by T. Novan
Montgomery has undergone surgery. We wait anxiously to discover if the surgery was successful. His situation highlights one of the greatest challenges I face this winter, creating a coherent regiment out of the scarred remnants of two very different forces. I find that my personal history and heritage, as well as my accent, are linked to problems with this integration of forces. Some of the Pennsylvanians cannot seem to overcome the impact that my southern accent has on their faith in my leadership. It will be an interesting process.
Yet a greater challenge faces us in the coming weeks and months, one that I am sure every officer who is wintering in conquered territory is facing. The citizens of this community are beaten down, bereft of resources and lacking in the basic elements of human survival. All they had has been taken from them, either by forces moving across their lands or through lack of human resources to tend to their properties. To this is added an influx of refugees, primarily women and children escaping from the front line regions around Richmond and Petersburg.
I recognize that the influx of additional personnel brings with it the threat of an influx of agents of espionage. I have discussed security and silence with my officers as we consider ways to deal with this latest challenge.
General, we have to provide at least a modicum of support to the people here. They have no food stores; no proper winter clothing, no money or resources to repair their homes against winter cold. Some do not even have the tools or strength to gather wood for the fireplaces to warm them this winter. Nor do they have the means to till the ground or plant for the coming months. General Grant, in his stay earlier this year, said he thought Culpeper was the most devastated part of Virginia. I believe he was correct, given the abject poverty I see all around me. A thriving town of over fifteen hundred people has been reduced to perhaps a hundred or a hundred and fifty tenacious survivors. I cannot help but think we owe these people some modicum of hope.
I have started creating community service details. This is beneficial in several ways. It allows me to build teams that include both Ohioans and Pennsylvanians, encouraging the integration of my command. It also allows us to create personal links to the people of the community. It is very hard to hate the Yankees who come and repair your roof, stock your wood shed, repair your fences, and till the ground for the spring, asking for nothing in return but a drink of cool water to ease the sweat of honest labor.
Yet I lack the resources to address the most pressing and immediate needs. Something as simple as a supply of flour, beans, rice, and salt pork to share with the citizens would go a long way to improving things here. Woolen goods would also help, as these people lack clothing for the winter.
I believe we could make a huge step forward in our relationships with the civilians if we could add one more resource to our support for the community. If we had seed stocks that we could make available, we would be able to help them reestablish their basic economy. More than anything else, this would serve to give them hope and a vision for a future that is not as bleak as they currently expect.
Your direction and assistance in these matters would be greatly appreciated.
Cordially
Chas. Redmond
Regimental Colonel
13th Pennsylvania Light Cavalry
Having addressed what he could for the evening, Charlie’s thoughts turned to the situation with Rebecca. The woman was driving him crazy. Every night, she lay in his arms, sweet, warm, and trusting. Her hands caressed him gently, never overtly sexually, but often very sensually. Sometimes Charlie thought she wanted more than his gentleness, and sometimes it was clear she was terrified of greater intimacy. But whatever she wanted of him, Charlie had given his word they would progress at her speed.
The peculiarities of people baffled Charlie. Everyone thought they were lovers in all senses of the word. Charlie had made his intentions clear. He would marry her if she would have him, would offer her all of the protections of his honor, name, estateand love. They slept together every night. She cuddled into his arms and reached out for him in her sleep if he left the bed. They talked nightly, sharing their history, their fears, their hopes and dreams. But physical intimacy beyond mostly chaste kisses and tender embraces was not part of their relationship.
D ear God. Please help me. Every time she touches me, every time she looks at me with those trusting, welcoming eyes, I can feel it all through my body. She inflames me and there is no way to quench that fire. I do not want to frighten her, but I have to do something. Anything.
The evil little voice in his head just laughed at him.
Charlie shook himself. Perhaps a brisk walk in the chill night air would help cool his need, at least for the time being.
He banked the fire and extinguished the lamp. Shrugging on his lighter overcoat, he stuck a couple of cigars in his pocket and went out into the night to pace until he was more tired than he was desirous.
His brisk strides took him down to the lovely little terrace overlooking the pond. There, sitting huddled in the cold under the willow, he found Mr. Whitman, quietly smoking an old pipe and just watching the shadows dancing over the little wavelets generated by the light evening breeze.
Whitman looked up as the Colonel approached. "Good evening, Colonel. What brings you out at this time of night?"
"A host of night demons, Whitman, a host of them. What about you?"
"Ah, well, my friend Samuelson finds himself held to the bedside of Major Montgomery. We have been trading shifts to keep watch on him. I was not yet ready to sleep, and so came here to perhaps do a little thinking."
Charlie laughed. "In your case, Whitman, you are either composing poetry or thinking of things I am not sure I want to know. On the other hand, you could be doing both."
"Does that mean you have read my little efforts, Colonel?"
"I have indeed, Whitman, I have indeed. The poetry is outstanding, but I fear that many of our more……" Charlie paused, searching for the right word. "……our more tradition bound brothers and sisters may find it difficult." Charlie and Whitman had found common ground the previous year when Whitman had assisted Dr. Walker in treating Charlie for a minor injury.
Whitman laughed, a slightly bitter laugh. "Well, the soul of a man is his own, yet so many have sold their souls to propriety. Neither of us will ever find a place in that world of propriety, will we, Colonel?"
"No, Whitman, I fear you are right. I fear there is no place in this world for the likes of us."
The two men sat on the cold stone, each smoking their chosen form of tobacco, both staring into the infinity of reflections in the broken moon mirrors of the pond.
Charlie shrugged off his immobility. "Come, Whitman, this is a cold place to ponder the coldness of the world. There is a bottle of good French brandy in my office and a fire in the hearth. Will you join me?"
"Colonel, I would be honored."
The two men walked in companionable silence back up the lawn to the private entrance to Charlie’s office. Charlie built up the fire until he had a cheery blaze, then shed his coat. Whitman broke out the brandy and glasses Charlie had pointed out to him.
The two settled into comfortable chairs before the fire, refreshed their tobacco and sat quietly, savoring the brandy. Whitman broke the silence.
"Good quality brandy is hard to find."
"Yes, well, I have an associate in Washington who keeps me supplied when he can."
"Must be a very good friend."
"He is as a good a friend as I pay him to be." Charlie laughed. "You can get anything for the right price, my friend."
"Ah. I would beg to differ, Colonel. The important things in life you cannot buy for all the money in the world."
"True enough. And sometimes the important things in life are unattainable."
"So, Colonel, what are the important things in your life? I would think, from what I have heard of you and Mrs. Gaines, that you are well on your way to attaining what every man dreams of."
"Ah, Whitman, that is wha
t concerns me. I fear that I may well be dreaming and will awaken one morning to find myself back in my tent, alone, surrounded by mud and miserable men, with no hope for the future beyond another day of waiting interspersed with bloody conflict." Charlie knocked back the last of his glass of brandy and poured himself another.
"It seems you and I have the mirror image of one another’s fear, if I may be so presumptuous."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, waiting for Whitman to continue.
"You, sir, have your dream before you and you fear you may never be able to grasp it. I have held my dream and find it slipping away to the duty that makes him who he is."
"Samuelson?"
"Yes."
"Well, at least you know where you stand."
The two men looked at one another, then by unspoken consent, silently toasted their respective loves. Once again, glasses were refilled.
"Yes, well, I may know where I stand, sir, but I certainly miss knowing where my head will lie –– on a cold pillow or a warm shoulder." Whitman’s smile was rather rueful.
"I have read your works, sir. And I am not clear that a warm shoulder is exactly where you choose to rest your head." Charlie’s grin was slightly licentious.
"Ah, Colonel, you must be referring to
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn ’ d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach ’ d till you felt my beard, and reach ’ d till you held my feet."
"That was the quatrain that came to mind."
"Colonel, I presume, but I think I know your heart. For did I not capture it when I wrote
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself;
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own——for me mine, male and female;
For me those that have been boys, and that love women;
For me the man that is proud, and feels how it stings to be slighted;
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid——for me mothers, and the mothers of mothers;
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears;
For me children, and the begetters of children."
Charlie stood, restless and angry with himself and the world. Another brandy was poured and consumed. "Yes, indeed. And there is the crux of the matter. For I am one who has been a boy and who loves women. And for me, I can never be the begetter of children. But she, she deserves to have that; she deserves the family and the ability to leave a legacy that I can never give her. And what is the reason for intimacy but to beget a legacy."
Whitman looked at the brooding Colonel. While his senses were slightly numbed by the alcohol, the pain of the figure standing before him was obvious. "Colonel, there are more reasons than just children for two people to come together. What you are describing is intimacy, when two people come together because their hearts call them together. You know that children do not require intimacy, only the physical act. And you know the physical act without intimacy is nothing more than release. But when intimacy is involved, then the heart and the soul are involved, then physical pleasure is unlike anything you have ever experienced."
Whitman paused, considering the nature of the woman in question. From the little he knew of her, Rebecca seemed to him to be a careful, clear thinking woman who would go to any length to please her Colonel. "Your lady will come to realize that, Colonel. Just as you will come to realize that there are more ways to build a family and leave a legacy of love than through the begetting of children."
With that, Whitman finished his brandy. "I leave you, Colonel, to consider the nature of love. It is broader and more varied than most believe." Quietly, Whitman donned his own cloak and slipped out of the office, leaving Charlie standing and brooding before the fire.
With a deep sigh, Charlie finished his last brandy and banked the fire. He walked upstairs to the main floor, and pulled his boots off before mounting the stairs. Stopping in the small sitting room outside of their bedroom door, Charlie slipped off the rest of his clothes. Naked, he slid into the room he shared with Rebecca. She was lying, half turned toward where he usually slept, hugging his nightshirt to her. Her face was relaxed, her breathing even and slow. The fire in his belly that plagued him almost non-stop now flared again. More of Whitman’s words came to mind.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor discarded;
I see through the broadcloth and gingham, whether or no;
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
Charlie looked at Rebecca’s face, at the lovely form hidden only by the light flannel of her nightgown. Yes, I am around, tenacious. To me you are not guilty. You are not stale, nor discarded. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Oh, Rebecca, I ache for you. I burn for your touch. I hunger for your passion. She slid into bed beside Rebecca, and looked at her, illuminated in the soft moonlight from the window and the faint glow of the banked embers in the fireplace. As she looked at her, her hands slowly began stroking her own body. One hand played with her nipples, the other caressed the nexus of nerves at her center. She gazed on her face, imagining it was Rebecca’s hands and not her own that were toying with her body. In a matter of minutes, she arched into her own hand, and softly cried Rebecca’s name. With the most urgent of the flames eased for at least a moment, the brandy took over. Sliding her arm around Rebecca’s sleeping form, Charlie fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
--*--
Thursday, D ecember 1, 1864
Charlie awoke early and went for his usual morning run. As was becoming his habit, Jocko prepared a hot bath in the bathing room and was enjoying a cup of coffee while waiting for the Colonel to return.
Charlie slammed into the bathing area, sweating and limping slightly. He had fallen over a root and slammed his knee into the ground. Coupled with a mild hangover the run had not managed to clear completely, he was not in the best of humors.
"Good morning, Jocko." Charlie growled his greeting, barely civil in his current mood.
"Morning, Colonel C." Jocko knew better than to get in Charlie’s way when he was in this kind of a mood.
Charlie stripped off his work clothes, and threw the trousers out to Jocko. "See if you can fix them."
Jocko looked them over. One knee was shredded and slightly bloodstained. They would have to be replaced. Jocko sighed. Sometimes Charlie was hard on clothes.
Charlie emerged a few minutes later, clad in shirt, britches, socks and weskit. Shaving was performed in silence. When Jocko was finished, Charlie turned to him. "Do you have any commitments today?"
"Just the normal, Sir."
"Good. Get Black Jack saddled up, get yourself a horse and a note pad, and meet me out front in a half hour. Send Polk to me before you get the horses."
"Yes, sir, Colonel, Sir." Jocko was not inclined to be Charlie’s whipping boy when the universe had served up the normal reaction to an overdose of the grape.
"Being a little overbearing this morning, am I?"
"A bit, sir."
Charlie laughed, a wry and rather self-deprecating chuckle.
"Well, I will tone it down. Thanks for the warning."
"Oh, by the way, sir, why Black Jack? Lately, you have been riding Shannon."
"I am leaving Shannon for Miss Rebecca. I believe she and Duncan will go into town today to collect up the other refugees."
"Oh, aye. I did hear tell of that. A little admirer of yours gave it away."
"Enough of that, Sergeant." Charlie softened the admonition with a grin.
"So what do I need a horse and notepad for, Colonel"
"You and I are going to tour the county and try and figure out just how badly off these people are."
"You and I alone?"
"Yes, you and I alone
."
"Charlie –– you have lost your mind. You will be the biggest target these folks have had in ages. What if somebody recognizes you? They are as likely to shoot you as speak to you."
"I know that. But we will never get anywhere if we go with an armed entourage. We ride alone. Sidearm only."
Jocko shook his head. He loved Charlie like a brother, was unfailingly loyal to him. But sometimes he knew his boss was just plain crazy.
Jocko turned to leave.
"And Jocko?"
The batman turned to look inquiringly at Charlie.
"Do not dawdle. We need to get a move on. I will be in my office."
--*--
Charlie finished dressing quickly. He wanted to be out of the house and on his way before Rebecca made her way down for breakfast. In fact, he wanted to put as much distance as possible between them this morning. Maybe if he pushed himself hard enough and limited their encounters, he could, somehow, manage, a little, to control the effect she had on his libido. Maybe.
While waiting for Polk and Jocko, Charlie prepared his orders for the day. Polk would handle the transfer of the refugees and the daily staff meeting. He had briefed Polk on the plans for work details to support the civilian population the day before. The company commanders would have to manage a great many details to implement his wishes. His meticulous mind made Polk a good second. He was outstanding at patiently handling these kinds of administrative details.
Polk entered his office first. "Thanks, chief. I needed to be rousted out at the crack of dawn. Why can you not wait for reveille like a normal person?"
"Because I cannot ask the men to get up unless I am already up waiting for them."
Polk poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that Sarah delivered to the office every morning. "So what is so urgent that I am here before breakfast?"
"I am riding out to see for myself what needs to be done to pull this county together and set them on the road to return to the Union. We have to survive winter here, and so do the civilians. I am taking Jocko as my clerk."
"So you want an escort. I will go rustle one up."
"No. We are going alone."