A Place in Your Heart

by Kathy Otten

  “Three years.” Why Charles had told Breen that Gracie had lost her husband, he could only attribute to a temporary lapse of common sense. All he could think about were the words on that paper. Charles is dead. Charles is dead.

  “She’s a handsome woman. Does she have a beau?”

  “Who?”

  “Your sister.” Subdued laughter ran through Breen’s words.

  “I don’t have a—oh, Gracie.” Charles didn’t have a sister, but maybe Jason did. Maybe Jason had brothers too. A real family. Should he try to find the answers?

  “No.” He gripped the reins tighter. “No, she doesn’t have a beau.”

  Why couldn’t Breen treat him as indifferently as the other officers? Why did the man have to be so nice, offering to share his mess, helping him find a horse? Lying to him about Gracie would be so much easier then, although Charles had never been good at perpetuating falsehoods.

  After a nine-mile march, word came down through the column to halt. The pontoniers had spent the whole night hauling the bridge trains seven miles through thick forest in the rain, to reach U.S. Ford in time. Now new approaches needed to be cut from the dense woods to the banks on either side of the river. General Couch detailed five hundred infantry men to help clear the trees.

  The remaining men rested along the road. Charles and Breen dismounted holding the reins while their horses hungrily nipped short the wet grass and munched the leaves of the surrounding brush.

  The sharp popping of gunfire drifted from the southwest.

  “What’s that?” Breen tensed. His gaze darted around the dense woods on either side of the road.

  “Sounds like a skirmish with some Confederate pickets. I only heard a few bursts of rifle fire.”

  Breen nodded and relaxed his stiffened posture.

  Charles didn’t want to think about what tomorrow would bring. Nor was he inclined to dwell on that damned note, My name is Jason. Charles moved to the back of his horse and checked his saddle bags.

  “I have some extra room,” he said as he rose to his feet and gathered his reins. “I’m riding back to the medical wagons for some more suture and bandages.”

  “Why?” Breen asked. “These packs are heavy enough.”

  Charles stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the back of his horse. “Because the ambulances and Autenreiths likely won’t be crossing the river.”

  Breen rolled to his feet. “Are you sure? That doesn’t make any sense. We’ll need the supplies.”

  “This is a light march. Ammunition wagons and rations are ahead of the ambulances and medical wagons they did send. But they won’t come over until the fighting is done.”

  “Then can you grab some extra for me?”

  Charles gave him a nod then turned his horse and followed the edge of the narrow road, past the rest of the column toward the rear.

  ****

  Shadows lay upon shadows as the fading sunshine filtered through the woods in golden dapples and brought a premature end to the day. By the time Charles and Breen emerged from the trees and moved their horses down the hill, moonlight illuminated the newly cleared shorelines along the Rappahannock.

  Ahead, two long columns, Couch’s Second Corps and Sickles’ Third, stretched like marching ants across the open, over bridges to the opposite shore. Empty pontoon wagons and unused timber littered the wide banks. Horses munched on scattered hay, and engineers slept in hollows carved in the soft sandy soil.

  Between the swelled current and the shifting weight of the Second Corps as it crossed, the bridge tipped and wavered so that some men could hardly stand. Charles’ horse followed Breen’s to the edge of a bridge that was nothing more than tree trunks lashed together over pontoons.

  Breen’s horse clomp-clomped onto the bridge. The long-legged bay Charles rode, lowered his head, his ears pricked forward. He blew huffs of air through his nose but refused to place his hoof onto the first of the lashed timbers.

  Charles thumped the animal’s sides with his heels, but the gelding wouldn’t move. Leaning back in the saddle, he gave the horse a sharp swat on the rump, but the animal stubbornly refused to budge.

  The rest of the long column continued forward, their boot heels thudding an irregular cadence against the logs.

  Ahead of him on the bridge, Breen stopped and looked back. When the man’s laughter rang out, Charles rubbed his aching forehead. His ears burned, and he gave the horse another swat.

  Richards rode up beside him leading the pack horse. “Want me to give it a try?” He came up alongside and leaned over to grab the left rein from Charles. Then with a click of his tongue he urged his mount forward as he tugged Charles’ horse to the bridge.

  The horse stretched his head and neck out as far as they would go, but his white stockinged legs remained firmly on solid ground.

  Richard’s turned back in his saddle. “Sir, the ammo wagons are coming up close. You want to swap? I’ll take your mount and cross him last. I’m betting he won’t want to be left behind.”

  Skin crawling as though a thousand eyes watched, Charles nodded and dismounted, avoiding the gazes of all those men whose snickers reached his ears.

  After switching horses, Charles swung into the saddle of the smaller horse dropping the shorter stirrups to ride without them.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind.” Richards passed Charles the lead ropes for two pack mules. “If your horse don’t want to go, I might have to swim him across, and I’d hate for all your medicines and instruments to get wet.”

  “Fine.” Charles extended his hand for the rope. At this point he didn’t care. He’d drawn too much attention already and only wanted to get on his way, make camp and get something to eat.

  Even though Richards’ horse wasn’t short enough to be considered a pony, the heels of Charles’ boots hung low so that he felt as if he was mounted on Toby, the Shetland Pony his grandfather had given him, on whom he’d first learned to ride.

  This horse was a plucky little thing, however, and gamely stepped onto the undulating bridge. Head bobbing as he walked, he quickly carried Charles over the wide expanse of murky green water as though he’d done it a hundred times. And as easy as that, Charles was in Confederate territory.

  “You have to swim across?” Breen asked as Charles rode up beside him.

  Charles frowned. “No. Why?”

  “I figured you must have, ’cause it looks like your horse got shrunk.” Another burst of laughter erupted from the man.

  Charles frowned. “But neither the horse nor I are wet.”

  Breen’s mouth dropped open for a moment. Then he doubled over laughing, slapping his thigh several times. “By God,” he sputtered a few moments later. “You’re a hell of a lot more fun than stodgy old Bertram Foster.”

  Charles gave his head a shake unsure if he had inadvertently made a joke or if he had once again become the punch line.

  ****

  They marched into woods, heading south, past empty rifle pits and gun emplacements. Dark seeped into silvery black as evening shadows stretched into moonlit night. They bivouacked at the intersection of Mineral Springs and Ely’s Ford roads, where the only cleared area in the dense woods and underbrush belonged to an area farmer. The orange-red glows from hundreds of cook fires lit the clearing as men prepared their rations.

  Charles spread his gum blanket beneath the boughs of a hickory tree and eased his aching body against the narrow trunk. Coffee cup in hand, he inhaled the bitter aroma.

  Breen, Richards, two other doctors, and their assistant surgeons, sat either cross-legged or reclined around the fire. Richards had taken their hardtack, broken the squares into pieces, and soaked them in the water he’d used to boil the salt pork. He then pan cooked the meat and fried the softened crackers in the grease.

  It wasn’t oysters and crab, but at least Charles’ stomach had stopped rumbling and the pounding that had plagued his head all day eased with each sip of coffee. He set his cup in the grass, arranged his blankets, and using
his haversack as a pillow, stretched out on the ground.

  He stared through the near-black tangle of branches and leaves to the patches of charcoal night. Around him droned the indistinct murmurs of thousands of men readying for sleep.

  My name is Jason.

  No. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Think about setting up the hospital tomorrow. Ground with good drainage, water, and straw for the wounded, making do with his field pack until the ambulances and medical wagons came up from the rear.

  He could do this. He was a surgeon. He saved lives. He didn’t panic. After all tomorrow couldn’t be as bad as Antietam or Fredericksburg.

  ****

  “You can do it, sweetie. You’re such a smart little boy.”

  Sitting on her lap, with her arms secure around his waist, he studied each letter on the page of his new book.

  “A. In Adam’s fall, We sinned all,” he painstakingly read.

  “That’s right.”

  “B. Thy life to mend, This Book attend.”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetie. Four years old and bright as a new penny.”

  “C. The Cat doth play, And after slay.”

  She leaned her face close to his and kissed his cheek. “Mama’s so proud of her little Jason.”

  ****

  No! My name is Charles.

  He jerked upright. Nothing but the snores of a sleeping army and countless cook fires reduced to coals, like the flickering of a thousand orange fire flies on a summer night.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and lay down again. Fire flies. When had his thoughts ever been so fanciful? Damn, the fighting hadn’t even started, and he was already losing control.

  Closing his eyes, this time he focused on Gracie McBride and how pretty she’d look wearing something other than black. Maybe dressed in a light purple gown, with her red hair done up fancy.

  Auburn. The correct color was auburn.

  He imagined her hand in his, her other resting on his shoulder. With his hand cupping her waist they would waltz together at one of the fancy balls his grandfather always forced him to attend. Would she wear her red petticoat?

  ****

  “Sweetie, my dress isn’t purple, it’s lilac. Like the flowers outside the back door.” Gentle fingers threaded through his hair. Her voice was light and happy. He was happy.

  ****

  “Charles…my dar…ling,” the woman’s voice was thin and trembling. She lay in a big bed, her head turned in his direction. She lifted her chalky white hand. Limp on the blanket a moment ago, she raised it and gestured weakly for him to come closer.

  He shook his head. Her damp hair and sunken eyes made her look like a witch. Squeezing Bunzy tight, he backed up.

  Something prodded him between his shoulder blades.

  “Go see your mother, boy. Give her a kiss.”

  No! He twisted away from the old man’s walking stick.

  ****

  Charles gasped and sat up. His heart pounded. He kicked free from his tangle of blankets. He ran his hand over the smooth ground cloth. Something poked against the rubberized fabric. Groping in the dark, he slid his hand underneath and sifted through the flattened grass.

  A small stone. He pulled it out and ran his fingers over it. The circumference about the same size as the tip of Grandfather’s cane. For a moment his fingers clenched the cool hardness against his palm then he drew back his arm and hurled it into the trees. He listened but didn’t hear it land.

  His feet itched with the restless need to walk, to extend his long legs out along the rough road and keep moving until exhaustion drove this whirling turmoil from his head.

  But didn’t want to be shot by a jumpy picket. He shuddered from a cold that settled deep inside him. Digging through his haversack, he pulled out his bottle of whiskey.

  He sat against the tree and sipped savoring the warmth that slid through him. Shadows moved as the pickets changed duty.

  Jason.

  His name was Jason.

  The realization churned the whiskey in his stomach. He downed another swallow and squeezed his eyes closed.

  How had this happened to him? He was the same, yet everything was different. God, who was he?

  My name is Jason.

  Damn Gracie McBride.

  The woman who lay dying in the bed hadn’t smelled of lilacs or called him, Sweetie. Her cheek had been cold, not warm. She had never been his mother.

  The woman had called him Charles that day, and Jason was no more.

  The truth left him disoriented, lost in a whirlwind of disconnected thoughts. Maybe it was the whiskey. Either way there was no going back. His life had changed forever.

  He must have dozed, for the next thing to pierce his conscious mind was the warble and chirp of birds. Slowly, the trees came alive with their singing, and for those few moments, Charles savored the sense of contentment.

  He opened his eyes. Reality.

  Richards poked at the coals. Coffee beans roasted in a pan. Beyond him, others stirred in their bedrolls, faint silhouettes in the charcoal gray of pre-dawn. Maintaining the need for quiet, no bugles blew reveille.

  Charles rolled to his feet, shoved his bottle into his haversack, and headed into the trees to relieve himself. On the way back, he gathered an armload of sticks for the fire.

  While they munched on hard tack and coffee, Major-General Hancock and his aide rode into their area.

  Major Triscut walked over to meet him. He fired off a quick salute, and the two talked for a few minutes. Hancock turned his horse, and Major Triscut made way his between campfires and joined them.

  Richards passed the major a cup of coffee as he and the other surgeons listened to their orders.

  “Our division will be marching east on Orange Turnpike in an hour,” Triscut began. “General Hooker’s headquarters are at the brick house at the crossroads. We’ll plant our green flag about a mile from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember once the wounded start coming in, they will likely be from all divisions as well as the other corps. Treat everyone the same. I don’t want the men from our division made a priority for care over any other.”

  Major Triscut passed Richards the empty coffee cup.

  “Captain,” he turned to Charles. “I’m grateful for the experience you bring to this division.” He leveled a long hard stare on Charles.

  Charles met his gaze without flinching. This would not be a repeat of Fredericksburg. He would not have another nervous attack. “We’ll be fine, sir.”

  Major Triscut nodded. “God be with us all, gentlemen.”

  Charles drew a deep breath. And so it begins. He shoved his hands behind his back, squeezing his fingers tight.

  He met Breen’s eager gaze with a frown. “You’d best eat up. We march in an hour, and this might be the last meal we have for a while.”

  ****

  …twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine… Gracie placed the tip of her pencil to the next line in her notebook. Thirty barrels each, she wrote. Bandages, and lint.

  Male voices rumbled from the front of the warehouse.

  “Where you want we should put these?”

  “What do you boys have there?” Mr. Bridgerton asked from the counter.

  “Bed ticks and pillows.”

  “Put them over there on those shelves beside the shirts and towels. Mrs. McBride hasn’t inventoried that row yet.”

  Boot heels tromped back and forth across the floor as the men transported their load from the train to the shelves a couple of aisles away.

  Gracie finished the section of hospital supplies and turned the corner to count the food stuffs. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one… She continued her inventory of the supplies the Sanitary Commission allotted to the II Corps hospitals.…thirty-two hundred pounds farina.

  “You boys pick up any word on the fighting?” The gravelly voice of Mr. Bridgerton rumbled through the warehouse.

  “Naw, just that fighting commenced.”


  She prayed to God Charles, or rather Jason, would stay safe. Doctor Ellard never actually denied he was Jason, only accused her of trying to control his life. Maybe he’d always known the truth. Maybe he didn’t want to be Jason.

  Ignoring her crazy thoughts, she focused on her inventory. Twenty-six hundred pounds condensed milk. Gracie jotted the total in her notebook and inched her way closer to the conversation.

  “I come through The Wilderness back a’fore the war,” one of the young men said. “Sure as hell glad I ain’t fightin’ in that dark, wet, tangled up bramble of hickory and blackjack.”

  Gracie set her notebook on a shelf next to the cases of wine and cordials. She straightened her apron and marched down the aisle to the front of the warehouse.

  Mr. Bridgerton and two privates leaned against a counter that was little more than boards laid across two barrels.

  “Have ye any news o’ the Sixty-first New York?”

  The young men straightened and whipped their kelpies from their heads.

  “The Sixty-first?” The younger of the two men rubbed his jaw. “Ain’t that part a’ General Zook’s brigade?”

  “Naw, the Sixty-first is Colonel Miles regiment. They’s part of Caldwell’s brigade, and Hancock’s First.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup. My cousin Marlon’s in the Sixty-first.” He raised his gaze to Gracie’s. “You got kin in that regiment?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Captain Charles Ellard. He’s a surgeon. Though he should be safe from harm, being at the rear of the fighting.”

  The young privates exchanged glances then one looked down to study his shoes as the other dug his thumbnail into the counter and ran it along the grain of the wood.

  “Ma’am.” Mr. Bridgerton leveled his steady gaze on her. “I know he’s your brother, but lines of battle change, advances become retreats. Doctors die, too. Pretending they don’t, don’t make it true.”

  She squeezed her cold fingers tight and tried to swallow the ache that rose in the back of her throat. First William, then Michael and Callum.

  The compulsion to be with him stirred restlessly inside. Though she knew her presence wouldn’t actually offer protection, she needed to be with him. Whether for his benefit or her own, she refused to consider. Maybe Doctor Ellard was right. Maybe she did need to be in control, but she couldn’t just stay here counting beef stock and fruit.