He rubbed his hand over his face and was surprised to find a week’s worth of beard. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But I’m itching to use the muscles I still have.”
“Oh! Well!” Her cheeks flamed red. “Of course, I just—” Apparently giving up on her speech, she set the pail beneath the spout.
“What day is it, anyway?” He grasped the iron handle in his left hand, felt the chipping paint beneath his palm.
“Twenty-sixth of July.”
Ethan plunged the handle up and down, waiting for water to gush forth. “Then it’s been more than a week since my injury.” The fever must have erased a few days’ time from his memory.
“And we’ve had two battles since then. I’m so sorry you had to come looking for water yourself. But there are many, many more for us to tend to now.”
With a gurgle, the water flowed into the pail in a clear braided stream. He wondered if he’d see Cora Mae again after the way he’d sent her away. Part of him longed to make things right with her, but toward what end? She was spoken for. And Ethan didn’t think he could bear her pity.
He blew out a sigh and felt the familiar tickle in his lungs. He turned his head to cough into his elbow.
“I’m Anne Littleton, by the way. Chaplain Littleton’s wife.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ethan Howard.”
“Sergeant Howard!” She clapped her hands together.
“Have we met?”
“No, no. Cora Mae was so concerned when you were laid low with the fever recently. She’d have been so pleased to see you up.” A shadow passed over her face.
Perhaps it was merely a reflection of his own. “Well, you can tell her not to worry next time you see her.”
Her expression drooped. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
Ethan shoved the pump’s handle down one last time. “What do you mean?”
“She was sent north, dear. Cora Mae and little June both. Yesterday.”
“Are you sure?” Surely she was mistaken.
“Quite so, I’m afraid. They’re headed to Louisville now.”
The news shouldn’t have mattered to him at all. She was engaged. He was an amputee. Yet the knowledge of her absence carved away at him. Angry that his heart was so drawn to a woman he couldn’t have, he hoisted the pail and returned to Joseph Parker in the church.
“Sit up, will you?” Ethan walked between the pews and stood over Joseph. “I’m not putting this dipper to your lips for you. Couldn’t if I wanted to.”
Joseph squinted up at him then sat up on his plank. “I see that. It’s hard knocks, eh, Howard?”
“For you and me both.” He lowered the pail into Joseph’s lap, and Joseph took the dipper for his drink. “Thank you.” Sighing, he laid back down.
“Bring it here!” A voice called to Ethan’s right. “Please! Water!”
“I want some, too!” From his left.
All over the sanctuary, hands and voices beckoned him. So Ethan went to them and helped them quench their thirst.
When the men had finally had their fill, he brought the pail and dipper back to the well, far more fatigued than he cared to admit, even to himself. He paused to lean on the handle. “Now what?” he said aloud.
“Now, you rest a spell with an old man who could use some company.” Chaplain Littleton appeared beside him and clapped him on the back. “But cover up first. I’m blushing.” He handed him a clean shirt.
Ethan slipped the loose-fitting garment on over his head, threaded his arms through the sleeves, and then sat beside him on a bench in the shade of a magnolia tree.
“I’ve got something for you, son.” He pulled from his haversack a round, greenish-gray bottle that tapered into a narrow neck.
“That’s quite a flask, Chaplain. You thirsty, too?”
Chaplain Littleton laughed. “Actually, yes. But for something far more satisfying.” He popped off the cork and turned the bottle up, until a small scroll slid into his hand. Setting the bottle aside, he pulled a loop of twine of one end of the scroll, and a small booklet unfurled in his brown-spotted hands. THE SOLDIER’S PRAYER AND HYMN BOOK was printed in block type on its cover. The chaplain flipped it open and began to read. “My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God…. My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?” He closed the booklet and looked Ethan in the eyes. “Put thy trust in God.”
Nodding, Ethan picked up a dark green magnolia leaf and rubbed his thumb over its glossy surface. “The forty-second psalm.”
Seams creased Chaplain Littleton’s face as he smiled. “You know it.”
“I believe in God. I’m a sheep in His fold.” Ethan’s half-empty sleeve waved in summer’s hot breeze. “But right now, my soul is thirsty, and somehow, I can’t seem to get a drink. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Really? I’d like to tell you a story.” He pulled up the hem of his trousers, exposing a wooden leg.
Ethan’s eyebrow lifted, and the chaplain let the faded cloth fall back into place.
“I wasn’t always a chaplain, you know. I was a soldier once, like yourself.”
“Mexican War?”
“Right. That was nearly twenty years ago. During one battle, a friend of mine was hurt badly. He had this bottle on him, with letters for his wife inside it. Right there on the field, he handed this to me, and just before he died, I promised him I’d deliver the letters to his wife. Tucked this bottle into my uniform jacket and kept fighting. It wasn’t long till I was hit, too.”
“In your leg.”
“And lost it. But I kept my promise to my friend.”
“You delivered the letters to his widow?”
“Yes.” Mischief flashed in his eyes. “And then I married her.”
“You did?” Ethan laughed in surprise. “Mrs. Littleton was your friend’s widow?”
He nodded gently.
Ethan pointed to a crunched dent near the bottom of the bottle. “What happened there?”
“I don’t know. Not sure my friend did, either, but look at this.” He pointed to the letters carved into its neck. “Spero. It’s a Latin word. It means ‘hope.’ ”
“Hope.” Ethan gazed at the script. “Well, I sure could use a dose of that.”
“Who can do without it?” Sweat glittered on the chaplain’s brow. He rolled up the prayer book and slid the twine over it before slipping it back into the bottle. “Hope is on the inside. Even if the vessel is battered and scarred. Hope can still live within.” He turned the bottle over in his hands, smiling. “This bottle has served me well. It’s high time it brings hope to someone else.” He placed it in Ethan’s hand. “Be ever hopeful, son.”
Ethan searched Chaplain Littleton’s eyes. “You would give this to me?”
“I just did.”
“Thank you.” The words seemed so inadequate. When the chaplain stood, Ethan remained on the bench, studying the gift he cradled in his hand. Lord, fill me with hope. Satisfy me with Your living water. Help me trust You for Cora Mae’s care and focus on what You would have me do right here. Use this vessel for Your work.
August 2, Cannelton, Indiana
“This is it!” Cora Mae told June, who was leaning over the railing watching the stern-wheel steamboat paddle white ruffles into the river.
The last two days on the steamboat had been a welcome reprieve after five days of train travel. They’d retraced Sherman’s path up through north Georgia, where lone chimneys stood mourning the ruins of their homes. Chattanooga was entirely surrounded by white Union tents camped out upon the mountain slopes. Nashville, too, was crawling with Yankees. Louisville had been as sooty and crowded as she’d imagined a dumping ground for exiled Southerners would be. It had seemed to Cora Mae that the entire world had turned Union blue, when just a month ago, her whole life had been wrapped in Confederate gray.
“Ready to set foot in the North?” She poured all the calm into her voice she could muster. Please God, let me find w
ork.
The steamboat docked. Slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she walked with June down a wooden plank and onto the north side of the Ohio River. People and horses and wagons flowed past her in a great hurry, and for a moment she felt like a sapling at the edge of a stream. The women’s gowns swayed like bells around their footsteps, a marked contrast to the hoopless calico dresses Cora Mae and June wore.
“Now what?” June kicked at a rock in the road.
A breeze swished through birch trees and swept over Cora Mae’s skin. Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she looked up and down the river. “There. Do you see it?” The four-story building with two pointed towers loomed large, even from this distance.
“It’s a mill!” June cried. “Just like Sergeant Howard said!”
It didn’t take long to walk there. As they neared it, the familiar clanging and thudding sounds grew louder. The building was made of gray stone, not the red brick of Roswell’s mills, but the windows looked larger and cleaner. As they reached the front gate, a bell rang from one of the steeples, and the thwacking inside grew silent.
“Quitting time, I reckon.” Inhaling deeply, Cora Mae tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears and fished Dr. Wilcox’s letter from her satchel. Girls in crisp blue muslin dresses with white collars and aprons streamed out of the front doors, chatting to one another. Mostly, their words twanged in the Northern way, but some of them talked more like Dooley, and a few spoke a language Cora Mae had never before heard. Then came a man wearing a dark suit and bowler hat.
“Here we go. Best behavior now, June.” She felt more like her mother with each passing day and sounded like it, too. Drawing herself up as straight as a spindle, she marched toward the man in his Sunday best, stopping him on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me, sir. You work at the mill?”
“Yes, I do.” His gray eyes appraised her. A neatly trimmed black beard and mustache shadowed his pockmarked face.
“Who would we talk to about employment?”
“You’re talking to him. But we’re not hiring.” He tipped his bowler hat to her. “Good day.”
“I have a letter from a Union surgeon.” She thrust it out, awkward and uncomfortable in her desperation. Swallowing her dismay, she tried again. “My name is Cora Mae Stewart, and this here is June. I’ve worked at a cotton mill for ten years, and I truly would appreciate a job at yours.”
Perhaps it was only curiosity that made the man reach for the letter. But as he read it, his brow furrowed, and his lips pinched together. “What sort of work do you do?”
“I’m a drawing girl.” The faint smell of burning coal stuck to the warm wind swirling between them, hinting at the massive mill’s source of power. In the corner of her vision, a few more young women whisked out of the building, bright spots of blue and white against the drab limestone.
He nodded slowly. Handing the letter back to her, he crossed his arms. “It’s a real shame what happened to you and the other mill workers in Georgia. But I’m afraid we almost have more workers than work as it is. Our cotton supply is drying up. As you can imagine.”
Cora Mae’s stomach dropped. June squeezed her hand. The moment stretched long, while horses clopped and buggies trundled over the road beside them. “This is all I know, sir. I don’t mean to tell you how to run your fine factory, but I sure would appreciate the chance to work for you.”
His mustache twitched. Eyebrows plunged, he took the letter back from her hand and read it once more. With a great sigh, he finally met her gaze. “The little one is too young to work here, but if you’re looking for extra income, try Mrs. Beasley’s boardinghouse. She’s looking for help with cleaning and odd chores.” Returning the doctor’s letter to her once more, he gave directions to the establishment.
“Thank you kindly.” She waited while the gentleman tapped his whiskered chin.
“See you in the morning.” He tipped his hat to her and sauntered away.
As she watched him go, she slowly exhaled.
“Does this mean we’re going to be all right, Mama?” June’s small voice lifted.
Suddenly dizzy with relief, Cora Mae knelt on the sidewalk and wrapped her arms around the little girl. “Yes, Junebug, I reckon it does.”
“I wish we could tell Sergeant Howard thank you for telling us about this place.”
“I wish we could, too.” Her throat grew tight. Lord, thank You. Thank You for Ethan, and please be with him now. Heal him, body and soul.
“Are we real Yankees now?” June whispered.
Cora Mae leaned back, holding June by the shoulders. “You and I are the same people as we ever were.” But she wasn’t. The war had changed her. It changed everything.
That night, at Mrs. Beasley’s boardinghouse, she and June slept in real beds for the first time in almost a month. In the morning, they had pancakes and sausage for breakfast. June stayed at the boardinghouse to sweep and dust, while Cora Mae worked at the mill.
The staircases at the Cannelton mill were wider than those in Roswell, and the machines were powered by steam power from coal instead of water. Gas jets lit the rooms when sunlight wasn’t enough, and at mealtimes, vents suctioned the extra lint from the air.
Other than that, the work was the same. Only Cora Mae worked with blue cloth now instead of gray, and she wore a new muslin dress rather than her old homespun. Her days fell into the familiar rhythm she had grown up with, and that was a comfort.
As the weeks stretched into months, drying leaves shivered and fell from their limbs. News came that Sherman had captured Atlanta, and she filled up to overflowing with thoughts of home.
Then in October, the mill stopped running, and there was no more work, once again.
Chapter Eleven
Marietta
November 3
Lookin’ good, laddie!”
Ethan looked up to find Lt. Seamus Dooley striding down the aisle between the pews of the Methodist church, his red hair brushing his shoulders. He smiled at his old friend, just returned from Atlanta, then schooled his features into a more serious expression. “I could really use a hand.”
Dooley’s eyes widened, and his freckled cheeks puffed out. “‘Tis a wee joke, then, is it?”
Ethan hesitated just long enough to watch Dooley squirm, and then he laughed. “Afraid so.” He may never win a sword fight now or load another musket, but after three months of nursing in this church hospital, there were few tasks he could not accomplish.
Carefully, he placed glass bottles of laudanum, quinine, and chloroform into a medicine chest. The patients had already been cleared out, according to Sherman’s order. The army—all sixty thousand troops—was preparing to move south.
“Will you be coming with us on the march through Georgia?”
Ethan shook his head. “This is as far as I go with Uncle Billy. It’s time for me to move on.”
“Back to Indiana? What’ll you do?”
“Pay a debt, for one. But something tells me the Cannel Coal Company won’t be eager to hire any one-handed miners.”
“So.” Dooley paused dramatically. “What’ll you do?”
“Think I’ll take Lincoln up on his Homestead Act. Get myself some land. I sure have taken to life aboveground since I joined the army.”
“Aye, but farming? How can you—” Dooley reddened.
“Oh, I expect a challenge. But after all, there’s only one ‘arm’ in ‘farm.’ “ His grin tipped sideways.
Dooley looked scandalized for a moment before guffawing. “I bet you’ll find the ‘ow’ in ‘plow’!”
Ethan laughed, and Dooley hooted until tears pooled in his eyes.
“Hoo-ee!” Dooley swiped off his hat and ran his hand over his hair. “Come on out front, now. Somebody is waiting for you who I think you’ll want to see.” He scratched his scalp before tugging his hat back onto his head.
Ethan stared at him. “You tease.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t do that to you.” He motioned him to follow.
Ethan’s heart thunked against his ribs. Who did he want to see but Cora Mae Stewart? Leaving the medicine cabinet on the end of a pew, he trailed Dooley down the aisle and through the wooden doors of the church.
“Behold your visitor!” Dooley said with a flourish.
Ethan smiled as he walked down the steps, but his heart sank quickly back into place. “Hello, Reckless.” As he stroked the horse’s dapple gray nose, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. Reckless had been with him for everything that mattered, from his first charge in battle to the raid on the Georgia Railroad, and everything in between. Including the Roswell rescue of Cora Mae. If only he could erect fortifications around his memory to keep thoughts of her away. He cleared his throat and ran his hand over Reckless’s withers, checking for the white hair that grows over scars from ill-fitting tack. “He hasn’t been ridden too hard, has he?”
“His new rider takes good care of him. But tell me, why do you seem disappointed to see him? Who’d you think I brought here instead?”
Ethan raised one eyebrow, almost apologetically.
“Oh, laddie. Still pining over Miss Stewart?”
A sigh escaped him as his gaze followed columns of marching soldiers on their way toward the square. Down the street, a cannon fired, likely to test a new shipment of shells, and crows exploded from a nearby tree. “Dooley, I can’t get her out of my mind.”
The smell of saltpeter soured the air. “You’re being discharged. Go after her! Do you know where she is?”
“Maybe she’s in Louisville still, but according to the papers, she could have been taken to New Albany, or Jeffersonville just north of the Ohio River. Some mill workers were taken to Cincinnati, or Indianapolis, or even to Cairo, Illinois.” He shook his head. “But I did tell her there was a mill in Cannelton.”
“Cannelton, Indiana. Your hometown?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if she would have remembered that.”
“Howard! She could be there right now! Why are you still here?”
“Cora Mae is engaged to another man. What would I say to her even if I found her?”
“You’ll think of something.”
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 39