by P. G. Nagle
“I know dozens of privates in the Second. What did he look like?”
Covington shrugged, uninterested. Emma gave up the lost cause and went into the general’s office.
An hour later she rode down to the Second’s camp with their mail. She no longer distributed it herself, but gave each company’s mail to their commander, as she did with the other regiments of the brigade. She had just dismounted before Captain May’s tent and was digging I Company’s mail out of her satchel when she heard a familiar voice.
“Frank!”
Turning, she gasped in astonishment. “Jerome!”
Jerome smiled broadly and held out his hand. Emma put hers into it. He shook hands warmly, clapping her on the back.
“You’ve been exchanged at last!” she said, marveling at how well he looked.
He nodded. “All of us who were captured at the hospital. I thought of writing, then decided I would reach you faster than any letter.”
Emma laughed. “Yes, I sent one to you at Camp Parole. It is probably trying to find you.”
“Well, I shall look forward to receiving it eventually.”
“Don’t, it’s quite gloomy. I wrote it the night before Fredericksburg.”
Jerome’s face became serious. “We heard about the battle when we reached Aquia. I was worried for you.”
Touched, Emma smiled. “Well, I’m fine as you can see. Oh, Jerome, it is so good to have you back!”
Captain May had come out of his tent, and Emma hastened to hand him the mail for his company. He glanced at Jerome, then began looking through the mail.
Reminded of her duty, Emma caught Jerome’s arm. “I must finish my rounds. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course. I hear you’ve moved up in the world.”
Emma laughed as she started up the street with him, leading her horse by the reins. “Yes. Oh, it must have been you who asked for me at headquarters earlier.”
“Yes, I’ve been looking for you since yesterday.”
“Well, I am in the saddle a great deal.”
“How is your leg?”
Emma glanced at him, wondering if she had been limping. She scarcely noticed her injury any more, except when the cold made it ache, or when she was very tired.
“Much better, thank you.”
“I am glad. I have prayed for you often.”
Emma felt her cheeks grow warm. “And I for you, Jerome.”
Not often enough, lately. Since Fredericksburg, she had not shown her face at a prayer meeting. She felt the prick of conscience more sharply than ever.
Jerome walked with her through the rest of the Second’s camp, then up to Burnside’s headquarters to collect the next shipment of mail. They chatted and debated as if they had never been separated, or indeed, never at odds, and Emma felt a quiet joy in the return of her dear friend.
They came back to brigade headquarters and Emma proudly showed Jerome her office, which he duly admired. He offered to help her sort the mail.
“Ah—I know what you want,” she said, grinning. “You want to look for a sample of Miss Corey’s handwriting!”
Jerome stiffened. “No, indeed. I only wished to be of help.”
Emma felt badly for teasing him, though she had only meant it in fun. Recalling her former bitterness over Miss Corey, she realized that now she felt none of it. She wished him joy of her—and sincerely wished that Miss Corey might return his regard, since that would please him.
She emptied the mail onto her table and began to sort it, keeping her eyes on the letters. “Did she not write to you at Camp Parole?”
“A few times.”
He said no more and she did not press him. Instead she talked of the army’s disgust with their commander, and asked if he had heard any news in Aquia.
“Nothing concrete. I think Lincoln doesn’t know who to give the command to next.”
“He won’t give it to McClellan.”
“I fear not.”
“My fear is that he will find someone even worse than Burnside.”
“God forbid.”
They finished sorting the mail and packed it away ready for delivery in the morning. Emma looked at her watch and realized they had missed the dinner mess.
“Eight o’clock! You must be starving! Why did you not say something?”
Jerome smiled. “Is it that late? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Come on, we can scrounge a bite to eat from the kitchen. I know the cooks.”
“Frank always knows the cooks!”
Emma grinned. “Well, I bring them little things from town when I’m sent with dispatches. You’d be surprised what a cook will do for a couple of lemons! Come along!”
She led him from her office toward the brigade’s mess tent, pulling her overcoat tight against the cold. Jerome’s greatcoat looked new; he must have been issued a new kit upon his return.
The frozen mud crunched beneath their feet as they hurried toward the lighted mess tent. Emma pulled aside the door flap and nearly collided with Jamie, who was coming out.
“Oh!” she said, falling back.
“Well, come in, don’t stand in the cold!” Jamie said, grabbing hold of the flap. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Suddenly nervous, Emma stepped inside and gestured for Jerome to join her. Jamie looked at him, then turned an inquiring gaze to Emma, his brows drawing together in a frown.
Emma cleared her throat. “This is my friend, Jerome Robbins. He has just lately arrived from Camp Parole. Jerome, this is Lieutenant James Reid.”
Jamie’s gaze shifted to Jerome and narrowed. With trepidation Emma sensed his gathering anger, then he suddenly clicked into cool formality and extended a hand to Jerome.
“How do you do? I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Have you?” Jerome glanced uncertainly at Emma, then shook hands. “How do you do?”
Jamie gave him a perfunctory smile, dropped his hand, and turned to Emma. “The general wants you,” he said, eyelids drooping lazily.
“Oh. Right away?”
“I imagine so.”
Jamie’s tone was sardonic, which Emma knew implied a dangerous mood. She turned to Jerome.
“I’m sorry—”
“Not at all,” Jerome said hastily, taking a step backward toward the door. “I’m glad we had as much time together as we did. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Good night, Jerome. Be careful walking back.”
He nodded and waved farewell, then disappeared into the darkness. She took a step after him. Behind her, Jamie let the canvas fall, shutting away the warmth of the mess tent.
“How long has he been here?”
She looked back at Jamie, silhouetted against the lighted canvas. “Since yesterday, but I only met him late this afternoon.”
“What a joyful reunion that must have been.”
“Yes it was,” Emma said, biting back her annoyance at his tone. “He is a dear friend.”
She stared at the darkness that was Jamie, unable to make out his face. After a moment he brushed past her.
“Best get to Poe’s office. He’s waiting.”
With that he was gone, striding into the night. Emma pressed her lips together and hastened to do his bidding.
General Poe wished her to carry a message to division headquarters. By the time she returned, her stomach was growling with hunger, but the mess tent was dark. She looked after her horse and headed for her tent, thinking she would make do with some apples she had in her haversack.
Jamie was there, sitting before the open stove with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Whiskey, it smelled like. Emma wrinkled her nose, then quietly took off her greatcoat.
“So, the prodigal returns,” Jamie said, lifting his glass without looking at her.
Emma sat on her bed and began to unlace her boots. “Do you mean me, or Jerome?”
“Both.” He laughed, rather nastily, emptied the glass and refilled it.
&nb
sp; Emma quietly took off her boots, then reached for her haversack. She got out an apple and bit into it.
“Hungry, are we?”
She could hear the anger in his voice, behind the laziness. She swallowed, apple skin catching in her throat.
“I missed supper.”
“Yes, you did.”
“We were talking. Jerome helped me with the mail.”
“Very helpful indeed, your Jerome.”
“Jamie—”
He turned his head, spitting the words. “What else did he help you with?”
“Nothing. He’s a friend.”
“Oh, aye, that I know! You canna stop talking about him!”
His eyes flashed, and Emma glanced fearfully toward the neighboring tents, mere layers of canvas away. He understood, for he put down his bottle and glass and stood up, seizing her by the shoulders and hauling her to her feet.
“I was tired of him before ever I met him,” Jamie hissed in her ear.
“Please—”
“Was he your lover? Is he?”
“No! You know he isn’t!” she whispered angrily.
He stared at her, scowling, breathing whiskey fumes into her face. Emma realized she was trembling, which made her even more furious than Jamie’s behavior. At last he eased his grip on her shoulders.
“He knows, though.”
Emma swallowed. “Yes.”
He turned from her, knocking over his glass with a foot, spilling whiskey on the floor. He snatched up the glass and bottle, and for a moment Emma feared he would hurl them into the stove, but instead he set them on the shelf.
His hand was shaking, Emma saw. Rage, or fear, she wondered? Perhaps both.
“Jamie—”
“How does he know?”
His back was to her. She saw the tension in his shoulders, and longed to rub it away.
“I told him.”
A pause. “Why?”
Emma closed her eyes. “For a very foolish reason.”
She heard Jamie turn, and opened her eyes. He was staring at her, mutely demanding explanation. She went over to his chest and sat on it. After a moment he sank down beside her.
“I was jealous of a young lady he was writing to,” she said quietly.
Jamie let out a crack of hard laughter. “You thought to supplant her in his affections.”
“I suppose so. I said it was foolish. I never had any chance of that.”
He seemed mollified. Emma sensed the anger drain from him, though he still frowned as he gazed at her. She knew this frown; it was need, not wrath. She touched his hand, and just that quick he caught her to him, kissing her all over her face.
“I’ll not share you with him,” he said roughly.
Emma put her hands against his chest and gently pushed away until she could look up at him. “I must see him, though.”
He scowled. It was jealousy; she ought to be flattered.
“Jerome does not know about us,” she added, “and I don’t mean to tell him, but he will think it strange if I refuse to spend time with him. May I not see my friend?”
Jamie stared at her, his brows still knit. “If you swear that’s all it is.”
“I swear it, Jamie,” she whispered as his arms closed around her. “I swear.”
She did see Jerome, at least once every day, for he was always in camp when she came with the Second’s mail, and he always accompanied her in making her rounds. He seemed rather intimidated by Jamie and was astonished to learn he was her tentmate, but she coaxed him to visit her at home one evening when she knew Jamie would be there.
Initial stiffness between them gave way as conversation revealed their mutual interests, particularly in Washington’s policies and the future leadership of the Army of the Potomac. By the end of the evening she had the satisfaction of knowing that each of them had risen in the other’s esteem.
On Christmas Eve, Jamie wanted to host a celebration in their quarters. He invited a select group of his friends, some from the headquarters staff, several others officers in the 79th New York. Out of courtesy he insisted that Emma invite Jerome, but she was not surprised when the invitation was declined.
“Chaplain Brown is holding a midnight prayer service,” Jerome said quietly. “I thought you might like to attend with me.”
Emma hitched her near-empty mail satchel up on her shoulder as they walked to K Company’s street. “I would like to, but I doubt I can get away. I ought to stay and play host.”
“To a party of officers?” Jerome gazed at her in his uncompromising way. “They are not your friends, Frank.”
She shrugged. “Some of them are. Anyway, I should be there.”
“Well. In case I don’t see you, have a Merry Christmas.”
He held out his hand, and Emma clasped it warmly. “Merry Christmas, Jerome.”
She watched him walk away, back to his own camp. A drizzle of rain began, and Emma hastened to make her last delivery and hurry back to headquarters. She went to the kitchens, where preparations for the morrow’s Christmas dinner were already underway.
“Bennett,” she called to a cook, staying in the doorway to keep out of the way.
Bennett, a stout fellow whose face was perpetually flushed, hastened over to her, dusting flour from his hands. “Hallo, Frank.”
“Is my pudding ready?”
“Steaming on the stove, next to the coffee. You can take it whenever you like.”
“I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t you want to keep it hot?”
“Yes—may I not take the pot?”
Bennett frowned and glanced sidelong at his fellow cooks. None seemed interested in their conversation.
“All right, if you bring it back before morning. We’ll need every spoon for tomorrow.”
“Thank you! I’ll bring it back promptly, I promise!”
Bennett fetched her the pot, and Emma used the sleeves of her greatcoat to keep it from burning her hands as she carefully carried it to her tent. She deposited the pot atop the stove, which was just large enough to support it.
“What’s that?” Jamie asked.
“The surprise I promised you. Christmas pudding.”
She lifted the lid and looked in. A bundle of cloth swathed the pudding tin, which rested atop an empty tin can in a pool of hot water. The aroma of savory spices rose up with the steam, overlaying the sharp evergreen scent of the boughs with which Jamie had decorated the tent. Emma smiled. At least it smelled like Christmas.
Jamie peered into the pot over her shoulder. “Ha! You must have bribed the cooks a pretty penny.”
She closed the lid. “I made a good negotiation. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
He caught her by the elbows and pulled her toward him, grinning, but with guests soon to arrive they dared not indulge in such play. Emma gently pulled away and took off her greatcoat, while Jamie returned to straightening the wine glasses arrayed on the table, borrowed and scrounged for the occasion.
Beside them stood a dozen bottles of wine and champagne, a basket of fresh bread, a plate of sliced sausages and a round of cheese. The repast had cost Jamie a week’s pay.
Before long the guests started arriving. Emma welcomed the headquarters folk, and watched Jamie joyfully greet his friends of the 79th, who arrived all together carrying more bottles and singing a ribald song.
Emma was slightly acquainted with them from having delivered their mail, but the names went by too swiftly for her to retain them all, and there were too many “Mc”s to keep straight. They all spoke with a Scottish burr far more pronounced than Jamie’s. She guessed that it was a point of pride among the Highlanders.
Emma watched them make themselves at home on her bed and in the chairs she had gathered for the occasion. She sat on an upended cracker box in one corner and tried to have a conversation with two of the headquarters fellows, but as the wine and whiskey began to flow the noise in the tent made it almost impossible to hear
one’s own voice, let alone another’s.
Her instinct among such company was to stand back and observe. She fended off frequent offers of drink, and watched Jamie, glad that he was happy. He traded outrageous stories with his friends, and occasionally they broke into song, more and more often as the evening wore on.
When the cheese and the sausages had been eaten, Emma judged it time to serve the pudding. She had listened to Bennett’s instructions for unmolding it, and decided to take less care than that, since she made it a point never to demonstrate competence in cooking matters. Consequently, the pudding emerged somewhat lopsided and broken, but no one complained. One of the Scots broke into a song about Christmas pudding, and was joined by the others, who quickly fell to making up verses of their own, each a tribute to some officer of the brigade.
Emma collected the pan with its lid and the pudding tin, and quietly slipped out to carry them back to the kitchens. She did not see Bennett, though a couple of bakers were busy at long, flour-covered tables. She left the pan on another table and went back outside.
The night was clear and cold, the sky bristling with stars. Emma thought of that Christmas star that was a sign from heaven, and smiled. Disinclined to return to the tent, and quite certain she would not be missed, she turned her steps instead to the camp of the Second Michigan.
Chaplain Brown’s tent was as crowded as Emma and Jamie’s own, though far more quiet. Jerome saw Emma step in and smiled, offering with a gesture to make room for her on the chest on which he sat.
The chaplain smiled, too, though he did not pause in his reading. Emma sat down and breathed a small sigh of relief, finding this company far more congenial than that in her tent.
Inevitably, as she listened and prayed, she thought of her sins and regretted them. She was deceiving herself, living with Jamie. There could be no hope for a union between them. They were too different, he with his decadent pleasures and she with her hope of devotion.
She was weak, to remain with him. Weak and a sinner, yielding to temptations of the flesh. She should leave, but to leave would take greater courage than she could muster.
Jamie was powerful—he could ruin her. He need not even denounce her to do it; a word or two to General Poe and a few others, a mere hint of her implied incompetence or dishonesty, and he could completely destroy her position.