Free Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War by Jeff Mann

I have objected, and…”
    “And?”
    “What do you think? I grew real fond of Brandon, the
first one. He was sweet-tempered and so, so scared. We got to be
friends. I begged Sarge not to whip and starve him. I tried to
sneak him food. Sarge told me I’d be strung up with Brandon and
flogged if I didn’t shut up and do what I was told. So with the
others I was too afraid to—”
    “Couldn’t you help them escape?”
    “I’d have to have run off with them. I was in charge
of them. If they got away, I’d have been blamed. I know Sarge is my
kin, but if I disobeyed him like that, he’d—”
    Drew’s face falls into his bound hands again. “So you
can’t help me? So I’m going to end up like them because you don’t
have the courage to help me? I’ve never done anything to you, Rebel
Ian. After talking last night, we already know how much we have in
common. I’m just a farm boy like you who wants to make it
home.”
    My eyes are wet. I wipe them dry with the back of my
hand. There is no rejoinder to what he says. He’s right.
    Drew spits into a pile of dead leaves at his feet.
“When will your uncle be entertaining me again?”
    “Today, most probably. I’ll try to get more food into
you before then. I have some cheese back in the tent. To endure all
he no doubt has in mind, you’re going to have to keep your strength
up.”
    “Let’s go then.” Drew stands up, looming over me.
“I’m damned fond of cheese.” His breath clouds the air. The patch
of sun’s long gone. “Please take me back to the tent; I’m really
cold.” Rubbing his bare chest with one roped hand, he shudders. His
big nipples are still chill-stiff, and goose pimples scatter his
arms. I want to take his hand, try to comfort him, and promise to
save him, but instead I take up the tether and lead his chained-up
shuffle back to camp.
     
    _
     
     

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    _
    Cheese, stale biscuit, blankets. In camp life, simple
pleasures mean a lot. Drew doesn’t make a fuss this time when I
hand-feed him; now that he’s heard about his likely fate, I think
he’s just thankful for kindness in any form it might come. Leaving
my half-naked prisoner to warm up in my cot, I scrounge us coffee
by the fire, plus a couple pieces of hardtack from the little hoard
our cavalry stole from a Yankee camp a few weeks back. It’s getting
colder. The sky’s a churning gray. A few flurry flakes skim the
rising wind. Rufus tells me there’s word the company might be
moving soon, heading higher up the mountain.
    Drew and I have barely finished the lukewarm cup and
I’m feeding him the last of the hardtack when Sarge parts the tent
flap and shoulders inside. I stand at attention, half-chewed
cracker in my hand. Drew sits up stiffly on the cot, eyes wide with
fear. Sarge smiles at him—I know that smile all too well—then turns
to me.
    “Don’t you all look cozy? You two could be
schoolmates…or morphodites.”
    “S-s-sir,” I start, hating that habitual stutter that
takes over when I’m scared, “I’m just f-f—. You told me to keep him
alive, sir.”
    “Yes, yes.” Sarge waves a dismissive, shut-up-now
hand. “Coddling him, looks like, giving over your cot. How’s he
healing, Ian? Using your Injun salve?”
    Drew breaks in. “Sir, please. Please observe the
proper—”
    Sarge looks at him as if he were an earthworm that
had just uttered a blasphemy. His eyes go hard, but then he smiles
and turns to me again. From his pocket he pulls a rag and a long
length of rope.
    “Ian, please be sure to keep this pig mannerly. I
want him gagged whenever he’s in my presence. I never want to hear
him speak again.”
    I take the rag and rope from him. I turn to Drew.
Apology in my eyes; humiliation and pleading in his.
    “Go ahead, Ian. You know what to do.”
    I need to give Sarge a show of firmness. If he
realizes how much I pity Drew, he’ll remember how fond I grew of
Brandon and how weak that made me. So I pull my pistol and press
the barrel