Faith (7 page)

A loud moan caused her to open her eyes to the dawn’s thin light. She sat up and scanned the field around her. Some men had wakened too and were moving and moaning. She looked down at her empty canteens and pockets. She had nothing to offer the soldiers. Her throat and mouth and lips were dry as sand. Her stomach felt caved in for lack of food. Her body ached as if she’d been beaten. She lay back down, unable to move.
Lord, I need thy strength. Send help. I have none to give.

“Wake up, miss.” The Sanitary Commission driver shook her shoulder. “We’re back at camp.”

She blinked open her eyes in the full morning light. She sat slumped on the high wagon bench where he must have laid her earlier. “Thank thee,” she muttered through dry lips.

He helped her down, and though she thought of the wounded in the back of the wagon, she knew she would not be of any help to them until she ate and was strengthened. She stumbled along toward the nearby hospital mess tent.
The men working there asked no questions, just helped her sit down and brought her a mug of coffee and a bowl of hot oatmeal. She had to eat a few bites and sip the coffee before she could speak her gratitude.

“Long night?” the man who’d served her asked.

“Yes.” She went on eating, though just lifting the spoon exhausted her. The man was soon called away, and persevering in her efforts, she felt the food and coffee lifting her from her stupor. Her spoon finally scraped the bottom of the empty bowl.

“Miss Cathwell?”

She looked up into the blue eyes of Colonel Knight. For one moment she nearly threw her arms around him, seeking his strength. Then the worry she saw in his countenance stiffened inside her like icicles, even in the heat. Had Honoree taken a turn for the worse? “What is wrong?”

Without replying, he held out his hand.

She let him help her rise, his rough hand drawing her near. Resisting the pull toward him, she carried her empty bowl and mug outside, where dishes were being washed. Her mind conjured Honoree’s unconscious face as she finally allowed the colonel to lead her away. “What is it, Colonel?” she begged. “Is it Honoree? How is she?”

Dev regretted not telling her right away. He tightened his hold on her small hand. He longed to pull her under his arm, protect her. Instead he released her. “I’m sorry, miss. Your friend is awake. She’s at my tent. Come. I’ll take you.”

The camp around them had come fully alive. A drummer was sounding the daily sick call, which struck Dev as unnecessary. The wounded were still being brought in on wagons,
but except in the midst of battle the routine of military life never changed.

“What’s wrong with Honoree?” The Quakeress broke into his silent, unhappy musings. “Is she ill?”

“She’s recovering.” Dev still couldn’t speak aloud of his cousin’s treachery. His tent was ahead. He waved toward it, silently asking for her patience. Soon he let her precede him and then he followed, dreading the coming revelation. His cousin had shamed his family, shamed him.

The Quakeress ran toward the black girl, who was sitting on the edge of his cot. “Honoree!”

The girl rose and the two women clasped each other close, shedding tears of evident relief.

Dev stood back, moved by the depth of their caring for each other. Armstrong came to stand beside him, and Dev had the urge to reach out and grip his man’s shoulder. He resisted the gesture. His man wouldn’t leave him and go home to Baltimore after his birthday, would he?

Finally the two women parted. The Quakeress turned to him. “Thank thee. I was so worried. Has she been seen by Dr. Bryant?”

Dev cleared his throat. “I took her to him straightaway. He said he could do nothing, so I brought her here and Armstrong helped me watch over her.”

The Quakeress stepped toward them. “Thank thee, Armstrong.” She offered him her hand.

Armstrong hesitated and then shook her hand. “I was happy to help, miss. But your friend merely needed rest. She was dazed and confused. Is that not so, Miss Honoree?”

Dev did not miss the warm look that passed between the
two. It caught inside him. Had Armstrong found someone to care for? Certainly soon his man would be free, and why shouldn’t he marry? Dev looked away, his own bleak, and no doubt brief, future taunting him.
I could die in this push to Vicksburg.
At least Armstrong would survive this war.

“My head still aches,” Honoree replied, “but I can think now and I’m not dizzy anymore.”

Dev could hold the truth back no longer. “Miss Cathwell, as you can see, my cousin is not here. In the chaos of battle, he has escaped.”

Honoree made a loud sound of disgust.

The Quakeress looked suddenly weaker.

Dev moved forward, urging her to sit on the camp stool by his cot. Again the fact that a lovely young woman like this would be here in these harsh and debilitating conditions aggravated him. “You need to go to your tent and recover your strength.”
You need to go back to where you belong.

“Yes, I am fatigued, but I’m sure I’m needed at the hospital.” She rested her head in one hand.

“You will go to our tent,” Honoree stated firmly, “and sleep for a few hours and then freshen up and eat another meal before I let you go near the surgeons’ tents. I’m not going to let you ruin your health. That won’t help anyone.”

The Quakeress sighed in quiet acquiescence.

“We will come with you and see that you have what you need,” Armstrong said, surprising Dev.

“Yes, we will,” Dev agreed. “I’m afraid I’ve been distracted by my cousin’s perfidy.”

And that was how it came that he and Armstrong escorted the two women to their tent.

As Dev began to leave, the Quakeress stopped him, a gentle hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry thy cousin broke his word. But I find that the evil one sends a kind of blindness to those who avoid the Light of Christ.”

Dev could think of no reply, so he merely nodded. With a sinking sensation, he realized what honor demanded of him, and without delay. “Thank you, miss, for your help.”

“Thee kept my friend safe. Thank thee. God bless, Devlin Knight.”

Her use of his given name softened his heart, but he steeled himself. He headed toward the headquarters through the camp of many thousands. He must now face the punishment for trusting his untrustworthy cousin.

Soon Dev approached the tent of his immediate superior, Brigadier General Peter Osterhaus, to confess and face his punishment. He could be court-martialed for hiding a Rebel. His stomach churned with bitterness. Before he could speak to the aide outside, Osterhaus stepped out and saw him. “What is it, Knight?”

Dev saluted. “I need to speak to you, sir.”

After returning the salute, Osterhaus waved him inside.

Dev entered the weathered tent.

“What is it?” the brigadier general repeated, standing near a table with a map spread out on it.

Dev stiffened himself. “I’m afraid I’m guilty of aiding the enemy.”

Osterhaus straightened, looking surprised. “How so?” he asked, his voice mild.

“Earlier this month in a skirmish east of Port Gibson, I met my cousin, who is in the Confederate cavalry, and saw him fall.” The memory brought back that awful moment when he’d thought his cousin dead. But it paled in contrast to his cousin’s dishonor. “Afterward I returned and found him, wounded in both arms but alive.” Dev was aware that someone had entered the tent behind him.

The brigadier general straightened to attention and saluted. Dev knew he should turn and do the same, but he was desperate to get his confession over and done. He plunged on. “I carried my cousin back to my tent and tended his wounds.” Dev decided not to mention Miss Cathwell’s involvement. “I intended to turn him over as a prisoner of war as soon as he was well enough. He gave me his word as a gentleman
 
—” Dev’s voice caught in his throat
 
—“that he wouldn’t try to escape.”

“But he broke his word,” Osterhaus concluded, nodding at Dev, an indication that he should acknowledge the officer behind him.

“Sad business,” the man behind Dev said with evident sympathy.

Recognizing the voice, Dev turned and his chagrin heightened. General Grant had entered with his young son Fred, about thirteen years old, who acted as his orderly. Dev’s humiliation was now complete
 
—not only was Grant the highest authority here, but Dev and Grant had a history.

Dev also snapped to attention and saluted. “I regret trusting him, sir, but I had no idea that he’d
 
—”

“Violate his word,” Grant finished for him. He motioned toward the brigadier general. “At ease, Osterhaus.”

Unable to speak, shame heating his face, Dev remained at attention, stiff with anger at Jack and at himself. He waited to hear his punishment.

Osterhaus and Grant exchanged glances.

Dev waited, his collar tightening around his neck.

“You had a cousin who served with us in Mexico,” Grant said. His son gazed at him, obviously listening carefully.

“Yes. That was Lieutenant Bellamy Carroll. He fell at Monterrey. Jack is his younger brother, who enlisted as a private and came west in the infantry.”

Grant nodded, gazing at a point over Dev’s left ear as if recalling scenes from the past. “Monterrey,” he muttered.

That had been a bloody day Dev would never forget, Bellamy dying in his arms . . .

“Upon your agreement, Osterhaus,” General Grant finally said in his quiet way, “I think Knight’s losing a month’s pay is commensurate with this . . . incident. This war is a civil war. We can’t help meeting family and old friends across the field.” He gazed toward the brigadier general, who nodded once in agreement.

Dev stood frozen, stunned.

“Colonel, you are dismissed,” Grant said in a kind voice.

Racked by relief and guilt, Dev saluted and left. Outside, he paused to catch his breath.

“That was lenient,” he heard Osterhaus say within.

“Calvary colonels face death on the front line practically every day. Knight’s a good man. We need him.”

“You’re right. He’s a good officer, and we do lose colonels at a more rapid pace than any other officer.”

Grant rumbled his agreement. “My point exactly.”

Dev walked away then, not wanting to hear any more. Instead of a court-martial, he’d received a slap on the wrist
 
—all because they expected him to be killed sooner rather than later. They weren’t wrong. He’d already accepted that he’d die in this war.

Meeting his end was just a matter of time and chance. But before he died, he’d find Jack and make him pay. This was war, but not even in war did a gentleman heap dishonor on his whole family. As it was said, “Death before dishonor.” And Jack had chosen the latter.

O
N HER COT,
Faith blinked herself awake to the sound of the drummer, beating the tattoo that would call every soldier to evening roll call. She lay staring at the drab inside of the conical tent, recalling images from the aftermath of yesterday’s battle. Pushing these dread reminders away, she realized she must have slept the day away. A dull hunger gnawed at her.

But then the image of the colonel’s expression as he confessed his cousin’s treachery reared up and dominated her mind. She was an abolitionist, a pacifist, and he was a slaveholder and a soldier. But God had brought him into her life. So what was she going to do about him? She should distance herself from him. Perhaps it was the situation with his cousin’s injuries and escape that had drawn her sympathy. The colonel did not deserve this backhanded blow.

Honoree ducked inside, holding a plate heaped with
beans, rice, and corn bread. “I was delayed getting back from supper at the mess tent.” She held out the plate. “Sit up and take this. I will go pour you a cup of coffee.”

Empty, Faith did as she was told. She began eating, not really tasting the tepid food. Her stomach clamored for her to eat faster, but she knew that would only cause her upset.

Honoree reentered and set a tin cup on the dirt floor beside Faith.

Faith glanced up, drawn from her thoughts about the colonel to her friend’s obvious recovery. “Thee is better, then. I’m glad.”

“My head aches less than before. I know I should have gone to nurse today, but I put us both on sick call and stayed here with you.”

Chewing, Faith merely nodded.

“I’m going to take a walk before bed.”

Unwilling to have Honoree out walking alone, Faith tried to stand. “Wait. I’ll come with
 
—”

“I have an escort.” Honoree smiled a real smile.

Noticing only then that her friend sported a freshly ironed white apron and a red kerchief over her hair, Faith raised an eyebrow.

“Armstrong is here to accompany me.”

“Oh.”

Honoree chuckled as if amused by Faith’s reaction. “I won’t be too late. We just wanted some time to talk.” With that, her friend left.

Faith heard the tones of Armstrong’s deep voice, and then the two moved away, shadows on the tent wall. So Armstrong might be interested in Honoree. Faith continued to force
herself to eat the lukewarm plate of almost-tasteless food. Had they even run out of salt? Nonetheless, one must eat, and she needed to restore her strength.

Finishing the chore, she rose and shook out her rumpled dress, then brushed and repinned her disordered hair under a cap. Sighing, she went outside. Her destination was set
 
—certainly not where she ought to go but where she could not help going. What had been the ramifications of his cousin’s escape?

The summer twilight gathered around the quieting camp as she walked directly to the colonel’s tent. At the entrance she spoke his name. “Colonel Knight.”

She waited. Had he been called away to duty? She repeated his name.

The tent flap opened. He gazed out at her. He looked surprised. “Miss Cathwell?” As usual he had the air of a gentleman, with his cultured voice and well-tailored uniform.

“Yes. May we speak?”
Of matters thee probably doesn’t want to discuss?

“A moment.” He stepped back inside. Soon he returned with a camp stool in each hand. He set hers down and waved her to it. Then he sat very properly on the other side of the tent opening as if they were in a parlor. “How may I help you, miss?”

Perching on the canvas stool, she tried to come up with a polite topic of conversation. But she couldn’t make herself waste words on vapid subjects that meant nothing. “What was thy punishment?”

He looked startled.

“Thee doesn’t have to tell me, but I can’t help asking
 
—”

“A month’s pay.” He looked down, ashamed.

She let this settle in her mind. “That was generous.”

He said nothing.

She sensed his distress and wished to help. “I will not pry, but . . .”

“Jack and I have never gotten along.” He announced this as if he didn’t want to but couldn’t help himself. Deep hurt lay beneath the words.

She nodded to signify she’d heard him. Then she recalled something she’d meant to ask him. “Who was Bellamy?”

Again he looked surprised. “Why do you ask that?”

She waved a hand and met his gaze, trying to let him know he could trust her. “When thy cousin was delirious, he mentioned the name.” She waited. Either he would answer or he would not.

Caught between wanting to send this prying woman away and wanting to pour out the whole story to her, Dev struggled with himself. But Jack’s betrayal of his trust had ripped the scab off the old wound, and her soft voice was so sympathetic.

“We
 
—Jack, Bellamy, and I
 
—grew up in eastern Maryland. My mother and Jack’s father were sister and brother, raised on a tobacco plantation. My mother married and moved to the city, to Baltimore, but of course we visited often. Bellamy was the elder brother and Jack the younger, the only two to survive to adulthood.”

“I am the youngest of my family,” the Quakeress murmured conversationally.

Her nonjudgmental, easy presence invited his confidences. “As Bellamy and I were nearly the same age, we
attended West Point together and graduated the same year, just in time for the Mexican War.”

“Thee served together, then?” Her gentle voice encouraged him.

“Yes, and at only seventeen Jack enlisted in the infantry and fought too. My uncle was livid
 
—both his sons off to war. He needed an heir for his tobacco plantation.” Dev paused. He was sure this Quaker would infer that this meant his uncle owned many slaves. It was the bone of contention between his uncle and his mother, the reason she had moved to the city.

He cleared his throat. “But if Bellamy was off to war, so was Jack. He always competed with his brother.” Letting the truth come out began to roll back the weight of the past. He drew in a deep breath.

“What kind of man was Bellamy?”

Dev bent forward, elbows on his knees, remembering Bellamy. He realized that speaking of his lost cousin was something he’d long wanted to do. “He was taller than Jack and more fair-minded.” Though what he meant by the last remark, he couldn’t have explained.

“I understand. He was not always trying to compete with Jack, but Jack was with him. Is that it?”

She had stated it exactly. A yes was forced out of him. “Bellamy would never have violated his word.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that thy cousin sported a single star on his hat cockade. What does that signify?”

“It’s the symbol of Texas. After the war Jack married a Texas girl, a rancher’s daughter, and stayed there.”

“But his father needed a son for the plantation,” she objected.

Dev couldn’t stop his mouth twisting into irony. “I don’t understand it either, really. Jack . . . I think Jack always felt his father favored Bellamy.”
And me.

“Brothers, rivals. I don’t want to seem sententious, but it sounds like Jacob and Esau.”

Dev barked a sad laugh. “I think that sums it up.”

“Did Bellamy die in the war in Mexico?”

He sent her a sharp glance.

“Recall,” she prompted, “what thy cousin spoke in his delirium. He seemed to be justifying himself to his father that he hadn’t killed Bellamy.”

Dev tried to think what this might have meant. Unable to, he finally shrugged. “Jack was merely another private in a vast army. He couldn’t have killed his brother. He was delirious after all.”

“Sometimes our truest feelings come out in dreams or nightmares.”

He glanced sideways, now wanting to turn the conversation away from his family and its conflicts. “Do you have nightmares, Miss Cathwell?”

“I am human, Colonel.”

Then he recalled her telling him the story of Honoree’s sister Shiloh. He nodded and, his tongue loosening, asked, “Are you still trying to discover where your friend who was sold south might have ended up?”

“That is the primary reason Honoree and I came south.”

He stared at her. The idea of her actually looking for her friend still flabbergasted him. “Do you really think you’ll be able to find her? Two women? In the middle of a war?”

Faith considered him in the waning light. “Neither of
us
 
—Honoree nor I
 
—could even contemplate coming south before the war. An abolitionist and a free black? Both of us would have been in danger.” She spoke resolutely. “Yet one fact is certain. If I did not come, I would never find Shiloh.”

He realized that though she was unlike most other women, in an unexpected way, she was similar in temperament to his genteel but tenacious mother. The sunset was dimming, and he should get her back before dark. “I will accompany you to your tent.” He expected an argument, but she merely rose.

He folded the camp stools and set them inside. Then he offered her his arm and they set off.

“Thy family is from Maryland,” she commented as they threaded their way through the tents and men. “My mother and Honoree’s mother are also from a tobacco plantation there.”

“Really.” He wondered which plantation, but he was finished with conversation about families for this evening.

Still, he breathed easier. This woman and her conversations had calmed his mind.

“My mother met and married my father in Pennsylvania,” she continued. “He’s deaf. We communicate with him through finger signs.”

He looked at her sharply.

“Just checking to see if thee was listening.” She sent him a saucy grin.

He smiled but kept walking in silence.

“I know thee feels indebted to me, and I don’t want to impose. But if any opportunity presents itself, would thee get permission to help me pursue a bit of information we’ve gleaned?”

“About what?”

“Shiloh may be on a plantation called Annerdale, near here.”

“What makes you think this is a credible lead?”

“Shiloh is very distinctive in her appearance. She is light-skinned with golden-brown hair and green eyes like mine.”

Dev absorbed these details. He wanted to ask many questions about Shiloh, but since the situation and the request were disturbing him, he refrained. He gave the only reply he could. “I am at your disposal, but only if my duties permit. And if we gain permission to go into enemy territory.”

“I understand.” As they walked around a knot of men, he tucked her a bit closer, protectively. A few glanced at them with inquisitive expressions, but Dev kept her near.

Within steps of the women’s tent, they encountered Armstrong and Honoree. His suspicions about their growing attachment must have been correct. He bowed to Faith and nodded to her friend. Armstrong bade the women good night, and the two of them walked in silence back to their tent.

Inside, Armstrong helped Dev undress for bed, a nightly ritual. “You’re interested in Honoree?” Dev asked finally.

“I do find her very . . . interesting. It’s time I found myself a wife.”

And she is free and has family far from here,
Dev added silently.

“Honoree is very eager to seek her sister,” Armstrong said.

Dev did not want to discuss this. “So I understand.”

Armstrong accepted the snub and they went on with their routine.

Much as Dev hated to admit it, once Armstrong left, he might be completely alone. The thought sucked away the remainder of his energy and he fell onto his cot, hoping for swift sleep and no nightmares. He was human too.

After breakfast the next morning, Faith and Honoree entered the camp hospital tent in time to speak to the night nurses before they left to eat breakfast and then retire to their cots and sleep.

On the way there, Faith had told Honoree about requesting help from the colonel to go to Annerdale. Honoree had not seemed very impressed. Faith sensed she did not like the colonel or trust him.

Faith had no time to think on what the colonel had revealed about his family. After the most recent battle, the camp hospital was so filled with wounded that there was barely room to walk between the cots, and many new patients lay upon the ground with only a blanket between them and the dirt. The crush of duty nearly overwhelmed her.