by Lyn Cote
The Reb she’d nursed must have been part of one of the numerous Confederate raiding parties, headed by notorious raiders such as John Morgan, Nathan Forrest, and Joe Wheeler. Colonel Knight and his men would be out in front of the main Union Army, prowling, searching for raiding parties or the Confederate Army itself under Pemberton. She prayed for the men moving forward, the colonel among them. Much as she tried to push it away, his face refused to fade from her mind.
Midday, Dev leaned close to his saddle, ducking gunfire. He’d divided his men into companies of ten and sent them ranging over the landscape, seeking the enemy. And now he’d spotted some Rebs who looked to be an opposing cavalry, not just a small party of raiders. He didn’t have to shout orders. The soldiers with him knew what to do. They scattered in every direction, spreading out, harder to bring down. But unlike the musket he’d wielded in the Mexican War, the rifles he and his men now carried possessed a deadly accuracy.
From his vantage point against his mount’s neck, Dev urged the horse toward a copse of trees and mentally evaluated the force they had come upon. How many? Where were they headed? He must carry the news back to headquarters or Grant would be fighting blind. He reached the cover of the trees, hoping there would not be any Rebs waiting there to ambush him. He found none and reloaded, then turned his horse eastward toward headquarters.
After evading a number of pursuers, Dev rode hard with his small squad straight to the headquarters tent. He slid off his horse and saluted the sentry. “Reconnaissance,” he said and was waved inside.
He was startled to see General Grant himself inside the tent. That meant this really would be a major thrust forward. “Sir.” He saluted.
Grant removed the cigar from his mouth and returned the salute. “What news, Colonel?”
Dev read recognition in the general’s gaze. Their years of training at West Point had overlapped. “We met a large number of the enemy on the road to Champion Hill, sir.”
Another of Dev’s company entered and saluted Grant. “Sir, we met the enemy on the north side of the road toward Vicksburg.” The man saluted Dev. “Sir.”
“How far?” Grant asked.
“About five miles east of here,” Dev replied, and the other soldier nodded in agreement.
“Then we must move fast to meet the enemy. They must not reach the fortress at Vicksburg. Thank you. Dismissed.”
Dev led the member of his company outside. “We’ll gather our men together to join the battle.” Then he glimpsed the Sanitary Commission wagons that must have moved forward with the main army. The wagons were waiting here in readiness for the upcoming clash. He saw the Quakeress and her black girl talking to one of the drivers. He knew nurses came onto the battlefield to aid the wounded after the fighting. But he didn’t want this nurse so near danger. It was not his decision to make, however.
Dev mounted his horse, as did the other cavalryman from the tent. “Men, we’re in for it. Let’s warn our fellows.”
The armies clashed on the road to Champion Hill. Rebels poured down the road. Union artillery thundered, thundered. Throwing up earth. Deafening. Billows of smoke rose around Dev. Dismounting, he urged his men forward. He fired his carbine and held his saber in the other hand.
He plunged into the fray. He felt it. He fell.
Faith and Honoree huddled under the wagon. The battle had begun and was raging within a mile or so of their position. Usually the Sanitary Commission wagons didn’t get this close to combat, but with two armies trying to find or elude one another, nothing was certain. Battles were unpredictable. Faith found herself praying and trembling with each blast.
Ready to move if necessary, the wagon masters stood at the heads of their teams, soothing the horses. The teams were somewhat accustomed to the sounds of a nearby battle, but the horses still remained restless, uneasy, and Faith felt the same.
At any time the opposing army could envelop the medical contingent, and they could find themselves under direct fire. And Honoree would be in the gravest danger if they were overrun by Rebels who didn’t take kindly to free blacks. Yet telling Honoree to stay back in camp never met with success. Father, keep us safe. And give us victory.
The ground underneath them shook with cannon fire. Faith felt it shuddering through her. Why was bloodshed required to end slavery? This dreadful war had become the only way slaves would be set free. Faith prayed, and as the battle sounds deafened her, words failed and she depended on the Light of Christ to pray for her.
The battle had moved on—or Faith hoped it had. She and Honoree had filled their apron pockets with bunches of herbs and rolled bandages, and now they hefted several canteens of water over their shoulders and headed toward the wounded men who had been abandoned as the battle had progressed.
Faith silently repeated the Twenty-third Psalm as she met the first casualties. This was surely the valley of the shadow of death.
A soldier in butternut, the homemade gray of the Confederacy, moaned. Faith dropped to her knees and offered the man water.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
She quickly assessed his injuries, tied a tourniquet around his arm, and bandaged his forehead. “Thee is still able to move. I’ll help thee up.”
“What?”
“Thee has suffered the shock of being injured, but I think thee can walk.” She helped him rise. “Try a few steps.”
He did so, then stood leaning on his rifle. “Which way?”
“I think west.” She gestured.
“Thank you, miss. I was …”
“Stunned. Thee has lost blood and is weakened.”
He stared at her, registering her words. “You a Quaker?”
She turned to the next soldier who showed movement. “Yes, and one of those vile abolitionists.”
The Rebel moved away, staggering a little and muttering in disbelief, “A Quaker.”
“What good does that do?” Honoree protested. “He’ll just go on and kill some of ours.”
They’d had this type of exchange many times before. But Faith had an aversion to sending men to prisoner of war camps. “Or be killed himself. It is all in God’s hands.”
Shaking her head, Honoree moved farther on, bending or stooping here and there.
Faith tried to keep track of her amid the not-so-distant sounds of gunfire and cannon.
Then more troops—blue and gray, firing at each other—poured up the road and over the open field. Men screamed, bellowed. Gunfire exploded. Faith threw herself facedown among the wounded and dead, her face buried in the wild grass. Grapeshot pelted down all around her. As if caught outside in a violent storm, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.
But troops rarely stayed in one place long. Soon the gunfire had moved southward, away from them. Faith rose cautiously, scanning the area, seeking her friend. “Honoree! Honoree!” she called.
She received no reply save the groans and cries of the wounded. Panic fluttered to life. She’d lost Patience and Shiloh. I can’t lose Honoree too. The urge to run pell-mell nearly overwhelmed her. She stilled herself, swallowing down the panic, and began threading her way through the bodies around her. A few men grabbed her skirts as she passed, and she stopped to minister to them.
“Honoree!” she cried again and again. And finally she found her, lying unconscious. But breathing. Faith dropped to her knees, lifted Honoree’s head, and put the canteen to her lips. “Honoree, please wake up. Please.”
In the summer twilight of a long day, Dev led his men and their horses to a creek they’d glimpsed through willow trees. His head still ached and he’d jarred his shoulder when he fell from his horse. But he was alive.
Hot and dry, he and his men took their mounts farther downstream to drink. After a time, they drew their horses away from the water before they could drink too much. They secured the horses to the trees.
Then the men found an area upstream for themselves. Some, like Dev, dropped to one knee to scoop the cool water up to their mouths, and others lay down on their b
ellies to lap up the water. The scene reminded him of the story of Gideon. But Dev surely hadn’t been called by God. He was no judge, just a soldier.
The battle had been a maddening dance. Just trying to stay within the Union lines had been tricky. His mind, now free of battle tactics, let his worries surface. Had Armstrong been forced to take Jack to the hospital? Were the Quakeress and her black girl safe?
Soon he and his men had filled their empty canteens and bellies with water. He wet his handkerchief and wiped his gritty face and neck, wishing he could shed his fatigues and float in the cool water. But no. They must get back.
“Let’s try to find headquarters and get food and any new orders,” Dev said. His men mounted and he led them away, hoping he was taking them in the right direction. He did not want to surprise any Rebel stragglers now that the sun was nearly down.
After they’d traveled a few miles eastward, he heard his name called repeatedly. “Colonel Knight!”
It was the Quakeress.
He turned his horse toward her voice. “Miss Cathwell?”
“Here!”
He directed his men to go on while he headed toward her, picking his way through the carnage left by the battle. Many of the bodies, lying in a haphazard maze, were beyond human help. He glimpsed Sanitary Commission wagons in the near distance, where men on stretchers were being lifted onto wagons like cordwood.
“Thank heaven I saw thee,” the Quakeress greeted him with audible relief.
He slipped from his saddle, wondering what she needed.
“I have been busy giving immediate aid to the wounded, but I’ve stayed here near Honoree.” She gestured to her friend, lying motionless nearby among the wounded men. “I think something struck her head when the battle veered around us. I need to get her onto one of the wagons back to the hospital.”
He almost asked, Why have you waited? Instead he offered, “I can take her to the wagons on my horse.”
“Thank thee, but also I need someone to watch over her. I must remain here, nursing. There are still men who need me. But I don’t ever let Honoree become separated from me near the enemy or a battle.” The last sentence was embellished with fear.
“I don’t understand. The wagons will take her back to the hospital tents, won’t they?”
“I told thee what happened to Shiloh.” She moved toward him. “I’m not losing Honoree.”
“You think she might not be safe,” he asked, “even among our troops?” Or perhaps she thought the girl wouldn’t get good care.
“I can’t take that chance, or I would have sent her back already. I hoped she would regain consciousness by now, but she hasn’t.” The final words were touched by panic. She clutched his sleeve. “Please, will thee take her to the hospital? The wounded men will take precedence. And don’t let anyone but Dr. Bryant—he’s the head surgeon—treat her.”
Dev owed this woman—period. “Very well. I will take her and watch over her. But won’t you be coming in soon? It will be dark anytime now.”
She pointed toward a lantern at her feet. “There are still wounded who need my help. The wagons will carry the wounded till the horses can no longer walk.”
“What about you?” he said as he lifted Honoree and laid her facedown over his saddle. His horse was also nearly spent. He hoped the walk to camp would not be far. He was nearing the end of his strength too.
“When I can no longer work, I will lie down in one of the wagons. Don’t worry about me. God will protect me.”
He hoped she was right. He turned his horse, and on the eastern horizon, opposite the setting sun, he glimpsed high the smoke from campfires. And he saw one of the hospital wagons heading that way, creaking and groaning under its load. He sucked in air and started off. “Keep safe!” he called over his shoulder.
“Thee too!”
He shook his head. He didn’t care what anybody said. A woman did not belong here doing this work, especially not this lovely young lady. Her family was derelict in their duty to keep her from such dreadful scenes. He wished her father were here in front of him. He had several choice words he’d voice.
THE MILES BACK to camp in the deepening twilight pushed Dev toward the limit of his endurance. All the energy and excitement from the battle had left him. He felt drained, sucked dry, yet he had to get Honoree to the doctors. He owed Faith Cathwell.
To the sound of distant moans and occasional sniper fire, he staggered beside his horse, keeping himself up by holding on to the reins and pommel, and often leaning against the horse as it plodded down the dusty road. He felt himself almost falling face-first. He fought to remain upright.
As he limped along, he often checked Honoree’s neck for a pulse. Her heart was beating and she was breathing, but she was deeply unconscious. He spoke her name several times: “Honoree, wake up.” But she did not move or even groan.
Finally he saw the Union camp and smelled the campfires where, after a hard day, men were heating coffee and beans over the coals and sitting very still, gazing wordlessly into the flames.
Dev headed toward the camp hospital with its tents and coming and going Sanitary Commission wagons. He tried to close his ears to the sounds of suffering, but he couldn’t. Mindful of Faith’s request, he remained with Honoree. In the turmoil around the hospital and tents, he stood apart with his horse and tried to pick out a doctor or surgeon.
Finally, in the last light of day, he spoke to one of the men at a Sanitary Commission wagon, who directed him to a particular surgical tent. Dev waited outside till the doctor exited for a brief break between patients. “Dr. Bryant, will you help me, please? Miss Cathwell sent me.”
The man looked up, appearing exhausted, his surgical apron bloodstained. “Yes?”
“This is one of your nurses.” Dev motioned toward Honoree on the horse. “She was struck unconscious during the battle, and we can’t wake her up.”
Dr. Bryant came over, pressed his fingers to Honoree’s neck, and then turned to Dev. “I have seen this before. I can do nothing. She will either wake or she will not. I think she will wake. But she may suffer some memory loss or confusion.”
Someone summoned Dr. Bryant from inside the tent. “I’m needed. Just watch her and pray.” The doctor turned away.
Left with nothing to say and on the edge of exhaustion, Dev led his horse to his tent. Armstrong, as usual, was waiting outside for him. “Help me get her down and carry her inside, please.”
Armstrong looked surprised but moved to receive Honoree’s shoulders and help Dev carry her into the tent.
Dev was about to suggest that they lay Honoree on Armstrong’s cot, when he saw that his own cot was empty. He nearly dropped Honoree’s ankles. Had his cousin died today? He’d been almost well enough to turn in as a prisoner of war. “What happened? Where’s Jack?”
Because Dev had stopped, Armstrong also paused. The manservant looked and sounded strained. “I went to fetch water, and when I returned, he was gone.”
A punch to the gut. Shock shuddered through Dev in waves. “He broke his promise? He broke his word?” He couldn’t believe it. A gentleman did not go back on his word, no matter what.
“I looked for your cousin, but I couldn’t find him in the turmoil with the battle and all. He took a white shirt of yours too.”
“I didn’t think he was even strong enough yet to join the prisoners of war.” Bewildered, Dev couldn’t help himself. He glanced around as if Jack were hiding in the corner.
The girl moaned.
“Let’s set her down on my cot,” Dev urged.
They did so. She lay still. Jack’s betrayal goaded Dev into action overriding his exhaustion. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to go find Jack if I can.” And make him sorry for betraying my trust. But he felt himself staggering with fatigue. Armstrong gripped his arm, holding him up, guiding him to a three-legged stool. Dev sat down, too tired to move.
Deep in the night Faith lifted a soldier’s head and dribbled onto his lips the last of the water from the
last of her canteens. She tried to speak but her dry throat scratched. Finally she managed to whisper, “It’s empty.” And so was she.
The man nodded in the waning lantern light and closed his eyes in resignation.
Rising higher on her knees, she glanced around. No one moaned anymore. The wounded had fallen asleep for the night. Or for good.
She tried to see where the Sanitary Commission wagon was, but in the dim moonlight she did not find it. The lantern oil gave out and the light winked off. Utterly depleted, she could not go on. She reached into her pocket and brought out a peppermint drop, unwrapped it, and slipped it onto her tongue. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A bit of sugar often steadied her.
Her stomach rumbling, she lay down on her back on the already-dew-wet grass and stared up at the starry sky, sleep coming for her wrapped in waves of fatigue. When Vicksburg fell, as it must, then they might be able to continue searching for Shiloh. Her last thought was a prayer for Honoree. And Shiloh, wherever she was.
Dev woke in the very early hours of the new day and realized he was lying on the ground in his tent, a blanket covering him. About to try sitting up, he heard voices nearby. Squinting, he could see the shadow of Armstrong in the low lantern light, moving toward Dev’s cot.
“Miss, you’re safe,” Armstrong said quietly.
Dev saw the black girl raise her hand and touch his servant as if making sure he was substantial, real. “Mr. Armstrong?”
“Just Armstrong, miss. May I offer you some cold coffee and hardtack?”
“If that’s what you have, that’s what I’ll take,” she murmured with a touch of humor.
“I wish I had better to give you.” He turned to pour the coffee, which splashed against the bottom of the tin mug. “I was worried about you, miss. You’ve been unconscious for many hours.” He helped her sit up on the side of the cot.
“I was not completely unconscious,” she admitted, taking the cup and holding it in both hands, which still trembled. “My head hurt, so I couldn’t open my eyes. And my mind … was scattered like scraps of paper on the wind.” She shook her head, moaned, and then pressed a hand to the back of her skull. “Must have been part of an exploding shell that hit me.”
