The two women sat there at the table for a long time, Frankie speaking of herself more freely than she ever had to any other person. Marianne Bristol was a good listener, and when the girl finished, she said, “You’ll forget last night. Or maybe you won’t…but soon it will be like an old scar, like this one on my hand. I cut myself when I was twelve years old. When it happened, it hurt dreadfully, but it doesn’t hurt a bit now. Last night will be like that, my dear, if you let God do a little healing.”
“I–I’ll try, Mrs. Bristol.”
“Why don’t you call me Marianne? I’d like that very much.”
“All right.” Frankie rose and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. She dabbed at her eyes and managed to come up with a smile. “I never really knew my mother,” she said. “But if I had, I’m sure this is what it would have been like.”
“I’d be so proud if you’d think of me in that way, Frankie!”
The two smiled warmly at each other; then Frankie turned and left. If I could only be like her, she thought as she went to the laboratory. Then a darker thought came: If she knew I was a spy, I wonder if she’d be so kind. She could not bear the thought of hurting Marianne, so she tried to push the thought away.
When she entered the lab, Paul looked up, and a strange light came to his eyes. He set the flask of amber liquid he’d been holding down on a table and came to her. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said at once, taking her hands in his. His eyes looked tired, and his hair was rumpled. “I had a terrible fight with Luci about it. Where’d you go when you ran out? I looked everywhere for you!”
“I just wanted to be alone, Mr. Bristol,” she said, acutely aware of the strength of his hands around hers. “And it’s all right. I…was pretty hurt, but your mother…she helped me a lot just now.”
“She’s good at that,” Paul said, suddenly aware that he felt as awkward as he could ever remember feeling. Frankie always seemed so sturdy and confident, yet as she stood before him now she seemed to be almost fragile. He wanted to hug her, to hold and comfort her. Just like I would Marie, he told himself, ignoring the small voice that called him a liar. But he knew Frankie would not stand for such action from him, so he just said, “Well, next time we’ll do it better.” A smile touched his lips, and he added, “Tell you what, next time I’ll take on the job of getting you ready. It’ll be like…well, like you were my daughter.”
Frankie looked at him, startled and not at all pleased. “No!” she exclaimed, then when he looked at her in surprise, went on, “You’re—you’re too young to be my father!”
“Well, maybe an older brother,” Bristol corrected, taken aback by her adamant assertion. Then, not wanting to drag the moment on, he said, “I’ve decided to leave for Tennessee.”
“You mean right away?”
“Day after tomorrow,” he said, nodding. “Grant’s not going to wait long. He’s got the men and the arms to fight, and that man’s a fighter! I hear General Johnston’s begging Davis for every man he can spare, but with McClellan coming toward Richmond, there just aren’t any extra troops. I figure we’ll have to hurry to get to Tennessee before the thing starts.”
“All right. We’ll need some more supplies, Mr. Bristol.”
A frown came to Paul’s face. “Look, you can’t go on calling me that. It makes me sound…old—” He broke off for a moment at the unpleasant realization that he was old compared to Frankie, then pushed that thought away. “Everyone calls my father Mr. Bristol,” he finished offhandedly. “Can’t have you confusing them by calling me the same thing. My name is Paul.”
“All right—Paul.” The use of his first name gave Frankie a queer sensation, and she smiled shyly. “It sounds funny when I call you that. Like calling President Davis ‘Jeff.’”
Bristol laughed, saying, “Better not try that if you ever meet him, Frankie. He’s pretty formal.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. When I met President Lincoln, I didn’t call him ‘Abe.’” She saw him staring at her, astonishment on his face. “Didn’t I ever tell you? He came to have Mr. Brady take his picture. I got to meet him, though. He has the hugest hands, Paul!” He noted with pleasure how easily his name came to her. “And the kindest eyes!”
“Not like what we see in the Richmond papers? A gorilla ready to kill us all?”
“Oh no! He’s so…so very sad! He told funny stories and made everyone laugh, but his heart is breaking. I could tell.”
Bristol thought about her words, then shook his head. “It’s all so crazy. A man like that—and I’m supposed to hate him. And there’s Clay and Dent and the Franklins—Brad, Grant, and Vince…most of our family’s men from the South going to fight Gideon and Tyler and our own kin whose only fault is that they live in the North.” A gloom came to him, and he shook it off, saying, “It’s more than I can figure out. So I guess it’s good that all I have to do is take pictures. Let’s make a list of everything we need, Frankie. We’ll have to load the wagon up to the sideboards!”
With that, they got to work, each one reflecting on what a pleasure it was to work with—to be with—the other…and then each one chastising him- or herself for having such unbusinesslike thoughts!
The sun was shining when Paul and Frankie left Virginia—a bright yellow April sun that poured its warmth over the land. They had left early, having said all their good-byes the evening before. All day they traveled west, making good time on the dry roads. They made camp very late, off the road beside a small stream. By the time Paul had unharnessed the team, set them out to graze, and put up the tent, Frankie had built a fire and was cooking supper. “Sit down, Paul,” she said cheerfully. “Supper’s almost ready.”
Bristol lay down, propping himself up on his elbow, watching her as she took the bacon out of the pan and began frying eggs. “Made good time today,” he said. “Hope the weather holds up.” They chatted comfortably until she had finished cooking; then the two of them ate hungrily. Paul shoveled the eggs down, saying, “I’ve decided to head for the Tennessee River as soon as we’re out of Virginia. I think we can get the wagon on a flat-bottomed barge. Unless the river’s low, we can go through Chattanooga. The river cuts south for a bit, but we can ride it all the way back up to Shiloh in Tennessee, provided it doesn’t get too dangerous.”
“You mean we might run into Federal troops?”
“Sure. When Forts Donelson and Henry were taken, that gave the Yankees control of the Cumberland and the Tennessee. We’ll have to get off the barge somewhere south of the Mississippi border and find the Confederate Army.”
When they had finished the bacon and eggs, Frankie said, “Got a surprise for you.” She rose and went to the wagon, then came back with a flat box. “Your mother said these were your favorite.”
Bristol took the box, opened it, then looked up with pleasure. “Fried apple pies!” He fished one of the small pies out, took a huge bite, and mumbled, “Delicious! Did Mother make them?”
“No, I did, but she showed me how.”
Paul had been lifting the pie to his mouth but paused and looked at her suspiciously. “You say you made these pies? I don’t believe it! Nobody ever made them this good, except Blossom and Mother!”
“They’re easy to make,” Frankie said, pleasure filling her. She watched him for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to eat them all?”
“Oh! Here—,” Paul said sheepishly, handing her the box. Then a devilish grin broke out on his face. “You can’t have more than two or three, though,” he warned. “You’ll find I’m totally selfish—and even belligerent—when it comes to fried apple pie.”
Never one to ignore a challenge, Frankie grinned at him impishly. “Is that so?” she asked casually, reaching out. “Well then, I guess I’d better just…“—she grasped the box—”take what I can!” She jumped up and ran for the wagon. In a flash, Paul was after her, and she screamed in laughter when he grabbed her from behind, lifting her from the ground. With a tug, he got the box away from her, then st
ood there, holding the box high with one hand and using his free arm to pin Frankie against his side. She struggled briefly, then gave it up, weak from laughter.
“You win, you big bully!” she said, looking up at him, and then her breath caught in her throat. Paul was staring at her as though he had never seen her before—or as though he were seeing her for the first time. Her eyes widened at the expression on his face, and for one panic-filled moment she thought he was going to kiss her.
Exactly what he had planned to do would remain a mystery, though, for it was at that precise moment that one of the pies chose to slip from the box and fall, landing squarely on Paul’s head.
“Oh!” Frankie exclaimed, then could not help herself—she dissolved into laughter.
“What the—!” Paul yelled in surprise, letting her go. Then he, too, began to laugh as pie crust and filling slipped down his forehead. Still laughing, they returned to the campfire, and Paul went down to the stream to clean up. By the time he returned, Frankie had another pot of coffee brewed.
They sat there eating the pies—Paul ate four, Frankie one—and then drank coffee in thick mugs. The wind moved overhead, causing a dance in the branches of the water oaks they sat under. Now and then the rumble of a wagon from the road came to them, or the tattoo of a galloping horse—but it all seemed far away.
Paul found himself watching Frankie, admiring her skills and efficiency—and the way the firelight glowed on her face. “You like this, don’t you, Frankie?” he asked, smiling. “Camping out, I mean.”
“Well, I guess I’ve spent about as much time sleeping outside as I have inside. Yes, I like it. I miss hunting most, I guess. Did I ever tell you about my dogs?”
“No. Coon hounds?” He listened as she spoke with affection of her dogs. He was tired, but warm and comfortable, and now and then he nibbled at a pie. When she ceased speaking, he said, “Look at the sky.… I never saw such stars!”
“I love it when the stars glitter like this.” Frankie put her cup down on the ground and lay on her back, throwing her arms up over her head, studying the sky. The sudden movement threw her graceful figure into prominence—and the curves of her body startled Bristol. The feelings that had surged through him when he’d held her close during their pie struggle returned with a vengeance, and he thought at once of Blossom’s warning. He looked away hastily and said, “Guess I’ll go to bed. Long trip tomorrow, and I’m sore from sitting down so long.”
“Good night, Paul,” she said, still staring at the stars.
He stood up and started for the wagon, then turned to ask, “Frankie, you’re all right, aren’t you? I mean…you’re not thinking about the ball anymore?”
“I’m fine.” Frankie rolled over on her side, rested her cheek on her hand, and smiled at him. Her teeth were very white, and her curly hair framed her face. “Don’t think about it anymore. I should never have gone. From now on, I’ll hunt coons and run around with whiskery photographers.”
Paul was relieved. The girl seemed to have gotten over the dreadful scene. “I’ll shave in the morning,” he said. “Good night, Frankie.”
For the next few days they drove the horses at as fast a rate as they dared. They camped out, grateful for the fine weather conditions. As the days passed, they grew more comfortable with each other—though Paul was careful to avoid any real physical contact with Frankie—and by the time they reached the Tennessee River, they were so acquainted with each other’s ways that they could sit for hours without speaking, neither one needing to make useless talk.
They managed to find passage on a flat-bottomed scow, and Paul paid the fare with gold instead of Confederate money, which pleased the captain of the small craft, a short, chunky man named Lomax. Paul watched as Lomax’s men loaded the wagon and then unharnessed the team. There was a small store close by, so he walked with Frankie to buy feed for the animals. When they returned, Lomax grunted, “I’m ready if you folks are.”
The scow moved slowly down the river, but they traveled at night and so made good time. Since the scow had no accommodation for passengers, Paul gave Frankie orders to sleep in the wagon while he bunked underneath in his blankets. Lomax turned out to be addicted to poker and would not rest until he got Bristol into a game. The result was that Paul won their fare back and probably would have won the barge, as well, but he refused to play any more.
Lomax was sullen for the rest of the trip. When they got to the Mississippi border, he said, “This is far as I go. The Yankees are upriver.” So they unloaded their wagon and team and headed out on land.
That night they stopped at a farmhouse, and the farmer agreed to let them camp on his property. “Better not be headin’ north,” he warned them. “Army is there, over at Corinth, I heard. And the Yankees got more soldiers than a hound dog’s got fleas, so they say.” He peered at the two carefully. “Be you Yankees or Confederates?” he asked suddenly.
“Confederate,” Paul said at once. “We’ve got to find General Johnston’s army right away.”
“Well, you kin sleep out in the pasture, and in the mornin’ you’d better skedaddle down the road to Corinth. You won’t have no trouble findin’ the army, I don’t reckon.”
They slept until four in the morning, had a cold breakfast, and by dawn were on their way to Corinth. At three that afternoon, they were stopped by a patrol of Confederate cavalry. The lieutenant, a stripling of no more than nineteen, looked at their papers—especially the one signed by President Davis—and grinned. “Come to take pictures of the Bluebellies gettin’ whipped? Come on, I’ll take you to headquarters. Got enough generals there to stock a store.”
He wheeled his horse, and Paul whipped the horses up to follow. “Well, this is the place, Frankie. Are you scared?”
“No. We’ll be all right. Your mother’s praying for us, didn’t you know?”
Bristol grinned at her. “Well now, how did I forget a thing like that?” He laughed softly, shook his head, then cried out, “Git up, you lazy mules. We got some pictures to take!”
CHAPTER 17
A SMALL CASUALTY
The old adage “Too many cooks spoil the broth” found firm proof of its truth at Corinth, Mississippi, in early April of 1862. A revised version could read, “Too many commanders spoil the battle.”
General Albert Sidney Johnston was the supreme commander of the Army of Mississippi in the West, but he had received too much help from General Beauregard, the hero of Bull Run. Beauregard considered himself a military genius and had carved the army into four corps, each with two or more divisions. The officers he appointed as corps commanders were distinguished men, though not necessarily in the military field. Brigadier General John C. Breckinridge, who headed a corps of 7,200, had been vice president of the United States under Buchanan…but he had never led troops in battle. Major General Leonidas Polk was outstanding as an Episcopal bishop, but lacked the experience to make full use of his West Point training as he commanded a 9,400-man corps. Major General William J. Hardee, whose corps had 6,700 men, was a capable officer and tactician who had served as commander of cadets at West Point.
The fourth commander was a puzzling figure. Major General Braxton Bragg, Johnston’s adjutant and commander of the Second Corps, which boasted 16,200 men, was a West Pointer who had served with distinction in the Mexican War. Bragg was forceful in the extreme, highly confident—and deeply flawed. His foul temper, belligerence, and chronic inflexibility had become legend in both armies. Grant liked to tell a joke about the time Bragg did temporary duty as both company commander and quartermaster. As company commander, he demanded certain supplies; as quartermaster, he refused. He continued an angry exchange of memorandums to himself in these two roles and finally referred the matter to his post commander. That officer cried, “My God, Mr. Bragg, you have quarreled with every officer in the army, and now you are quarreling with yourself!”
On the evening of April 2, word arrived in Corinth from General Beauregard that the Confederate Army must strike th
eir foes. “Now is the moment to advance and strike the enemy at Pittsburg Landing.”
The whole thing was a matter of numbers, as General Albert Sidney Johnston well knew. Grant was advancing with 30,000 men, approximately the same number as Johnston commanded. However, another Union force—the Army of the Ohio under Major General Don Carlos Buell—was marching from Nashville to join Grant with fifty thousand men. Once the two were united, the Confederates would be outnumbered two to one.
Johnston devised a simple plan of attack: The Confederate Army would move ahead in a simple order of advance in compact columns. But once again, Beauregard gave too much help. He concocted a more difficult scheme, suitable only for experienced units, in which three corps would attack in three successive lines, each spread across a three-mile front.
The weakness of Beauregard’s plan was made apparent even as the troops tried to march to Pittsburg Landing, where Grant was camped. Merely managing the heavy traffic on the two roads to Pittsburg Landing required an intricate march pattern for infantry, cavalry, artillery, and supply wagons. The roads converged seven miles from the landing at a crossroads known as Mickey’s, so called after a house that stood there. The army was to rendezvous at Mickey’s, then move up and form battle lines.
Hardee was late, so there could be no attack on the fourth. Late on that night a cold rain began to fall. It came down in torrents all night. The roads turned to mud, guns and wagons sank to their hubs, units became separated, commands intermixed.
Noon passed on the fifth, and still the army was tangled in a hopeless morass. Johnston looked at his watch and exclaimed, “This is perfectly puerile! This is not war!” Finally the way was cleared, the tangle somewhat resolved, and the attack was postponed another day—to Sunday, April 6.
Now forty thousand Confederates were poised within two miles of the Federal camps. To have any chance at all of taking the enemy by surprise, the troops would have to hold strict silence. But the raw young soldiers popped away at deer in the woods and whooped and fired their muskets to see if their powder was dry. Bugles sounded, drums rolled, and men yelled. Officers frantically went about trying to hush the men, but to no avail.
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 21