by Linda Swift
"Clarissa, you seem pensive tonight. You're missing our dear Malcolm, aren't you?" Florence patted her arm. "But I'm sure this horrible war will soon be over, and your husband will be back at Whitehaven, safe and sound."
Nodding with what she hoped was the right expression, Clarissa put down her cup. "If you will excuse me, Mother Wakefield, I think I'll go up to bed."
"Of course, my dear." Florence leaned her cheek toward Clarissa for her proffered kiss.
As she climbed the stairs, followed by the faint notes of a Brahms lullaby, Clarissa thought of Florence Wakefield's words that had been meant to cheer, but instead, had filled her with dread. Yes, Malcolm surely would be home again soon, but she found no comfort in that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Middle Tennessee, September 1862
Marching through the thick foliage of the Tennessee hills, Philip's mind wandered back to the day almost six months ago when he and Jeb McCallon had been taken prisoners in a heavily wooded spot very much like the one through which they now passed. The tender leaves, then greening in the spring rain, had turned a brittle brown in the early autumn drought.
The change in Philip, too, was striking. His deep blue coat was faded almost gray, boots scuffed remnants of their former shape, body lean to the point of gauntness. His face was seared from the sun and a scraggly beard partially hid the hard line of his jaw.
A hot, dry wind caused a faint rattling in the trees like the sound of distant muskets and stirred the dust on the rutted road as the soldiers trudged on.
"Ay, God, I'm sick of eating dirt," Jeb said in a low voice. "I'd trade my soul for a drink of cool spring water."
"We'll stop soon," Philip nodded toward the far horizon. "It's almost sundown."
"You'd reckon with all the skirmishes we've been part of these last months, we'd have been recaptured by our own men long before now." Jeb shook his head. "Or had a chance to make a break."
"And likely been shot by Grant's Army as we fled?"
"You! Yanks up there!" The barrel of a rifle nudged between the two men from behind. "Shut up and march."
Philip cut his eyes at Jeb in silent warning. They'd managed so far to stay alive by doing as told and the soldiers were tired and skittish. This was no time to irk the fellow with his finger on the trigger whose job was guarding them until they reached their unknown destination.
When the command came from the front of the line to fall out and make camp, Philip and Jeb remained under close surveillance as they pitched their tents. A small meandering stream provided a welcome chance to wash away some of the day's grime before they dug in their haversacks for the standard meal of hardtack and salt pork.
"Mother might be serving corned beef and cabbage tonight," Jeb said wistfully, "with maybe apple cobbler for dessert." Philip thought of the succulent dishes Mattie prepared each evening and his empty stomach growled at the image. "I'd settle for some decent coffee."
"Yep," Jeb agreed, eyeing the cup of brown liquid before he lifted it to his lips to wash down a mouthful of hardtack. "This brew of bark and berries and God knows what else would make any Reb willing to barter his tobacco for the real stuff."
Philip choked down the last of his meager meal and filled a homemade pipe, tamped it down, and lighted it with a coal from the small fire where their coffee boiled. A young Kentucky lad whose wounds he'd cared for had given him the corn cob pipe before he died. Now the smoke he had at the end of the day was one of the few pleasures left him.
"Where do you figure we're headed this time?" Jeb asked quietly.
"I'd say from our direction it could be Nashville," Philip answered, "but probably only Pemberton knows, and even he may not be certain."
"Seems like we've wandered in the wilderness for forty years already." Jeb sighed. "If only we hadn't got to Memphis when we did, we could've been in New Orleans all this time leading a life of ease."
Philip nodded, thinking of the way they'd crisscrossed the Western terrain after Pittsburg Landing, first Corinth, then back and forth from state to state—Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky—as the Confederate and Union lines changed configuration.
"Captain?" Jeb spoke again, "Do you reckon the end will ever come? It's going on two years, now."
"Who can say?" Philip shrugged, his mouth set in a straight line. Perhaps if he hadn't bartered his surgical skill for a chance to stay out of prison, he would have been exchanged and back in New York by now. Doctors and medicine were in short supply in the Confederate armies, and he and Jeb were far too valuable to be let go, especially since his family had been able to get supplies through to him after he'd been taken prisoner. It was a strange war, with captured Union soldiers making guns in the South's factories that would be used against their own army. And prisoners paroled to go home if they would promise to lay down arms unless legally exchanged.
"And they'll never parole us," Jeb said, discerning his thoughts. "Even prison might have been better than marching month after month from one battle to another, watching the Rebs shoot down our men."
"Rotting in prison is not better," Philip said with conviction. "And we've seen our soldiers get their share of Rebels, too."
The noise in the camp died down as darkness settled in and the weary soldiers prepared for sleep. Somewhere in the distance, a hoot owl called, and the sounds of the cicadas filled the silence. Philip and Jeb endured the nightly ritual of having their legs shackled to prevent escape, and then were left alone.
Bone tired but still awake, Philip thought of Katherine Kingsley as he did each night. It was hard to remember her face after the months of separation, but he could still visualize every soft curve of her womanly body, could imagine running his hands through her thick hair, tasting her warm lips, burying himself deep inside her. It was the promise of these pleasures that kept him sane in all the blood and gore he had seen and the hardship he had endured.
Sleep finally came and sometime in the night, Philip was shaken awake by one of the guards. "Burke. Wake up. You're needed over by the mess wagons."
"Wha—" Philip sat up quickly, accustomed by now to coming wide awake at a moment's notice. Unshackled by the guard, he stood, and groped for his knapsack.
"It's one of them new volunteers. He's puking his guts out. Likely stole extra rations and it caught up with him."
The men had been marching for weeks with nothing to relieve their meager diet except the sparse fresh produce they had scavenged from the few farms they'd passed. Many of the soldiers were in a state of extreme malnutrition so he didn't doubt the man's motive for stealing food.
The stricken soldier lay moaning and clutching his belly and when Philip touched him, he turned glassy eyes toward the lighted lantern held by the guard. His skin was burning with fever and chills shook his body as he writhed from side to side. This was no simple case of stomach cramps or even food poisoning. Philip opened the man's shirt and breeches and began a gentle probe.
"Guard, hold the light closer," he said in a tense voice.
Bending for a better look, Philip could see the faint skin rash that his hands had detected. He stood and turned away from the suffering man, then spoke quietly to the guard. "Better wake the lieutenant. I'd say we've got a case of typhoid, here."
The guard visibly shrank away in the shadows. "God almighty, are you sure?"
"Sure enough to say we need to separate this man from the rest of the company," Philip answered, then gave his attention to rummaging through his bag for paregoric. He and Jeb had been fortunate so far; aside from battle wounds, dysentery and pneumonia being the only serious ailments to cope with in this regiment to which they'd been attached. But he knew a single case of typhoid could lead to a worse disaster than a major battle.
"You asked to see me?" The lieutenant's sleep-roughened voice left no doubt of his irritation at being awakened in the middle of the night.
"Yes, sir." Philip stepped away from the sick soldier and continued in a low voice, "This man appears to have typhoid fever. I tho
ught you'd want to isolate him from the other men immediately."
"Hell fire, you wake me from a sound sleep to tell me this? Just give the poor devil something to ease his pain and come morning, we'll be on our way and the problem will be solved."
"Sir, we are miles from anyplace. He won't be able to care for himself."
"So what? A sick man is of no use to this regiment and I can't spare our stretcher-bearers to take him to the nearest town's hospital."
"Sir, the man will die if he's left here."
"I fail to see why you would concern yourself with the loss of one sick Confederate soldier, Captain Burke," the lieutenant sneered, "but if you have a better suggestion, let's hear it."
Philip thought fast. This might be a chance for Jeb or himself to make a break and reunite with Union forces. It took only a moment to decide in favor of his aide. "My assistant could stay here with him until he is able to continue on."
"You take me for a fool, do you?" A sound that passed for a laugh followed. "The man will likely be dead soon and McCallon would be long gone toward the Bluecoat lines even sooner."
"Then let my aide and me bear his stretcher and we'll keep a distance from the others."
"It's a long way yet to Stones River, Captain Burke. I can't afford to take the risk of spreading this cursed disease to the other men, nor to the only surgeons this regiment has. The sick man stays. And that's an order."
"But—" Philip realized he was talking to an empty space and the protest died in his throat. He looked at the man lying on the ground whose moans had mercifully drowned out the conversation that had sealed his doom. "God help him," Philip whispered. "God help us all."
Philip knelt beside the soldier and motioned for the guard to set the lantern down nearby. The least he could do was stay with the stricken man for the remainder of the night. As he bathed the feverish body, Philip ruminated on the lieutenant's words. They were on their way to Stones River, wherever that was. He'd find a casual way to ask one of the Rebs tomorrow as they marched. Perhaps it was near the Kentucky border and he and Jeb could find a way to make a break from there. He'd heard talk of Union forces controlling most of the state and at any rate, they would be in neutral territory if they could make it out of Tennessee. It would be worth a try.
• ♥ •
Chattanooga, September 1862
Clarissa sat in a wicker chair on the wide veranda, enjoying a respite from the oppressive heat that had hung over the city for so many months. Sitting on a pallet a few feet away, Polly tended her son Robert and his little cousin Beauregard. The two children were seldom separated except when sleeping, and Clarissa was glad that Lydia had stayed on at Whitehaven after her son was born a year ago today. It had been wonderful for Robert to have a playmate, and Lydia had been delighted to leave Beau to Clarissa and Polly, preferring to spend her time planning the numerous Women's Relief Society socials for the war effort.
The war, which all of them had expected to be over long before now, dragged on with no end in sight. There had been much excitement in July when their neighbor, Senator Brabson, had put his house at the disposal of General Bragg and his staff as Confederate soldiers occupied the city. And it was only last month that Bragg's army had moved over Walden Ridge and beyond, leaving the occupants of Whitehaven free to resume their everyday activities without the presence of unruly soldiers at every turn. With the Union Army converging further South, the hostilities grew closer and closer, and Clarissa was becoming more fearful for the safety of Whitehaven.
"Missa? Missa!" Polly's voice penetrated her thoughts and she looked toward her slave and smiled.
"Sorry, Polly. I must have been daydreaming. What is it?"
"You want me to put the chil'ren down for naps before tea?"
"There won't be time, Polly. Just clean them up a bit." She glanced at Robert's wrinkled linen dress. "And change them before you bring them down. Father Wakefield is coming home from the mill for Beau's birthday celebration and I wouldn't want him to find his grandsons less than elegant for the occasion."
"Yes'um."
As Polly ushered the toddlers inside, she was met by Angeline who stopped to kiss each of them before she came to sit in a wicker rocker facing Clarissa.
"There were no letters for any of us today, sister." She sighed deeply. "I think they must surely be fighting at Antietam, don't you?"
Clarissa nodded thoughtfully. "Since Nathan's last letter to you was posted from Maryland and the newspapers say that Lee's Army is engaged in battle in Virginia now, it would seem so."
"Oh, I wish this horrible war was over and Nathan could come home. We should have been married long before now."
Clarissa looked at her sister whose pale blond curls and white pique dress gave her an air of innocent beauty and wondered if Angeline really longed for Nathan or if she simply wanted a husband.
"It shouldn't be much longer," she assured her, then changed the subject. "I wonder if Mary Jane and her mother have arrived yet? They promised to come for the celebration."
"Yes, they're here. That was why I came to find you. Lydia said tea would be served as soon as Mister Wakefield arrives."
Clarissa stood, smoothed her green glace’ gown. She seldom wore her nicest dresses now since material was scarce and there was no telling when she would be able to have anything new, but this was a special occasion and called for her best appearance. Josiah Wakefield had even hired a photographer to come and take pictures as he had for Robert's birthday two months ago. Malcolm's father drove himself relentlessly to produce steel for the Confederacy, but he still found time for his two grandsons.
Going into the drawing room, Clarissa greeted Mary Jane and Mrs. Townsend, then motioned for her servant to bring Robert to her. Lydia, wearing mauve silk georgette, was engrossed in conversation with other guests and Polly was having trouble keeping the excited Beauregard from breaking one of the many fragile objects that graced the splendid room. Polly frequently took care of both children since Lydia's own servant made little effort to tend her child. The presence of Ruane continued to chafe Clarissa, but by mutual effort, their paths seldom crossed.
And as for Polly, it seemed best to keep her too busy to spend time mooning over the carriage driver she had taken a shine to. After a stern lecture on the propriety expected in house servants, Clarissa had agreed not to relate the incident she had witnessed to Josiah Wakefield if Polly promised never to repeat her improper behavior. If the slave had been somewhat sullen afterward, she had chosen to ignore it, believing time would take care of the problem.
Josiah Wakefield arrived in a flurry of greetings from the females present and they moved to the dining room where a table was decorated with late summer flowers and an assortment of pastries and finger sandwiches. Florence Wakefield, in dove-colored silk that complimented her hair, presided over tea and a fruit punch was provided for the two little boys.
Beau laughed and made unintelligible sounds at his first taste of the sweet drink and his grandfather took him on his knee and smiled proudly.
"You're a fine boy, Beauregard," he told him. "And one day you'll be a fine man and make your mother and father proud of you."
"Masta Wakefield," Luke approached his master hesitantly, a worried frown on his dark face. "I think you'd bettah come to the door, suh."
"What is it?" Josiah took his attention from his grandson with reluctance. "Can't it wait?"
"No, suh. Man say he needs to see you right now, suh." Luke shuffled toward the hallway, then paused to make sure his master followed.
Josiah placed Beauregard on the floor and stood. "Excuse me, ladies. Business, I'm afraid."
"Come, Beau," Lydia said and took her son's hand. "Let's open your lovely presents now." She drew him to the pile of gaily-wrapped boxes on a low table. "Here, can you hold this one while I untie the ribbon?"
"Lydia." Josiah stood in the doorway. "I—I think you had better read this, my dear." He held a piece of paper and now he walked toward her and placed it i
n her hands.
Lydia paled as she read the words, then uttered a small cry, and fell forward in a faint.
A moan went up from the hushed spectators as Clarissa rushed forward to support her sister-in-law. "Smelling salts, please." She looked around the group pressing closer now.
"I'll get'em, Missa," Polly said quickly and ran from the room.
"It's Sylvester," Josiah told them quietly. "He's been killed in action at Antietam."
"Oh, no!" Sylvester's mother covered her mouth with her hands and began to weep piteously. Mary Jane hovered beside her, trying to offer comfort.
Polly brought the salts, and Lydia was soon revived, only to begin screaming and crying hysterically. Clarissa and Josiah assisted her from the room and up the stairs, where Ruane appeared to put her to bed.
Angeline joined Clarissa in the upstairs hallway. "What of Nathan and Malcolm and Talmage?" she whispered. "Do you suppose there'll be more messages to come?"
Clarissa shook her head. "There's no way to tell. We must pray that the others may yet be alive."
As she slowly made her way back to the dining room where the festivities had come to such a sudden end, Clarissa understood the real meaning of the war for the first time. Sylvester was dead, killed fighting in a place she had never seen. He would never come home. And he would never see his son who was one year old today.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Stones River, Tennessee, December 1862 - January 1863
The brief winter twilight faded into darkness and on the distant hills a line of fires lit up the night. A damp chill cut to the bone and a hushed air of expectancy hovered over the weary armies camped along either side of the river. The soldiers constantly complained of the cold, but to Philip, the weather was of little consequence, mild compared to the frigid temperatures of his native state.
"And what might that strange glow be?" Jeb gestured toward the flickering lights on the horizon.
"Could be new lines of our army forming by torchlight, ready to attack the Rebs at daybreak." Philip took a long draw on his pipe. "Or maybe soldiers carrying brands and lighting kindling fires along the lines for warmth."
