Faith (8 page)

Unlike most of the nurses, Faith wore few crinolines under her skirt so she could pass more easily between patients. The suffering surrounding her wrenched Faith’s heart and she began praying silently,
God, help us. God, help us save some.

Despair whispered,
No one can save them.

She shoved this out of her mind. Just outside, at one end of the large hospital tent, a Sanitary Commission worker tended a kettle of porridge on a trivet over a small fire. The advance to Vicksburg continued. Along with the other
morning nurses, Faith began to feed the wounded who could not feed themselves.

Ella McCullough, the young wife who was becoming a faithful volunteer, entered the hospital and came over to Faith. “May I help again today, Miss Faith?”

“Of course, Ella McCullough. We can always use another pair of helping hands.” Faith leaned closer. “After thee finishes feeding the patients, I insist thee eat some too.”

The young girl blushed but nodded, not denying that extra food would be welcome. “I will. Thank you.”

Faith watched the young woman receive her first bowl of porridge and begin feeding a patient. The girl should be at home, not forced to elope because she and her husband supported the Union and Tennessee had seceded. Faith surmised that Ella’s husband must lack family and land of his own and was forced to bring her into danger with him. She was not alone. Many wives with no other resources had “followed the drum,” as it was called. Some even brought children with them to the camp, and no doubt the Confederate Army also had women and children in its midst. Faith closed her eyes a moment praying for all such women.

She drew in a breath, aware of a sense of impending disaster hanging over the hospital. The young Ella looked fretful, and with good reason. Everyone knew the push to Vicksburg would go on
 
—maybe they would even get there today.

Faith tried not to think about all these things. She greeted the next patient, a captain. “Good morning. Let me help thee eat breakfast.” She propped up the captain, too weak to help himself, and began feeding him, spoonful by spoonful.

Then in the distance she heard gunfire. Though it was
what she’d been expecting to hear, she nearly upset the bowl she held.

“No rest for the wicked,” the captain muttered in the sudden surrounding quiet. Ella glanced in the direction of the gunfire, obviously strained with worry. All around, the nurses, doctors, and even those patients who were moaning with pain became silent, listening intently. Their comrades were facing hot lead.

And Colonel Knight would be at the forefront. Perhaps at this very moment. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, but slowly she forced herself to inhale. “If thee doesn’t mind,” Faith said, raising her voice so that all could hear, “may I pray?”

Her patient nodded.

She spooned more porridge into his mouth and said aloud, “Heavenly Father, please protect our men and give our leaders wisdom and insight so that they may achieve their ends swiftly and with as little loss of life as possible. Our complete dependence is upon thee, since only thee can bring us victory and an end to this battle and this war. In Christ’s name, amen.”

Amen
s echoed around the room. Faith heard Ella’s soft one, somewhat belated as if she’d been praying silently. The battle was the Lord’s. Faith added inwardly,
Please, Lord, protect Colonel Knight. He has an honest heart.
She nearly shuddered, thinking that this caring man would be killing other men today. Or might be killed himself.
Oh, Father.

As Faith continued feeding the hungry, Honoree began singing an old song with her low, rich voice. “‘Hold on. Hold on. Keep your hand on the plow; just hold on.’”

Occasionally the battle sounds competed with Honoree’s voice, but it was strong and resonant and lifted Faith’s spirits
and quieted their patients. Ella finished the last breakfast for a patient and went back to sit and eat her meal alone.

Dr. Dyson entered the hospital and shouted, “Stop that infernal singing, girl!”

Kneeling by a patient on the floor, in the midst of washing his face, Honoree stopped and looked at the doctor.

“You shut up!” several voices rose as one. “Let her sing!” A palpable wave of anger swept through the conscious men, all directed at Dyson.

Dyson looked like he’d been struck.

Eyeing the man, Honoree began singing again. “‘I shall not be moved. When my cross is heavy, I shall not be moved.’”

Faith hid a smile and continued feeding her patient, her heart praying for Colonel Knight, whom she realized now she’d begun to care for
 
—even though he was killing and wounding men today. A Quakeress caring for a man of war, an abolitionist caring for a slaveholder. Hopeless, foolish beyond measure.

Once again scouting toward Vicksburg, Dev reined in his horse, who snorted and pranced.

Sniper fire.

“Spread out!” he commanded his men. If they didn’t, the snipers might start picking them off. Then he heard rapid gunfire. No doubt others of his men were encountering the rear guard of the Confederates, Pemberton’s soldiers. On the heels of yesterday’s victory, Grant was pressing on to Vicksburg, trying to stop the Rebs from reaching cover in the fortified city.

Dev sent two of his riders back to the main body of the advancing army to give this report. “Forward!” Dev gestured at the company around him.

Soon Dev glimpsed a number of Confederate troops ahead of him positioned behind swampland in front of a river. They’d put bales of cotton ahead of them and before that an abatis
 
—an outdated military defense consisting of mere branches of trees stuck in the ground in a row, with their sharpened tops directed toward the enemy. Even with obstacles in place, this defensive position showed that Pemberton was no one to lead these men. Dev mentally excoriated the Confederate general’s lack of strategy. He should have positioned all his men with the river before them, not behind them! No wise general took up such an untenable position. He’d heard that Pemberton had graduated from West Point, no doubt at the bottom of his class.

“Dismount!” Dev slid from the saddle and, along with the rest of his company, handed the reins to several men who were taking their turns remaining in the rear to hold the horses. The US cavalry acted as scouts and as dragoons, which meant fighting mounted or on foot when necessary. “Spread out and join in!”

His men obeyed and he followed suit. The main body of the army was advancing close at their backs. Pemberton must know that. “Fool,” Dev cursed under his breath.

The infantry arrived at the cavalry’s rear within minutes and Dev’s companies blended into their ranks. The artillery rolled into place and began barking hot lead over their heads. The blues swept onward, some sinking waist-deep in the swampy loop left by the meandering river. All under fierce
attack took positions wherever they could hunker down. Still their assault on Pemberton’s forces was relentless and without mercy. The blues drove the grays back toward the river. Some of the cotton bales, hit by hot grapeshot, caught fire. Dev cursed their general again.

The gray line finally broke. The Reb drum call for retreat came. Gray soldiers poured onto the bridge over the river, but others boarded a steamboat on the river, crowding it dangerously. A bullet seared Dev’s cheek; he ducked down. Ahead, the remaining Rebs did their utmost to protect the retreating soldiers.

The blue wave steadily pushed more and more grays onto the bridge or the steamboat to escape across the river. Dev urged his men on. If they could catch the Rebs out here, Vicksburg would fall quickly without defense. The killing could end . . . here.

The man beside Dev screamed and fell. Dev dropped to one knee to help him. Dead. Dev closed his eyes and, crouching, moved forward. They had to stop the Rebs from getting to Vicksburg. If they could halt them now . . .

A shell burst and Dev fell to the ground, covering his head with his arms.

Faith’s face flashed in Dev’s mind. He shoved it aside. He had to stay alive. That was all he had to do today. Just stay alive. With honor.

When the gunfire finally fell silent, Dr. Bryant harried the wagoneers to set out. At the edge of the usual commotion of gathering supplies for the wounded and getting teams of
horses harnessed, Honoree and Faith stood outside a hospital tent, overseeing the loading of fresh bandages and stretchers. Ella was busy filling canteens for the nurses to take with them.

Faith tried to focus on what she was doing, but Colonel Knight’s face lingered in her mind. Did he still live? Had they stopped the Rebel retreat?

“You!” Dr. Dyson appeared out of nowhere. “You, girl,” he said belligerently to Honoree. “Go with the wagons.”

Faith moved with Honoree, heading to their tent to get more supplies for the battlefield wounded.

“Not you, Quaker,” he snapped. “Just the girl. You stay here.”

Faith turned. “Wherever Honoree goes, I go. Thee knows that.”

“You’re not in charge here. Now for once do what you’re told.”

Faith stared at him, taking Honoree’s hand. She lowered her voice and leaned close so he could hear above the surrounding voices and noise. “Thee knows that we are volunteer nurses and thee has no real authority over us.”

His face flushed.

“Please do not embarrass thyself any further. Now either I go with her or Honoree stays here with me.”

Only hours after engagement, Dev watched the Rebs burn the bridge behind them. Flames shot skyward, white smoke boiling high. The sun blazed over them and the fire heated the air in undulating, transparent waves. Ash fell around him. Dev waited as some of his men gathered close.

“McClernand again?” one of them said with disgust.

Dev didn’t reply, but he felt the same. Grant had tried to prevent the Rebs from retreating to the fortified city, but the Union’s own General McClernand had failed to move quickly enough to stop Pemberton. Now the bridge over Black River was destroyed and the steamboat that had ferried all the live Rebs away also burned, sending flame and smoke skyward. Disgust roiled in Dev’s belly. Two incompetent officers, one on each side, had cost lives. Both were equally culpable in today’s slaughter. Pemberton should have gotten his troops across the river, then burned the bridge and steamboat to hinder the Union advance. No general worth his salt would back any of his men up against a natural obstruction. How many Rebs lay dead because of that foolish decision?

“Let’s regroup and see what casualties we’ve suffered,” Dev said, channeling his ire.

The few men around him nodded, their faces streaked with gunpowder and sweat. They turned and began threading their way through the wounded, picking out fallen comrades. Dev again thought of Faith. He did not like the idea of her facing this carnage. But stopping her was not his responsibility
 
—on the contrary, he deemed it an impossibility.

A hand gripped his trouser leg. “Water.”

Dev dropped to his knee, opened his canteen, and helped the soldier drink. He surveyed the man and quickly devised a tourniquet for his leg. “The hospital wagons will come soon.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder and moved away, still searching for his own men.