Unwilling Warrior

by Andrea Boeshaar

  The subtle threat caused Catherine’s mouth to pucker and her eyes to narrow until her features looked pinched.

  Valerie toyed with her teacup. The threat was very real for her—even the part about the annulment.

  Glancing at Emily, she watched her friend take a sip of tea. She actually looked quite regal with her hair combed neatly back and tucked into a lacy crocheted snood. It matched quite nicely with her burgundy-colored traveling suit.

  “So, Catherine,” Emily began, “am I to presume that your folks know nothing about your leaving?”

  It took several long seconds before Catherine answered. “I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

  “Next chance we get we’ll send a wire.” Emily shook her head. “Your parents will be frantic.”

  “They are aware of my lifelong ambition. I have read every book there is to read on life north of New Orleans and beyond the Mississippi River. My parents will understand that I saw the opportunity and seized it. What harm is there in that?”

  Valerie could think of plenty. Closing her eyes, she wished Benjamin were here with his strength and confidence. Catherine’s presence caused her heart to drum out an anxious beat. Was this really the way to begin her life as a new bride?

  ***

  Twilight fell over the army camp in Mississippi as Ben penned a letter to Valerie. He and Clint had made good time after leaving New Orleans more than a week ago. They’d waited around until Ben learned the fate of Valerie’s father. Unfortunately, the man didn’t live to see the morning.

  Ben sent a telegram off to the Widewater Inn in St. Louis. The stop was on the ladies’ itinerary. After days of traveling, that particular inn with its comfortable lodging had always been what Ma called “the clean-up stop” before spending one last day on the train, riding in to Jericho Junction. The sad news would be waiting for Valerie when she arrived. He hated to deliver it in such an impersonal manner, but she made him promise to send word as soon as possible. Cousin Max performed a private burial ceremony the next day, and at the same time news spread through the city that James Ladden had been apprehended. He was charged with murder and treason. Ben didn’t stick around to find out any details beyond that. He and Clint hit the road after that very afternoon.

  Of course, Cousins Max and Amanda were beside themselves when they’d discovered Catherine ran away. In the midst of the hasty wedding and travel plans, no one noticed she’d slipped away. He prayed Catherine’s attendance hadn’t posed any sort of danger to Valerie and Em.

  Boisterous laughter carried on a mild wind. A banjo and harmonica played a lively tune. Temperatures were in the low fifties, and Ben decided a late January winter wasn’t half bad out this way. A rabbit scampered through the nearby brush, and a doe picked her way along the edge of the trees.

  Ben returned his attention to the letter he wrote to his wife. Wife. Ben suddenly couldn’t wait to get home to her and begin their future together. But he had to find Luke first, and, so far, there hadn’t been any leads as to his whereabouts, although he and Clint would continue northward in the search.

  Ben adjusted the kerosene lamp by which he worked. Again he stared at today’s date and realized that if God hadn’t intervened, tomorrow would have been the day Valerie married James Ladden. Thank You, Jesus.

  He penned a couple more lines to Valerie, and all the while his mind couldn’t help straying to where she and Emily might be in their leg of the journey. After getting off the packet, they would board a stage that would take them to the train that ran to St. Louis. Clint had neatly mapped it all out. Ben only wished they could stay in one place long enough to get a telegram from home letting them know the ladies arrived safely.

  A wistful smile worked the corner of his mouth while his thoughts drifted back to Jericho Junction. He wondered what Valerie would think of the town, of his folks’ home. He prayed Jake would mind his cynical self and Sarah would curb her sprightly ways. That aside, Ben trusted his family, knew they were upstanding individuals who loved the Lord. Valerie would be safe with them. He hoped to God that she’d come to love the town the way he did and that she’d heal from all the traumatic events in New Orleans and find happiness there—with him.

  A rustling sound in the long, brown grass near to his wagon’s door captured his attention. A young soldier suddenly appeared.

  “Suh?” He resembled a disheveled lad, with ratty clothes and in terrible need of a haircut. Light brown scruff covered his long chin, and Ben guessed him to be no older than twenty.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We-ell, suh, the maj’r tol’ me to come see you.”

  He beckoned the man inside. “Come on. There’s room.” Ben gave up his chair to his guest and hunkered down, his back resting against the wagon’s inner wall. Leaning forward, he held out his right hand. “Benjamin McCabe.”

  “Sergeant William Samuel Rogers, suh.” He clasped Ben’s hand in a loose-gripped shake. “Seems you’re lookin’ for someone?”

  “Yes. My brother.” Wasn’t any secret.

  “Maj’r Butterfield says he’s a preacher or something?” The young man’s drawl was incredibly slow, as if he were half asleep. “I’ve been thinking for days that mebbe I saw him.”

  “Where?” Unexpected hope shot through Ben.

  “Virginia. At Bull Run.” The young sergeant tipped his shaggy head. “That’s where the cap’n says you lost sight of your brother, right?”

  “Correct.” Ben had detailed Luke’s disappearance to Major Horace Butterfield some time ago. “Why do you think you saw him?”

  “We-ell, you see, I started out in the First Infantry Battalion, Kentucky, but when we reached Virginia, we all got transferred into another battalion. That was before I decided to move into this here company and fight alongside my cousin, Jerome David Rogers.”

  Ben listened with his forearms dangling over his knees. He didn’t find the switching out of regiments too odd. He’d heard similar tales. Plenty of Southern volunteers, particularly the more unrefined and unskilled, migrated from regiment to regiment. It appeared to be part of the South’s basic problem—disorganization. “When do you think you may have seen my brother?”

  “We-ell, you said he was a preacher, right?”

  Tamping down his impatience, Ben nodded. “Right.”

  “I recollect seeing a preacher like that on the side of the battlefield, and I said to him, ‘Sit yerself down, boy, before you get your fool head blown off.’ But he didn’t budge. He just stood there, real calm like, as if a war wasn’t even going on. At first I thought mebbe he was an angel, sent to protect me. He had a Bible in his hand, and I remember thinkin’ that, outa the two of us, he had the mightier weapon.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?” Ben only dared to hope the description would match Luke’s.

  Rogers rubbed his jaw with one hand and gazed upward as if trying to see an image in his mind’s eye. “A real clean-shaven fella with hair your color.”

  Ben’s heart raced. He closed his eyes. Lord, could it really be Luke?

  “He gimme this.” Sergeant Rogers pulled a tattered card from his pocket and handed it to Ben. “Psalm Twenty-three. I pray it every night, and so far it’s kep’ me safe.” He snorted out a chuckle. “I really did think that other man was some heavenly being, him acting so calm and all—that is, till I heard you were looking for your preacher brother. Then I got to wondering about it and the maj’r sent me to talk to you.”

  “Luke never did rile easily.” Ben inspected the small card, the size of a carte de visite. It belonged to Luke, all right. He was known for giving these things out.

  “I don’t know what happened to him, suh. The fighting got real bad then.”

  Whatever optimism he felt moments ago came suddenly crashing down. Ben handed the card back to the soldier. “I checked the lists of the wounded and dead, but Luke’s name wasn’t on them.” Looked like he was back to square one. “I’ve practically combed the eastern sides of the sta
tes from Virginia to New Orleans.”

  “Mebbe check the hospitals, suh.”

  Ben shook his head. “I just said—”

  “Your brother didn’t look like no enlisted man. That is, he wasn’t carryin’ no musket.”

  “He wasn’t—isn’t—an enlisted man.” Ben said. “Luke’s a chaplain.”

  “Yessuh, and those lists are of enlisted men, ain’t they?”

  Ben narrowed his gaze, thinking.

  “My other cousin, Thomas Albert Thornton, got hisself shot and was loaded into a wagon headed back to Kentucky, seeing that’s where our battalion hailed from. Mebbe your brother got collected up in the mix.”

  “And he wouldn’t have appeared on any injured lists because no one would have known who he was.”

  Rogers shrugged in possibility.

  “Except Luke’s not irresponsible. He’d have at least sent a wire home to say he was still alive.”

  “If ya ain’t got money, you can’t do no wiring.”

  “A letter then.”

  “Mebbe it got lost. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “But it’s been over six months!” Ben was thinking aloud now, playing the devil’s advocate when he knew he should be trusting in the Lord instead. But somehow he couldn’t seem to help it.

  “Six months ain’t so very long, considerin’ the trek home is mostly wilderness with a few miles of a mountain pass added in.”

  “Kentucky, huh?” Ben considered the young man who sat crouched over, leaning his lanky forearms on his thighs. “I appreciate your stopping by, Sergeant.”

  “Well, yessuh.” He gave Ben a wide smile before jumping down off the back of the wagon. “I hope you find him, suh.”

  “Thanks.” Ben climbed to the ground after Rogers, intent on sharing this information with Clint, their logistics expert. “So do I.” He pumped the young man’s hand in a parting shake. “So do I.”

  Sixteen

  It took a couple of weeks to reach Fort Henry, and the garrison was a pitiful sight to behold. Hands on hips, Ben surveyed the rundown fort as Clint set up their camera on a small patch of dry ground. Outdated and threatened to be overtaken by the Tennessee River before Federal gunboats ever arrived, it was easy to see that the Confederacy wouldn’t win any battles here. And if the North won, the victory would open up Union river traffic into the Deep South.

  Several soldiers straggled by, and Ben noticed their trousers were soaked to the knees. He wondered when the last time had been since their feet were dry. His own leather boots hadn’t been a successful force against the eight inches or so of water that already flooded the fort, and the river was rising from all the rain.

  He’d asked around and no one had seen Luke. But that was all right. Ben planned to cross the river and start searching Kentucky, thanks to that lead from Sergeant Rogers back in Mississippi.

  Ben now turned to the commanding officer, a slender fellow with weasel-like features from his long brown hair to his pointed nose and beady dark eyes. “If I were you, I’d evacuate this fort and move my troops downriver to reinforce Fort Donelson. Makes more sense.”

  “You, sir, are not running this war.” The commander lifted a haughty brow. “We have our orders from General Tilghman, and we’ll follow them.”

  “At your own peril, I’m afraid. My partner and I have been in Clarksville, and—”

  “And you’re roving photographers. Yes, I understand.”

  Ben despised the man’s arrogance.

  “Take your pictures and then leave.”

  Ben knew that with the fighting north of the fort, it would be just days before the Union’s gunners broke through the Confederate Navy’s weak blockades and bombarded the place to smithereens.

  “Ben?” Clint waved him over. Once Ben reached him, he said, “We’ll develop the plates back in Clarksville. I’ve got an eerie feeling about this fort.”

  “Rightly so.”

  “My self-preservation instincts are high. I’m going to be a father, you know.”

  “I know.” Ben grinned. “You only tell me twenty times a day.”

  The hyperbole earned him a quelling glare.

  “All right.” Any remnants of humor vanished. “Let’s take our photographs and get out of here.”

  ***

  Dinner at the Widewater Inn consisted of smoked ham and boiled potatoes, served in a creamy sauce with onions and mushrooms. Valerie sat back at the table and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the heavy linen napkin. “What a delicious meal.” It had been weeks since she tasted real food—not since they’d left the Bon St. Marie. The trip had been rough, mostly waiting in dingy lodges for trains. They had to detour several times because railroad tracks had been destroyed by skirmishes. But now their trip finally neared its end.

  Valerie glanced around the inn. Not a single Confederate among the patrons. She figured she’d seen enough gray uniformed men to last the rest of her life. Each time she encountered troops, she almost lost her nerve and broke down on the spot, fearing they were out to arrest her for conspiring with traitors. But Em had pluck and always did the talking. Now that they’d reached St. Louis, chances of encountering more Confederates was slim. Instead, there were Yankees everywhere.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” A soldier clad in blue tipped his hat as he passed slowly by.

  Valerie quickly lowered her gaze.

  He walked on.

  She sighed in relief. One thing she’d learned about soldiers was they hungered for a woman’s attention. It didn’t matter much if she was married, and some men were more insistent than others. But so far she, Emily, and Catherine hadn’t encountered any real trouble.

  Surrounded by Yankee blue, Valerie thought of her father again. Had he survived the operation? Had he been arrested? Hanged?

  Shaking off her weighty muse, Valerie noted Catherine’s untouched plate. “You really need to take a few bites. You’re going to get another one of those nasty headaches if you don’t.”

  “Too late.” She winced. “My headache has returned.”

  “Try eating.”

  Catherine mechanically brought her fork to her mouth.

  “All right. Good. That’s one bite,” Valerie coached her onward. “Now take another . . . a piece of potato this time.”

  Valerie pitied the poor woman. Over the course of the last two weeks, Catherine’s appetite had diminished, and she’d grown weak, succumbing to frequent headaches. Valerie thought it was merely a case of nerves, but Catherine maintained her poor health was due to a combination of rich food, poor-tasting food, the soot from the train that often blew through open windows and into the cars, and inadequate sleeping conditions. Emily said Catherine wouldn’t have ever made it traveling with Benjamin and Clint and living out of their wagons.

  Catherine chewed slowly on a tiny piece of potato.

  “Good. Now take one more bite of ham.”

  She frowned, her bony shoulders sagged, and she reminded Valerie of a noncompliant little girl rather than the stern schoolmarm she’d been in New Orleans. Catherine’s dusty-brown hair looked thinner and more limp than usual, and her face was gaunt and haggard—like a wilted, faded flower on a liriodendron.

  Emily returned to the table. She’d finished her meal a good half hour ago and clearly didn’t feel like cajoling Catherine into eating. So Valerie took a turn. Em had then left and strolled to the front desk to see if there was any word from Clint and Benjamin. She now waved several slips of paper. “We’ve each got telegrams, three sent from New Orleans, two sent from Clarksville, Tennessee. ”

  Valerie tore into the one from New Orleans. She hoped for news about her father. It’s with regret that I inform you of your father’s death. Dr. Dupont did all he could. The telegram was signed by Benjamin. Such sadness overcame her that she couldn’t read the rest. She stuffed it and the other piece of paper into the reticule she wore on her wrist.

  Emily placed a hand on her shoulder. “Valerie? What is it?”

  “My fa
ther’s dead.” She rose quickly from her chair. “Please excuse me.” She ran up the steps to the room that she, Emily, and Catherine had rented and closed the door behind her. Leaning against it she sobbed. In spite of all his faults, Edward Fontaine had been her father, and she loved him. Like Benjamin, he had never actually said he loved her, but he’d provided for her all her life. Her needs had been met. Perhaps that was all a woman could ask for from any man.

  Valerie touched Benjamin’s watch, which now hung around her neck on one of Mama’s gold chains. She kept it hidden inside her bodice. While she never believed in good luck charms, the watch did serve as a reminder of hope and promise.

  Emily and Catherine came in about a half hour later.

  “Are you all right?” Emily sat down and placed a sisterly arm around Valerie’s shoulders.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just sad.” But the pain, she realized, hadn’t been anywhere near the devastation she’d suffered when Mama died.

  “The maid’s coming with hot water for the bathtub. A good soaking will lift your spirits.”

  Valerie wiped the last of her sorrow off her cheeks then offered her friend a grateful smile. “That it will.” She watched Emily survey their spacious quarters. It contained one bed and two cots. Their trunks had been brought up already and stood in one corner. The large porcelain bathtub occupied the other, nearer to the hearth. A fire crackled within its bricked confines.

  “Catherine, you take the bed,” Emily said, glancing at Valerie for confirmation.

  “Absolutely. Take the bed, Catherine.” The poor woman was ill, after all.

  “You’ve both been very good to me.” She collapsed on the mattress, reminding Valerie of a heap of flesh-covered bones. Not an ounce of fat on her. Quite worrisome.

  The maid came and filled the tub. They allowed Catherine to have the first bath. Then Valerie helped her into her gown for the night and tucked her in under the covers.

  “We’ll pray my headache goes away.” Catherine’s voice sounded weak.

  Valerie sat on the edge of the bed. “Father God, You are most gracious. Please touch our sister’s body and heal her. Give her strength for the rest of the journey. This I ask in Christ’s name . . . amen.”