by Linda Swift
The messenger stepped inside and saluted. "You are requested to report immediately to the commander's tent, sir."
"Thank you, Private." Philip returned the young man's salute. He looked at his blood-smeared uniform and debated changing, then opted for literal obedience to his superior's order.
The camp was in a state of confusion and disorder, tents being taken down, shouts, horses and vehicles weaving in and out between the clusters of milling soldiers. And everywhere the mud from recent rains and the stench of human and animal waste but Philip had become immune to the sights and scents and sounds of war.
Reaching the field commander's tent, he stated his business to the sentry and was motioned inside where he stood at attention and smartly saluted. "Captain Philip Burke, sir."
The florid-faced general looked up, bushy brows knit almost together as if in an effort to recognize the man he had sent for. "At ease, Captain." He shuffled through the jumbled material on his small folding table. "Ah, yes." He pulled a single sheet of paper from an envelope, studied it for a long moment, then cleared his throat. "You're being ordered back to Washington, Captain."
Philip took a deep breath, stalling for time, unsure what his response should be.
Apparently, none was expected as the general continued without waiting for one. "You're to leave immediately. Therefore, you are hereby relieved of your duties at this post."
"Yes, sir."
The general glanced at the letter again, then looked at Philip. "It seems you're being reassigned to a regiment under General Butler, which is to accompany Farragut's fleet headed for New Orleans."
"Yes, sir."
The general silently studied him for a moment. "New Orleans will be easily taken and your tenure in that city no doubt relatively peaceful, but the Peninsular Campaign is predicted to be long and bloody. You're a lucky man, Captain. You must have a very influential benefactor."
Philip met the general's speculative gaze. "Not that I'm aware of, sir. But since I'm to be reassigned, I'd like to keep my assistant, Private Jeb McCallon. We've learned to work together very efficiently, and it would take time to train another man."
"Why not?" the general cocked one bushy brow. "Since it would only be a matter of time until your wish was relayed to me from higher up, I imagine, you may as well travel together and be done with it."
"Thank you, sir." Philip saluted again, and waited to be dismissed.
With a curt nod, the general did so, mumbling under his breath as Philip left the tent. "Damned rich men's pampered sons. Buying special treatment and then denying it."
Philip hurried toward Jeb McCallon's tent. He hadn't asked for another assignment, wasn't certain where it had come from, but he sure as hell wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. New Orleans would be paradise compared to this and he and Jeb could still be useful there. The Union troops occupying the city would have need of medical services, too. And he and his assistant might as well be the ones who provided it.
• ♥ •
Memphis, Tennessee, March 1862
Immediately upon their return to Washington, Philip and Jeb had been transported cross country by railroad and now were aboard a Union supply boat following the Federal fleet down the Mississippi toward the city of New Orleans. The trains had been crowded with troops moving in both directions across the Northern states and Philip was relieved to be on the boat which was occupied by only the crew and part of the intended occupation regiment including himself and Jeb. He had never been south of the Mason-Dixon line and looked forward to seeing this new part of the country even under the present dangerous circumstances.
Philip and his assistant stood on the deck of the slow-moving boat, watching the swirling currents of muddy water, glancing occasionally at the distant shoreline for any threatening signs. They were nearing Memphis, a Confederate stronghold, which would not be without peril to their safety even though they kept to the far side of the river.
"River’s pretty near flood stage," Jeb remarked and Philip nodded. "Reckon a few more feet and it would send the Rebels running from quite a few of these towns along the banks."
"Which is more than our Union Army has been able to do so far," Philip commented wryly. "It’s going to be a long war."
"And I’m that glad we’re going to sit it out where the fighting will soon be over." Jeb said gratefully. "I can’t thank you enough for bringing me along with you, sir."
"I need your help. You’re a good man, McCallon." He turned toward the shore where the outline of the city of Memphis could now be seen. "Seems like we’ve changed directions. Why would we be stopping North of Memphis, I wonder?"
"To see the sights, maybe?" Jeb grinned. "I’ve always wanted to see the big magnolia trees and Spanish moss my mother told me about."
"Better wait and see it in New Orleans, McCallon." Philip turned toward the wheel house and saw the boat’s captain emerge onto the deck. The two men met halfway between and spoke for a few minutes, then Philip returned to the rail where Jeb waited.
"There’s heavy fighting at a place called Pittsburg Landing inland from Memphis. The casualties are running high and the captain has word to drop anchor here and wait till darkness, then all Federal soldiers are ordered to disembark and join the troops headed that way."
"But we’ve already got our orders, sir," Jeb protested.
"These from General Grant take precedence, Private." Philip told him in a resigned tone. "Better get packing. Looks like you’ll get your wish to see Spanish moss before the day is over."
Soon after darkness fell, a rowboat came to ferry the soldiers to shore. Philip and Jeb were on the last load to leave the transport and climb the steep bank where a small detachment of soldiers awaited them with extra horses for the ride to join up with the Union troops.
They rode the remainder of the night and Philip was sore and weary when the leader of their small cavalcade gave the order to halt and dismount.
"It’s not safe to travel in daylight," he told the newcomers. "These woods are crawling with trigger-happy Rebs. So scatter out and find a spot with as much cover as possible. Don’t make any noise and under no circumstances are you to build a fire. Are there any questions before we disperse?"
"Yes, sir," one of the boat soldiers spoke up. "How long before we reach the fighting?"
The commander considered the question a moment before he answered. "If we make good time tonight, we could join up with Nelson’s men by tomorrow morning. So rest if you can and prepare yourselves for a long night in the saddle."
Philip and Jeb stayed close together as they led their horses into the underbrush of the deep woods. A low rumble of thunder sounded close by and a sharp wind rattled the leaves overhead. Philip strained to see the clouds through the thick foliage, but it was impossible.
"Spring storm," Jeb said in a low voice. "Reckon that’s all we need to make our day complete."
"Be grateful," Philip told him. "Rain may keep the Rebs from patrolling, and save our hides."
Pitching their small tents to protect them from the rain, the two men took rations from their haversacks and ate a hasty breakfast as the storm got closer. Philip had secured adequate supplies for their journey and they had not wanted for decent food along the way. He took stock of what was left and suspected they would be reduced to the hardtack doled out to men in battle before the fighting was over if it lasted more than a few days. It was not a pleasant thought, and he cursed the war and himself for being a part of it.
Philip folded his haversack to use for a pillow and exhaustion soon overcame his discomfort and he slept. A jagged streak of lightning, followed by a loud thunderclap, brought the rain a short time later, and he awoke shivering. The makeshift shelter and his uniform were soon soaked in spite of the trees which offered little protection against the torrents of water that poured through.
"Ay, God, we’re going to drown before we reach the battle," Jeb grumbled. "They should’ve brought us rowboats instead of horses." He stood and
stretched. "I’ve got a call of nature. I’ll be back in a minute."
Philip nodded and tried to curl into a position that afforded him some measure of warmth. After several attempts, he gave up and resigned himself to being awake and miserable until the storm was over.
A sound from the direction Jeb had gone alerted him to trouble, but before he could draw his pistol and crawl out of his tent to investigate, he found himself looking into the barrel of a rifle. "Don’t move, Yankee, or I’ll blow your head off."
Philip froze, waiting for the inevitable. Finally, the voice spoke again. "All right, Yankee, hand over your gun and come out slowly with your hands up. No funny business, or you’re a dead man."
Philip did as ordered, daring to look around for Jeb as he stood up but his aide was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was already dead. The thought did nothing to calm his fears.
His captor reached out one foot and dragged the pistol closer, then bent to retrieve it, the rifle never leaving its deadly target. "Now, git your belongings, Yankee, ‘cause we’re heading for the Memphis brig."
Just as Philip set about gathering the supplies inside his tent, Jeb reappeared under guard and began to do likewise. It was a relief to Philip to know that his aide was alive and if their captors could be trusted, both of them were being taken to prison.
He struggled to lift his knapsack of medical supplies to his horse, but was stopped by a growled command from one of the Rebel soldiers. "Not so fast. That’s a mighty heavy load you got there, Yankee. Let’s take a look and see if you’re carrying arms in that thing."
"It’s medical supplies." Philip opened the bulky knapsack which bulged with his surgical instruments and his hoarded cache of donations from his hometown. "I’m a surgeon."
"The hell you say." The rough voice sounded astonished.
"What about him?" The Rebel’s head jerked toward Jeb McCallon.
"Him, too." It was only a small lie, and perhaps it would save his assistant’s life, or at least improve his status as a prisoner of war.
"Well, now, this changes things." The two soldiers exchanged glances and the older one spoke again. "Git on your horses, Yanks, and git ready to ride. We’re heading for Corinth. General Beauregard might have use for the two of you."
Philip’s eyes met Jeb’s as they mounted their horses. There was no way to know whether their new destination was better than the Memphis prison, but maybe they’d have a chance to escape along the way. He’d keep a sharp watch for any opportunities.
As they followed one Rebel captor with another keeping watch behind them, Philip wondered about the other soldiers who had left the boat. Now, he understood the reason for their orders to scatter and hide. Perhaps the others were still safe. The wind drove raindrops against his face like stinging needles as they left the woods and crossed a wide flat field. They were deep in enemy territory, and for the first time since he had enlisted, Philip feared for his life.
• ♥ •
Chattanooga, March 1862
Spring had come again to the mountains of East Tennessee and the city nestled in the valley below them. Clarissa was amazed at the different shades of green that could be seen in every direction, contrasted with splashes of color from the purple plum and dogwood trees that bloomed along the lower slopes.
Gathering the long skirts of her plaid tarlatan dress, she wove in and out among the rows of jonquils lining the walks between the house and other buildings in a merry game of tag with her son. Robert had been walking for almost a month now and his lop-sided gait was a delight to watch.
"Ma-ma!" he called, his short legs wobbling faster as she made a pretense of catching up with him.
He was a precocious child, everyone said, walking and talking at such an early age. A sign of intelligence, according to those same observers. What a joy he was, with his wide brown eyes and reddish hair that caught the sun like fire. And how she loved him. More than she had ever dreamed it possible to love another human being.
He ran ahead of her and ducked behind the carriage house and Clarissa slowed to give the child a moment of pleasure in hiding before she confronted him. Then darting around the corner to stage a quick surprise, it was she who received the greater one. Polly and Napoleon, lost in a close embrace, had been oblivious to Robert’s presence and only sprang apart when she called out, "Surprise! I found you!"
"Oh, Missa, I—we—didn’t know you was here," Polly stammered as she made a hasty effort to smooth her wrinkled clothing.
"That’s quite obvious," Clarissa told her servant in a cool tone.
"Ma-ma, Ma-ma." Robert tugged on his mother’s skirt in an effort to call attention to the fact that he’d been found.
"Come, it’s almost time for the Soldiers’ Aid ladies to arrive and I need you to take Robert upstairs for a rest."
Napoleon, head bowed contritely, did not meet her level gaze, and she quickly appraised the situation and decided to ignore his role in the encounter. She turned and led the way back to the house, Polly meekly following with Robert in tow.
"Missa," Polly said softly when they were out of earshot of the other servant, "please doan tell Masta Josiah ‘bout Napoleon and me. It was my fault more’n his we break the rules. An’ he didn’t mean no harm, it was only one kiss."
"I’ll have to think about this, Polly." Clarissa’s voice was as stern as she could manage. "And meanwhile, I shall expect you to show a little more discretion."
"Yes’um." Polly lifted Robert in her arms when they reached the veranda and without another word to her mistress, took the child upstairs.
Clarissa stood a moment looking after her slave. She had never even suspected that Polly and the Wakefields’ carriage driver might have an interest in each other. In fact, she had never really thought about Polly’s being interested in any man. She knew the slaves married and had children, but that was something that occurred in their own quarters and the idea of her slave getting married did not please her. Polly had always taken care of her, and now she had the additional care of Robert. It was unpalatable to think that she might have to share her slave’s attentions with that young man she was so passionately embracing a moment before. Clarissa frowned as she removed her bonnet. She had to see that Harriet prepared refreshments and served the ladies at the proper time. She would think about the problem of Polly and Napoleon later.
• ♥ •
It was an unspoken rule that at the Wakefield dinner table no reference to the war was ever mentioned. Josiah, grim and haggard from long days at the mill maintained a semblance of normalcy by chatting with the ladies about the weather and the happenings in the city and whomever of their acquaintance he had happened to meet during the day. But as the bitter hostilities continued, it grew more and more difficult to converse about anything that did not relate to the war in some way. Just the sight of the empty chairs around the table were a constant reminder that part of the family was absent. Clarissa often wondered why the extra chairs were not removed but supposed they signified the certainty of the men's return.
The largess of the Wakefield table also denied the hardship of a state at war. Sometimes it seemed to Clarissa that the stories of fighting and death and deprivation were make-believe and had no relation to her at all. It was hard to imagine that the bandages and clothing made by their Soldier's Aid Society was actually needed by people suffering from the effects of the battles that had so far left Chattanooga untouched. But she and Lydia had sons who had never seen their fathers and little Robert was nine months old now and as the heir apparent of the Wakefield fortune, the pride of his doting grandfather. No matter how late Josiah came home from the mill, he wanted to see his grandson, and the child was kept awake to share a few moments of play with him before being put to bed.
Clarissa, thinking her own thoughts as the conversation buzzed around her, suddenly became aware that the servants were removing the dessert plates and the ladies were rising from the table. Since there was no longer anyone with whom to share a glass of afte
r-dinner bourbon, Josiah usually lingered for a few moments in the parlor with the ladies and then retired to the library to continue working until late into the night.
"Clarissa," he put a hand on her arm as she rose from her chair, "was there any word from your husband today?"
"No, Father Wakefield, but Angeline did hear from Nathan, and it seems the men are still camped in Maryland."
"Ah," he nodded with relief.
"Father," Lydia stepped between Clarissa and Josiah and took his arm, "is the fighting still going on at Pittsburg Landing?"
"I think the worst is over, Daughter. Word is that our troops have retreated to Corinth, but the Union Army hasn't followed. I'd guess they're waiting for reinforcements before venturing so far into Confederate territory."
Lydia's eyes grew wide with fear. "Corinth? But if our armies are in Mississippi, who will stop the Yankees from invading us next?"
"Don't worry, my dear. Our armies will protect us from the enemy. There is little to defend in the western part of the state, but our city is essential to the Confederacy and Jeff Davis will never let it be taken." Patting her shoulder, he went on. "Now, why don't you play some of those new war songs everyone is singing? Those lively tunes might even expedite my work on the accounts I must finish tonight."
"Oh, Father, surely you'd rather hear something soothing. Maybe a little Chopin, or Brahms?"
"As you wish." He brushed his daughter's cheek, then Clarissa's and nodded to the others. "Goodnight, my dears."
Clarissa sat beside Florence Wakefield, accepted her demitasse cup, and gave Lydia's performance her outward attention. But her thoughts drifted to Mimosa Manor and her father and step-mother. She wondered how they were managing the large plantation in a border state so torn with conflict. Matilda had written that some of their slaves had deserted but she could at least take comfort in the knowledge that her father's debts had been paid through her marriage agreement with Malcolm. If it were not for her son, perhaps she and Angeline might have gone back to Kentucky until the war ended but because of Robert that was out of the question.