If Miss Carrie Ann Bell looked fetching before, pretty whenever she smiled, and delightful when she laughed, then she was positively enchanting now. Aunt Ruth would love her. Peyton was sure of it.
They strolled at a comfortable pace along the worn dirt path lined with tented shelters and sutler wagons. Men’s talking, laughing, and singing filled the air, accompanied by several fiddlers playing a variety of different melodies.
“I’m astounded by the way soldiers can put aside all the hatred and fighting of the day and enjoy a night of leisure.”
“Some men can put it behind them and some can’t.” And a woman shouldn’t have to consider the option, which was more the reason he felt compelled to get Miss Bell out of camp tonight. According to LaFont’s daily report, she could boss commanders until they submitted to prescribed treatments, but she became too involved with the badly injured—men for whom LaFont deemed there was no medical hope. Miss Bell couldn’t save the dying—that was Christ’s job; and when she failed to accomplish the impossible, she blamed herself. Her heart was in the right place, her emotions were not, and LaFont’s concern was that she’d wear herself out and take ill.
Peyton continued to guide Miss Bell along the campfire-lit path. As they neared a pair of enlisted men playing cards, one quickly stood. Shoulders back, he saluted Peyton, who returned the gesture.
“Good evening, Colonel Collier.” The second man clambered to his feet. Then both soldiers moved forward to speak to him.
Peyton halted.
The first fellow came toward him with his right hand extended. Peyton gave it a friendly shake as recognition set in. “Dempsey, right?”
“That’s right, sir. Corporal Eugene Farnsworth Dempsey. I fought alongside you that first day at Gettysburg. Felt real bad after you got wounded, but I’m glad you’re alive and well now.”
“Many thanks, Dempsey.”
He turned to the other, older man who wore thick spectacles. “Private Derrick Lemke, sir,” he said, introducing himself.
“We’re cousins,” Dempsey interjected.
“Ah … good to meet you, Lemke.” Peyton glanced around their small campfire and tent shelter. “You men stay dry tonight, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.” After parting salutes, Peyton caught up with Carrie, who had continued her amble toward the hospital.
“My apologies, Miss Bell.”
“None required.” Sincerity laced her reply. “You’re an important man.”
Her good nature pleased him. Not many women would understand the interruption.
“I must say, Colonel, I had been under the impression that commanding officers don’t converse with enlisted men. But you do.”
“Depends on the officer, I suppose.” After a glance in her direction, Peyton added, “As for me, I need every one of my men. I want them to trust me to the point of following me into battle even if I’m leading a suicide charge.”
“You’d never do that … lead a suicide charge?”
“Sometimes an officer doesn’t have a choice. When my orders come from General Merritt it’s my duty as one of his colonels to obey.”
“Without question?”
“Again, it depends. I may respectfully inquire or disagree if the situation warrants it, but, ultimately, I must obey orders regardless of what I think the outcome might be.”
“I don’t know if I could do that.”
“You obey God’s commands, don’t you?”
“Well, yes … that is, I try.” A bit of a laugh reached his ears. “Although many times my obedience to Him isn’t without question or complaint.”
Peyton grinned. He appreciated her honesty and wit, not to mention her deep sensitivity toward others. Her courage impressed him, and yes it took courage to nurse wounded and dying men, although Carrie went a step further than that—perhaps a step too far. Even so, Peyton couldn’t recall admiring another woman more—with the exception of Aunt Ruth.
They walked in silence for several paces and Peyton became aware of the weight of her thoughts.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Bell? I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
Another soft laugh. “I asked you once before to please call me Carrie Ann. After all, I’m proud to consider you a friend.”
“Very well.” The compliment wasn’t lost on him either. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”
“Not troubling, really. Puzzling.”
Hands clasped behind his back, he leaned closer in order to hear her better.
“I’m wondering why you allowed a woman like Miss Phoebe to help me tonight.”
“Mm, I see.” He straightened. “Well, for one thing, despite the poor choices she’s made in her life, Phoebe isn’t evil. Second, she’s resourceful. I knew she’d find you something better to wear than those dungarees and clunky boots.”
“She did, and I’m grateful to her—to you. Miss Phoebe said you’d paid her.”
“I figured it was only fair, and I wanted you to have ample time to bathe and dress.”
“So I can meet your aunt with some dignity?”
“Yes.” He needed to tell her that she was leaving tonight. He hated to see her go. She was his bright spot in a very dark war. “You’re a perceptive young lady.”
“A good journalist must be perceptive.”
“Journalist. Of course …” Peyton chuckled inwardly. How could he forget? “And I should have asked this beforehand. Forgive my assumption. But can you ride astride a horse wearing skirts?”
“Actually, yes. I do it all the time.” She paused. “That is, I used to—before the war.” Another pause. “When I was younger and I didn’t know better.”
“Glad to hear it.” Peyton found her prattled explanation amusing. “I have another surprise for you. A cup of coffee or tea and a slice of apple pie.”
Carrie came to a dead halt. She placed her hands on her slim waist. “Who told you?”
“Told me what?”
“That it was my birthday yesterday.”
Peyton hadn’t any idea of it being her birthday, but he decided to raise her opinion of himself a few notches. Reaching the place he’d tethered Brogan, he took hold of the animal’s reins and leaned close to Carrie. “I have a way of learning these things.”
“So I see.”
He swung up into the saddle and then urged his black charger to a nearby tree stump. He reached for Carrie’s hand. “Let’s see just how well you’ll be able to ride later.” Kicking his foot out of the stirrup so she could make use of it, he assisted her as she climbed up behind him.
Carrie hoisted herself into the saddle behind him with relative ease. Her next movements indicated a lady’s necessary adjustments. At last she sat motionless with her hands on his waist.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
Nudging Brogan, he started across camp where details had pitched the officers’ tents. They had about an hour before General Sheridan’s scouts would leave for Winchester, and Peyton planned to spend it with Carrie. He’d miss her. Their conversations revived him after long hours in the saddle, laden with weaponry, beneath the unforgiving summer sun. She had given him something to look forward to, although her presence and his protectiveness of her didn’t go unnoticed by his men. Some of the talk that reached his ears was that Carrie was his wife disguised as a boy so she could be encamped with him. It had been known to happen, although not among his troops. The gossip tickled him initially, but such rumors of love and emotional need ruined men’s military careers. Most officers knew of CSA General Tom Rosser’s struggle in that regard. Rosser, a former graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, like Peyton and Union generals Autie Custer, Phil Sheridan, and others, was said to have summoned his bride to Staunton so she could reside closer to him.
Savior of the Valley, indeed! Rosser’s behavior was considered that of a lovesick swain and called weakness by several high-ranking officials, even though Union General Ulysses Grant was known to mak
e visits to his wife and children in order to keep himself sane. Nevertheless, as a precaution, Peyton tamped down the hearsay of Carrie and himself whenever he got wind of it—for the sake of her reputation as much as his own. His commanding officers knew the truth regarding their situation which provided a measure of assurance for him. Yet, there was a part of Peyton that didn’t mind the talk. Marrying Carrie wouldn’t be the worst of fates. Quite the contrary.
The wind picked up slightly as he spotted a place to tie Brogan and reined in. He twisted around in the saddle and took hold of her upper arm, aiding her dismount.
“Not bad for a female in skirts.” Smiling, he swung down from his horse and tossed Brogan’s reins around a narrow tree. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed how Carrie rubbed her left wrist. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and lowered her arms to her sides. “Every now and again my wrist aches.”
“I apologize if I worsened the pain.”
“You didn’t.”
“Good.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Then I won’t have to remind you of the circumstances of your injury.”
“I appreciate that, Colonel.”
He chuckled at her playful tone while ushering her into the mess tent. A lamp still remained lit on the table at which he’d eaten with his commanding officers earlier. “Make yourself comfortable.” Peyton pulled out a chair for her. “I’ll go fetch the coffee, unless you’d prefer tea.”
She whirled around and faced him. “I’d enjoy a cup of tea very much.”
The uplift to her voice made him smile. “I rather thought so, but wanted to ask and make sure.” Oh, yes … she and Aunt Ruth would become fast friends in very little time.
Peyton left the tent to find the boiling kettle and coffee pot. It mattered little to him that he’d been overly solicitous where she was concerned, although it was a curious thing. Miss Carrie Ann Bell wasn’t the sort of young lady who usually captured his attention, and yet with her sass and sweetness she’d somehow captivated him to the point where he made unique allowances for her comfort.
At the same time, he didn’t want to give her false hopes. Before the war, he had been expected to find a well-bred woman to run his house, bear his children, and, of course, spend his inheritance. His wife’s family needed to have strong societal connections to get his name in front of the echelons in Washington who could further his military career. Carrie Ann Bell fit none of those requirements. However, Peyton was no fool. He understood that, since the war, the world had changed. Plantation owners had become paupers, and in the north, women had taken men’s places in factories in order to support their families.
Had the war changed the prerequisites for a Collier wife?
Aunt Ruth would know. All Peyton could do now was pray and sort out his own feelings regarding Miss Bell … Carrie.
Could he really be considering spending the rest of his life with her?
In truth, she hadn’t been far from his thoughts since the day he arrested her. And when she’d slipped her small hand into his just minutes ago, he was overcome by the desire to protect her. As they rode across camp, Peyton could feel her body pressing up against his back. He felt her legs brushing against his. It was nothing short of torment, and more than once he fought the idea of riding off into the night with her.
But marry her? That idea jarred Peyton. He never imagined that he’d actually want to get married. All his life he’d viewed marriage as a duty, an act that would eventually produce offspring. However, Carrie made him think of nuptials in a different light—a brighter, warmer light.
Perhaps it was possible for a man like him to fall in love.
Was what he felt for Carrie … love? They barely knew each other, although Peyton could honestly say he knew Carrie better than he knew most women. He definitely knew her heart better than he’d ever known his former fiancée, Lavinia Monteague, even though they’d lived next door to each other in Winchester since he was about twelve.
Outside the officers’ tent, Peyton found coffee on a grate over a dying campfire and filled a tin cup for himself. Next to it stood the less-than-elegant but highly functional teakettle.
Hearty laughter wafted from the tent. Peyton peered inside and saw several officers playing a friendly game of poker at a table in the far corner. Ducking beneath the flap, he entered and ambled to the table on which several plates of apple pie remained. He claimed two. Balancing his load, he exited and strode back to where Carrie awaited him.
The mess tent stood empty, save for details milling in and out collecting items. Any officers who had lingered after the general’s dinner meeting had gone.
Enjoying the respite, Carrie sipped her tea—black tea from China, not sassafras root tea like she and so many Southerners had grown accustomed to drinking since the war began. The colonel had even found a spoonful of sugar, a commodity most residents in the Valley couldn’t afford these days. And the apple pie … delicious!
“Mmm …” She savored the dessert’s sweetness and tartness. “This is a real treat. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He lit a cigar and blew out a puff of smoke. “Are you feeling better? Major LaFont said you’d been upset this week.”
Carrie managed a nod. “I never imagined a twelve-pounder gun could do so much damage to the human body.”
“Napoleon specifically developed those cannon to destroy the enemy.”
“The ‘enemy’ is made up of flesh and blood—just like you and me.” Carrie ran her fingertip around the rim of her cup. “Created by God, in His image.”
“Try not to dwell on what you saw. Think, instead, of the things you managed to accomplish. You read to the men from the Scriptures, you were at their side so they didn’t pass into eternity alone, and you eased their pain and suffering.”
She glanced up with what she hoped was a sturdy grin. “Sound advice.”
He took a swallow of his coffee.
“Believe it or not, tonight’s simple pleasures all conspired to make up one of the best birthdays I’ve had.”
“I’m glad.”
Carrie sipped her tea. Sitting beneath the soft glow of the table lamp, one might regard this moment as actually romantic—if one was of that persuasion, which, of course, Carrie was not. Papa always said a good journalist must keep her mind on her vocation and not allow emotions to distract her.
“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve reached the ripe old age of nineteen.”
He remembered! “A lady never tells her age.”
The colonel narrowed his gaze in reply to her sass.
Carrie tamped down a giggle. “Yes, you calculated my age correctly, sir.”
“Hmm … nineteen. When I was that age, I’d just entered the United States Military Academy. I got into every kind of trouble there was. My actions got me expelled my first year. A superintendent, a man named Robert E. Lee, decided I had the gumption and dash to make a fine soldier, and he persuaded the powers that be to reinstate me.”
“Robert E. Lee?” Carrie’s mind had parked right there. “You know General Lee?”
The colonel gave a nod. “He’s a fellow Virginian and one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
“But you’re fighting against him and his men—against Virginia. Why aren’t you a Confederate?”
“Carrie, there comes a time in every man’s life when the line must be drawn. For me it’s the belief that an entire race of people must be free. Slavery must be abolished. Second, the Union must be preserved at all costs. My great-grandfather fought in the Revolutionary War so that we Americans might never live under oppression again, no matter what our skin color. Those ideals led me to join the United States Army.”
“Well, I agree—that slavery should be abolished. However, I’ve heard the exact argument come out of Confederates’ mouths—they’re fighting for their freedom and independence too.”
“Ah, yes, but freedom for whites only. I believe all men are created equal.”
The colonel’s low-pitched chuckle filled the space inside the tent. “I knew it all along. However, you can still remain an independent thinker.”
“I will.” Several moments passed and Carrie finished her tea. Questions swirled in her mind. She’d heard the talk in camp about the kind of man the colonel had been before his conversion, although she knew he was an honorable man now. “Colonel—”
“I don’t suppose I’m out of line to request that you call me Peyton when we’re speaking in private.”
Her face flushed, and Carrie was glad her dimly lit surroundings wouldn’t reveal it. “All right, Peyton.” She liked the sound of his name as it sprang from her lips. Swallowing hard, she forged ahead with her question. “You mentioned the trouble you got into as a younger man, and Gettysburg is mentioned quite often too. Will you tell me what it was exactly that changed you? I learned you had a spiritual experience, but I’ve heard no details.”
“Ah, now you sound like a journalist.”
Carrie’s cheeks warmed from both his jesting and his scrutiny.
“Yes, I certainly did have a spiritual experience.” He paused to enjoy another puff of his cigar. “It’s a rather grisly tale. Are you up for it?”
“Absolutely.” Her curiosity would never be quelled unless she heard the story of his conversion directly from him.
“All right, then.” He inclined his head. “It happened after the first day of fighting. I took a big risk and led my men to a place on the battlefield where we successfully held off the enemy until reinforcements arrived. By then I’d been nearly sliced in two, hit by shrapnel that took my horse right out from under me, killing the animal. My men dragged me over to what we referred to as the dying tree—a shady place out of the line of fire where men had been set to bleed out and die.”
Carrie’s heart squeezed as she imagined the scene.
“Johnston was there and managed to hold my side together. After a time, he placed my right hand over it and encouraged me to press it together. He made me promise not to let go until he returned.” Peyton’s voice took on a somber tone. “I tried, although I went in and out of consciousness the rest of the afternoon. I came to my senses sometime during the night.”
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