A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Fortitude.

  She paused near Dr. LaFont who listened patiently to a dying man’s last words. When she finally made sense of what he said, a jolt ran through her. While Union troops reconnoitered earlier, Lieutenant Colonel John Mosby and his Rangers ambushed fifteen men, killing them all “… without mercy,” the cavalryman added, slipping away.

  Carrie sucked in a breath. General Merritt’s division, which included the colonel’s brigade, had gone hunting for the elusive Mosby. Known for his raids against Yankee forces, the man was a hero in the Shenandoah Valley, although Carrie didn’t think much of Mosby’s antics anymore.

  Gradually, dusk settled over the camp, and the wounded—those that survived—were as settled as was possible under these conditions. Dr. LaFont forced her out of the tent to seek respite.

  She collapsed to the ground beneath a large willow. Its overhanging branches and feathery leaves made her feel tucked away and secure. Moments later, Colonel Collier rode in her direction. He appeared weary, his shoulders slumped and his uniform mud splattered. But, seeing her, he reined in his black charger.

  “Good evening, Miss Bell.” Despite his disheveled appearance, his voice carried an air of a noble gentleman.

  She tried to reply, but no words came out.

  He dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins over a tree branch not far from the tented hospital. He walked toward her, halting when he stood only a few feet from where she’d dropped down beneath the tree. The colonel removed his hat. “Are you feeling all right?”

  She glimpsed the concern in his golden-brown eyes and wanted to assure him. But how could she? She was hardly fine. But how could she describe the tumult inside of her without sounding cowardly and weak?

  The colonel hunkered down. “Pardon my saying so, but you don’t look well.”

  “I’ll survive.” She recalled her meeting with the mysterious woman earlier. Carrie never did learn her name. “I have fortitude.” In an effort to prove it, she pushed out a smile.

  “So you do. May I?” Tucking his hat and gauntlets beneath his arm, he indicated the ground beside her.

  She replied with a nod.

  He sat and stretched his long legs, but his gaze didn’t waver from her face. “You look a bit pale—and sad. What happened today?”

  “Corporal Tompkins died,” she blurted.

  The colonel grimaced. “I knew he’d been wounded. What a shame he’s gone. He was a good soldier. Loyal. I shall miss him.”

  “He asked me to tell his wife that he loved her.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Carrie shook her head as fresh tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back, unwilling to let the colonel see her cry. She of all people in this camp had no reason for tears. “Before he died, he apologized for hitting me.” She swallowed hard.

  Staring straight ahead, his lips pursed in thought, the colonel merely nodded. “Good of him to do that. I know it bothered him when he discovered you weren’t the enemy—or a boy.”

  “Next thing I remember after he hit me, I was riding on the back of your saddle.” Funny how she could think fondly on such a thing while simultaneously swatting tears off her cheeks. “Of course, I told Corporal Tompkins I forgave him.”

  “A good thing.”

  “I just can’t imagine why I’m taking Tompkins’s death so hard. In truth, I didn’t like the man until the very end. In Woodstock, soldiers came into the Wayfarers Inn wounded, and I did my best to patch them up.”

  “I’m proof your nursing skills are admirable.”

  Carrie doubted her skills were even passable. “I know families who have lost loved ones in this conflict. Many were my childhood friends. I mourned their passing, true, but I never witnessed death so … so closely.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all.

  “I think I understand.” The colonel spoke in compassionate tones. “It may be of some consolation to learn that every man in this army has had to stare death in the face, myself included.”

  “I’m sure they have.”

  “Oftentimes soldiers watch helplessly as death’s formidable grip saps the life right out of another human being. I’ve seen grown men put their faces in their hands and sob right there on the battlefield.”

  “A weakness in their character?”

  “Not at all. Grieving is part of being human, don’t you think? Even so, we cannot allow our emotions to rule the day. Admirable officers pick themselves up and carry on, and so must we all.”

  “But I’m not in the army.”

  “You’re in God’s army, aren’t you? The army of believers? And not a sparrow falls from a tree without the Lord’s knowledge.”

  Fortitude. That word echoed in Carrie’s head. Papa would want her to be strong. She finally turned and faced the colonel. He radiated empathy, but not a trace of pity. “I feel better. Thanks.”

  “I’m glad I could help, even in some small way.” He considered her for a few moments more, then rubbed his whiskers with the backs of his fingers. “Have you eaten today?”

  Carrie’s mind went blank. She couldn’t recall. “We’ve been busy in the hospital …”

  “Come on, then.” The colonel stood and then, reaching for her hands, pulled Carrie to her feet. “I got word that pigs are roasting near the officers’ tents and I’m famished.”

  Confederate pigs, no doubt. “I don’t think I could swallow a bite.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be surprised.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The pressure of his hand around her elbow only affirmed her theory.

  The colonel led her to where his horse stood and grabbed hold of the reins. Then they walked as far as the nearest tree stump. The colonel swung up into the saddle. He kicked his booted foot out of the stirrup.

  It didn’t take Carrie but a few moments to figure out that she was to climb up behind him—which she did gingerly, favoring her wrist. She hadn’t thought about her injury as she worked in the hospital, but now it ached. Swinging up into the saddle, she found a relatively comfortable position. She didn’t relish being squished, although accepting the ride was more appealing than walking the distance.

  When they reached their destination, men had already begun eating. As Carrie dismounted with help from another officer who stepped in to assist, she noticed the festive mood of the troopers. A ways off, a couple of fiddlers, a guitarist, and a clarinetist played a hand-clapping melody. The scene reminded Carrie of Woodstock before the war. Residents would pack picnic baskets and gather together in town each year to celebrate the Fourth of July.

  The colonel fetched a couple of plates, filled them with pork and cooked carrots, and topped them with a chunk of buttered bread. Then he collected two forks before leading her to a grassy spot where they sat down to eat.

  He handed her one of the plates and utensils.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Nothing particular. The cavalry is merely enjoying the spoils of war.”

  Bestowing a smile on her, he then bowed his head and murmured a prayer of thanks. It seemed rather hypocritical to Carrie, thanking God for the provision of stolen food. However, she was well aware of the fact that the Confederate army did its share of raiding.

  She closed her eyes and silently asked God’s blessing on both this meal and on those who had unwillingly contributed to it from their storehouses, barnyards, and kitchens.

  They ate in silence for a full minute. Finally, Carrie had to know.

  “Did you find him?” Carrie nibbled on her bread. “John Mosby?”

  “No. The Gray Ghost evaded capture again.” The colonel ate a piece of roasted pork. “I suspect he’s somewhere up in the mountains, and probably looking down on us right now.”

  Carrie munched on the boiled carrots. She hadn’t realized how famished she’d been. Within minutes, she’d cleaned her plate. As she considered a second helping, Major Johnston and Tommy showed up, Tommy carrying a cherry pie. Unable to resist, she scooped a hea
lthy portion of dessert onto her plate.

  “Thank you for sharing your … spoils with me.”

  “It’s our pleasure, Miss Bell,” Johnston said rather gallantly. He, Tommy, and the colonel finished off the rest of the pie in record time.

  Colonel Collier stood, stretched, and then ambled off in search of coffee. Carrie surreptitiously watched him go, feeling grateful that an important man such as he would deign to see after her welfare. If it weren’t for him she’d either be stuck in a sycamore, or wandering the countryside in futile search of Sarah and suffering any manner of abuse.

  The musical ensemble stopped playing and a flamboyantly dressed officer stood to address the assembly from atop a wagon bed. His shell jacket was shorter in length than most that Carrie had seen and ornamentally decorated in gold braid and brass buttons. He removed his feathered hat, revealing yellow curly hair that hung to his shoulders. He made a dramatic bow and the men cheered wildly.

  Carrie’s first thought was that the man standing on the wagon was part of a traveling theatrical group. But then Johnston informed her that the officer was none other than General George Custer—Autie, to his closest friends.

  “And now I shall recount for you all a most amusing tale,” the general said.

  Colonel Collier returned and took his place beside Carrie, a tin cup brimming with coffee between his hands.

  “It was back in 1862, during the Peninsula Campaign.”

  Nearly all the other cavalrymen cheered and waved their caps in the air.

  “I happened upon a former West Point classmate who’d been taken prisoner. I told him that’s what he gets for joining the wrong army.”

  Chuckles went up from the crowd.

  “And then, seeing there was a cameraman on-site, I had the audacity to insist upon getting my photograph taken with the captured Confederate. That’s the kind of audacity that wins wars, and each of you has it in him.”

  More laughing, cheers, and then a round of applause.

  Carrie smiled. The man certainly did have charisma about him.

  The colonel leaned over to her. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m grateful for your insistence that I eat.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” His blond brows knit together and his gaze darkened. “I prayed for you quite a lot today—for you and Tommy. You can imagine my relief when I rode into camp and saw you sitting beneath that willow tree, alive and unharmed.”

  “I was relieved to see you’d survived the skirmishes, both yesterday and today. But, to be honest, when the corporal died this afternoon, I wanted to run away from camp and never look back.”

  He set his hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze. “Death is ugly.” A faraway look entered his gaze, but he blinked and it vanished. “In the midst of suffering, physically or emotionally, I’ve learned there are several things to relieve the pain. Prayer, food, good friends, laughter, and sleep—they’re restorative. Spiritually, God lends us the strength to face it all again tomorrow.” The colonel reached up and brushed a curl back from Carrie’s cheek, tucking it behind her ear. His gentle touch was healing salve for her aching heart. His eyes held hers for several long seconds. Then in seemingly one smooth motion, he dropped his hand and stood. “Good night, Miss Bell—er, Carrie Ann.” He gave her a polite little bow, but his eyes held a certain light. He genuinely cared about her.

  “Good night, Colonel.” Sitting in the damp grass, she watched him walk toward his horse. Beyond General Custer’s voice as he tale-told another of his adventures, crickets chirped. Major Johnston and Tommy chuckled at something their commanding officer said, and at that particular moment, Carrie never felt so alive in all her life.

  CHAPTER 11

  August 25, 1864

  At last the hot, humid days of August neared their month’s end and, hopefully, the rain as well. Today had been one of marches and countermarches, reconnoiters, and skirmishes as Sheridan’s Army of the Shenandoah probed Early’s Army of the Valley. But, for Carrie, today’s activities meant tending more wounded beneath a suffocating tent.

  And still she wasn’t any closer to Winchester and her new job with the colonel’s aunt. The Union army had been burning all up and down the Valley, but hadn’t yet burned their way as far south as Woodstock. One would never guess it though. Billowing black smoke rose in the distance as far as the eye could see. It appeared the entire Valley was aflame.

  Finding a dry patch of ground beneath a leafy maple tree, Carrie tossed down the haversack Tommy gave her and sat down. Her heavy limbs screamed for mercy, but they didn’t stop her from wondering how Mama and Margaret fared. Had Sarah come home on her own? Papa too?

  Digging into the knapsack, Carrie removed the journal and pen which Colonel Collier had gifted her with, and began writing of her experiences in the past ten days. She had penned the requested letter to Corporal Tomkins’s wife, informing her of his death, and his affection. The colonel read and approved the missive before promising to mail it. In the hospital, she assisted Dr. LaFont and administered his prescribed treatments. She rolled bandages, fetched buckets of water, and wrote letters home for injured soldiers who were conscious and awaiting transport to the hospital in Harpers Ferry. She cleaned wounds, sutured many of them, and held soldiers’ hands as they passed into eternity. Never in all her days of assisting Dr. Rogers in Woodstock did she come upon such severe cases. True, she’d helped deliver babies, she’d stitched wounds—all very minor compared to the many horrors and heartbreaks she’d witnessed here in camp.

  Deep in thought, Carrie touched the end of the pen to her bottom lip. She recalled one particularly difficult situation and began writing about it too. This morning, the young private and his comrade were cleaning their rifles when one accidentally discharged, sending a bullet into the private’s chest. By the time he entered the field hospital, he was delirious from loss of blood, and believed Carrie was his mother. For his sake, she assumed the role, speaking softly to him and soothing his brow until he died. He’d been no older than she …

  An errant tear escaped and fell onto her journal, smearing the ink. Carrie blotted it carefully with her fingertip. A pity if later she couldn’t read what she’d just written.

  Men’s voices from a nearby gathering grew louder and claimed her attention. She listened as they talked and laughed. Since the rain abated, troops had been able to build campfires, causing the hilly landscape to resemble a landing for giant fireflies.

  “General Sheridan is playing a child’s game of war,” one soldier said. “He doesn’t intend to smash the Rebs at all.”

  “It’s a strategy, you fool,” said another.

  “I don’t care what it is,” the shaggy Union man argued. “I’m tired of picket duty and reconnoitering. I want to fight the way our forefathers did when they battled the British. I want to preserve the Union, and them slaves ought to be free to choose their destiny, but that ain’t gonna happen if we don’t win this war.”

  Carrie recorded the men’s sentiments in her diary, although it was obvious that the soldier who desired to fight hadn’t visited the hospital in recent days. He might see things differently once he entered the tented facility. Carrie certainly gleaned a new perspective. She’d tended to wounded Yankees as well as captured Confederates. The color of their uniforms and their skin didn’t matter to her. They were human beings in need of physical and emotional care. As they lay perishing, and some men stated their last wishes or told of their willingness to die for their beliefs, Carrie knew she could no longer record events in an impersonal, practical way, not when she witnessed blood, death, and glory day after day. Going forward, she would write about matters of the heart, courage, sacrifice, and honor. Papa would be proud.

  “Enjoying the damp evening, Miss Bell?”

  Glancing up from her journal she saw Major Johnston striding toward her. She smiled a greeting. “I didn’t realize your brigade had returned.” This morning General Sheridan ordered them to the Maryland border to
investigate whether Early and his men were plotting to invade that state.

  “We returned a couple of hours ago. We had news for General Sheridan and then ended up dining with him.” Reaching the tree, Johnston pointed to the place beside her. “May I?”

  “Please do. I found one of the few dry places here in camp.”

  He snorted a chuckle, and then grunted after lowering himself to the ground. “You’d think by now I wouldn’t get sore from sitting in the saddle all day, but I am. I must be getting old.”

  Carrie smiled at what was surely hyperbole. The man couldn’t be more than thirty. She’d learned from Tommy that Johnston was married, although he and his wife didn’t have children yet. In addition to being the colonel’s most trusted friend, Major Johnston served as something of his spiritual advisor. Twice now she’d happened upon the two officers while they were bowed in prayer.

  “I trust Colonel Collier returned safely?” She held her breath, praying it was so.

  “He’s unharmed.”

  Carrie exhaled. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if the colonel were injured—or worse. He encouraged her. She found his guidance most helpful. And did anyone else know of the agreement she’d made with him? Would another cavalryman see her safely to Winchester and protect her in the meantime? Likely not. In a word, Carrie needed him.

  “General Torbert’s division got whacked today though. After we learned he was pushed back this way by Anderson, General Merritt sent some of our brigade as reinforcements. We made it back to camp here in time to eat a substantial meal. Now Peyt is lingering at the dinner table, debating strategies with both Generals Torbert and Sheridan and a few scouts from Winchester.”

  “I’d say you Yanks need a new strategy. General Sheridan’s approaches are timid at best.”

  Johnston grunted a laugh. “It’s an election year, Miss Bell, and the Union cannot afford another devastating loss. It’s been a bad summer for us.”