Faith

by Lyn Cote

  Dev’s heart pounded as usual in the face of a skirmish. He checked his carbine for ammunition and loosened his saber. Then he thought of the African Brigade. They were ahead. Had the war found them?

  Dev and his men fought their way to Milliken’s Bend, hot mile by hot mile. Smoke boiled up over the river. And before he reached the riverside levee, he heard cannon fire from the river itself. Union gunboats had joined the fight.

  Before long the smoke began to clear and he glimpsed the water itself. The Confederate line was falling back, heading south toward Vicksburg. He urged his men forward.

  Then he saw that familiar cockaded hat, or thought he did. Jack? The rider turned in his saddle. Saw him, raised a crooked arm, and gave the Rebel cry.

  Dev nearly lost his seat on the horse. But the distance and the smoke billowing on the wind intervened. Had it been his cousin?

  He leaned forward and soon came upon the remnant of the African Brigade and the white Iowa troops serving with them. They’d been decimated.

  “Dismount! Give aid!” Dev followed his own orders and hurried to do what he could. He glanced around and saw a hospital tent nearby. So many had fallen—hundreds. He moved to help lift the wounded and carry them to the hospital tent. At first he didn’t realize it, but he was searching for Carson, the soldier who so reminded him of Armstrong.

  Finally Dev found him and bound up his wounded leg. He helped him to the hospital tent. Carson still breathed, so Dev returned outside to aid others, disgust galling him. He hadn’t wanted to send these men out so ill-trained. But he’d been given no choice. Grant had dealt with that hard truth too. He needed men to face the enemy, and he couldn’t let himself dwell on the loss of lives. Ending the war alone would stop the slaughter—the quicker, the better.

  After many hours, all the wounded had been moved and were being treated or waiting to be treated. He gathered his men and began the effort to dig graves for the fallen.

  Lieb saw Dev and came to him. “They fought bravely. They were a credit to their race.”

  Dev nodded, but from what he’d seen, most of them had died today. And it sickened him. What good did freedom do a man if he was dead?

  In deep twilight Dev and his men hunkered down near Milliken’s Bend for the night, his heart heavy and his back aching. Had it really been Jack with the Rebel forces attacking the African Brigade?

  The cockaded hat had certainly been Jack’s, and the bent arm was consistent with his injuries. So what if it was Jack? Dev already knew that his cousin had escaped to return to the war—a man without honor. Why should the sight of Jack fighting again surprise him? But his fury at Jack’s betrayal still burned.

  Coming back to camp late the next day, the eve of Armstrong’s fortieth birthday, Dev avoided returning to his tent as long as he could. Then he decided he had to face this head-on.

  Armstrong was waiting inside for him. Dev looked into his eyes and realized something had changed. It seemed the polite veneer that Armstrong usually masked his true feelings with had been drawn back.

  “You’re not going to go through with it,” Armstrong stated flatly.

  Dev stared at Armstrong’s hard expression, letting the man’s anger roll over him. He didn’t waste words asking what Armstrong was talking about. “I overheard you that night when you were taking care of Honoree. You said as soon as you were free, you planned to enlist—”

  “Yes, I do plan to enlist.” Armstrong cut him off.

  “I saw what happened to the African Brigade yesterday.” The memory clogged Dev’s throat. “They … were slaughtered.”

  “So that’s it. You’re going to break your word, do to me what Jack did to you.”

  Dev bridled at the accusation. The two things were not the same. Couldn’t Armstrong understand that Dev only wanted to act in the man’s own interest?

  “I’ve been free since January when President Lincoln issued the proclamation.” Armstrong’s jaw jutted forward. “I could have left then.”

  Dev knew that, but he hadn’t questioned Armstrong’s staying with him. He suspected he knew the reason. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I have imagined my fortieth birthday for a long time. You would write out my manumission paper and then offer me your hand to shake, treating me as a freeman. Your equal. But I’m never going to get to shake your hand, am I? Because you are never going to see me as an equal.” Armstrong snapped his mouth shut then, glaring at him.

  “Why would I want you to be free if all you plan to do is throw that freedom away? I just don’t want you to get hurt.” Get killed. But as Dev watched him, the mask tightened over his face.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  With his cool tone and formal words, Armstrong set himself apart from Dev in a way he’d never done before.

  “I’ll draw up your manumission papers as soon as the war ends,” Dev promised, sounding weak in his own ears.

  “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

  And Dev realized Armstrong spoke the simple truth. He’d not thought that far ahead, but now he was forced to. When this war finished, slavery would be at an end. No doubt of that lingered in Dev’s mind. He felt foolish. But I won’t be around at the end of the war.

  Fear that Armstrong might suffer the same sad fate prompted Dev to try coming up with words to persuade Armstrong not to enlist, but none came.

  Armstrong left the tent.

  Clenching his hands, Dev glanced around, struggling with his own turbulent feelings. He turned to go, instinctively seeking Faith. Only she could help him. If she wanted to.

  And she stood there, just outside his tent.

  He halted abruptly.

  “I came to see if thee had returned safely.” Yet she stared at him as if she didn’t know him.

  “You overheard?” He stated the obvious.

  “I didn’t come to eavesdrop, nor did I want to, but yes, I heard. Thee plans to break thy promise to free Armstrong tomorrow.”

  At hearing the bald truth, fury roared through Dev. “I saw what happened to the African Brigade. He’ll get himself killed.”

  She gazed at him and shook her head.

  What did her expression signify? Sadness or disappointment or both—he couldn’t tell.

  He brushed past her, nearly running. He must find Armstrong and persuade him to see sense.

  “Colonel Knight!” the Quakeress called after him.

  He didn’t turn his head or slow his pace, not wanting to hear her. He didn’t know where he was headed. This war would kill him. Did it need to kill Armstrong too? Was this war going to leave no one he valued alive?

  AS DEV AND HIS COMPANY rode back into camp, the artillery had already fallen silent, earlier than usual. That felt like an ominous portent.

  Today was Armstrong’s birthday, and Dev did not relish facing his man after they’d crossed words yesterday. This morning before Dev had left, Armstrong had barely spoken to him. And he hadn’t told Dev to come back in one piece as he always had before.

  At the horse corral, Dev waved away the private who offered to tend his horse, trying to work out his tension by thoroughly brushing down the animal himself. Finally, unable to delay any longer, he trudged slowly back to his tent to face Armstrong.

  When Armstrong did not come out as he always did when he heard Dev approaching, premonition chilled Dev once more. He opened the flap and entered, then stood frozen with one hand holding up the flap.

  Except for Armstrong’s cot with its bedding neatly folded on top, none of the manservant’s belongings remained in the tent. Dev let the tent flap fall.

  He’s left me. Emotion clogged Dev’s throat and threatened to spill out of his eyes. This desertion hit him worse than Jack’s. Dev hadn’t been overly surprised that his cousin was capable of dishonor, but he’d never even contemplated Armstrong’s leaving him without a manumission paper, not even though he legally could.

  Armstrong’s words from the evening before played in his mind: “I have imagined my fortieth b
irthday for a long time. You would write out my manumission paper and then offer me your hand to shake, treating me as a freeman. Your equal.”

  For a long time he sat on his cot and gazed around at the half-empty tent, unable to do more than recollect images of Armstrong from their boyhood together, through the war in Mexico, to different military posts, and now in this war. Dev felt as if a part of him had been sliced off without morphine. Finally Dev rose, his hunger spurring him—not just physical hunger but hunger to know where Armstrong had gone and to see the only one who might bring him any peace. He set out for Faith’s tent. He arrived there and met her and Honoree outside.

  Honoree stopped and folded her arms. “You,” she said, a one-word indictment.

  Not mistaking what must be the reason for her harsh tone, he clamped his jaws tight so he wouldn’t lash out at her. He would not cause a public scene over his private troubles.

  “Colonel,” Faith’s soft voice interceded, “thee looks hungry. Has thee eaten?”

  He shook his head, still regarding Honoree, who stared back at him with galling disdain. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Come with me.”

  He gladly fell in beside Faith, wanting to escape before his self-control broke and he said something to Honoree he’d regret. He’d only wanted to do what he thought best for his servant.

  Faith led him to the hospital cook tent. “Mary Lou!” she called, just outside the opening.

  The tall head cook came through the opening and folded her hands over her narrow waistline.

  “Does thee have a plate of food thee can spare?”

  The woman stared razors at Dev. “This the colonel Honoree talk about today?”

  Dev felt his face and neck flame.

  “Yes. And please, I don’t want him to have only hardtack tonight,” Faith replied.

  The woman glared at him a few more moments. “Verra well—just this time, though. I can’t be makin’ special meals for the whole army.”

  He held in his hot anger at being judged by this woman. Did everyone with dark skin know that he’d reneged on his promise to free Armstrong?

  Soon, outside the nearly deserted mess tent, Dev and Faith sat on camp stools while he ate a plate of beans and rice and drank coffee. He barely tasted the food. He ate to regain strength and to face what lay ahead. He tried to form the phrases to explain himself to this woman.

  Faith watched him without speaking. When he was nearly finished, she excused herself and went inside the cook tent. Returning, she handed him a piece of raisin pie and sat down across from him again. “Didn’t thee guess that Armstrong would leave today?”

  He didn’t know why he’d expected sympathy from her. Of course she’d be on Armstrong’s side. “No. I didn’t expect him to run away.”

  “He didn’t run away. Legally he has been free since January. The two of thee may be from a border state, but neither of thee is in a border state now.”

  He clutched his mug of coffee with both hands. “You know he plans to enlist. Do you want what happened to the African Brigade the other day to happen to him?”

  “How can thee stop a freeman from doing what he chooses? That is the meaning of free.”

  “I just want him safe.” The words were painful, tortured.

  “Doesn’t thee think I want that for Honoree? For thee?” She locked gazes with him.

  “It’s not the same,” he declared. “I’m a lifelong officer, expected to fight—”

  “It is the same,” she interrupted. “At the outbreak of war, Honoree and I could have stayed safely at home. Thee could have resigned thy commission and gone to Canada or Europe and left this dreadful civil war behind.”

  His hands shook, and coffee spilled from his cup. “A man of honor would not, could not do that, and you know it.”

  “Does a man of honor go back on his word?”

  Her question knifed him. Dev set his mug down and bent his head into one hand. “I hate this war,” he muttered.

  “On that we can agree.”

  Dev glanced up. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “He went to headquarters to enlist this morning. He has left most of his possessions in Honoree’s care.”

  “It’s done, then.” I went back on my word and it accomplished nothing but my disgrace. He felt sick.

  Faith wished she could offer comfort, but there was no balm here.

  “I lost Bellamy in the Mexican War, and my father died while I was away,” he said simply. “Jack when he betrayed me here. And now Armstrong.” He stood.

  Here within the cover between the mess tent and the cook tent, Faith rose and moved near him. Concealed within the darkening shadows, she rested a hand on his chest. “I am grieved too, though I don’t expect thee to understand. No one ever does. Three days from now will be my twenty-fifth birthday, and the fifth year since I lost my twin. I never heal; the loneliness never goes away. When she died, part of me was amputated.”

  He didn’t say anything, nor had she expected him to. What could anyone say or do?

  “So I understand thy loss,” she continued. “But I have no comfort to give except to say I am sorry we are in a war, sorry thee didn’t keep thy promise, sorry Armstrong has put himself in harm’s way.”

  His hand covered hers and pressed it to himself. Then he leaned forward and rested his cheek against hers as if in defeat.

  Faith knew she should gently draw back, but she couldn’t. She could feel his heart beating under her palm and the stubble on his cheek against hers. And in this moment she felt comforted. Then he pressed a kiss on the skin right below her ear.

  At this intimate touch, she inhaled sharply, swallowing a gasp.

  “Good night, Miss Faith. I thank you for the meal.” He left her.

  For a moment she stood, watching him go, letting the shock waves from his kiss work through her. Then she bent and picked up the tin plates and cup. She turned and found Mary Lou in front of her.

  “You in love with that man?” Mary Lou asked.

  “No,” Faith answered. But then truth prodded her to add, “But I’m in danger of it.”

  Mary Lou accepted the dishes and made a sound like humph. “Best not be courtin’ danger.”

  Very true. “My thanks and good night,” Faith said and headed back to her tent, wishing the colonel had walked her home but realizing why he’d had to leave her. He’d disappointed a friend, disappointed himself.

  Even if he hadn’t, she’d understood what he said about losing family. He hadn’t said it but he’d meant he’d lost the one closest to him, and she certainly knew how that felt. She’d lost Patience. And then Shiloh. She knew how bereft she’d feel if she lost Honoree here and now. If only this siege would end. Shiloh might only be miles away, but this siege held them all captive.

  After supper Faith headed for her tent in the lull before the evening barrage began. Armstrong had met them after supper. He was now an enlistee and wore a blue uniform. Honoree had gone for her evening stroll with him, respecting Faith’s desire to be alone on this day, which would have been Patience’s twenty-fifth birthday too.

  Faith walked through the clusters of men, feeling the sensation that was never far away—the sensation of missing part of herself. Am I the only twin to feel this way?

  She had no way of knowing. No one talked about what being one of a pair of identical twins felt like. Only those closest to her, like Honoree and her family, had ever tried to understand and comfort her in the face of this special loss. Her twin had always been beside her, day and night since conception. When she’d looked at Patience, she’d seen herself. They had done everything together, shared everything … everything but death.

  She reached her tent and entered. On the trunk where her brush and comb set was laid out, someone had placed three wilted wildflowers, one a purple coneflower, one a form of sage, and one a type of wild rose. Faith picked them up one by one, sniffing them, and knew who’d left them here for her. Colonel Knight.

  She sat d
own, arranged the wildflowers on her lap, and wept. She would not thank him with words. He had not given them to her directly. He’d left them for her. Just a token that said he knew today was hard for her. Was he missing his longtime companion too?

  She whispered, “You would have liked him, Patience.”

  After all, he had promised to help her go to Annerdale, promised to help her find Shiloh, the one who was lost but who could yet be found.

  JULY 4, 1863

  Dev waited near the horse corral preparing to carry Faith to Annerdale Plantation. The unending siege with its daily barrage, shortened rations, and deadly sniper fire had worn everyone down. How long could the Rebs hold out? Were they all intent upon dying of starvation instead of surrendering? Even to the point of sacrificing the lives of their women and children?

  Today’s trip to Annerdale would get them away from it, though he still expected it to be a fool’s errand. But he would do it because he’d promised. He also had another pressing reason to undertake the journey. Ever since Armstrong had left him for the enlisted men’s quarters, Dev preferred to be away from his solitary tent and busy as much as possible. Losing Armstrong weighed on him like the interminable siege.

  And here came Miss Faith, followed by Honoree. As usual, the latter looked sharp needles if not daggers at him.

  He possessed only one lone and flimsy obstacle to Faith’s coming with him and his men to Annerdale. “Miss Faith,” Dev said, broaching the subject, “I haven’t been able to find a lady’s sidesaddle for you.”

  “That won’t be a problem, Colonel,” Faith said. “I’ve never ridden sidesaddle. I ride astride.”

  Her calmly spoken rebuttal shocked him. A lady riding astride? “But modesty—”

  She lifted her skirt a few inches to show the bottom hems of a worn pair of trousers above her boots.

  He goggled at her.

  “An old pair of my brother’s pants will answer the concern for my modesty.” She grinned at him with an impish gleam in her eyes. “My mother was raised to ride sidesaddle, but we lived far from Cincinnati, so when we rode, we just used this means to remain modest. Where is my horse?”