by Jeff Mann
“Hang me then. But please don’t hurt him. Please.” In the dying firelight, a tear slips down Drew’s cheek. “I’m begging you. He was your company mate. You fought together for years. I’m your foe, not him.”
“Drew, be quiet!” I bark. “It won’t do any good. You know what kind of man he is. He’s mean as a snake, and he always will be.”
“You have a wicked tongue, Ian Campbell. Slandering your betters. Shut him up, Dave.”
“Gladly. I’m tired of all this talk, talk, talk. It’s like a goddamn family reunion.” Pulling a rag from his back pocket, Dave steps behind me. “Time this evening was done with. I got to piss and I need to sleep.”
“We’ll have to choose a thick branch for you, Yank, big as you are.” George rubs his hands together. “I can’t wait to see your eyes bug out and your face turn purple.”
“Like that Yankee scout we caught outside Eagle Rock.” Will slaps his knee. “His tongue stuck out like a dead heifer’s.”
“George, no,” I blurt. The panic I’ve been fighting back since their sudden appearance swamps me. “Have some mercy. Please don’t—”
From behind, Dave forces a smelly rag against my lips. I struggle, gritting my teeth, growling and tossing my head. Stepping forward, Will punches me hard in the jaw, then backhands me, knocking my spectacles from my face. I go limp, long enough for Dave to cram the cloth between my teeth and knot it in tight. Dizzy, I shake my head, leaning against the back of the love seat, struggling to stay conscious.
“At last. About time you were stifled.” George cups my chin in his hand, then spits in my face. Thick brown phlegm, heavy with the scent of tobacco, clots my beard and slides off my nose in a viscous string. “I’ve had to listen to your book-smart talk and see Sarge dote on you for four bitter years. It’s finally getting to the time when you and I part ways for good.”
“Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”
“Are you begging me, Yank?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then get on your knees and try again.”
I stare into Drew’s terror-contorted face and shake my head. It won’t do any good, friend, I try to say with my eyes. The only thing left to us is dignity.
Drew slides to the edge of the love seat and drops to his knees on the floor. He stares up at George, tears welling up in his blue eyes and spilling over.
“Please. Please. Please. Hang me, if you have to, but please don’t harm Ian. He’s your countryman. Please. Please. I’m begging you. Please.”
George laughs. “It’s almost as if monsters like you truly feel not just lust but love.” He chews his wad loudly, then spits in Drew’s hair. “Dave, hold Ian down.”
Dave slides into the love seat beside me. Curving one arm around my throat and one about my chest, he pulls me against him.
Drew sobs. “I’m begging you! Don’t hurt him!”
“You need to shut up too, Yank, “ says George, pulling a rag from his back pocket and rolling it up. “Will, get this pathetic Yankee up.”
I plead, twisting against Dave. In response, his arm tightens against my throat, reducing my protests to a wheezed grunt.
As soon as Will heaves Drew to his feet, George punches my Yank in the belly. Stunned, Drew gasps, doubling over. George stuffs the rolled rag into Drew’s mouth and ties it behind his head.
“Hold him still now,” orders George. Nodding, Will wraps one arm around Drew’s elbows and another around his waist.
“Thank you, Will.” George steps forward. He spits his wad of tobacco on the floor. Then he smiles broadly and punches Drew in the jaw.
Snarling and thrashing, I fight Dave’s grip with no luck. I can only watch as George, possessed of the same stamina he displayed when he bullwhipped Drew at the Purgatory camp, bludgeons him. George’s fists pummel his handsome face, his sides, his chest, his belly. Drew roars and writhes. Twice he throws Will off before being subdued again.
The beating goes on for what seems like hours. When George finally pauses, Drew’s face is bloodied and his eyes are swelling. George takes two more swings, one connecting with Drew’s crotch, the other with his temple, then steps back and lowers his fists. When George nods, Will releases Drew. My lover sways, then, insensible, slumps to the floor.
“Your turn,” George says, beckoning to me. Dave drags me to my feet, his elbow crooked so tightly around my windpipe I can barely breathe, and pushes me forward. I’m shaking violently, praying for mercy that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt will not come. From God, perhaps. From Tessa, perhaps, if she can free herself. But definitely not from George.
I take the pain for long moments—George’s fists crashing into my face, my torso, my belly, pain flaring up beneath his blows as if I were brittle-dry grass and he were an erratic shower of sparks—before blacking out. I come to on the floor, just long enough to feel a sharp boot slamming into my ribs. Then something hard meets my chin, my tongue explodes into blood between my teeth, and my sight flickers out.
CHAPTER FORTY
I wake to sharp throbbing. My head, torso, and belly are all pocked with pain, making me flinch and whimper. There’s a nasal droning in the room, somewhere behind me. I can’t move my limbs. Something warm and solid is pressed against me, from my forehead to my feet.
When I open my eyes, I see blurry dimness—everything’s vague without my spectacles—then, in the little fire-flicker left, golden buttons, gray fabric, and a dark stain. When I move my head, I see a pale bush of beard, its full softness brushing my brow. I breathe in a familiar smell. It’s Drew’s beloved, musky warmth.
“Drew?” I mumble against the tight obstruction in my mouth. With difficulty, I crane my head to study his face. He’s still unconscious, shaggy hair covering his eyes, his beautiful features battered and bruised, swollen lips slack, blood staining his beard and soaking the rag between his teeth a deep crimson.
It takes me a few confused seconds to assess our circumstances. The dark streak across Drew’s uniform jacket is my own bloody drool. We’re lying on the floor by the love seat, in the light of the hearth-embers. Our hands are still bound behind our backs, and our feet are still tied. But now, in addition, we’re bound together, Drew’s torso pressed against mine. Rope’s circled very tightly about my neck, my chest, my waist, my knees, and my ankles, securing me to my Yank. George has chosen our position well: tied in such a manner, there’s no way that we can free each other’s hands while our captors sleep. And we’re both still gagged, a fact no doubt meant to prevent us from sharing whispered escape plans.
The nasal sawing pauses. There’s a snort, then the sawing recommences. It’s George, I think, passed out on Tessa’s cot, dead to the world after consuming so much good food and liquor and after expending so much effort to beat us both senseless.
Groaning, I try to roll us over, only to fail miserably. We’re tied too tight, and Drew’s too heavy. For what seems like hours, heart pounding with terror, I twist my wrists around in the confining rope till their chilly numbness has shifted to a painful, chafed burning. I try to ignore the pressure in my bladder, the pain welling up inside every place George struck me, and the clutching grip of blind panic that threatens to steal my breath. I try to stay calm, to figure out a way to freedom, only to find none and to lapse into panic again.
“Wake up. We got to get loose.” The rag between my teeth reduces my frantic whisper to a muffled mumble. My Yank sleeps on, dead to the world, his breathing shallow. I struggle, grow exhausted, drowse, then wake with a jolt of panic and again begin my futile attempts to free us. Goddamn it, this is just like my night in the Federal camp, knowing that death would be coming for me with daybreak. Except this is much, much worse. That would only have been my death. This time death will be coming for Drew too.
I break down, crying quietly against Drew’s broad chest. If I extend my neck to its upmost, I can bury my face in his beard. I can even bump his chin. I do so. Once, twice, a third time. He doesn’t respond. I weep again, the
n stop weeping. Something cold and calm in me makes note of gray light filling the windows. Dawn’s nearly here. My crooked thumb tugs at a strand of rope; my forefinger claws at another. Both give. With my thumb, I tug again, teeth-gritting the gag with pain as the tautened rope tightens around my wrist. Then, suddenly, that single strand slips over the side of my hand, loosening my bonds the slightest bit.
I grunt with relief. Still, too slow, too slow. Daylight’s streaking the floor; those bastards will wake soon. Faster, Ian, faster. My mind circles its slough of hysteria, casting about for options. Tied like this, no way we can reach Tessa’s rifle, much less aim it. But the carving knife? The knife used to slice the ham. If only I could get Drew to wake up. Maybe if we could somehow crawl over there, somehow get upright, somehow get hold of that knife and cut ourselves free. As long as we didn’t wake George. Oh, Jesus, Drew, please wake up! I fight harder. I thrash. Drew still won’t rouse. His poor face. George hit him so hard. Some men in my Rebel band received head wounds on the battlefield and never woke up. God, don’t let that happen to Drew. Jesus, Yank, you’ve got to wake up.
Please, God, I pray, please help us. You led us together, you led us to love. Please save us from such a miserable end. Meanwhile I recommence picking at my bonds. I manage to dislodge another strand of rope, then another. I choke back a low sob of hope. Intent on my efforts, I don’t realize that the snoring behind me has ceased until a voice interrupts my panting struggles for freedom and makes me start with fright.
“Morning. Trying to get free? Looks like you worked yourself loose a little. Not enough to make a difference. And now it’s too late.”
Oh, no. Oh, no.
I fall still. Feet cross the floor. Wood’s added to the fire. A boot bumps my brow. George sits on the love seat beside us. He pulls a flask from his pocket and lifts it, as if in a toast.
“It’s dawn. Judgment Day for you sodomites.” He rubs his lank hair. “Head hurts. Hair of the dog.” He takes a gulp from the flask, then another, then another. “Want any?”
I shake my head. For a moment we stare at one another in silence.
George coughs. He clears his throat, then hawks up mucus. Grimacing, he swallows it. “Remember the early days, Ian? How hopeful we all were? That whole crew of us, young and eager to fight? Before everybody died?”
I nod. The look in his eyes is almost gentle, almost wistful.
“You sure you don’t want any? Last chance.” Bending, he brushes his fingers through my hair.
“Uh huh,” I mumble. A violent trembling has seized me up again, and I can’t seem to stop it, even though I know it must gratify George tremendously.
“Ain’t got much left. I ain’t got much liquor left; you ain’t got much time left. Guess it’d be a waste, giving you any. Remember how good Sarge was to you? You were a fine soldier. A fine shot. Handsome and fast, agile and so, so smart. Nobody could box like you. God, I used to envy you. You never seemed afraid of anything. Were you ever afraid?”
I close my eyes, groan, and nod.
“Look at me, boy.” His foot nudges my cheek. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I open my eyes, staring up at him over Drew’s shoulder, trying not to cry.
“Bet you’re afraid now. Ain’t you?”
I nod.
“Yeah. Thought so. About time. About damn time.” George smiles sadly, then drains the flask.
“All gone. Remember when we first met? Summer of ’61. Saw all those fucking Yanks running from Manassas, and all them damn city fools who’d come down from Washington with picnics to watch the fight. Got more than they bargained for. A blue rout! ‘The Great Skedaddle!’ We could have been friends, Ian. But you got all standoffish and downright nasty, and then this here boy showed up. Well…”
George drops the emptied flask on the floor. He slips off the love seat and hunkers beside us. With a tenderness I’ve never once seen him evince, he caresses Drew’s thick yellow hair.
“Yep, this big, good-looking boy ruined everything. Turned you against us all.” Now he pats Drew’s bruised cheek. Now he runs a finger along Drew’s swollen upper lip. “Today’ll end that tale. The tale of you two. But before y’all swing from that apple tree out back, I got one more punishment for your Yankee here.”
George stands. He unbuttons his pants. He pulls out his very large and very erect sex, spits in his hand, and strokes himself. Then, falling to his knees, he loosens the rope belt about Drew’s waist and jerks my boy’s trousers down, then his undergarment. Unbelievably, Drew shows no response.
“I’m going to ride this big boy of yours. I’m going to make him bleed.” George positions himself behind Drew, fondling the pale skin of his hip. “And you have no choice but to watch. Like you’re going to watch him hang, after I spend my seed up inside him and after my band and I make us a nice breakfast from that nigger’s larder.”
I start screaming. There’s nothing left for me but that. I thrash and buck and scream. I roll back and forth, kicking and howling. “Don’t touch him, goddamn you. He’s mine. Don’t touch him! I’ll fucking slaughter you!” I shout.
“Christ, shut up!” Reaching over Drew’s unconscious form, he slams his knuckles against my temple. “Shut up, or I’ll cut your throat.”
I ignore the snarled threat and the fresh flood of pain. Maddened, I shake my head and keep shouting, keep writhing. That George might roughly violate Drew in the same way that I have so long yearned to tenderly take him? That George’s hate might force itself on Drew in the same private place that my love aches to enter him? It’s unendurable.
“Get away from him, George,” I bellow. “Don’t you touch him! Drew, damn it, wake up! Wake up!”
Drew’s eyes flicker open just about the time George spits in his palm again and presses himself against Drew’s exposed rump. His expression goes from drowsy confusion to stony rage in an instant. Roaring, he joins me in thrashing about. “Keep still, damn you both,” George snarls. “Goddamn you, be quiet.”
Drew heaves, throwing George off. Cursing, George slams against the rocking chair. Cursing, he climbs to his feet. Cursing, he stomps into the kitchen, then returns with the carving knife.
“Now you’ll do what you’re told.” George stretches out behind Drew, claps a hand over his mouth, jerks his head back, and presses the knife’s edge against his throat. “Both of you shut up and keep still.”
Panting and trembling, Drew and I obey. Against me, Drew’s body is ramrod-tense, his breast heaving against mine.
George laughs. “That’s right. Not much reason left to fight, boys. We’re about finished here.” He draws the blade across Drew’s throat, slowly and lightly, leaving a thin line of blood. Drew’s face twists beneath George’s grip.
“Keep real quiet now, or else.” Removing his hand from Drew’s mouth, George spits into his palm again, then lowers it against Drew’s rear. Drew grunts and flinches, his face crumpling, which can only mean that George’s fingers have started their violation.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Yank,” George murmurs, stroking Drew’s cheek with the knife. “Then, hell, I might as well screw your little lover here too. And, soon as I’m done—to hell with hanging—I’m going to cut off your balls and cocks, and then I’m going to cut your throats.”
George probes. Drew jolts and whimpers. I plead, and then, my last vestige of pride shattered, I begin to sob.
“Finally got you to cry, huh, Ian? Took long enough. I’ll give y’all a romantic burial, I promise,” George says, rubbing his groin against Drew. “I’ll dump you in the same hole, beneath that apple tree. Blood and bodies and bones, all one rotten stew.”
Drew and I stare into each other’s eyes, bloodstained gags gritted between our teeth. I can read that look as clearly as if he’d said it. This is it. Damn, we deserve better! I love you. I wish we’d had more time together. Drew’s blue eyes well up with tears; he flashes me a resigned smile. Panting and trembling, we nestle our faces together and wait for
the inevitable: violation and an early death. My prayer’s no longer for salvation; it’s too late for that. Lord, let him do as he said. Let our bodies rest intertwined; let us have that grave together.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Christ, George.” The deep voice behind our captor is thick with scorn.
George emits a high squeal. Pushing away from the bound bundle my Yank and I make, he scrambles to his feet. I’m so awash with relief I almost laugh, watching George hastily pull his pants up over his skinny thighs. Drew, face glistening with tears, releases a long breath and raises an eyebrow in surprise.
Dave, naked to the waist, boots in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other, is standing at the bottom of the stairs. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I was, the Yankee, I was punishing him.” George waves the knife at nothing in particular.
“Tuck yourself in there.” Dave chuckles, scratching his beard. “Don’t let that big ole thang flop around. What was all that shit about sodomites last night, brother? Looks like you were about to put your dick up that big boy’s ass. Ain’t that what sodomites do?”
“What the hell’s the racket?” It’s Will now, thumping down the stairs, tucking in his shirt. “Can’t I sleep late just once, for Jesus’s sake?”
Dave guffaws. “George here was about to ass-fuck this Yank.”
“What?” Will’s face twists with disgust.
“Hell, he has the boy’s pants down, don’t he? He had his dick out just a second ago.”
“Damn, George, really?” Will snorts. “As much as you tote that Bible around and talk about your preaching days back home?”
George’s red-faced, fumbling with his trousers, buttoning up as fast as he can. “It was going to be a punishment! Damn you! Don’t laugh at me!”
“Punishment?” Will rolls his eyes, yawns, and stretches. “Beating ’em up last night, that was punishment. Hanging ’em this morning, that’s punishment. But screwing ’em?”