Off To War (War Between The States)

by Sara R. Turnquist

He arrived at the opening to the large tent and stepped through, his eyes searching her out. Of course, she sat in her cot as she always did. Only today she was enraptured in a book. This gave him a few extra moments to watch her. She bit at her lip, her eyes intent on the page even as she turned to the next one. And as he watched, her breath caught. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. If only he could watch her like this for hours. But even if she did not notice him, for certain the hospital staff would.

  So he pulled himself out of the moment and stepped toward her. He could not help the silly smile that now filled his features.

  “Annabelle?” he said softly as he approached her.

  She jerked in response, dropping the book. It landed in her lap.

  He, too, was taken aback by her sudden movements, but regained his composure soon enough. “Are you well? I didn't mean to startle you.”

  Her face had paled, but she nodded. “I am, sir. I just…it was…” She struggled for words.

  Closing the distance between them and sitting beside her cot, he caught her flailing hands in his larger one. “It's all right. I understand.” He attempted to stifle a laugh, but failed.

  She quirked an eyebrow at him.

  “I saw that you were quite caught in your book. I should have come back later.”

  “Oh.” Her face colored.

  “No need to be embarrassed. I am likewise afflicted. I've always enjoyed reading.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. Had he put her at ease? But she stared down at her hands, still caught in his grasp.

  They had never held hands before. He withdrew his touch, wondering if he should apologize for his boldness.

  An awkward silence fell between them and he opened his mouth to speak, but she filled the space before he could.

  “What are some of your favorites?” She played with the corner of her sheet.

  “I like the writings of Edgar Allen Poe.” He watched her fidgeting. A nervous habit?

  She grimaced. “That's some dark stuff.”

  “I like the mystery and suspense,” he said, shifting his weight so that he could lean closer.

  “Hmm.” Her face relaxed, but it was still clear she didn’t agree.

  “Have you read much Poe?” he challenged, wanting to keep her talking.

  “Some. The Raven, The Tell Tale Heart…not my style. I'm a typical girl when it comes to poetry. I'd prefer Shakespeare's Sonnets.” A smile spread across her features.

  He gazed into her eyes and recited, “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

  “You know them then?” Her eyes widened and her voice rose.

  “Of course,” he said. “Every young man who plans to woo a young lady should.”

  Though he did not think it possible, her smile broadened.

  It was nice to have something in common. In common? How did she know…? “Wait! Do you realize we've been talking about things you remember? You remember reading Poe, you remembered those lines from Shakespeare.”

  “You're right.” Her face brightened. It wasn't exactly crucial to her identity, but it was something.

  Seeing her face light up brought a warmth to his heart. “Can you remember anything else?”

  She became quiet as she concentrated, then her face fell.

  “Maybe it only comes when you're not thinking about it.” He reached out for her hand, but thought better of it and drew back.

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Either way, I think it's great progress, Annabelle.”

  Smiling again, she nodded.

  She seemed happy to have remembered something from her past. And that pleased him. But it concerned him, too. What would Colonel Jones think of her memory returning? Even if it were these insignificant snatches? This would be something he kept to himself. Unless, of course, she posed a real threat to the camp. That, however, seemed rather unlikely.

  * * *

  As she healed, Elizabeth was permitted to walk a short distance from the hospital with Matthew for fresh air. Dr. Wilson deemed it a necessary part of her recovery. Of the people they passed, many nodded at them in polite greeting. A few looked at her suspiciously, which she didn't understand. When she asked Matthew about it, his face darkened and he dismissed her question.

  Some of the women tossed knowing glances their way, smiling at Matthew, and his face would color. These glances Elizabeth understood, and her face warmed too. But one man in the camp looked familiar to her. And she was quite certain he scowled at her.

  “Who is that man?” she asked as he walked away.

  “Don't mind Tommy. He rubs everyone the wrong way.” Had Matthew seen the face the man made at her?

  Elizabeth tried to brush off the uneasy feelings she had from the encounter, but it wasn't that easy. It was difficult when her memory was untrustworthy and someone acted as if she had wronged them.

  “Did I…did I do something to that man?”

  “Of course not, Annabelle. He's just one of those fellas that's always got a chip on his shoulder.”

  Elizabeth wasn't sure she believed him, but she let the issue go.

  With Matthew's help, it wasn't long before she had made several acquaintances among the men and women in the camp, enough to keep her mind off Tommy. Their walks became more routine, and they saw many of the same people on their strolls. When she was able to greet them by name, it helped her feel some sense of belonging when they responded in kind.

  Their daily walks soon took them farther away from the hospital until they walked to the nearby stream each day. Then a new routine emerged. They would stop at the stream, eat their lunch rations, and read some sonnets. It was a beautiful spot they settled on. A large oak tree perched on a gently sloped hill above the small stream served to support their backs. This oak tree also became their canopy during their midday lunches and readings.

  Elizabeth watched on as he read Sonnet 52. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the way his voice raised and fell to the meter. She had grown quite fond of their time together and rather attached to Matthew. Was that so wrong? He was handsome with his sandy-blonde hair and blue eyes. While she had been thankful his injury kept him from being sent into battle, it did not escape her notice that his wounds were healing. He hadn't been wearing his sling the last couple of days.

  Matthew's voice broke in laughter. Opening her eyes, she joined him, laughing more at the sight of him than at whatever had tickled him. He boldly reached over to push a stubborn curl behind her ear, allowing his hand to cup her face for just a moment before letting it fall. But she caught it and held it, wanting to prolong their connection.

  He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

  She wanted more.

  Lifting her hand to his lips, he then pressed a kiss to her palm.

  Elizabeth breathed deeply, staring into his eyes. “I so enjoy our time together, Matthew.”

  “As do I.” He kept her hand in his, but let it fall into his lap.

  “I hope it won't have to end.”

  “Why would it?” There was confusion in his eyes.

  “If you should have to go…” Her voice broke and she looked toward the stream. “Go to battle.”

  “We don't have to think about that right now.” He tugged on the hand he held captive.

  She turned to look at him again, fighting the emotions welling in her. “I think about it often.” Her heart ached.

  He was silent.

  “I don't want to lose you,” she said plainly, though she realized this was too much to put on him.

  “You won't.”

  “How can you promise that?” she balked.

  “Because I can't think about it any other way.”

  She gazed into his eyes for a few moments more. Then she shifted to move closer to him, hesitantly maneuvering to lean against his chest and wrap her arms around his midsection. He enveloped her in his arms, pressing a kiss into her hair.

  * * *

  The Moore house was fu
ll of noise and laughter when Henry Moore stepped through his front door and into the entry. This surprised him, but pleasantly so. Happy sounds coming from the reaches of his home was a first since Jacob had left for war. It lifted his spirits. And the aroma that filled the home testified that the women of the house had been baking. Such delicious smells enticed him to move farther in.

  Henry's wife was a renowned cook in the area and no one appreciated that about her more than he. So, he became all too excited to find his wife, their daughter, and their maidservant rolling out dough for biscuits. And a plate of cookies sat nearby. Unattended. He reached for one.

  Martha's threat bellowed from across the room. “Not on your life, Henry Moore. Those are specially designated.”

  Henry didn't have to put on a distraught face; he was truly saddened at the thought that he would not be partaking of the delectable treats. “Not even one, dear wife?”

  Martha's face was stern. “Not even one.”

  He pretended to sulk, but part of his disappointment was real. Those cookies looked and smelled amazing. They were, after all, her famous chocolate chip walnut cookies.

  Their maidservant opened the oven and pulled out another batch. The aroma filled his nostrils again and his mouth watered.

  “What is all this for?” he waved his hands over the collection of goodies, swallowing as he salivated. “A bake sale?”

  Martha, Susan, and the maidservant exchanged looks.

  “Now that's an idea,” Martha started to say.

  “A bake sale to raise money for the troops,” the maidservant said at the same time.

  Perhaps this was not their intent. But he had obviously sparked an idea for more baking that would not satisfy the churning in his stomach.

  “No,” he said, louder than he intended. “No more baking unless I can partake. And one of you had better tell me what all this is for.” He stepped between his wife and daughter.

  “We're making packages for Benjamin and Jacob, Father,” Susan said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Remember how Jacob said he missed Mama's cooking?”

  “Why, I sure do,” Henry said, laying a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I think it's a wonderful idea.”

  “Mama says we'll write the letters after dinner and mail the packages tomorrow.” Susan's eyes lit up as she spoke.

  “Then that's what we shall do.” Henry squeezed his daughter's shoulder before placing a kiss on the top of her head. Turning toward his wife, he pressed a kiss to the side of her face. “I fear, however, that I am two unnecessary hands in this rather busy kitchen. And I don't want to get in your way.” He made his way back across the kitchen to the doorway. Nodding once more, he took his leave of them.

  Seconds later, however, he poked his head back in. “Are you sure I can't have just one cookie?”

  “No, you can't,” Martha said, laughing, and tossed a handful of flour in his direction. “Now, get out of here.”

  Henry feigned fearfulness and scooted away from the door. He heard Susan’s giggle in response.

  It wasn't long before he was several paces away from the kitchen and moving toward the stairs. Climbing them with care, he made his way to his cozy office. It had been a long day. The banter with his wife and daughter had lightened his mood, but it could not alleviate the weight that he carried.

  A heaviness from supporting a family and a community that was losing its younger men settled on him. Trying to shield his family from the politics and economics of a country at war was proving to be a task in and of itself. And then his boys.

  His boys' participation in the war was inevitable. He supposed he should be proud they enlisted before they were pressured to. In this way, they had made him proud. But he worried about them every moment of every day. It was different than it was for Martha. Henry had to be strong.

  Sitting at his desk, he unloaded his satchel and organized his paperwork. Then he went through the mail that came in that day. Nothing from either Benjamin or Jacob. Susan would be disappointed. He opened his top drawer and pulled out all the letters they had received over the last few months. Smoothing over the ruffled pages, he reread the most recent ones, trying somehow, to keep the boys close to home.

  The first letter was the one in which Benjamin told them about the dog that had wandered into camp. That was the last thing a group of soldiers needed to worry about, but still they had adopted the starving animal as the camp pet. Benjamin went on and on about the antics of that crazy dog.

  Jacob's latest note came next. Indeed he was fixated on the food in camp. This letter told all about the cook who couldn't cook.

  Each of the boys did share news from the front, but Henry knew that, for the sakes of their mother and sister, they did not share the grim extent to which they had experienced war. Their lack of detail was likely because they just didn't want to dwell on it. Home was a safe place, a place where these atrocities didn't happen. And they wanted to keep it safe from such things. So they didn't share them. Not for the first time, Henry wondered about his boys transforming into men. What were they seeing? What were they experiencing? How was it changing them? Would they be recognizable to him when or if they came home?

  After he put the letters away, he leaned back, thinking on his family. And the weariness of being strong for his wife and daughter and everyone else overcame him again. Pinching the bridge of his nose to help ease the tension of his frustration, he reflected on his boys and how he wished he could be there for them in some real, tangible way. A cross he bore every day. This feeling that he should be there with them, beside them. Yet at the same time, he knew his place was at home, being strong. Even so, he often wished that just for one moment, he could set this weight to the side.

  A quiet, almost timid knock on the door drew him out of his musings.

  He put his glasses back on and sat to his full height. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open and his little Susan entered his office. Sliding through the door ever so slowly, she looked as if she feared something would jump out and grab her. Her movements were unsure. The children were not permitted in his office, as this was his private sanctuary and workspace. After several seconds of standing just inside the door, Susan raised her eyes to meet her father's gaze.

  Henry held out his arms, welcoming her into the room. Would that ease the trepidation she felt?

  She did move closer to him, but with slow steps. As she approached him, she pulled a handkerchief out from behind her back and held it out to him.

  His eyes moved from the handkerchief to her eyes. What game was this?

  “Susan, what is…?”

  She put a finger on her lips and pushed the handkerchief closer toward him.

  He took it after a moment. Only then did he feel the weight of something else within the folds of the cloth. Unwrapping the edges of the delicate linen, he was surprised to find a cookie nestled in the center. Smiling at his daughter, he mirrored her gesture and put a finger to his lips. Without hesitation, he split the cookie in half and handed her one piece.

  She offered him a big smile with her eyes bright as she bit into her part of the cookie.

  He chomped into his portion as well. Then he gathered her into his arms, grateful to have his sweet little girl still under his roof.

  Chapter Five

  Danger

  JOHN'S SLEEP PROVED fitful. The thin, uncomfortable mattress of the cot was not the problem. His stomach was empty and had been for a while. It had been several days since he had eaten. And his jailers took turns clanging the bars to rouse him. How long had it been since he'd had a restful night? He did not know.

  Ignoring the churning in his stomach, he closed his eyes and drifted off into another bout of restless sleep. It didn't last long, however. Jerked to consciousness by a man's voice in his ear and rough hands on his shoulders, he cried out.

  “On your feet!”

  John did his best to pull himself together as the man succeeded in getting him upright. His feet were unsteady thou
gh, and John stumbled before regaining his balance. There wasn't much time for that either before the Confederate soldier shoved him out of the cell. Unable to maintain his footing, he fell to his knees. Another soldier, who must have been outside of the cell, grabbed at John's uniform and dragged him toward the interrogation room. Try as he might, John could not get his feet to obey him.

  In seconds, he was in the now familiar office and the soldier helped him into the chair. It almost toppled over. The man grunted and stepped out of the room.

  Now that John sat still, he allowed his tired eyes to focus. Daylight streamed in from the window. What time was it? He had long since given up keeping track of the days. And, as was typical for these sessions since they had started denying John food, Colonel Wallace sat at the desk eating a well-portioned dinner of beef and potatoes.

  John's stomach grumbled and churned painfully. What he wouldn't give for one morsel off that plate! But that one morsel would cost him. And he had nothing to give.

  A Confederate scout had already discovered the former location of the camp he had been in. So, the one piece of information he did have became useless to them.

  He was glad, after all, that he didn't have information to trade. For he wasn't sure he would be able to hold out under such duress.

  Instead of sitting and watching the oversized colonel eat what would be equivalent to three days worth of rations, John brought up a mental picture of Elizabeth. She had become the one guiding light that would get him through this. The only way he had survived thus far was to think of her and push through, knowing he had to get home to her. He could not give up. There she was, in his mind's eye, in his favorite blue dress. She stood in the doorway of his house, blonde curls around her shoulders. Smiling at him, she stretched out her arms to welcome him home. If only he could run to her, take her in his arms, and…

  “Well now, Dr. Taylor. Let's hope we have a better session today than we did yesterday.”

  Colonel Wallace's gruff voice cut into his thoughts and caused the vision of Elizabeth to dissipate.

  “I do hope I can share my meal with you,” the colonel shoved another bite into his mouth. “After all, I have an over-abundance.” A smile crossed his face. From all appearances, Wallace behaved as if they were the best of friends sitting down to a weekly dinner. One thing was for certain; this man was good at what he did.