on.”
Drew’s rumble of affirmation. Shivery call of a
screech owl. Whiskey burning my throat.
“So you like The Iliad ? I saw
a drawing once, of Achilles and Patroclus, in a book. One was
bandaging the other’s war-wounds. Some things I’ve read say that…
men could be together in different ways then, that warriors who
fought side by side would take comfort in one another.”
Long silence, then another grunt and nod. Remotely,
Jeremiah’s banjo sounds, the first mournful notes of
“Shenandoah.”
“Big as you are, buddy, you look like Achilles or
Hercules, like a Greek hero in chains. I wish I were as tough and
strong as you. Tomorrow I’ll salve your butt and back and bandage
you up, I promise.”
Bit-bent mumble of gratitude. More rocking in the
dark.
“You wanted to know more about where I see God? Well,
right now, in this snow, and the bare tree trunks, and the
moonlight, for sure. The campfire too. And my body, and your body.
And, and y-your beard, and the way your muscles knot up when you
struggle, and the marks on your back, and the hair on your
chest.”
“Uhhhh?” Drew grunts, lifting his head. Surprise or
query? If only I could see his face, know for sure what he was
feeling. The rocking ceases, then starts up again.
Drunk and bold now, these mutters of mine. “I wish
you were in here with me, buddy, all hairy and warm. I know you’re
so cold. I wish I could hold you, rub your muscles into ease. I’m
glad you find my touch a solace.”
The moon’s shifted. Now its light illuminates Drew;
in its gleam his bare skin looks blue. He rocks in silence, my
broad-shouldered soldier, my brave slave. “I wish I had you naked,”
I whisper, closing my eyes. “I wish I had you home.”
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
_
When I wake, it’s deeper dark, the moon passed over. Goddamned fool, I think. Drew’s out there starving and freezing, and you fell asleep
beneath your cozy covers. I’m about to fetch his food from
the tent-corner in which I hid it when I hear again what must have
woken me: a ripping sound, followed by a deep groan.
Cautiously I peer past the tent flap. There’s a man
standing over Drew. Too dark to make out a face, but I can tell
it’s Sarge. Drew looks up at Sarge and shakes his head; against his
gag he’s begging brokenly, last vestiges of pride shattered. Sarge
bends down, grips Drew’s jaw in one hand and with the other tears a
strip of bandage off Drew’s back. Another rip, another groan.
“S-sir?” I say, crawling out of the tent. “What are
you doing?” I want to break my uncle’s jaw but, of course, think
better of it.
“Ah, Ian. Just helping you change his bandages.”
Another rip, more pale cloth hanging from Sarge’s hand. “Tomorrow,
perhaps, we’ll open these wounds up. Unless you object to another
beating. You seemed squeamish the other night, when I invited you
to take your belt to him. Surely a soldier as brave as you’ve
proven yourself to be over the last few years of war should savor
an enemy’s suffering.”
Suddenly it’s there in such a challenge, in another
of Sarge’s endless invitations to cruelty: how to keep Drew alive
longer. I bend down, take hold of a bandage, and rip. Drew gulps
back a sob. In the starlight I see his white teeth gnash the
stick-bit. Sarge laughs, pulling off another strip. I do the same.
We take our turns till Drew’s back is bare, wounds dark against his
back’s pallor even in such dim light, like illegible words cut into
the surrounding snow.
“Sir, I apologize for my weakness. I was very drunk.
And, to be honest, since it was you who lost so much during the
Burning last fall, and since you do clearly savor his suffering, I
think you should reserve the privilege of beating the prisoner for
yourself,” I say. Now I’m feeling like Odysseus: not the strongest
of warriors but sometimes the most devious. “This Yankee’s been a
powerful trial to me; I’m ready to see him punished whenever you
say
Drew’s rumble of affirmation. Shivery call of a
screech owl. Whiskey burning my throat.
“So you like The Iliad ? I saw
a drawing once, of Achilles and Patroclus, in a book. One was
bandaging the other’s war-wounds. Some things I’ve read say that…
men could be together in different ways then, that warriors who
fought side by side would take comfort in one another.”
Long silence, then another grunt and nod. Remotely,
Jeremiah’s banjo sounds, the first mournful notes of
“Shenandoah.”
“Big as you are, buddy, you look like Achilles or
Hercules, like a Greek hero in chains. I wish I were as tough and
strong as you. Tomorrow I’ll salve your butt and back and bandage
you up, I promise.”
Bit-bent mumble of gratitude. More rocking in the
dark.
“You wanted to know more about where I see God? Well,
right now, in this snow, and the bare tree trunks, and the
moonlight, for sure. The campfire too. And my body, and your body.
And, and y-your beard, and the way your muscles knot up when you
struggle, and the marks on your back, and the hair on your
chest.”
“Uhhhh?” Drew grunts, lifting his head. Surprise or
query? If only I could see his face, know for sure what he was
feeling. The rocking ceases, then starts up again.
Drunk and bold now, these mutters of mine. “I wish
you were in here with me, buddy, all hairy and warm. I know you’re
so cold. I wish I could hold you, rub your muscles into ease. I’m
glad you find my touch a solace.”
The moon’s shifted. Now its light illuminates Drew;
in its gleam his bare skin looks blue. He rocks in silence, my
broad-shouldered soldier, my brave slave. “I wish I had you naked,”
I whisper, closing my eyes. “I wish I had you home.”
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
_
When I wake, it’s deeper dark, the moon passed over. Goddamned fool, I think. Drew’s out there starving and freezing, and you fell asleep
beneath your cozy covers. I’m about to fetch his food from
the tent-corner in which I hid it when I hear again what must have
woken me: a ripping sound, followed by a deep groan.
Cautiously I peer past the tent flap. There’s a man
standing over Drew. Too dark to make out a face, but I can tell
it’s Sarge. Drew looks up at Sarge and shakes his head; against his
gag he’s begging brokenly, last vestiges of pride shattered. Sarge
bends down, grips Drew’s jaw in one hand and with the other tears a
strip of bandage off Drew’s back. Another rip, another groan.
“S-sir?” I say, crawling out of the tent. “What are
you doing?” I want to break my uncle’s jaw but, of course, think
better of it.
“Ah, Ian. Just helping you change his bandages.”
Another rip, more pale cloth hanging from Sarge’s hand. “Tomorrow,
perhaps, we’ll open these wounds up. Unless you object to another
beating. You seemed squeamish the other night, when I invited you
to take your belt to him. Surely a soldier as brave as you’ve
proven yourself to be over the last few years of war should savor
an enemy’s suffering.”
Suddenly it’s there in such a challenge, in another
of Sarge’s endless invitations to cruelty: how to keep Drew alive
longer. I bend down, take hold of a bandage, and rip. Drew gulps
back a sob. In the starlight I see his white teeth gnash the
stick-bit. Sarge laughs, pulling off another strip. I do the same.
We take our turns till Drew’s back is bare, wounds dark against his
back’s pallor even in such dim light, like illegible words cut into
the surrounding snow.
“Sir, I apologize for my weakness. I was very drunk.
And, to be honest, since it was you who lost so much during the
Burning last fall, and since you do clearly savor his suffering, I
think you should reserve the privilege of beating the prisoner for
yourself,” I say. Now I’m feeling like Odysseus: not the strongest
of warriors but sometimes the most devious. “This Yankee’s been a
powerful trial to me; I’m ready to see him punished whenever you
say
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