by Lyn Cote
The tent flap opened. He gazed out at her. He looked surprised. “Miss Cathwell?” As usual he had the air of a gentleman, with his cultured voice and well-tailored uniform.
“Yes. May we speak?” Of matters thee probably doesn’t want to discuss?
“A moment.” He stepped back inside. Soon he returned with a camp stool in each hand. He set hers down and waved her to it. Then he sat very properly on the other side of the tent opening as if they were in a parlor. “How may I help you, miss?”
Perching on the canvas stool, she tried to come up with a polite topic of conversation. But she couldn’t make herself waste words on vapid subjects that meant nothing. “What was thy punishment?”
He looked startled.
“Thee doesn’t have to tell me, but I can’t help asking—”
“A month’s pay.” He looked down, ashamed.
She let this settle in her mind. “That was generous.”
He said nothing.
She sensed his distress and wished to help. “I will not pry, but …”
“Jack and I have never gotten along.” He announced this as if he didn’t want to but couldn’t help himself. Deep hurt lay beneath the words.
She nodded to signify she’d heard him. Then she recalled something she’d meant to ask him. “Who was Bellamy?”
Again he looked surprised. “Why do you ask that?”
She waved a hand and met his gaze, trying to let him know he could trust her. “When thy cousin was delirious, he mentioned the name.” She waited. Either he would answer or he would not.
Caught between wanting to send this prying woman away and wanting to pour out the whole story to her, Dev struggled with himself. But Jack’s betrayal of his trust had ripped the scab off the old wound, and her soft voice was so sympathetic.
“We—Jack, Bellamy, and I—grew up in eastern Maryland. My mother and Jack’s father were sister and brother, raised on a tobacco plantation. My mother married and moved to the city, to Baltimore, but of course we visited often. Bellamy was the elder brother and Jack the younger, the only two to survive to adulthood.”
“I am the youngest of my family,” the Quakeress murmured conversationally.
Her nonjudgmental, easy presence invited his confidences. “As Bellamy and I were nearly the same age, we attended West Point together and graduated the same year, just in time for the Mexican War.”
“Thee served together, then?” Her gentle voice encouraged him.
“Yes, and at only seventeen Jack enlisted in the infantry and fought too. My uncle was livid—both his sons off to war. He needed an heir for his tobacco plantation.” Dev paused. He was sure this Quaker would infer that this meant his uncle owned many slaves. It was the bone of contention between his uncle and his mother, the reason she had moved to the city.
He cleared his throat. “But if Bellamy was off to war, so was Jack. He always competed with his brother.” Letting the truth come out began to roll back the weight of the past. He drew in a deep breath.
“What kind of man was Bellamy?”
Dev bent forward, elbows on his knees, remembering Bellamy. He realized that speaking of his lost cousin was something he’d long wanted to do. “He was taller than Jack and more fair-minded.” Though what he meant by the last remark, he couldn’t have explained.
“I understand. He was not always trying to compete with Jack, but Jack was with him. Is that it?”
She had stated it exactly. A yes was forced out of him. “Bellamy would never have violated his word.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that thy cousin sported a single star on his hat cockade. What does that signify?”
“It’s the symbol of Texas. After the war Jack married a Texas girl, a rancher’s daughter, and stayed there.”
“But his father needed a son for the plantation,” she objected.
Dev couldn’t stop his mouth twisting into irony. “I don’t understand it either, really. Jack … I think Jack always felt his father favored Bellamy.” And me.
“Brothers, rivals. I don’t want to seem sententious, but it sounds like Jacob and Esau.”
Dev barked a sad laugh. “I think that sums it up.”
“Did Bellamy die in the war in Mexico?”
He sent her a sharp glance.
“Recall,” she prompted, “what thy cousin spoke in his delirium. He seemed to be justifying himself to his father that he hadn’t killed Bellamy.”
Dev tried to think what this might have meant. Unable to, he finally shrugged. “Jack was merely another private in a vast army. He couldn’t have killed his brother. He was delirious after all.”
“Sometimes our truest feelings come out in dreams or nightmares.”
He glanced sideways, now wanting to turn the conversation away from his family and its conflicts. “Do you have nightmares, Miss Cathwell?”
“I am human, Colonel.”
Then he recalled her telling him the story of Honoree’s sister Shiloh. He nodded and, his tongue loosening, asked, “Are you still trying to discover where your friend who was sold south might have ended up?”
“That is the primary reason Honoree and I came south.”
He stared at her. The idea of her actually looking for her friend still flabbergasted him. “Do you really think you’ll be able to find her? Two women? In the middle of a war?”
Faith considered him in the waning light. “Neither of us—Honoree nor I—could even contemplate coming south before the war. An abolitionist and a free black? Both of us would have been in danger.” She spoke resolutely. “Yet one fact is certain. If I did not come, I would never find Shiloh.”
He realized that though she was unlike most other women, in an unexpected way, she was similar in temperament to his genteel but tenacious mother. The sunset was dimming, and he should get her back before dark. “I will accompany you to your tent.” He expected an argument, but she merely rose.
He folded the camp stools and set them inside. Then he offered her his arm and they set off.
“Thy family is from Maryland,” she commented as they threaded their way through the tents and men. “My mother and Honoree’s mother are also from a tobacco plantation there.”
“Really.” He wondered which plantation, but he was finished with conversation about families for this evening.
Still, he breathed easier. This woman and her conversations had calmed his mind.
“My mother met and married my father in Pennsylvania,” she continued. “He’s deaf. We communicate with him through finger signs.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Just checking to see if thee was listening.” She sent him a saucy grin.
He smiled but kept walking in silence.
“I know thee feels indebted to me, and I don’t want to impose. But if any opportunity presents itself, would thee get permission to help me pursue a bit of information we’ve gleaned?”
“About what?”
“Shiloh may be on a plantation called Annerdale, near here.”
“What makes you think this is a credible lead?”
“Shiloh is very distinctive in her appearance. She is light-skinned with golden-brown hair and green eyes like mine.”
Dev absorbed these details. He wanted to ask many questions about Shiloh, but since the situation and the request were disturbing him, he refrained. He gave the only reply he could. “I am at your disposal, but only if my duties permit. And if we gain permission to go into enemy territory.”
“I understand.” As they walked around a knot of men, he tucked her a bit closer, protectively. A few glanced at them with inquisitive expressions, but Dev kept her near.
Within steps of the women’s tent, they encountered Armstrong and Honoree. His suspicions about their growing attachment must have been correct. He bowed to Faith and nodded to her friend. Armstrong bade the women good night, and the two of them walked in silence back to their tent.
Inside, Armstrong helped Dev undress for bed, a nightly r
itual. “You’re interested in Honoree?” Dev asked finally.
“I do find her very … interesting. It’s time I found myself a wife.”
And she is free and has family far from here, Dev added silently.
“Honoree is very eager to seek her sister,” Armstrong said.
Dev did not want to discuss this. “So I understand.”
Armstrong accepted the snub and they went on with their routine.
Much as Dev hated to admit it, once Armstrong left, he might be completely alone. The thought sucked away the remainder of his energy and he fell onto his cot, hoping for swift sleep and no nightmares. He was human too.
After breakfast the next morning, Faith and Honoree entered the camp hospital tent in time to speak to the night nurses before they left to eat breakfast and then retire to their cots and sleep.
On the way there, Faith had told Honoree about requesting help from the colonel to go to Annerdale. Honoree had not seemed very impressed. Faith sensed she did not like the colonel or trust him.
Faith had no time to think on what the colonel had revealed about his family. After the most recent battle, the camp hospital was so filled with wounded that there was barely room to walk between the cots, and many new patients lay upon the ground with only a blanket between them and the dirt. The crush of duty nearly overwhelmed her.
Unlike most of the nurses, Faith wore few crinolines under her skirt so she could pass more easily between patients. The suffering surrounding her wrenched Faith’s heart and she began praying silently, God, help us. God, help us save some.
Despair whispered, No one can save them.
She shoved this out of her mind. Just outside, at one end of the large hospital tent, a Sanitary Commission worker tended a kettle of porridge on a trivet over a small fire. The advance to Vicksburg continued. Along with the other morning nurses, Faith began to feed the wounded who could not feed themselves.
Ella McCullough, the young wife who was becoming a faithful volunteer, entered the hospital and came over to Faith. “May I help again today, Miss Faith?”
“Of course, Ella McCullough. We can always use another pair of helping hands.” Faith leaned closer. “After thee finishes feeding the patients, I insist thee eat some too.”
The young girl blushed but nodded, not denying that extra food would be welcome. “I will. Thank you.”
Faith watched the young woman receive her first bowl of porridge and begin feeding a patient. The girl should be at home, not forced to elope because she and her husband supported the Union and Tennessee had seceded. Faith surmised that Ella’s husband must lack family and land of his own and was forced to bring her into danger with him. She was not alone. Many wives with no other resources had “followed the drum,” as it was called. Some even brought children with them to the camp, and no doubt the Confederate Army also had women and children in its midst. Faith closed her eyes a moment praying for all such women.
She drew in a breath, aware of a sense of impending disaster hanging over the hospital. The young Ella looked fretful, and with good reason. Everyone knew the push to Vicksburg would go on—maybe they would even get there today.
Faith tried not to think about all these things. She greeted the next patient, a captain. “Good morning. Let me help thee eat breakfast.” She propped up the captain, too weak to help himself, and began feeding him, spoonful by spoonful.
Then in the distance she heard gunfire. Though it was what she’d been expecting to hear, she nearly upset the bowl she held.
“No rest for the wicked,” the captain muttered in the sudden surrounding quiet. Ella glanced in the direction of the gunfire, obviously strained with worry. All around, the nurses, doctors, and even those patients who were moaning with pain became silent, listening intently. Their comrades were facing hot lead.
And Colonel Knight would be at the forefront. Perhaps at this very moment. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, but slowly she forced herself to inhale. “If thee doesn’t mind,” Faith said, raising her voice so that all could hear, “may I pray?”
Her patient nodded.
She spooned more porridge into his mouth and said aloud, “Heavenly Father, please protect our men and give our leaders wisdom and insight so that they may achieve their ends swiftly and with as little loss of life as possible. Our complete dependence is upon thee, since only thee can bring us victory and an end to this battle and this war. In Christ’s name, amen.”
Amens echoed around the room. Faith heard Ella’s soft one, somewhat belated as if she’d been praying silently. The battle was the Lord’s. Faith added inwardly, Please, Lord, protect Colonel Knight. He has an honest heart. She nearly shuddered, thinking that this caring man would be killing other men today. Or might be killed himself. Oh, Father.
As Faith continued feeding the hungry, Honoree began singing an old song with her low, rich voice. “‘Hold on. Hold on. Keep your hand on the plow; just hold on.’”
Occasionally the battle sounds competed with Honoree’s voice, but it was strong and resonant and lifted Faith’s spirits and quieted their patients. Ella finished the last breakfast for a patient and went back to sit and eat her meal alone.
Dr. Dyson entered the hospital and shouted, “Stop that infernal singing, girl!”
Kneeling by a patient on the floor, in the midst of washing his face, Honoree stopped and looked at the doctor.
“You shut up!” several voices rose as one. “Let her sing!” A palpable wave of anger swept through the conscious men, all directed at Dyson.
Dyson looked like he’d been struck.
Eyeing the man, Honoree began singing again. “‘I shall not be moved. When my cross is heavy, I shall not be moved.’”
Faith hid a smile and continued feeding her patient, her heart praying for Colonel Knight, whom she realized now she’d begun to care for—even though he was killing and wounding men today. A Quakeress caring for a man of war, an abolitionist caring for a slaveholder. Hopeless, foolish beyond measure.
Once again scouting toward Vicksburg, Dev reined in his horse, who snorted and pranced.
Sniper fire.
“Spread out!” he commanded his men. If they didn’t, the snipers might start picking them off. Then he heard rapid gunfire. No doubt others of his men were encountering the rear guard of the Confederates, Pemberton’s soldiers. On the heels of yesterday’s victory, Grant was pressing on to Vicksburg, trying to stop the Rebs from reaching cover in the fortified city.
Dev sent two of his riders back to the main body of the advancing army to give this report. “Forward!” Dev gestured at the company around him.
Soon Dev glimpsed a number of Confederate troops ahead of him positioned behind swampland in front of a river. They’d put bales of cotton ahead of them and before that an abatis—an outdated military defense consisting of mere branches of trees stuck in the ground in a row, with their sharpened tops directed toward the enemy. Even with obstacles in place, this defensive position showed that Pemberton was no one to lead these men. Dev mentally excoriated the Confederate general’s lack of strategy. He should have positioned all his men with the river before them, not behind them! No wise general took up such an untenable position. He’d heard that Pemberton had graduated from West Point, no doubt at the bottom of his class.
“Dismount!” Dev slid from the saddle and, along with the rest of his company, handed the reins to several men who were taking their turns remaining in the rear to hold the horses. The US cavalry acted as scouts and as dragoons, which meant fighting mounted or on foot when necessary. “Spread out and join in!”
His men obeyed and he followed suit. The main body of the army was advancing close at their backs. Pemberton must know that. “Fool,” Dev cursed under his breath.
The infantry arrived at the cavalry’s rear within minutes and Dev’s companies blended into their ranks. The artillery rolled into place and began barking hot lead over their heads. The blues swept onward, some sinking waist-deep in the swampy loo
p left by the meandering river. All under fierce attack took positions wherever they could hunker down. Still their assault on Pemberton’s forces was relentless and without mercy. The blues drove the grays back toward the river. Some of the cotton bales, hit by hot grapeshot, caught fire. Dev cursed their general again.
The gray line finally broke. The Reb drum call for retreat came. Gray soldiers poured onto the bridge over the river, but others boarded a steamboat on the river, crowding it dangerously. A bullet seared Dev’s cheek; he ducked down. Ahead, the remaining Rebs did their utmost to protect the retreating soldiers.
The blue wave steadily pushed more and more grays onto the bridge or the steamboat to escape across the river. Dev urged his men on. If they could catch the Rebs out here, Vicksburg would fall quickly without defense. The killing could end … here.
The man beside Dev screamed and fell. Dev dropped to one knee to help him. Dead. Dev closed his eyes and, crouching, moved forward. They had to stop the Rebs from getting to Vicksburg. If they could halt them now …
A shell burst and Dev fell to the ground, covering his head with his arms.
Faith’s face flashed in Dev’s mind. He shoved it aside. He had to stay alive. That was all he had to do today. Just stay alive. With honor.
When the gunfire finally fell silent, Dr. Bryant harried the wagoneers to set out. At the edge of the usual commotion of gathering supplies for the wounded and getting teams of horses harnessed, Honoree and Faith stood outside a hospital tent, overseeing the loading of fresh bandages and stretchers. Ella was busy filling canteens for the nurses to take with them.
Faith tried to focus on what she was doing, but Colonel Knight’s face lingered in her mind. Did he still live? Had they stopped the Rebel retreat?
“You!” Dr. Dyson appeared out of nowhere. “You, girl,” he said belligerently to Honoree. “Go with the wagons.”
Faith moved with Honoree, heading to their tent to get more supplies for the battlefield wounded.
“Not you, Quaker,” he snapped. “Just the girl. You stay here.”
Faith turned. “Wherever Honoree goes, I go. Thee knows that.”
