Faith (30 page)

The next morning, heavy gray clouds covering the sky promised rain. Faith and Honoree walked the last few paces to the train depot. Faith had slipped her hand into the crook of her father’s arm, and Honoree walked beside Honor, who had put an arm around her waist. Behind them, Ella and Landon brought up the rear. Ella leaned on her husband and wept silently.

At the train, puffing white billows and ready to leave, Faith stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around her father’s broad shoulders, burying her face in his soft flannel shirt. Everything within her wanted to leave with him.

A train whistle made her step back. He leaned down, kissed her, and signed, “I love thee, my dear daughter. Stay safe. And may God bless thee.”

Faith’s fingers signed nearly the same words back at him. Then her mother claimed her farewell hug, and Faith forced down tears.

“Now if thee changes thy mind for any reason, both of thee must promise to come home,” Honor said to Faith and Honoree, just as she prepared to let Samuel help her onto the train. “No one will think the less of thee.”

“Yes, Mother,” Faith said, and Honoree nodded in agreement.

“Come, Ella,” Honor said. “Let thy good husband help thee up the steps. Landon McCullough, we will take the best care possible of thy dear wife and baby. We will write as soon as we are safely in Sharpesburg.”

“Ma’am,” Landon said, “I can’t thank you enough. Godspeed.” He kissed Ella once more and then handed her up the steps onto the train. Ella, weeping still, allowed Faith’s parents to lead her into the nearest car, reserved for the few passengers. Faith glimpsed them as they sat down by a window and waved to her. She and Honoree drew close together and held hands.

Faith could not make herself move till the train chugged out of sight. Then the tears came. Honoree settled her arm around Faith’s waist, and Faith did the same to Honoree. They turned to head back to the Sanitary Commission wagon, about to go on the move again. Landon mumbled his thanks and assured them if they needed help, they only had to ask. Then he hurried off.

Faith thought of Colonel Knight. He was no doubt out making their way safe. Divided within itself between Unionists and Rebs, Tennessee was rife with Confederate raiders. She thought of Jack Carroll.

If she hadn’t nursed him, he would probably have died or lost both arms. She still didn’t regret nursing him. He had
been given a second chance at life and had decided to use it to take lives. He was in God’s hands.

And so was Devlin Knight. Again she thought of his persistence in trying to persuade her to leave. This war had brought them together and probably would tear them apart.

“You’re thinking deep thoughts,” Honoree commented.

Faith tightened her arm around Honoree’s waist. “How are things between you and Armstrong?”

“We’re still hoping to marry.”

In the middle of a war?
Faith swallowed these words with difficulty. Her mother had let her stay, saying she was a woman who knew her own mind. She would not presume to lecture Honoree. Even if she wanted to.

NOVEMBER 1, 1863

Dev and his men once again ranged over the rolling Tennessee countryside, nominally under the control of the Confederates. The Union cavalry continued protecting the railroad supply line that stretched from Nashville southward, while “Billy” Sherman’s army marched southeast toward Chattanooga.

So here he was again, looking for Rebs
 
—especially one Reb. Jack Carroll’s name had become more and more notorious in Tennessee.

“Sir!” One of Dev’s outriders sped toward him. “A raiding party just ahead, lying in wait for a supply train, no doubt.”

His group of around thirty men gathered close to hear the details. Dev sized up the situation and gave his orders. They would attack from the south and drive the raiders away from the coming train. As quietly as thirty men on horseback
could, they pelted northward following the rails, hedged on both sides with thick forest.

Two sounds alerted them: gunfire and an advancing steam engine. They galloped full-out. Dev loosened his saber and drew his carbine. They turned a bend and dove straight into the raiders. Amid the gun smoke, Dev thought he glimpsed Jack’s cockaded hat.

Then staying alive dominated everything else. Surrounded, he fired, slashed, fell back and reloaded, surged forward, fired. His ears rang with gunfire. His arm ached from slashing, and he choked on gunpowder. A Reb crowded close, trying to unseat him. His pistol empty, he clubbed the man with it and pulled away. And suddenly the Rebs were racing away north as the train they’d wanted to ambush whistled triumphantly, chugging southward.

“Pursue them! Engage at will!” Dev shouted, following his own orders, reloading his carbine.

Then, starting to follow them, he’d barely gone twenty yards when he looked downward and saw Jack himself, lying near the railroad track. Dev slowed and slid from his saddle. Shock stunned him.

He dropped to his knees beside Jack and felt for a pulse. Jack’s eyelids fluttered. For a second Dev thought he still lived. But the eyes went blank, staring. Dev put his fingers to Jack’s neck again. Again. But Jack’s heart no longer beat.

“Jack,” he whispered. “Jack.”

He sat down with a bump and gathered Jack’s head and shoulders onto his lap. Feelings roiled up inside him. Tears clogged his throat. He grabbed Jack’s hat, crushing it in his fingers.

A shot sounded. Dev felt the impact. He clutched his shoulder, falling backward for cover. Shoving the hat inside his jacket, he rolled over, dragged out his carbine, and crawled toward his horse. He held the reins and gazed around, trying to see any movement, see where the bushwhacker hid. Finally he pulled himself up into the saddle with his good arm.

Another shot, another. Dev felt the impacts of two more bullets. He leaned forward and wrapped the reins around the pommel with one hand, blood flowing down his other arm. Then, pointing his horse homeward, he pressed in his heels and raced away. He hoped he’d make it back to camp. Or would he fall from his horse and lie lifeless beside this rail line? Like Jack?

Faith sat on the back of the Sanitary Commission wagon, jolting and rocking across Tennessee. She supposed the colonel was just ahead of them, patrolling the railroad line to keep supplies going south to Chattanooga. He wouldn’t leave her mind no matter how hard she tried to push him away. Her conversation with Honoree as they walked away from the train that morning still played through her mind in snatches.

“Marrying Armstrong in the middle of a war?”

But that objection had come out of Honoree’s mouth, not hers.

“Yes,” Honoree had continued. “I know that’s what you’re thinking. But we both know Armstrong might not survive this war. And I could die of dysentery or something else any day of the week.”

Faith had not voiced any objections. Honoree and
Armstrong did not face the barriers she and Devlin Knight did. The colonel refused to address his inner conflicts, and they all had to do in some way with his and his family’s turmoil over slavery
 
—an institution she could not tolerate. She recalled what he’d told her of his family
 
—his mother, who’d left the plantation to get away from slaveholding. An uncle with two feuding sons like Jacob and Esau. And Devlin pulled in both directions.

She gave up. The lives and fortunes of those she cared about were not her responsibility.
I’m not God.
But she might be forced to deal with losing the colonel. This remained the worry that would not leave her.

“Your colonel’s luck ran out,” Dr. Dyson sneered at Faith when the march ended for the day.

“What?” She stopped where she stood overseeing the orderlies raising her tent. Horror rippled through her. Was he . . . ?

“He’s in surgery now. It doesn’t look good.”

Faith ignored the man’s cruel tone and turned, running toward the hospital wagon that held the “at-the-ready” surgical supplies and table. She reached it, gasping. “Dr. Bryant!”

“Do not come in,” he called from inside the wagon. “I’m operating on the colonel. Don’t worry
 
—I cleaned my instruments and my hands.”

“How bad is he?” she managed to ask.

“Bad.”

She stumbled around to the shadow of the covered wagon and dropped to her knees. Her heart seemed to have fallen
within her. She closed her eyes against the tears seeping from them. Pressing a fist to her lips, she prayed.
Father, please guide Dr. Bryant’s hands. Hold back the infection. Stop the bleeding. I love him so.

At the end of the surgery, as Dr. Bryant climbed down the last step of the wagon, Faith met him.

The surgeon clasped her, a hand on each shoulder. “He came through surgery. But it’s still bad.”

Prayer had helped settle her mind. She faced him levelly. “How bad?”

“He was wounded in the shoulder, but not a lot of damage there.” He inhaled. “Then there’s his hip. I don’t really know how he managed to stay in the saddle. His right hip was shattered. There was little I could do but reconnect what was left of the sinews and vessels and sew everything up.” He paused, looking her straight in the eye.

She prayed for more strength.

“The worst was a gunshot very near the heart. I frankly am not sure how it missed both his heart and lung, but I dug out the ball and sewed him up. Nurse Cathwell . . . Faith, it will be a miracle if he survives.”

She absorbed the blow, merely tucking her lower lip under her teeth to hold back vain denial. “May I see him?”

“More than that. I’m putting him exclusively in your care. Call me if anything tears loose, starts bleeding. Do whatever you can for him.”

Unspoken was
Nothing you do can hurt him. I think he’s going to die.

“Thank thee, Doctor.” Her voice wobbled. “I’ll go to him and then fetch my herbs.”

The doctor leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Do that. And God bless.” He walked away, heading toward the area their cook had set up.

Faith climbed the narrow steps into the wagon. Looking away from the gore-stained operating table secured with latches in the center of the wagon, she went to one of the berths attached to the inside of the wagon and supported by folding struts. There the colonel lay, very pale, nearly bloodless, covered in a stained wool blanket. He’d been deeply drugged. She laid her hand on his forehead and prayed for healing.

A cacophony of sorrow tried to freeze her into place. She broke free and turned to go for her medicine chest. And Honoree. They had a battle ahead of them, fighting the inevitable infection that could kill Colonel Knight
 
—Devlin. Kill her heart.

Dev blinked. Sunlight above but through cloth.
Where am I?
His mind felt clogged like an uncleaned gun barrel. Someone was speaking.

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’” Faith was reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.

“Faith,” he whispered . . . or thought he did. Was she here praying over him? Or was his mind playing tricks?

He felt the fever then. He was burning with it. Pain
attacked. He couldn’t stop the moan, long and low, that forced its way through his dry lips.

Faith’s face appeared above his. She lifted his head enough to dribble something into his mouth. He tasted it. Salty . . . Broth? He swallowed and swallowed, so thirsty. Then the taste changed to sweet coffee and whiskey. “Faith,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Colonel. I won’t leave thee.”

“Jack. Dead.”

“I saw his hat.”

Her soft hand bathed his face with a damp, sweet-scented cloth. He tried to understand the pain. Where had he been hit? But his whole body ached and burned. Pain forced its way through the fog of his mind.

A spoon nudged at his lips. He obeyed and swallowed some medicine. “Ask Armstrong,” he whispered. “Mother’s address. Write her. Jack’s dead.”

“I will. Now rest. Thee is weak.”

He almost retorted,
I know that.
But he didn’t have the strength it would demand. He felt himself drifting away. Perhaps he would not wake again. He tried to clear the fog to see Faith once more. . . .