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

Yankee needs a friend.
No one’s looking now; it’s meal time, so most of the camp’s chewing
the literal fat around the fire. I stroll over to the sawhorse
casually. Drew looks up at me and groans. Pain furrows his face.
The rope’s cutting the corners of his mouth, tinging the stubble on
his chin red-gold.
    “Don’t look at me,” I whisper. “Just look at the
ground. I don’t want anyone to know I’m speaking to you. All
right?” Bending over, I pretend to check the tightness of his
bonds.
    Drew gives a slight nod.
    “Don’t nod. Someone might see. Just clench your hands
for Yes, let them go limp for No. You holding up?”
    Drew’s hands clench.
    “Good boy. You hurting pretty bad?”
    Drew’s hands clench.
    “I’m truly sorry. You hate my Rebel guts?”
    Drew’s hands clench and fall limp several times.
    I chuckle. “Yes, no, yes, no? Yep, I understand.
You’re one conflicted Yankee giant. Now listen. I’m not going to
help you escape. If I do, I won’t make it home. Sarge would whip
and probably hang me for a traitor, nephew or no. But I’m going to
make your time here as easy as I can. If I treat you rough in front
of others, it’s because I’m afraid Sarge will think I’m weak and
assign you a much more brutal keeper. But when the two of us are
alone, however often that might be, I’ll take care of you. I
promise. Understand?”
    Clench.
    “In other words, when I’m cruel to you, I’m not only
trying to save my own skin. I’m also trying to spare you worse
cruelty at another’s hands.”
    Clench.
    “You know I don’t hate you. If we’d met in another
time, we could have been…”
    Clench.
    My messmate Rufus is strolling curiously over with a
steaming cup. “All right, good and tight,” I say loudly, tugging at
the rope around Drew’s waist.
    “Want some soup?” says Rufus, proffering me the
cup.
    “Yep,” say I, giving the sawhorse a sound kick before
heading over to the campfire to spend time with my buddies, my camp
mates, whose intense love for their land and their families has
made equally intense their hate for this battered stranger bound to
a sawhorse in the falling dark.
     
    _
     
     

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    _
    “Not me this time. This time, you’re going to do it,”
Sarge says again, gripping my shoulder. “Show me you’re strong. You
need to be strong to scourge evil.”
    Several men have dragged the sawhorse and its
trussed-up burden from the black edge of the woods into the
campfire’s circle of light. Packing’s done for the day; now it’s
time for the fun Sarge spoke of. These men want something different
tonight. They’re tired of fiddle music.
    “First time for everything, Ian. Let’s see how much
you hate these Northern bastards. Remember what they did last fall.
How they burnt the Valley.” Sarge smiles at me, offering me another
swig of whiskey.
    I take that swig, then another, and then another.
With a frame my size, it doesn’t take much liquor to hit me
hard.
    Now I unbutton Drew’s pants and drawers and pull them
down to his ankles, just as I did by the creek bank this morning. I
mutter, “I don’t have a choice. Understand?” In answer, Drew
clenches his fists. I take in the sight of his round ass, firelight
glistening on the golden fur there, and his trembling thighs. The
campfire smoke stings my eyes. Then I pull my belt from its loops.
Around me, the men’s jollity falls quiet. Sarge pats my arm and
steps back.
    I double over the belt and lift it. I’m about to
bring it down when I remember the Yank’s tear-wet eyes, how wild
and frantic they grew as Sarge whipped him. As if in answer, Drew
lifts his head and releases a sharp sob.
    I lower the belt. “I’m sorry, sir. I believe I’m too
drunk.”
    “Ian. Remember all his kind has done. To our nation.
To our family.”
    “Truly sorry, sir.” I sway there, trying to meet
Sarge’s glare and failing. “Just can’t.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake.” Before I can slip the belt back
into