And then, even a few discussions about scripture and other things spiritual broke out. In spite of her determination not to notice what he said, Pearl could not help but be impressed at the depth of Josh’s faith and understanding of scripture.
After a few days, the rain slackened to a drizzle. While the men were having a quiet moment with Josh reading and discussing the Bible text with Pa, and Pearl was contemplating the work of hauling in water and subjecting the men to a round of baths, Clem burst inside, panting. He glanced about then made his way around the edge of the room to Pearl, where he leaned in and whispered, “Just heard word—Rosecrans has been removed from being in charge of the Federals, and Grant is now in his place.”
This was news she could not ignore, though she’d been trying in that area as well. “So that means—”
“The Federals will likely be on the move again soon.” Clem’s gaze darted about the room. “I don’t want to noise it about, but—Josh made me promise to share anything I heard.”
“Josh made you promise …”
Clem’s eyes were wide and earnest. “He’s not a bad man, Pearl. Not like—those others. I—trust him.”
Pearl was inclined to trust him as well, which was terrifying all by itself. But she wouldn’t admit that to Clem.
“And can you blame him?” He scrubbed his fingertips through his shaggy hair. “For wanting to know?”
“As long as it’s that, and not that he’s using us to spy for the Federals.”
Clem’s gaze dropped, and his cheek flushed. “I don’t think it’s that, Pearl. I really don’t.”
“I hope not,” she muttered.
“Besides. Travis and Portius hardly tell me anything, where all that’s concerned. I overhear them talking a bit, but it’s nothing useful.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Well then. Tell Josh if you must, but don’t you dare let it slip to the others. We’d have a riot, for sure.”
Clem whisked away again, and Pearl took the moment to slip out the back door, despite the pattering rain, and just breathe in the cold, fresh air.
As bad as things had been, they were about to get worse.
Much worse.
Josh digested the news with mingled excitement and anxiety. First on his mind, though it should have taken second to reconnecting with his regiment, was how to protect Pearl and her family. Obviously, there was little he could do at the moment besides keep his head down and pray Bledsoe didn’t decide to pack him off to Richmond.
Of course, they could always attempt escape. Any sane man would do that rather than wait around here, especially since they weren’t really guarded. Or he could request official parole, but Bledsoe had been scarce of late.
Anything would be better than lying here awake in the darkness, aching fiercely where a hand should be but was not, and wishing for the company of a young woman whom he missed but should not.
His thoughts strayed back to the scripture reading Mr. MacFarlane had prevailed upon him to perform. The man had an uncanny knack for choosing passages that not only brought holy conviction but comfort as well.
“My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips: when I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches.”
Apparently the psalmist suffered from the same problem Josh did.
He needed a strategy. Word would reach the other men, and not all of them could be counted upon to protect the MacFarlanes. And Josh couldn’t protect Pearl on his own.
There was only one other he trusted to have her best interests at heart. Portius.
The next day being unusually warm for so late in fall, Josh found the black man out very early, chopping wood. Taking up the hatchet that had served him well enough before, Josh joined him. Portius leveled him a searching look. “Can you handle that yet?”
“We’ll see.”
Setting up a chunk to split, Josh gave it a swing. Ribs squalled in protest. He set the hatchet down, breathing hard and trying not to cry.
Portius chuckled, long and low. “Ten days ain’t long enough for cracked ribs to knit properly. But I give you credit for trying.”
“Thank you. I think.” Josh eased himself to sit on another chunk of log. “I actually came out here to discuss something of importance with you.”
Portius eyed him again, took up the ax, and gave it a swing. His piece split with the single blow.
“I’m concerned for the MacFarlanes if the Union breaks through the siege.”
Portius stopped, slowly let the ax sink to the earth, and leaned on the handle. His gaze went severe. “Just how much do you know?”
Josh held his gaze. “Only what Clem has told me.”
“You have the boy sneakin’ around for you?”
“No. Most emphatically no.” Josh relented a little. “Although the thought had crossed my mind, I’ll admit.”
“Good.” He hefted the ax again. “ ’Cause I’ve had a dozen others thinkin’ they could do so, or turn me to spyin’ for them.”
“That thought crossed my mind as well,” Josh deadpanned.
Portius peered at him, and then he shook his head with a laugh and set up another piece to split. “If your ribs were in better shape”—he huffed, then swung the ax—“I’d have you help me saw that log in pieces.”
“What, Clem isn’t strapping enough for that?”
Portius just grinned.
He worked a bit longer then stopped and considered Josh again. “Listen up. If you truly want to help the MacFarlanes—”
“I do,” Josh said, quietly but vehemently into the Negro’s hesitation.
The dark eyes regarded him in silence for yet another handful of moments.
It was hard enough in such circumstances for any of them to trust each other when it came to mere life and breath. Harder still when it was the lives of others, or when oaths of loyalty snarled all else.
“My life is completely in your hands,” Josh said. “Has been for weeks. I simply want this family’s care of us to not go unrewarded, by either side.”
“All righty then,” Portius rumbled. “Here’s what we need from you.”
A little later, Josh found himself being buttonholed by Pearl. Almost without preamble, she pinned him with a mere look. “I need to know, Joshua Wheeler, are you a spy?”
He fought the urge to groan. “I just had this conversation with Portius.” But her steady gaze compelled as no words could. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms. “I am not. At least, not yet.”
Her cheeks flushed, lips parting and eyes sparking wide. It was rather all he could do not to drag her into his arms and—
A now-familiar ache in one of those arms reminded him of why he must not give in to that impulse.
Lord, You made her as fair as the day is long. It’s a sore trial to be confined here with her and only be able to look.
But mere looks it must be.
“Have you become a Confederate sympathizer, Mister Wheeler?”
Where one particular Confederate was concerned? Absolutely.
He held her gaze, not replying, and at last she flushed scarlet and tucked her head. “Please. If you have any regard for us at all, I ask that you at least not help deliver us into the hands of the Federal army.”
“That is precisely what I seek to avoid, Pearl,” he said, very low. “And you know I have only the highest regard for you. Or your family.”
Did he imagine it, or did she sway toward him the tiniest bit?
“I know Clem has been bringing you news,” she whispered.
“He has,” Josh agreed. “But I would not betray you. In fact”—he leaned closer—“Portius has asked me to begin advising all of you in a somewhat official capacity, as he and Clem gather intelligence. Only as pertains to your family’s defense, of course.” He smiled a little. “I’d not relish being hung or shot by my own government as a spy. But neither will I stand by and leave you without protection, if I can help it.
”
Her eyes widened. After the longest moment, she nodded, turned on her heel, and strode away. There was no other word for the pace she set, regardless of how short the space she crossed or the skirts she wore.
And so began the quiet meetings, after all had gone to bed, or early in the mornings, between them—Portius, Clem, Pearl, Josh, and Lydia—discussing whatever news anyone could glean each day. They did their best to be discreet, and Josh felt conflicted at best, keeping such things from his fellow soldiers.
But he’d meant every word of his vow that he’d not leave the MacFarlanes without defense, whether that be forewarning of either Federal or Confederate troop movements or knowledge of how to use the small arsenal Clem had collected. And as October slid into November, the weather continuing rainy but turning colder, it became apparent that the Federals had grown more restless and Grant would not wait around as Old Rosey had.
The household was at last bedded down for the night, with Pa tucked in his own bed and nine Yankee convalescents scattered about the sitting room, the worst in beds and those nearer to getting well on the floor. All those remaining from Travis’s cullings, with the exception of Josh, who was as usual up until the last moment helping Pearl and Lydia get everything settled before they’d all quietly and separately slip out—sometimes to the woodpile but more often to the barn, depending on how heavily the rain was falling.
On this particular night, Pearl went first, taking her gathering basket on the pretext—not entirely false—of fetching supplies for tomorrow’s breakfast from the cellar. She wrapped not just her shawl about her against the deepening cold but also Pa’s overcoat and hurried out into the downpour.
On a night such as this one, tempting it was to just linger on the porch, but they dared not gather where the others might overhear. As strenuously as Josh had assured her that he had only her family’s welfare in mind, she was as determined not to jeopardize him with his fellow Federals.
A fool’s sentiment, that, she was sure. Because she could no longer deny that he’d become tangled up among her other concerns.
Gracious Lord, please …
The prayer died on her lips as she gained the barn door, already ajar. Inside, a lamp revealed Portius and Clem seated, one on a short stool and the other on a half-broken packing box. Portius looked up as she entered and swung the door shut after herself. “I hate to break this piece of news to you,” he said, “but the cellar is flooding.”
She froze. “How badly?”
“An inch or two. Clem and I moved the barrels and crates up to the tack room. I think whatever’s on the shelves will be safe enough for now, but we can look again in the morning.”
One more thing to be concerned over. Pearl gritted her teeth then sighed. Nothing for it, this moment. “Wasn’t much left in those barrels, anyway,” she muttered, snagging another stool.
The door swung open behind her, and Josh slipped inside. Their gazes met, and he nodded without comment and moved past her. Their party would be complete once Lydia, their designated watch, arrived from tucking in Jem and Sally.
Which she did, in just a few minutes. It perhaps seemed longer because Josh dragged his own chosen seat a little closer to her than she found comfortable. Not that she wouldn’t have remained acutely aware of him had he remained standing outside in the rain.
Or in the house.
“So,” Clem began, once Lydia was stationed at a window, unshuttered in the dark for ease of listening outside, “what we heard about Wauhatchie is true. Yanks tried a pontoon bridge across the river on the morning of the twenty-seventh, and then on the night of the twenty-ninth, Yanks skirmished over on Lookout Creek with our boys. All night long. And ain’t nobody happy about how it turned out. Bragg’s gone and sent Longstreet up to Knoxville or some such. I heard it over at the railroad, as they’re trying to move troops up that way. It was President Davis’s own suggestion, so they say.”
Quiet descended. Across from Pearl, Portius chewed the inside of his cheek, looking thoughtfully at Josh, who leaned toward Clem, his dark eyes intent as always. “So Confederates and Federals continue to grapple for control of the Tennessee River crossings.”
Clem bobbed a nod. “Neighbors all agree that everyone feels stretched just ’bout beyond bearing, waiting to see what’s gonna happen. Like before Chickamauga, but maybe worse.”
“Bragg withdrew from Chattanooga at least ten days before Chickamauga,” Josh mused.
Pearl knew better than to think the almost distracted quality of his voice meant he took no interest in what was happening. Her only worry was, what part would he choose to play in the events to come?
“How many does Longstreet have on the move?” Josh asked.
“Oh, ’bout fifteen to twenty thousand, depending upon who I talked to,” Clem answered.
“So if the Federals break out of Chattanooga,” Josh said, “or more like when the Federals break out, with Bragg shorting himself on troops—”
“You so sure about that?” Portius challenged softly.
Josh’s gaze flashed toward him. “Grant isn’t going to sit around long, I can about guarantee that. And my only concern here is not, as you and I have discussed before, my taking intelligence back to the Union lines, but simply making sure y’all are prepared once things change.”
He said the word with a slight Northern edge that made Pearl want to giggle, despite the seriousness of the conversation. She fixed a stern frown on her face in an attempt to make sure such unseemly amusement did not escape.
“To that end,” Josh went on, more quietly, “a Federal break in the siege should be treated as a probability and not merely a possibility.”
Well, that was enough to strike the laughter from her heart.
They’d all seen for themselves the awful aftermath of battle. Heard the reports of homes burned southward into Georgia, beyond Rossville, and that was even with the Confederates pushing the Yankees back into Chattanooga. How much more terrible would it be were the Federals to break out and push the Confederate forces back?
Pearl resettled herself on the stool, rubbing the back of her neck against a growing headache. Did she not have enough to worry about day by day, with the usual washing and cooking and whatnot? She could just hear Pa’s voice admonishing her, “Pray without ceasing.” She was doing so—very nearly without ceasing, anyway—but the more she prayed, the less it felt that God was listening, much less answering.
Possibly a blasphemous thought, that, but—
“Miss Pearl? Have you anything to add?”
She startled and shook her head. She never had anything to add.
Clem and Portius rose, with Clem drifting over to say something to Josh about carbines and the proper caliber of ammunition. Pearl felt Josh’s gaze upon her but turned away. She should go look at the contents of the cellar—or perhaps that could wait until tomorrow.
After setting aside her stool, she hied herself back to the house. As she hung up Pa’s overcoat, one of the children was crying upstairs. A couple of the men lifted their heads. One, an artilleryman from Indiana named Tattersall, pushed up on an elbow as she passed. “There’s an awful lot of you going out to the necessary at the same time, these last few days.”
Pearl cast him but a glance and hurried up the steps.
That was all they needed—for the rest of the men to become suspicious.
The next morning, she found a moment to pull Portius off to the side and warn him that they needed to be more discreet about their meetings. “Perhaps leave me out of them, since I’m not contributing anything.”
“It’s important that you be there,” Portius said soothingly.
“Well I wonder.”
“Miss Pearl.”
She set her jaw and did not reply but turned away, intending to go on to her next task.
“If you must know”—the Negro’s deep, calm voice pulled her back—“it was Mister Wheeler who insisted you be included. Because, he said, he didn’t want you to think we wa
s doing anything nefarious behind your back.”
She hazarded a glance toward him and found the dark eyes twinkling, a slight smile playing about his full mouth.
“Do you trust him?” she found herself asking.
He pulled in a deep breath. “I do. He’s a Yankee, through and through, but—a good man, all things considered.”
Why she found that comforting, she was not sure. The backs of her eyelids burned. “Thank you,” she murmured at last.
“We just need to get up a little earlier, or something. Wait a little longer at night.”
“Perhaps.”
But as the days went on, it was increasingly difficult to find those moments when they weren’t all being watched.
Everyone seemed possessed of an unstated dread. As Pearl’s own desperation rose, Pa continued to fade and became more fractious. The wounded Yankees grew stronger each day and many of them more troublesome, especially Mr. Tattersall. She found it laughably easy to obey Travis’s injunction that she go nowhere alone.
Even the mild Mr. Thorsson, left behind because of the lingering uncertainty of his leg wound, grew pensive and withdrawn, proving that the long weeks of waiting wore on even the most cheerful.
Portius organized the men into a motley workforce, setting several to such odd work as mending things around the house and barn, and the most able-bodied to digging in the mud of her garden for the last of the vegetables, thus sparing her that much.
On that particular morning, Clem dragged her out to the barn and into the tack room. Assorted firearms stood stacked against a wall, and bowls of bullets and musket balls, with a collection of powder horns and the revolvers she remembered using on Josh’s attackers, lay on a makeshift table. Josh himself was seated on a stool, also leaning against a wall. “What is this?” she demanded.
Clem peered at her through his dangling forelock. “Josh wants to make sure we all know how to load the guns. Just in case.”
While she stood staring at the array before her, Josh pushed stiffly upright, but with a little more ease than a week ago, and moved the stool to the other side of the table, indicating she should take it.
The Rebel Bride Page 17