Divided Nation, United Hearts

by Yolanda Wallace

  “This was my mama’s ring, Mr. Stallings. Papa saved up a slap year to buy it for her. I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it’s the most valuable thing I own.” She untied the cord and placed the ring on the counter. “Is this enough to buy the things I asked for?”

  Mr. Stallings eyed the ring.

  “It’s more than enough. It will pay for everything you want and erase your papa’s debt to boot, but I can’t take it.”

  “Pshaw.” Mrs. Stallings snatched the ring off the counter and pressed it into her husband’s hand. “You can take it and you will.” She closed his fingers around the ring. “And when their crops come in this spring, you’re going to sell it back to them. You know why? Because you’re a better man than Jedediah Ogletree has frightened you into being. Now get a move on, Buck. Don’t keep your customers waiting.”

  Mr. Stallings stashed the ring in the pocket of his vest, set the rifle on the counter, and began to gather the rest of the items Clara had requested.

  “If the South sent its women to fight the war instead of its men,” he grumbled under his breath, “the North wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wilhelmina’s regiment was camped at Pittsburg Landing on the west bank of the Tennessee River. The name reminded her of home. Of the life she had left behind. Of the life she might be about to lose. Scouts said a large group of Confederate soldiers—perhaps as many as forty thousand—were marching toward Shiloh, Tennessee, a town only twelve miles from where she was located and only five miles from where General Grant and his men had set up near Shiloh Church. Surely a confrontation was imminent.

  She pondered what the future might hold for her. Or how long the future might last. As she watched the waters of the Tennessee River rush downstream, she allowed memories of the recent past to wash over her.

  She remembered disguising herself as a man two months ago in order to hear Frederick Douglass speak. She remembered being so galvanized by what she heard that night that she had decided to wear the disguise full-time so she could take up arms. She remembered sneaking out of the house and traveling from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh in order to enlist. She remembered meeting the men of her regiment for the first time. She remembered being so afraid they would be able to see her for who she was instead of who she was pretending to be, then being pleasantly surprised when they had readily accepted her as one of their own. Except for Maynard. He had never accepted her and probably never would, but his issues with her, whatever they were, didn’t seem to have anything to do with her sex. If they did, he would have turned her in long ago.

  She laughed at her own ineptitude as she remembered trying and failing at drills, then trying again and again until she got the exercises right. She remembered marching for hours, sometimes days at a time. She remembered feeling like she couldn’t possibly take another step, then finding the strength to take another and another and another until she finally reached her destination. She remembered learning to shoot, to fight, to be a man. And most of all, she remembered wanting to dissolve into girlish tears after she read Libby’s long-awaited letter. The letter that could be her undoing. The letter that had broken her heart.

  She pressed a hand to her chest to reassure herself that the letter was still in her possession. That it hadn’t tumbled out during a game of horseshoes or a round of drills. She felt the scratch of wool, the firmness of folded paper, and beneath both, the softness of the muslin binding her breasts.

  She couldn’t understand Libby’s change of heart. Libby had seemed so understanding when she had told her about her plan. Now Libby had withdrawn not only her support but her affection as well. Despite everything they had shared over the years, Libby had excluded her from the most important day of her life: her wedding day. Libby hadn’t invited her to the ceremony because she had known Wilhelmina wouldn’t be able to attend. She hadn’t invited her because she didn’t want her there. Because she was too afraid to see what she had become. Too afraid to see who she was.

  I fear I would not see the face of the woman I know and love, Libby had written, but the visage of a soldier I do not.

  Wilhelmina longed to show Libby that the woman and the soldier were one and the same, but what good would it do? Libby was Stephen’s wife now. Her heart and soul belonged to him and would never be hers. The friendship they had long shared had come to a bitter and rather ironic conclusion. Ended not by a lie, but the truth.

  Wilhelmina took off her forage cap and plunged her head in the river to hide the tears that were threatening to fall.

  “If you’re trying to drown your sorrows,” Maynard said after she came up for air, “you’ll need to try harder than that.”

  Wilhelmina shook the excess water from her hair and replaced her cap.

  “What do you want?”

  She didn’t bother trying to hide her irritation. Maynard had given her and Erwin a wide berth since the incident on the train, but she had heard talk around the campfire that he blamed them for his demotion and was waiting for the right time to exact his revenge. If he was spoiling for a fight, she meant to give him one. Even though he outweighed her by a good thirty pounds, she would try her damnedest to get a few good licks in before he managed to get the upper hand.

  She balled her hands into fists, hoping the bruises he was about to put on her body would take her mind off the ones that had already been inflicted on her heart.

  Maynard backed up with his hands raised.

  “Easy now. Save some of that spunk for the Rebs. Don’t waste it on me.”

  Wilhelmina heard something in his voice—saw something in his face—that his bluster and harsh words had thus far been able to hide.

  “That’s why you were willing to shoot Solomon in the back,” she said, thinking out loud. “Because you couldn’t do it while you were looking him in the eye.”

  Maynard’s eyes widened.

  “What are you trying to say? Don’t start quoting Shakespeare like Weekley does when he’s trying to make a point. Speak it plain.”

  “You pick on those you think are weaker than you, but you shrink when someone challenges you. You’re a coward. I can’t say it any plainer than that.”

  “Watch your mouth, boy. I’m not the one crying over a woman when there are plenty of others in the world to choose from. I’m not the one who couldn’t even scratch the enemy with his bayonet, let alone poke a hole in him. I’m not the one who’s yellow, Fredericks. You are.”

  “Keep talking.” Wilhelmina unclenched her fists. “When the fighting starts, we’ll see who the real man is.”

  *

  Clara had always heard that April showers brought May flowers, but she feared the two days of heavy rain that had just mercifully come to an end might have washed away all the seeds she, Abram, Percy, and the Braggs had worked so hard to plant.

  “Your fields look about as bad as ours,” Enid said as she, Clara, and Mary walked the rows. “At least you’ve got a few seedlings, pitiful though they might be. On our place, we still don’t have anything but dirt.”

  “Don’t you mean mud, Mama?” Mary asked as she struggled to reclaim her shoe from the muck. The hem of her dress was as brown as the mud through which it trailed.

  “It could be worse.” Clara lifted her face to the sun, basking in its unseasonable warmth. “It could still be raining.”

  “That it could,” Enid said. “One thing the rain did accomplish was to melt the last of the snow. Joseph and the kids love playing in the snow every winter—making snowmen and getting into snowball fights—but I’ve never cottoned to it. It’s right pretty when it first starts to fall. There’s something downright soothing about that smooth blanket of white, but it leaves a godawful mess behind once it’s gone.” She fingered the leaves of a collard that had survived the harsh winter only to nearly drown during the torrential rains. “But like every tribulation, this too shall pass.”

  “Where’s Moses this fine Saturday morning?” Clara asked.

  “Like
you don’t know. He and Nancy Franklin are drinking sweet tea on my front porch, each waiting for the other to say something more substantial than ‘Good afternoon,’ ‘Good morning,’ ‘Good night,’ or ‘Fine weather we’re having.’ They’re taking so long to get together, my first grandchild won’t be the only one gumming its food.”

  “Moses was good company. I’m glad he’s happy, but I miss having him around. We’ve talked more since he’s been back than we have in our whole lives.”

  “Sitting with you helped him find his way back to himself. And that walking stick Percy made for him has turned him into a new man. I’ve got my son back, and I’ve got you and Percy to thank for it.”

  Clara had a hard time accepting the praise. She didn’t feel like she had done anything special. She had seen a friend in need and had taken the time to listen to what he had to say. She had done what she wished someone would do for her. Moses had tried, but there were still so many things she had left unsaid. Things she couldn’t say to anyone. Not even herself.

  “Has Jedediah stopped sniffing around trying to keep company with you?” Enid asked.

  “I haven’t seen him since the Yankees showed up. It sounds strange, but maybe it’s a good thing they’re camped so close. Having them near has kept the bad apples away, that’s for sure.”

  “But doesn’t it give you a fright knowing you might run up on a horde of them while you’re taking a trip to the privy in the middle of the night?”

  “Not with the Summers boys on duty.”

  Clara looked over at Abram and Percy, who were patrolling the riverbank like a couple of sentries. Abram had his rifle resting on his shoulder. Percy used a fallen branch from a pine tree instead.

  “Between them and Solomon, I feel pretty well-protected.”

  “I’m so sorry about your papa, honey,” Enid said. “I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Joseph when he gets home. He and your papa were as close as two peas in a pod when they were growing up. But at least Lee is with your mama now.”

  Clara briefly allowed herself to feel the sorrow she was usually forced to hide. She couldn’t afford to wallow in sadness for long, however. She had to stay strong. For her brothers’ sakes as well as her own.

  “Papa’s war may be over, but ours is just beginning. Percy and Abram said they saw a Union gunboat sailing down the river yesterday. They came running in the house to fetch me and tried to point it out to me, but once I got to the water, all I saw was a speck in the distance that could have been anything. Sometimes, I think I hear whispering in the woods, followed by a flash of blue or gray, but I can’t be sure. Sound carries on the river. The men I think I’m hearing could be five miles away or five feet. Everything’s so mixed up these days, it’s hard to tell.”

  “The time’s drawing nigh for battle,” Enid said with a weary sigh. “It’s getting closer every day. I can feel it. Caleb Brewster at the post office has a cousin who lives in Corinth, Mississippi. That’s just twenty miles southwest of here. Caleb’s cousin said fifty-five thousand Rebs were camped out in Corinth until General Johnston gave them the order to move out. They left two days ago headed this way.”

  Clara heard the sound of rifle fire in the distance.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said as the volleys continued one after the other, “they’re already here.”

  Chapter Ten

  Wilhelmina heard Billy beating the cadence for the call to arms and reflexively reached for her rifle. Then she opened her eyes and saw that the sun had barely risen above the tree line. She threw one of her boots in Billy’s direction to get him to knock off the racket.

  “Wake up. You’re drumming in your sleep again.”

  She placed her cap over her face, closed her eyes, and tried to get another hour of sleep before reveille. When she heard the cries of, “The Rebs are here! They’re attacking the camp,” sleep became the least of her priorities.

  She tossed her covers aside, fastened the top button on her uniform coat, and tried to locate her boots. One was easy to find. The one she had thrown at Billy was harder to track down.

  “Steady, son. Steady.” Erwin placed the stem of his unlit pipe between his teeth and clamped down hard to keep his nerve. “Remember your training and you’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wilhelmina filled her pockets with as many cartridges as they could hold and looped the strap of her leather cartridge box over her shoulder. Then she followed Erwin out of the tent. The camp, once orderly and neatly arranged, was a mass of confusion. Men, some fully dressed and others wearing nothing but their underwear, ran willy-nilly.

  “Stay in your divisions!” an officer on horseback yelled. “Form your lines!”

  Wilhelmina searched out the members of her regiment as gunfire sounded all around her. Heeding the cadence to move forward, she gripped her rifle and moved toward the front line.

  “It’s Sunday morning,” someone said. “Leave it to the Rebs to attack on the Sabbath.”

  Wilhelmina crouched low and performed one of the many drills she had practiced time and time again.

  “What’s going on?” she asked after she ran into one of the men from General William Sherman’s forces.

  “The Rebs had set up camp less than three miles from us and no one knew they were there until a few hours ago,” the man said. “Colonel Peabody sent men from the Twenty-fifth Missouri and the Twelfth Michigan on a reconnaissance mission at three in the morning. They ran into Rebs in the woods and came under fire. They fought them off, but ran into the Third Mississippi Battalion a few hours later. Now the Rebs are everywhere. We might be in serious trouble if they knew what they were doing, but they’re nowhere near as experienced as we are. Keep your head and you’ll be—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. A blast from an artillery shell blew off half his face before he could. The dappled roan he had been riding screamed in fright, then reared and pawed the air with his front feet. The man’s body slowly fell from the saddle, but one of his feet got tangled in the stirrups. The spooked horse ran off, dragging the man’s body behind him.

  Wilhelmina wiped a spray of something warm and wet from her cheek and continued to move forward as the regiment fragmented around her. Some men, Maynard included, ignored the catcalls of their peers, threw down their arms, and beat a hasty retreat. They headed west toward Owl Creek, obviously more willing to take on the creatures in the swamps than the Confederate forces bearing down on them.

  “Save your ammunition,” an officer on horseback commanded. “Don’t fire until I give the order.”

  Wilhelmina looked up and saw that it was General Sherman leading the charge, his close-cropped hair wild as he waved a sword in the air.

  “Fire,” General Sherman said as his troops’ right flank began to crumble. “Fire!”

  Wilhelmina tucked Maynard’s discarded pistol into her belt, raised her rifle, and aimed at anyone wearing a gray uniform. She pulled the trigger, and a man closing in on Erwin went down clutching his neck.

  She reloaded her rifle and fired again, the taste of gunpowder from her cartridge packet caustic on her tongue. Another man fell. Then another. And another.

  Return fire flew past her ear. She heard the thuds when the bullets slammed into the trunks of nearby trees. Still she continued to move forward because retreat offered only shame, a fate worse than the almost certain death that awaited her.

  General Sherman’s horse was shot out from under him and he called for another. As he waited for his fresh mount, Wilhelmina ran toward a slightly sunken road where several Union soldiers had taken up a defensive position. A small cotton field bordered the road. The green leaves on the scrawny young plants were splattered with blood.

  “No, son.”

  Erwin grabbed her by her collar as Confederate soldiers began assaulting the Union troops lining the road.

  “If you set up there, you’re sure to be captured or killed. The bullets are flying so fast it sounds like a horne
t’s nest up there. Let’s fall back behind the church and wait for the fight to come to us.”

  They retreated several miles to Shiloh Church, where General Grant and his men had established their base of operations. Recovering from a recent injury incurred after his horse fell on him, General Grant plotted strategy as he hobbled around on crutches.

  As the hours slowly crept past, Wilhelmina watched the Confederate troops creep closer and closer. The Rebs’ units were disorganized, and the inexperienced troops seemed to be at a loss as to what to do, but the ferocity of their attack was enough to overcome their strategic shortcomings.

  By noon, the men entrenched along the sunken road were surrounded, Confederate troops had overrun several Union positions, and Wilhelmina grew certain she was about to die. She had used all the ammunition in her pockets, and her cartridge box was half-empty.

  “I’ve got twenty cartridges and the six bullets in Maynard’s gun,” she said as she and Erwin lay on their bellies underneath the log meetinghouse known as Shiloh Church. “What about you?”

  Erwin peered into his cartridge box and took a quick inventory of his remaining ammunition.

  “I’ve got sixteen cartridges. If I run out, I’ll be forced to fight hand-to-hand. I like my chances one-on-one, but I doubt the odds will be that generous today.”

  Wilhelmina felt the taste of something cold and metallic in her mouth. The coppery taste of blood. The silvery taste of fear.

  “Where are General Buell’s men?” she asked. “The Army of the Ohio left Nashville days ago. They should be here by now.”

  “It seems ironic doesn’t it?”

  Erwin shot at an approaching Confederate soldier’s legs. The man fell to the ground and writhed in agony. Another soldier dragged him out of the line of fire, leaving a trail of bright red blood on the bent grass.