Faith

by Lyn Cote

  Faith sat on the back of the Sanitary Commission wagon, jolting and rocking across Tennessee. She supposed the colonel was just ahead of them, patrolling the railroad line to keep supplies going south to Chattanooga. He wouldn’t leave her mind no matter how hard she tried to push him away. Her conversation with Honoree as they walked away from the train that morning still played through her mind in snatches.

  “Marrying Armstrong in the middle of a war?”

  But that objection had come out of Honoree’s mouth, not hers.

  “Yes,” Honoree had continued. “I know that’s what you’re thinking. But we both know Armstrong might not survive this war. And I could die of dysentery or something else any day of the week.”

  Faith had not voiced any objections. Honoree and Armstrong did not face the barriers she and Devlin Knight did. The colonel refused to address his inner conflicts, and they all had to do in some way with his and his family’s turmoil over slavery—an institution she could not tolerate. She recalled what he’d told her of his family—his mother, who’d left the plantation to get away from slaveholding. An uncle with two feuding sons like Jacob and Esau. And Devlin pulled in both directions.

  She gave up. The lives and fortunes of those she cared about were not her responsibility. I’m not God. But she might be forced to deal with losing the colonel. This remained the worry that would not leave her.

  “Your colonel’s luck ran out,” Dr. Dyson sneered at Faith when the march ended for the day.

  “What?” She stopped where she stood overseeing the orderlies raising her tent. Horror rippled through her. Was he … ?

  “He’s in surgery now. It doesn’t look good.”

  Faith ignored the man’s cruel tone and turned, running toward the hospital wagon that held the “at-the-ready” surgical supplies and table. She reached it, gasping. “Dr. Bryant!”

  “Do not come in,” he called from inside the wagon. “I’m operating on the colonel. Don’t worry—I cleaned my instruments and my hands.”

  “How bad is he?” she managed to ask.

  “Bad.”

  She stumbled around to the shadow of the covered wagon and dropped to her knees. Her heart seemed to have fallen within her. She closed her eyes against the tears seeping from them. Pressing a fist to her lips, she prayed. Father, please guide Dr. Bryant’s hands. Hold back the infection. Stop the bleeding. I love him so.

  At the end of the surgery, as Dr. Bryant climbed down the last step of the wagon, Faith met him.

  The surgeon clasped her, a hand on each shoulder. “He came through surgery. But it’s still bad.”

  Prayer had helped settle her mind. She faced him levelly. “How bad?”

  “He was wounded in the shoulder, but not a lot of damage there.” He inhaled. “Then there’s his hip. I don’t really know how he managed to stay in the saddle. His right hip was shattered. There was little I could do but reconnect what was left of the sinews and vessels and sew everything up.” He paused, looking her straight in the eye.

  She prayed for more strength.

  “The worst was a gunshot very near the heart. I frankly am not sure how it missed both his heart and lung, but I dug out the ball and sewed him up. Nurse Cathwell … Faith, it will be a miracle if he survives.”

  She absorbed the blow, merely tucking her lower lip under her teeth to hold back vain denial. “May I see him?”

  “More than that. I’m putting him exclusively in your care. Call me if anything tears loose, starts bleeding. Do whatever you can for him.”

  Unspoken was Nothing you do can hurt him. I think he’s going to die.

  “Thank thee, Doctor.” Her voice wobbled. “I’ll go to him and then fetch my herbs.”

  The doctor leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Do that. And God bless.” He walked away, heading toward the area their cook had set up.

  Faith climbed the narrow steps into the wagon. Looking away from the gore-stained operating table secured with latches in the center of the wagon, she went to one of the berths attached to the inside of the wagon and supported by folding struts. There the colonel lay, very pale, nearly bloodless, covered in a stained wool blanket. He’d been deeply drugged. She laid her hand on his forehead and prayed for healing.

  A cacophony of sorrow tried to freeze her into place. She broke free and turned to go for her medicine chest. And Honoree. They had a battle ahead of them, fighting the inevitable infection that could kill Colonel Knight—Devlin. Kill her heart.

  Dev blinked. Sunlight above but through cloth. Where am I? His mind felt clogged like an uncleaned gun barrel. Someone was speaking.

  “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’” Faith was reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.

  “Faith,” he whispered … or thought he did. Was she here praying over him? Or was his mind playing tricks?

  He felt the fever then. He was burning with it. Pain attacked. He couldn’t stop the moan, long and low, that forced its way through his dry lips.

  Faith’s face appeared above his. She lifted his head enough to dribble something into his mouth. He tasted it. Salty … Broth? He swallowed and swallowed, so thirsty. Then the taste changed to sweet coffee and whiskey. “Faith,” he whispered.

  “I’m here, Colonel. I won’t leave thee.”

  “Jack. Dead.”

  “I saw his hat.”

  Her soft hand bathed his face with a damp, sweet-scented cloth. He tried to understand the pain. Where had he been hit? But his whole body ached and burned. Pain forced its way through the fog of his mind.

  A spoon nudged at his lips. He obeyed and swallowed some medicine. “Ask Armstrong,” he whispered. “Mother’s address. Write her. Jack’s dead.”

  “I will. Now rest. Thee is weak.”

  He almost retorted, I know that. But he didn’t have the strength it would demand. He felt himself drifting away. Perhaps he would not wake again. He tried to clear the fog to see Faith once more… .

  NOVEMBER 5, 1863

  Faith rose from kneeling beside the colonel’s berth.

  “Miss Faith, here’s the hot water you need,” Armstrong said as he climbed into the surgical wagon. Four days after the colonel had been wounded, Armstrong had come to the wagon to see Honoree and had immediately offered his help.

  “Thank thee, Armstrong. I need to foment his wounds.”

  Leaving Armstrong to help Faith, Honoree had gone to fetch supper from the hospital cook.

  “Is there hope?” Armstrong asked from the rear of the wagon.

  Faith heard the concern and sorrow in Armstrong’s voice.

  “There is always hope. He’s a strong man, and I am doing all I can to draw out the infection. He will live if it’s God’s will.” She went about selecting the herbs for yet another poultice.

  “Three wounds. He should have bled to death before he got back here. And Jack’s dead.” Armstrong sounded tired, sorrowful. “Miss Faith, I want you to take Honoree and go home.”

  She had begun sewing herbs into another cloth pouch, but now her chin snapped up. “Thee too? Everyone wants us to go home. They have since we arrived.” She couldn’t help the bit of sarcasm that invaded her tone. “Perhaps thee should commiserate with Dr. Dyson over our lack of cooperation.”

  Armstrong ignored this. “We’re going into winter soon. I know what that means, being encamped in the winter. This war is not ending anytime soon.”

  Faith nodded in politeness but didn’t waste energy speaking. She was soaking the poultice in a basin of hot water.

  “I plan to marry Honoree and send her home where she can be safe. Then, if anything happens to me, I will leave her my savings and war pension for widows.”

  She held the poultice over the basin, letting the excess water drip. “That is between thee and Honoree.” She applied the first poultice to the colonel’s chest wound, the most troubling of the three.

  “I would ca
rry on looking for Shiloh. You can trust me to.”

  “I’m sure thee would.” She pressed down on the poultice, the hot water stinging her palms.

  “If I was looking for Shiloh, you two could go home.”

  Though drugged, the colonel moved against her hand as if trying to get away from the treatment. But he was too weak to do more than squirm.

  “I will not convince Honoree to do anything,” Faith said. “Stay or leave—it’s up to her.”

  After a sound of frustration, Armstrong just watched her. “The colonel will never serve again.”

  “Yes, the war is over for him.” Please, God, just his soldiering, not his life.

  “Then why don’t you take him home to recuperate?”

  Faith looked up this time. “He is too sick to travel right now.”

  “Really?” Now sarcasm infused Armstrong’s tone. “Pray tell—what exactly is it we are doing every day?”

  Faith sat back on her heels, shaken. Armstrong had spoken the facts. The wagons rolled daily. Other patients had been left at Union hospitals in houses or churches along the way. But Dr. Bryant was allowing her to keep the colonel with her, letting her ride with him. Was it because he hoped she could save the colonel or because he thought the colonel would die?

  Honoree appeared outside, behind the wagon. Armstrong climbed down from the wagon first and then turned to help Faith negotiate the narrow steps. She left the poultice on the wound to do its work of drawing out the infection so she could lance it, drain it—ugly work.

  The three sat around the fire at first, eating in silence. Though the beans and rice with salt pork were monotonous, they were prepared well and filling, thanks to the cook’s skills.

  “I suppose Armstrong has been trying to persuade you to persuade me to go home along with you?” Honoree said conversationally.

  “Yes,” Faith said, listening for any sound that meant the colonel needed her.

  “Armstrong,” Honoree said in a gritty tone, “just because you love me doesn’t mean I am going to become one of those helpless women—”

  “I don’t want that,” Armstrong responded with heat.

  “Good,” Honoree replied with a tart smile. “I am not leaving my nursing, but I will marry you.”

  “I don’t want you to have to winter—” Armstrong began.

  “I believe, my dear, that you have expressed that thought previously,” Honoree reproved with a teasing smile.

  Reluctantly Armstrong chuckled. “I can see that being married to you, I’m going to lead a dog’s life.”

  “Yes, a pampered and petted dog,” Honoree promised, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

  Armstrong laughed out loud.

  Faith blinked back tears. They were so happy, and she was happy they were, but what of the colonel? And her? Fear as cold as January snow fell upon her heart.

  Honoree turned to Faith. “Now we have to discuss what you are going to be doing.”

  The statement was so unexpected that Faith paused, openmouthed.

  “The colonel isn’t going to survive without warmth, good nursing, good food,” Honoree said. “It will take a long time, and you need to do it.”

  “I will.”

  “I talked to Dr. Bryant today, and he told me that we will come upon a railroad spur tomorrow, a small depot. We are going to have the colonel and you ready to travel. And you will take him north by rail.” Honoree held up a hand to stop Faith from responding.

  But Faith sat still, unable to speak.

  “I went to the colonel’s commander, Osterhaus, on my way to the mess tent tonight, and he’s written you a military pass that will get both of you free passage and preference on any carrier in Tennessee and Kentucky.”

  “But—” Faith couldn’t speak further, words jammed in her throat.

  Honoree plowed on. “I will be safe now because I will be a soldier’s wife.” She gripped one of Armstrong’s hands. “His whole regiment will protect me. I’m young and strong and can stand the rigors of wintering with the army. And at the same time, I can stay on the lookout for Shiloh.”

  Faith suppressed a sob.

  Honoree let go of Armstrong’s hand and claimed Faith’s. “And you are going to marry the colonel.”

  “What!” Faith jerked backward.

  “Yes. I discussed it with Dr. Bryant and Brigadier General Osterhaus. It isn’t appropriate for a maiden lady to travel alone with a man, but a wife traveling with her husband is quite appropriate.”

  “A good idea,” Armstrong commented, nodding.

  Faith stared at them. “But the colonel—we—he doesn’t want to marry me. We aren’t a couple.”

  Armstrong snorted. “You may think you aren’t, but everybody knows you are.”

  Faith stood. “I … I …”

  Honoree rose too, still gripping Faith’s hand. “You must do this, Faith. There isn’t a good Union hospital near here, and even if we left you at one to care for the colonel, you might run into the same problem, a maiden lady nursing a man not her husband. And what’s best for the colonel?”

  “But—”

  Honoree held up her free hand again, forestalling Faith’s interruption. “Here the doctors know you and your skills. Somewhere else, you might even be prevented from nursing him at all. And who knows what kind of insulting, incompetent country doctors you might run into. The medical community is filled with Dr. Dysons.”

  “But—” Faith stammered again.

  Honoree raised an eyebrow, again shushing Faith. “You need to do what I say and not hesitate. The weather is fine now, but what if we run into thunderstorms and the weather cools down sooner than expected? And I expect we’re heading straight into more fighting. How could you ignore a hospital of dying men and just treat the colonel?”

  Withdrawing her hand from Honoree’s, Faith clasped and unclasped her own. “I can’t marry a man just to satisfy convention. The colonel and I have never …” She couldn’t go on. Putting their difficult relationship into words would be impossible.

  “You’ve never come to an agreement about being a couple,” Honoree supplied.

  “But this isn’t a plan that includes that,” Armstrong said in a soothing tone. “The colonel needs you, and he needs to go someplace where you can care for him. Your parents’ home is the right place, the best place.”

  Faith sat down. All her strength seemed to have leaked out in these few minutes of discussion. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “When the colonel is awake, I’ll explain matters to him,” Armstrong said. “I’ll make sure he agrees. When we get to the town with the depot ahead, we’ll find a preacher to marry us—both couples—and you’ll go on north.”

  Armstrong looked to Honoree. “I want my wife to go with you, but if she won’t, she can come with me. She’s right. My regiment will protect her.”

  He left unsaid, “… if anything happens to me.”

  Faith looked from Honoree’s face to Armstrong’s, still unable to respond. Her mind rebelled even as her heart drew her toward the man lying in the berth nearby. Father, what should I do?

  Dev woke. The pain slammed him as before, and he panted with the effort not to cry out.

  “Here.” Armstrong’s voice summoned him.

  He looked up and blinked, thinking he was hallucinating.

  Armstrong lifted Dev’s head and helped him drink what tasted like herbal tea. “Miss Faith is resting. We—you and I—haven’t talked … since the day before my birthday, but now I’ve got something to say.”

  “What?” Dev mumbled, still parched.

  Armstrong lifted his head and helped him drink more.

  The effort caused Dev to lay gasping. He didn’t have enough strength to lift a hand.

  “I’m marrying Honoree when we reach the next town. And you—” Armstrong pinned him with a stare—“will propose to and marry Miss Faith.”

  “What?” Dev croaked.

  “Don’t bother arguing. We both know you cou
ld very well die of your injuries.”

  Dev reeled but knew it to be true.

  “I’m marrying Honoree now and not waiting. In case anything happens to me, my savings will go to her along with my war pension. We talked Miss Faith into taking you home with her to try to save you. But you’ve got to marry her first.”

  Dev could hardly believe what he was hearing. He must be dreaming again.

  Armstrong pursed his lips for a moment. “As a maiden lady, Miss Faith can’t travel alone with you—wouldn’t be right. You need to marry her to save her reputation and keep people from getting the wrong idea.” Armstrong stared at him.

  Dev scrambled to come up with an answer. “She agreed?”

  “If it’s what you want, she’ll go along. So?”

  Dev merely nodded, too weak to do anything but obey. And no doubt Faith would be a widow before long. At least he’d be buried in a private grave at her home in Ohio, a place his mother could visit. He’d not be buried in haste in an unmarked grave here in Tennessee.

  Armstrong helped him drink more tea and then left without saying more.

  Dev stared up at the cloth overhead. Pain and fever consumed him. He forced himself to keep listening, keep awake. He finally heard footsteps.

  Faith leaned over him.

  The nasty red welt across her pale cheek caused guilt to flood him. He nerved himself, and the words came out in a rush. “Miss Faith, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  “Does thee think I should?”

  “Yes. You can annul … if you want. Later.” He was unable to say more.

  She gazed at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “Then I will not give thee laudanum until we are on the train. We are just approaching the town. One of thy men is going to find a preacher to marry us, and the train will arrive soon to switch tracks and head back north.”

  “Good,” he whispered, spent.

  An hour or more passed—Dev couldn’t keep track of time. He forced himself not to moan with the pain and to stay awake, not pass out. The groom must at least be awake for his wedding.

  The wagon lumbered to a rocky stop, and Armstrong and two of Dev’s cavalrymen carried him out on a stretcher and onto the broad, shallow steps of a modest white church, where they laid his stretcher down. Many of his men stood around the church, somber, their hats in their hands as if at a funeral.