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

against Drew’s ear.
    “Open your mouth, boy, or I’ll open your skull.”
    Drew closes his eyes and obeys. Sarge chuckles.
Holstering my gun, I stuff the rag in. I tie it in place, centering
the rope’s length between Drew’s lips, wrapping it around his head
till his mouth’s stretched wide and cord-covered, then pulling the
rope ends tight and knotting them behind. When I’m done, Drew
swallows hard and hangs his head, entirely stifled.
    “Just right,” says Sarge. “Very pretty. That’ll keep
him quiet. Keep him that way for a while. We’re going to be on the
move tomorrow. Today, though…the men need a little fun. I think
this Yankee can give it to them.”
     
    _
     
     

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    _
    Brandon, Greg, Mike, Chris, now Drew. I’ve had lots
of practice tying a man so well he can barely move, no matter how
big a frame he sports. Drew groans, straining against his
restraints, but, under Sarge’s watchful eye, I’ve given the hapless
farm boy little leeway.
    The flurries have stopped for now; there’s a weak sun
by late afternoon. We’ve been packing up the camp for most of the
day; we’re due to head up the mountain in the morning. Now it’s
suppertime. I’m picking mold from a cold hoecake and smearing it
with a little lard borrowed from Sarge’s store. In between bites,
I’m savoring swigs of the whiskey that Sarge has kindly shared. I
want to feed Drew, but Sarge has ordered me not to. Rations are too
low to waste on pigs, he said.
    While I eat, I watch Drew struggle and fall limp,
struggle and fall limp. The rag-and-rope gag’s still in place;
probably a good thing, since he’ll need something to bite down on
when whatever pain Sarge has planned begins. His hands are still
bound together; his feet are still shackled. But now he’s bent
belly-down over the camp sawhorse, face nearly in the dirt, round
blue-flannelled ass in the air. I’ve run through a lot of rope
getting him tied down to the heavy wooden frame in a manner tight
and thorough enough for Sarge’s satisfaction: cords interlace his
arms, encircle his chest, waist, and bandaged back. He can do no
more than wiggle a few inches in any direction, thanks to me. So he
stares at the ground and waits for whatever’s to come. Sarge’s
whip, no doubt.
    During the six hours Drew’s endured this, my buddies
have taunted him with regularity and marked him with many a slimy
gob of spittle. During that time, when he’s not been staring at the
earth, probably wondering how soon he’ll be beneath it, my Yankee’s
been craning his neck to look for me. Since I’ve been as kind as I
can, despite my military duty to the South and my familial
allegiance to Sarge, I guess I’m Drew’s anchor now, the one
sympathetic face in camp. I’ve tried to stay away, to focus on
packing, because it hurts me to see him publicly shamed, but here I
am again, sitting where he can see me, a camp chair a few yards in
front of him, where, if he lifts his head, our eyes can meet.
    What was I thinking, ever regarding him as an enemy?
He’s just a boy who’s suffering, whose agony I’m abetting. I felt
this same unwelcome warmth for Brandon, feelings I think Sarge
sensed, which is why he took such pleasure in throttling Brandon
and forcing me to watch. It’s so much easier to think the way Sarge
thinks, especially with Sarge in charge. Yankees are pigs; Yankees
are scum. Ever since I saw big sweet Brandon die, I’ve tried hard
to believe that. But now, when I look at Drew’s bandaged back, the
futile ripple of his biceps against his bonds, the rope I’ve tied
across his pretty mouth, the blue pleading in his eyes…hell, his
helplessness haunts me, and his body’s a lodestone drawing my eyes.
He’s this camp’s Christ. Sarge is always talking about Christ,
insisting on group prayer every morning, preaching compassion and
cussing fleshly desire. Can’t he see he’s doing it all over again,
crucifying an innocent?
    Fuck this. My big bound blond