“What does?”
Erwin turned on his side so he could reload his rifle.
“Shiloh means ‘place of peace’ in Hebrew. It seems ironic you and I will meet a violent end in a place of peace.”
Conserving her ammunition, Wilhelmina fired her rifle only when a target was within range. She didn’t shoot to kill, only to incapacitate. She didn’t want to take men’s lives. She simply wanted to spare her own.
During the pauses between shots, she listened to the sounds of the pitched battles taking place all around her. The sounds of gunfire, officers yelling commands, drummers tapping cadences, horses neighing in fear, and men screaming in pain.
She wanted to cover her eyes, but she couldn’t look away. She wanted to cover her ears, but she couldn’t block out the noise. So she did the only thing she could do: she decided to be honest.
“I need to tell you something, Mr. Weekley. Something about me. My real name isn’t William. It’s actually—”
“Not now, son.”
Erwin stretched his arms in front of him and ducked his head as he scrambled out from under the church. When he stood, his uniform was covered with dirt, and cobwebs dangled from the brim of his cap.
“The men defending the sunken road seem to be keeping most of the Rebs occupied, which gives us a chance to help shore up the line around Pittsburg Landing until reinforcements arrive. Follow me if you’re so inclined.”
Wilhelmina gathered her courage and crawled out from under the church. She and Erwin met up with a host of stragglers crowding the bluff over the landing, then boarded a ferry to cross the river and join the left side of the line. After they reached the shore, they positioned themselves along River Road.
“If Lew Wallace’s men ever show up,” one of Colonel David Stuart’s men shouted over the roar of cannon fire, “they should come marching down that road. We have to keep it open so they’ll have a chance to join the fight. If we don’t, we’re going to die out here. Sooner rather than later.”
Backed by a ring of more than fifty cannons and naval guns from the USS Tyler and the USS Lexington, the two Union gunboats anchored in the river, Wilhelmina, Erwin, and the intermingled troops tried to repel the Confederate charge.
Two Rebel brigades tried to break through the line of blue but were turned back. As the sun began to set on twelve hours of fighting, Wilhelmina prepared for another wave of attacks. The sunken road, by most accounts, had already endured at least eight of them. To her relief, she heard a bugler in the Southern ranks blowing the call for retreat.
“Why did they stop?” she asked as she and Erwin slowly made their way back to what was left of their camp. Some Union campsites had been taken over by the Rebs. Theirs had not changed hands, but the number of men in it had been considerably reduced due to death, injury, or desertion. “They would have had us if they’d kept coming.”
Erwin’s legs seemed to give way as he sank wearily onto his bedroll.
“They’re just as exhausted as we are, if not more. There’s only so much fighting a man can do before the need for food, water, and rest takes precedence over victory.”
He lay back and placed his arm over his eyes.
“Get some rest and find yourself something to eat, son. The Rebs will still be there in the morning. As they proved today, they damned sure know where to find us.”
“The shooting probably scared away any game that might be in the area. There’s a small farm a few miles from here. I saw it when we were running back and forth between here and Shiloh Church.”
“What are you going to do, knock on the door and ask them if they’ll let you borrow some things from their smokehouse? I doubt the folks around here are feeling too hospitable toward men dressed in blue these days.”
“Do you have any other ideas?” Wilhelmina asked with a shrug. “If so, I’m open to suggestions.”
“I wish I had some, but my mind is too clouded by gun smoke to think clearly. Do you want me to come with you? I think I could manage it if you need the company.”
Despite his assertions to the contrary, he looked so tired Wilhelmina thought he would drop from exhaustion if he were asked to take another step.
“No, stay here and wait to see if Billy shows up. If he comes back and finds us both gone, he’ll probably think we’re dead.”
“If he isn’t dead himself.”
Even though drummer boys weren’t fighters themselves, they were often caught up in battle. They shadowed officers and used drumbeats to deliver the orders to the soldiers who couldn’t hear the spoken commands over the noise of war. When they weren’t needed to sound the calls, they performed the even more difficult job of stretcher bearer, walking around the battlefield looking for wounded men in need of medical care.
“I’ll check the medical tent to see if Doc Gibson’s seen him.” Erwin pushed himself to his feet. “Be careful out there. And bring back something good. My mouth is watering for a nice piece of ham.” He clapped Wilhelmina on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son. You did a fine job out there today. Far better than those who abandoned their posts.”
Wilhelmina remembered the fear she had seen on Maynard’s face as he’d run from the approaching Confederates. She wondered if he had managed to escape to the woods he had been so desperate to reach or if he had been captured by the Rebels and taken prisoner. Either way, she doubted she would ever see him again. In this life or the next.
She grabbed her rifle and ducked out of the tent.
“Son?”
Erwin’s voice prompted her to turn back.
“Yes, sir?”
“What were you trying to tell me earlier? When we were taking cover under the church, you said something about your name, but I can’t recall now what it was. What did you want me to know?”
Wilhelmina wanted to tell him the truth about herself, but she didn’t want to risk losing the two things she had tried so hard to earn: his trust and his respect.
“Nothing, sir. It seemed important at the time, but it doesn’t matter now.”
“Okay, then. Don’t forget about that ham. My stomach and I are depending on you.”
“You can count on me, sir. I won’t let you down.”
*
“Is it over?” Percy asked tremulously after the sounds of gunfire slowed, then stopped altogether.
Earlier, the fierce fighting had been so close Clara had heard bullets hit the house. The shot that had punched a hole in her bedroom window had sent her scrambling for cover. She had turned a table on its side and held Abram and Percy close as they took shelter behind it.
She strained to hear. Though the rifles had fallen silent, the ground shook as the Union gunboats continued shelling Confederate positions.
“Yes, it’s over.” Clara turned the table upright and lit a candle to banish the darkness that had fallen during the battle. “For today, at least.”
“I’m hungry,” Abram said.
Clara’s stomach growled at the reminder they hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The shooting had started around six and hadn’t let up until now.
“Bring some sausages from the smokehouse. I’ll make biscuits and gravy for supper.”
Abram lit a lantern and held it in front of him as he headed for the front door.
“Make it quick,” Clara said before he removed the wooden barricade holding the door shut. “There might be Yankees roaming around out there somewhere. Take your rifle just in case.”
Abram tucked his rifle under his arm and darted out the door. Clara tossed wood into the stove and sprinkled kerosene on the logs so they would burn faster.
“What’s taking Abram so long?” Percy asked as he played with the cup-and-ball toy Clara had used Mama’s ring to purchase for him from the general store. “He should be back by now, shouldn’t he?”
Clara looked at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since Abram had left to fetch the sausages. Even if he had stopped to relieve his bladder first, he’d had plenty of time to complete his tas
k.
“He’s probably out there pretending to be Davy Crockett.”
“I’ll fetch him.”
“No, you stay.” Clara wiped her hands on a dish towel after she placed the biscuits in a cast iron skillet. “I don’t want both of you running around in the dark.”
She lit another candle and used her hand to protect the flickering flame from the wind as she headed down the steps. The smokehouse was located on the far side of the barn, situated so the fumes from the burning hickory and cherry wood Papa used to cure the meat wouldn’t blow into the house.
Clara peered into the growing darkness. Light from Abram’s lantern spilled from under the smokehouse door.
“I thought you were hungry, slowpoke,” she said. “What’s the matter? Can’t find what you’re looking for?”
She blew out her candle and pulled the door open.
“Stay back, Clara.” Abram stood with his rifle trained on a Union soldier holding an armful of meat. “I caught this Yankee trying to steal from us.”
Clara didn’t know whether to move forward or retreat to the safety of the house.
“Careful, Abram. He might be dangerous.”
“I don’t mean any harm, ma’am,” the soldier said. “I was hungry and looking for something to eat.”
“So you saw our smokehouse and decided to help yourself?” Abram asked.
“I’m not looking to hurt anyone. See? I’m not even armed.”
For Clara, the man’s reassuring words offered cold comfort. Though he didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon, she couldn’t tell if his intentions were pure. Something about him—something in his eyes—didn’t sit right with her.
“I don’t trust him, Abram.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am,” the man said. “What are you going to do? Order the boy to shoot me? He can barely hold that rifle, let alone fire it. Be sensible, boy. Give me that rifle before you hurt yourself.”
The soldier reached for the rifle, but hesitated when Abram put his finger on the trigger.
“Stay back or I will shoot you,” Abram said.
“If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already.” The soldier’s expression changed from innocent to something almost sinister. “You should have let me go when you had the chance.”
“What are you going to do?” Abram asked. “I’m the one with the gun.”
“Not anymore.”
Moving quicker than Clara would have given him credit for, the man dropped the meat and backhanded the rifle away from Abram. The rifle discharged with a roar that sounded even louder in the small, confined space. The bullet tore a hole in the back of the smokehouse, and the rifle clattered to the ground.
“He’s reaching for the rifle.” Clara pushed Abram forward. “Get it before he does.”
Abram reached for the rifle, but the soldier snatched it up before Abram’s fingers could close around it.
The soldier picked up the dropped meat, slapped Abram across the face, and brandished the rifle like a baseball bat.
“Back up, boy, or I’ll split your head wide open.”
His voice shook as if he were the one in peril instead of the one making the threat.
Clara moved Abram behind her. A trickle of blood ran from his split lip.
“You’ve got what you want, mister,” Clara said. Abram clutched her dress as they slowly backed out of the smokehouse. “Now go about your business and leave us alone.”
The soldier gnawed on a piece of ham. He looked more like a wild animal than a man. A cornered animal, which made him even more dangerous.
“Who’s in the house?” he asked, pieces of meat and gristle clinging to the stubble on his chin. “Are you alone out here, or is it just the two of you?”
Clara thought of Percy—alone, defenseless, and waiting for them to return.
“No one. There’s no one else.”
“Where’s your man? Is he out trying to round up dinner, or is he off hunting Yankees?”
“If my brother were here, he’d put a bullet in you, for sure,” Abram said.
“But your brother isn’t here, is he?” the soldier asked.
He looked around and nodded appreciatively.
“This seems like a good place to hole up for the night. When both sides start trying to kill each other again, I can make my way north, where life is a lot more civilized than it is down here.”
He turned the rifle around and jerked the barrel toward the house.
“Get in there and cook me some dinner. Tonight, we’re going to be one big, happy family.”
Clara turned and walked toward the house. The soldier made her nervous. She feared for what he might do to her or the boys. The rifle was empty now, but there was plenty of ammunition in the house. If he got his hands on it, neither she, Abram, nor Percy might survive the night.
“Please, mister,” she said, “just take the meat and go.”
“Not until you give me a meal, a change of clothes, and some bullets for this gun. A little Southern hospitality would be good, too. Now stop jawing and keep moving.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t pull the trigger,” Abram said, wiping the blood from his face. “Moses was right. It’s a lot different killing an animal than it is killing a man.”
“Hold your head up,” Clara said. “You accounted well for yourself. No matter what happens, there’s no shame in your actions tonight.”
“But what if he—”
Abram broke off mid-sentence. Clara whirled around when she heard heavy footsteps coming up fast behind him. The soldier turned around, too, but not fast enough.
“There’s another one!”
Abram pointed at the second Union soldier.
This soldier was smaller than the first. Younger, too. Lit by the pale light of the lantern, his cheeks looked as smooth as a baby’s. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but his eyes made him seem much older.
“Wait, Wil,” the first soldier said as the younger one raised his rifle. “There’s more than enough here for both of us.”
The younger soldier—the one the other one had called Wil—didn’t say anything. He just took the butt of his rifle and slammed it into the older man’s jaw. The first soldier dropped to his knees, then slowly fell forward.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Wil asked.
His voice was deep. Unexpectedly so for someone his size. He was tall for his age, but slight of build.
“Did he hurt you or the boy?”
“He knocked my brother around some,” Clara said, “but he didn’t leave any permanent damage, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Wil glanced at the angry red mark on Abram’s cheek and the fresh wound on his lip, then bent and pulled the rifle from underneath the first soldier’s unconscious body.
“Is this yours?”
“Y-Yes, sir,” Abram stammered.
“Here. You might need it.”
Wil held out the rifle. Abram hesitated before taking it and holding it tight to his chest.
“Why are you doing this for us, mister?” he asked, echoing Clara’s thoughts. “Why are you siding with us instead of one of your own?”
“When it comes to doing what’s right, there’s only one side to choose.”
Clara admired Wil’s gentle nature. Despite his tender years, he was quite handsome. He had rich brown eyes, a strong jaw, and full lips that looked ripe for kissing.
“What are you going to do with him?” she asked as the first soldier moaned and began to stir.
“He deserted during the battle this morning. I’m going to take him back to camp and deliver him to the officers in charge. They’ll decide his fate.”
“My brother says they shoot deserters,” Abram said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, it is. Which means he probably won’t be needing this.”
Wil reached into his belt and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol.
“Take it,” he said, handing the pistol to Clara. “Wi
th so many soldiers around, you’ll need all the protection you can get.”
Clara took the gun, unsure how to hold it or if she even wanted to.
“Do you know how to shoot it?” Wil asked.
“No.”
“Don’t fret none, mister,” Abram said. “I’ll show her how.”
“You’re a good brother,” Wil said. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen, going on fourteen. How old are you?”
“Nineteen, going on twenty.”
Abram looked from Wil to Clara and back again. “That means the two of you are the same age.”
“Is that right?” Wil asked.
Clara’s stomach turned a funny little flip when Wil looked at her. Was that the feeling her mama had said she was supposed to have the first time she looked into the eyes of the man she loved? She had never felt that feeling before. She wanted to feel it again.
She didn’t have to wait long. When Wil asked, “You’re not married, are you, ma’am?” she felt like an army of butterflies was marching around her insides.
Abram answered for her.
“No, she ain’t married. She’s had men chasing after her for years, but she ain’t never showed no interest in none of them. Mrs. Bragg says she’s determined to become an old maid.”
Clara dug her elbow into Abram’s ribs. Abram yelped with pain, but at least he stopped telling such embarrassing tales about her.
“Thank you, Wil. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Wil looked at the meat the first soldier had dropped on the ground, and his stomach growled so loud Clara could hear it from five feet away.
“Are you hungry?”
Wil’s blush was his only reply.
“Take it. It’s yours.”
Wil reached into the pocket of his uniform pants and pulled out a wad of bills.
“Let me pay you. I don’t have much, but—”
Clara touched his wrist, which was surprisingly delicate for a man’s. His skin was smooth beneath her fingers and warm to her touch. Clara didn’t want to let go.
“Keep your money. The stores in town only take Confederate bills, not U.S. ones. And after what you did, you don’t owe us a thing. We’re the ones who owe you.”
Divided Nation, United Hearts Page 12
