by Jeff Mann
Which, seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home! Home! Sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain,
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily that come at my call;
Give me them, with that peace of mind, dearer than all.
To thee, I’ll return, overburdened with care,
The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there.
No more from that cottage again will I roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
“You sentimental Yanks and your pretty songs,” I say, putting the dulcimore in the corner.
“Yep. That’s me. Soldiers are bad for sentiment. I’ve been suffering from homesickness for many a month, but that illness has passed. I might roam up to Pennsylvania from time to time, but otherwise I’m thinking I’ll be here in this ‘humble cottage’ with you. We got a farm to keep up.”
Drew rises, upsetting the cat, who leaps down to curl up with his black companion. “All right, Ian. Lock the door and bank those embers. I’m ready for bed.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
A little fire is flickering on the bedroom hearth. Drew’s in bed, looking very content, the blanket pulled up to his chin. His shaggy golden hair and beard frame his face like a nimbus.
“What you got in that jar?” he says, as if he doesn’t know.
“Little bit of lard,” I say, putting it on the bedside table.
“Making biscuits?”
“In a matter of speaking. I got some biscuit dough to knead, that’s for sure.”
Drew giggles. “Guess you do. Get those clothes off and get in here, buddy. I’m cold.”
In a trice, I’m in Drew’s arms, his gold-furred nakedness pressed against mine. “It was strange not sleeping with you last night, in those twin beds the Cardens had,” Drew murmurs, brushing his beard against mine. “I was so tired, but I woke in the middle of the night and for a moment I was frightened not to feel your arms around me.”
“That’s not a fright you’re liable to suffer again,” I say, caressing his hairy breast. “Long as you’re willing, this will be our bed. Hell, till we’re old men with long white beards that get tangled together in our sleep.”
We leave words behind, moving more deeply into the gifts of taste and touch. We kiss, long and ardently. We wrestle a bit, till Drew submits. I climb upon him, loving his big nipples with my mouth. He kneels between my thighs, loving my prick with his taut lips and flickering tongue. I make a mound of the pillows, push him belly-down upon it, and feast upon his elevated ass. Greasing us up, I take him from behind, then on his side, then on his back, his calves upon my shoulders. I finish him with my spit-moistened hand, bending to catch the spurt of his seed in my mouth and beard, then roll him onto his belly, push inside him again, and complete my delight.
“Years of this, Ian,” Drew whispers, as I spoon him from behind in the dying firelight. “Years together.” He tugs at the slave collar about his neck. “Should probably put this away, now that we’ll be seeing your folks. Won’t matter. Won’t matter. I’m yours, buddy. Captive for life.”
“How about, after we save some money, I buy us some rings?”
“Umm. Yep,” Drew mutters drowsily. “That’d be sweet. You own me, Reb…”
I stroke Drew’s hair till he’s snoring, then fall asleep myself, to the sound of the wind against the eaves and a distant chorus of peeper frogs singing their spring song around the pond.
We wake in each other’s arms, to sunlight pouring over the bed. Kissing, we finger each other’s battle scars, then work each other’s pricks.
“Rougher this time,” Drew growls. “Tie me and fuck me. Give it to me hard, Ian.”
“Oh, yes! Gladly.”
I take my splendid lover yet again, this time on his belly, with his legs spread, his hands bound behind him, the bandana knotted between his teeth. I slap his buttocks till they redden, tug his nipples till he’s whimpering, and screw him with such panting brutality that he’s bucking and rumbling with rapture. We spend simultaneously, gasping and shouting.
As soon as I unbind Drew, he climbs out of bed to use the chamber pot and the washstand. Standing naked at the window, drying his face, he looks out over the farm.
“Just what I said we’d need. A place out in the woods, far from other folks, where our love can be as noisy as it pleases. That howl you made spending inside me reminded me of the Rebel Yell.”
I survey his sun-bright body of white skin, honey fur, and scars as intently as he’s studying the landscape. “Come on back to bed, you golden wonder. Let’s snuggle.”
He obliges me. After a solid hour of nuzzling, cuddling, and kissing, we rise. Downstairs, Drew starts up a fire in the wood stove, and soon we’re digging into fried slices of crisp scrapple and topping the last of Mommy’s rolls with honey. When the tomcats start to swarm around our ankles, we both toss them bites of the meat, which they eagerly snap up.
“Tasty scrapple,” declares Drew. “Almost as good as what we got in Pennsylvania. And we got pies to look forward to later today, along with fried chicken. Just like you promised me, back when I was a whip-bloodied prisoner who, thank the Lord, you took a liking to.”
“A little bit more than a liking,” I say, carrying the well-scraped plates to the sink.
“So the nearest town is Hinton’s Ferry? How far a ride is it?” Drew opens the back door and sniffs the breeze. It’s wet but it’s warm.
“Not far. An hour or so. More a settlement than a town. Only a handful of houses.”
“Is there a post office there? And some place that might sell provisions?”
“Yep to both. You can post letters there, and the Hinton and the Ballengee families have a little store.”
“How about we compose that letter to my parents tonight?”
“Sure, Drew. Be glad to.”
“Then we can ride down to Hinton’s Ferry tomorrow, mail the letter, and spend some of that money that Eagle Rock angel Mrs. Stephens gave us. I want to buy us some chickens, and more feed for Walt. And more corn meal and vegetables, and some bacon and flour. And some civilian clothes. Time we got out of these uniforms. And more seeds. About time to plant, isn’t it?”
“Past time for some things. What you want to grow?” Stepping up behind Drew, I wrap an arm around his waist. He kisses me on the forehead, then together we look out over the greening land, the scraggly garden plot in bad need of tending, the mountain horizon beyond.
“Oh, everything. Potatoes, tomatoes, corn. Lettuce. Peppers? Beans. Squash. Everything.”
I pat Drew’s solid behind. “Yep, we’ll need all that, and regular pies, to keep my big Yank fed. Come on, boy. There’s a plow in the barn.”
We spend the morning breaking up ground, turning over the dark soil, cutting furrows, dropping in seed potatoes and lettuce seeds. The April sun grows warm. Sweating, we strip to the waist. When we’re done, I lead my labor-moist Yank into the house and we make love yet again. Afterwards, we feed the cats a few bites of leftover ham, saddle up Walt, and head down the hill. This afternoon, we’ll savor my mother’s fine cooking, and tomorrow we’ll ride down the river into town. We’ve got seeds to buy, and civilian clothing, more befitting our new life than these uniforms of tattered and bloodied gray. Now that the war is over, we’ve got a garden to plant, a farm to tend, a home to share, and many a year of peace, passion, and plenty to come.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Along with the many fine books I read in order to write Purgatory, my first novel about the Civil War, here are several more I have found informative and enjoyable while writing Salvation.
Confederate Home Cooking—Patricia B. Mitchell
Plantation Row Slave Cabin Cooking: The Roots of Soul Food—Patricia B. Mitchell
Soul on Rice: African Influences on American Co
oking—Patricia B. Mitchell
Four Years in the Stonewall Brigade—John O. Casler
Co. Aytch—Sam R. Watkins
Life in the Army of Northern Virginia 1861-1865—Carlton McCarthy
Civil War Stories—Ambrose Bierce
Fredericksburg Battlefields—Official National Park Handbook
Civil War Poetry: An Anthology—edited by Paul Negri
For Cause and Comrades: Why Men Fought in the Civil War—James M. McPherson
The Shenandoah Valley 1861-1865: The Destruction of the Granary of the Confederacy—Michael G. Mahon
The Civil War—Bruce Catton
Richmond Burning: The Last Days of the Confederate Capital—Nelson Lankford
Civil War Soldiers—Reid Mitchell
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeff Mann grew up in Covington, Virginia, and Hinton, West Virginia, receiving degrees in English and forestry from West Virginia University. His poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in many publications, including Arts and Letters, Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, Willow Springs, The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, Crab Orchard Review, and Appalachian Heritage. He has published three award-winning poetry chapbooks, Bliss, Mountain Fireflies, and Flint Shards from Sussex; four full-length books of poetry, Bones Washed with Wine, On the Tongue, Ash: Poems from Norse Mythology, and A Romantic Mann; two collections of personal essays, Edge: Travels of an Appalachian Leather Bear and Binding the God: Ursine Essays from the Mountain South; two novellas, Devoured, included in Masters of Midnight: Erotic Tales of the Vampire, and Camp Allegheny, included in History’s Passion: Stories of Sex Before Stonewall; three novels, Cub, Fog: A Novel of Desire and Reprisal, and Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War; a book of poetry and memoir, Loving Mountains, Loving Men; and two volumes of short fiction, Desire and Devour: Stories of Blood and Sweat and A History of Barbed Wire, which won a Lambda Literary Award. He teaches creative writing at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia.
