Under A Confederate Moon

by J. M. Snyder

  "I don't--" Caleb tried again.

  The whip cracked against Pennock's boot, and there was a deadly promise written in the major's eyes. Caleb met that hard gaze and knew he had to divulge what he could or they'd beat it out of him. As he stepped up to the map, a small voice in him whispered, Brance, I'm sorry.

  With a trembling finger, he pointed out the enemy's position.

  * * * *

  Caleb was confined to his tent, with a guard posted outside to ensure he didn't disappear again. He spent the day in nothing but a pair of dingy briefs, mending the rent in his pants. But the day had run its course, and night was fast approaching. When the first cramp fisted his stomach an hour after supper, he knew the discomfort had nothing to do with the gruel he'd eaten. The moon was rising, and his blood answered the call.

  Slipping on his pants, Caleb buttoned the fly as he leaned out the flap of his tent. The guard assigned to watch him sat on an upturned barrel, head in his hand, dozing. He leaned heavily on his rifle as if it were the only thing holding him up. Caleb hissed to get his attention. "Psst."

  The guard let out a rambling snore. With one bare foot, Caleb kicked the guard's rifle out from under him, spilling the man to the ground. He was on his feet in an instant, trying to aim in every direction at once. "Wha--?"

  Caleb raised both hands. "It's just me."

  The rifle dipped to the ground and the guard sighed. "What do you want now?" he asked, as if Caleb had been bothering him all day.

  This was the first Caleb had spoken to the man; even at supper, he'd kept silent. But another spasm cramped his bowels, reminding him that he didn't have time to argue. He clutched his stomach as a wave of nausea rolled over him. "I gotta hit the sink."

  Disgust crossed the guard's face--no one visited the camp latrine, commonly referred to as "the sink," unless he couldn't make it as far as the woods. The puddle of human waste and stagnant water was a hellhole of disease, and when the wind shifted on clear days, the stench that carried from it could clear the camp. Caleb figured the guard would balk at hanging around the latrine, waiting for him, and send him on his own, orders be damned. He didn't count on the guy shaking his head in blatant refusal. "No."

  "Man, I need--" His stomach twisted fiercely and he cradled it in both arms as he squatted, trying to alleviate the pain. "God," he moaned, his breath quickening. With one hand he reached for the guard, who stepped back to avoid his touch. "Please."

  "The woods are closer." Standing aside, the guard waved his rifle at the trees beyond. "Go on. But don't try anything funny, private. I'm right behind you."

  Staggering to his feet, Caleb joked, "You may not want to be."

  "I said nothing funny," the guard warned again.

  With fast strides, Caleb headed for a nearby copse of firs. Even this early in the year, their limbs were still thick and green. The guard followed him, his rifle angled down. When Caleb slipped through the dense branches, already unbuttoning his pants, the guard raised his gun. "I've got you in my sights," he promised, though Caleb couldn't see him for the trees, and he suspected the guy was bluffing. "Two minutes, private. That's all you get before I shoot."

  Quickly, Caleb stepped out of his pants--he had no desire to restitch the seam he'd just sewn. As he folded them, the hair on his arm began to puff out, growing thicker, fuller. Searing pain tore through his midsection; he fell, body already twisting into its familiar feline form. He opened his mouth to call out to the guard, just to scare him off, but the only sound that came from his throat was a low, menacing growl.

  On all fours now, Caleb peered through the bottom branches of the tree and saw the guard glancing about nervously. The rifle aimed at the ground. Caleb crouched, focused on the guard, the gun, the moment and the night and the need that burned through him, a mix of hunger and lust. He paused for a heartbeat, then another; watching the gun, he stopped growling and waited for the moment when the guard relaxed ever so slightly...

  Then he pounced, exploding from the copse like a cannonball of fur. He hit the guard in the chest, knocking him back, the weight of his body forcing the guard's arms down. Unable to raise the rifle, the guard's first shot careened harmlessly into the woods. Before he could recover, Caleb jumped off him and ran from the camp.

  * * * *

  His animal instinct helped him retrace his steps--there was no stumbling about, no fishing for the way. To the cat in him, the path stood out lividly, his own spoor clearly marking his previous route through the woods. New smells filled his feline mind: rodents brought out by the dusk, a few deer not far away, the unnerving stench of man that lingered everywhere. The major must've sent scouts to find the Yankee camp--Caleb caught a whiff of them and steered clear. He kept to higher ground, following a small ridge too rocky for the humans to use. Before long he found Brance's scent, and tracked it down to the same clearing they had shared the night before.

  Caleb went straight for the stump where Brance had sat earlier in the day. His was a unique scent, not quite human, not quite animal, but it kindled Caleb's loins, making him whimper in heat. His penis extended; he pulled it in, tried to tamp down the sexual fervor, but the damned thing had a mind of its own, a trait it shared as both man and cat. A randiness fell over him, a playfulness that made him want to chase down the moon and nip at the first few stars that already twinkled on the horizon. As he snuffled through the dead leaves, Brance's scent grew stronger, thicker, real. Suddenly Caleb looked up to find the other bobcat resting in the grass ahead, watching him.

  With a kittenish trot, Caleb hurried over to him. ::Hey there, stranger.::

  The other cat huffed. ::Why am I not surprised to see you?::

  Caleb began to purr. ::Miss me?::

  Brance had no reply, but Caleb didn't expect one. Approaching the cat, he butted the top of his head into Brance's cheek, then proceeded down the cat's length, pushing against him heavily in his eagerness. His tail flicked Brance's nose and curved under his strong chin. As Caleb approached his hindquarters, he sniffed at the healing wound on the cat's leg. Then Brance raised his rump, and the night came alive with his scent, a heady, intoxicating smell that Caleb wanted to pounce on and tear into with his teeth and claws. Inquisitive, he pressed his nose to Brance's ballocks, breathing the scent deeply. His tongue darted out on its own to taste the soft, downy fur.

  Suddenly a loud mrraow slipped from his own throat, surprising him. There was no ignoring how he felt now. Rubbing around Brance's haunches, Caleb brushed along his other side, still pressing his body against the bobcat's. As he passed in front of Brance again, he raised his tail high in the air, exposing his erect penis. No use trying to hide it. With a flounce, he turned and sank to the ground. He concentrated on washing one paw, but the other kneaded the grass between them, anxious to get the night underway. ::So, where should we start?::

  Brance's leonine expression was sphinx-like, impassive. ::There are Confederates in the woods.::

  Caleb wiped his paw over his ear. ::Let them watch.::

  ::They know of my camp.::

  Now Caleb laid down, forepaws stretched toward Brance. Leaning forward, he touched his nose to Brance's, damp and cool. His tongue had a mind of its own; it licked Brance's feline lips, then moved on, wetting his whiskers and rasping along his furred cheek. Brance closed his eyes as Caleb groomed him, down the side of his neck, along his tense shoulder, tongue working the fur clean, smoothing it down. When Caleb found the sensitive spot between Brance's shoulder blades that the other cat couldn't reach, a heavy paw on his haunch stopped him. He could feel Brance's claws, barely sheathed. ::Why do they know where my camp is?::

  Caleb rolled onto his back, out of reach. Brance's claws scraped over the hair on his stomach but didn't hurt. Not yet. Unable to meet the other cat's unnerving gaze, Caleb stared into the dark trees around them, ears twitching fitfully. ::I didn't mean to tell,:: he started. ::It just sort of slipped out--::

  A sudden growl filled the air. Caleb glanced at Brance and had to look away; the
pain in those golden eyes was too great to see. ::I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, believe me. But they would've whipped it out of me anyway. I don't...::

  The growl turned ferocious, then broke into a ragged cry that tore the stillness around them. Caleb flinched at the storm brewing beside him, then scrambled to all four feet when Brance lunged. Sharp teeth gnashed the air where his belly had been a second before. ::Brance...:: Caleb backed away from the bristling bobcat. Every hair along Brance's spine stood on end; his tail jerked from side to side, twice its normal size. ::Brance, wait. Listen to me--::

  But he didn't get the chance to talk his way back to the comfortable moment they had just shared. Brance pounced at him, teeth sinking into Caleb's shoulder with a painful bite that tore flesh and muscle. Caleb fell back, hind legs kicking out, seeking purchase in the soft belly above him. His own angry cries rose with Brance's, disturbing the night. ::Wait,:: he tried, and ::Brance,:: and ::No,:: over and over again. Each word brought another gouge from Brance's powerful claws, another gash from those crushing jaws. Spittle and foam drenched them both. It took all the strength Caleb had to lock his forepaws against Brance's chest and hold the hissing bobcat at bay the best he could. The cuts in his flesh, the blood on his fur, none of it hurt as much as the hole in his heart that had opened when he looked into those once warm, ochroid eyes, so similar to his own, and saw only cold rage and blind hatred staring back.

  Finally Brance backed off. Caleb rose to his feet slowly, pain wracking his body. His ribs ached, his limbs hurt. There was nothing he wanted more than to lie down beside the beast that had hurt him, to nestle into that fleecy belly and apologize profusely, talk his way back however he could into that cat's--that man's--life.

  ::Go,:: Brance told him, teeth bared. He growled, a breathy, coarse sound that chopped the air, making it hard for Caleb to breathe. ::Now. Before I kill you.::

  Caleb winced, shocked. ::You wouldn't--::

  ::Don't be so sure.::

  A bite in his forearm made Caleb limp from the clearing. He only managed a few broken steps before he turned, pleading. ::Brance, let me explain--::

  The other bobcat's terse reply severed anything that might still exist between them. ::I don't care to hear it. Leave.::

  Then, without waiting to see if Caleb obeyed, Brance turned and slipped into the night.

  * * * *

  With each step, Caleb felt his bones rub together, his joints creak. His lungs hurt to breathe, and the scents that assailed his senses left him weak with hunger. He was too exhausted to bother to hunt. Even his heart hurt, each rapid beat a stab in his chest like a knife lodged deep and driven further with every move he made.

  Some instinct of preservation stopped him from entering his camp. The pickets were trigger happy on a clear night; one look at a bobcat, particularly after his guard's close call earlier, would send volley after volley of grapeshot into his already battered body, killing him for sure. Though the thought was comforting, he stopped just short of the camp, in the same clump of firs where he'd left his pants. Lying on his belly, Caleb began the arduous task of cleaning his wounds. He concentrated on the torn flesh, the bloody fur, and wouldn't let himself think of Brance.

  In the morning when he woke, every inch of his body ached. He was beaten and bruised; as he slept his muscles had clenched together, and when he tried to move them now, they screamed in protest. The wound on his shoulder was particularly nasty--as Caleb stepped unsteadily into his pants, the bite reopened, bleeding anew. His head throbbed like a rotten tooth and he swooned, reached out to steady himself, misjudged, and promptly fell to the ground with a loud crash that brought soldiers running, rifles at the ready.

  Caleb felt harsh hands grip his shoulders and arms. They hauled him up unceremoniously--one man, recognizing him, gasped and almost dropped him back to the ground. "Damn bobcat got him," the soldier sputtered. "He's barely alive."

  "Ain't," Caleb started. That was as far as he got before the pain and the hurt and the loss of blood conspired to render him unconscious.

  * * * *

  Some time later, Caleb woke again, on a hard bunk in a tent that was not his own. Sitting up, he saw an apothecary chest in one corner, and beside his bed, a bloody array of surgical utensils sat soaking in a tin bucket of coppery water. The thick smell of ether hung in the air around him like a wet blanket, tamping down his thoughts. He was in the infirmary, which meant at least he wasn't dead yet.

  White dressings covered the wound on his shoulder. As Caleb sat up, he felt the wound pull, and wondered if there were stitches in it. The other cuts and scratches had been cleaned and apparently had stopped bleeding some time ago. By the dull echo that still reverberated through him, Caleb suspected he'd been given ether for the pain. The dry, cottony taste in his mouth confirmed it.

  Moving slowly, he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bunk. His muscles still felt frozen, unwilling to hurry. He'd just put his feet on the ground and was attempting to stand when the flaps of the tent opened. Outside, the camp seemed a frenzy of activity, the sudden noise like a blast of fresh air in a stale room. Then the surgeon entered, the flaps closed behind him, and Caleb was once again cut off from the camp. Sparing but a glance at his patient, the surgeon headed for his apothecary chest. "Lie down, private."

  "What's all the ruckus outside?" Caleb wanted to know. Then, he added, "What time is it?"

  "Time we won this damn war," the surgeon replied. He riffled through the drawers of his chest, picking out bandages and steel utensils Caleb didn't recognize. "Lie down, I tell you. If you leave that bunk now, you're not likely going to get it back."

  Confusion clouded Caleb's mind like the ether that drugged him. "What do you mean?"

  "The scouts came back in the night." The surgeon turned to a collection of bottles, checking the stoppers to ensure they wouldn't leak. "Where have you been? We launched an ambush at dawn."

  Caleb caught his breath. "The Yanks?" he asked. His heart added, Brance?

  The surgeon continued, a mischievous glee in his voice, as if part of him enjoyed bearing the bad news. "They're bringing in the Union sawbones now to help me out. The camp was guarded when we hit it, I hear. Guess they heard us coming, or saw our scouts--something tipped them off. So there aren't too many dead but plenty of wounded. Quite a few prisoners, too."

  "Prisoners?" Caleb seized on the word, hope soaring in his chest. Brance hates you, a voice in him whispered; Caleb tried to snub it out but it refused to die. Even if he's taken prisoner, he'll never speak to you again. You betrayed his trust... Staggering to his feet, Caleb took a few shuffling steps towards the tent flap. "Where are they keeping the prisoners?"

  The surgeon glanced at him, then dropped the supplies he held as he hurried to Caleb's side. "Stay in bed, private. That's an order."

  But Caleb brushed away the hands that clutched at him. "If I can walk, I don't need to be taking up space here. You'll need my bunk for someone else soon enough." As the surgeon fussed with his shoulder dressing, Caleb asked again, "Where are the prisoners?"

  "Just outside camp," the surgeon replied. "They've been put to work, building an enclosure until we can send them on to Belle Isle. I suspect you might be fit for guard duty, so long as you just stand there looking mean and none of them try to escape. This shoulder's still pretty bad."

  Caleb stumbled to the tent flap, out of the surgeon's reach. "I'll survive."

  Outside the tent, the Confederate camp was in disarray. Armed men hurried around the tents, heading for the woods, eager to add their guns to the ensuing fight. Others tended large pots suspended over open fires, soup for the soldiers' lunches and water boiling for the surgeon's use. A row of wounded men lay on the ground just beyond the surgeon's tent, mere boys in a game of war, scattered and broken like toy soldiers. Some called out as Caleb passed; one snagged his pant leg, but he shook the hand away. Covered in mud and blood, the blue and gray uniforms were the same sordid shade.

  As Caleb made his way through the bus
tling camp, he tried to flag down someone, anyone, who could point him in the direction of the Union prisoners. No one bothered to answer his questions; they were too busy to stop for him. One soldier scowled in passing and called back over his shoulder, "Don't you see we're at war here?"

  Near the pickets' post, Caleb chanced across Sonny, the camp's servant boy. A young Negro whose dark skin glistened with sweat, Sonny strained to carry a heavy pot full of dingy water that sloshed as he walked away from the camp. It was either lunch for the captives or the major's dirty laundry, one of the two. Taking his chances, Caleb fell into step beside him. "Sonny, what's this?"

  Sonny puffed his ruddy cheeks out as he struggled with the pot. He gripped the handles with both hands, and a few tin bowls dangled precariously from his fingertips. "Som'thin for the Yanks we caught, sir."

  "Let me help."

  Caleb reached for the bowls without waiting for Sonny's reply, but the boy relinquished them readily enough. "Thank you, sir. Mighty kind."

  Following the young boy, Caleb hoped he sounded casual when he asked, "So how many did we get?"

  Sonny nodded ahead, where a dozen or so soldiers loitered among the trees. "A right handful, I suspect. That's them there."

  As they neared the prisoners, Caleb noticed the chevaux-de-frise--several trees had been felled, their bark stripped, their ends chopped into spikes; these logs were set at alternating angles against a wooden frame, half pointing in at the prisoners to deter escape, the other half pointing out to keep anyone else away. There were four frames set in a rough square, and two Confederates guards were posted at opposing corners of the makeshift prison. Penned inside the enclosure were more than a dozen men in Union blue.