Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  But memory of the men screaming in the operating room kept her going. She took a deep breath and began to swim again, trying to maintain slow, easy strokes. She paused, eyeing her objective once more. It was so far! Again she took a deep breath, reminding herself it was safer to keep going than to allow her limbs to grow too chilled.

  She began to swim again, forcing herself to be as methodical as Dr. Armstrong. She glanced up. Just a little farther . . . just a little farther.

  And at last, she was upon the rowboat. She reached for the gunwale and gripped it, then leaned her cheek against the wooden hull, breathing deeply and resting before trying to haul herself from the water into the boat.

  A feeling of pride and happiness enveloped her. She had been frightened, but she had managed to get the boat. And because of it, so many men would find solace from pain . . .

  Suddenly a scream tore from her throat as hands clamped over hers, rough hands, strong hands, tugging at her. “Come aboard, spy!” a voice invited cheerfully.

  “No!” Kendall screeched, fighting the hands in raw panic. But she was dragged from the water and deposited on the middle thwart of the boat.

  “I’ll be damned, Sergeant! It’s a woman.”

  “I won’t argue with you there, Private Walker,” a pleasant male voice responded lightly. “It certainly is a woman.”

  Kendall stared with wide-eyed desperation from the blue-clad man in the bow to the blue-clad man at the stern, now calmly rowing them along with steady strokes to the opposite shore.

  “Wait!” she pleaded, suddenly certain that the sergeant was a decent sort from the gentle quality of his voice. “Wait, please! We need the morphine!”

  “What morphine?” the sergeant demanded, his leathery face frowning into a thousand wrinkles. “There was never any morphine aboard this boat, lady. Just small arms. We took her from a man trying to smuggle arms into Vicksburg.”

  “But I don’t understand—” Kendall began.

  The sergeant laughed. “Sorry, lady, your man was no philanthropist. He probably decided he could make more money with weapons than he could with medicines. But don’t worry, ma’am—he’s going to sit out the rest of this war in a Union prison.”

  Prison . . . dear God, Kendall thought belatedly. These men were Yankees, and they were taking her to the Union line. She was sitting before two Yankees in nothing but her bodice and pantalettes—dripping wet—and they were taking her to the Union line.

  She leapt to her feet, causing the boat to wobble precariously. But before she could dive back into the water, the sergeant flung his arms around her legs, and she crashed down hard on the midship thwart.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, “but we’ve come up with a number of pretty spies, you know. You’re going to come with us to see the lieutenant.”

  Kendall didn’t feel the bruises on her ribs where she had fallen. She closed her eyes, her mind suddenly gone blank with terror.

  * * *

  She would never be able to say that they weren’t kind to her. As soon as they reached the shore, the soldiers gave her a blanket to drape about herself. Any man who offered her so much as a licentious stare was harshly reprimanded.

  She was taken over a half mile of shoreline to a spot where Yankee tents were pitched in abundance. Thousands of men in blue sat around campfires, yet they merely paused in their evening meal to watch the procession as she was led through their midst.

  At last they stopped before a large tent. The sergeant slipped beneath the flap quickly—and just as swiftly slipped back out to hold it high, indicating that she should enter.

  She stood still, her hair dripping and clinging to her face as she stared at the young lieutenant who sat behind a field desk.

  She was surprised when he instantly and politely rose. He smiled, and she saw that he was even younger than she had first thought, his features merely worn by the ravages of battle. His eyes were a golden hazel, alert, yet tired. His manner was quietly authoritative.

  “So you’re our Confederate spy,” he murmured.

  “I’m not a spy,” Kendall replied, more tired than nervous. She met his gaze boldly and defiantly. “We needed morphine. I swam out to get it.”

  “We found that rowboat filled with arms.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Did you? Then did you hear that once we had taken it, we used the boat as bait to discover who has been slipping into our ranks to steal arms?”

  “What is your name, ma’am?”

  She hesitated. “Kendall,” she murmured. “Kendall . . . Armstrong.”

  “Have you eaten, Miss Armstrong?”

  “I . . .”

  “Foolish question. No one in Vicksburg has eaten well for quite some time.”

  The lieutenant strode past her to the tent flap. “Private Green! Fetch some rations for our Rebel guest—pronto!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He smiled at Kendall again as he came back into the tent, sweeping his arm politely to indicate that she should take the squat folding chair across from his field desk. With little choice, Kendall sat.

  “Lieutenant,” Kendall murmured, “I assure you I’m not a spy. It would be rather useless to be one at this point, don’t you think, sir? Vicksburg is in a desperate plight. Yet there is no information that could really save the city, is there?”

  “Save it—no,” the lieutenant replied. “But prolong this misery, yes. We know that the arms carrier had contacts on the shore. Ah . . . here is your meal. Please, eat.”

  She would have liked to turn up her nose at the food; she could not. There was fresh beef on the plate. And bread—with no mold. Summer corn swimming in creamy butter . . .

  “Thank you,” she said shakily, practically attacking the food as the delicious aromas assailed her.

  “Eat slowly,” the Yankee lieutenant advised her, not unkindly, as he returned to his own chair and surveyed her. He plucked a dark liquor bottle from beneath the desk and set it on the table.

  “Do southern ladies accept a swig of whiskey?” he queried almost whimsically.

  “This one does,” Kendall said softly.

  He rummaged through a drawer until he found a glass. Kendall tossed down the liquor offered her in a single swallow. It stung her throat, but it warmed her. She turned her attention back to the most delicious meal she had ever consumed. She barely noticed that he silently stared at her.

  “I’m not really sure what to do with you,” he said at last. “For tonight we’ll put you in the tent next to mine—under heavy guard, of course. By tomorrow morning my men should be able to scrounge up some clothing for you. And I’ll speak with the general.”

  Kendall at last set down her fork and sat with her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. She wasn’t about to argue with this man. She didn’t think that he believed her to be a spy. And it seemed likely that he would eventually release her.

  Private Green was called back. She was led to another tent with a clean cot—and rough, but warm blankets.

  She assumed she would toss restlessly, and nervously, all night, but she didn’t. Amazingly, sleep overwhelmed all thoughts of fear and anxiety. She slept deeply—and dreamlessly.

  * * *

  She awoke to the sound of bugles—reveille—and then the cacophony of clanks and rustles as thousands of soldiers fell into ranks.

  She pulled her blanket about her as she listened to the sounds of the Yankee camp, closed her eyes tightly once more, and prayed.

  “Dear God—please! Please make these people release me before they discover that I’m the missing wife of a Federal naval lieutenant.”

  “Miss Armstrong, I’m tossing a gown in to you. Please dress immediately. Private Green will be waiting to bring you to my tent.”

  Kendall held her breath as a deep russet cotton gown was tossed into her tent. It was the lieutenant who had spoken—as polite as he had been last night. Yet there had been something different about his voice . . .

  She didn’t want to crawl
out of the cot. She was suddenly terrified to face the day.

  Brent McClain! she wailed in silent, furious reproach. You took my ship and demanded that I play a safe role—a woman’s role—in this war. On the ship I could have fought. Here I cannot. I am helpless. You arrogant bastard, you have done this to me!

  But that wasn’t really true. He had wanted her to stay in Florida, in the safe harbor . . . but she had gone to Vicksburg and innocently determined to catch a drifting rowboat.

  She couldn’t have done differently, she thought with a sigh. And she forced herself to rise—and don the russet gown.

  Her suspicion that something had changed overnight became positive knowledge as she entered the tent of the young lieutenant.

  He was not alone. Two older and very severe-looking officers were seated on either side of him.

  The lieutenant didn’t rise. Nor did he indicate that she should sit. He stared at her with cold accusation.

  “To my left, madam, is Quartermaster Jordan of the United States Navy. I’m sure you’re aware that our assault on Vicksburg has been a combined effort of army and navy. Quartermaster Jordan recently transferred to our front from a short stint at Key West. He saw you come in last night. And he’s quite certain that he recognizes you. He says you were aboard a Confederate schooner that blew a Union ship straight to hell. What do you say to the charge, ma’am?”

  “I deny it, of course,” Kendall murmured, trying to speak with conviction and still the tremors that shook her.

  “Furthermore,” the lieutenant continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “he tells me it was rumored that the woman taking our Federal ships was the wife of a fellow naval officer. Your name is Kendall Moore, madam, not Armstrong.”

  They had her—and they knew that they had her. She felt as if the entire world were slipping away from beneath her feet—but she was determined that they not know it.

  She stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and slightly lifted her chin.

  The lieutenant pushed back his chair and stood and approached her.

  “You are guilty, madam, of acts of sabotage against the United States armed forces. The penalties for that are grave, Mrs. Moore. Under normal circumstances, we would be forced by law to send you to a prisoner-of-war camp. I would thank God, if I were you, Mrs. Moore, that I was married to a naval officer. We will place you in your husband’s custody—”

  “No!” Kendall interrupted sharply—icily.

  “What?” The young lieutenant appeared confused.

  “I said no. I do not want to be placed in my husband’s custody.”

  “I don’t think you understand. The alternative is prison.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Kendall said with cool dignity. “I prefer prison.”

  The young lieutenant stared at her, noting the stark purpose and determination in her beautiful clear blue eyes. Seconds ticked by.

  At last he threw up his arms in exasperation. He strode around to sit behind his desk and scrawl on a piece of paper.

  “This grieves me,” he said huskily. “I never thought I would have to condemn a woman to such a fate. Mrs. Moore, won’t you please reconsider? Your husband will certainly be angry, but as you’re his wife in the sight of God—”

  “No, Lieutenant,” Kendall interrupted firmly. “I will not reconsider.”

  The young man winced. He scrawled his signature on an official paper.

  “Private Green!” he called sharply, never taking his eyes from Kendall.

  The private appeared quickly in the tent, saluting. The lieutenant rolled and bound his order and handed it to the private. “Arrange an escort. Sergeant Matling can be in charge. Mrs. Moore is to be taken to Camp Douglas in Chicago. She is to be held there for the duration of the war,”

  Camp Douglas. Kendall felt her heart sink. It was reputed to be the Andersonville of the North; a place riddled with lice and disease and famine . . .

  Her lips started to quiver; she pressed them firmly together, forcing herself to keep her chin high. Even Camp Douglas would be preferable to John Moore . . .

  * * *

  Or so she thought until she reached the prison four days later. Hell couldn’t have been worse than Camp Douglas.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kendall didn’t think she would forget the stench of Camp Douglas as long as she lived—or even after death.

  She had been warned by the young men charged with her transport that the commander of the camp was a tyrant—a man who believed that dissenting Rebels should suffer. Yet conditions inside the camp guaranteed suffering without any assistance.

  As soon as she set eyes on the camp with its seemingly endless walls and stark rows of buildings, a feeling of sickness seemed to rob her muscles of strength and her bones of substance.

  She arrived in midafternoon, and after the gates had opened to afford them entrance, she saw a number of the prisoners taking exercise in the vast center field. They looked worse than scarecrows, she thought. Thin as rails, tattered, dirty—and tragic.

  She didn’t have long to stare; she was led into the commander’s office.

  He barely glanced up as he looked over her papers. “Throw her in with the Georgians,” he said briefly.

  “Sir,” Private Green protested, nervously clearing his throat, “the prisoner is Mrs. Moore!”

  “She wanted to fight with her Rebel friends—let her rot with them.” He at last looked up with a sneer cutting across his heavily bearded features. “Seems to me she prefers the company of Rebel trash to a Yankee husband. Go on. Take her. Let her discover just how gallant that Confederate rabble can be. Most of those men haven’t seen anything remotely female in at least a year. Let’s see how filled with Rebel fever she is after a few nights with that chivalrous filth.”

  It wasn’t Private Green who led her away, but the Yankee commander’s assistant. Kendall jerked her arm from his grasp to turn back to the man at the desk.

  “Captain?” she said sweetly.

  “What?” He glanced up and surveyed her slowly.

  Kendall spit on the floor. “I’d rather be raped by a thousand Rebs than touched by a single Yankee.”

  “Get her out of here,” the commander snapped. “She’ll change her tune soon enough.”

  Perhaps she would, Kendall thought sickly only moments later.

  She was led down a long row of identical buildings; then a door was unlocked and pushed open—and she was shoved in.

  It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness after the brilliance of the sunlight. But when they did, she visibly cringed.

  There were about three dozen men cramped into the small quarters. Dirty, ragged, gaunt, unshaven, and filthy. The smell of privy buckets was overwhelming; in a far corner, there was a pool of rancid water from a leak in the ceiling.

  The men who returned her scrutiny hardly resembled soldiers of the grand Confederate Army. Whatever uniforms they had once possessed were so worn and ragged as to be unrecognizable.

  And they all looked like ferrets. She felt as if their eyes bored into her like those of a thousand voracious rodents. One soldier, looking like a mass of disjointed bones, pushed himself up from the floor and advanced toward her. “I’ll be damned—I will! It’s a woman!”

  He kept coming at her, then circled around her, his lifeless yellowed eyes awakening to a glitter with his interest.

  Kendall backed herself to the door that had been slammed and bolted behind her. She braced herself against it, warily returning his astonished and rapt stare.

  The man was about her own age, she thought bitterly. Maybe even handsome when not so skeletally thin. And when not encrusted with filth from his matted hair to his shoeless feet.

  “Oh, honey,” he breathed, bracing his hands on either side of her head against the heavy oak door, “it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen somebody soft and curved . . .”

  He moved to touch her and Kendall instantly snapped out of the feeling of sympathy that had gripp
ed her when she heard the wistfulness of his tone. She screamed and sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands. “Please . . . oh, please . . . don’t . . . don’t . . .”

  There was an abrupt and total silence in the room as the pathetic wail of her voice died away. Then suddenly there was a shuffling of feet and a stir in the fetid air as another man came forward. He knelt down beside her and gently smoothed her hair, then stood and turned to his comrades, a proud and defiant figure despite the blisters on his feet and the rag-tag state of his mud-encrusted body and clothing.

  “We are,” he stated commandingly, dignity ringing clear in his tone, “still soldiers in the Confederate States Army. We are a proud and chivalrous breed, men. Not a band of licentious rapists! This lady has apparently fought the enemy as we have—and thus been given a spot in this hellhole. We will not, men, I emphasize, we will not aid the enemy by inflicting further misery on this poor girl. We will prove ourselves the last of the cavaliers—gentlemen, my friends, to the bitter end.”

  Again he bent to Kendall. She met a pair of warm brown eyes set with sensitivity and warmth in an aging and weathered but kindly face. “I’m Major Beau Randall of the Twenty-Second Georgia Regulars. I’ve not much to offer, ma’am, but I am at your service.”

  His kindness was more than she could bear. Kendall began to cry, and he took her in his arms to soothe her.

  * * *

  Beau Randall had—from that very first day—set the tone for the behavior toward Kendall.

  She liked to think that her presence among them somewhat improved their dreary existence. All thirty men longed for a lover; she could be lover to none, but she could offer her heart in friendship to them all. And in the presence of the Twenty-Second Georgia Regulars, she felt a great deal of faith in the human spirit return to her. Men were not so terribly different in their emotions from women. The married men spoke wistfully of their wives and daughters; the single men spoke of their dreams, and of the fiancées and lady friends they had left behind.

  Kendall was certain that she kept them mindful of their manners—and that was good for their pride. They were able to remember that they were men, not caged animals.