by Lyn Cote
Restless, Faith rose, unable to sit any longer. “I must walk.” She gripped Honoree’s shoulder and then hurried from the tent, her feet carrying her exactly where she should not go. Her need to see the colonel overcame her good sense. And as she thought she would, she found the colonel tending his own horse in the makeshift corral near the rear of the encampment.
She watched him from outside the fence rigged around the horses. Other cavalrymen were also grooming their horses. She knew she should leave. She was revealing much of what she felt just standing here gazing at his deft movements, listening to his quiet, one-sided conversation with his horse. She leaned the side of her head against a post, unable to pull herself away.
Then he saw her.
The sudden glad recognition in the change of his expression burned through her like rays from the Mississippi sun. “Miss Cathwell.”
“Colonel.”
“What do you need, miss?”
She had no answer for him. She needed to speak to him, to be with him. She must not allow this. But she had come anyway.
Then the evening barrage started up again and she couldn’t help herself. Tears welled in her eyes. She turned away and began to hurry somewhere, anywhere else.
Within seconds, the colonel caught up with her. He claimed her arm and halted her. He leaned close to her ear and declared, “I will walk with you if you please.”
Again she knew she should make her excuses and return to her tent and rest. But she could not. Something within her craved this man’s company and she could not refuse him. She nodded, not meeting his gaze.
He offered her his arm, and she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. He smelled of leather and horse, a pleasant aroma that reminded her of home. For a moment the scent drew her back to Sharpesburg as a young girl, helping her father groom their horses in the barn, standing close to him, happy in his loving presence. As she clung to the colonel’s strong arm, feeling him close, she was able to draw a full breath for the first time that day. And some of her fatigue melted away.
She wanted to broach going to the plantation named Annerdale to see if Shiloh or news of her could be found there. Yet she hesitated, not desiring to spoil this brief respite and the pleasure of their companionable silence.
Dev had no idea why Faith had sought him out, but he was absurdly glad she had. In spite of her presence, his army’s failure to keep the Rebs from hunkering down in Vicksburg twisted and moved inside him like the gears of a slow waterwheel. How long would it take for them to root the Confederates out?
He shoved all such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to merely revel in the presence of this woman who shouldn’t be here but who was. From the corner of his eye, he examined the soft contour of her cheek, unhappy to see evidence that she was becoming drawn. No doubt from fatigue. A few wisps of her pale hair had slid out of their pins and tantalized him. He almost felt the soft skin of her nape as he imagined brushing the hair back into place. He held himself in strict control, merely being grateful that she had sought him out.
They walked to his tent, where he brought out camp stools and set them at the entrance as before. While inside, he’d also dug out of his trunk a tin of individually wrapped hard candies and now offered it to her. She chose one and sat opposite him. He tried not to stare at her, though conversation was impossible under the booming cannons. They would all leave this war deafened.
Finally twilight fell and the artillery company halted for the night. The sudden silence hit him in waves. For a few minutes he could hear nothing. Then the evening sounds returned, insects humming, voices nearby, and finally the woman beside him saying his name.
He looked directly into her eyes. “Miss Cathwell?”
She sighed. “What a relief.”
He nodded. “You appear to be distressed.” Then he realized how ridiculous that observation was. They were all distressed.
She smiled at him ruefully. “I have a vexing situation. Someone is stealing supplies from the food stores for our patients.”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately that is a problem in every branch of any army.”
She looked away as if uncertain of what she wanted to say now. “And I’m still wanting to follow up on our information about Honoree’s sister. Is there any chance we might pursue this now while the army is at a standstill?”
He wished she hadn’t brought up this doomed venture. But he must deal with it. “In light of this siege, I will ask about taking leave to accompany you.”
“Thank thee.” She sighed. Then she voiced the question everyone wanted the answer to. “How long till we breach their defenses and put this dreadful siege to an end?”
“We won’t.” He wondered why he was telling her the truth. He should be comforting her, softening the dreadful truth for this lady. That’s what he’d been taught a gentleman did. But if he proceeded that way with this lady, she would view it as a lack of respect and would react with contempt. He drew up the truth. “The fact is the Rebs will surrender eventually.” He pressed his lips together, thinking about the conditions within the city. “Probably due to starvation. They can’t get supplies from land or the river. We have them boxed in.”
“Why don’t they just surrender now?”
“Pride. Perhaps hope that General Johnston will come to their rescue.”
“Will he?”
“I doubt it.” He inhaled the hot air. “Let’s talk of something else.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment before regarding him again. “Often I like to think of my garden.” Her tone was hesitant.
“Garden? Here?”
“Not here,” she said, teasing. “I have an extensive garden at home, and I like to think of the plants I will have after … after this war is over. I have even gathered seeds as we’ve moved south.”
“What kind of garden?” He grasped at this topic, so removed from the business of war. “What kind of seeds?”
The corners of her mouth lifted.
He longed to reach out and run his fingertips over the soft lips. Instead he merely savored the thought. And wondered why, after all his lonely years as a career soldier, this woman had penetrated his defenses.
“I’ve always been interested in herbs and their uses for healing.” She pulled a small cloth bag from her apron pocket and opened it, bringing out a few dried flowers. “This is verbena. A pretty flower and an herb that will help a wound heal with less risk of infection.”
He shifted his full attention to her, accepting the dried flower.
“I have over thirty healing herbs in my garden and have collected around ten more as we moved through Tennessee and south to Mississippi.” She looked to him. “What does thee collect?”
Her unexpected question delighted him. “Books.”
“Ah.” Her tone was approving and she smiled again. “What books interest thee?”
“I like the classics: Aristotle, Ovid, the Greek playwrights.”
“Does thee read in Latin?”
He nodded. “The dead language is so much more exact than ours.”
She chuckled. “I have an older brother who studied at Oberlin College in Ohio. He used to chant Latin declensions as he worked in the kitchen garden with me.”
“I was an only child. Do you have a large family?”
“Modest. There remain six of us siblings.”
“Remain?”
“Two older siblings died very young before I was born, but … I also had a sister, a twin sister. Patience.” She bowed her head. “We lost her when she was only nineteen. A fever.”
“I’m sorry.” True regret enriched his voice.
“She planned to study to be a midwife, and I was going to help her practice with my skill with healing herbs.” Her voice caught on the last word. “When she died, it was like half of me was torn away, and within weeks Shiloh was kidnapped. I think that’s why losing Shiloh hurt so deeply. It was like losing Patience all over again. We must find her.”
He ginge
rly patted her hand, then drew back.
She inhaled a deep breath and plainly erased sorrow from her expression. “How many books does thee own? And where are they now?”
Though touched by her bravery in pursuing their conversation, he chuckled. “I brought my ten favorites with me. The rest are at my mother’s home in Baltimore.”
“I’m glad to hear thee laugh. How many books in all?” she pressed him.
He chuckled again. “I’ve never counted, but one wall is covered with bookshelves and more are piled around the room. My mother shakes her head but doesn’t remonstrate with me.”
Faith shut her eyes as if picturing the room. “Is it a small room or large?”
“Average, I suppose.”
“How many windows?”
“Two tall ones. The ceiling of the room is high, and the other walls are wainscoted in oak. I’ve often thought that I would like to have another wall done in bookshelves, but I haven’t asked my mother.”
“Thee doesn’t have thy own home, then?” She glanced at him.
“No, I’ve spent most of my life moving here and there according to the army. My mother keeps my old room and the study for my use when I’m home.”
“Thee is a nomad?”
This time he laughed—a clean, hearty sound to his own ears. “I suppose so. A Bedouin perhaps?”
She smiled. “I don’t see thee in a turban and robe.”
“You are the most interesting woman.”
She shook her head. “I am merely myself.”
Yes, you are. Everything within him wanted to pull her to her feet and wrap his arms around her. He sat very still, willing this to pass. It was merely the situation they were in and her innate bravery that drew him to her. They were not suited for each other, and he would surely remain a bachelor for the rest of his days … however few they might be.
In the shelling lull around breakfast, Osterhaus acknowledged Dev’s salute. Dev had come to request leave to find out where Annerdale Plantation was and to go there to ask about Shiloh. Though he didn’t really want to pursue this lead, he would hate disappointing Miss Faith.
Osterhaus addressed him before he could make his request. “General Grant has decided you are the man for this job.”
What job? This didn’t sound promising. But it would provide him an excuse to put off asking about the plantation. In this dreadful time of war and disruption, he foresaw disappointment at Annerdale. Slaves were fleeing masters every day. And the girl might never have been there. Better Faith keep her bit of hope for success than have it shattered so soon. “Sir?”
“A number of the contraband have asked to enlist in the army to fight for the Union.”
Once again the Emancipation Proclamation, issued early this year, came to the forefront of discussion. It had altered the purpose of the war from merely keeping the Union together to freeing the South’s slaves. This would change everything for the South. Did his uncle Kane Carroll home in Maryland realize the potential impact of this shift? How could a plantation survive without free labor?
Then Dev recalled that he had relayed one of these contraband requests himself. Was that why he had been chosen? “Sir?”
“General Grant has authorized the forming of an African Brigade of around six hundred men. You will be the senior officer in charge of training them. We will let you choose your subordinates to help in this. The recruits will need to be outfitted in uniforms, trained in basic formation marching and military courtesy, and of course taught to shoot straight.”
Dev took a moment to digest this. Arming black men? Former slaves? Some part of him reared up in dissent, but he pushed it down. The Union Army needed every man in order to win and put an end to this war. “The general is sure that I am the man for this job?”
“He didn’t say why he chose you, but you’re the one he wanted to begin this training. He’s still deciding who will take permanent command of the brigade.”
Dev wondered what Grant’s reasoning had been, but it was not for him to ask. “Where are the enlistees?”
“They are assembled at the rear near the quartermaster’s tents.” Then, abruptly, the after-breakfast shelling started with a blast, and Osterhaus raised his voice. “You can begin today. We want them ready for duty within two weeks at the most.”
Dev silently reeled at this. Two weeks to train raw troops. Men who had come straight from slavery. What if they couldn’t do it? What if he couldn’t?
He was dismissed, so he saluted and left. He first went to his company and chose a few noncommissioned officers for assistants before heading to the quartermaster’s tents near the rear of the camp.
As he approached, a sea of black faces turned to him. Those who had been sitting on the ground rose. He paused to decide what to do.
The quartermaster approached him. Leaning close, the man said, “As you can see, I have given them uniforms but I hesitated to issue them firearms yet.”
Another disbelieving wave rolled over Dev. This endeavor hit him deeply as wrong. He imagined his uncle’s face, and it was aghast. Dev recalled the shock that had vibrated through the slaveholding South when John Brown had tried to steal weapons from the armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, to arm slaves for bloody revolt. Dev let the emotion work through him, trying to dissipate it, shake it off. I am not my uncle.
Yet he couldn’t so easily dismiss a lifetime of living with slavery. He knew that Armstrong would have made an admirable soldier. But thank God he’d never have to be one.
Now Dev had a job to do, this job. He saluted the quartermaster and turned to the recruits. “Men,” he bellowed against the shelling behind him, “I am going to assemble you and begin to teach you how to conduct yourself as soldiers.”
The recruits, almost as one, straightened and faced him squarely. He read the determination on each face. Because of the noise of the shelling, he and his sergeants moved to collect small groups of recruits to begin the work of teaching them how to salute and showing them marching order. After each man had been instructed, Dev and the sergeants led them farther to the rear, where they would have more room to move.
He ignored his reluctance as best he could. He was a soldier and these were his orders. And slavery would not survive this war. He admitted that but shut his mind to all the ramifications it would unleash.
The head cook of the hospital kitchen, a woman whom Faith had hired at the Jackson contraband camp, hurried inside the hospital tent and came straight to Faith late in the morning. “The thief at it again,” the cook, named Mary Lou, spoke into Faith’s ear. “We missin’ a pan of corn bread, a big sack of beans, and a tub of lard.”
Faith finished with her patient and led the cook outside into the heat of the sun. “This is distressing. The warning hasn’t worked, then?”
“No, I think it jes might-a warn’ our thief to be more careful,” Mary Lou said with an ironic twist.
“Well, he might have taken the corn bread for his own appetite, but the other items he must be selling.”
“Yes, and food so short round here, who know who he selling to.” Mary Lou let an irritated look say, Probably to Rebs.
Faith gazed around at the camp. Nearby, in spite of the constant shelling, an infantry sergeant was holding a marching session for new recruits who’d just arrived from the North. The summer heat was wilting Faith’s starched collar and cuffs. She wanted to go to Annerdale now. But the war held them captive here. So though she didn’t want to deal with this issue, she must because food was scarce.
Till the Union controlled the whole length of the Mississippi, supplies would have a hard time reaching anyone—Union as well as Confederate. Rations had been reduced once already. Fresh irritation gripped her. Some soldier was profiting from selling much-needed supplies, if not to enemy troops, then perhaps to the locals surrounding them. She pitied the people who’d suffered hunger already and would continue to suffer, but the Union Army could barely feed themselves, much less the enemy. And the hospital mess was tas
ked with feeding the sick and wounded. She wanted to shake the thief, whoever he was.
“What we gon’ do?” the cook prompted.
“Set a trap.” Faith sent a determined look to the cook.
Both of Mary Lou’s eyebrows rose. “What you proposin’?”
Faith pondered this. “I will think of something. And soon.” She turned to go back to her patients. “Leave it to me.”
The cook nodded and headed toward the large open kitchen nearby. “I will!”
Faith entered the hospital and ran straight into Dr. Dyson’s path.
He stared at her, then brushed past her disrespectfully. “So you’ve finally found a man, a colonel to boot,” he muttered. A sudden lapse in the artillery din made his comment audible not only to her but to a few of the patients nearby.
Faith stiffened but did not deign to reply. She moved forward. As a woman in a field dominated by men, she was an easy target. And plainly Dr. Dyson was one of those sour individuals who were never happy unless someone else was unhappy. She moved Dyson out of her mind and tried to come up with a plan to catch a thief.
At the end of the long, hot day, Dev sat on his cot in his tent, clutching a cup of cold coffee during the supper cease-fire. Armstrong had gone off somewhere. The day of training the African Brigade had been demanding. He hadn’t trained a large group of recruits for a long time, not since ’61, and with the artillery barrage going full blast, he’d been forced to come up with hand signals instead of shouted orders—which made everything more exhausting.
He sorted through his thoughts, bringing them under his authority. The recruits had been eager to learn and intense in their desire to become soldiers. Part of him had reveled in that and another had despaired. They had run away from their masters and now would very likely die in battle. Which was better—life and slavery or freedom and death? Patrick Henry had declared, “Give me liberty, or give me death.” And the new black soldiers appeared to agree.
His barrage-dulled ears identified Armstrong’s voice just outside the tent. Dev nearly spoke his name, but he also heard Faith’s friend’s voice. His man was not alone.