you survived.”
“I got out of there, miraculously, with nothing but a few shallow cuts and a few bad bruises. Jeremiah, Sarge, even George were all wounded.” Done threading the meat on the makeshift spit, I hold it over the fire. Almost immediately, it begins to sputter and release a mouthwatering aroma.
“Lots of our men were captured, including General Johnson. Last I saw of him, he was surrounded by bluecoats and bringing them down one by one with his club. He was one ornery warrior! You know, there were two men in his band, a tall Georgian with long curly hair and a great dark beard, and his ‘chicken,’ as we called the lad, a young Virginian, very handsome little man with an auburn goatee, blue eyes, and the sweetest smile… Shep and Brendan, they were perpetually together. I was mildly infatuated with both of them…I always wondered if maybe they…”
“Loved each other the way we do?”
“Yes. They were likable sorts, both very brave. Brendan was wounded bad during that melee at the Bloody Angle, and Shep nearly ran mad with grief, though Brendan later recovered, I heard. God knows if they’re still alive. If so, they’re probably holed up with Lee’s army behind the siege works at Petersburg.”
“They’ve got to be out there, Ian. Men like us, I mean. Lord, that bacon smells wonderful. When we going to eat? I’m famished.”
“Sorry, Yank. These potatoes won’t be done for a while yet. Want some hardtack?”
“Ugh. Naw. I’ll wait. I don’t care if I ever eat those crackers again. I’m still mourning the loss of those biscuits and that sausage gravy Mrs. Pendleton was going to fix us for breakfast this morning. If only that trio of Federal riders hadn’t shown up when they did…”
“And if only my cock weren’t in your mouth when Mrs. Pendleton opened the door on us.”
“Yeah, well, that was poor timing indeed, I must admit.” Drew folds the oilcloth over his feet and crosses his hands behind his head. “One minute she was lavishing us with hospitality and wishing God’s every blessing on us, just the sweetest, most devout little woman I’ve ever met, and the next minute… I’m purely mortified that a lady saw us naked…and intimate…but, Ian! I can’t believe she tried to turn us over to enemy soldiers. As much as she hated them, especially after all those terrible things that Mr. Pendleton told us about, the vandalizing and pillaging Hunter’s men had done, yet she was so afraid of us that she turned to foes to protect her. How can Christian kindness as warm and profound as hers turn so swiftly into…well, pious judgment and disgust? I mean, well, I know she was shocked, but it’s not like we were hurting anyone. She acted like she’d caught us cutting her son’s throat!”
“Here.” Moving around the fire, I hand Drew the flask. “I think you need it.”
“Thanks. I do.” Drew takes a swallow. “It just all makes me so sad, and disappointed, and angry. And what will Mrs. Stephens think? She and Mr. Pendleton are cousins. Surely he’ll tell her. Folks ’round New Castle will be telling that tale for years, about sodomites masquerading as soldiers. Lord.”
“Mrs. Stephens is a different kind of woman entirely, Drew. Can you imagine her doing what Mrs. Pendleton did, if she’d caught us sharing…our bodies the way we do? I can’t. But, yes, it’s a perplexity indeed. The same faith that makes Mrs. Pendleton so kind in one context makes her full of horror and hate in another.”
Smoke stings my eyes wet. I wipe them, coughing, and circle upwind around the fire. “Almost everyone we’ll ever meet—on this journey and back home, if we ever get there—will be like that if they discover the truth. As much as we resent the necessity, our love is a secret we’ll have to keep from others all our lives.” I sigh. “As for what Irene Stephens thinks, maybe after the war’s done, we’ll go back to Eagle Rock and find out.”
“Long as we don’t go through New Castle. I’m scared of those folks now. That kind of religion frightens me. I’m glad we’re up here, Ian. Far from the war and the world of men. High in these wild mountains of yours. With Walt. He doesn’t care if we kiss and love on each other.”
Falling silent, Drew rubs his temples, brushes golden bangs from his brow, and closes his eyes. “Fire feels good,” he murmurs.
Soon he’s drowsed off. I let him sleep a bit, while I pull off the first round of roasted bacon and add more meat to the stick. Outside the ring of firelight, the woods are pitch-black. Somewhere an owl is hooting. When the second batch of bacon’s done, I check the sweet potatoes and find them tender. Rolling them off the heat, I let them cool a bit before brushing off their stiff skins and slipping them into the mess pan.
For a long moment I stand over my sleeping lover. I would transform the entire world to please him, had I that power. Within the golden bush of his beard, his red lips are parted, the tip of his tongue slightly extended, as if, even asleep, he’s dreaming of feasts. “It’s ready, Drew,” I say, kissing his nose and gently shaking his shoulder.
“Hurrah!” Yawning, Drew rises. Sitting cross-legged side by side on the oilcloth, we eat, scooping soft orange flesh from the potato skins with our fingers, tearing off tough bits of browned bacon with our teeth. “This is tas
ty, Reb. I’m so glad we’re here together. Thanks for such a good supper.”
“That boyish enthusiasm over simple things. I love that in you, Drew. It’s adorable, especially in a man so strong and brave.”
Drew winks at me, licking bacon grease from his lips. “Glad I please you, Reb. Well, I love how precise a shot you are. This morning, bringing down that hateful trooper who beat on you, and, this afternoon, driving back that poor crazy man. You missed him on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“Good heart. You have a good heart.” Drew licks his fingers, rubs his belly appreciatively, and stretches back out on the oilcloth. “If it weren’t for that good heart of yours, I would’ve been a dead man weeks ago.”
“Yeah?” Rising, I retrieve a blanket from our stash of goods and cover Drew with it before adding more fuel to the campfire. “Well, my heart’s yours now, my friend. Its fate, its future, are up to you. It’s in your safekeeping.”
“I could say the same. Get down here,” Drew says, lifting the blanket and beckoning. “I’m chilly yet, and I intend to take advantage of your hot-blooded Rebel company tonight. Bring that tight-muscled, furry little furnace of a body over here.”
I obey, slipping in beside him. “Shouldn’t we take turns keeping watch?”
“Yeah, we should. I’m dog-tired, though. Wanted to get out my pipe, but just too tired.” With that, Drew throws an arm across my chest, nuzzles his face into the space between my shoulder and my ear, and falls into a deep sleep. Try as I might to stay alert, I’m not far behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I wake once during the night, leaving Drew only long enough to relieve myself in the woods. The forest’s silence is absolute, other than the melancholy sound of wind sighing through pines. My breath makes clouds; the fire’s down to embers. Assured that no danger’s near, I push another log into the fire pit, then return to the warm pile of blankets, nestling gratefully up against Drew’s big body.
When I wake again, side sore from sleeping on the ground, the sun’s up, slanting through the pines, making the trees’ needles gleam. Drew’s gone, a fact that frightens me momentarily before I notice Walt Solomon standing peacefully, still tethered to a hickory sapling. With reluctance I throw off the layered blankets, fetch flour from a poke, mix it with canteen water, and have started frying flapjacks in the mess pan when Drew appears, skirting one of the sheltering boulders, his brow gleaming with sweat.
“Been reconnoitering all over,” he says. “Not a sign of anyone. Here’s hoping we’re getting high enough up this valley that Federal scouts and the legendary Iron Riders won’t bother us.”
“A fine hope indeed. No coffee or sweetening, but here are some flapjacks. And, if you’ll give me a few more minutes, I can slice and fry the last of those apples.”
“Naw. The flapjacks’ll be enough. Let’s save the apples for Walt. He’s been such a good mount, carrying both of us, especially my bulky self, up into these backwoods. We got to get him a better meal soon, or the poor thing will waste away.”
Breakfast, once ready, is devoured in minutes. We cover the fire’s remaining embers with rocks and dirt, pack up our belongings, mount Walt, and return to the road. Above us, the sun disappears behind cloud. Around us, the valley’s walls grow closer still, and thick groves of rhododendron cluster beneath high pines. The stream shrinks, now a lazy gleaming between steep banks, now a dove-gray cascade over smooth stones. Lunch is hurried, for snow flurries have begun. We crunch unpleasantly stiff, unpleasantly stale hardtack in addition to a leftover flapjack, and feed Walt an apple, which he consumes in seconds, clearly ravenous, before continuing our journey.
All afternoon we ride, the woodland thickening around us, the signs of human habitation less frequent. Lowering clouds blur the horizons with layers of gray. Dusk falls; last light fades from the eastern hilltops; the western sky flushes crimson. We must be nearing the source of the creek, for in spots it’s become hardly a trickle, and the distance between valley floor and mountain peaks has dwindled even further. The flurries have grown denser, approaching a full-fledged snowstorm. Drew and I are trying to reconcile ourselves to the thought of another night on the ground, looking worriedly about for a cave or a grove of evergreens that might give us some shelter from the storm, when a dog’s bark echoes ahead.
“A homestead, maybe,” Drew says, deep voice tight with hope. We continue on. There, just as on the evening before, a light glints through the trees.
“A house! A house indeed. Lamplight, surely. I pray we’ll receive a welcome warmer than the last. At the very least, Lord, spare us another exchange of bullets.” Drew laughs grimly, flicking the reins, moving us closer.
“Wood smoke,” I say. “It smells like home.”
The dog barks again. To our left, a swinging bridge, in poor repair, hangs over a moderately wide section of creek. On the far side is a cabin among the trees. It’s set behind a thick hedge of boxwoods, its black logs chinked with white. A chimney smokes at one end. Two front windows are yellow with light. Stone steps, dusted with snow, lead to a narrow porch and a broad door.
“My turn to knock. Let’s hope this isn’t a repetition of yesterday.” Checking my pistol, I slip off Walt’s back. “Drew, would you—”
“No need to say it, Reb.” Drew slips his rifle off his shoulder, pulls a cartridge from his jacket pocket, bites it, drops it into the barrel, and with the ramrod tamps it in. “Ready.”
I reach up, squeeze his hand, then make my unsteady way across the bridge. Below me, Craig Creek gurgles between ice-rimmed rocks.
As soon as I pass through a gap in the boxwood hedge, the barking begins again, this time inside. Well, the inhabitants have fair warning now. Rather than let further tension build, in myself or inside whoever lives within, I stride up the porch steps and knock hard on the wooden door.
“Who’s there?” The voice is a woman’s, strong, unafraid, with an inflection I’ve encountered before but can’t quite place. “What y’all want?”
“Ma’am, we’re two soldiers,” I shout at the door. “Rebel soldiers. We’re on leave, trying to get up over the mountain. Could you…might we stop over tonight? It’s snowing hard, and we—”
The door swings open a crack. At the bottom of that crack, a little dog growls and snaps. At the top of that crack, a gun barrel protrudes.
“You ain’t Yankees, are you? Or those goddamn boys from Iron Gate? I’ll shoot y’all dead if y’are.”
“No, ma’am. I swear. I’m a private in the Confederate army, as is my friend back there across the bridge.”
“Shut up, Missy.” A foot dislodges the yapping dog from the door. “Lord God, you keep that up and we’ll all three die of the apoplexy. You sure y’all ain’t Yankees? The owner of this house is a soldier in the Rebel army, and he wouldn’t sanction me giving shelter to Union men.”
I take a deep breath, say a fast prayer, and move into the shaft of light that streams through the crack in the door. Now I’m right in front of the gun’s muzzle.
“We’re terribly sorry to bother you, and we certainly didn’t mean to frighten you like this in the middle of such a bitter storm, but we’re in desperate need of a place to spend the night, and our horse is mighty hungry, as are we, and—”
“Honey, now I can’t stand to see a soldier starve nor a beast neither.” The door swings wide. The woman lowers the gun a few inches. We regard each other.
A Negress, she’s taller than I by several inches, and twice my width, a solid wall of woman, broad from the shoulders down, swathed in a flannel housedress, with a kerchief tied on her head. Her cheeks are plump, her lips full. I can’t gauge her age.
“Well, you’re just a little thing.” The gun muzzle makes a slow descent before resting on the carpet just inside the door. “What’s your name, son?”
“I’m Ian Campbell, ma’am.”
The big woman releases a deep belly laugh. “Lord, you’re scrawny. Nigh
starved to death. My name’s Tessa Banks. You shocked to see black folks so way up in the hills, ain’t you?”
“Well, ma’am, to be honest…”
“Git on in here. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Um, Drew Conrad?”
“Private Conrad,” she shouts into the snowy night, with a volume that would make a morning-muster sergeant proud. “You can ford the creek just upstream. Put that beast in the barn. You’ll find a bag of feed out there. Then git on in here. It’s freezing.”
Across the creek, my big Yank waves. “Yes, ma’am. Many thanks!”
“Well, c’mon in, boy.” She beckons impatiently. “We’re letting the heat out.”
This woman may be part of the race that suffers the burden of slavery, but she’s clearly meant to be obeyed anyway. Starting, I nearly stand to attention before darting inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I step into a central hall. Before me, steep stairs lead to a second floor. On my left’s a snug room displaying a rocking chair, a quilt-heaped cot, a love seat, and several bookshelves. Atop a trunk, the polished wood of a mountain dulcimore gleams, the sort of instrument my Aunt Alicia used to play. At the far end of the room, a fire is blazing on an elevated hearth set into a stone chimney. On the mantelpiece, two lamps flicker. To my right is a little kitchen thick with delicious scents. It contains a small dining table and a wood stove radiating yet more welcome warmth.
My hostess props her rifle inside a coat closet just inside the door, puts her hands on her plump hips, and scrutinizes me. Her little dog peers from behind her. “Boy, you look ’bout as s’stantial as thistledown, like one of those gusts outside might topple you into the creek. You hungry, ain’t you? You poor soldiers always are.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have some old bacon left, and some flour and meal, but that’s all. Anything you can spare would be very welcome.”
