Salvation by Jeff Mann

Author:Jeff Mann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Civil War, Confederate, gay, gay romance, gritty, historical fiction, soldiers, BDSM, gay bear
Publisher: Lethe Press, Inc.
Published: 2014-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Poor addled soul,” Drew sighs, adding wood to the fire. Sparks swirl along the updraft, joining the glint of stars above before winking out. “Holed up in that little house, terrified every time someone knocks on the door. I feel sorry for him, even if he did almost blow my head off. He was so afraid we were there to drag him back to the war.”

“I don’t blame him. I remember Spotsylvania. It was hell on earth.” I’ve nudged the sweet potatoes into a pile of embers and now am skewering slices of bacon on a sharpened stick to roast over the flames.

“I’d ridden with Sheridan down to Yellow Tavern then, so I missed most of that fighting. But I’ve surely heard about the Bloody Angle.”

“Yep. Find me that flask, would you, Achilles? I could do with a few sips of applejack before supper.”

Drew fetches it from my haversack, taking a swig himself before handing it to me. Wearily, he falls to his knees on the oilcloth spread out near the fire, then stretches out on his back, resting his head on the folded mound made by the tattered quilt I’d brought from home, back in the hopeful halcyon days of ’61.

“We should be safe here,” says Drew, looking about us. We’ve camped atop a pine-thick ridge, within a sheltering jumble of huge rocks that hide our position from the road. The spot’s clearly been used for such a purpose before, for we found a charred fire pit already dug when we arrived, one which we’ve adapted to tonight’s use, starting a small blaze with half-rotten fence rails we found just down the hill, conveniently propped against a pine along the road. Nearby, Walt Solomon, having enjoyed yet another of Mrs. Stephens’s apples, tooth-tugs at weeds on the forest floor.

“Got to find that horse some feed tomorrow, even if we have to steal it,” Drew grumbles. “I just hope whoever split those rails we’re burning won’t be too annoyed we’ve borrowed ’em. Ian? Tell me about it, if the telling ain’t too hard. Spotsylvania.”

“Ugh. All right.” I tip back the flask. “Terrible rain. Men slipping in mud and blood. We Rebs were behind a long line of earthworks, a salient everybody called the Mule Shoe. The damned Yanks—sorry, buddy, the phrase has become a habit—well, you pertinacious Yanks were determined to dislodge us. We Rogue Riders fought alongside General Johnson’s men, with what was left of the Stonewall Brigade. It had rained all night, so hard that, when the Union men attacked at dawn, most of our damned guns didn’t fire ’cause the powder was wet. It was hand-to-hand fighting for most of the day: bayonets in guts, rifle-butts breaking skulls, bodies piled atop each other… I killed ten men with my Bowie knife, two of ’em through a gap in the breastworks. The Yanks pushed us back for a while, but by nightfall we’d driven them back over the works. Sarge’s little crew lost thirty men. The Stonewall Brigade was pretty much decimated.

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