Feeling refreshed, she told the chaplain and his wife about her encounter with Adam.
"You did the right thing," Zechariah said. "No man should be left alone to die, no matter what uniform he's wearing."
"I agree, but…"
Zechariah and Eleanor stared at Emma and waited. "But what?"
Emma took an article from her saddlebag and placed it on the table.
"Before I left Adam, I took his coat."
The Pratts regarded the gray-colored Confederate coat as if it were the Holy Grail. Eleanor ran her fingertips over it while Zechariah stared. A tribute of silence permeated the room.
"I didn't want the others to know," Emma said. "But the rank on the coat shows he was a captain. I just thought maybe this could be useful somehow."
Eleanor examined the wool. "It needs cleaned and mended."
"Was I wrong to take it?" A sense of guilt threatened to bring Emma to tears. "I dressed him in a shirt so he wouldn't be bare chested, but it felt like I was stealing from him." Knowing that she couldn't return to the Union camp in civilian clothes, Emma had changed back into her uniform before leaving Adam in the barn.
"No, you weren't wrong," Zechariah said. "In fact, it's probably best you took the coat. There's no telling what the Federals might do to the body of a Rebel soldier. This way, maybe no one will know for sure."
"Then I'd like to keep it here, if that's all right."
"Of course. I'll take good care of it, even though what you intend to do with it worries me." Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
"For now, it's just a reminder of someone I'll never forget."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Union Encampment
Late November, 1861
Aches roused Emma the next morning, but she fulfilled a brief morning shift at the hospital and completed drill duty in the afternoon. A new dose of confidence in her abilities helped subdue her soreness, until news arrived late in the afternoon — Grant and his troops had suffered defeat at Belmont. The relay of the maps and information had not reached the Union troops in time. No blame fell on Emma. In fact, McClellan shared that the bluecoats had encountered the Rebels earlier than expected on their march, contributing to the defeat.
During supper, Emma's fellow soldiers, including Trumball, gathered to hear of her adventures as a courier. Despite the news of another Union loss, interest in her trek had not subsided. Although she spoke of the difficulty she had riding in the hard rain and meeting Earl and Betsy at the inn in Roanoke, she again skipped any mention of Adam Hall. Perhaps some would commend her for the kindness she had bestowed on a dying man. Others, though, she knew, would lessen their opinion of her, hearing that she had tended an enemy.
"No Injuns? No Rebels hiding out there waiting to ambush you for them papers?" Eli Nash's strength and spunk had returned in full measure since the Indian attack. Of course, nothing could defeat his appetite. He ate Grady's latest cuisine, beaver stew, with vigor.
Emma shook her head. "Nothing. Making it through the rain was the hardest part." She wondered if the encounter with the Cherokee tribe had improperly labeled her as one who attracted trouble and danger. Similar circumstances, she thought, had built the lieutenant's early-on mythological reputation. Aside from Trumball's stone cold guise, Emma had not seen anything exceptional from him, but nothing could tarnish her awe of the man.
"Well, soldier, it's good to see you made it back." Orson Granger slapped Emma on the back.
Emma turned and saw Will, who stood by their hand-pulled wagon. Will's somber face had taken on a pleasant expression, one that, Emma suspected, improved his success as a salesman. Interestingly, she saw no signs of Will's pistol. Emma hid her dismay. She'd left Orson and Will out of her tale on purpose, never expecting them to end up at the encampment, but she greeted the two properly while the other men looked on. Introductions followed.
"Did he tell you I near saved his life?" Orson said. "Ain't that right, Edmonds?"
Emma reddened and hesitated as her comrades perked up. "I suppose that's fair to say."
"He was lost! Aimlessly riding through the countryside, helpless as a newborn chick."
"I don't know I would say helpless."
Orson ignored Emma. "Why if it wasn't for me, he'd still be out there rambling about."
"Well, probably not rambling—"
"Lucky for him, I had a compass I sold him. Darn well saved his life, since I'suppose he didn't leave here too prepared." He flashed Emma a smile and threw his arm around the front of Emma's neck and pretended to choke her. "So I'm downright proud of this one here. Now remember, if you boys need anything I probably got it right here." He released Emma and patted his wagon. "Combs, soap, thread, knives, buttons," he lowered his voice, "even a couple bottles of elixir, in case anyone's battling the vapors. Price is always negotiable."
"I didn't realize you were heading in this direction," Emma said.
"Spent a day in Washington restocking my supplies, but makin' rounds and supportin' our fellas in blue is what I do best." Orson patted Graham and Nash on their backs, then leaned in to the men. "In fact, if any of you fellas come see me, I could set you up right nice with a shot of whiskey. Who couldn't use a little refreshment after a long hard day, eh?"
Trumball aimed a disapproving glare at Emma, possibly blaming Emma for the peddler's arrival. Curiosity infected the men as they gathered around Orson's wagon to examine his loot. The lieutenant said nothing and slipped from the fray. Emma stared after him, desperately wanting to follow.
Drunken men would put the camp in upheaval and disturb training regiments, Emma knew. But how could Trumball seemingly blame her for Orson's arrival? Emma refused to endure responsibility for the ruckus that might follow. She slinked from the group, passing Will and despising the smirk plastered on the young boy's face.
****
Later that afternoon, Emma received a letter. She had been anticipating a response from Stuart, but the handwriting did not belong to Stuart. Alone back in her tent, she opened the letter and was grateful to be sitting.
My Dearest Emma Louise,
It has taken me quite some time to come to terms with the unfortunate knowledge that you have seen fit to join the North in efforts that threaten our heritage and indeed our very existence. We can only fathom what this means and what actions you are truly involved in. Regardless of these circumstances, however, I have found that the heartache I suffer from because of your absence is far greater than any anger I have tried to live with. Stuart has only shared portions of your letters with your mother and me, but he has tried to help us find understanding in your actions. It may please you greatly to learn that Vaughn Jackson has moved on in his pursuit of a wife, as he is now engaged to the Merriweather girl, Nancy or Nellie, though I am unsure which. I myself confess that I find relief in this arrangement, for I did not feel that a Jackson was a suitable match for you. Your mother has vowed never to forgive you for your abandonment, however, she has been bedridden of late with a different form of sorrow that has affected us all. The events at Port Royal have cut this family deeply. Most of the slaves discarded the plantation when the Union took control of the area, and a dreadful incursion of Yankees continues. Even more dreadful, news arrived in recent days that your brother Alexander had been killed while in service at Fort Walker. He died with honor, defending the great state of South Carolina and as a result of the confrontation. In light of this calamity, and in consideration of the tribulations already endured by this family, I implore you Emma, I beseech you, to please return to Beaumont and our loving home. We will not speak of the treachery committed, but instead, we will seek to carve out a meaningful future together.
Your ever loving grandfather,
Arthur Knox B. Cartwright
A reel of memories flashed through Emma's mind. She pictured Alexander as a young boy, recounted the times they had waded in the salt marshes for turtles for their father's favorite soup, and she saw him as a young, eager man leaving for war. How could he b
e gone so easily? His life over. His fate sealed. Another brother gone. Like Adam Hall, Alexander would never build a future, and Emma would never know if the two of them could have found a common ground and known each other as adults.
And what about Quinn? Surely he had partaken in the battle as well. Quinn had escaped injury, perhaps cheated death? She searched her feelings, wondering if news of Quinn's death would be less distressing. Perhaps, and she hated that she'd thought of such a thing.
Draped in a Union uniform and suddenly missing her home and family more than she thought possible, Emma had no idea what to do or where to turn. Her grandfather's words penetrated her heart like a tent stake to the ground. Had she been selfish, leaving her home with so much change on the horizon? Had she underestimated her family's true value to her? She dug the picture of Sylvia from her pocket. She held both the letter and the photograph to her face as a heavy grief descended and tears flowed.
****
Emma did not report for hospital duty or drill duty for several days, claiming an illness had hold of her. She did not leave her tent or her cot for two days before Eleanor came and insisted she be moved to the hospital so she could care for Emma, but Emma refused. Instead, Eleanor made private arrangements with Colonel Reed and Trumball so that she could tend to Emma at Eleanor's home. Trumball attempted a visit, but Emma refused to see anyone.
Huddled on the guest bed in Eleanor's home, Emma slept most days. Eleanor checked on her frequently but found no signs of fever or sickness. Suspicions nagged Eleanor about Emma's condition, but whenever she approached with questions and concerns, Emma shut her out.
Zechariah also fretted. He lost several nights' sleep as he sat in Emma's room with his head in his hands, praying silently. When Emma stirred, he went to her, anxious to serve her and reel her back from the strange condition that had consumed her, but Emma kept her faced buried in a pillow or turned away. She only answered Zechariah with short answers.
Eleanor soon flustered, but Zechariah encouraged his wife to be patient. Duty called, and he left for a stint on the USS Zouave, a newly acquired ship set to join the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron on the James River. With Zechariah out of the house, Emma developed an irritable attitude with Eleanor and Rosemary, a colored girl the Pratts had hired to assist with chores at home and duties around the Union camp.
One afternoon, with her back aching from helping with the camp's laundry, Eleanor entered Emma's room and dropped an armful of clean wash on top of her.
"What's going on?" Emma roused from a drowsy sleep.
"I need your help today."
Emma pulled the covers over her head. "I can't."
Eleanor yanked the covers down. "Yes, you can. There's nothing physically wrong with you, Tom."
She couldn't argue. A fleeting appetite and a gnawing grief in her chest weakened her, but she made no attempt to accept what had happened. Now, with Eleanor exasperated, Emma rolled to one side and squeezed her eyes shut, but Eleanor got in her face.
"All you've done now for two weeks is mope, sass me, and complain. Well, enough's enough. I want you out of that bed and decent in five minutes, Private."
Eleanor slammed the door, leaving a rumpled, dumbfounded Emma in bed and buried under a pile of linens.
****
Armed with the laundry, Emma joined Eleanor and Rosemary in the kitchen. She set it on the table and began folding it.
Rosemary's eyes grew wide, as she only knew the angst-ridden side of Emma and didn't know what to expect from her next. Eleanor stifled a laugh but said nothing. Sheets billowed and eyes darted in the silence, but Emma knew she owed Eleanor an explanation.
"My brother was killed in the Battle of Port Royal." Emma stared down at the laundry. Her words sounded foreign, and she wished they belonged to another person.
Eleanor's shoulders sank. She came around the table and wrapped herself around Emma. Rosemary excused herself as the two embraced and said she would pick up necessities at the mercantile.
"This is what's brought you so low, isn't it?" Eleanor asked when they were alone.
Emma nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I didn't know how to deal with it." She took a seat at the table. "I've lost so much…" Thoughts of family, Basil, and home invaded Emma's mind, but she fought the urge to break down. The mix of tears, isolation and emotion had proven to be poor companions.
"Few people are strangers to loss. Zechariah and I have buried three daughters."
Emma looked at her with disbelief. Shame also weighed on her for not knowing more details of Eleanor's life.
"Wh— How?"
"It's been so many years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Back in the '30s, Zechariach and I came here from England. America was such a dream then, founded on religious freedom and an opportunity for new hope. Well, we left our church, boarded a boat with our three young girls, and made the journey to New York. Our girls grew sick along the way. The youngest, my precious Alice, she died in my arms aboard the ship. Other passengers were sick, too. Even Zechariah took ill. I felt so helpless on that ship. There was nothing I could do but pray. Within a month of our arrival, our other daughters, Mary and Eunice, also passed. It was another month before Zechariah could even sit up in bed."
Emma had wondered why Eleanor and Zechariah had no children or grandchildren. Considering their loving natures, Emma had easily pictured them with a large brood, but she knew there were women, unlike her mother, who couldn't conceive. She'd been too timid to ask but had not imagined the truth contained such tragedy.
"I'm sorry."
"I am too." Eleanor shared a feeble grin. "We didn't get to see our daughters grow up, but Zechariah and I found peace, knowing they are with the Father. You see, Tom, when you trust in the Lord, loved ones move on, but they are never gone." She wiped tears from her eyes and put on a brave smile. "We will be with them again someday. Until then, we will love and encourage as many people as we can along the way. Others have suffered worse. Since the war began, I've felt a growing gratefulness to the Lord. My children died in my arms. I held them, mourned them, buried them." Tears welled in her eyes. "But there are already so many who've lost their husbands and sons to the battlefield. They have no special place where they laid their loved ones to rest. They never had that last tender good-bye." She hugged her hands to her chest. "I'm grateful the Lord allowed me that."
Emma wanted to understand, wanted to find her own meaningful faith. She thought of Tilda and how she, too, had held steady in her faith, despite losing her child. Faith, real faith, Emma decided, wasn't for the weak at heart.
It occurred to her how self-absorbed she had been, and that focusing on her hurts would do her no good. Loving and trusting God wasn't for the sake of what God could do for her, but for the depth and strength she needed to walk out her own destiny, and to be a source of strength for those who needed her along the journey.
"I'm sorry for the way I've acted, Eleanor. I don't deserve the kindness you've shown me. I wish I could explain a few things. There's a great deal you don't know."
"Of course there is! Tom, I've dealt with people my whole life, and I've learned how complicated and complex they can be." Eleanor put her hands on both Emma's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "I hope you realize how deeply Zechariah and I care for you, Tom. No matter what I may not know, nothing could change that."
Emma desperately wanted to confide in Eleanor. She had fought and denied the need for months. Unveiling her secrets, though, would put Eleanor in a difficult — perhaps even dangerous — position. She knew she could trust her, and Zechariah, but it would be for her benefit and not theirs.
"I want to tell you everything," Emma said, "but I can't. At least not now."
"That's all right. You tell me what I need to know, and I'll be here anytime you might need me."
After finishing the laundry and helping Eleanor tidy the rest of her house, Emma cleaned the guest room she'd occupied. Rosemary
returned and started supper. Emma packed her few belongings and prepared to head back to camp.
"You know what I find interesting?" Eleanor asked as Emma was about to step out the door. "I think it's interesting that a man like you stayed in bed for days and didn't emerge with whiskers or the need to shave."
Flabbergasted, Emma wasn't sure what to say. She ran her hand over her cheeks, as if that could make her appear scruffy or help her conjure an explanation.
"I'm a late bloomer," she said.
Eleanor suppressed a knowing smile. "Of that I'm not so sure."
****
If Eleanor really knew Emma's secret, she made no more mention of it. That suited Emma, as she worried that letting her guard down around anyone, Eleanor included, would make her vulnerable to discovery.
With painful effort, she replied to Knox's letter. She thanked Knox for his generous sentiment and expressed her sorrow for Alexander. Emma told him she would not be returning home soon, as she was still dedicated to the cause of fighting for slaves' freedom. She had thought long and hard before penning those words. Returning to Beaumont, she knew, would not heal their hurt for Alexander, and there was no promise her mother would forgive her. In her letters to Stuart, Emma spoke mostly of her work at the hospital, since battles had been few. Apparently, Knox and Olivia still didn't know the depth of Emma's betrayal. She continued the ruse with no mention of being a Union soldier and withheld her complaints about Yankees.
Emma also felt a certain responsibility for Eleanor. With Zechariah gone for an extended stay, Emma wanted to look after her friend as best she could. When she returned to her duties, Emma bypassed an explanation. Trumball didn't press the matter, but a new tension emerged between them. Despite such complications, Emma couldn't imagine leaving and never seeing James again.
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