Faith of the Heart

by Jewell Tweedt

  After all these years, he still couldn’t stop thinking of her, of the life they’d planned together, of his deep love for her and the terrible thought that she might belong to another man. No! The very idea of his woman being in the arms of someone else, perhaps even another soldier, was enough to make his head pound like a sledge hammer. But it was too late now. Too much time had passed. He could never face her. He couldn’t explain his disappearance. His cowardice.

  Even if he could make Claire understand, he wasn’t sure he could convince the authorities of the same. Cal had been left for dead on the broken battlefield of Gettysburg, shot through the leg and with a severe head wound; soldiers Cal had once called friends left him on that stinking, rancid field, listening to the moans of other dying men around him. If he hadn’t managed to drag himself away, hadn’t managed to escape on that fateful night, he would have died as well. Good riddance and all of them be damned! While the war raged he’d been a deserter and could have been imprisoned if anyone had discovered his true identity. That meant hiding himself from his family and Claire to stay alive. It was better if everyone thought him dead anyway—no one wanted to live with the shame of having a husband or son who was a deserter, a yellow coward. Even his precious Claire: how could she understand? No, it was better just to stay away. He’d always been a loner, maybe that was to be his fate. But still…

  Five Years Earlier

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 1863

  Swatting at his cheek Caleb missed yet another mosquito. He sat down and leaned back against a large tree, thankful for the shade on a sultry afternoon. Taking a swig of lukewarm water from his canteen, he felt a breeze barely brush his face. Carefully unfolding a two- week- old newspaper he began to catch up on the war news.

  The paper was from Philadelphia and its editor had written a blistering account of President Lincoln’s weak and ineffective generals. Since the war started in April 1861 more than two hundred thousand soldiers were dead or missing. The end was nowhere in sight and the article warned that Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s army might be victorious if Lincoln’s new general didn’t take some action fast. It went on to praise Lincoln’s appointment of General George Meade and encouraged readers to support the Yankee efforts.

  Two hundred thousand, why, if I slipped away maybe they’d not miss one more. Maybe…

  Cal looked up from his paper when he heard voices raised in anger. In the canvas tent behind him two officers were arguing. He sighed and stood to stretch his legs, catching snatches of the conversation.

  The men argued that while both armies were tired, hungry, and in desperate need of supplies, the Confederates were worse off than their Union counterparts although they continued to fight, fiercely protecting their homes. Their clothing was in tatters and many men had no footwear. Rumors were circulating that there was a warehouse of boots in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and they might be heading there. One officer wanted to head into the town. The other proposed marching to capture Richmond, the Confederate capitol.

  Walking closer to the tent Caleb raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and bent slightly to hear better, hoping he wasn’t noticed. Darn these officers, can’t they see what a farce this all is? I just want to go home. I am so sick of all of this. They told us…they promised us this disagreement would only last a few months and yet here we are two years later and no end in sight. In disgust he turned and stomped away muttering to himself.

  Hours later Caleb’s company was on the move. Out of nowhere cannons and rifles started firing and men scrambled to get out of the road and under cover. Under a captain’s order Caleb led a troop down the road to town and ran right into a Rebel infantry unit. Fighting hand to hand with bayonets attached to their rifles and standard Army-issue knives that they had tucked into their belts, men were dropping right and left. The air was thick with gray smoke and the stench of fear-driven sweat and salty-sweet blood as soldiers stumbled over the fallen. With dusk approaching and the light fading fast, Caleb, who’d been raised in Gettysburg, led the men to a line of hills called Cemetery Ridge where they could dig in for the night.

  That evening Caleb and his buddies tried to guess what would happen next. Meanwhile, more reinforcements arrived and Cal predicted a wide-scale catastrophe. He argued that Robert E. Lee’s best chance at victory was to strike at the Union Army before the reinforcements could get into place. The smartest strategy for Lee was to attack both ends of the Yankee line. Meade’s army would have to hold the line.

  Somehow on the second day Meade’s men did hold the line. Thousands of men from both sides lost their lives in the rocky fields and hilly mounds near tiny Gettysburg.

  The tide of the war was turning to favor the north, but Caleb no longer cared. His primeval instinct for survival had kicked in and he was determined to live no matter what the cost. No longer did it matter to him if the country was split apart. He began to look for a way out of the fighting. Maybe if he simply walked in the choas away no one would notice. After all, thousands were dead or missing.

  It was late afternoon on July third when Caleb’s life took a sudden and irrevocable turn. Standing on the back slope of Cemetery Ridge, Caleb had turned to yell a command at his troops and as he turned back felt something red hot slam into his left leg. He collapsed, his legs unable to hold his weight and he looked down in shock to see a gaping hole clear through his calf. It was as though he was looking at another man’s leg. He felt no pain at first, simply a surreal sensation that this could not be happening. A nearby cannon roared, and he felt as though his head had exploded. Everything went black.

  When he woke everything was fuzzy and there was a horrendous pounding in his head. Gingerly feeling his head he found a gash on the top of his skull accompanied by a horrendous pounding in his head. He tried to stand but collapsed; his leg would not support him. It was dusk and the battle must have been over-no shots or cannons were being fired. Wounded and dying men were crying, screaming and calling for help and for their mothers. The stench of spilled blood, exploded shells, and excrement was overpowering. Here and there he could make out the ambulance corps carrying the injured men to the field hospital. Cal wanted no part of that. He’d seen those hospitals and the awful piles of limbs from amputations. He knew a wound like his would make it impossible for the doctors to consider letting him keep the leg. The surgeons rarely even saved broken limbs, let alone those at high risk for infection and gangrene. But there was no way he was letting someone cut off his leg with nothing more than chloroform to ease the pain. Instead he waited until it was dark. He began to drag himself inch by inch from the field. Reaching a stand of trees, he located a stout branch. Hauling himself upright, and using the branch as a cane, he stumbled into the woods. Caleb had roamed these same woods as a child and so by the light of the moon found his way to the crude cabin he remembered so fondly.

  The ramshackle one-room hut belonged to Cassie Bear, an elderly woman he had befriended before. Cassie was a widow with two wonderful traits: she knew how to heal with herbs and she knew how to keep her mouth shut. Caleb was certain he’d be safe with her.

  While he was growing up, Caleb, who was an only child, would play in the woods to amuse himself. Widow Bear preferred the company of deer and squirrels to that of humans, so she’d built the tiny shack and made a living by gathering herbs and raising chickens. Caleb had come upon her home when he was ten and the odd, lonely boy and solitary old lady began a long friendship. He’d bring her supplies from town and she’d bake him berry pies and teach him about the bounty of nature and how to survive on very little. She didn’t mind his sometimes-crabby nature and he could abide her old-fashioned notions of self-reliance and distrust of city folk.

  Now Caleb needed Cassie to help him survive. He tapped on the door and whispered loudly, “Cassie, open up! Cassie, it’s Caleb, open up, please!” He prayed she would still recognize him. The door creaked open and the old woman peered into the dark.

  “Land sakes, boy!” Cassie took
in the sight of the wounded soldier. She wrapped a bony arm around his waist and half carried Caleb into the cabin’s dark room, lit only by the moonlight shining through its one window. She laid him down on the narrow bed and lit a whale oil lamp before examining his wounds. Caleb passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Two days later he woke to the pleasant sound of a crackling fire and the delicious aroma of hearty chicken soup. Struggling to sit up he was held back by a gentle but firm hand on his chest.

  “Whoa boy, you jest lay still. You been hurt powerful bad and you ain’t gonna mess up the nursing I done to ya.”

  Caleb stared into the watery eyes of the determined woman. He tried to speak, but the pounding of his head prevented him from making any sound but a weary groan of pain and frustration. Reaching to feel his head injury, he found a tidy bandage. Pulling up the old horse blanket, he saw his leg was also wrapped in a clean cloth.

  “My leg,” he croaked, “how bad is it?” He began to tremble.

  “Not so bad, boy. It was a big ‘un but that there bullet went clean through. I made up a poultice of comfrey and thistle and drew out the poisons. Same as with yore head there. God willing you’ll keep the leg but them headaches is gonna bother you some fer awhile. Now you jest stay in that bed and I’ll bring you some soup. I kilt a fat pullet and made us some good broth. We’ll have you up and around afore ya know it.”

  A horrifying thought suddenly struck Caleb as he grasped the old lady’s arm. “Cassie, Cassie, has anyone been around here looking for me?”

  “Land sakes, Caleb. Nobody’s come around here for years. You included.” She tucked the scratchy blanket up around his narrow shoulders and frowned at his bony frame.

  Caleb winced. It was true. As he’d grown he’d neglected his old friend. He began to apologize, but she cut him off.

  “Never you mind, I didn’t expect you anyways. A man’s got more important things to do than chatter with an old lady. Like fightin’ in wars and killin’ other men.” She spit into the fire, before pouring some soup into an old cracked bowl.

  “Here now, drink some of this soup up. Nobody’s gonna know yore here. I can keep my trap shut. I’d ruther talk to the birds and squirrels anyhow. They got more sense than most people I knows. Now listen here, boy, you gots to swallow some of this soup. It’ll do you good.”

  Caleb struggled to a sitting position and allowed the old woman to spoon feed him the nourishing broth. After just a few spoonfuls, an overwhelming weariness came upon him and he shook his head at the spoon. “No more, Cass, I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.”

  “Okay, my boy, that’s alright. You jest sleep now, ya hear?”

  As he settled in Cassie looked down at her old friend and sighed. The day before while he was unconscious, she’d been able to remove his filthy uniform and sponge him clean. She’d been dismayed to see how thin he’d become due to the poor food and living conditions he’d endured over the last couple of years. She managed to wrangle him into one of her late husband’s soft old nightshirts and it seemed to swallow him up.

  Never mind, she thought, it’s warm and soft and in a few weeks I’ll get some weight on the boy. He’s young, his wounds will mend and he’ll be jest fine. Fine as long as them soldiers don’t come lookin’ fer him. I’ll jest have to keep an eye out fer them, that’s all. She stood up, stretching her aching back as she shuffled over to the ancient hunting rifle she kept by the door. She made sure it was loaded and propped it in the corner. Iffen they come around I best be ready.

  Cassie peered outside of the cabin. Her faded blue eyes squinted against the bright sunshine.

  Looks clear, she reasoned, picking up an old willow basket. I’d best be gathering some more herbs. Them dressings are gonna need to be changed soon. Gathering her courage she stepped outside.

  The next few weeks sped by as summer slid into autumn. Caleb grew stronger and managed to gain some weight from a steady diet of Cassie’s nourishing soups and stews. Her small vegetable garden provided corn, beans, and potatoes. Her excursions into the woods resulted in berries, nuts, and early apples. Caleb began a daily exercise routine and slowly felt his strength return. The leg wound was healing, but he was left with an agonizing limp.

  The caliber of the bullet that had hit him was large, probably a .44, and it tore a chunk of calf muscle from his leg. The wound was drawing in on itself and was clean, but that muscle was gone for good. His head wound was just a shallow gash and healed completely, but as Cassie had warned him, he was left with severe headaches, especially when the weather was cool and damp.

  He began to get weary of being cooped up in the stifling cabin, but he didn’t want to risk being spotted out in the woods. If someone saw him and recognized him as a soldier, he would be hauled back and tried as a deserter. The penalty for desertion was death and after having escaped that fate once, Caleb wasn’t eager to test his luck again.

  One afternoon that autumn, Cassie rounded up his uniform and army boots and burned them in a bonfire. She buried his metal belt buckle and canteen in the garden. She knew they needed to eliminate any evidence of him ever having been in the war. Caleb also made the difficult decision to change his name. He knew the steps he took now to ensure his survival would prevent him from ever making contact with Claire, or his parents again. Though he had already made the decision to sever all previous contacts, save Cassie, the finality of his actions was like a dead weight added to his shoulders. Inwardly he raged how the war, Lincoln’s war, had deprived him of his dreams of being a successful lawyer and politician with the sweet and beautiful Claire by his side. Still frowning, Caleb shaved off his beard and mustache and Cassie sheared his shoulder-length hair short. Caleb Davidson was gone and Calvin Moore stood in his place, weak and pale, but alive.

  The next day, Cassie went into town to trade herbs for flour, coffee, salt and sugar. Early that morning she loaded up a two-wheeled cart and set off into town. Before she left, she warned Cal to stay inside and keep the rifle handy. There had been distant noises of gunfire recently and troops of soldiers had been known to pass through the wooded area near her cabin.

  It was a beautiful October morning and the leaves had just begun to turn. The sky was a brilliant azure and the trees a breathtaking mix of red and gold. From the chair by the window, Cal could see the geese high above as they flew southward toward warmer climates. He was unsettled and weary and wanted out of the cabin. He felt a need to move and stretch his body and wander through the woods. He was downright bored. Every book and old newspaper in the cabin had been read and reread. What was going on with the war? Where were his troops? For all he knew the war could be over. Cassie had promised to bring him newspapers and maybe even a book, but he couldn’t wait. Cal had to get out of that tiny room.

  Dressed in Cassie’s husband’s clothing, he pulled on the man’s worn leather boots. The fit was a bit large, but they would have to do since all his personal effects had been burned or buried. All but the half-heart chain around his neck. He would not let Cassie remove that. No one but Claire knew about it, so he figured it was safe. It wasn’t as if the delicate gold charm was going to give away his identity.

  He shrugged into an ancient coat and pulled a wool cap down low upon his brow. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him, but he still had to be careful. He’d grown up in Gettysburg and there was always some small chance a person from the past might recognize him. By now he would have been reported dead or missing, and he truly believed it was better that way, but the thought of someone thinking him returned from the dead made him shiver. The army would get word, and they would know what had really happened.

  Yes, it was better if everyone thought him dead. Even Claire. The thought of being without her made him cringe once more, but he pushed it out of his mind.

  Slowly opening the cabin door, he peered outside. The birds were singing and the squirrels were busily gathering nuts and berries to hoard in their treetop homes. Tucking the rifle under his arm, he moved quietl
y between the cabin and the tiny outhouse and then into the deeper woods. Gradually, Cal began to relax and loosen his guard. He spent a pleasant afternoon gathering berries and nuts to add to Cassie’s larder. He’d eaten so much of her food that he wanted to try to contribute, even in this small way. While limping home Cal spotted a doe. She looked up from grazing and froze, her brown eyes lamplike. Sucking in a breath Cal swung the rifle up to his shoulder, squinted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The deer fell, shot cleanly through the heart. Cal took no pleasure in killing for sport, but venison was tasty and would be a welcome addition to their diet of fruits and vegetables.

  He stooped to dress the deer and envisioned the look of pleasure on Cassie’s face when she saw all that fresh meat. Staggering, he hauled the carcass over his shoulders and made his way back to the cabin. Cassie was waiting for him when he returned, standing hands on hips in front of the cabin, hopping mad.

  “I declare!” she hollered, eyes snapping, “I declare Cal, I know I tole ya to stay in the cabin, I done tole ya. What if you gone and hurt yourself after I fixed you up so good?

  Cal grinned. “Now, Cass. I’m not ten years old anymore. I only wanted to stretch my legs and I feel fine. Good, actually. I was on my way back when this little doe crossed my path and the thought of fresh venison was just too much to pass up.”

  “How’s about me roasting us some of this meat for our supper?” He dumped the carcass onto the ground and reached for his knife. Cassie shook her head and had to smile at his enthusiasm. He was getting back to normal.

  Later that evening the two sat comfortably before the fire. They’d feasted on roasted potatoes, venison and white flour biscuits. It had been a successful trip into town for Cassie. She’d traded all of her dried herbs and roots for enough provisions to get them through the winter. While at the general store, she had overheard conversations about the war and learned that Cal was considered dead. The newspapers she carried back reported his company was fighting further south near Chattanooga, Tennessee. He should be safe now.