The Face of Heaven

by Murray Pura

  “Perhaps,” Lyndel spoke up, “Mr. Lincoln has a plan.”

  Hiram nodded. “No doubt he has. It may even be a very good one. But it’s out of his hands.” He glanced over at her. “It’s in the hands of men like Nathaniel.”

  Morganne gave a short laugh. “You are no patch of moonlight on the waters, are you, Mr. Wright?”

  “I’m sorry you find me a disappointment, Miss David.”

  “On the contrary. Now I see you have more behind your freckles and sweet-potato red hair than a dab of charm. You’re more interesting to me now than you were an hour ago.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Are you?” Morganne faced forward again, settling her hands in her lap. “Let us see what the long journey brings our way.”

  They traveled through the night, moving slowly, the horses plodding along half-asleep. Morganne rested her head on Hiram’s shoulder and closed her eyes while Lyndel lay down in the back. By noon on Tuesday the 16th they were drawing close enough to the front for officers to ask not only for Hiram’s correspondent pass but repeatedly for the pass Lyndel carried. Often enough her sheet of paper brought a grunt of surprise.

  “Well,” said one captain handing it back to Lyndel, “it’s a strange thing to have you ladies so close to the cannon fire and musketry but I reckon Father Abraham knows what he’s doing.”

  At sunset Hiram finally pulled off the turnpike and into a field where other wagons had stopped for the night.

  “Is that it?” complained Lyndel.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s it,” replied Hiram. “The horses are beat and I’m beat, and there are so many Federal troops everywhere I would guess we’re pretty close to Lee’s army. I’d rather not drive past our pickets and wind up at Stonewall’s campfire by mistake.”

  Lyndel called out to an officer who was riding past with several aides. “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me where we are?”

  The officer reined in and smiled. “Ladies so close to the front? To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I am Lyndel Keim. This is my companion Morganne David. We are nurses. Our driver Mr. Hiram Wright is a war correspondent.”

  The officer tipped his Stetson to Morganne and Lyndel. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Alois Bachman, ma’am.”

  “Miss, if you don’t mind.”

  “Miss it is then. May I see your pass?”

  Lyndel produced the folded sheet of paper. Bachman strained to read it in the dark and drizzle. “President Lincoln? Nurses for the 19th Indiana and its brigade?” He looked at her in surprise. “But I am the commander of the 19th Indiana.”

  Lyndel was equally startled. “Where is Colonel Meredith?”

  “Battle injuries prevent him from retaining command for this battle.” Bachman folded the sheet and handed it back to her. “Don’t let the ink run. No one will permit you and your friend to remain here without it.”

  “Where is the 19th, sir?”

  Bachman pointed. “Bivouacked by the turnpike a mile or so ahead. But you are probably as far as you need to go tonight, nurse or no nurse.” He nodded at the women and said, “I thank you for caring about our men. Please form up with our ambulance corps in the morning and inform the surgeons of your presence. The wounded will be grateful for your skills once the battle is joined.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Lyndel replied. “I wish you and your men well. And a speedy recovery to Colonel Meredith.”

  “Yes, we all are hoping for the best for the Colonel. I pray whatever sacrifices are made tomorrow will not be made in vain.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “May God protect you and Miss David. I will see you in the field. Two young ladies will be a marvel at a time of bloodshed.”

  He rode off with his cluster of lieutenants and second lieutenants.

  Hiram began to unharness the horses. “There. Now you know you are close to Nathaniel.”

  “If he’s with them.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be with them?”

  “You couldn’t find him at Upton’s Hill.”

  “Miss Keim, I only had one afternoon there and the whole 19th regiment hadn’t even arrived. Courage. Has his name ever shown up on any of the casualty lists in the papers? I feel in my bones Nathaniel is alive. What do you feel in your bones?”

  “Aches and pains from being jolted up and down all the way through Maryland.” Morganne was grinning. “May I spread my bedroll under the wagon?”

  “Best place. At least you’ll have a roof.” Hiram began to lead the horses into the darkness. “I’m going to water the horses. The Potomac is just over to the right. There’s a creek called Antietam around here as well if I can find it.”

  “Don’t be long,” called Morganne.

  “Ten minutes, Miss David, no more.”

  Lyndel had her hands on her hips. “Fancy him?”

  One side of Morganne’s mouth curled upward in a smile. “I have since we left Washington. Didn’t care for him much before that.”

  “What’s changed?”

  Morganne stretched. “Oh, the scenery.”

  Lyndel flicked a hand in her direction. “Suit yourself. He’s a good friend. I think I’ll sleep in the wagon.”

  “Is there room?”

  “More room than there was in Miss Barton’s boxcar.”

  Lyndel made her bed close to a stack of bandages. She lay on her back and listened to the movement of horses and wagons on the road. Someone was calling for a Sergeant Hanson. Then she heard Hiram return and a laugh spring like silver from Morganne’s throat. Lyndel smiled in the dark. Well, why not? They were both persons she cared about. Maybe it would work out for them in the long run.

  Thinking of Morganne and Hiram as a couple turned her thoughts toward Nathaniel. Hiram had faith that he was alive. Why didn’t she? Despite the wagon wheels and horse hooves and voices around her she was able to pick out a cricket as it talked to the night. What if Nathaniel was lying in his bedroll a mile up the turnpike? Was he listening to the wheels creaking past too? Could he hear the crickets? While he lay there, did he still think of her? Was he writing letters and trying to mail them even though he knew her father would never let her have them?

  Or is he in the stone-cold ground?

  She turned on her side. Morganne tapped on the bottom of the wagon and she tapped back. She drifted in and out of sleep. Suddenly there was the pop-pop of muskets far ahead. Then a silence deeper than the silence of a quiet night on the farm in Elizabethtown. A feeling crept over her arms and legs like the feeling she used to get when she was a little girl and frightened of ghosts. A feeling that something large and cold and wicked was approaching the door to her room. That it would wait a few minutes for the right moment. Then it would strain against the wood and hinges until not only the door would bend but the whole house collapse upon her head with a roar.

  12

  Nathaniel pulled out his pocket watch. It was 3:30. Just like the morning of the battle at Brawner’s Farm. He heard another pop. Picket fire had awakened him.

  He tugged a small Bible from a pocket in his coat. Stared at the pages until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he could make out letters and words. He read Psalm 91 twice. Then lay on his back and thought he could see a few very small stars.

  They had feasted on some foraged chickens until it felt to Nathaniel like the end of the war. And he wanted it to be the end of the war. No more battles. No more wounds. No one being left for dead in the grass. He wanted to head home.

  And on the way pick up Lyndel. A nurse in Washington—how was it possible? Why had her parents let her leave the Amish community and spend her days among the suffering and the dying? Did she have any idea that her brother was in the army now and not the ambulance corps? Levi had never told her. What would happen to Lyndel if they took her brother back to Washington on a stretcher with his arms blown off?

  Lord, it must not happen, it must not happen today. But what can I do to prevent it? Keep Levi at my right hand? Corinth was on my right at Brawner’
s Farm and I still lost him. What about Joshua? How do I protect him? How will I face his father if he falls today…and Abraham Yoder says I set the example his son followed? How will I escape the blame and judgment if all the boys from Elizabethtown are shot down and only I survive? What right would I have to live and breathe and return home to help with the harvest while they’re planted in the hard ground of Sharpsburg?

  Nathaniel sat up. There was no use thinking this way. It didn’t help. It didn’t change anything for the better. He should just pray, dwell on the thought of Lyndel a few moments as he always did, give the day to God, then get on his feet and drink some of Sergeant Hanson’s coffee and make sure his musket was clean and dry. Get the men up and get some hot food into them. March. Fight. Tear down the Rebel flag and with it the slave markets of Richmond and Atlanta and Charleston. If he couldn’t accomplish those things, he shouldn’t be here. If he couldn’t do those things the South’s way of life would win over the North’s and a million Charlie Prestons would be born into slavery to be lynched at a slaveholder’s whim.

  He took a small newspaper clipping from his Bible. Nip had picked it up from an abandoned Rebel campsite in Virginia and was going to use it to light a fire. Nathaniel asked if he could keep it. He propped himself on one elbow and read it for probably the twentieth time, squinting in the blackness.

  SLAVES! SLAVES! SLAVES!

  Forks of the Road, Natchez. The subscribers have just arrived in Natchez and are now stopping at Mr. Elam’s house, Forks of the Road, with a choice selection of slaves consisting of mechanics, field hands, cooks, washers and ironers, and general household servants. They will be constantly receiving additions to their present supply during the season and all will be sold at as reasonable rates as can be afforded in this market. To those purchasers desiring it, the Louisiana guarantee will be given. Planters and others desirous of purchasing are requested to call and see the slaves before purchasing elsewhere.

  Gunfire crackled all around him. He got to his feet and watched musket barrels sparkle a few hundred yards away. Nip rolled over and jumped up, his face white.

  “Are we under attack?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Nervous pickets. The armies are pretty close together.”

  Nip stared at the flashes as another half-dozen Springfields went off. “I kind of hoped Lee’s army might pull out during the night.”

  “Robert E. Lee? He’s not like our good old John Pope.”

  “I feel kind of hollow in the stomach.” Nip half-smiled. “Maybe the Rebs put something in the ham to turn Yankees inside out.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Stick close with me today, Nip,” Nathaniel said. “Since I lost Corinth, you’re my brother now, like it or not.”

  Nip offered up a half-smile.

  “All right, let’s get the fire going!” boomed Hanson. “Who can sleep with all the pickets shooting at hobgoblins? Let’s fry some bread while we have the time. I’ll brew the coffee that stops minie balls cold.” He looked at Nip. “How are ye this morning, soldier?”

  “I reckon I could use some of your minie-ball coffee, Sergeant.”

  “You still know how to set the wood ablaze?”

  “I do.”

  “Have at ’er then.” He looked around him. “Corporal Nicolson. Corporal King.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Shake the platoon out. Make sure every man has forty rounds in the cartridge box on his hip and another sixty in his pack. If someone’s short, get what he needs from an ammunition wagon. Check that the boys have plenty of percussion caps too. Especially the recruits. And listen—” Hanson stepped up to Nicolson and King and lowered his voice. “When the shooting starts I want you to sing out the loading sequence loud and clear. For two or three reloads. I want to be sure the new lads get it straight. They might freeze up once the Rebs open fire. All right?”

  Nicolson and King nodded. And then began to move among the sleeping men.

  “Harter. McKeever. Groom. Sala. Ham.” Nicolson’s voice rang out. “Up and get squared away. You have a busy day ahead of you. We have to help Bobby Lee get packed for his return trip south.”

  Nathaniel went toward the farm buildings. “Jones. Keim. Yoder. Plesko. Conkle. Rise and shine and check your cartridge box and cap box. We have some stiff work to do and you’ll need full boxes to do it. Make sure you have another sixty rounds in your pack.”

  Nip was feeding sticks into a knot of flames. “Where’s Crum?”

  “South Mountain,” Nathaniel said.

  Soon the platoon and a few extras from the company were seated around Nip’s small fire, warming their hands, frying bread in butter that had gone bad, choking down Sergeant Hanson’s coffee.

  “Private Plesko. Will ye have a mug of America’s finest?”

  The young man with soft eyes looked up from the fire. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He extended his tin cup and Hanson poured, the steam rising up.

  “Where from, Plesko?” asked Nicolson.

  “Indianapolis.”

  “What about your family name?”

  “Slovakia, Corporal. We’re from Slovakia in Europe. It’s close to Russia.”

  Ham whistled. “Too far to walk.”

  “How long have you been in Indianapolis?” pressed Nicolson.

  “Ten years. Father felt it was right we help the country that helped us. I enlisted on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Good man,” grunted Hanson, standing nearby and taking pulls at his coffee with all the muscles in his face straining.

  Plesko sipped at the coffee, stopped, looked at it, and smiled. “Father would say it needed a little more grease.”

  The men laughed.

  “So McKeever,” said Nicolson, intent on going through all the recruits. “Irish, am I right?”

  McKeever nodded. “Not so hard to figure out.”

  Nicolson went on. “Campbell. You Scottish?”

  Campbell tried to bite into his fried bread but it was too hot and he winced and almost dropped it in the dirt. “Not been there for a hundred years but yes, sure, Scottish. American first, Corporal.”

  “We’re all Americans first, right, lads?” thundered Hanson. “Look what the good Lord’s put together here. Jones is Welsh. ’Keever’s Irish. Plesko is Slovak. Campbell’s a Highlander. Keim, Yoder, and King are German, by the sounds of their English. Groom—what’s that?”

  “England.” Groom stared up at him, the coffee in his hand untouched. “Before 1700 we were here. Fought in the Revolution.”

  “Well done. On the winning side, I’m guessing.”

  The young man with curly black hair didn’t smile. “Grooms are always on the winning side.”

  “Are they? Then we should make quick work of the Army of Northern Virginia today.”

  “I should think so.” Groom poured his coffee slowly into the ground. “Not fit for Jeff Davis, Sergeant.”

  Hanson frowned. “That’s magic elixir there, Private. It doesn’t do to go wasting it.”

  “I imagine an oak tree will spring up from this spot. An oak tree could handle your concoction. Not having a stomach.”

  Joshua Yoder lifted his cup and tried to break the feeling Groom had cast over the breakfast fire. “It may not work for him. But it works for the Germans among you, Sergeant. My family background is Westphalian, mind you. Though I suppose there’s not much difference.”

  “Fine brew,” agreed Levi. “Is there enough for a second?”

  Hanson shook off Groom’s insult. “There is. Just enough, lad.” He leaned over and emptied the pot into Levi’s cup. “You get the bottom too, Private. How’s that?”

  “It will keep me going all day. I wish I had this on the farm.”

  “I’ll send you the recipe when the war’s over.”

  “Maybe today then,” smiled Nip who was happily seated beside Nathaniel.

  “That’s the spirit,” grinned Hanson.

  A drumroll broke in upon their
chatter. Lieutenant Davidson walked his horse along the turnpike as the drum continued to beat. “Sergeants. Prepare your men to move out. Get what food you can inside you.”

  He stopped and looked at Hanson’s platoon by the fire. “Isn’t that a cozy sight? Were you up all night, Sergeant?”

  “Since about four, I’d say, Lieutenant.”

  “All set for a good morning’s work it looks like.”

  “We are, sir. There’s no coffee left or I’d offer you a spot.”

  Davidson laughed and moved on. “I’ve heard about your coffee. I think we should serve it up to the Rebs. They’d head back to Virginia and Alabama lickety-bang.”

  Hanson watched Davidson urge his mount along the road. “Very few appreciate the finer things in a soldier’s life.”

  “Like Grandma’s Tippecanoe coffee,” said Nicolson getting to his feet.

  “Aye. Grandma’s Tippecanoe coffee. Had your fill then?”

  “I have. Ham’s had. Everyone’s had—except perhaps Private Groom and a few others.”

  “They’ll regret it when the balls are whistling past their ears,” growled Hanson. “The breeze alone will knock them flat.”

  He glanced over at Campbell and McKeever and Plesko who were still squatting by the fire. “What is it, lads?”

  “Will we…will be marching today, Sergeant?” asked Campbell.

  “Marching? Aye, there’ll be marching, there’s always marching.” He smoothed down his mustache with his hand. “But there’s likely to be some brisk work too. Today you’re going to see the elephant. Stick close to your corporals. Stick close to the man on your left and on your right. Do what they do. Go where they go. You’re part of a proud regiment and a proud brigade. We look out for one another. You’ll be all right.” He winked. “And you’ve had the coffee.”

  Nathaniel gathered Joshua and Levi around him. “I’d like to offer up a prayer. We are Amish. We fight not because it’s something we enjoy. None of us would be regular army, would we? The three of us have volunteered to bear arms because we want to live in a free country and we wish all the people within her borders to have that freedom. No one is to be left out, ja? It’s not freedom for some men or women over there but no freedom for these men and women over here. It’s one grand liberty for each human being. And we pray that all may one day have that same liberty of the spirit in Jesus Christ by their faith, ja? Today we load the gun and fix the bayonet so that tomorrow the African woman and child and man sit down at their table without fear, without the whip, without a price on their heads. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.”