by Jeff Mann
“I as well, ma’am.” Drew steps forward. He’s so tall and his visitor is so small that he must hunch down and she must crane her neck for them to speak face to face.
“Ain’t half as glad as I am. Glad as we all are to know y’all. That turd Brutus is all laid up in the back of the church, a’whining and a’bawling, and the preacher, he’s nowhere to be found. Them raiders, they’re down at Eagle’s Nest tavern, a’settling in and a’holping themselves to Jack’s stores. Nary a barrel withouten a broken bung, that’s what old man Preston said. Jack’s fit to be tied, but what he can do? They’re carousing and breaking things, as usual.” She pats Drew’s forearm. “Get down here, boy, outta them clouds. I can barely see ye, and my neck’s about broke from hoisting it back.”
“How many Feds are there, ma’am?” Drew drops to his knees, chuckling.
“Law, a big batch, looks like. They’re getting drunk fast. Goddamn Yankees, always sucking up our Southern spirits. Reminds me of horseflies on a steer’s rump, just a’slurping and a’stinging. Or a cloud of bitey flies in summer, trying to get up in your nose and y’ears. Y’wave and wave, but they won’t disperse.”
Drew snickers, his grin widening. “Yes, ma’am, those boys in blue can be predacious.”
“Hell, son,” she says, shaking her head. “You should have seen the Valley last fall. They ’bout burnt everything up. Demons, they were. The palls of smoke about smothered heaven. All those young boys dressed in blue—faces of angels, some of them, like you two—tossing torches in barns, shooting the pigs. General Early, he hadn’t enough men left to stop them.”
Drew’s smile fades at the edges before reassuming its previous brightness. “What have you there, Mizz Sadie?” he says, indicating the basket.
“Lord, there I went, chawing over bad times like a cheekful of burley, when I came here to celebrate! My mind’s a maze, boys, at this age. A laurel hell. Like walking along with blasphemer’s briers a’tangling ’round your feet, just a’stumbling and a’staggering, grabbing holt of what supports you can. Like them blue brutes down the street. I’m as addled with age as they are with liquor. Well, here you go.” With knotty hands, she pulls the towel aside. The basket’s heaped. “I just wanted to give y’all a little something so as to thank y’all for your valor today.”
“There’s some eggs from Esmeralda,” says Mrs. Stephens. “We can have those tonight.”
“I had me a smidgin of wheat flour left, and some sour milk, so I made y’all biscuits. That there’s a last sweet tater. Bake it. Tastes like chestnuts. And here’s some wild greens: creecies. Y’all like those? Got to warsh them well. Full of sand. And that lil’ bag’s pipe tobaccer. I hear our boys in gray like a puff around the fire every now and then.”
“I have a pipe of Edward’s downstairs,” says our hostess. “You boys can share it after our meal. Would you like to stay to supper, Sadie?”
“Naw, ma’am, thank ye kindly, but I got me an old guinea bubbling in the pot back home, and I should get to it. Bless you, boys.”
“Ma’am, one thing?” I seize her gnarled hand. “You said everyone in town knew what happened in the church today.”
“Yes, Lord. Expect other visitors. Ever’body wants to meet the Rebel boys that drove out those lard-bottomed plagues! Mr. Preston said he’ll be by later with y’all some whiskey he’s done stole from the back room of the tavern while Jack was up front a’cussing the Yankees and trying to save his furniture from being broke up.”
“But will anyone tell the Federals that we’re here? If so, we’ll be arrested for sure.”
“Law, no. We love our soldiers! Ain’t nobody going to tell on you. Ain’t nobody going to tell them bluebellies a thing.” She pats my hand. “None of us roundabouts would spare a Yank a pot to piss in.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Stephens concurs. “Though sometimes they do force themselves inside and demand shelter and provisions. Tonight, it sounds as if they’ll be too busy enjoying themselves in the tavern to bother us. Tomorrow might be another matter. I’ll keep you hidden until this band of them has passed through. Stay here, boys, while I help Mizz Sadie home.”
“Thanks so much,” Drew and I say, nearly in unison. We each take one of Mizz Sadie’s hands. Drew kisses her knuckles; I do the same. “Lord, boy,” she says, studying my face, her voice quavering, “you look too much like my grandson. God keep you both.” Then Mrs. Stephens takes the candle and the basket and leads our visitor out. She closes the door behind her, leaving us again in the dark.
Drew’s hand finds mine. “Come on up on the bed, Reb. I’m cold. Let’s get beneath the covers. Sounds like we’re fairly safe tonight. Your pistol and knife are within easy reach if we need ’em.”
We slip off our shoes. Drew makes a mound of pillows at the head of the bed and lies back. I slip up beside him and cover us with blankets. He circles me with an arm; I rest my head on his shoulder.
“I feel shameful deceiving them,” Drew murmurs. “Don’t you?”
“I do, buddy. What worse shame than being a deserter? God, what will my parents say when we reach home? My father used to talk about how a man always chooses duty over desire.”
“You made the right choice. It wasn’t cowardly; it was heroic. Your choice saved my life. Please don’t regret that. But I…when Mizz Sadie said what she said about the Valley…”
“Don’t, Drew. Don’t torture yourself.”
“Ian, they’re feeding us and taking risks for us, hiding us from men who might harm them. If they knew I’m one of the enemy, if they knew what part I played last fall, helping General Sheridan burn the Valley…”
“I know. But we need their aid badly. And we have helped them. And you’re not one of the enemy. Not any longer. We’ve both just done what we were told. I shot your Yanks; you shot my Rebs; you helped burn the Valley because Sheridan and Grant—forgive me, but goddamn them—ordered you to. Besides, I’d say you’ve paid for whatever crimes you committed against the civilians of the Valley. After weeks of being bound and beaten bloody by my crew of Confederates, wouldn’t you say things are even? Wouldn’t you say that all those scars you carry now are punishment enough?”
Drew kisses my cheek and strokes my hair. “Don’t feel like it, but bless you for saying that anyway.”
I roll onto my side, throwing an arm athwart his hips and snuggling my head against his great chest. “Drew, I don’t know what will befall us on the way back to my western mountains or what we’ll find when we get there. You’re taking a big risk being with me. You could rise right now, and walk down the street, and open that tavern door, and those cavalrymen would greet you as a brother. You could explain your trials of the last few weeks, as a prisoner of war. You could mount up and ride off with ’em.”
“Shit. After all you’ve done for me? After the way I’ve come to care about you? Stop talking like a madman! Leave you? Leave the way we feel together? Your body pressed against mine?”
“I just want you to feel free. I don’t want you to feel beholden.”
“I do feel free. Thanks to you. And I am beholden. But that’s not why I’m staying with you, little friend. This is why.” His fingers stroke my beard—such gentleness for such a powerful man. Then he cups my cheek, lifts my face to his, and kisses me.
“Owww, damn, my lip hurts.” Drew’s low laugh is cut short when a door opens downstairs. Sheer instinct jolts us apart; we throw back the blankets and slip off opposite sides of the bed.
“’Tis I, gentlemen,” our hostess sings out on the floor below. Her light footfall ascends; the door creaks open, and her fine-featured face appears in the candlelight. “Those horrid horsemen are so deep into their cups they’ll be of no danger to anyone tonight. Tomorrow, though, as badly as their heads are bound to be hurting, they’ll probably be surly and start turning the town upside down for provisions, the ravening wolves. If that occurs, I’ll be sure you’re well hidden. The last Rebel soldier that the Federals caught around here they arrested—the poor c
hild looked like he wasn’t but sixteen—but word was that some of the nastier raiders have shot a few of our boys outright.”
“Well, of course we’d both like to avoid such an ignoble fate. But, ma’am?” I look about the room. “Big as Drew is, I don’t think we’d both fit in the chifforobe.”
“You leave all that to me. Y’all aren’t the first soldiers I’ve hidden from Yankee raiders, I assure you. Now come downstairs and enjoy the hearth. It’s crackling merrily, thanks to that plethora of wood you split. I’ve drawn the curtains and locked the doors, just in case one of those bluecoats staggers by. I’ve gotten Sadie’s biscuits in the warming oven—where she got wheat flour at this point in the war I have no idea—and the field peas are nearly tender enough. And I found some wild onions to add to the hominy.”
We’re halfway down the steps when there’s another knock on the door. “Wait upstairs,” our hostess directs. Drew and I crouch down in the darkness of the second floor while Mrs. Stephens rustles down the steps and peers around a window-drape. “Ah,” she says. She unlocks the front door and cracks it. There’s an exchange of whispering, then she closes the door and relocks it. She turns, sporting two bottles.
“That was Mr. Preston. He said to say ‘God preserve our Southern soldiers!’ and to enjoy these libations with his compliments. It’s some of my shambling nephew’s applejack. And some of that elderberry wine I savor. He pilfered the bottles while Jack was trying to break up some brawling Yankees. Shall we enjoy a preprandial dram before supper? Or would you prefer postprandial? I recommend both. Yes, I do believe we’ll have both.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I don’t know which dish I enjoy the most, so I move from one to another to another, humming with rapture after each bite. First the heap of spicy hominy, plump kernels browned in bacon grease and flavored with the chopped green quills of wild onions. Then spoonfuls of field peas in broth, salty with shreds of ham, tasting of Southern earth and Southern summers. Next, Mizz Sadie’s biscuits, flaky and soft, each half topped with butter, drizzled with black sorghum, and accompanied by a cold glass of sweet milk. Finally, baked eggs, sprinkled with pepper and breadcrumbs, a yellow gushing of yolk I sop up with bits of biscuit. At my elbow, Drew feasts as eagerly as I, mumbling, “Lord, oh Lord” between bites.
Having emptied our plates, we put our forks down, trying our best to be polite. “There is more, and you are most welcome to it,” Mrs. Stephens insists, pointing at the stovetop. “My appetite has dwindled as my age has increased. Edward used to tease me about my passion for French pastries—I was plump for several years after I bore John—but that was long ago. These days, I’m sated by very little. It gives me great pleasure to watch you boys eat. Put away that shy reticence! Please finish what’s left.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” Drew’s eyebrows knit, a look both hopeful and dubious.
“I am sure. As long as one of you handsome soldiers would be kind enough to pour me a drop more of that wine. Just leave me half a biscuit in the warming oven that I can top with sorghum later. I do enjoy a bit of sweetening after supper.”
“Certainly,” I say, rising to fill her glass.
“We’d love more,” Drew says, jolting to his feet. “You certainly are an excellent cook!” Excitedly, my Yank piles on seconds. I’m right behind him.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am. Oh, thank you, ma’am. Oh, thank you, ma’am,” Drew groans, forking hominy into his mouth, closely followed by a spoonful of peas, then a bite of biscuit, then a pepper-dotted scoop of egg. “It’s all so good. It’s all just so good.”
Mrs. Stephens takes a sip of wine. Her smile is sad. She pulls a handkerchief from a dress pocket and dabs at her eyes.
“Ma’am? What’s wrong?” I put down my fork.
“Your famished gratitude breaks my heart. Every Rebel soldier I’ve encountered has been like you boys. Unwashed, tattered, exhausted, starved. I can only imagine what my son’s enduring in the trenches before Petersburg. And Sadie, poor thing. Her grandson Joseph died at Seven Pines. I don’t know how she manages it—she’s penniless, like most of Eagle Rock’s residents—but every time a Southern soldier comes through this town, she bakes him biscuits. Such gestures help ease her sorrow over Joseph. She was so, so glad to meet you all.”
“And you, Mrs. Stephens? How have you survived?” I break into a baked egg, nudge hominy into the spill of yolk, and fork up more precious bites. “Your hospitality, as you can tell from our enthusiasm at the supper table, is much appreciated, but we don’t want to be a burden on your resources.”
“No burden, gentlemen. As I’ve said, your presence is very welcome. As for my means, I’m more comfortable than most. Edward left me with a little before he died, though, as you well know, Confederate currency is worth next to nothing and everything’s become horribly expensive. Those poor women in Richmond, rioting for bread. Only President Davis’s pleas were sufficient to send them home. Well, between Edward’s money, and my own efforts in my little garden patch—I might have been a Charleston belle once, but before that I was a mountain farmer’s daughter—and the help of a local boy—he’s too young for the army, only fifteen, though he keeps threatening to enlist and I keep threatening to take a buggy whip to his behind if he does—well, Tommy fetches me the occasional wild turkey and squirrel. I’m doing well, compared to most folks here. They’ve been bled dry by my obese brother-in-law, though, thanks to you two, that nastiness is over. And thanks to that pretty little pistol and ammunition you gave me, I’ll be able to frighten off Philip if he ever has the effrontery to return.”
“Glad to be of service.” Drew scrapes the last morsels from his plate, flexes his right biceps with beaming satisfaction, and smiles. “Ma’am, would you mind awful bad if I smoked? I haven’t had a pipe since I left home, and that tobacco Miss Sadie brought us is tempting me something fierce. You did say you had a pipe?”
“I do. Have you boys had enough supper?”
“Yes, ma’am!” we exclaim together.
“Then follow me.” Rising, she enters the parlor, where she pulls a meerschaum pipe and the bag of tobacco from a drawer and hands both to Drew. “Well, I’ll just have a few puffs on the back porch,” says Drew, but Mrs. Stephens points him to a chair instead.
“I’m fond of the scent of a pipe, sir. Edward was passionate about the weed. Besides, I don’t want you boys to go outside tonight. You might be seen.”
We spend a quiet evening by the fire, Mrs. Stephens in her rocking chair, Drew and I sprawled side by side on the settee, feet propped on the same stool, luxuriating in a cozy space free of the army-camp smells of tent canvas and wet wool. Drew drowsily puffs on the pipe, the fragrant smoke wreathing his handsome head like a blue-gray halo, and gives me a frequent taste. I sip applejack, savoring its warmth. Mrs. Stephens has a bit more wine and steadily sews.
“A warm shirt for you, Private Conrad,” she says, proudly displaying the homespun garment. “I believe I’ll stay up late and work on these jackets for you boys,” she says, patting a pile of gray cloth. “If you can stop with me one more day, I’ll have them done. Where will you go from here?”
“We’re heading up Craig Creek a ways, ma’am,” I say. “The mouth of it is across the James, is it not?”
“Yes. But that might prove a problem. It’s wild up there, full of dangers both blue and gray. Federal raiders and Southern outlaws all move through that valley, from here to New Castle and beyond. Are you going as far as New Castle, gentlemen?”
Drew looks at me and cocks an eyebrow. “Ian here is the navigator.”
“Yes, ma’am, we might.”
“Well, a cousin of mine is the proprietor of a hotel there. I’ll write you a letter of introduction. He’s a great patriot. He might give you lodging for a night or two. But there’s another problem with Craig Creek. Mr. Preston told me that the Yankees occupying Eagle Rock have guards posted at either end of the bridge across the James. You’ll need to get over the river some other way.”
/> “Ian’s a good shot,” Drew says, almost cheerily. “He could dispatch ’em.”
“True.” Mrs. Stephens’s laugh is grim. “As tired as I am of being bullied by Federal raiders, I wouldn’t mind using my new pearl-handled pistol on them as well. But that would only alert their friends and get us all arrested. You could wait till the bluecoat band has passed through. Once they’ve foraged sufficiently, they should be on their way. Or…”
She pauses. A faint smile flickers over her lips. “Mr. Preston might be able to help us with this problem. We’ll see. Well, you boys have had a long day. You both look tired. I’ve set out toothbrushes and tooth powder in your room, as well as combs, a washbowl, and a pitcher of water. It’s late. Get on up to bed, and I’ll see you in the morning. The only coffee I have left is that foul roasted rye substitute, but we can have more eggs, thanks to Sadie’s generosity, and I can fry us cornmeal cakes, if you don’t mind sorghum as a sweetening again. For supper, perhaps I’ll bake that sweet potato and cook those greens. My guess is that other folks might be by tomorrow with gifts for you two, so, with luck, we might end up with some bacon or salt pork or ham. Tomorrow night, once everyone’s abed, we’ll figure out a way to get you soldiers across the river.”
Drew and I say our goodnights, leaving her rocking by the fire, bent over her sewing. Upstairs, we comb the tangles out of each other’s hair and enjoy the luxury of brushing our teeth before stripping hurriedly in the chill, pulling on our nightshirts, and curling up together beneath the blankets.
“My mouth hasn’t felt this clean for weeks,” Drew whispers, licking his teeth. Pulling me into his arms, he spoons me from behind.
“Mine hasn’t for years. We Rebs ran out of such luxuries years ago. We used to chew on spicebush leaves or birch twigs to freshen our breath.”
Drew brushes aside my long hair and kisses the nape of my neck. “You sure smell and taste good, Ian. It’s been such comfort holding you in this cozy bed. God knows where we’ll be tomorrow night. Maybe we can find us another cave, up Craig Creek somewhere, to take shelter in.”