Salvation Read online

  Salvation

  A Novel of the Civil War

  Jeff Mann

  Published by Bear Bones Books

  an imprint of Lethe Press

  at Smashwords.com

  Copyright © 2014 Jeff Mann.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in 2014 by Bear Bones Books,

  an imprint of Lethe Press, Inc.

  118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018

  www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]

  www.BearBonesBooks.com • [email protected]

  isbn: 978-1-59021-406-0 / 1-59021-406-4

  e-isbn: 978-1-59021-083-3 / 1-59021-083-2

  Interior design: Alex Jeffers.

  Cover design: Niki Smith.

  This book, in whole and in part, is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, clubs or organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mann, Jeff.

  Salvation : a novel of the civil war / Jeff Mann.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-59021-406-0 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-59021-083-3 (e-book)

  1. Gay military personnel--Fiction. 2. Soldiers--Fiction. 3. Erotic stories, American. 4. United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.A53614S35 2014

  813’.54--dc23

  2014011836

  Also by Jeff Mann

  Poetry

  Bones Washed with Wine

  On the Tongue

  Ash: Poems from Norse Mythology

  A Romantic Mann

  Memoir and Poetry

  Loving Mountains, Loving Men

  Essays

  Edge: Travels of an Appalachian Leather Bear

  Binding the God: Ursine Essays from the Mountain South

  Short Fiction

  A History of Barbed Wire

  Desire & Devour: Stories of Blood and Sweat

  Novels

  Fog: A Novel of Desire and Reprisal

  Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War

  Cub

  Dedication

  For the many fine women in my life, including, but not restricted to, Amy Mann, Laurie Bugg, Cynthia Burack, Laree Martin, Katie Fallon, Tiffany Trent, Laura Knoff, and Edwina Pendarvis.

  ~

  Many thanks to Steve Berman and Ron Suresha for publishing this book.

  ~

  Extra thanks to Tiffany Trent for good advice.

  ~

  Thanks to the kind and welcoming folks at the Craig County Historical Society in New Castle, Virginia, for providing me rich information and making me feel entirely at home.

  ~

  Thanks to Alex Jeffers and Niki Smith for producing another handsome book.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Jeff Mann

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m a man of great good fortune, waking up to the warmth of Drew Conrad. Beneath our rough blanket, his big body’s nestled against me, his bandaged back pressed against my bare chest. What would my fellow Rebel soldiers say were they to see me now, with a Union soldier curled up in my arms?

  Both Drew and I are mighty lucky to have survived this war so far, and the love we’ve found together has been godsent. He’s my Achilles, and I’m his Patroclus, though neither of us feels like a Greek hero after all we’ve been through. We’re worn down to the bone, as if running from both the invading Union and my own beloved Confederacy has aged us by decades.

  In war, as in life, nothing is simple. I can’t hate all Yankees, for Drew is one. I can’t admire all Southerners, for I well remember the cruelties my company mates inflicted on Drew during his time as a prisoner of war. And I can’t rest like an old man in this barn loft any longer, because I must lead Drew home to safety.

  I rub my eyes. Gray light. It’s barely dawn. My wounds ache; my belly growls. I’m desperately in need of a few more hours’ rest. What disturbed my sleep? Are foes near?

  Careful not to disturb my Yank, I roll onto my back, grab my jacket, pull spectacles from the pocket, and slip them on. Loft hay’s heaped about us; above are webby rafters, the roof sounding under a mid-March shower. Yesterday, we’d hoped to get to Eagle Rock by nightfall, but the deluge drove us to take shelter inside this abandoned barn. Last night we fell asleep to rain’s soothing sound; this morning it continues, a steady drizzle. Another cold wet day in the Virginia mountains. Another day closer to home. Another day closer, God willing, to this terrible war’s end.

  I’m groggy, ready to slip back into sleep, when there’s a sudden rustling, very close. I start, now wide awake. Soldiers? Bluecoats or graycoats, they’re all potential enemies. I ease my pistol from my hip holster, push the blanket off, and sit up. My bare-chested Yank is snoring softly. I crawl over to the loft’s edge, where I have a good view of the barn’s floor. Nothing but straw, empty stalls, and old horse dung. I stagger to my feet, thighs shaky after the steep climb up Purgatory Mountain day before yesterday and yesterday’s rough walk along the James River. I make a circuit of the loft, peering through gaps between the boards. Nothing outside but a foggy, weed-choked barnyard.

  That rustling again, and a soft whir. Behind me. I turn, pointing my pistol, only to see, in the rafters, a pair of mourning doves. One’s preening the other.

  Chuckling with relief, I holster my pistol and return to my snoring lover. He grunts and sighs as I slip back under the blanket. Beneath the bandana kn
otted around his neck, he’s still wearing the slave collar I locked on him the day he was captured. Once it signified his status as a prisoner of war; now it signifies our mutual bond.

  For long moments, nestled against him, I stroke his shaggy golden hair and study his broad bandaged back. Three times my uncle beat him, with belt or bullwhip, during those miserable weeks that Drew was the captive of our ragtag Rebel band. And George, that ferret-faced bastard, stealing Drew’s trousers and boots, cutting an X into his back, blacking his eyes, gleefully administering that fourth and final whipping. He hated Drew because he wanted him, I think. But we escaped. And none of our wounds have festered. Thank God for herbal salve and isinglass plaster.

  I slip an arm around Drew and pull him closer. My sweet Yank shifts and yawns. My hand ranges over his muscled breast, stroking the thick hair there. I finger a soft nipple. Drew yawns again, then sneezes, then coughs. He presses his chest against my hand, clearly grateful for the attentions. “Yeah,” he growls, hoarse with sleep, barn dust, and March-damp air. “That’s mighty nice, Ian.”

  We lie there, warm and close for a long moment. Then there’s a distant clopping. We both freeze with fear as the sound moves closer. Horses’ hooves, and now men’s voices.

  “Get dressed, and then keep real still,” I hiss in Drew’s ear. We button up fast. I pull my pistol. Drew grabs his rifle, the one he wrested from the Yankee sharpshooter who nearabout ended me on Purgatory Mountain. We lie there, face to face, in dusty hay, as prepared as we can be. “And don’t sneeze, for God’s sake.”

  I’ve prayed a lot since this damnable war started, and it’s definitely time to pray again. I’m a Rebel deserter, and my lover’s a Yankee soldier, until day before yesterday a prisoner of war. That’s a very inconvenient combination for March of 1865. If the bluecoats find us, I’ll be sent off to some miserable prison camp up North to starve, freeze, and die. If my fellow Confederates find us, he’ll be a prisoner again, perhaps even mistaken for a spy and hanged, and I’ll be court-martialed and probably shot for desertion.

  I take in the beauty of Drew’s bruised face: his pale, high forehead, frightened blue eyes blackened with blows, shoulder-length yellow hair, honey-gold beard, white teeth chewing his full lower lip. I grip his bare shoulder, bump his brow with mine, and silently pray. Please, God, we’ve come this far. We’re both so young, so far from home, trapped inside this terrible war. But You’ve brought us together, given us leave to fall in love. You’ve helped Drew survive long marches nigh naked and barefoot, and bloody beatings, and the torture of being bucked and gagged in the snow. You’ve helped us escape cruelty and Drew’s captivity through the well-timed gift of that Yankee bombardment. Please don’t let us get caught now. Please help us get on up the James, Craig Creek, the New, and back to my family in the western mountains. Please don’t let us be parted.

  The riders pause beside the barn. It sounds like there are four or five of them. They confer. One asks another for a cigar. One slurps, from a flask or a canteen. Then they move off, slowly, voices and horse hooves fading into the distance, leaving us with the tapping of the rain on the barn roof and our own anxious breathing.

  I try to ignore the shaking in my hands.

  Drew lays the rifle in the hay and rests an arm athwart my hip. “Glad they’re gone, whoever they were. Damn, I needed that sleep. I slept like the dead.”

  “Me too.” I sheathe my pistol and bury my face in Drew’s chest hair. “I dreamed that the war was done. That the South won. It was a beautiful summer day. The trees were full of fruit and the fields were thick with grain. And all the bluecoats stacked their arms and marched home.”

  “Even me?”

  “No. Not you.” Wrapping an arm around his neck, I pluck straw from his golden beard. “You’re staying with me.”

  Drew smiles. “Fine with me.” He returns the favor, brushing chaff from my black-whiskered chin. “Let your crazy Confederates have their independence. As long as we’re together. I might have to pass as Confederate for a while. Till your kin get used to me. Till I convince them how handy I can be around a farm.” Drew sits up and stretches. He gives his mat of blond belly hair a vigorous scratching. “Damn lice.”

  I claw my unkempt head in sympathy. “One more curse we’ve shared. All right, let’s get on the road.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  T he river road’s thick with mist, and the undergrowth lining it is dense. Both facts are blessings for two fugitives who at any moment might be in need of sudden concealment. When sun burns off the cold fog, we stop to pull off our packs of provisions, cram crumbly cornbread into our mouths, and fill my canteen from a hillside stream. My barefoot Yank’s limping, his face drawn with pain. He slumps to the ground. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he hugs his bare torso.

  “Damn it, I’m freezing. And I feel so damn weak.”

  “After all you’ve been through in the last couple of weeks, it’s no wonder. Beatings. Starvation. I’m just thankful you can still walk.”

  “I’d give up a year of my life for a dirty undershirt and a moldy pair of boots.” He winces as I unwrap muddy cloth from his feet, dab off blood, and add more salve.

  “When we get home, my family will feast us for days…if the war’s left ’em any food in the larder. God willing, we’re on our way to fried potatoes, bacon, biscuits, and apple pie.”

  Drew licks his lips. “Sounds like paradise. Meanwhile, I’ll keep my strength up with snacks of Ian meat and sips of Ian syrup.” He reaches over to squeeze the crotch of my trousers.

  “Ravenous brute.” I seize his frisky hand and heave him up. Shouldering our loads—blanket rolls, pokes of provisions, cartridge and cap boxes, my haversack—we set off again.

  We trudge west all afternoon, following a towpath that edges the James’s gray-green winding. It’s slow going over thick mud and rough rocks. The temperature drops; the wind picks up. The surrounding woodland’s brown and gray; here and there are ice-edged puddles and lingering banks of old snow. We seem to be leaving early spring green behind with the Valley. Drew stumbles often, stubbing his toes on stones, gashing his soles on sticks. Again and again he struggles back up, leaning on me and hissing with barely suppressed pain and irritation. When we hear the sound of a horse across the river, we hide behind a rhododendron bush till the hoof beats recede. When we come upon stone walls, a wooden fence, a meadow, and, rising over the trees beyond, a column of smoke—a farmhouse chimney, that’s my guess—we move as fast as we can, keeping silent till we’re well past. Safest to avoid people until absolutely necessary. At some point in our long journey we may well have to beg food off citizens—Drew’s gray pants, once those of a fallen company mate of mine, should convince folks that he’s a Confederate too—but for now, thankfully, we have the provisions I collected in camp before our escape.

  The sun’s lowering, a white stone, clouds thickening overhead like dirty milk, when we see it, a squat little building on a slight rise above the river. It’s a brick church, in a clearing ringed by oaks. I tug Drew inside the nearest concealment, a shady stand of hemlocks.

  “Stay here while I reconnoiter yonder.” I unsheathe my knife. “Maybe there’s something in there we can use. Here’s my Bowie if you need it.”

  Drew nods, taking the knife from me before unshouldering his pack and sitting heavily on a moss-covered rock. “Be careful, little Reb. Don’t want to lose you just yet. You still owe me pie.”

  A hand-lettered sign near the entrance reads Mt. Carmel. I circle the place but hear and see no evidence of habitation. I push open the front door. Its creaking raises the hair on the back of my neck.

  It’s dim inside, furnished like most country churches: two rows of pews and a pulpit beneath a beamed ceiling. Dust motes hang in pale light slanting in from windows lining the sides of the space. In an alcove near the entrance, there’s a bookshelf and a tiny closet in which hang two clerical shirts, both far too small for Drew. Nothing here that can help us.

  I lift a Bibl
e from the bookshelf, shaking my head at its musty uselessness. All my life loving books, and now they’re of no good to me whatsoever. I’d trade them all, even my beloved Iliad, left behind in the fiery mess of our Purgatory camp, for a pair of boots to protect Drew’s poor bloody feet, for a shirt and jacket big enough to warm his burly torso, for a tin of coffee beans, a jar of honey, and a slab of bacon…

  Thunder shakes the windows, followed by a rush of rain. The Bible slips from my fingers, hitting the wooden floor with a thud. An ill omen? How can I still believe in a benevolent Creator when I’ve seen so much harm done in his name? I understand the temperamental gods of mythology better. I lope down the aisle and out the front door, across the clearing, and into the hemlock stand. “Come on, big man,” I say, hauling Drew up. “We’re wet enough after yesterday’s downpour. Get in here before you catch your death.”

  Drew grabs his pack and follows me. By the time we lurch over the church threshold, we’re both panting and soaked. I close the door and lean against it, catching my breath. We sit on pews, cussing and shaking the rain out of our long locks. Dropping my pack, I fetch one of the closet’s shirts and am drying Drew’s bandaged back and bare chest, listening to the storm pattering the windows, when hooves pound into the clearing. A man’s shout resounds outside; another man’s shout answers him.

  Drew looks at me; I look at Drew. “Shit,” we mutter.

  “Not again,” Drew snarls.

  Windows. Brick walls. Pews. There’s nowhere in here to hide. For a second I contemplate a dramatic leap through a window—defenestration, I’ve always liked that word—but if we make a run for it, well, men on horseback almost always catch up with men on foot.

  “Grab your pack and follow me,” I say, heading for the pulpit. “Only chance we have.”

  By the time the riders have stomped mud off their boots and entered, Drew and I are in place, hidden beneath the front pews, Drew on one side of the central aisle and I on the other, positioned in such a manner that we can exchange glances. Brow furrowed, lips set, he clutches my Bowie knife; heart thumping, I grip my pistol. If these strangers stay in the rear of the church, they may not discover us and we may get away. If they don’t, we’re going to have a fight on our hands. If we can overpower them, maybe we can steal their horses. It’s a damned long walk to West Virginia.