in the camp, no one’s in sight.
I crawl from the tent and kneel beside him, in the
lingering smell of urine, the must of dead leaves growing sodden in
the rainstorm. Drew’s sobbing, very quietly. This long agony has
finally broken him just as it did the others. Why is it that,
broken, he’s even more beautiful? The sound of his suffering makes
burning embers crumble and flare inside my chest. I stroke his
temples; he lifts his pain-twisted face to me; around us the rain
drums down. He’s bound, he can’t fight me; he needs me too badly to
betray me. And so I do what his naked woe demands that I do. I kiss
his forehead, his streaming shoulders, his bearded chin. I kiss the
stick-gag between his lips, then, as best I can, the lips
themselves. Drew pushes his mouth against mine and sobs harder.
Rain’s speckling my lenses; my fingers roam his chest hair, his
torso’s hard curves.
Footsteps. I look up, and there’s rangy Jeremiah on
another of his rounds, leaning against a sapling, watching us in
pre-dawn light the dove-gray hue of his uniform. My friend from
back by the Greenbrier, who hoed beside me the same hilly acres,
who surely shares the same sense of sin as all our people. But what
I see in his face is not a scowl of disgust but a sad smile.
I’m up and stuttering now, trying to explain—”I-I-I
w-was just…”—but Jeremiah strides over, grips my shoulder, and
shakes his head. “Ian, take comfort where you can find it. To hell
with those preachers back home. And help this poor bastard as best
you can. I won’t tell.” With that, he’s gone, just a crunch of
leaves receding in the rain.
As if Jeremiah’s understanding gives me some
long-awaited permission, I crouch down, unknot and remove Drew’s
gag. Laying it on the leaves, gently I wipe blood from the chafed
corners of his mouth. Then I grip him by his metal collar, pull his
face to mine, and kiss him again, full on, hard and fast. He parts
his lips, whimpers, and our tongues nestle together for a few sweet
seconds. He tastes like iron and salt-rising bread. I pull away,
looking into his eyes, running a fingertip over his swollen lower
lip.
“Please,” Drew gasps. “Oh please, Ian, please! It
hurts so bad. Please get me out of this.”
“I will. I’m going to untie you and fetch us some
food. We’re going to have a proper meal together. But first I have
to speak to Sarge.”
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
_
I don’t know what power
keeps the stutter from my words this morning, but I’m thankful. I
sit in a sling chair in Sarge’s tent and explain, as calmly as I
can, my requests. He gives me only the edge of his attention as he
shuffles papers on his camp desk.
I begin with what he wants to hear. “Sir, will you be
beating the prisoner today?” My voice is tight with counterfeit
eagerness. “That boy deserves to suffer.”
“Tomorrow, Ian. As much as I want to string the
Yankee up and flog him bloody, I’m heading down the hill with some
of the boys to rustle up provender. We’ll need some provisions to
get the boys to Lexington.”
Another day for Drew to gather his strength, thank
God.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll wait. But may I ask permission
to—”
“What, what?” Sarge asks, impatient. He’s poring over
a map.
“Sir, I want to get the prisoner out of the elements
and feed him. I—”
Suspicious cock of the head. His gaze abandons the
map to fix on my face.
“Now, Ian, if you’re going soft, as you did with that
other bluecoat—Brandon?—I’ll have to give over the prisoner’s care
to someone else. George has volunteered to take the Yank off your
hands. He’s older and firmer, despite his unseemly behavior when in
his cups.”
Now I’ve really got to be convincing. George will
beat Drew and most probably, cross-eyed drunk one night, rape him.
“Sir, I’m not going soft. I want the Yankee out of the cold
because, to be honest, if he suffers frostbite and loses toes,
he’ll be more of a
I crawl from the tent and kneel beside him, in the
lingering smell of urine, the must of dead leaves growing sodden in
the rainstorm. Drew’s sobbing, very quietly. This long agony has
finally broken him just as it did the others. Why is it that,
broken, he’s even more beautiful? The sound of his suffering makes
burning embers crumble and flare inside my chest. I stroke his
temples; he lifts his pain-twisted face to me; around us the rain
drums down. He’s bound, he can’t fight me; he needs me too badly to
betray me. And so I do what his naked woe demands that I do. I kiss
his forehead, his streaming shoulders, his bearded chin. I kiss the
stick-gag between his lips, then, as best I can, the lips
themselves. Drew pushes his mouth against mine and sobs harder.
Rain’s speckling my lenses; my fingers roam his chest hair, his
torso’s hard curves.
Footsteps. I look up, and there’s rangy Jeremiah on
another of his rounds, leaning against a sapling, watching us in
pre-dawn light the dove-gray hue of his uniform. My friend from
back by the Greenbrier, who hoed beside me the same hilly acres,
who surely shares the same sense of sin as all our people. But what
I see in his face is not a scowl of disgust but a sad smile.
I’m up and stuttering now, trying to explain—”I-I-I
w-was just…”—but Jeremiah strides over, grips my shoulder, and
shakes his head. “Ian, take comfort where you can find it. To hell
with those preachers back home. And help this poor bastard as best
you can. I won’t tell.” With that, he’s gone, just a crunch of
leaves receding in the rain.
As if Jeremiah’s understanding gives me some
long-awaited permission, I crouch down, unknot and remove Drew’s
gag. Laying it on the leaves, gently I wipe blood from the chafed
corners of his mouth. Then I grip him by his metal collar, pull his
face to mine, and kiss him again, full on, hard and fast. He parts
his lips, whimpers, and our tongues nestle together for a few sweet
seconds. He tastes like iron and salt-rising bread. I pull away,
looking into his eyes, running a fingertip over his swollen lower
lip.
“Please,” Drew gasps. “Oh please, Ian, please! It
hurts so bad. Please get me out of this.”
“I will. I’m going to untie you and fetch us some
food. We’re going to have a proper meal together. But first I have
to speak to Sarge.”
_
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
_
I don’t know what power
keeps the stutter from my words this morning, but I’m thankful. I
sit in a sling chair in Sarge’s tent and explain, as calmly as I
can, my requests. He gives me only the edge of his attention as he
shuffles papers on his camp desk.
I begin with what he wants to hear. “Sir, will you be
beating the prisoner today?” My voice is tight with counterfeit
eagerness. “That boy deserves to suffer.”
“Tomorrow, Ian. As much as I want to string the
Yankee up and flog him bloody, I’m heading down the hill with some
of the boys to rustle up provender. We’ll need some provisions to
get the boys to Lexington.”
Another day for Drew to gather his strength, thank
God.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll wait. But may I ask permission
to—”
“What, what?” Sarge asks, impatient. He’s poring over
a map.
“Sir, I want to get the prisoner out of the elements
and feed him. I—”
Suspicious cock of the head. His gaze abandons the
map to fix on my face.
“Now, Ian, if you’re going soft, as you did with that
other bluecoat—Brandon?—I’ll have to give over the prisoner’s care
to someone else. George has volunteered to take the Yank off your
hands. He’s older and firmer, despite his unseemly behavior when in
his cups.”
Now I’ve really got to be convincing. George will
beat Drew and most probably, cross-eyed drunk one night, rape him.
“Sir, I’m not going soft. I want the Yankee out of the cold
because, to be honest, if he suffers frostbite and loses toes,
he’ll be more of a
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