Salvation

by Jeff Mann

  “Mercy, so strong. I believe I’ll stick to my wine. It’s medicinal, you know. The doctor recommended several teaspoons a day.”

  “You mentioned Charleston, ma’am. Are you from South Carolina?”

  “I? Lord, no. I’m a Virginian. I was born in Eagle Rock, in the house where I now reside. My husband was a merchant from Charleston. We lived there many years…those were grand days. Then the fire-eaters had their say, everyone’s head was swayed toward secession, and before we knew it, we were watching the bombardment of Fort Sumter from our balcony.” She shakes her head. “The war and the Federal blockade wrecked our fortunes. And then Edward was killed in one of those awful battles along the North Carolina coast. So I came home to Virginia. I loved Charleston—the grand houses, the breezy verandahs, the lemony scent of magnolias, the bustle of the cotton auctions, the rustle of the palms—but I missed these mountains, rough and uncouth as their denizens might be. And you, Private Campbell? How did you come to be passing through Eagle Rock? Or is this your destination?”

  “No, ma’am. My little company of rangers was decimated a few days ago—”

  “Near Buchanan? I heard about that. Terrible. We heard the artillery booming down the river.” Mrs. Stephens adjusts her shawl about her; the hearth spits sparks.

  “So my messmate Drew and I are on furlough, recovering a bit before we head back to the front, to add what little help we can to Lee’s men in the earthworks around Petersburg. Would you know of a boarding house where we might spend the night? Or a citizen who would be willing to provide two Confederate soldiers a bed and some food? We’d be much obliged, though I fear I have next to no money left and so am in no condition to recompense anyone for kindnesses shown.”

  “Recompense? Your country owes you all it can provide! Is your friend as handsome as you are?”

  Mrs. Stephens’s eyes gleam. She is apparently as much an admirer of male beauty as I am.

  “Oh, ma’am, you flatter me.” I can feel blood rush to my face, unused as I am to female attentions, especially from ladies twice my age. “Yes, Drew is certainly good-looking. He’s strongly built, with long blond hair and a golden beard.”

  “He sounds godlike indeed. You’re clearly quite proud of him. Have you known him long?”

  “Long enough to love him like…a brother, ma’am. We’re fast friends; he’s saved my life several times.”

  “And is he as rail-thin as you, Private Campbell?” She pats my knee.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re like most Rebel soldiers: lean and famished. For the last few months, there’s been very, very little to eat. Hardtack, cornmeal, and acorn coffee have been our only dependable staples. Though our captain—he was my uncle and he died at Buchanan, the victim of the bombardment—he was mighty good at foraging, and sometimes he found us beef and vegetables, real coffee, even whiskey and honey.” I lower my head, choking back another wave of sorrow and guilt.

  “Your uncle was killed only a few days ago? I’m so sorry, boy. I have some sense of how you feel. I’ve been in these widow’s weeds since Edward fell at Roanoke Island. Here he is.” She opens the locket around her neck. There’s a tiny portrait inside, a blond man in his thirties, with thick hair and a trimmed beard.

  “Yes, he was much younger than I. Our marriage scandalized my relatives, in particular my loathsome brother-in-law Philip, Jack’s father. Indeed all of Eagle Rock disapproved, not that Edward or I cared a whit. The folks in Charleston were far more welcoming, since Edward came from society there. So, when was the last time you had a decent meal, soldier?”

  “Honestly, ma’am, I can’t recall. Drew and I had old cornbread and water for breakfast, and nothing since then.”

  “How the Confederacy can continue much longer when all its champions are starving I simply cannot imagine. They say our men behind the lines in Petersburg are grinding hard horse corn between rocks for sustenance. ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ Napoleon said that. Yes, I’m somewhat of a bluestocking, my boy. Books have been grand friends since I lost Edward.”

  She pauses to take a long quaff of wine. “Here in a bit we’ll brave this beastly weather and fetch in your friend. I have a spare bedroom y’all are more than welcome to use. Used to be my son John’s. He’s in the trenches at Petersburg, the last I heard, Jesus preserve him. Since I can’t care for him, it will be an honor to provide succor to some of his fellow soldiers.”

  With a healthy gulp, she finishes her glass and shouts for another round. Her voice has surprising power for a woman of her size.

  The unprepossessing proprietor reappears with bottles in hand and refills our glasses. “Who’s paying for this one?” he rasps.

  “This one’s complimentary. It’s the least you can do for a defender of the South.” Mrs. Stephens taps my glass with hers before sipping.

  “Aunt, I can’t afford that. I—”

  “Off with you, you bolting-hutch of beastliness, or I’ll snatch you bald-headed. After all the ham and fried potatoes you’ve devoured at my table, not to mention that package of turnips and potatoes I’ve brought you today, the least you can do is be kind to my new boarder.”

  “Boarder?” Jack sneers. “Is that what he is?”

  There’s a vulgar insinuation in his voice. I’m about to stand and return his impertinence with stern words at the least and a thrashing at the most, but any defense of Mrs. Irene Stephens I might mount appears to be unnecessary. She raps his shin with her cane.

  Jack turns and limps away as fast as he can. He vanishes into the back, where a door slams.

  “Jack is a masterful pouter.” Mrs. Stephens chuckles, pulling her shawl more tightly about her. “The Bard might call him a ‘cream-faced loon.’ Have you ever read Shakespeare?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Refreshed with spirits, Mrs. Stephens and I have taken less than a dozen steps into the drizzly night when there’s a shout behind us. I turn to see a fat man with a lantern waddling out of Eagle’s Nest. He’s wearing round spectacles like mine, sports groomed gray hair, and is garbed in a luxurious looking overcoat, dark suit, and clerical collar. I had no idea that the South at this point in the war still possessed someone of such well-fed size and obvious prosperity.

  “Irene,” he yells, big feet slapping through puddles. “Stop right there.”

  Mrs. Stephens sighs. “The Salvation-Swine of Eagle Rock, come for to defend his precious progeny.” She drops my arm and lifts her cane. “Get off, get off, brother-in-law. I’m in no mood to deal with your harangues. I have a guest to attend to.”

  “You’ll stop right there and you’ll listen. How dare you insult my son?”

  “He was impudent to me and rude to this soldier, Philip. He sorely needs a lesson in manners.”

  “Manners would demand you call me Reverend. And you need a lesson in morality!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve heard the tales about your licentious youth, your wild parties in Charleston, that young, decadent husband of yours. Instead of consorting with young men”—he gives me a sharp glance, curling his lip—“you should be in my church every Sunday, repenting.”

  “This is the Reverend Robertson, young man,” Mrs. Stephens says with ironic emphasis and a purse-lipped smirk. “ ‘He is spherical, like a globe. I could find out countries in him.’ That’s a bit more of the Bard. As you can see, Philip is as unmannerly as his son. He fancies himself the be-all and end-all of this little hamlet. Thirty years ago, after courting me with an unparalleled lack of success—I’ve never met a man before or since so devoid of charm—he most unfortunately convinced my poor sister to marry him. Ate her out of house and home. The fatter he grew, the thinner she waned. Is he not the spitting image of a blood-bloated tick?”

  “Silence, Irene!”

  I clench my fists and take a step toward him. “Sir, I suggest you watch your tone.”

  “Begone, boy. This is not your affair.”

  “Sir, I’m making it my affair.” I shift aside the oilclo
th draped over my shoulders, giving him a glimpse of my pistol. “I don’t care if you’re a man of the cloth. That means little to me. I’ve encountered many a vicious hypocrite in your calling. And right now I would consider it great sport to give your disrespectful insolence the thrashing it deserves.”

  The fat man pales. “Don’t threaten me, son. Not in this town. You’ll regret it.”

  I offer him a grim chuckle. “Sir, I’m not afraid of you. I’ve fought beside the Army of Northern Virginia for four years.”

  “A tadpole like you, fighting in our great war? The only way you could have survived till now must have been adopting the regular habit of hiding behind trees.”

  “You’re calling me a coward?” I clench both teeth and fists. “How dare you? I’ve served under Ashby, Jackson, Early, and Lee. You’re nothing but a small-town parasite. You are, from what I can gauge from your girth, simply a pampered villain whose guile and greed have allowed him to grow fat while his countrymen suffer and starve.”

  “And you’re a little man, son,” the preacher says with a snort. “So slight of build. You’re not worth trifling with.”

  “Small men learn to compensate, sir. I’m an able boxer. I’m swifter and stronger than I look. I assure you that many a man has rued the day he crossed me. If your words continue in such a contemptible fashion, I might have to teach you a lesson.”

  He dares to chortle at my words. “I have a deacon nearby who would break your back, child. He’s twice your size.”

  “Oh, yes, the redoubtable Brutus, one of your many minions.” Mrs. Stephens rolls her eyes. “How can you speak in such a manner to one of Virginia’s defenders? You’ve reached new depths, Philip. I’ll be sharing no more of my larder with you.”

  “With the church. Not I but the church.” The fat man musters an oleaginous smile. “Tithing is more than necessary in difficult times like these. I saw those potatoes you brought. A decent mess. God will bless you for such generosity. I’ll send Brutus over next week for another donation of the same.”

  “He’ll return empty-handed, Philip,” Mrs. Stephens says. “I have nothing to spare. Nothing for you, at least. Soldiers are another matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare dinner for my boarders.” Grasping my arm, she pulls me a few steps along the muddy street.

  “Harridan,” he mutters, trundling off with his lantern.

  “Good night, sweet troll,” she responses liltingly. “And flights of demons sing thee to thy rest.”

  “May we meet again, sir,” I snarl over my shoulder. “I’ll instruct you in polite behavior yet.”

  Within a minute, we’re in her front hall, where she fetches a lantern of her own. “Now let’s find your friend.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Drew’s huddled behind a laurel bush, draped in his oilcloth. Having heard our approach, he’s got his musket shouldered. “Who is it?” he growls.

  “Drew, it’s me. Put away the gun. I have a lady here.”

  “Ian. Thank God.” He lowers the musket and steps from the evergreen concealment of the laurel.

  Mrs. Stephens lifts her lamp and gasps. “Lordy, he’s a big man.”

  “Mrs. Stephens, this is my messmate, Private Drew Conrad. Drew, this is Mrs. Irene Stephens. She’s going to fix us a meal and give us a bed for the night.”

  “A meal and a bed? Thank you so much.” Drew wipes his palm on his trousers and extends it. Mrs. Stephens takes his hand. She looks him up and down.

  “Poor boy. Bruised face, blackened eyes. And so many bandages,” she says, staring at the white bands crisscrossing his torso, hiding the wounds that Sarge’s bullwhip and George’s knife made. “How badly are you hurt, young man?”

  “The foe treated him very badly, ma’am,” I say. “But so far, thank God, he’s healing nicely. I’ve been using isinglass plaster and herbal salve on both of us.”

  “Both? Are you wounded as well?

  “Yes, ma’am. Minor injuries. Some grape from the bombardment at Purgatory Mountain and a few Yankee bullets that grazed me.”

  “But why are you bare-chested and barefoot, Private Conrad? It’s bitter out, and wintry yet.”

  Drew grunts. “Well…”

  “He lost his upper garments and his boots during the artillery attack on our camp, ma’am. He was washing up in the James River when the shells began to fall.” I’ve been rehearsing answers to questions like that since we left Purgatory Mountain.

  “Well, I can provide you with a shirt, perhaps even a makeshift jacket, and socks, but shoes, for a man so large…” Her eyes light up. “Ah, I have an idea. But later, later…”

  With a rustle of skirts, Mrs. Stephens steps forward and hooks an arm in Drew’s. “You both look like you could do with a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep. I fear that my accommodations and my cooking are far from elegant, but—”

  “Ma’am,” I say, grasping my rifle and shouldering my impedimenta, “we’re accustomed to sleeping on the ground, washing up in streams, and eating old bacon and weevil-infested hardtack. I’m sure that what food and shelter you provide will be paradise compared with what we’ve been enduring in the army.”

  By the time we reach Mrs. Stephens’s house, the drizzle has thickened into a steady rain. Drew and I spend several minutes wiping our mud-plastered feet on a porch mat before following our hostess inside. Mrs. Stephens hangs her shawl on a coat rack and pulls off her bonnet, then shows us around a small front parlor, a smaller back parlor with a fireplace, and a kitchen in the rear, with a stove radiating wood heat.

  Donning an apron, she says, “If you boys would head outside—the back door’s there—and gather in several armloads of wood—it’s stacked in the shed beneath the apple tree—I’d much appreciate it. After supper, if you’ll fetch some water from the pump out back, I’ll warm it up and you two can bathe before bed. And here, Private Conrad. It’s pouring now, and you don’t have a cap.” From the coat rack, she lifts a black felt slouch hat and hands it to Drew. “It was my husband’s but, bless him, he’s been far above the worrisome vicissitudes of weather since February of ’62.” With that, she stokes up the stove and begins pulling ingredients from cupboards.

  Drew and I step out onto the back stoop. He takes my hand in the dark. “Good fortune has sent us an angel. She’s so like my own mother. How’d you meet her?”

  “My shoe came apart in the mud, and whatever directs our fates determined that it was her porch that I sat on just as she left the house. We’re damned lucky, Drew.” My stomach rumbles. “A real meal, a bath, a real bed? The god of war has seen fit to reward us. Let’s get that wood in. I’m ravenous.”

  “Me too. I’m so hungry my hands are shaking.”

  The shed proves to be very low on wood. The armfuls we gather exhaust it. “Tomorrow we should show our thanks by filling her shed,” Drew says. “God knows as soldiers we’ve had enough practice with an axe.” When we step back inside, the scent of hot grease wafts over us, and the warmth of the stove envelops us. We both groan with bliss as we transfer our armloads to the wood box.

  Mrs. Stephens chuckles as she mixes batter. “Hungry, I see. Gentlemen, if you’ll look inside that cupboard, on the top shelf is a bottle of brandy. It was my son’s. I’ve hoarded it for years, for gentlemen guests, of which I assure you there have been almost none. Heaven forfend that I might do something the town could construe as improper! As pious as are the inhabitants of Eagle Rock, I might be labeled a strumpet.”

  Mrs. Stephens rolls her eyes and beats the batter harder. “Who knows what my neighbors will say about your all’s presence here? As if I have the energy to be licentious at this age. Well, at any rate, the brandy’s there, and you’re welcome to it. Pour yourselves some and get comfortable in the back parlor. Just leave me a dram or two to use in my apple pies this autumn…if we all aren’t in Yankee prisons by then, or hanged for offending Mr. Lincoln. And you, Private Conrad, you’ll find some things of use laid out in there. Can’t have you striding around l
ike a half-naked savage. Again, what would the neighbors think?”

  “Clothes, ma’am?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Oh, that would be grand. But, uhmm, ma’am,” Drew hesitates. He flashes me a sideways glance, then continues, flush-faced and sheepish, “it’s only proper to admit…to warn you…”

  “That you both suffer from beastly vermin?”

  “I’m so sorry to even mention the topic in front of a lady. It’s humiliating. You must be disgusted.” Drew bows his head, and golden hair falls over his face. The boy’s beautiful even when he’s full of shame. How I wish the love we share weren’t despised by the world. How I wish I could tell Mrs. Stephens the truth, then hold him in my arms and comfort him, just as men do the women they cherish.

  “Most ladies, at least those around here, are much less squeamish than you’d expect, son. If our sensibilities were that delicate, we never would have survived the privations and sorrows of the last four years. Every soldier I’ve sheltered has suffered the same unseemly infestation. Including my son. I’ll take my chances…and I’ll wash the bed sheets with scalding water once you depart. That should subdue the minute monsters. The clothes you can keep. Now off to the fireplace with you.”

  Mumbling with gratitude, we obey. When we enter the back parlor, we find a small fire going, as well as socks and a billowy nightshirt waiting for Drew on the settee. “Oh, my God,” he moans. Dropping onto the settee, he pulls the socks over his bandaged feet, then dons the shirt. He lies back, props his feet up on a footstool, and closes his eyes.

  I sit beside him, giving his thigh a quick squeeze. “This is the first time I’ve seen you shirted since the day we met.”

  “Since the day you cut my jacket and shirt off me, just before your uncle beat me,” Drew whispers.

  “Shush.”

  Drew emits a deep sigh. I stare into the fire, thanking God for such a windfall of kindness. When I look up, Drew’s face is glistening with tears. I grab his hand; he falls against me and begins to sob.