Faith (27 page)

Accepting one plate from Armstrong, Honoree turned to the wagon, to Faith. The meal prepared by the hospital cook, whatever it was, smelled a lot better than what Dev had eaten tonight. Honoree began to feed Faith.

Dev didn’t speak at first, only listening to Armstrong and Honoree speak in undertones. But then he realized Honoree was letting her food go cold in order to feed Faith first. “Sit down and eat your food, Honoree,” Dev offered. “I can help her eat.”

Honoree stared at him, then handed him the plate of food. She sat on a camp stool near Armstrong, who, averting his gaze from Dev, sat on the one beside it. The separation between Dev and Armstrong felt like a physical wall. Of ice.

Dev hoisted himself up onto the back of the wagon beside Faith. “Miss Faith,” he said gently, “allow me to help you eat.” Faith’s bandaged face filled him with sharp regret. He pushed this down. “Can you sit up?”

“No. Weak.”

Fear roiled in his stomach. He ignored it and propped her up slightly with sacks of what felt like cotton or bandages. Realizing she couldn’t chew very much, he slowly spooned bits of food into her mouth and watched her gingerly chew and swallow. He wanted to ask Honoree again about Faith’s condition, but perhaps Honoree would hesitate to be frank in Faith’s hearing.

“No more,” Faith whispered, panting as if exhausted.

He looked down at the plate. She’d eaten barely a fourth of a normal meal. He turned to Honoree to ask if he should insist she eat more.

“You eat the rest, Colonel,” Honoree said, “while I finish my meal. She ate more than I expected.”

His pride prompted him to refuse, but his stomach insisted he accept the food. “Thank you.” He began eating the well-seasoned beans and rice. His stomach sighed with pleasure.

Sitting so near, he caught snatches of Armstrong and Honoree’s conversation. Armstrong sounded happy, innocent somehow of what lay ahead of him as a soldier. Dev felt a hundred years older than his former servant. Too soon the man would discover that freedom could turn and savage him. He looked to Faith. She was watching him with solemn eyes.

Honoree rose, holding out a cup in one hand and, with the other, asking for his now-empty plate. “Could you help her sip some coffee?”

Dev assented and traded his plate for the cup.

“I put a lot of sugar in the coffee to give her nourishment,” Honoree said.

Dev also smelled a hint of whiskey. He recalled that Faith had used this on his cousin, his faithless cousin, to help break the fever and ease his pain. The memory was a needle in the heart.

Faith let Dev lift her shoulders onto his arm and sipped from the tin mug. She gasped with the effort, and as if her neck had no strength, her head lolled on his sleeve.

From behind him, Honoree sighed. “I’m already exhausted from today, and how many more days will we be marching north?”

“I’ve heard,” Armstrong said, “that we’re on our way to tangle with Lee if we can.”

Dev noted the eagerness in the man’s voice. Dev thought with thick irony that it was very clear Armstrong had never faced battle. Only the unseasoned soldier looked forward to engaging Lee, a general who outfoxed all the others.

Still helping Faith drink the coffee, Dev added, “We’re heading north to Memphis so we can move eastward through southern Tennessee. I will resume reconnaissance tomorrow. We’ll be moving in and out of enemy-held territory. Honoree, be sure to stay close to the shelter of the wagons. Bushwhackers will pick off anyone they can.”

“I will,” Honoree agreed for once without arguing with him
 
—or at least that’s what it felt like to him. He and Honoree often seemed at odds. He finished assisting Faith with the whiskey-laced coffee.

Honoree rose and came to him. “Have you recalled the name of the officer my sister’s despoiler is with?” Her voice challenged him as if he were purposefully withholding the truth.

“I’ve tried all day to bring up the name,” he said, keeping his voice mild, “but it’s like it’s just beyond my grasp.”

Armstrong let out a sound of disbelief.

It stung Dev. He wanted to snap at Armstrong that he was trying, honestly trying to remember. “I will recall it in time. We can’t do anything more now than we are in any event. LeFevre wouldn’t be serving west of the Mississippi River, so we must be going toward him.”

“That’s true,” Honoree said. “Very well. I believe you truly can’t remember
 
—Faith can’t either. But one of you will soon.”

“Thank you, and again, I’m sorry that this happened while Faith was under my protection.”

“You’re only human,” Honoree said. “This is an evil world with plenty of evil people.”

“The mistress was probably jealous of your sister,” Armstrong said to her.

Dev agreed but said nothing, now averting his own gaze so their eyes wouldn’t meet.

“I’m going to foment Faith’s wound again and then get her ready for sleep.” Honoree moved to the wagon and opened the wooden chest Dev recognized.

Dev glanced into Faith’s eyes, hoping for an invitation there to stay. But she was too ill, obviously too deeply wrapped up in pain to do more than whimper at him.

He wanted to ask Honoree,
“Will she be all right?”
But he realized that would only make everyone uncomfortable, and how could Honoree know that for sure?

“Do you need me?” Dev asked.

“No, I can manage,” Honoree said with a glance over her shoulder toward Armstrong.

Dev felt dismissed and decided to accept it. He bowed his head and walked away, still not looking at Armstrong. He hoped Faith would recover and not have her health broken by this fever, but that was out of his control. Like everything else in this accursed war.

Faith awoke in the night. She tried to think, but her mind was stuffed with cotton. The agony in her cheek had not relented, but gnawed at her, voracious and cruel. Even drawing a breath ripped her facial nerves, and she whimpered at the pain.

Why had this happened? Her mind supplied a familiar verse of Scripture:
“In the world ye shall have tribulation.”
But it didn’t help. How long had it been since they left Vicksburg? She wanted to wake Honoree, who lay beside her on the tailgate of the wagon, and ask her friend to lift her, move her, help . . .

Faith’s very bones ached from lying in one position for so long.
Oh, Father, save me from this wound. I haven’t found Shiloh yet.
That she might die of this infection was very real. Her limbs felt like rags, and her whole body burned with fever.

Colonel Knight came to mind. He’d come to her and helped feed her. She remembered that. But she couldn’t recall the attack that left her in this state. She could see the plantation
 
—Cypress Bank
 
—the company of soldiers riding up to the house, the Spanish moss moving in the breeze, the woman in the worn dress on the porch . . . and then nothing.

Honoree had asked for the information that would lead
them to Shiloh. The thought that beautiful Shiloh had been reduced to the status of camp follower still broke Faith’s heart. She wept without tears. The fever had burned them up.
God, help me. Take down this fever and let me live. I must find Shiloh. I must.

Then Patience sat down next to her.
“Don’t worry, Sis. Thee will get better.”

Faith stretched out an arm to touch her, hold her. But she couldn’t reach. “Don’t leave me, Sister. Don’t leave me. Patience, Patience.”

“You’re having a dream, Faith,” Honoree said from beside her. Honoree lifted Faith’s head, righted her pillow, and propped up one side of her body with discarded flour sacks.

The slight shift in position felt amazingly good.

“You’re bed-sore. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Faith parroted, trying to reassure herself. But of course it was not all.
Father, please don’t let me die yet. I have so much left undone.

OCTOBER 1, 1863

The days of moving north following the Mississippi River merged into monotonous misery. Once again, Dev and a company of his men were on reconnaissance. At present, as afternoon rain poured down on them, they huddled together under oilskin capes draped over their hats and backs. Nearby, after hours of carrying the men, their horses steamed in the warm rain. Confederate raiders had been active in this area. Dev wanted to track them down but so far had not come near enough.

Dev gnawed hardtack and sipped tepid water from his canteen, as did most of the others. Visions of the delicious meals he’d eaten at his mother’s table taunted him. Mashed potatoes rich with thick cream. Warm biscuits dripping with sweet butter and honey. Ham so tender it almost melted in his mouth. His nearly empty stomach ached for a good meal. The hardtack had the consistency of sawdust and was just as tasty.

“I hear there’s a new bunch like Quantrill raiding ahead of us,” one of his men commented between attempts to consume his hardtack.

Quantrill
 
—that notorious Confederate guerrilla operating in Missouri. He and his men ambushed Union patrols like this one, as well as supply trains.

“This bunch has burned a few homes of Union sympathizers in Tennessee,” another soldier added.

Dev held out his hardtack to let the rain soften it. “How did you hear of this bunch?”

“Word of mouth,” the first man said, following Dev’s example and moistening his hardtack in the rain. “They call themselves Carroll’s Rangers.”

Dev dropped his hardtack and then retrieved it from the muddy grass. He wiped it on his sleeve and bit into it
 
—hard. Just because his cousin was capable of this didn’t mean that he was the Carroll of these raiders. The taunting note still hid in one of Dev’s inner pockets.

Then he thought of Faith, who’d been delirious with fever when he last visited her. Neither of them had yet recalled the information that could lead them to the girl Shiloh. Could nothing go right? Was he incapable of righting his wrongs before it was too late?

Days later, further into October, Faith stared up at the sunlight coming through the cloth roof of the supply wagon. Like sunshine after the rain, her mind had cleared.

“I’ve brought breakfast,” Honoree said from outside the rear of the wagon.

Faith watched her friend set a tray down carefully on the open tailgate. She wanted to speak, but her mouth was so dry she didn’t think she could. She made a sound.

Interpreting it correctly, Honoree lifted her head and helped her sip tepid coffee from one of the mugs.

“I remember,” Faith whispered. “I remember.”

Honoree froze. “You remember LeFevre’s commanding officer?”

“Braxton . . . Bragg.”

The cup in Honoree’s hand trembled. She closed her eyes, then opened them and helped Faith drink more.

“We still have a war between us and Shiloh,” Faith said.

“Yes. I know.” Honoree gripped Faith’s hand. “We won’t give up hope. Or just plain give up.”

Faith tried to smile, but it tugged her taut, raw-feeling skin.

Honoree pressed a hand to the part of Faith’s forehead that wasn’t bandaged. “Your fever is going down. I think we’re winning against the infection.”

“Thanks to thee and Dr. Bryant,” Faith whispered.

“He’s a rare gentleman,” Honoree agreed and began propping Faith up to help her eat breakfast.