A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Carrie agreed. “Why aren’t you in on the planning?”

  “I was. But after the important information was disseminated, I decided not to stick around.”

  “I hope you stayed long enough to devise a new plan.” Her comment had more of a bite to it than she intended. “I apologize for my tone. The skirmish last Sunday morning wasn’t even a full-blown battle and yet I’ve seen hundreds of men die over the last several days.”

  “You’ve been an asset to the army, Miss Bell.”

  She felt anything but proud.

  “I overheard LaFont say he wished he had ten more volunteers just like you.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I wish there wasn’t a need for ten more volunteers.” An urge to sob lodged in her throat, but she’d expended every last tear on the men in her care. “As for the upcoming elections this November, I rather hope the Democratic candidate, George McClellan, will be victorious over Abraham Lincoln so some compromise can be reached. The fighting has to stop.”

  “It will … eventually.” Johnston paused. “When the South surrenders.”

  Carrie wondered if it ever would.

  The reverend-major grew silent for a full minute. “Are you a believer in Jesus Christ, Miss Bell?” he asked at last.

  “Yes. I’ve loved the Lord for as long as I can remember.”

  “Then you must know that ‘to every thing there is a season,’ to quote the book of Ecclesiastes. ‘A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.’”

  Carrie supposed the Bible passage he quoted did present a new—and true—perspective on the subject, but it didn’t make her feel much better about the men dying in Dr. LaFont’s surgery tent.

  “Forgive me for inquiring over your faith, but you realize that when I asked if you know the Lord, I was not referring to simply knowing that Christ existed. I’m speaking of knowing Him personally, the way you know a very good friend or family member.”

  Annoyed, she turned to face him. “Do you probe everyone’s personal beliefs?”

  “Every chance I get.” The good humor in Major Johnston’s voice somehow disarmed Carrie. His grin faded. “Especially with the fragile nature of life in a war zone.”

  She released a sigh. “The truth is I know God better than I know some friends—and family members. He has been faithful to me in a way that no person can be. Though I question Him sometimes—like when we lost our home. And now, with Sarah Jane missing, and this war …”

  Major Johnston nodded sympathetically. “You know, I believe everything happens for a reason. Jesus Himself said we’d face tribulation in this world, and that trials were put in our lives by God to make us better, more faithful Christians.”

  “I would have said tribulation comes from the devil, not God.”

  “Yes, but Satan cannot touch us without God’s permission. Jesus Himself said so.”

  Carrie thought back on the last week’s events, all the suffering, the death …

  “I don’t know, Major Johnston. This war is filled with an awful lot of hell.”

  “They’re only glimpses of a Christless aftermath.”

  A frightening thought, to be sure!

  “It’s my belief that because of this war, many souls have and will turn to Christ.” After a long pause, the major added, “I’ve heard many a prayer said on the battlefield.”

  “I suppose you have.” Glancing his way once more, Carrie saw the major’s amused expression despite the cloak of darkness quickly descending.

  A flash of movement caught her eye. A woman stood several feet away. Carrie thought she recognized the shapely brunette as the mysterious woman who’d persuaded her to have fortitude. Carrie had since learned her name was Phoebe, and she was one of the volunteer nurses who helped with the wounded. Carrie found her to be both caring and trustworthy.

  Having captured her attention, Miss Phoebe sashayed forward, her skirts rustling. She nodded curtly to Johnston although she didn’t look directly at him. “Evening, Miss Carrie Ann.”

  “Miss Phoebe.” Carrie pushed to her feet. Were they needed at the field hospital?

  “If you’ll come with me I’ll see that you wash up and change into something more fittin’ for a female. A friend of mine had a dress that might be your size, and she was willing to part with it.”

  A dress! “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  “My apologies, but I can’t allow it.” Major Johnston was up on his feet in seconds despite his bulky frame. He placed his heavy palm on Carrie’s shoulder.

  “Your commander told me to fetch her, Major,” Miss Phoebe said with hands on hips, “so spare me any of your moral lectures.”

  Carrie glanced from one to the other. The two obviously had been previously introduced.

  “Colonel Collier authorized Miss Bell to go with you?”

  “That’s right, Peyton sent me.”

  Carrie felt a twinge of envy that Miss Phoebe was on a first-name basis with the colonel.

  Phoebe tossed her head. “Go ask him if you don’t believe me. Peyton is dining with General Sheridan.”

  “I know where he is.”

  “I just come from there. I was this evening’s entertainment.”

  And Colonel Collier wanted her to go with Miss Phoebe? Carrie began having reservations about his honorable character.

  “I sang ‘Just Before the Battle, Mother,’” Miss Phoebe explained. “Not a dry eye among the officers.”

  “Oh … you sang.” Relief poured over Carrie like a barrel of rainwater.

  “The song is one of General Sheridan’s favorites.”

  “You must be very talented.” Carrie admired folks who could sing. Joshua used to say that she couldn’t even carry a tune in a bucket.

  “I’m a woman of many talents. Singing, dancing …” Miss Phoebe swung her hips as if she might begin waltzing without a partner. “And lots of other things too.”

  Major Johnston cleared his throat, and Carrie got the hint that he disapproved of the woman.

  So, did she go with Miss Phoebe or not?

  “Miss Bell, I think it’s best to get verification of this invitation.”

  “Oh, keep your brass buttons on, Reverend.” Miss Phoebe rested her hands on her waist. “Peyton said he’ll come for the girl in a couple of hours. He knows where to find me.”

  Unease seeped into Carrie’s being, except she so wanted to wash and the promise of changing her clothes was more temptation than she could withstand.

  “I accept your offer, Miss Phoebe.” She turned to Johnston. “Please excuse me, Major.”

  Carrie didn’t wait for Johnston’s reply but quickly fell into step alongside Miss Phoebe. The woman sashayed on through camp, humming the tune to “Goober Peas.”

  Within the hour, Carrie soaked in millions of tiny soap bubbles and the most delicious bath she’d taken in a long while. Miss Phoebe, being a laundress by day, had a washtub large enough for a body and kept it inside her tent so there was adequate privacy.

  “I imagine you launder an awful lot of soiled garments.”

  “And that’s not the half of it, sister.” Miss Phoebe sniggered as she moved about the tent, lighting tapers inside of paper lanterns. A soft glow filled her quarters. “I wash other things too.”

  Carrie dared not ask for specifics. She already had a good idea of her hostess’s additional occupations. The red satin robe that Miss Phoebe now wore only confirmed her suspicions.

  Miss Phoebe left to fetch another bucket of heated water. Outside the tent, the sound of men’s voices increased, followed by frequent female cackling. Carrie found it odd that the colonel would allow her to be in Miss Phoebe’s company and in this part of the camp. The thought occurred to her that, perhaps, he’d gotten the wrong idea about what kind of girl Carrie was. However, that wouldn’t make sense, given all their conversations.

  Reentering the tent, Miss Phoebe walked to the tub and poured the warmed water over Carrie’s soapy head.

  “
This is the nicest-smelling soap I’ve ever used.”

  “Came all the way from Paris, France—at least that’s what the salesman told me when I bought it.” Miss Phoebe sat on a lone stool in her quarters. “So now for the hundred-dollar question …”

  Carrie wiped the water off her face and peered at the woman.

  “How do you know Peyton?”

  In truth, Carrie had wanted to ask Miss Phoebe that same thing. “He arrested me for impersonating an officer, but I was really just looking for my runaway sister.”

  “He arrested you?” She brought back her chin. “That baboon!”

  “No, he’s been quite honorable. He believes my story and no charges were ever filed. I’m not a criminal or anything. What’s more, the colonel has been looking out for me because he feels responsible for my welfare.” She finished washing. “He hired me to be his aunt’s companion. I’m to begin my employment as soon as the colonel can safely get me to Winchester.” That would explain to Phoebe why he wanted her to bathe and change clothes.

  “Nice of him to offer you respectable work, although ‘honorable’ ain’t a word I’d ever use to describe Peyton.” She snorted a laugh and poured a swallow of whiskey into a glass. “Want some, honey?”

  “No, thank you.”

  After downing the amber liquid, Miss Phoebe poured another. “I shouldn’t have asked. You’re just a girl.”

  “I’ll be nineteen soon.” Carrie thought about it. “Wait … what day is it?”

  Miss Phoebe had to think. “It’s the twenty-fifth.”

  “Then I’m already nineteen. My birthday was yesterday.”

  “Some way to spend a birthday, taking care of broken, bleeding, and dying men.”

  While all the death broke her heart, Carrie didn’t mind nursing. “Birthdays weren’t ever special in my home anyway.”

  Miss Phoebe pulled the pins from her dark hair and it fell to her hips. She brushed it out in long, smooth strokes. Carrie sank farther down into the tub. Her bubbles were dissipating.

  Several minutes later, Miss Phoebe pulled the stool over and placed it beside the tub. Next she set several pieces of linen on it. “Here’s the best thing I’ve got for toweling yourself off, and you’d best come on out of that water now before you look like a dried apple.”

  Climbing out, Carrie dried off.

  “The clothes I scrounged up for you are over there,” she said, pointing to garments slung over a trunk. “They ain’t much, but they’re better than these.” Miss Phoebe picked up Carrie’s discarded outfit. “I’ll launder the items just in case you want to look like a woebegone orphan again.” Another snigger as she set them on top of a tall, round wicker basket. “Oh, and since you didn’t have a particular affection for them boots you were wearing, I traded them to a peddler for something more your size.”

  “A peddler?” Carrie perked up. “Was his name Arthur Sims?”

  “No, it’s Hank Lemke.” Miss Phoebe’s brows puckered. “Why’d you ask?”

  Disappointment, like fog, settled over her. “I thought maybe it was the man my sister ran off with.”

  “No. I’ve known Hank a good long while. He’s a cobbler, and evidently some female camp follower dropped off these here shoes—” Miss Phoebe held up a pair of black suede, ankle-high boots that had leather toes. “The customer wanted them resoled, but she never picked them up, so you can have them. Hank’ll be able to sell those other boots easy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Miss Phoebe sashayed to the tent flap. “If you need help, just holler. I’ll be within earshot.”

  Watching the woman duck outside, Carrie wrapped one of the linen towels around her thick hair and ambled to the trunk. She inspected her new clothes—new to her, anyway. The underthings, stockings, drawers, a chemise, corset, and petticoat, all appeared to be at least close to her size.

  Touching the soft ribbon laces, Carrie realized she hadn’t worn a corset in some time as she’d grown out of the only one she owned a long while ago. Her sisters were more shapely than she was, so any extra funds Carrie got her hands on were used to purchase their underclothes or material to sew their dresses. Being so thin, Carrie managed without the stays, and she was willing to alter her younger sisters’ castoffs to fit herself. Their dresses weren’t ever badly worn.

  And neither was the dress Carrie held in her hands, at least from what she could see within the dimly lit tent. Brown and black checked, although it might be a dark blue, it had a pretty fawn-colored crocheted collar. The same colored lace had been sewn around the waistline. Carrie guessed the dress would be large on her slim build, but she welcomed it over the clothes she’d been wearing.

  Quickly, she pulled the knee-length chemise over her head then stepped into the drawers. Sitting on the stool, she slipped on the black stockings. Lacing the corset to its tightest, she wrapped the contraption around her midsection and hooked it up in front. Even with some room to spare, she felt encumbered by it. But it wouldn’t be respectable not to wear a corset beneath a dress. After all, she resided, albeit temporarily, in a camp of men. This wasn’t the Wayfarers Inn where her pinafore-like apron and baggy gown hid the secret of what she didn’t wear beneath them.

  At least she was more fortunate than most women in that she could still take in a deep breath.

  Carrie dropped the flouncy petticoat over her head and then donned the dress, feeling grateful that she didn’t have to wear crinoline. She’d read in a newspaper that the Union’s Sanitary Commission ruled crinoline to be dangerous in army camps. Therefore, female volunteers were not allowed to wear them. Quite often hooped skirts went up in flames as women cooked or boiled water over campfires, or they allowed inappropriate views of ankles and legs when women leaned over to assist patients.

  Miss Phoebe reentered the tent in time to help Carrie button up the back of the dress. “We have to hurry,” she said. “Peyton is waiting and he looks mighty impatient.”

  With her dress fastened, Carrie began parting her hair into three sections for braiding.

  “Not so fast, honey.” Miss Phoebe picked up her hairbrush. “As long as Peccadillo Peyt is waiting, he can stand out there a few minutes more.”

  “Peccadillo Peyt?”

  “Sure. That’s his nickname among those of us who know him best. The man’s no saint, that’s for sure.”

  “I beg to differ.” Hadn’t the apostle Paul written an epistle to believers and called them ‘saints’?

  “Honey, you just don’t know him.”

  “Yes, I do. He’s been spiritually reborn. It happened during the battle in Gettysburg last year.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Miss Phoebe’s laugh had a derisive ring to it. “I don’t know who’s more stupid, him—or you for believing him.”

  Carrie wasn’t about to argue. Best she finish so the colonel didn’t give up on her and leave her here.

  At last Miss Phoebe pushed in the last hairpin. “Now, there, you’re almost ready for the unveiling.”

  “I’m grateful. How can I ever repay you, Miss Phoebe?”

  “You don’t have to. Peyton paid me plenty to girly you up.”

  “The colonel … paid you?” She should have known the woman had an ulterior motive for befriending her. Even so, Carrie believed that beneath Miss Phoebe’s buxomness a kind heart steadily beat.

  “He paid me—plenty.” With a laugh and a toss of her dark, loosely hanging mane, she collected a brown cape, a straw cap adorned with ruffles and ribbons, and a pair of lady’s kid gloves. She handed the accessories to Carrie. “You’ll need these to complete your ensemble.”

  “Thank you.” She’d accept these terms graciously, but how would she ever repay Colonel Collier?

  “Come on, now. Ol’ Peccadillo is waiting.”

  The name grated on Carrie’s nerves.

  At Miss Phoebe’s mild shove, she exited the tent. There was no sign of Colonel Collier. Perhaps he’d been called away.

  More men
had descended on the area, standing and sitting around campfires, laughing and singing along with fiddles, harmonicas, and guitars. But the unmistakable clinking together of whiskey bottles was what Carrie heard loudest. Her heart picked up its tempo. While she was confident that she could handle herself around inebriates, she disliked the conflict which, experience taught her, usually accompanied their state of intoxication. Without Tommy nearby or an officer escort that the colonel insisted upon, she had best run to the hospital at the far end of camp before he found her unattended.

  As Carrie turned to bid Miss Phoebe farewell, the object of her thoughts stepped out of the shadow of a towering hickory tree. Carrie’s heartbeat slowed and she expelled the breath she’d been holding. Relief spread through her body.

  “Oh, there you are, Peyton,” Miss Phoebe said. She took hold of Carrie’s shoulders and twirled her around. “You didn’t know I could do magic, did you? From waif to young lady.” She laughed. “What do you think?”

  “I think …”

  The colonel seemed to struggle with his next sentence as he stared at Carrie. With each passing second, her discomfort increased. Was he angry? Disappointed? She hadn’t seen her reflection. Perhaps she looked disgraceful. But she couldn’t appear worse than she did before her bath.

  Could she?

  “Peyton, say something.” Miss Phoebe placed her hands on her ample hips.

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “I reckon that’s something.” She sighed. “Send the girl on her way, Peyt, and stay for a couple of drinks and a few laughs.”

  “No. Thank you.” His dismissive tone coupled with the way he turned his shoulder toward her, earned him a huff from Miss Phoebe before she stomped off. All the while, the colonel’s gaze never wavered from Carrie.

  “I apologize for taking so long.” She dropped her gaze. Perhaps he was miffed that he’d been made to wait.

  “It’s quite all right. No need for apology.” As he neared, tiny crinkles appeared around his eyes. The corners of his lips twitched beneath his beard. “You, Miss Bell, are worth the wait.”

  CHAPTER 12