Salvation

by Jeff Mann

  “Sounds dreadful. Well, I can do better than that.” Mrs. Stephens fetches a knife from a drawer and begins to pare the apples.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “Lord, no. You just sit there and enjoy your coffee. “Your ‘Sarge,’ you admired him. He was your uncle, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am, my father’s brother. He could be cruel and ruthless, but war tends to turn a man that way. He helped raise me.”

  “Have you siblings?”

  I take a long sip of coffee before answering. “My brother Jeff, he was killed at Antietam.”

  “I’m so sorry. It seems as if everyone I meet has lost someone loved to this terrible war. Well, sorrow, if it doesn’t embitter, can refine compassion, and we could all use more of that. Are your parents alive?”

  “Yes, thank God. They’re waiting for me back in West Virginia. Last I heard, they were doing well. Our property’s so remote that few raiders have harassed them. They have a mountain farm near the Greenbrier River. When the war’s over, I plan to go back there.”

  “And marry? Are there any ladies impatiently awaiting your return? Surely a boy as fine-looking and mannerly as you has a sweetheart?”

  I blush, shifting in my seat. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m afraid all these years in the army have made me too coarse for the company of ladies.”

  “Coarse? That’s absurd. You’re perfectly charming. And a scholar, I think.”

  “Books have always been a great enthusiasm of mine, even though my family didn’t have the money to send me off to university. Besides, my father needed my help in the fields. Until recently I had the Iliad with me, and a book of poems by a Northern poet, Walt Whitman. I had to leave them behind when the Yanks shelled our camp.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of Whitman. I hear he’s scandalous. Which, of course, piques my interest. Does your comrade still have family, sir?”

  “He does. Two sisters at home. Three older brothers in the war. His father’s hale, but I fear his mother’s ailing. He’s been hoping to get home to see her, but so far—”

  There’s a heavy tread on the stairs. Drew shuffles in, rubbing his eyes, dressed in nightshirt, socks, and gray trousers.

  “Good morning, Private Conrad. We were just talking about you.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Stephens. I’m very sorry I slept so late. That bed was amazingly comfortable.”

  “You clearly needed the rest, sir,” she says, slicing apples. “You look grand in my husband’s nightshirt. How I wish you two could have met him. Well, have some coffee. Breakfast will be ready in about an hour.”

  “And after that, the church?” Drew says, grinning. He pours himself a cup, takes a sip, and sighs. He sits down, folds his hands behind his head, and flexes his arms. His muscles bulge. Beneath the table, my sex stirs in my pants.

  Humming, Mrs. Stephens pours the bowl of cut apples into grease, where they sizzle merrily. “Yes, indeed. The church. I don’t believe that structure has ever hosted a wrestling match before.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The whitewashed church is small, but it’s well cared for, with a broad porch and a sharp steeple. It is, in fact, the only building in Eagle Rock that isn’t dilapidated and weatherworn. From this knoll, we can see the James’s flow, a rickety bridge spanning it, no doubt a replacement for one more substantial burnt in the course of the war, and, upriver a little, what I believe is the mouth of Craig Creek, which will begin the next leg of our journey away from war and toward home.

  After the last several days of rain, it’s sunny, but the wind’s cold on my face and my exposed toes. By my reckoning, it’s nearly the first day of spring, but winter is likely to linger yet in the heights we’ll soon enough be traveling. “Ready, big man?”

  “Absolutely, little Reb.” Drew’s got his new nightshirt tucked into his trousers and is wearing the late Mr. Stephens’s black felt hat. He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before striding across the porch and swinging the big door open.

  It’s bright inside. We pass through an alcove, then past an antechamber that, judging by a paper-scattered desk, must serve as an office. There, at the church’s far end, past a double line of pews and silhouetted against slants of sunlight, is the globular form of Reverend Robertson. He’s bent over the pulpit.

  “Planning your next sermon on avarice?” I say, moving up the aisle before Drew.

  “Good day, sir. Have you come to donate?” He squints at me. His inquisitive expression shifts in a second to a sour look of recognition. “You. You’re the impolite young man I saw yesterday with Irene. Come to apologize, I hope.”

  I emit a low laugh. “No, sir.”

  The fat minister glances at me, then at Drew, before returning to his perusal of the Bible. “And you brought a bear into church?”

  Drew chortles. “I’ll take that as a compliment on my physique. I’m…his comrade. And I hear you’ve been extorting Mrs. Stephens and other citizens out of meat and produce.”

  Robertson looks wary now. “The people of Eagle Rock donate to the church because they are devout, because they are true children of God, washed in the blood of the Lamb. If Irene told you that I was compelling them, well, disbelieve her. She’s not been right in the mind, ever since her husband died.”

  “She seems like a mighty fine lady to me, sir. It sounds to me like you’ve been wronging her.” Drew’s voice grows husky, dropping from baritone into a bass growl. “Seems to me like someone needs to stop you.” He steps forward, fists clenched.

  The reverend smiles. “It won’t be you, my boy.” He closes the Bible and reaches beneath the pulpit. I have my pistol trained on him by the time he produces his own gun, a tiny pearl-handed revolver.

  “That’s your weapon?” I snicker. “That delicate little thing? That’s more befitting a Richmond society lady than a gentleman. Has your faith made you a eunuch, sir?”

  “Why should I have to suffer a filthy soldier’s insults? You’re probably both crawling with lice. Leave here now!” He trains his prim-looking pistol on me, then Drew, then me, then Drew.

  A smiling Drew flanks him.

  “Brutus,” the minister shouts. “Brutus! Get in here.”

  Heavy footfalls sound in the antechamber behind us. I glance back, sizing up our opponent before returning my gaze to the minister. His minion is indeed big. He looks to be in his thirties and a few inches shorter than Drew, but his shoulders are broader and his arms are thicker. Unlike Drew, however, his shoulders taper down not to a narrow waist but to a significant swell of belly. His chest isn’t curved with muscle, like my Yank’s, but instead is composed of twin drooping breasts. If Mrs. Stephens were here, she’d probably regale us with some wonderful Shakespearean quotation about “dugs” or “paps.” Unlike Drew, his bulk, as Mrs. Stephens had predicted, seems primarily made up of fat.

  “Brutus, show these dogs out.”

  Grinning, Drew takes off his hat, places it on a pew, then crooks a finger of invitation at the minister’s thug. Brutus tramps down the aisle. Without warning, he flings himself at Drew. Drew sidesteps, and the big man crashes into a pew. He recovers fast, turning to swing a fat fist at Drew’s head. Again, Drew steps back. He gives his opponent a shove, and again Brutus bounces off a pew, this time dropping to his knees.

  Drew moves forward, fists clenched, poised in a half-crouch. He’s beautiful right now, with his white teeth gritted and flashing, blue eyes gleaming, golden hair falling over his face. This time, when his foe leaps, instead of dodging, he leaps as well, meeting him in mid-air. They slam together, fighting for a hold, swaying forward, backward, side to side. They part, only to smash against one another again. Drew punches Brutus in the belly; Brutus punches Drew in the mouth.

  They part once more, circling. Drew spits blood, a dark spatter on the wood floor, bright red in the sunlight. He launches himself, wrapping his arms around Brutus in mid-leap. They fall to the floor with a thud, straining and cursing. They roll around and around, slamming into the base of the pulpi
t. It totters, knocking Reverend Robertson’s ladylike pistol from his hand. He emits a shrill shriek, then, with a speed greater than I ever would have imagined him capable, stampedes along the wall of the church past me and out the front door.

  I’d pursue him, but Drew might need my aid. Indeed, Brutus has Drew pinned beneath him and is throttling him. Drew pants and squirms. His eyes bulge. His face turns scarlet. I’m about to intervene when our eyes meet. In response to my tacit question, Drew shakes his head. Gritting his teeth, he heaves, breaking Brutus’s strangling grip. The two forms, interlocked, make another few rotations on the floor before Drew manages to slam Brutus onto his belly, work an arm around the monster’s neck, pin his legs, and twist his right arm behind him.

  “Goddamn you,” the pinned man gasps. He tries several times, with no success, to throw my magnificent Yank off. “I’ll see you in hell, you fucking…”

  Whatever other threats the man might make are cut off by Drew’s arm, which he tightens about his adversary’s throat. He wrenches Brutus’s arm again, then again. Brutus writhes and kicks. When Drew wrenches his arm a third time, there’s a bright snap, the sound twigs make when soldiers break them down for kindling.

  Brutus howls. He manages another few moments of agonized thrashing before going limp and beginning to sob. Drew releases him, climbs off him, and shakily gets to his feet. Blood stains his beard a red-gold, just as it did that terrible night when George and his buddies, after bucking Drew, bound a bayonet between his teeth.

  Drew wipes his mouth. The marks of fingers still show, a dull crimson, on his throat. “After all those weeks bound up by your company mates, it feels damned fine to fight, to feel useful again,” he says, hoarse after Brutus’s attempt at choking him. “But look, Ian. I’ve gotten blood on my new nightshirt.”

  There’s that childlike tone to Drew’s voice I’ve come to love over the few weeks since we met. “I’m sure our hostess will forgive you. And see here,” I say, fetching the pearl-handled pistol from the floor. On a hunch, I search the pulpit, where a drawer beneath the podium contains a sizable cache of bullets I pocket. “This should provide her with some protection after we’re gone, though, from the looks of your wrestling partner, his days of intimidation are over. And without a brute as a hireling, and considering how much the local folks must detest him, I suspect a portly craven like Robertson had best simply leave town.”

  Brutus is silent now. Unconscious from pain, no doubt. When I was a civilian, I might have felt regret after such violence. After years of war, however, I’m fairly hardened, and Drew surely is too. Besides, Brutus’s downfall is Drew’s most probable gain, as Mrs. Stephens had predicted. Now Drew bends. He unlaces the man’s shoes, tugs them off, then sits on the nearest bench and pulls them on.

  “They fit, Ian,” Drew says. “They fit.” Face glowing, he laces them up, takes a few tentative steps, then wiggles his hips in an awkward approximation of a celebratory jig. “I have shoes! No more cuts and bruises, sticks and sharp rocks, no more bloody soles!” Grabbing me in his arms, Drew gives me a tight hug.

  “Congratulations, ” I gasp, barely able to breathe. “Now let me loose or you’ll bruise my ribs.”

  “Sorry.” Drew releases me. He fetches his new hat. “Let’s head back to Mrs. Stephens and tell her the good news.”

  We stride past pulpits in which, week after week, Virginians have come for comfort and succor only to find selfish manipulation, hypocrisy, and greed. And this is the faith that calls what I feel for Drew, what Drew feels for me, abomination, the crime of Sodom.

  Drew throws open the door and steps into the sun. “What a beautiful day. It’s almost spring,” my Yank effuses. On the porch we pause. The cold air riffles through Drew’s hair. He spits another mouthful of blood on the ground. “Tastes like iron,” he says, buffing his right shoe on his left calf. “Let’s get to that axe-work, friend. I intend to fill that excellent lady’s shed with wood. And I also intend to reserve enough energy to hug on you a good bit tonight.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There’s only one axe, so we take turns. I relish the way Drew’s body moves as he labors, and, considering the intent manner in which he watches me as I work, he seems to feel the same way about me. That symmetrical reciprocity of emotion is and will be—I have no doubt, even at age twenty-five—one of the great gifts of my life.

  We work until sunset, till the shadow of the mountain above the town has enveloped the house and lamplight flares up in the kitchen window. By the time we’re done, we’re exhausted, but we’ve managed to fill the shed with stacks of chopped red maple, white oak, and a little hickory, all gleaned from the wooded slope behind Mrs. Stephens’s house.

  “Uhhffff, my back,” Drew groans, bending forward, then from side to side.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I say, rubbing my lower spine. “My hands are stiff too, and my finger joints throbbing. How about we rub each other down tonight?”

  Drew’s eyes sparkle. “Any excuse to get my hands on you.”

  The back door opens. Mrs. Stephens appears with two glasses. “Fetch yourselves some water at the pump there,” she says, handing them to us.

  We obey, gulping thirstily, while she peers inside the shed. “Oh, God bless you,” she gasps. “That will keep me warm for many a week. Certainly till spring arrives in full force.”

  Turning, she pats Drew’s shoulder. “Mercy, Private Conrad, don’t you look elegant in that hat and those shoes? I’m just sorry you were hurt.” She indicates the bloodstain on Drew’s shirt and his swollen lip.

  “You have to pay for just about everything in this life, ma’am.”

  “Lord knows that’s true. Well, you’ve certainly earned your supper. I have the tiniest bit of ham left I’ll shred and add to a pot of field peas I’ve been soaking. There’s no other meat, but are you boys partial to baked eggs? My neighbor, Mizz Sadie, has a very productive hen, Esmeralda, we call her.”

  “Eggs?” I blurt. “Lord, we haven’t had eggs for months. Yes, please.”

  “I also have some fresh hominy I can fry in bacon grease.”

  Drew rubs his belly. “That all sounds splendid, ma’am. Might we have a little bit of all three?”

  “You boys have filled my shed and rid this town of its principal parasite. I think you’re due a celebratory feast. Bring in a few armloads, if you will. Then get washed up, relax in the parlor, take a nap, whatever pleases you. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  After Mrs. Stephens retires inside, Drew and I gulp several more glasses from the pump; the water’s cold and clean, far superior to the dirty puddles I’ve filled my canteen from during many a hot march. We’re about to head into the kitchen with armfuls of wood when there’s the thumping of hooves. It sounds like a goodly number of men.

  “Oh, Lord.” Drew drops the wood on the porch, then peers around the corner of the house. “Oh, Lord. Oh, no. It’s Federal cavalry.”

  The back door flies open. Mrs. Stephens is backlit by lantern light. “Get in here, gentlemen. Fast,” Mrs. Stephens says quietly. Far from being flurried, her manner’s deliberate, determined, as if she’s experienced an identical situation before and knows exactly what to do. She’s dressed in her mourning bonnet again, and her dark shawl. “You two just go up to the bedroom and close the door. Keep quiet; draw the drapes; light no candles. I’ll fetch you when it’s safe. And be sure to take up everything you brought with you. If they enter—and they sometimes do, though my reputation for a sour tongue has come to dissuade them—I don’t want them seeing anything that might alert them to your presence here.”

  In the parlor, we gather our muskets, our blanket rolls, my haversack, and all other evidence before hurrying up the narrow staircase and into the guest room. We close the door and draw the drapes; I unsheathe my Bowie knife and hand Drew my loaded pistol. We hunker down in the dark, side by side in a corner by the bed, tensed for a fight and straining for the slightest noise.

  Long minutes go by, all s
ilent save for the bookshelf’s clock. Then shouts and hoof beats, another wave of horsemen galloping past. Silence again; more anxious minutes. Then, to my horror, footsteps sound on the porch; there’s a light knocking on the front door, just beneath this room. The knock’s too light and tentative for soldiers, though. Voices downstairs now, but again, not the loud, assertive, or hostile tones of a soldier. It’s Mrs. Stephens’s voice, and yet another. Female, barely discernible.

  A light appears under the crack of the closed door. Slow footsteps climb the stairs. Drew and I crouch, weapons at the ready.

  “Gentlemen,” says our hostess, just outside the door. “It’s just me. And a visitor.”

  The door creaks open. Mrs. Stephens stands there in candlelight. Beside her is a tiny old woman with a bun of white hair atop her wrinkled and smiling face. She has few teeth. She’s dressed in a shapeless gray dress, a blanket’s draped over her shoulders, and she’s carrying a towel-covered basket.

  “Mizz Sadie, this is Private Campbell and this is Private Conrad. Gentlemen, this is Mizz Sadie.” Mrs. Stephens puts the candle on the desk and ushers the old lady forward. “She heard about your adventures at the church today. She wanted to meet y’all.”

  “Heard about it?” Mizz Sadie cackles. “Honey, the news has tore through this pissant town like a fox through a henhouse! ’Cept it was the fox who got whipped, and now the hens are safe again, thanks to y’all. That son of a bitch, he’s been taking my taters and beans and such for years. Gluttonous as a pond leech, and useless as tits on a boar-hog!”

  Lord, her language is even more colorful than Mrs. Stephens. We rise, relieved, and put our weapons atop the bookshelf. “I’m very glad to know you, Mizz Sadie,” I say.