Faith (18 page)

Out on the main street, more citizens had come out to stare at them.

Then two thin black women in tattered clothing hurried toward their procession. “Kin we come with you to freedom?” one implored, her hands held forward in supplication.

An image of Armstrong hit Dev between the eyes.

“Of course,” Honoree said.

A white woman ran after them. “You come back here! You belong to me.”

“No, they don’t
 
—” Honoree began.

The woman slapped Honoree’s face.

Honoree returned the favor.

People from all around surged forward, yelling curses and threats.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Dev bellowed, raising his carbine. “Back! Get back!” His men drew their weapons too, forming a circle around Faith, Honoree, and the two others, facing the woman who’d slapped Honoree.

Everyone in the area froze.

“If you require food or medical aid,” Dev ordered, “you can remain outside. If not, return to your homes. Now!” His heart beat fast. Would he be forced to kill a civilian?

The people around them stared for a moment before beginning to retreat. Finally only the woman who’d slapped Honoree remained, but she looked defeated. “How can you leave me?” she said to the two women who’d run from her. “We’ve been together all our lives.”

Dev repeated her words in his mind. Again memories of Armstrong wrapped around his throat. He lowered his carbine.

“Only because we couldn’t leave,” the older black woman replied. “We don’t wish anythin’ bad on you, but we want our freedom.”

“I’ve lost everything and everyone. How can you leave me all alone?” The white woman began to weep.

“We just want our freedom,” the black woman repeated.

In Dev’s mind, the words echoed, but in Armstrong’s voice.
Armstrong, I only wanted your best.

Her shoulders drooping, the woman shuffled off without a word.

Dev felt her loss as keenly as his own. He stiffened himself, not allowing any of this weakness to show. Besides, their cases weren’t identical. He’d always wanted Armstrong to be free eventually, just not in the middle of a war.

Faith and Honoree exchanged glances. “Stay close to the colonel,” Honoree urged the newly freed black women, “till we leave.”

After a couple of hours, the wagon had been emptied of food and medicine. More freed slaves had joined the first two, and as they walked out of town, the slaves crowded cautiously around the wagon.

Dev fell into step beside Faith. She looked at him. “This must have been difficult for thee today.”

He tried to think what she was referring to.

“‘No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other,’” Faith quoted, “‘or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.’”

Dev puzzled over the quote. What did that Scripture have to do with him? He didn’t often struggle between serving God and serving money
 
—no more than any other man. He covered his confusion with a noncommittal “Oh?”

Just as they left, a rifle shot zipped overhead. Dev drew his carbine, threw one arm over Faith, and ran, bent over,
with the others. They hurried out of town. So much for surrender.

With Vicksburg in Union hands, supply boats had begun docking and delivering food, clothing, medicine, newspapers, and letters and packages from home. While Faith read a letter from her mother, Honoree sat near her, fanning away flies and chatting with Ella, who stood near a bubbling, steaming open kettle. Ella had asked if she could do their personal laundry for extra money, so she’d come today and was boiling their whites over the low fire. Faith and Honoree had taken turns helping to carry water so Ella could work more efficiently. Soon all their underthings and bedding would be fresh and ironed. What a lovely feeling that would be.

The drummers still measured out their days, but everyone looked happier than they had in months. Faith, however, fretted over how they could ever get to New Orleans when Port Hudson, the last outpost of Confederate resistance on the Mississippi, still blocked them
 
—along with other concerns.

In war one did not just set out across military lines. Yet she must somehow get to New Orleans, the only place they might find any information about Shiloh’s whereabouts. Faith sighed and continued reading. “Oh!” she exclaimed, holding the letter out like a snake as she came to the final paragraph.

“What is it?” Honoree turned to her.

“I’m afraid . . .” Faith swallowed and then continued. “John has been conscripted, and thy brother Samuel has enlisted.”

Honoree rose and came nearer. “Let me see.”

Faith handed over the letter from her mother, pointing to the part she’d referenced.

Honoree read the passage and stooped to be at Faith’s level. “I didn’t think it would come to that.” Her voice vibrated with concern.

Faith was sick at heart. And now, along with the colonel and Armstrong, her brother and Honoree’s would be thrown into this terrible fiery hurricane of war. She linked hands with Honoree. “God, please protect our brothers,” Faith prayed aloud.

“Your brothers?”

Faith glanced up to see Colonel Knight. He stood nearby, a full cloth bag in hand. “Colonel, yes, my brother has been conscripted, and Honoree’s has enlisted. We’d hoped this war would be over before that happened.”

“Your brother will go to war?” the colonel asked Faith. “I didn’t think Quakers served in the military.”

“My mother writes that John found himself caught between opposing violence and desiring to help preserve the Union. He chose the latter.”

“And my brother turned twenty-one and made his own decision,” Honoree added, picking up their water buckets as if ready to go fetch more.

“Is this John your brother who attended college?” the colonel asked Faith.

Faith nodded. “He began teaching two years ago at a boys’ academy.”

The colonel shook his head as if in sympathy.

“What can we do for thee, Colonel?” Faith asked, folding
the letter and slipping it into her apron pocket. She hoped he’d brought some news about Port Hudson.

“I was going to ask you to recommend a laundress.” Dev nodded toward the woman who was tending to theirs. He was a bit surprised to see her helping with the laundry instead of Honoree.

Faith turned to the pretty young woman. “Ella?” The young woman eyed him uncertainly.

“Shall I bring my things here or . . . ?” Dev asked, a bit uncomfortable about the sack in his hand. In the past Armstrong had taken care of his clothing and so much more.

“Is that thy laundry?” Faith asked, eyeing the sack.

“Yes, and I have more
 
—shirts to be washed and ironed too,” he admitted, not wanting to meet her gaze.

His reticence about laundry appeared to amuse her. “Colonel, if those are whites in that sack, Ella can add thy laundry to ours today.”

“Do my laundry with yours?” Dev was sincerely shocked, his jaw hanging loose.

Faith laughed. “We will avert our eyes so we don’t have to watch the
promiscuous
mingling of bachelor and maiden laundry,” she teased, snatching the bag from him and tossing it near Ella.

The young woman looked hesitant, but she picked up the sack and emptied it into the large kettle. Honoree grinned in amusement, and Faith shook her head at him, chuckling.

“You are laughing at me,” Dev said.

“A bit. It feels good to be able to laugh again.”

Dev bowed his head toward her, enjoying her laughter
though he didn’t say so. Faith moved in his direction. “The colonel will pay the same, Ella.”

“No, he won’t!”

The four of them turned at the outburst, only to witness a very angry young soldier approaching quickly.

“Landon,” Ella said, looking nervous, “I’m just doing our laundry. And I added these good ladies’ things to the pot.”

“Ella, that’s not all you’re doin’. And I won’t have it. White women don’t take in laundry. It’s bad enough I can’t hire ours out
 
—”

“Ella, won’t thee introduce us?” Faith interrupted.

“Miss Faith, this is my husband, Corporal Landon McCullough,” Ella said, looking even more nervous.

Faith politely offered her hand. “Corporal McCullough, I’m Faith Cathwell and this is my friend Honoree Langston.” Then she nodded toward Dev. “This is Colonel Devlin Knight.”

The young man looked uncomfortable but shook Faith’s hand as briefly as possible, glanced at Honoree, and saluted the colonel. “Sorry, sir. I was distracted.”

“At ease, Corporal.” If he’d known this man’s wife was from the South, he could have avoided this breach of etiquette. But he’d assumed she was from the North like Faith.

“Corporal,” Faith continued, “thy sweet wife is helping us with our laundry, as she said. And white women do take in laundry in the North.”

“We’re not from the North,” the corporal said through gritted teeth.

“That is quite true,” Faith allowed, “but while in Rome, one must do as the Romans do.”

“What?”

“Corporal, I know in the South a white woman taking in laundry is not the usual,” Dev cut in, hoping to avoid trouble for the young wife. “But this is wartime. Nothing here is like it is at home. And I know firsthand that in the Mexican War white women worked as laundresses.”

Corporal McCullough chewed on these words and finally nodded grudgingly. “Ella, you can help these ladies. Everybody knows about how much Miss Faith and Honoree do for wounded soldiers. But I won’t have you takin’ in laundry like a . . .”

“Like a Negress,” Honoree finished for him, lacing the word with sarcasm.

The corporal stiffened, flushing red.

“Corporal,” Dev said as if he’d not heard Honoree’s words, “I just lost my manservant and I’d take it as a personal favor if you would allow your wife to take care of my things this once. I need to go to the contraband camp and find someone to care for my clothing, but I haven’t had time.”

Landon turned to him. “Well, if you put it that way, I can’t very well refuse.” He looked to his wife. “Ella, just this time, understand?”

“Yes, Landon.” Ella smiled tentatively. “I didn’t mean . . . I
 
—”

“Very well,” Landon said, drawing closer to her and handing her a knapsack. “You forgot these,” he whispered.

With a tremulous smile, Ella accepted the knapsack, and after saluting the colonel, Landon left them.

Dev noticed Faith looking past him, over his shoulder. She smiled and said, “Armstrong, how happy I am to see thee.”

Dev stiffened. He turned.

Armstrong stood before him in an artillery uniform with one private’s stripe. Dry-mouthed, Dev could only stare at the man.

“Good day, Miss Faith,” Armstrong said politely. “Miss Honoree?”

“Armstrong!” Honoree said with obvious pleasure, setting down the buckets she held and coming forward.

Armstrong reached for her hand. “Would you walk with me, Miss Honoree?”

The girl laughed as if he’d told a joke. “Never,” she teased even as she claimed his arm.

Not even glancing toward Dev, Armstrong managed to bow to Faith as Honoree walked away on his arm.

Ignored and miffed, Dev almost asked him to wait. But what could he say?
I’m sorry
? He was sorry, but not at all sorry.

“It is a difficult situation,” Faith said with audible sympathy.

He didn’t want her sympathy.

“Will thee walk me so I can fetch more water to help Ella?” she asked him, picking up the discarded buckets.

He wanted to deny her, but everything within him strained toward her. Just being near Faith had become his only solace. “As you wish,” he said.

She gripped his arm as Honoree had Armstrong’s. After a few paces, she asked in a low voice, “What is it about doing laundry that is demeaning to whites? It’s honest work.”

Dev didn’t want to answer her because he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain.

She glanced up at him around her bonnet brim. “Colonel?”

“A white woman who’s poor can do her own laundry,” he replied, “but only black women do laundry for hire.”

“Why?”

Dev shrugged, uncomfortable, yet he couldn’t understand why.

Faith walked beside him, obviously in thought. They passed other soldiers doing laundry, writing letters, cleaning their rifles.

“That is the worst part of the slave system,” she murmured.

“What is?” He couldn’t keep his irritation from his tone. Seeing Armstrong and being ignored nettled him, and he hated admitting that even to himself.

“When only black people labor and black people are disrespected, then honest labor loses its respect. Doesn’t thee see that?”

“What does it matter?” Why couldn’t she leave it be for once?

“It matters because first, it’s wrong; and second, slavery is not going to continue. If honest labor isn’t respected, who will do the work in the South then?”

“Did you ever think the South might prevail?” he replied, not believing the disgruntled words but not wanting to go along with her line of reasoning.

“No,” she said flatly. “The Northern blockade is closing the South’s ports along the Atlantic, the Gulf, and now the Mississippi River. Since Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation made slavery the official issue of this war, Europe is not coming to their aid. And the North is enlisting immigrants as quickly as they come to our shore, a seemingly endless supply
of men. An army must have men and supplies. The South has limited numbers of both and is being depleted almost daily.”