Faith (11 page)

The quartermaster approached him. Leaning close, the man said, “As you can see, I have given them uniforms but I hesitated to issue them firearms yet.”

Another disbelieving wave rolled over Dev. This endeavor hit him deeply as wrong. He imagined his uncle’s face, and it was aghast. Dev recalled the shock that had vibrated through the slaveholding South when John Brown had tried to steal weapons from the armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, to arm slaves for bloody revolt. Dev let the emotion work through him, trying to dissipate it, shake it off.
I am not my uncle.

Yet he couldn’t so easily dismiss a lifetime of living with slavery. He knew that Armstrong would have made an admirable soldier. But thank God he’d never have to be one.

Now Dev had a job to do, this job. He saluted the quartermaster and turned to the recruits. “Men,” he bellowed against the shelling behind him, “I am going to assemble you and begin to teach you how to conduct yourself as soldiers.”

The recruits, almost as one, straightened and faced him squarely. He read the determination on each face. Because of the noise of the shelling, he and his sergeants moved to collect small groups of recruits to begin the work of teaching them how to salute and showing them marching order. After each man had been instructed, Dev and the sergeants led them farther to the rear, where they would have more room to move.

He ignored his reluctance as best he could. He was a soldier and these were his orders. And slavery would not survive
this war. He admitted that but shut his mind to all the ramifications it would unleash.

The head cook of the hospital kitchen, a woman whom Faith had hired at the Jackson contraband camp, hurried inside the hospital tent and came straight to Faith late in the morning. “The thief at it again,” the cook, named Mary Lou, spoke into Faith’s ear. “We missin’ a pan of corn bread, a big sack of beans, and a tub of lard.”

Faith finished with her patient and led the cook outside into the heat of the sun. “This is distressing. The warning hasn’t worked, then?”

“No, I think it jes might-a warn’ our thief to be more careful,” Mary Lou said with an ironic twist.

“Well, he might have taken the corn bread for his own appetite, but the other items he must be selling.”

“Yes, and food so short round here, who know who he selling to.” Mary Lou let an irritated look say,
Probably to Rebs.

Faith gazed around at the camp. Nearby, in spite of the constant shelling, an infantry sergeant was holding a marching session for new recruits who’d just arrived from the North. The summer heat was wilting Faith’s starched collar and cuffs. She wanted to go to Annerdale now. But the war held them captive here. So though she didn’t want to deal with this issue, she must because food was scarce.

Till the Union controlled the whole length of the Mississippi, supplies would have a hard time reaching anyone
 
—Union as well as Confederate. Rations had been reduced once already. Fresh irritation gripped her. Some
soldier was profiting from selling much-needed supplies, if not to enemy troops, then perhaps to the locals surrounding them. She pitied the people who’d suffered hunger already and would continue to suffer, but the Union Army could barely feed themselves, much less the enemy. And the hospital mess was tasked with feeding the sick and wounded. She wanted to shake the thief, whoever he was.

“What we gon’ do?” the cook prompted.

“Set a trap.” Faith sent a determined look to the cook.

Both of Mary Lou’s eyebrows rose. “What you proposin’?”

Faith pondered this. “I will think of something. And soon.” She turned to go back to her patients. “Leave it to me.”

The cook nodded and headed toward the large open kitchen nearby. “I will!”

Faith entered the hospital and ran straight into Dr. Dyson’s path.

He stared at her, then brushed past her disrespectfully. “So you’ve finally found a man, a colonel to boot,” he muttered. A sudden lapse in the artillery din made his comment audible not only to her but to a few of the patients nearby.

Faith stiffened but did not deign to reply. She moved forward. As a woman in a field dominated by men, she was an easy target. And plainly Dr. Dyson was one of those sour individuals who were never happy unless someone else was unhappy. She moved Dyson out of her mind and tried to come up with a plan to catch a thief.

At the end of the long, hot day, Dev sat on his cot in his tent, clutching a cup of cold coffee during the supper cease-fire.
Armstrong had gone off somewhere. The day of training the African Brigade had been demanding. He hadn’t trained a large group of recruits for a long time, not since ’61, and with the artillery barrage going full blast, he’d been forced to come up with hand signals instead of shouted orders
 
—which made everything more exhausting.

He sorted through his thoughts, bringing them under his authority. The recruits had been eager to learn and intense in their desire to become soldiers. Part of him had reveled in that and another had despaired. They had run away from their masters and now would very likely die in battle. Which was better
 
—life and slavery or freedom and death? Patrick Henry had declared, “Give me liberty, or give me death.” And the new black soldiers appeared to agree.

His barrage-dulled ears identified Armstrong’s voice just outside the tent. Dev nearly spoke his name, but he also heard Faith’s friend’s voice. His man was not alone.

“I will get us camp stools,” Armstrong said.

Without thinking, Dev jostled his cup and lay down quickly as though napping. His eyes shut, he heard some movement and then Armstrong’s voice as he returned outside. Dev just didn’t want to face anyone right now, not even his trusted manservant.

“The colonel is sleeping,” Armstrong said. “He has had a difficult and strenuous day training the recruits.”

“I was surprised that General Grant allowed the contraband men to enlist,” Honoree replied.

“He needs all the men he can get.”

“Faith and I were hoping the colonel would have time to take us to that plantation to see about my sister.”

“I’m afraid that will be delayed until this duty is done.”

The girl sighed long and loudly.

“This war is worse,” Armstrong commented. “Much worse than the Mexican War.”

“You were there?”

“Yes, with the colonel. Or I should say the captain. That was his rank at the time. I was . . . We both were so much younger then. My fortieth birthday is only weeks away.”

The reminder clutched Dev tightly. Another change. Another loss. Where was Jack? Was he still alive?

“I will enlist then,” Armstrong said.

Dev stared at the inside of the tent and let shock roll over him.
No.

“I wish you didn’t need to, but I won’t try to discourage you,” Honoree said. “A freeman makes his own decisions.”

“Honoree, you are the only good thing to come out of this wretched war,” Armstrong said.

The girl chuckled, but the sound halted abruptly. “I don’t like to think of you fighting.”

For once, Dev was in complete agreement with her. Until recently he’d thought that after he freed Armstrong, life as he knew it would go on, except he would simply pay Armstrong wages. Now Dev knew that was not to be. What could he do to keep Armstrong safe? And the idea of losing Armstrong . . . one more loss. Unbearable.

A
T THE END
of another day of ear-numbing shelling, Faith resisted the urge to seek out the colonel as she left the mess tent. She must overcome this attraction to a man who, while worthy according to his principles, did not embrace hers.

Within moments Honoree had gone off with Armstrong for their daily walk. Faith declined to accompany them in case they ended up at the colonel’s tent. She returned alone to her tent and entered but then stood in the middle, coming to grips with her agitation. Or trying to. If Dr. Dyson had noticed her predilection for Colonel Knight’s company, others must also. She did not think her reputation had suffered or would suffer, but she could not allow herself to become “entangled” in the midst of a war.

And with a man who owned a slave.

Whenever she recalled that Armstrong belonged to the
colonel, the idea unsettled her afresh. Unable to be still, she began pacing in the confined space. Armstrong didn’t appear to be mistreated, so the colonel probably didn’t realize that holding him in bondage was wrong, abusive in itself. In any case, was Armstrong really whom she was most concerned for? Thoughts, memories of Shiloh, had plagued her all day.
I want to be free myself
 
—free to find Shiloh.

She halted and bowed her head, seeking the Lord’s peace, the peace that humans could not know without him. She asked for Christ’s light, the Inner Light, to glow within her, a light in the darkness, her comfort in the midst of this war.

As much solace as she derived from her moments in the colonel’s presence, she must steer clear of him. But he was the only one she could count on to help her go to Annerdale Plantation to seek Shiloh. Frustration consumed her. He was her opposite; he was her friend; he was her thorn in the flesh.

On this, the third day of training, Dev had brought along some other members of his regiment so he could break the African Brigade down into even smaller squads in order to teach them how to load, clean, and fire their Colt sidearms and Springfield rifles.

He still grappled with arming blacks who, until recently, had been slaves. After being born and raised in a slave state, he could barely reconcile this decision with what he’d been taught all his life. Faith’s image came to mind. She was frowning at him.

He dismissed this illusion and focused on the job at hand, on the group of African Brigade recruits gathered around one
of his sergeants. The unceasing noise of artillery forced the men to huddle close around the sergeant in order to watch and hear his instructions, barely giving him room to maneuver his rifle. Dev watched the intent black faces around him. And when he recalled Armstrong’s intention to enlist, he imagined him here, learning how to fight. Caustic dread filled him.

“Men, this is a rifle, not a musket,” the sergeant said, holding the weapon loosely in his hands. “Now, muskets have very poor performance. A rifle is so called because of the rifling inside the barrel.”

He ran his hand along the underside of the barrel. “Rifling causes the ball to spin.” He demonstrated by rotating his index finger. “A spinning ball goes farther and straighter than a musket ball, and with greater destructive accuracy.”

Dev tried to keep his focus on the earnest face of each new recruit, not letting his imagination bring Armstrong here. Did these men realize that rifles would also be pointed at them? Could rip into their flesh and snuff out their lives?

“Sir,” a tall, thoughtful-looking recruit named Carson asked, “how does riflin’ make the ball spin?”

“They etch a spiral inside the barrel and the shot follows it.” Again he demonstrated the motion with his index finger. “See?”

“And that always makes the gun shoot better?” Carson asked.

The sergeant nodded. “Yes. In the old muskets the ball shot out and eventually just dropped. The spinning propels it farther. Now we’re going to load our rifles with ball and powder.”

Dev moved to another group to observe how others were
faring. Once again, in his mind he heard Armstrong say he was going to enlist as soon as he was free. Dev felt sicker with each step.

In front of her tent the next evening, Faith gazed at a soldier whose brother she’d nursed earlier this spring, wondering what had brought him here but glad of the distraction. In spite of her wise intention, she’d almost set out to the colonel’s tent again. Her longing to see him, to hear his voice, had nearly overcome her better sense.

“You took such good care of Garner.” The corporal offered her a water bucket filled with small reddish-purple plums. “I wanted you to have these. I don’t know how the tree has survived the cannon fire, but I found it on a hill north of here while on reconnaissance, and it was covered with wild plums. At home they wouldn’t have been ripe till fall, but . . .” He shrugged.

“Thank thee. Here, let’s empty the plums into my bucket.” They made the transfer. “I will find a good use for them,” she promised. “Did thy brother reach home safely?”

“Yes, miss. I received that news in my last letter. Our mother is feeding him up and getting him back to normal health. Our family is grateful. They include you in their prayers.”

“Please thank them for me.”

He bowed his head and left her.

The man’s brother had lost a leg. He was one of the few she’d managed to save from infection, and now he was home. Satisfaction swelled within Faith.

She gazed down at the bucket of wild plums, and an idea of what to do about the food thief began to form in her mind. She felt almost vicious contemplating such a thing, but as the siege continued, food stores were becoming tighter and tighter. She considered how much worse it must be inside Vicksburg itself.

The dire situation within the besieged city rose in her, an ache, and she pushed it down. The Confederates could surrender anytime they wanted. She recalled the colonel’s cousin, who had broken his word and escaped. The South was fighting to save its way of life, but couldn’t they see that day by day, their land and people were being destroyed?

She could not deal with that fact; it was too big for her. She concentrated on how to carry out her plan. She couldn’t stop the fighting, but she could stop or try to stop a mean thief who didn’t care if their patients were stinted in their rations.

She headed toward the tents of the kitchen staff. Faith trusted the head cook. She was the perfect woman to put this plan into action. In spite of her frustration, Faith admitted she was glad to have something to distract her from thoughts of Colonel Knight, from Annerdale and Shiloh.

The next day Faith arrived early at the mess tent. The head cook stood in the opening at the rear. She motioned for Faith to come. Faith hurried to her.

“I did what you tol’ me and I set one of my he’pers, Dan, to watch and see if it works.”

“Excellent. Thank thee.”

The cook nodded once and turned back to the cook tent.
Soon, inside the mess tent, Faith sat at her usual table and ate breakfast, her stomach knotting. Would her trap work?

“Today,” Dev informed the sergeants who had been training the African Brigade recruits, “I’m going to let y’all go back to your normal duties.” For some reason he’d let his Maryland drawl become more pronounced today. He commanded himself. This assignment would end today for him as well as them.

Grant had chosen a seasoned officer to command this new brigade long-term. Dev would introduce this officer to the African troops now.

The sergeants saluted and left Dev. The nearly six hundred black soldiers remained, awaiting their new commander. “Captains!” Dev called.

The newly commissioned African officers snapped to attention. He recognized the alteration in these men, now dressed in sharp blue uniforms and standing with ramrod posture. The soldier named Carson who reminded him of Armstrong stood among the brigade captains.

“Your new commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Hermann Lieb, will now take charge.”

There was an exchange of military courtesies and Dev fell back, giving the new commanding officer the forefront.

Lieb addressed the men. “Today, Captains, you will take your companies through the daily military routine: roll call, rifle practice, and
 
—”

The after-breakfast artillery barrage began, interrupting him. With a wave of his hand, Lieb mouthed, “Proceed!”

The new African captains saluted and headed off, motioning for their smaller companies to follow. As the members of the regiment went through their duties, Dev headed back to his own command. Lieb would do as good a job as anyone could with these raw recruits.

Dev had rarely seen such fervor in any troops. Again the thought of Armstrong enlisting curdled in his midsection. And he couldn’t help reflecting that he hadn’t seen Faith for days now. Was she avoiding him? Or was he avoiding her?