He bowed slightly. “I’m an officer now, Carrie Ann. I’ve been promoted to major—Major Joshua Blevens.”
“My, my. Your folks must be so proud of you.” She smiled. “And so am I. Congratulations.”
He grinned, his gaze fixed on her face, until his friend cleared his throat.
“Speakin’ of folks,” the other man said, “didn’t your mama teach you any manners, Blevens?”
He whirled around and faced his cohort.
“Introduce us,” the man prompted.
“Of course. Excuse my rudeness.” Joshua took a step back. “Miss Carrie Ann Bell, meet Major John Rodingham. Likewise, Major, allow me to present the sassiest girl this side of the Alleghenies.”
Rodingham strode forward with an air of confidence. His eyes resembled two lead balls set into deep sockets. Oddly, the major’s suntanned skin and brown hair were a perfect match, and the exact color of Papa’s pipe tobacco. “A pleasure, Miss Bell.”
She froze beneath his weighty gaze. His cold, flat eyes reminded her of the reptiles Joshua had teased her with as a child, not all of which were harmless. She blinked, wondering which type he was.
“Carrie Ann?” Joshua jabbed her with his elbow.
She swallowed her misgivings. “The pleasure is all mine, sir.”
“Carrie Ann’s been working hard, operating her father’s newspaper in his absence,” Joshua explained, and she detected a note of pride in his voice. “Mr. Bell marched off with General Jackson, taking it upon himself to document the war in hopes a publisher will purchase his writings. Ain’t that right, Carrie Ann?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” But would she ever cure Joshua of using the word ain’t? Probably not.
“Heard from him lately? Your papa?”
“Not for a while. His last letter arrived some three months ago.” Carrie didn’t add that it was postmarked from Washington, that Papa must be doing research about the Union army now. She didn’t even want to think what Joshua and his friend would do if they found out her father was working inside a blue-belly camp.
“I wouldn’t fret if I were you, Carrie Ann.” The consolation in Joshua’s voice did little to comfort her.
“Folks here in Woodstock say Papa’s dead.” Carrie’s chin quivered in spite of her best efforts to appear as brave as the Rebel officers who blocked the walkway. “But I refuse to give up hope.”
Joshua reached for her hand and gave it a brotherly squeeze.
“Quite the honor to be endorsed by General Jackson, may he rest in peace.” Rodingham slapped his leather gauntlets against one palm. He too wore a gray shell jacket. “You must be very proud.”
“Indeed I am, sir.”
The major stepped toward her, and Carrie backed away.
Joshua set his hand on her shoulder and she felt a measure of protection. “In her spare time, Carrie Ann works at the Wayfarers Inn up the block with her sisters.” His gaze met hers. “What’s for breakfast this morning, Carrie Ann?”
“Porridge, same as every other day this week. It’s been so hot that the chickens won’t lay their eggs. Then again, I left before anyone else was awake, and Margaret is the one who gathers eggs each morning.”
“Were you at the newspaper office?”
She nodded. “I’m having trouble with the printing press again.”
“That dilapidated ol’ thing.” Joshua wagged his head. “Wish I could help you with repairs like I usually do, Carrie Ann, but I’ve got more important things on my mind.”
“Understandable. Besides, I managed to get it working.” She glimpsed her stained fingertips and quickly stuffed her hands into her apron pockets. She’d been so distracted when she left Papa’s office that she’d forgotten about washing up and putting on gloves and her bonnet. She must appear a disgrace to Rodingham, although she wasn’t bent on impressing him as much as she hoped she hadn’t embarrassed Joshua.
Sarah Jane’s note brushed against her bare palm, and Carrie’s gaze bounced back to her childhood friend. Would he help her—just like he used to when they were children?
“You back home for a while now, Joshua?”
“No. Awaiting orders is all—and trying to show everyone in Woodstock that continued support of the Confederacy will bring prosperity.”
Carrie’s hopes deflated like one of the Union Balloon Corps’s aerostats that she’d read about.
“These new uniforms and our victory at Cold Harbor a couple of months ago prove it.” A look of pride spread across Joshua’s face. “About two thousand Yankees dead, and we didn’t even lose a hundred men.”
Carrie knew the details. She’d printed them in the Bell Tower. “And so far, you’ve been able to protect Petersburg from falling into Union hands.”
“The Yankees’ll never get Petersburg,” Joshua muttered.
Rodingham cleared his throat. “Tell us, Miss … what are you doing in town this fine morning, galloping down the street such as you were?”
Joshua stared at her from beneath an arched brow.
Carrie’s cheeks burned with a rush of indignation. “I have an important message to deliver to my mother.” Not that it’s any concern of yours.
She turned to her friend. “Joshua?” There had to be a way he could help her, especially now that he was an officer. “May I speak to you privately?”
He cast a brief look toward Rodingham. “I’m a busy man, Carrie Ann.”
“It’s important.” She gave him a pleading stare.
Meeting her gaze, his blue eyes turned steely-gray, revealing a hardness that Carrie had never seen in Joshua before. Obviously he’d witnessed more on battlefields than human beings ought to see—things Carrie only heard about when soldiers were well into their cups at the Wayfarers Inn.
Joshua clasped her upper arm and led her down the walk several paces. “All right, what is it?” Impatience clipped his every word. “I don’t want to keep Rodingham waiting.”
“It’s Sarah Jane.” Carrie got right to the point. “She’s run off with that peddler who was here in town. He and his big fancy painted wagon rolled in a couple of days ago.”
“I know who you mean.” Joshua narrowed his gaze. “He’s quite a bit older than Sarah Jane. How do you know they ran off together?”
Carrie thrust her sister’s note at him. “Sarah left this.”
He read it.
“Might you know where that no-account was headed?” Carrie asked.
“Well, if it’s the same fellow who tried to sell me a cheap pocket watch last night, then he’s likely continuing down the Valley. He mentioned having kin somewhere near Front Royal.”
“I’ve got to go after him and bring Sarah back.”
“I knew you’d say that. But get the fool idea out of your head. There’s a new army just formed, and it includes some of the most ruthless cavalrymen the Union’s got to offer. From what I hear they’ll give Ol’ Jube a run for his money,” he said, referring to General Jubal Early. “But the Confederacy will prevail. Even so, I can’t imagine what those devil cavalrymen would do to a naïve Southern girl like yourself if they found you outside of town on your own.”
“But Sarah is—”
“No! You hear me?” With his hand around her arm again, Joshua gave Carrie a shake.
“Stop it. You’re hurting me!”
“What do you think those Yankee invaders will do to you?”
Carrie pulled free from Joshua’s grasp.
“Having difficulties over there, Blevens?” Rodingham’s mocking voice sailed over on a slight breeze.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Joshua rubbed tanned fingers along his clean-shaven jaw. “I’ll inform Rodingham of the situation and between the two of us we’ll—”
“Don’t bother.” Carrie peeked at the man from around Joshua’s left arm. “I get the feeling that your friend won’t be much help. Besides, I don’t trust him.”
“You never trusted anyone, Carrie Ann. Why would you start now?”
“I trusted you
.” Maybe she shouldn’t have. “The war has changed you.”
“It’s changed everyone.”
“Well, pardon me,” Carrie huffed. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend.” Joshua set his palms on her shoulders. “And you’ll always be like my little sister.” He expelled a breath. “Don’t worry, all right? Sarah Jane is probably homesick by now. She’ll be back soon enough. And we’ll keep our eye out for her. But, Carrie Ann, you can’t go after her. There’s blue-bellies camped all around Woodstock.”
“If it’s too dangerous for me, imagine Sarah out there alone. She’s just a child. What’s more, she’s in the company of a man who will likely ruin her by nightfall.” She grabbed hold of the front of his shell jacket. “I can’t stand the thought, Joshua, and I’ll confront the entire Union army—the devil himself if I have to—in order to find my sister.”
He grasped her hands. “Carrie Ann, you’re scarin’ me because I know that determined look in your eyes.”
Carrie’s mind reeled through possibilities of how to reach her sister on the other side of the battleground. She suddenly remembered a Union deserter’s uniform in her trunk. She’d found it last spring while cleaning the guest rooms. The Federal soldier had been on leave, or so he said, except he’d left his uniform and never came back for it. After some hemming, it’d fit her. At least passably. All she needed was a pair of boots to ensure her passage past Yankee pickets.
“Joshua, please? I know where I can get a Yankee uniform. All I need is a pair of boots and that’s where you can help me.”
“Are you touched in the head, girl?” Joshua looked skyward. “Dressing up like a Yankee?”
“Just to get past their guards.”
“That’s the most harebrained idea you’ve come up with in all your born days!”
“But if I looked like one of them, then—”
“Then Confederates’ll shoot you. What’s more, if they think you’re a spy, they’ll hang you.”
“You’re just trying to scare me, like when we were children.” She folded her arms. “There’s got to be a way.”
“Maybe, but that plan of yours ain’t it. Now you’d best go tell your mama about what Sarah Jane did and leave the rest up to God Almighty.”
She took a step back, unwilling to concede defeat. Not yet, anyway. “I could wear one of Margaret’s gowns over the uniform while I get out of town. She’s larger than I am.”
“The scrawniest chicken in the barnyard’s larger than you.”
Carrie ignored the biting retort and accompanying scowl. After all, her idea was a good one. “I could cut my hair and wear the Yankee deserter’s uniform—”
“Cut your hair?”
“Since the no-account peddler’s got that heavy wagon and the sorriest-looking mules pulling it, I should be able to catch up easy enough.” She imagined his punishment for running off with Sarah Jane. “When I find him, that man is as good as dead.”
“Now you’re talkin’ cold-blooded murder. Sarah Jane went with him willingly. You’ve got her note in your hand and I’m witness to that fact.” Joshua’s frown deepened. “Carrie Ann, the truth is, if you do this thing, you’re the only one who’ll get killed.”
That threat wasn’t enough to instill the fear of God into her. Rather, it seemed as if God fanned the spark that now burned within her breast, because telling Mama—now that idea terrified her! The angry rants, the curses, the insults and humiliation. Carrie didn’t think she could bear another of Mama’s episodes.
But if she had a plan, and promised Mama that she’d find Sarah Jane …
“You’d best know that both Union and Confederate armies are heavily armed.” Joshua’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Carrie Ann, you don’t understand what’s going on outside of town right now.”
She didn’t care. All that mattered was finding Sarah Jane. “Please, Joshua?” She gave him the expression that usually made him crumble and relent. “You’ve known Sarah since the day she was born. She’s like your sister too.” Holding her next breath, Carrie waited, hoping, praying. “Please?”
“A pair of black boots, huh?” His features softened. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“I said, I’ll see. That doesn’t guarantee anything.”
Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a sisterly kiss on his cheek. Maybe some things hadn’t changed between them after all.
CHAPTER 2
“Look alive, men!” Colonel Peyton Collier sat astride his black charger and eyed the sorry-looking horsemen of Company D. Thankfully it was the only one of twelve in his newly formed regiment that lacked both discipline and dash. Soon, however, these troopers would realize what an honor they’d received, being mustered into the service of General Wesley Merritt’s 1st Division Cavalry.
Peyton continued to survey the eighty men. Their appearances were as rough as he’d expected, considering their riotous living last night. While Peyton wasn’t a man to partake of strong drink—not anymore—he could understand his men’s desire to celebrate another day of life. He knew the impulse to mask the pain of reality with whiskey—government-issued whiskey at that. But drunkenness wouldn’t be tolerated under his command. Death lurked around each corner of this war. His men needed to be sober.
Peyton expelled a weary sigh at the bearded faces, shaggy hair, and bloodshot eyes that returned his stare. Shirts hung over their blue trousers. Suspenders dangled at their hips. Most hadn’t had time to don their blue sack coats before the impromptu formation. Peyton was tempted to fine them, which he could do under army regulations. But he wouldn’t. Not this time.
He filled his lungs then slowly released a breath. This poorly managed company would surely challenge his leadership skills. Still, the men needed to hear from their commanding officer. After that, his subordinates would take charge of them.
Peyton had only been promoted to the rank of colonel at the beginning of this month, shortly after General Philip Sheridan, a comrade from years past, took command of the Middle Military Division, now the recently christened the Army of the Shenandoah. Peyton often wondered if migrating armies had been such a good idea, and it wasn’t the first time he questioned one of General Grant’s decisions. Even so, Peyton followed orders, and as a newly appointed colonel, he needed to win his men’s loyalty.
“First things first.” He sat high in his saddle. “I won’t tolerate imbibing while we’re in camp. What you do on your own time is your business, but while you’re under my command, you’ll be sober. We could come under enemy fire at any time so you’ll need to have your wits about you.” He sent a hard stare to his bleary-eyed captain. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The captain’s reply was accompanied by rumbling unity from the men.
Peyton leaned forward and crossed his hands atop his saddle. “As you are aware, it is imperative that the Union control the Shenandoah Valley. If this campaign is successful, which General Sheridan believes it will be, then we could soon see a Confederate surrender and a swift end to this war.”
The men cheered and Peyton felt like joining them. This war had lasted far too long and had taken too many lives.
He pulled back his shoulders. “We’ll remain here, camped by the Shenandoah River, until we receive further instruction from General Merritt. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
Peyton glanced at his captain. “I’ll be reconnoitering with four other cavalry officers later. You’re in charge.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me regret that decision.”
“No sir, Colonel, I won’t.”
Satisfied, Peyton dismissed the captain and his men and urged his horse, Brogan, onward. He stopped and delivered the same message until his entire regiment of nearly one thousand men had heard directly from him. As General Sheridan said, this campaign was too important to lose due to miscommunication at the onset.
Weariness pervaded Peyton’s limbs. Without a doubt another battle
loomed, bloody and deadly. Many of the men he spoke to today might not be alive to recount the tale tomorrow. That realization sliced through him with the swiftness of an enemy’s saber.
The men he passed stopped playing cards, stood, and respectfully saluted. He rode toward the camp’s corral. He’d worked hard for the rank of colonel, fought hard. Dear Aunt Ruth had made sure he’d met the right people. It’d be a lie if he said he didn’t enjoy the power and privileges of being an officer. Nevertheless, he understood that the rank bore much responsibility—responsibility that, after Gettysburg, he promised God he’d take seriously. And he did.
“I’ll take Brogan’s reins, sir.”
Peyton dismounted. “Here you go, Tommy.” He tossed the leather straps at the boy who longed to be a Federal soldier. Would to God that Tommy lived another year so he could legally enlist—better yet that the war would be won so Tommy could attend school and make something of himself. However, the lad seemed to have soldiering on his heart and always on his mind.
“Did you get all your talking in today, Colonel?”
“I did.” Peyton pulled off his gauntlets.
“I wouldn’t mind practicing some shooting again, sir, after I get your horse tended to. My chores are done.”
Peyton smiled at the eagerness shining on the lad’s round face. “Very well.” He retrieved the revolver from the pocket inside his coat. “Go on. Just remember my instructions and warnings.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Tommy eyed the ’55 Colt Sidehammer reverently, which warmed Peyton’s heart. The weapon had been Peyton’s eighteenth birthday present from Aunt Ruth.
“Don’t shoot your foot off.”
Tommy grinned at the jest. “No, sir, I won’t.”
“And once we march out of camp, later today or tomorrow, you stay out of the way. Understand?”
“I will, sir.”
Peyton inclined his head as the young man led the black gelding toward the makeshift corral. Bad enough that the number of men he’d lost since Gettysburg could have populated a small city. No sense in more children losing their lives. In his opinion, the army shouldn’t allow men under eighteen to enlist. On the other hand, Peyton didn’t know what he’d do without boys like Tommy who tended to the horses, helped the saddler, assisted the surgeon, and served as drummer boys as well as occasional couriers on the battlefield. Still, Peyton felt compelled to keep the boys who fell under his command as safe as possible in the middle of a war.
A Thousand Shall Fall Page 2
