by Lyn Cote
“You’re lucky it didn’t shatter and the shrapnel kill you,” Armstrong said, sitting down on a camp stool close to her.
The girl sipped her coffee. “Where’s Faith?”
“She is still on the battlefield, I believe.”
Dev knew he should make his wakefulness known, but lethargy muzzled him.
The girl rested her head in one hand. “I should be with her.”
“You couldn’t help being struck unconscious and dazed.”
Looking around, the girl suddenly stiffened. “Where’s the Reb?”
“He ran off yesterday while I was out.”
“The dog,” she snapped. “I suspected that’s how it would end.”
Dev cringed at her comment.
“Mr. Jack was never one to trust,” Armstrong said.
Dev held his breath. The judgment was just.
“Then why did the colonel trust him?” the girl asked with asperity in her voice. Her scathing tone cut Dev to the quick.
“My master always hopes for the best, especially from his family.”
She started to shake her head again and then stopped, wincing with obvious pain. “After the Emancipation Proclamation, why do you stay a slave?”
“The proclamation came in January. I will be forty on June 9 this year. The colonel has always promised to free me on my fortieth birthday.”
“You believe him?” she asked tartly.
“I trust him. And it means something to me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I want him to free me, to show me that regard.”
Dev did not want to hear any more about his family or himself or Armstrong’s upcoming birthday, which would profoundly change their relationship. Forty had seemed so far away at twenty. He forced himself to rise to a sitting position. “You’re awake … miss. I’m glad.”
The girl looked at him in the gray morning light without any welcome in her face.
For some reason her dislike of him sharpened his distress over Jack’s betrayal.
“Yes, sir,” she said at last as she dipped the hardtack into the coffee. “Now I’m worried about my friend Faith.”
Her reference to a white woman as a friend jarred him once again, but then he looked to Armstrong and admitted to himself that his manservant was the nearest thing he had to a best friend. But he’d never said that out loud, nor had Armstrong. One didn’t.
The girl proceeded to nibble the edges of the hard bread.
“Miss,” Dev continued, “she asked me to bring you back to camp and to keep you safe. She said that when she could no longer nurse, she’d get on one of the wagons.”
“I hope she did so. But it’s just as likely that she didn’t. She might still be out there, but no one would hurt her.” Uncertainty touched the final few words.
The three of them stared at each other as if silently communicating concern over the Quakeress. But they could do nothing. Certainly no honorable man, Reb or Yank, would harm a decent woman, a nurse. Then again, not every man was honorable. “I’ll go and look for her after breakfast,” he promised.
The girl started to rise. “I should go to our tent—”
“No!” Dev blurted out. “I promised to look after you. I know it isn’t proper for you to stay here with two men not of your family, but you must. I promised her. Lie back down. I’ll bunk on the floor like I’ve been doing.” He held up a hand, forestalling their objections.
Armstrong accepted the empty coffee cup from the girl and helped her recline again. Then he went to his cot and snuffed the lantern light, each of them trying for whatever sleep was left to them. The drums would sound wake-up soon enough.
Wrapping himself in his blanket, Dev lay in the dimness on the hard, still-warm earth, exhausted, embittered by Jack’s escape. He attempted to wrestle down the outrage that roiled in his chest. Jack would pay for his treachery, pay for dishonoring his family. Dev would make certain of that.
Shiloh was weeping. “Where are you, Faith? I need you.” Faith tried to move, but her feet were frozen to the ground. She stretched out her hands, trying to catch hold of Shiloh… .
A red glow through her eyelids woke Faith. Dawn. The bad dream ended abruptly and she lay still, absorbing waves of sorrow like cold water washing over her. How long would it take the Union Army to capture Vicksburg so they could finally go to Annerdale Plantation to look for Shiloh?
A loud moan caused her to open her eyes to the dawn’s thin light. She sat up and scanned the field around her. Some men had wakened too and were moving and moaning. She looked down at her empty canteens and pockets. She had nothing to offer the soldiers. Her throat and mouth and lips were dry as sand. Her stomach felt caved in for lack of food. Her body ached as if she’d been beaten. She lay back down, unable to move. Lord, I need thy strength. Send help. I have none to give.
“Wake up, miss.” The Sanitary Commission driver shook her shoulder. “We’re back at camp.”
She blinked open her eyes in the full morning light. She sat slumped on the high wagon bench where he must have laid her earlier. “Thank thee,” she muttered through dry lips.
He helped her down, and though she thought of the wounded in the back of the wagon, she knew she would not be of any help to them until she ate and was strengthened. She stumbled along toward the nearby hospital mess tent. The men working there asked no questions, just helped her sit down and brought her a mug of coffee and a bowl of hot oatmeal. She had to eat a few bites and sip the coffee before she could speak her gratitude.
“Long night?” the man who’d served her asked.
“Yes.” She went on eating, though just lifting the spoon exhausted her. The man was soon called away, and persevering in her efforts, she felt the food and coffee lifting her from her stupor. Her spoon finally scraped the bottom of the empty bowl.
“Miss Cathwell?”
She looked up into the blue eyes of Colonel Knight. For one moment she nearly threw her arms around him, seeking his strength. Then the worry she saw in his countenance stiffened inside her like icicles, even in the heat. Had Honoree taken a turn for the worse? “What is wrong?”
Without replying, he held out his hand.
She let him help her rise, his rough hand drawing her near. Resisting the pull toward him, she carried her empty bowl and mug outside, where dishes were being washed. Her mind conjured Honoree’s unconscious face as she finally allowed the colonel to lead her away. “What is it, Colonel?” she begged. “Is it Honoree? How is she?”
Dev regretted not telling her right away. He tightened his hold on her small hand. He longed to pull her under his arm, protect her. Instead he released her. “I’m sorry, miss. Your friend is awake. She’s at my tent. Come. I’ll take you.”
The camp around them had come fully alive. A drummer was sounding the daily sick call, which struck Dev as unnecessary. The wounded were still being brought in on wagons, but except in the midst of battle the routine of military life never changed.
“What’s wrong with Honoree?” The Quakeress broke into his silent, unhappy musings. “Is she ill?”
“She’s recovering.” Dev still couldn’t speak aloud of his cousin’s treachery. His tent was ahead. He waved toward it, silently asking for her patience. Soon he let her precede him and then he followed, dreading the coming revelation. His cousin had shamed his family, shamed him.
The Quakeress ran toward the black girl, who was sitting on the edge of his cot. “Honoree!”
The girl rose and the two women clasped each other close, shedding tears of evident relief.
Dev stood back, moved by the depth of their caring for each other. Armstrong came to stand beside him, and Dev had the urge to reach out and grip his man’s shoulder. He resisted the gesture. His man wouldn’t leave him and go home to Baltimore after his birthday, would he?
Finally the two women parted. The Quakeress turned to him. “Thank thee. I was so worried. Has she been seen by Dr. Bryant?”
Dev cleared his throat. “I took her to him straigh
taway. He said he could do nothing, so I brought her here and Armstrong helped me watch over her.”
The Quakeress stepped toward them. “Thank thee, Armstrong.” She offered him her hand.
Armstrong hesitated and then shook her hand. “I was happy to help, miss. But your friend merely needed rest. She was dazed and confused. Is that not so, Miss Honoree?”
Dev did not miss the warm look that passed between the two. It caught inside him. Had Armstrong found someone to care for? Certainly soon his man would be free, and why shouldn’t he marry? Dev looked away, his own bleak, and no doubt brief, future taunting him. I could die in this push to Vicksburg. At least Armstrong would survive this war.
“My head still aches,” Honoree replied, “but I can think now and I’m not dizzy anymore.”
Dev could hold the truth back no longer. “Miss Cathwell, as you can see, my cousin is not here. In the chaos of battle, he has escaped.”
Honoree made a loud sound of disgust.
The Quakeress looked suddenly weaker.
Dev moved forward, urging her to sit on the camp stool by his cot. Again the fact that a lovely young woman like this would be here in these harsh and debilitating conditions aggravated him. “You need to go to your tent and recover your strength.” You need to go back to where you belong.
“Yes, I am fatigued, but I’m sure I’m needed at the hospital.” She rested her head in one hand.
“You will go to our tent,” Honoree stated firmly, “and sleep for a few hours and then freshen up and eat another meal before I let you go near the surgeons’ tents. I’m not going to let you ruin your health. That won’t help anyone.”
The Quakeress sighed in quiet acquiescence.
“We will come with you and see that you have what you need,” Armstrong said, surprising Dev.
“Yes, we will,” Dev agreed. “I’m afraid I’ve been distracted by my cousin’s perfidy.”
And that was how it came that he and Armstrong escorted the two women to their tent.
As Dev began to leave, the Quakeress stopped him, a gentle hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry thy cousin broke his word. But I find that the evil one sends a kind of blindness to those who avoid the Light of Christ.”
Dev could think of no reply, so he merely nodded. With a sinking sensation, he realized what honor demanded of him, and without delay. “Thank you, miss, for your help.”
“Thee kept my friend safe. Thank thee. God bless, Devlin Knight.”
Her use of his given name softened his heart, but he steeled himself. He headed toward the headquarters through the camp of many thousands. He must now face the punishment for trusting his untrustworthy cousin.
Soon Dev approached the tent of his immediate superior, Brigadier General Peter Osterhaus, to confess and face his punishment. He could be court-martialed for hiding a Rebel. His stomach churned with bitterness. Before he could speak to the aide outside, Osterhaus stepped out and saw him. “What is it, Knight?”
Dev saluted. “I need to speak to you, sir.”
After returning the salute, Osterhaus waved him inside.
Dev entered the weathered tent.
“What is it?” the brigadier general repeated, standing near a table with a map spread out on it.
Dev stiffened himself. “I’m afraid I’m guilty of aiding the enemy.”
Osterhaus straightened, looking surprised. “How so?” he asked, his voice mild.
“Earlier this month in a skirmish east of Port Gibson, I met my cousin, who is in the Confederate cavalry, and saw him fall.” The memory brought back that awful moment when he’d thought his cousin dead. But it paled in contrast to his cousin’s dishonor. “Afterward I returned and found him, wounded in both arms but alive.” Dev was aware that someone had entered the tent behind him.
The brigadier general straightened to attention and saluted. Dev knew he should turn and do the same, but he was desperate to get his confession over and done. He plunged on. “I carried my cousin back to my tent and tended his wounds.” Dev decided not to mention Miss Cathwell’s involvement. “I intended to turn him over as a prisoner of war as soon as he was well enough. He gave me his word as a gentleman—” Dev’s voice caught in his throat—“that he wouldn’t try to escape.”
“But he broke his word,” Osterhaus concluded, nodding at Dev, an indication that he should acknowledge the officer behind him.
“Sad business,” the man behind Dev said with evident sympathy.
Recognizing the voice, Dev turned and his chagrin heightened. General Grant had entered with his young son Fred, about thirteen years old, who acted as his orderly. Dev’s humiliation was now complete—not only was Grant the highest authority here, but Dev and Grant had a history.
Dev also snapped to attention and saluted. “I regret trusting him, sir, but I had no idea that he’d—”
“Violate his word,” Grant finished for him. He motioned toward the brigadier general. “At ease, Osterhaus.”
Unable to speak, shame heating his face, Dev remained at attention, stiff with anger at Jack and at himself. He waited to hear his punishment.
Osterhaus and Grant exchanged glances.
Dev waited, his collar tightening around his neck.
“You had a cousin who served with us in Mexico,” Grant said. His son gazed at him, obviously listening carefully.
“Yes. That was Lieutenant Bellamy Carroll. He fell at Monterrey. Jack is his younger brother, who enlisted as a private and came west in the infantry.”
Grant nodded, gazing at a point over Dev’s left ear as if recalling scenes from the past. “Monterrey,” he muttered.
That had been a bloody day Dev would never forget, Bellamy dying in his arms …
“Upon your agreement, Osterhaus,” General Grant finally said in his quiet way, “I think Knight’s losing a month’s pay is commensurate with this … incident. This war is a civil war. We can’t help meeting family and old friends across the field.” He gazed toward the brigadier general, who nodded once in agreement.
Dev stood frozen, stunned.
“Colonel, you are dismissed,” Grant said in a kind voice.
Racked by relief and guilt, Dev saluted and left. Outside, he paused to catch his breath.
“That was lenient,” he heard Osterhaus say within.
“Calvary colonels face death on the front line practically every day. Knight’s a good man. We need him.”
“You’re right. He’s a good officer, and we do lose colonels at a more rapid pace than any other officer.”
Grant rumbled his agreement. “My point exactly.”
Dev walked away then, not wanting to hear any more. Instead of a court-martial, he’d received a slap on the wrist—all because they expected him to be killed sooner rather than later. They weren’t wrong. He’d already accepted that he’d die in this war.
Meeting his end was just a matter of time and chance. But before he died, he’d find Jack and make him pay. This was war, but not even in war did a gentleman heap dishonor on his whole family. As it was said, “Death before dishonor.” And Jack had chosen the latter.
ON HER COT, Faith blinked herself awake to the sound of the drummer, beating the tattoo that would call every soldier to evening roll call. She lay staring at the drab inside of the conical tent, recalling images from the aftermath of yesterday’s battle. Pushing these dread reminders away, she realized she must have slept the day away. A dull hunger gnawed at her.
But then the image of the colonel’s expression as he confessed his cousin’s treachery reared up and dominated her mind. She was an abolitionist, a pacifist, and he was a slaveholder and a soldier. But God had brought him into her life. So what was she going to do about him? She should distance herself from him. Perhaps it was the situation with his cousin’s injuries and escape that had drawn her sympathy. The colonel did not deserve this backhanded blow.
Honoree ducked inside, holding a plate heaped with beans, rice, and corn bread. “I was delayed getting back f
rom supper at the mess tent.” She held out the plate. “Sit up and take this. I will go pour you a cup of coffee.”
Empty, Faith did as she was told. She began eating, not really tasting the tepid food. Her stomach clamored for her to eat faster, but she knew that would only cause her upset.
Honoree reentered and set a tin cup on the dirt floor beside Faith.
Faith glanced up, drawn from her thoughts about the colonel to her friend’s obvious recovery. “Thee is better, then. I’m glad.”
“My head aches less than before. I know I should have gone to nurse today, but I put us both on sick call and stayed here with you.”
Chewing, Faith merely nodded.
“I’m going to take a walk before bed.”
Unwilling to have Honoree out walking alone, Faith tried to stand. “Wait. I’ll come with—”
“I have an escort.” Honoree smiled a real smile.
Noticing only then that her friend sported a freshly ironed white apron and a red kerchief over her hair, Faith raised an eyebrow.
“Armstrong is here to accompany me.”
“Oh.”
Honoree chuckled as if amused by Faith’s reaction. “I won’t be too late. We just wanted some time to talk.” With that, her friend left.
Faith heard the tones of Armstrong’s deep voice, and then the two moved away, shadows on the tent wall. So Armstrong might be interested in Honoree. Faith continued to force herself to eat the lukewarm plate of almost-tasteless food. Had they even run out of salt? Nonetheless, one must eat, and she needed to restore her strength.
Finishing the chore, she rose and shook out her rumpled dress, then brushed and repinned her disordered hair under a cap. Sighing, she went outside. Her destination was set—certainly not where she ought to go but where she could not help going. What had been the ramifications of his cousin’s escape?
The summer twilight gathered around the quieting camp as she walked directly to the colonel’s tent. At the entrance she spoke his name. “Colonel Knight.”
She waited. Had he been called away to duty? She repeated his name.
