it’s fitting.”
“Excellent, Ian! Finally you’re being a proper
nephew. You might not have been born with strength, but you can
certainly achieve it,” says Sarge. “Till tomorrow, you can start by
tightening this pig’s bit. He’s chewed it half loose.”
I obey, unknotting the gag. Drew winces as I secure
it tighter; warm drool spills over the bit, dripping onto my
hand.
“Just one more thing tonight. This poor Yankee looks
mighty cold, so I’m going to warm him up.”
The previous prisoners endured this too. There’s
nothing I can do without risking the hope I suddenly see. I stand
silent as Sarge unbuttons his trousers, pulls out his penis, and
circles our prisoner. The piss splashes across Drew’s face, over
his shoulders, and down his back. My Yank sputters and gasps,
heaves and shakes. The bitter odor fills the air. Sarge chuckles,
“How’s that, boy? How’s that? Warmer now, I’ll bet.” Finished,
Sarge wipes his dick across Drew’s cheek, then buttons up, pats my
back, wishes me a good night, and disappears into the dark.
Drew waits till Sarge is safely off before he breaks
down, cursing and crying against his gag. I hunch down and grab his
hand. He shakes me off. “Listen to me,” I say, gripping his jaw
just as Sarge had. I can feel streaks of saliva half-frozen on his
bristly chin. “I did not betray you. Listen
to me. I think I know how to make things a little easier on you and
how to keep you alive a little longer.”
His sobs cease as abruptly as one of Jeremiah’s banjo
strings sometimes snaps. Wiping the tears and urine off his face, I
explain. “If Sarge thinks I enjoy seeing him torture you, maybe
he’ll let me keep you alive longer. It’ll mean regular whipping and
restraint, the sort of things you’ve already endured, but it might
mean fewer nights out in the cold and it might mean more food.”
It’s a gunpowder mix, this amalgam of tenderness, pity, and desire
I feel, stroking his wet beard.
”Sarge’s been after me since I was a little boy to
lay down my books and get mean, to toughen up and turn ruthless.
This way he might think he’s succeeding; he might want to keep his
big blond whipping post around longer. What do you think?” I ask,
pressing my face to his. “It’s better than dying in just a few more
days from starvation and exposure.”
Drew’s head bobs with more energy than I thought he
had left. I squat there for another few minutes, warming his hands
in mine, till I’m convinced everyone’s asleep and the sentry isn’t
likely to pass by soon. Then I loosen the knots behind his head,
ease out the stick-bit, and fetch food and blankets from the tent.
Shawled in wool, my Yankee Achilles gives a throaty growl and falls
to, hurriedly gobbling the cheese, bread, and spoonfuls of soup I
lift to his lips. I stand guard by him for a long time, while,
despite his bonds’ discomfort, he drowses exhausted in the
blanket’s long-awaited warmth. When a sentry’s tread alerts me, I
reluctantly remove the blanket, rope the bit back into Drew’s
mouth, tightly, in case Sarge checks again, and slip back into my
tent.
“That’s all I can do for you tonight, Yank,” I
murmur, tying the tent flap half open again so I can see him and he
can see me. “Tomorrow I’m going to talk to Sarge.”
Drew nods. “Thank you. Thanks. Thank you. Thanks.”
His words are distorted by the stick I’ve tied in his mouth, but I
can make them out nevertheless.
Lifting my flask, I take a last swig. I slip off my
spectacles, pull my blanket up to my chin, and fall asleep knowing
how fortunate I am.
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
_
Rain. That’s the patter of rain on the tent. And
something else, below the rain’s rhythm, some other sound, nearby
but barely audible. I roll over, slip on my spectacles, and listen.
Through the tent’s entrance I can make out Drew’s shape in the dim
gray that heralds dawn. His head’s down and his shoulders are
shaking. Behind him,
“Excellent, Ian! Finally you’re being a proper
nephew. You might not have been born with strength, but you can
certainly achieve it,” says Sarge. “Till tomorrow, you can start by
tightening this pig’s bit. He’s chewed it half loose.”
I obey, unknotting the gag. Drew winces as I secure
it tighter; warm drool spills over the bit, dripping onto my
hand.
“Just one more thing tonight. This poor Yankee looks
mighty cold, so I’m going to warm him up.”
The previous prisoners endured this too. There’s
nothing I can do without risking the hope I suddenly see. I stand
silent as Sarge unbuttons his trousers, pulls out his penis, and
circles our prisoner. The piss splashes across Drew’s face, over
his shoulders, and down his back. My Yank sputters and gasps,
heaves and shakes. The bitter odor fills the air. Sarge chuckles,
“How’s that, boy? How’s that? Warmer now, I’ll bet.” Finished,
Sarge wipes his dick across Drew’s cheek, then buttons up, pats my
back, wishes me a good night, and disappears into the dark.
Drew waits till Sarge is safely off before he breaks
down, cursing and crying against his gag. I hunch down and grab his
hand. He shakes me off. “Listen to me,” I say, gripping his jaw
just as Sarge had. I can feel streaks of saliva half-frozen on his
bristly chin. “I did not betray you. Listen
to me. I think I know how to make things a little easier on you and
how to keep you alive a little longer.”
His sobs cease as abruptly as one of Jeremiah’s banjo
strings sometimes snaps. Wiping the tears and urine off his face, I
explain. “If Sarge thinks I enjoy seeing him torture you, maybe
he’ll let me keep you alive longer. It’ll mean regular whipping and
restraint, the sort of things you’ve already endured, but it might
mean fewer nights out in the cold and it might mean more food.”
It’s a gunpowder mix, this amalgam of tenderness, pity, and desire
I feel, stroking his wet beard.
”Sarge’s been after me since I was a little boy to
lay down my books and get mean, to toughen up and turn ruthless.
This way he might think he’s succeeding; he might want to keep his
big blond whipping post around longer. What do you think?” I ask,
pressing my face to his. “It’s better than dying in just a few more
days from starvation and exposure.”
Drew’s head bobs with more energy than I thought he
had left. I squat there for another few minutes, warming his hands
in mine, till I’m convinced everyone’s asleep and the sentry isn’t
likely to pass by soon. Then I loosen the knots behind his head,
ease out the stick-bit, and fetch food and blankets from the tent.
Shawled in wool, my Yankee Achilles gives a throaty growl and falls
to, hurriedly gobbling the cheese, bread, and spoonfuls of soup I
lift to his lips. I stand guard by him for a long time, while,
despite his bonds’ discomfort, he drowses exhausted in the
blanket’s long-awaited warmth. When a sentry’s tread alerts me, I
reluctantly remove the blanket, rope the bit back into Drew’s
mouth, tightly, in case Sarge checks again, and slip back into my
tent.
“That’s all I can do for you tonight, Yank,” I
murmur, tying the tent flap half open again so I can see him and he
can see me. “Tomorrow I’m going to talk to Sarge.”
Drew nods. “Thank you. Thanks. Thank you. Thanks.”
His words are distorted by the stick I’ve tied in his mouth, but I
can make them out nevertheless.
Lifting my flask, I take a last swig. I slip off my
spectacles, pull my blanket up to my chin, and fall asleep knowing
how fortunate I am.
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
_
Rain. That’s the patter of rain on the tent. And
something else, below the rain’s rhythm, some other sound, nearby
but barely audible. I roll over, slip on my spectacles, and listen.
Through the tent’s entrance I can make out Drew’s shape in the dim
gray that heralds dawn. His head’s down and his shoulders are
shaking. Behind him,
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