Aletta kept an eye on Andrew as she read through to the end of the list. No Warren Wesley Prescott. Under any category. No Richard Goodall either, although she did recognize two of the other names on the deceased list. Poor Virginia Cates and Margaret Kirby. Did the women even know the fates of their dear husbands yet?
She whispered a prayer for them, and a chilling wind swept it upward.
On the way home, she recalled a similar afternoon months earlier when she and Andrew had passed a contingent of Federal soldiers. As she’d looked into the eyes of the blue-clad enemy, she’d known she was looking into the eyes of some woman’s husband, father, brother, or son. And as she’d contemplated many times before, she firmly believed that—given the chance—she could sit across the table from those women and together they could somehow chart a course to peace.
Peace that utterly eluded Generals Grant and Lee.
Why were men so drawn to war? It probably revealed far too much about her, but she couldn’t think of anyone or any political issue for which she would willingly sacrifice the lives of her children. Her own life? Perhaps. But those of her children? She couldn’t fathom.
Later that night, after a dinner of leftover beans and corn bread, she tucked Andrew into bed on the straw mattress next to hers, then donned her shawl to fetch more wood for the fire. The night air was crisp, but at least the wind had subsided.
She stared up into the night sky pricked with stars, the quarter moon shining especially bright, and she wondered how much longer the war would continue. She smoothed a hand over her belly, not too surprised when the child within gave a tiny kick. “Patience, my love,” she whispered. “Not quite yet.”
A moment passed and she looked down, realizing she was doing it again—twirling the wedding band that was no longer there. She stared in the moonlight at the empty place on the ring finger of her left hand, knowing she’d made the right choice. She and Andrew had to eat, after all. It had been almost a year since she’d sold it to the jeweler in town, but still she felt naked without it.
Discovering how little wood was left in the bin, she retrieved the ax, situated a log atop the old oak stump, and brought the ax down with practiced force—something she wouldn’t be able to do much longer. The log split clean down the middle. Since her parents had never had a son, she’d been forced to learn unusual skills for a woman. Skills that had proven helpful over the past two years since Warren had left. Not to say she hadn’t missed Warren. She had, terribly. But she hadn’t been quite so lost in certain ways as some of her friends had been.
She chopped wood until the bin was stocked for several more days, then, breath coming heavy, carried an armful into the house. The crackle of dry wood succumbing to flame filled the bedroom, and the warmth felt good on her skin.
She sighed and retrieved the newspaper, then settled into the chair by the fire to read. When she reached the editorial section, she felt herself tensing . . .
While the gentler sex is highly esteemed, it’s clear they’re best suited for hearth and home and utterly foolish to suggest that women should be involved in any way in the war effort. Their place is in rearing children and homemaking. And to insinuate that some females have managed to infiltrate the ranks of the army and are fighting alongside men even now is ludicrous. Not only would such women faint beneath the hardship of a soldier’s life, they would flee in utter terror at the earliest sign of battle.
Aletta read on, not realizing until she’d read to the end of the letter how hard she was gritting her teeth. She consciously tried to relax her jaw as she scanned the letter written to the editor a second time, struck by her reaction to it while fully realizing the dichotomy of her thoughts.
Not that she herself ever wished to be in battle, not after the sights Warren had described with such agonizing detail. But that a man—the letter was simply signed “A soldier who loves his country”—would think so little of a woman’s capacity as to limit her options to only “hearth and home.” Was he not aware that women filled most of the factory jobs now? By necessity, yes. Because the men were off fighting. But still, females were doing the work and doing it quite well, from her perspective. She herself had worked briefly in a munitions factory, until the Federals took command of the town and shut it down. She huffed.
Such arrogance. Short-sightedness.
She turned the page, eager to move her thoughts to another subject, when a leaflet slipped from between the pages of newsprint and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and read the ornately scripted banner across the top.
Christmas at Carnton
December 17–24
She scanned the printed handbill and softly read aloud, “A Christmas auction sponsored by the Women’s Relief Society in support of our Confederate soldiers. Experienced cooks needed.”
She lifted her gaze from the page, knowing precisely where she was going first thing in the morning.
“Are you questioning my order, Captain Winston?”
“No, sir, Colonel. I simply—” Jake read warning in the man’s eyes and knew better than to try to bluff. Not after they’d been to the gates of Hades and back together. Yet he had to try to convince the senior officer. “Permission to speak freely, Colonel.”
Seated behind his field desk, Stratton leaned back in his chair, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Lack of such has rarely stopped you before, Captain. But . . .” He gestured. “Permission granted. Speak your mind.”
Jake hesitated as a bitter morning wind billowed the sides of the canvas tent, bringing with it a cold that sank clear through skin and straight to bone. He could scarcely feel his toes as it was. But at least he still had boots, what was left of them anyway. Which was more than most of the other soldiers could claim. He chose his words carefully.
“With all due respect, Colonel, I believe I can still be an asset here.”
The colonel’s smile came slowly. “You can believe anything you want, Captain. That doesn’t change my order.” He gave a throaty laugh. “I can’t tell you how many soldiers would jump at a chance to get away from the front lines for a bit.” He shook his head and all humor drained from his expression. “It’s tough . . . what’s happened to you, Captain, I know. You’re one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known. And the best sharpshooter this side of the Mississippi.”
Jake stiffened, hearing a silent were— past tense—in the colonel’s statement.
“There’s no shame in what happened to you, Captain Winston. I’ve spoken to your commanding officer who was there at Chickamauga. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent what happened.”
Jake shook his head, seeing it all play out again in his mind’s eye, feeling the bullet rip through his flesh seconds before his head struck the boulder. “I must have missed something, sir. Movement on the ridge, perhaps. Or maybe if I’d taken position a little farther to the east—”
“You didn’t miss anything. One of their sharpshooters finally got the jump on you that morning, that’s all.”
“And killed three of our officers.”
“This is war, Captain Winston. Men die. And they’ll keep on dying until the South puts an end to this conflict. Which I believe will be very soon. Meanwhile, you’ve got to find a way to move past Chickamauga.”
“But how can I leave these men, sir? I can still serve here. I’m sure of it!”
“Part of what’s at play here, Captain Winston, is that you’ve learned you’re not invincible, no matter that your record up to now would reflect otherwise. You’ve all but single-handedly taken out the majority of the Federal’s best sharpshooters. Yet never once have you been seen, much less shot. Until now. Do you have any idea how many lives you’ve saved over the past two years?”
Jake held the colonel’s stare but said nothing.
Stratton leaned forward in his chair, the joints creaking from the weight. “What’s the doc’s latest report?”
“He says my shoulder’s healing fine, sir. Bullet went clean through. But he says I need to give it more time. That my long-range vision might come back. Or . . . it might not.”
Stratton stared. “What does your gut tell you, soldier?”
Jake straightened. “That I’m ready for battle, sir. Not like before, of course. But I can still shoot well enough to kill a Yankee.”
“Is that so?” Colonel Stratton rose, his already imposing figure seeming more so in the confines of the tent. He laid aside his cigar and grabbed the rifle atop his trunk. “Follow me.”
Outside, in the chill of early morning, dawn cloaked the encampment in a dusky purple gray as the sun edged its way up over the hills. Fog hung in ragged patches like tufts of cotton torn and scattered on the breeze. Jake followed, already knowing where the colonel was leading.
When they reached the target range, Stratton handed him the Whitworth and pointed. “Lowest limb of that poplar. Sixty feet out.”
Mindful of the wound healing in his left shoulder, Jake brought the rifle close to his right, the movement as familiar to him as breathing. He lowered his head, feather-closed his left eye, and peered through the scope. Then blinked. Again and again. Despite the bone-chilling temperature, sweat slicked his skin. He squinted, concentrating. But no matter what he did, the world through the scope remained a distant blur.
“Take aim and shoot, Captain,” Stratton commanded.
Jake’s gut churned. He gritted his teeth. Focus, focus! Exasperated, he finally shook his head. “It’s no good, sir,” he whispered, his breath puffing white.
“You said you’re ready for battle, soldier! That’s a Yankee coming straight for you, sixty feet out. Except he’s covering ground, and he’s got a load of lead aimed straight at your heart. If he’s slow and has some girth to him, that might give you a chance. But if he’s fast and a fair shot, you’re already dead. So take aim and fire, Captain.”
“Sir, I said it’s no good. I-I can’t—”
“Take aim and fire!”
Jake squeezed the trigger and absorbed the familiar recoil of the rifle even as the sound of the bullet missing its mark caused something deep inside him to give way. An ache lodged in his chest and his eyes burned with emotion.
“Congratulations, Captain.” Stratton clapped him on his good shoulder. “You’re a dead man.”
Stratton turned and strode back to his tent. After a moment, Jake did likewise, rifle in hand. He followed the colonel inside, returned the firearm to the trunk, and stood at attention before Stratton’s desk, waiting to be dismissed. Stratton took his seat and said nothing. Just shuffled through papers, head down.
Moments passed.
Finally, the Colonel sighed. “Captain, you’re obviously not ready to return to battle yet.”
“But, Colonel, I—”
He raised a hand. “I spoke with the doctor, too, and he believes this assignment will be good for you. You need to rest your eyes, he says. Use those compresses and whatever other medicine he’s given you. Doc says it’ll speed the healing. If there’s healing to be had,” he added in a quieter voice. “And I concur with him that some time away from your regiment and the camp would do you good.”
Jake looked at him. “Some time, sir? But we’re scheduled to move out day after tomorrow, and I—”
“All the wounded are being transferred to Thompson’s Station this afternoon. The convoy leaves at noon. Except for you.” Stratton leveled his gaze. “General Bragg wrote asking for a special favor to an honorary colonel friend of his. That’s where you come in.”
Mention of General Bragg got Jake’s attention.
Stratton eyed him. “It’s a gathering of women, one of the Women’s Relief Societies.”
“A Women’s Relief Society, sir?” Jake caught Stratton’s frown and knew better than to interrupt again, their history and the permission to speak freely notwithstanding.
“They’re hosting a fund-raiser for the Confederacy. It’s being sponsored by some of Nashville’s most prominent families, including General Bragg’s cousin.” Stratton picked up a letter from his desk. “The fund-raiser is being held at the home of a Colonel John McGavock of Carnton. Colonel McGavock’s father was mayor of Nashville some time back. You heard of him? Or of Carnton?”
Jake shook his head. Had it really come to this for him? Looking after a bunch of petticoats?
“Carnton looks to be three or four miles south of here, down in Franklin.” He pointed to the map lying open on his desk. “Seems Mrs. Colonel John McGavock, as she apparently prefers to be addressed, petitioned the higher-ups. She must have some pull with someone, too, because she sufficiently gained their attention. The letter is in General Bragg’s own hand.” Stratton began reading. “‘Mrs. Colonel John McGavock requests that we show our support for the Women’s Relief Society as they show their continued support for the soldiers.’” Stratton looked up from the letter. “In short, Mrs. McGavock thinks that having a soldier in their midst would not only be an encouragement to the women, but also provide security for the event and the funds they’ll be raising. But with the recent losses we’ve sustained”—Stratton tossed the letter aside—“I can’t spare to send a man who has the ability to fight.”
“So you’re sending me . . . sir?”
Stratton smiled. “That’s right, Captain. General Bragg expresses, and frankly, I agree, that sending a visibly wounded soldier—one of the amputees, for instance—would upset the ladies, make them more anxious about their men. But your shoulder’s healing, and you’re healthy looking enough. And according to my wife, you’re young and dashing.” Sarcasm weighted the colonel’s tone. “At least you might be . . . somewhere beneath all that growth of beard. And I imagine you can be sufficiently charming, when you put your mind to it.”
Jake didn’t share his humor. “Wouldn’t it be easier, sir, just to tell the women to donate their money and valuables and be done with it? Would save us all a lot of time. After all, the gentler sex has no place in matters of war, sir. They’re best shielded from war’s cruelties. Better for them to stick to hearth and home.”
Stratton smiled. “You sound like that letter to the editor I read yesterday.”
“Sir?”
Stratton reached for the newspaper buried beneath the piles on his desk and pushed it toward him. “Fellow wrote in and lambasted the editor for suggesting that some women were actually fighting, even now, alongside the men. As if we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
Jake unfolded the paper, found the editorial page, and scanned the letter.
“Next thing you know, Captain, they’ll be saying we ought to allow women to hold command.” Stratton laughed. “Can you imagine?”
Jake finally looked up and managed a smile. The wording in the letter was overly harsh, but he couldn’t say he disagreed with the opinion overall. The way he looked at it, it wasn’t so much that women lacked the constitution for war as it was that men had a God-bestowed duty to protect them from the horrors of it. He laid the paper aside.
“Back to your assignment at Carnton.” Stratton reached for his partially smoked cigar, struck a match, and breathed new life into the tightly rolled tobacco leaves. Circles of smoke coiled upward. “We already know the Federals pulled out of Franklin some time back. Scouts confirmed this week that General Grant’s army is advancing toward Mississippi while Rosecrans is pushing toward Chattanooga. There’s a small garrison still holed up at Fort Granger, but they’re keeping to that area. And word is, the fort has fallen into disrepair. We have Confederate troops quietly patrolling the area. Still, there’s enough Federal rabble around to raise a ruckus, so best be on watch. And considering the money the women will be raising for the cause, having a soldier on the premises isn’t a bad idea.”
“Even one who can’t see to shoot, sir?”
“I’m not sending you down there to kill Yankees, Captain. I’m sending you because you’re not ready to fight again yet. I need you back here as soon as possible. The Army needs you back. But I need the man who moves like a ghost in the wind and hits his target from another world away. So keep to Carnton and to the town. And concentrate on healing up.” His gaze sobered. “I trust you won’t disappoint me or the General . . . Jake.”
Jake shook his head, both humbled and resigned. “No, sir, Colonel. No disappointment. What are my duties while I’m there?”
Stratton puffed on the cigar, his smile coming slowly. “Whatever Mrs. Colonel John McGavock bids you to do. General Bragg also requests that something be written up about the Christmas event the women are hosting. You’re good enough with a pencil. I’ve seen your sketches. Capture a scene or two that the newspaper can print and pen a few words to go with it. Come Christmas, it’ll be published with a paragraph from General Bragg.”
Jake simply nodded.
Stratton stood and rounded the desk, then moved toward the entrance of the tent, the canvas flap whipping in the wind. He nudged back the opening, and Jake stared past him out across the rippling tide of dingy-looking tents dotting the field as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by the occasional confiscated Federal soldier’s tent, so prized among the men.
“Morale is low in the camps. You already know that,” Stratton continued. “The men are worn down, short on hope, and they’re worried about their families back home. So whatever scarves or gloves or knitted together whatnot you bring back from Carnton will be a boon to them, I’m sure. All Christmas furloughs are being canceled too. So when the men are told they won’t be seeing their families, that won’t help either. And despite the overall victory at Chickamauga, the losses at Vicksburg . . . and all that happened there . . . haunt us still.”
At the mention of Vicksburg, Jake briefly bowed his head. He’d lost so much on that battlefield. Far more even than he’d lost at Chickamauga.
Stratton said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “Your fellow soldiers need to be reminded of why they’re fighting, Captain. And of who they’re fighting for. We could all use that reminder.”
Jake heard fatigue in the colonel’s voice.
Clearing his throat, Stratton turned back. “Captain Roland Jones from Captain P. R. Leigh’s Company of Infantry, Mississippi Volunteers, should be here anytime to escort you to Carnton. Meet him on the main road south of camp. Godspeed, Captain. Dismissed.”
Jake saluted, and Colonel Stratton returned the gesture.
“And, Captain . . .”
Jake turned.
“First chance, you might want to get a shave and a haircut. No need offending the ladies.”
Jake managed a smile and hurried to his tent to grab his gear. He shoved his clothes into the knapsack along with his notebook and the spectacles the doctor had given him a few days earlier. He didn’t like relying on the eyeglasses, but they did help him see close up when his eyes were tired, much as he didn’t like to admit it. Knapsack slung over his good shoulder and haversack and rifle in hand, he quickly covered the distance to the road. Colonel Stratton was wrong about him needing time away for his sight to heal. It wasn’t time away he needed. He needed to be back with his regiment, at least in some capacity, pushing the Federal Army farther north, sending them back where they belonged.
Not kowtowing to a bunch of crinolines.