Echoes of Dark and Light (8 page)

That night I tossed and turned as I fought demons in my dreams. Nightmares I thought I’d long since outgrown returned in force and I awoke drenched in sweat. My eyes felt puffy and blood hot, and I knew my skin stretched pale over my face with bruised-looking half moons beneath my eyes.

By the time I finished teaching the Whitmore’s how to use the musket, the sun had moved across the sky looking like a glowing yellow orb behind the thick gray clouds. I said my goodbyes, accepted the package of food, and ducked back into the woods. After reclaiming my pack from the bushes, still relatively dry inside due to the oilskin covering, I made my way back to the road and continued south. I had to be getting close to the front lines. Just the other day, I’d heard faint echoes of battle sounds, including musket shot and cannon fire. I guessed to be somewhere near Knoxville. I loved gazing at the Smoky Mountains; the wispy white clouds embracing the mountaintops eased my racing mind a bit, but I just couldn’t seem to shake the hold that man had thrown back around my heart.

My feet dragged in the mud as the night’s darkness descended. I figured I try to get in at least another couple of miles or so before bunking down for some sleep. I hoped by then I’d be able to quiet my mind and—

“Hold it right there!”

I gasped and spun around to find a rifle aimed at my heart.

“Put your hands in the air!”

I stared in shock while trying to swallow my stomach back where it belonged. The fellow at the other end of the rifle stood straight and steady, his eyes in shadow, his mouth held in a hard line, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He wore a navy blue Union uniform, which sorely contradicted his strong southern accent.

“Do you understand? Put your hands in the air!”

I’d been so surprised, I hadn’t yet followed through on his demands. Though if he hadn’t had a rifle pointed at me, I wouldn’t care a hoot about his orders. I slowly removed my hands from my pockets and raised them into the chilly air.

“Now, hand over your weapon.”

I very reluctantly gave him my Colt, making a mental note to find a more discreet location to store it. The soldier didn’t ask for my knife, and I didn’t offer it.

“Give me your name!”

“Give me your name first,” I replied stubbornly.

He glared at me, raising both his rifle and one brow menacingly.

I sighed. “My name’s Bobbi Rivers.”

“Turn to your right, Bobbi Rivers, and march!”

This guy grated on my nerves. I turned, stumbling onto a faint path leading east through the shadowy forest. I managed to hold my tongue for about thirty seconds.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

He only grunted in reply.

“That’s all I get? A grunt? Come on, you stole my Colt, you’ve got me at gunpoint, the least you can do is give me an explanation.”

Apparently, he disagreed.

Complete anger washed over me for allowing myself to get captured. I felt ashamed and embarrassed at my lack of awareness of my surroundings, my total absorption in my inner demons. I blamed Pa for distracting me. With difficulty, I forced myself to swallow the bitter taste of hate so I could concentrate on how to get out of this inconvenient situation.

Escape wouldn’t be too difficult. I could run fast, blend, hide, and most likely avoid his shot if I took him by surprise. But then a thought hit me. Hadn’t I come south to join the Union army? And now I had this armed escort handed right to me. What more could I have asked for?

We walked for a half mile before the filtered sights and muffled sounds of a large army camp crept through to my eyes and ears. Red and orange flames of campfires danced and blinked as men moved around them, murmuring voices interspersed with occasional chuckles and grumbles. Horses shuffled and whinnied from the shadows. And then a hundred rancid odors assaulted my nose: burnt beans, unwashed male bodies, a nearby latrine, musty canvas, wood smoke and horse manure. We began passing among the stained canvas, two-man tents pitched in row after row creating a checkerboard effect, filling up the entire clearing in the forest. Uniformed soldiers glanced up at us as we passed, then returned to their dinners, card games and conversations. My senses all reached out to snatch up each new piece of information, not working fast enough to satisfy my curiosity.

The young guard motioned to the left and stopped outside a grouping of larger tents. “Captain Truckey, may we enter?”

My eyes snapped over to his, zeroing in on his words.
Did he say Captain Truckey? Surely he didn’t mean Emma’s pa, did he?

“Enter.”

The soldier pulled back the tent flap with the barrel of his rifle and nodded for me to enter. The inside of the tent appeared neat and ordered. A cot made up with wool blankets and a meager pillow sat against the right canvassed wall. Stashed beneath the cot, an empty knapsack sack lay folded, awaiting the next upheaval and move. Along the opposite wall, freshly pressed uniform trousers and jackets hung on pegs. Directly in front of us, a sturdy fellow with broad shoulders bent over a lightweight table studying a pile of papers. A lantern cast the tent walls into shadows.

The soldier and I stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the man to turn and give us his attention. My hands started to sweat at the possibility that this man could indeed be Emma’s pa. Not that I’d ever met Mr. Truckey, but maybe Emma had mentioned me in her letters to him. To have come so far just to be squashed down in recognition from one man among thousands of strangers… My mind raced along with my heart for possible solutions in case this fellow did turn out to be whom I dreaded he very well may be.
I could give a false name!
No good,
I reminded myself as the soldier with the rifle already knew my name. But before I could come up with anything else, the captain laid his pen down and stood up to face us.

He was a formidable fellow with his long, dark blue, single-breasted coat hanging down a few inches above his knee. Dark blue trousers led down to his polished black boots, and the two stripes on his shoulder reaffirmed his status as captain. His mustached face held a somber mouth with deep lines etched alongside. The black felt hat and the dim light from the lantern shaded his eyes, but there was no mistaking that I’d seen that color before. My heart sank.

“Private Dove?” His deep voice asserted confidence and a calm control.

“Captain Truckey, sir!” The private saluted. “I caught a trespasser in our camp boundaries. The name is Rivers, Bobbi Rivers. I confiscated this.”

I stared longingly at my Colt as it passed hands.

“Thank you, Private. You can wait outside.”

I’d been watching the captain closely for any signs of recognition at my name, but he kept his face a guarded mask. Maybe it would be okay. After all, Rivers wasn’t that uncommon of a name. Still, I couldn’t allow myself to relax just yet.

Captain Truckey kept his gaze locked on mine, unspeaking until the private left the tent. A few unsettling moments passed before the captain dipped his head towards the second chair, inviting me to sit. I dropped my pack on the floor and then sat stiffly on the hard edge of the proffered chair. He repositioned his desk chair to face me and then settled back down on it. Again he studied me with those piercing eyes so similar to Emma’s. Then he surprised me by holding out his hand.

“I’m Captain Nelson Truckey of the 27
^th
Infantry of Michigan Volunteers, Ninth Corp, Army of the Ohio.”

I tried to stop my hand from trembling as I reached out to shake his.

He waited expectantly until I snapped out of my frenzied fog.

“Oh, Bobbi Rivers,” I murmured, as if I said it quietly he wouldn’t make the connection.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I nodded hesitantly in return, expecting any minute to be arrested for deception to the U.S. government. My stomach turned over and I swallowed hard.

But it didn’t happen. Captain Truckey sat amiably with a curious expression on his whiskered face.

“So, Mr. Rivers, would you like to tell me why you happened to be strolling through our camp boundaries?”

With anxiety slowly dissipating from my bones, my usual animosity towards authority, however polite he may be, sparked back to the surface. “I just happened to be taking a walk. Is that against the law? Isn’t this a free country?”

Captain Truckey wiped a tired hand over his face. “Yes, and we’re trying to keep it that way. Unfortunately, in times of war, rules tend to change a bit. While taking a stroll through the forest would seem perfectly innocent during times of peace, in these volatile times, a walk within such close proximity to the Army of the Ohio cannot help but raise suspicions.”

The accusation burned in my gut. I narrowed my eyes. “Are you calling me a spy?”

Captain Truckey’s eyebrows raised. “Are you admitting to being a spy?

“Of course not!” I jumped to my feet and started pacing the tent. “I can’t believe you think I’d turn against my country!”

“I don’t see how the act is so unbelievable as half of the United States has seceded and done just that.” His calm eyes followed my fidgeting back and forth across the room.

“But I’m not half the country; I’m me, a proud patriot!”

“How can I know this? We’ve just met. And you were found sneaking around our camp—”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” But then I paused, thinking perhaps my appearance may have been just a tad suspicious. “Well, okay, maybe I was attempting to avoid detection, but that is miles away from being a traitor. And hey, if you’re so dead set on getting your hands on a spy, what about that Private what’s-his-name,” I jerked my head towards the tent flaps. “Judging from that accent of his, he’s as southern as they come!”

Captain Truckey picked up his cup of tea, still steaming in the chilly air. He took a sip before replying. “I assure you that Private Dove has proven his loyalty to the Union time and again, though he is really none of your concern. At this time, we are discussing you.”

The lack of sleep and stress from the last twenty-four hours had taken a toll. My brain pounded through a fog, my muscles screamed for rest. I grabbed the chair back for support and slid back down into the seat.

“Are you unwell? Should I send for a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Just tired.”

He waited patiently while I took some deep breaths to clear my head. I opened my eyes, feeling slightly better.

The captain rose from his chair to summon an aide. “Bring us some more hot tea and some biscuits, please.” He returned to his seat and directed his inquisitive eyes into mine. “Are you ready to talk?”

Too tired to argue anymore, I nodded.

We waited in an uncomfortable silence for the aide to return with refreshments. I brought the steaming cup of tea under my nose and inhaled the fragrance. Ignoring caution, I gulped a swallow, scalding my tongue, but found a bit of comfort as the warmth slid down my throat and into my stomach. I wrapped my fingers around the heat.

“I’m looking for my brother.”

I’d debated sharing that information, but decided my monumental task would be a bit easier if I could search openly. I’d need as many chunks of information I could get my hands on to piece together the trail leading to my brother.

“And who exactly is this elusive brother of yours?”

“Robert Rivers, Sharpshooter 17, Michigan volunteers. We received a letter stating he was missing in action from the Battle of Gettysburg.”

A fine layer of sympathy fell over his eyes. And I heard the pity in his voice. “Mr. Rivers, I understand needing closure over your brother’s death, but I’m afraid many bodies are lost in every battle. Finding your brother’s remains, especially after so many months, will be next to impossible. I suggest you hold a memorial service—”

“Robert isn’t dead,” I interrupted.

“Pardon me?”

“I said,” I repeated with emphasis, “that Robert isn’t dead. He’s only missing, and he’s in trouble.”

I could see he didn’t believe me, thought I’d flown over the crazy mountain. That worried me a bit because I needed to attach to an infantry group, and if he doubted my sanity, I doubted he would put a gun in my hands and allow me to join the ranks falling in behind him. Maybe I’d said too much. I tried to retreat out of my mess.