by P. G. Nagle
Perhaps it would not be so bad, to return to being a private soldier. Even as the thought occurred, she knew she would hate it. The freedom of being postmaster gave her many advantages, not the least of which was the avoidance of living in close quarters with men who might discover her.
Halsted and the others would welcome her back, of course, and she knew she would be safe with them. The thought gave her no comfort, though.
Perhaps the deception she practiced was an even greater sin than her affair with Jamie. The deception, after all, had led to the rest. Yet she had entered into it with pure intentions, had enlisted with pure intentions. Where had she gone astray?
The meeting ended with singing. Emma joined in softly; her singing voice did not bear scrutiny, but she wanted to participate in the hymn. Feeling somewhat less burdened by guilt, she resolved to try, at least, to find a resolution to her situation.
The hymn ended, the meeting broke up. Emma waited her turn to shake hands with the chaplain.
“Thank you for coming, Frank. It’s good to see you here.”
“Thank you, sir. I have missed these meetings. I will come again soon.”
She left with Jerome, talking in soft voices as they walked slowly through the streets of camp to his tent. Jerome’s mood was pensive, and she had her own problems to ponder, problems that she could not share with him.
She still loved Jerome with all her heart, but she saw him a little differently now. There were moments when she could imagine seducing him, but these were only idle thoughts. She would not add that to her catalogue of sins.
“I am glad you came to the meeting,” he said, stopping outside of his tent. “How did you get away?”
“Oh, I wasn’t missed. It was quite a noisy affair. Is, I should say—I am sure it is still going on.”
Jerome glanced at his tent as if wishing he could invite her in. He had tentmates, though, and the hour was late. Emma smiled and offered her hand.
“Well, good night, then. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Frank.”
He shook her hand and held onto it, gazing at her with what she thought was earnest concern. Emma felt a small flutter in her heart. She knew it was folly, but she could not help her feelings.
“I hope we can talk again soon,” Jerome said.
Emma nodded. “Yes, I would like that. Perhaps you can come with me on my rounds.”
“But I already do that!”
Emma grinned. “I mean all of my rounds. You’ll need a horse.”
She bade him farewell and walked back up to headquarters. It was deepest night, now—late enough that there was no singing or revelry, early enough that only the bakers were awake. The camp was quiet, even her own tent as she approached it issued no sounds except snoring.
She went in quietly and discovered the source of the snoring—a large Highlander, stretched out on her bed. Another was asleep in a chair with his head on the table amid a clutter of bottles and glasses. Jamie lay face down on his cot with one arm draping down to the floor. His head was turned sideways and his face, in the quiet of sleep, looked like a young boy’s.
Emma opened the stove, stirred the embers into life, and added wood. She sat for a while, thinking over the evening, then said a silent prayer, curled up in her greatcoat before the fire, and went to sleep.
Jamie was slow to rise the next morning. Emma brought him coffee, which he sipped sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed. The Highlander was still snoring on her bed. She left Jamie to recuperate at his own pace from an evening which he assured her was most enjoyable, and rode up to army headquarters to see if there was mail.
She was not obligated to work on Christmas, but she knew that a letter or a package from loved ones would be especially welcome today, and it gave her pleasure to be the source of such cheer. The day was brisk and with little traffic to hinder her, she retrieved the mail, sorted it, and had all delivered before the headquarters mess was summoned to Christmas dinner.
Returning to their tent, she found Jamie putting the wine glasses into the basket that had held the bread. The Highlander was gone, and though the tent was rather a shambles, at least it was their own again.
“You have a letter,” Emma said, holding it out to him.
It was a New York, feminine hand letter. Jamie took it, glanced at it, and set it on the shelf, then pulled Emma into his arms.
“You left last night,” he said, kissing her ear. “Where did you go?”
“To a prayer meeting.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. You can ask Chaplain Brown of the Second if you do not believe me.”
He leaned back and gazed at her, frowning slightly. “Of course I believe you.”
“I am a Christian,” she said.
“We’re all Christians.”
He kissed her, lighting desire within her, and also trouble in her heart. She tried to pull away.
“Jamie—”
He pulled her back sharply, kissing her face, her throat. “You go to a prayer meeting and now you don’t want me, is that it?” he whispered hoarsely.
She closed her eyes, dizzy with wanting him. “Jamie, please. They’ll be calling us to dinner.”
He let her go abruptly and turned away, returning to the wine glasses. Bereft, Emma stood watching him for a moment, then bent to pick up a glass that was on the floor by the stove. Jamie took it from her with a smile that was brief, but lifted her heart. He cared for her; he was not angry. It was enough.
Soon the summons to dinner was heard, and they walked to the headquarters mess together. The mess tent was bedecked with evergreens, and the labors of the cooks were duly appreciated by all. Turkey and chicken, both rare treats for the army, were served in abundance, along with potatoes, carrots, and applesauce. General Poe had provided wine for the celebration, and many a toast was drunk.
It was well into evening by the time Emma and Jamie returned to their tent. Jamie’s spirits were cheerful, to her relief.
“The officers of the 79th are hosting a party this evening,” he told her. “Shall we go?”
Emma hesitated. “You go, Jamie.”
“Won’t you come with me?”
“Will it be like last night?” She gestured to the mess still remaining in the tent.
He grinned. “Probably.”
“Then I’d rather not. I’m sorry, Jamie. It isn’t fun for me.”
“Why? You have a wonderful sense of fun!” He caught her by the waist, spun them both around, and kissed her.
“It’s just—a little too wild for me, is all.”
“You’d rather stay home and pray?”
“Jamie—”
“I’m sorry. All right, you needn’t go.”
He pulled her close, holding her tenderly, kissing her with slow softness, rousing her feelings as he knew so well how to do. Emma closed her eyes, giving in. She would always give in to him, she knew.
“Are you planning to see Jerome instead?” he breathed into her ear.
“I might. Does that bother you?”
“In a word, yes.”
His grip tightened, his kisses deepened. He caught her up and carried her to his cot, pushing aside the tangled blankets. He claimed her there, playing her desires as a master musician played his tune, making her forget everything but his touch.
Some time later, Jamie got up and pulled on his clothes. Emma lay watching him move about the tent in near-darkness. He had a silent grace that she always admired.
He was preparing to leave, she realized. Going to his party with the 79th. She felt sad, as if some failing of her own had caused this, though she knew that was untrue.
Jamie came to the bed and sat beside her. “I have something for you.”
He folded her hands around a small, heavy package wrapped in paper and string. Emma sat up, untying the string while Jamie kissed her shoulders and got in her way. Laughing, she pulled away the paper from a book. She could not see it well, but she knew by touch that it w
as a book of quality, the binding of leather with raised gilt lettering, the pages cut square and gilt-edged.
“It’s beautiful.”
Jamie chuckled. “You can’t even see it.”
“It’s still beautiful. What is it?”
“Robert Burns. I know you enjoy poetry.”
“I do indeed. Thank you!”
He kissed her. “Merry Christmas.”
She threw her arms around him and returned the kiss, then scrambled up. “I have a gift for you, too.”
She knelt beside her bed, moved aside an empty bottle, and pulled out her old cracker-box desk, which now served as her storage chest. Beneath her writing paper and a stack of magazines was a small jar wrapped in cloth. She brought it out and gave it to Jamie.
“I won’t try to guess,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. “What is it?”
“Brandied cherries.”
“Mmm.” He kissed her. “Will you share them with me?”
She laughed softly. “I might have one.”
“I’ll make you want more.”
He pulled her close and kissed her thoroughly, then let go and stood up. He put the jar on the shelf.
“We’ll save them for later.”
Emma watched him put on his greatcoat and pick up a bottle of wine. He must have obtained it during the day, for last night every bottle in the tent had been consumed. Her spirits sank a little.
“Sure you don’t want to come along?” Jamie asked.
“I’m sure. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, I will.”
He went out, leaving her alone in the cold and dark. Shivering, she got into her clothes and hastened to build up the fire. She lit candles as well, excusing the extravagance because it was Christmas.
With the tent warm and lit, she felt better. She did not wish to go out, though. Instead she tidied as much of the mess as she could, then sat down to enjoy her new book.
Jamie wouldn’t get up at all the next morning. She knew he had come in very late, for his shuffling step had awakened her, but they hadn’t spoken. She breakfasted alone in the mess tent and brought him back a cup of coffee, but he only groaned and turned his head away.
“I’m sick.”
Emma felt his brow. It was a little warm, but she suspected the cause was not illness, exactly.
“Stay and get well, then. May I borrow your horse?”
“Hnh?”
“Jerome has offered to ride with me on my rounds.”
“Unh.”
Taking this for assent, she left him to enjoy the fruits of his excesses, and led his horse down to the Second’s camp. Jerome greeted her with pleasure and accepted her invitation to ride to army headquarters. He stood back before mounting, admiring the bay.
“That is a splendid animal!”
“It’s Lieutenant Reid’s.”
“Won’t he want it today?”
Emma shook her head. “He’s ill.”
“I am sorry for him. Are you sure you would rather not take care of him?”
“I would, but the mail must be delivered,” she said. “I’m not a nurse, now. He’ll be all right.”
They rode up to headquarters, chatting companionably. She was always comfortable with Jerome, she reflected, a thing she could not say about Jamie. Jerome confided that he was thinking more seriously of studying medicine, which she approved. His friend Dr. Clelland had offered to help him, and Dr. Bonine, now the brigade surgeon, had also given his support.
Returning to Emma’s office, they sat across from one another at her work table and set themselves to sorting a mail that was rather heavy with belated Christmas greetings. She found such a letter addressed to herself, in Miss Daphne’s hand, and tucked it into her pocket. A short time later she encountered another familiar hand.
“Jerome.”
He glanced up from the stack he was sorting. “Yes?”
Emma smiled as she handed him the letter. His face lit as he recognized Miss Corey’s writing. His hand moved to open it, then hesitated.
Emma stood up. “It’s chilly. Why don’t I go fetch us some coffee?”
His cheeks colored slightly as he smiled. “Thank you. That would be excellent.”
She smiled back, and left him to enjoy his letter in private. On her way to the mess tent she stopped to look in on Jamie. He was still in bed, and she slipped away without disturbing him.
She idled in the mess tent, chatting with Bennett until she deemed she’d given Jerome had enough time to read his letter twice through. Returning with two steaming cups of coffee, she found him standing outside the office.
“Getting a breath of air?”
He nodded. “Admiring the sky.”
Emma glanced at the gray overcast. Only a man in love could find anything to admire in it, she decided. She handed him a cup of coffee and went inside, and he followed.
“I trust Miss Corey is well?” she said, smiling as they sat down at the table.
“Yes, quite well.”
“I am glad for you.”
He glanced at her, looking doubtful. Emma laid her hand over his.
“I mean that most sincerely,” she said.
Jerome looked at her hand. She withdrew it, wrapping it around her tin cup instead.
“If I had met you some years ago I might have been much happier now,” she said, and a little thrill of fear went through her. She had not been so open with him on this subject in many months—since their disagreement in fact.
“But Providence has ordered it otherwise,” she added, seeing the trouble in his face. “Jerome, I would not change now if I could. I do not love you less because you love another, but rather more, for your nobleness of character, displayed in your love for her. May God make her worthy of so good a husband.”
Jerome glanced up sharply. “I have not asked her to be my wife.”
Emma sipped her coffee. “Well, why don’t you?”
His eyes lit with exultation. “Do you think I should?”
“Oh, Jerome!” She laughed, set down her cup, and reached for a stack of mail. “If you do not, the angels will weep in heaven.”
He was silent for a few minutes. Emma sorted mail, pleased that she had at last been able to tell him, without awkwardness, that she approved of his courtship. She sensed his gaze on her and looked up.
“You have changed,” he said, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“For the better, I hope.”
Jerome only smiled—a bemused smile, one that sent a small chill across her shoulders—and picked up a handful of mail.
Lebanon, Kentucky, 1863
The New Year brought changes at last. Burnside, after one disastrous wallow in the mud, was at last removed and command of the army given to Joseph Hooker. Poe’s brigade returned to the Peninsula, then was abruptly transferred to the Army of the Cumberland and sent to Kentucky. General Grant had his eye on Vicksburg, and the President had given his support to the cause.
Emma’s life continued much as it had been, though a persistent cough troubled her. The climate was sultry, and the taste of metal on her tongue informed her that malaria hovered, seeking weakness in her by which it might strike again. She asked her friends on the hospital staff for some quinine, and took care to get plenty of rest.
She walked a strange path, trying to balance between her faith and her actions. She and Jamie had their differences, more often than not over Jerome despite her protests that their friendship was innocent. The differences were always made up, though, and she could not tear herself away from Jamie.
He received more and more letters in his wife’s spidery hand. He read them and put them away, never commenting. He answered at least some of them, Emma knew, though he never gave his outgoing mail into her hands. She glimpsed his letters occasionally as she picked up the headquarters mail bag.
One afternoon late in March, not long after the brigade’s arrival in Kentucky, she came into their tent after making their rounds, and found Jamie sitt
ing on his cot with a letter dangling from his hands. It was from his wife; she had left it on his bed before delivering the rest of the mail. His frown told her it could not be good news.
She swallowed as she took off her greatcoat, fearing the import of Jamie’s silence. He had not moved. She sat down on her own bed and waited.
At last he rubbed a hand over his face. “My father-in-law has died.”
Remembering the elegant gentleman at Willard’s, Emma knew a pang of sadness. “I am sorry.”
“I think I shall have to go to New York.”
Shock kept her silent. Apparently she had deceived herself, despite knowing better, into believing that their idyll might last forever.
He set the letter aside and put his head in his hands. Emma didn’t know whether she should try to comfort him.
“I’ll ask for a furlough,” he said.
“The General isn’t granting furloughs, I thought.”
“Only in extreme cases of need, and this is one. My wife is ill.”
She knew this; Mary had been ill forever it seemed. Feeling an uncharitable anger toward her, Emma stood up and went to the stove. She could not raise a spark from the ashes it held, so she busied herself kindling a new fire, coughing a little as she inhaled the disturbed ash. Jamie watched her in silence.
She wanted to ask when he meant to go, when he would be back, but she was afraid. She was also angry, an unjustifiable anger, a hard knot in her chest. She knew she could not safely discuss his intentions, so she kept silent.
Jamie said nothing more on the subject. That night, he held her tightly, touched her passionately, kissed every inch of her, all in silence. Emma returned his kisses, choking back tears.
The next day another letter came from New York. Emma wanted to throw it in the fire, but instead she brought it back to the tent, and since Jamie was there she handed it to him. Unable to bear what it might contain, she left, riding her rounds with a heavy heart. She went to the general’s office on her return, to see if he had any errands for her.