Ella Wood Novellas: Boxed Set

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Jack, your bruises haven’t even healed from that row you got in with Snyder last week. And you just lost a third of a month’s wages.”

  “I’ll pay you back. You know I will.”

  “I don’t care about the money. I just thought things would be different when we left Charleston.” Jovie shook his head in frustration. “You’re a natural leader. I’ve seen the way men look up to you. If you left off the drinking, you could make a place for yourself in the army. But if you continue as you have been, you’re just going to get yourself killed.” Jovie dumped the contents of the bottle out onto the ground.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” Jack shouted. He reached for bottle, and when Jovie held it out of reach, Jack took a swing at him.

  Jovie blocked the blow easily. “Are you going to fight me, too?” His lip curled in disgust. “Jack, take a look at yourself. Look at what you’re becoming.”

  Fury rose up within Jack in a foaming, choking geyser, but this time it wasn’t directed at Jovie. He seethed at himself. He couldn’t believe he’d just thrown a punch at his best friend. Was he becoming the very thing he so hated pretending to be?

  Jovie tossed the empty bottle in the fire. “I’m going back to bed.” And he receded into the tent without a backward look.

  Jack balled up his fists in helpless frustration. A battle raged inside him, two competing desires slugging it out within his chest. He wanted to confide in Jovie, to make him understand that the drinking, the cards, the bravado, the arrogance—that wasn’t who he really was. His actions of the past few years were all a charade, a horrible act born of necessity. He’d long ago grown tired of the game, but he knew well what the consequences would be if anyone guessed the truth. So he bit his tongue as Jovie walked away.

  Some secrets were simply too dangerous to share.

  2

  “Push, men!” Jack called out. “Put your backs into it!”

  Jack strained along with the others in his detail, twisting the rail of the Baltimore and Ohio around the tree. The red-hot metal bent easily enough, but it took four men to lift the heavy length of steel. When the rail’s head intersected its tail, creating a bow effect around the trunk, Jack grunted his approval. “It looks good, men. Let’s take a short break.”

  Jack wiped a sleeve across his forehead as he waited in line at the water bucket. Between the sun and the massive bonfires comprised of piled railroad ties, his uniform was again soaked through. He reached up a hand to his chest and felt the thin outline of a journal he kept hidden there in an inner, hand-sewn pocket. Fortunately, the leather cover protected the pages from moisture.

  Jack scanned left and right. He had been given charge of this small crew, but there were a hundred more just like it spaced up and down the length of the track. For as far as he could see in either direction, the rail corridor was a caldron of smoke, flame, and twisted steel. Every large tree wore four or five shiny new neckties.

  The Union would not be using these tracks again for some time.

  Jovie draped an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Sort of reminds me of the time we smoked my father’s pipe behind the chicken coop and set the hay on fire.”

  Jack guffawed. The whole structure had gone up like kindling, and the twisted wire fencing had resembled the iron tracks in miniature.

  “It was weeks before my mother forgave me for roasting her best laying hen,” Jovie confessed.

  “And we had to spend an entire week rebuilding the coop,” Jack added.

  “It never quite resembled the first one, did it?” Jovie grimaced. “I suspect my father had Antioch shore the thing up after we were finished.”

  “Antioch…,” Jack mused. “Whatever happened to him?”

  “He’s still at Fairview, though he’s getting along in years.”

  Reggie took note of Jack’s lingering smile. “We need those reminders of home,” he said, laying out his lanky frame beside the bucket after passing the ladle off to Dawes. “It keeps us focused on why we’re doing this.”

  Jack knew Reggie had more to tie him to home than the rest of them. “Why’d you leave your family to fight, Reggie? If I had a wife and kids, I would have thought twice about signing up.”

  The cobbler ruffled a hand through his unruly red hair. “I did think twice. Then three, four, and five times. But in the end, they’re the reason I’m here. Not the politics. I’m just trying to keep the North in the North so my kids stay free.”

  Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a better man than I am, Reg.”

  After a five-minute rest, he called out, “All right, men. Let’s get back to it.”

  Jack was surprised that officials in Richmond allowed the destruction at all. It was well known that General Beauregard wanted to invade the North and make a hasty end to the war, but President Davis was implementing a policy of hopeful conservatism. In contrast to Sergeant Wayne, public opinion widely held that Southern independence was imminent and inevitable, and Jack had to agree. International demand for cotton as well as strong anti-war sentiment in the North were bound to influence Washington’s decisions. Jack thought it only a matter of time before diplomacy brought an end to the conflict. In the meantime, Richmond was keeping its hands clean, being careful not to provoke the Northern lion.

  But the railroad’s ability to quickly deliver troops and supplies was an immediate threat. And so the destruction continued. By the end of the day, the regiment had destroyed nearly five miles of track.

  On the march back to camp, Jack found himself in step with Dawes, who was deep in thought, surveying the Virginia countryside. The sturdy young man had excelled at the physical nature of soldiering even more than Jack had. “What is it, Dawes?”

  The young man met his eye. “I was just thinking that I’ve traveled hundreds of miles only to find that Virginia looks exactly the same as back home. It’s just farms and tiny villages.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just thought it would be different.”

  They walked in silence a dozen paces. “Anything else catch you by surprise?”

  Dawes shrugged. “I didn’t think food could taste so terrible. And it’s harder to watch a man die than I thought it would be, even if he is a Yank.” After the heat of battle cooled, most of the men had wrestled with the act of killing, including Jack. “But the army did get me off the farm, I like living in the barracks, and the most fun I’ve ever had in my life was those few days in Charleston when we mustered in. You city boys don’t know how lucky you are.”

  Jack recalled the carnival atmosphere that pervaded the city after the fall of Fort Sumter—the triumphant sound of company bands, the spectators lining the streets during drills and proudly waving flags emblazoned with the palmetto, the never-ending balls. “Charleston isn’t always like that.”

  “I reckon more happens there on one regular day than what occurs on the farm over ten years. And Charleston has some beautiful women,” Dawes added.

  Jack chuckled. The city’s many debutantes were alluring—soft, flirtatious, and encouraging. They certainly would have turned Dawes’s head. But Jack had tired of that scene long ago, soon after he’d learned that the ability to maintain a meaningful conversation was actually a quality he desired in a woman. And few, so few of the socialites he’d pursued had learned the art. “Did you find some willing dance partners?”

  “I found the girl I’m going to marry.”

  “Dawes, you were there a week. Do you even know her name?”

  Dawes gave a self-satisfied shrug. “What does a name mean, anyway? Sometime you just know the right one immediately.”

  Jack forced another chuckle, but the humor felt barren. He’d given up all hopes of marriage for himself. If he actually found a woman he admired enough to propose to, his marriage was bound to be one of deceit, not the open give-and-take he longed for. Because not one of the girls he knew would ever agree with the choices he had made.

  Secrets, he had learned
, could also be terribly isolating.

  “So, what will you do when the war ends?” Jack asked.

  Dawes’s face fell. “Go back to the farm, I suppose.”

  “You have family?”

  “Three younger sisters and a brother.”

  “They holding out?”

  He shrugged. “The girls can handle most of the work. And Jimmy will be fourteen this fall and able to do what they can’t. They’ll manage.”

  “I bet he’s itching to sign up.”

  “Of course.”

  “A lot of young ones have gotten in.”

  “No way. The battlefield’s no place for a boy.”

  Jack agreed. “I wouldn’t worry about it. This will be over long before he turns eighteen.”

  Jeremiah had mess waiting for them when they returned—fresh cuts of beef roasted on a ramrod over the fire and corn cakes fried in fat on one of their tin plates. The hungry detail sat down and ate with a vengeance. When they were finished, Jovie and Reggie retired to their cots for an hour nap before evening drill, and Dawes fell asleep in a hammock he’d strung between two trees. Jack carried a cup of coffee to the bit of shade where Jeremiah scoured their mess kits and sat down beside him.

  “You look content, Mister Jack,” Jeremiah noted.

  “I suppose I am.” Jack stretched out his legs and leaned back against the trunk of the tree.

  “Mister Jovie say he talked to you de other night ’bout yo’ drinkin’.”

  “He did, but I suppose you feel the need to confront me, as well.”

  “Yes, sir. I was gunna tell you I don’ see why you’d need to keep up de act here in camp. We a long way from Charleston.”

  Jeremiah was the one person who knew Jack completely, the one person with whom Jack never needed to pretend.

  “I came to the same realization, Jeremiah. And I’ve decided to cut out the whiskey. With you two ganging up on me, what choice did I have?” he joked.

  Jeremiah looked genuinely relieved. “I didn’ like seein’ what it did to you, Mister Jack.”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Dey be a lot o’ ears hereabouts. So what about de gamblin’?”

  Jack shrugged. “I like poker.”

  In Charleston, he had very specific reasons for playing—and very specific reasons for losing. A good card player could come off as a threat, but tongues were far less guarded with someone who lost habitually. Here in camp, he was free to play for keeps. He could afford it if he lost. And it gave him something to do during the long evenings of boredom.

  Jack smiled. “My game has already improved without the liquor.”

  Jeremiah dumped the sand off the last plate, wiped it clean, and stacked it in the grass with the others. “Sho’ was easier before you lef’ home, when Cage Northrup be de wors’ character you hung ’round wid. Back before you become dis other person.”

  “It was Cage who gave me the idea. Who would ever suspect him of anything other than being a self-absorbed, slavery-touting firebrand? It’s the perfect disguise.”

  “It been hard on you, Mister Jack.”

  “Anything worthwhile requires sacrifice.”

  Jeremiah gathered the mess kits. “I s’pose you be knowin’ yo’ own mind.”

  “I suppose you know your own mind.”

  Jeremiah looked up in surprise. “Me, sir?”

  “I was correcting you. You should learn proper grammar.”

  “It don’ much matter how I talk in a army camp.”

  “No, but it will eventually.” Jack leaned back with a self-satisfied smile. “So, I’m going to keep correcting you.”

  ***

  Summer slowly merged with autumn, and the heat that had oppressed the men for months now became a luxury after cold nights spent under canvas. The Union army remained in Washington, and the Confederate camp traveled a few miles to Flint Hill. Garrison life became a waiting game. Would Washington and Richmond settle their differences before winter?

  Jack never lacked for food, even if he did sometimes want for variety. The lush Virginia countryside had provided plenty of beef and vegetables for foraging parties throughout the summer. The army’s greatest hardships were a deficiency of fresh bread and an overabundance of green corn, which Jack learned to avoid after a day squatting over an open latrine. But with autumn, disease began to take a greater toll on the regiment.

  One thing that never changed was drill—hours of it every day. There was an entire manual of arms positions that must be memorized: attention, shoulder arms, present arms, affix bayonet, guard against infantry, guard against cavalry… This was followed by company drill: form company, open ranks, close ranks, advance in line of battle, march in retreat, wheel from the halt, march from the flank… Then there was platoon drill. And skirmish drill. In the rain. In the heat. Drill. March. Drill. It formed the basis for days spent in garrison and stitched one into the next.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Webb called out after a particularly long session. “The mail arrived with the supply wagons this morning. Lieutenant Elliot will pass it out. When you hear your name, you are dismissed.”

  A collective cheer rose up from the men and was repeated individually each time a name was called. “Anderson. Scott. Dobrinski. Preston…” Jack whooped. He received not just one, but two letters—one from his mother and one from his sister.

  Spirits soared as Jack walked back to the tent with his messmates that afternoon, each of whom carried at least one item from home. Reggie had received an entire box. Their agreed-upon tent rule declared that packages had to be opened in front of the others, though the recipient could choose whether or not to share the contents. Something was always passed around among the four of them, however, so every package was a highly anticipated event.

  “Where’s Sergeant Wayne?” Jovie asked. “He usually passes out mail.”

  “The hospital,” Dawes answered. “With half the regiment, it seems.”

  “Jaundice?” There’d been a wave of recent cases.

  “Dysentery.”

  Jeremiah waited for them with tin cups of coffee as they settled around their fire pit. “What’d you get, Reg?” Dawes asked.

  Letters waited unopened as three faces eagerly watched Reggie slit open the box with his bayonet and lift out a tin of sugar, half a dozen eggs packed in sawdust, apple butter, a blueberry pie, a bag of coffee beans, and two dozen sugar cookies. Groans of pleasure accompanied each new acquisition, and eager anticipation sparkled in each eye.

  “Don’t keep us waiting, Reggie!” Jovie burst out. “What are you sharing?”

  Reggie grinned with the power he held over each of them. “A piece of pie to every man who will take one of my firewood details, and cookies for all.”

  A roar of approval met the announcement. Tin plates were produced, and the pie was quickly cut and served up with the same bayonet. Jack closed his eyes and moaned as he forked that first bite into his mouth. The crust was stale, but it still tasted of home and heaven and love, all stuffed into one mouthful. “Mmmmm…Reggie, tell your wife I want to marry her.”

  After lingering over every bite, Jack settled back to open his letters and savor the news from home. His mother’s missive contained updates on his father’s work with the state government in Columbia, the latest news from Charleston, and a few of Dr. Malone’s medical insights from his work in the city’s military hospital. But mostly it carried an overwhelming relief that Jack had survived the battle at Manassas.

  Nearly a thousand men lost their lives that day, with almost four thousand more missing or wounded. He tried to imagine what it had been like for his mother to hear those numbers and know that Jack had been among the troops involved in battle that day. It would have taken weeks for word of his health to reach her. Weeks of fear and worry and the unknown. For the first time, Jack realized what his enlistment meant for her. He brushed a hand over his eyes, glad she was staying in the city among friends.

  The letter f
rom Emily was far less emotional. Short, blunt, and critical, it reflected the rocky nature of their relationship. He knew he was very much to blame for that. The sardonic, devil-may-care image he wore at home served as a wall of protection around his entire family. Unfortunately, it also divided him from his sister.

  Jack looked up and met Jeremiah’s eye. They were the only two still lounging around the fire. “Yo’ family well?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Is your family well,” Jack corrected.

  “Is yo’ family well?”

  Jack smiled. Jeremiah was improving. “They’re fine. Mother’s missing me, and Emily’s angry with me.”

  “She always—she’s always angry with you.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Jack laughed and tossed him one of his cookies. “I think she’s changing, though, Jeremiah. I think my Uncle Isaac may have worn off on her more than she’s saying. Did I tell you what happened at dinner the last night I was home?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She and my father got in a huge row.”

  Jeremiah’s eyebrows ticked upward.

  “She laid into him over a lashing one of the slaves received and brought his management of the entire plantation under fire. Then she called him a coward for not daring to question the status quo.”

  “Miss Emily did that?” Jeremiah’s eyes widened. “Against Marse William?”

  “And now she’s angry with me for the little deception I pulled on our departure.” Jack’s eyes grew thoughtful. “It seems my sister may not be quite the princess I took her for.” He hoped one day he might even be able to confide in her, to speak as plainly with her as he could with Jeremiah. But then Jeremiah had always been in on the secrets.

  At the moment, Jeremiah was the secret.

  Jack pulled the journal from his pocket and began to write. It was black leather with gilt pages. He carried it with him always—it would be far too dangerous to leave it laying around.