Salvation: A Novel of the Civil War

By Jeff Mann

The American Civil War still threatens to tear the nation in twain. Private Ian Campbell betrayed his company and his duty because he fell in love with a handsome Yankee prisoner-of-war, Drew Conrad. Both men are on the run, desperate to reach Campbell’s family home in West Virginia, which may have escaped the conflict unscathed and may offer them both peace and salvation from the cruelties and hatreds heightened by the war.

But the trek is dangerous. Both men are wounded, deserters, and their love for each other is viewed by so many as a crime against nature—hanging for any of these offenses threatens every moment they tarry to rest. They must rely on the kindness of strangers, but every household they enter seeking sanctuary for even a single night on a bed and scant provisions for hungry stomachs might betray them should the truth be discovered.

Acclaimed author Jeff Mann’s sequel to his beloved historical novel Purgatory will instill in readers an ardent expectation over Privates Campbell and Conrad’s fate. A finalist for the Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Romance!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lethe Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310911019

Jeff Mann

Jeff Mann is a professor of creative writing at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. He is the author of numerous books, including Endangered Species: A Surly Bear in the Bible Belt; Redneck Bouquet: Gay Poems from Appalachia; and Purgatory: A Novel of the Civil War. He also coedited LGBTQ Fiction and Poetry from Appalachia.

Book preview

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.

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

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Extra thanks to Tiffany Trent for good advice.

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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 knotted 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 Bible 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.

CHAPTER THREE

Two of them, from what I can gauge. There’s the rustling of garments—probably overcoats shucked off—and now, goddamn it, they’re eating breakfast. That crunching has got to be hardtack. At least they haven’t come any closer than the back of the church. Probably sitting on the far pews, waiting for the rain to slow.

What you think we’ll find when we get to the Valley? one says. His voice is raspy, and it’s Southern. Sounds like he’s from the country. He sounds like me, actually. They’re either detached Confederate cavalry or members of some partisan band. As I used to be, until our escape—my desertion—at the base of Purgatory Mountain, day before yesterday. If they find us, with luck we can both pass for Rebel soldiers. Word was there was a fiery skirmishing ’round Purgatory Mountain.

More’n that. The goddamn Yanks used artillery and blew the hell out of what was left of a couple of companies. Nelson’s crew. And the Rogue Riders.

Sound of chewing. Fuck, the first one swears.

Yep. Took ’em a bunch of prisoners. I heard the Riders’ captain was blown to bits. Erastus Campbell. He was ahead of me at the Institute. Tough soldier. A real loss for the South.

Sarge. My uncle. Just as I feared. My fault. Punching him, shoving him backwards into his tent, so that Drew and I might escape. The explosion, mere seconds later.

Drew stares at me, blue eyes wide, clearly afraid this terrible news will cause me to do something rash, unwise, and audible. My eyes grow wet. I wipe them. No time to mourn now. Later. Later.

"So what do we do now?

We get to Buchanan, fall in with some friends of mine, then track the goddamn foe down and harry his heels as much as we can. My guess is they’re heading east to help that devil Grant around Petersburg.

Petersburg ain’t fallen yet?

No, thank Jesus, but it’s only a matter of time. I don’t think our boys behind those siege lines have any more to eat than we do.

Or anything better. The man growls. This hardtack’s got worms in it.

There’s a slamming and a skidding. A half-chewed piece of hardtack shoots down the aisle past us and comes to a stop at the base of the pulpit.

Damn fool. Throwing away food. Fetch that here.

Oh, no. I hold my breath. My eyes and Drew’s interlock.

Hell with you. It’s lousy with worms, I tell you. You fetch it.

I grip my pistol harder. Drew grits his teeth and rolls his eyes.

I ain’t fetching it.

Then let it lie, brother. Let the church mice have it. They’re liable to be as starved up and broke down as you and I.

I close my eyes, heartbeat pounding in my head and beneath my bandages, inside the wounds I’ve received over the last week. The Yankee ambush south of Lexington, the grapeshot during the bombardment of our camp, then the Federal cavalryman on the trail as we made our escape… I’ve been very lucky. All just grazings, surface wounds. I wonder if I’ll make it home before my luck runs out.

Let’s go, says the man who sounds like me. If we get to Buchanan early enough, maybe we can talk some citizens out of provisions before your buddies show up.

Rustling of donned coats, clomp of boots, the long squeak of the door, and they’re gone. Drew and I lie still, till the clopping of hooves has diminished into nothing.

God, what next? Drew rolls out from beneath the pew and sits up.

It’s going to be like this all the way home. We knew that. I climb to my feet, sheathe my pistol, and help him up. Maybe we can find us a decent meal at Eagle Rock and some clothes and shoes for you. I’ll tell folks we’re soldiers on leave. Southern citizens, they treat us Rebel privates real nice, yes they do. But you, you keep your mouth shut, boy, and let me do the talking. You don’t sound like you’re from around here. You—

Ian? Come here. I’m not ready to leave yet.

Why not, big man? There’s nothing here. I shoulder my pack and head for the door. Come on, now.

Drew’s hand falls on my shoulder. I’m sorry about your uncle.

I don’t want to talk about him now, boy. Let’s just get on up the road.

Give us a moment. Drew pulls me to him. I hated him—he treated me like a dog, and if it hadn’t been for you, he’d have seen me dead. But he was your kin, and I know you must be grieving mightily.

Not now. I pull away. My eyes are moist, and I wipe them with the back of my hand. We’re not safe here. Let’s get to Eagle Rock and find a room.

Tough little bastard. You Southern hill-boys are made of stern stuff. Drew tousles my hair. Later it is.

Drew’s got his hand on the door when my eyes fall on the alcove. The Bible is of no use to us—just another thing to carry over the mountains—but the clerical shirts, that’s another matter.

Might make nice bandages and foot-wraps, I say, snatching them up and stuffing them into my haversack. God helps those who help themselves, my daddy always said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Atiny hamlet snuggled in between gray mountains, Eagle Rock’s just a muddy road lined with a handful of buildings. Below the bluff, the James River, wide and wintergreen, swirls by. The streets are empty in the steady drizzle.

It’s nigh dark, the sky a solemn sheet of lavender and gray. Drew and I, damp and cold, shawled in oilcloths, huddle inside the evergreen shelter of a laurel thicket on the edge of town, taking our bearings.

There’s the town’s namesake, I say, pointing at a great jagged rock across the river. There’s the last lock of the canal. And, look, old lime kilns. They look like brick beehives. Somewhere over there is Craig Creek, the lick we need to follow high into the hills. It’s a way so remote that we should, God willing, be free of soldiers both blue and gray.

What about raiders? I’ve heard talk that they not only bushwhack us Federals, they thieve and burn their own.

Lower than a snake’s belly, my Aunt Alicia used to say. I spit on the ground, pull my Bowie knife, and polish the blade against my trousered thigh. I hate them twice as much as bluecoats. At least some of them are honorable. But raiders…they’re curs.

Just be real careful. Who knows when a crew of Federal troopers might come galloping through? He grins and shakes his head. I used to be a Federal trooper. Now here I am, on the run in the Virginia mountains, with a wild little Reb who’s bound and determined to get up my ass. Funny where our fates lead us, huh?

I take my customary and cautious look around—nothing but dripping laurel leaves—before giving Drew a kiss on the lips. I thank fate every day for leading me to you. You stay here and keep hidden, and I’ll come fetch you in a bit. Hold onto my musket for me. Don’t want the citizens to get skittish. I want to look more pathetic than dangerous. Maybe someone’s patriotism will net us a meal and a fireplace.

Handing Drew my rifle, I give his hand a quick squeeze before pushing aside the limber boughs of laurel leaves and stepping into the muddy road. Pulling my oilcloth around my shoulders, my pistol-holster and Bowie-sheath both loosened in case of sudden need, I head into town. I’m trying hard not to think of certain facts: in times of war, anything could happen at any time, and every time Drew and I part, we might be parted forever. The same fate that brought us together could at any minute separate and end us.

The rain thickens. I trudge down the middle of the road, between buildings with shuttered or curtained windows, looking for any indication of a tavern or boarding house. Mud sucks at my shoes; my right foot gets stuck. When I pull free, my brogan’s upper, with an audible rip, separates from the sole, and mud squelches between my toes.

Splendid. Now we both need shoes. I sit on the jagged edge of a wooden porch, just inside a dripping overhang, prop my foot on my knee, and assess the damage. It’s then that the door behind me opens, and a thin voice says, Good evening, young man.

I turn. She rustles through the narrow door, a short, thin figure in a black silk dress and a jet-black shawl. Beneath a mourning bonnet, flaming red hair streaked with gray falls over her shoulders. She’s got a cane in one hand and a paper-wrapped parcel in the other. With difficulty, she closes the door behind her.

I ought to lock it, but the cussed Yankees have already taken everything worth taking, except for some withered root vegetables and buckwheat flour. The silver’s buried where they’ll never find it, the blue-clad fiends, she says, waving her cane toward the mountainside rising steeply just behind the house. Last time they came through, I told them it was hidden in the outhouse. They dug around a good bit, up to the elbows in unseemly muck, before they gave up. You should have heard the language they assailed me with in the aftermath of their greedy attempts. I am ashamed to admit that, in the heat of the moment, I borrowed some of their vulgar phraseology to lob back at them. To call them ‘dung-heaps’ at that point was less malice than accurate observation. She strides to the head of the steps. Well, may hell receive them.

Astonished as I am by her monologue, nevertheless I stand and take off my rain-sodden forage cap. When I’m around the fair sex, my behavior is automatic; inside my head, my mother’s voice is coaching me in gentlemanly behavior and refined speech. After four years of war and male companionship, dull times in camp and bloody days on the battlefield, my manners and language have coarsened, of necessity, but I’ve also come to miss women mightily. It is, after all, the reason we Rebs are fighting: to keep both Southern women and our Southern land safe from invaders.

H-howdy, ma’am. I offer a little bow as she descends the porch stairs. I’m Private Ian Campbell. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.

And I’m Irene Stephens. Would you be kind enough to buy a lady a drink?

Her question is unexpected in these circumstances. I fear I don’t have much in the way of money, but I’d be g-glad to treat you to a libation if funds permit. I’m shy around strangers, and anxiety sometimes makes me stammer.

That’s kind of you. My nephew is the proprietor of a tavern just down the street. He’s been hobbled since birth, and is, if I may say so myself, a bit of a mooncalf…miserly as well. ‘Tight as the bark on a tree,’ my sister, his own mother, used to say, God rest her soul. But the boy can brew some excellent wine and applejack.

May I carry your package, ma’am? It looks heavy, and, if you’ll p-permit me to say, you look a mite delicate.

Why, certainly, sir. Mrs. Stephens smiles up at me as she hands over the package, which is lumpy and indeed somewhat heavy. I’m not as delicate as I look. After four years of war, all the frail folk have drooped like daisies and been summarily plowed under.

She’s in her fifties, I’d say, with a high, pale forehead, the skin taut and glistening over prominent cheekbones. Her lips are full; her eyes are bright, her manner confident, regal. She might have been a beauty in her youth. Upon her breast rests a locket hanging from a necklace of black beads. She takes my arm and leads me briskly down the rainy street.

Relax, young man. I can tell you’re shy. Haven’t you the coins for a comb? Your hair’s as shaggy as a bull’s rump and your beard’s bushy and tangled as a greenbrier thicket. Dirty as you appear, though, your manners are excellent.

A debt I owe to my family in southern West Virginia, ma’am. I must apologize for my appearance. The war hasn’t given me much of an opportunity for grooming.

No, I’d imagine not. Men tend to revert to a wild state without women around. We’ve passed only five ramshackle buildings before Mrs. Stephens leads me onto another covered porch.

This town is in a sad state. I’m certain that communities all across the South are as bedraggled after long years of war, she says, shaking out her rain-bedewed shawl. Here we are. Eagle’s Nest. I hope my sluggard of a nephew has a good fire going. That scent of wood smoke is a promising sign. A March chill’s in my bones. Doubtless I am not the sort of lady you would normally escort, Private Campbell. Handsome as you are, I’d imagine you’ve spent quite a few hours in drawing rooms with crinoline-clad admirers, enjoying many a cup of punch and many a plate of petits fours.

I laugh. In the war’s early years, ma’am, yes, I did enjoy such delights. As you know, the world’s changed quite a bit since then.

Thin as she is, she pushes the tavern door open with such force that it clatters against the wall. Inside’s a long, low-ceilinged room, a few tables, a dim lamp, and, as hoped, a lively fire. Just put that on the counter, young man, she says, indicating the package I bear. Jack, she shouts, tapping the floor with her cane. Where are you? I’m standing in need of some refreshment. Now!

From a back room a squat man shuffles. He’s in his thirties, I’d say, and as unkempt as I, with droopy, unshaven jowls. His shirt’s a dull homespun; his blue trousers look suspiciously like Federal army issue. Who the hell is this? he growls, glaring