The Face of Heaven (13 page)

Lightning stabbed at the windows again. The thunder roared almost immediately. The storm was right on top of them. Suddenly rain began to crash against the roof and the panes of the windows.

This was only one of many buildings full of casualties. And Lyndel was aware that Armory Square was only one of many hospitals in Washington. The South had their hospitals too. All of them with room after room of shattered men.

She shivered as she continued to stare at the soldiers in their beds. Miss Sharon watched her carefully. Then she spoke quietly, “You will be all right, my dear. You will get used to it.”

Lyndel didn’t take her eyes from the men as rain whipped the building and thunder made the walls shake.

“I have come to the war,” she whispered.

Miss Sharon stared at her and finally nodded, the lamplight gleaming on her face and hands. “Yes. You have come to the war.”

8

“What are you doing, Nathaniel?” a voice suddenly whispered.

Nathaniel glanced over at his brother. “Catching up on my mail,” he whispered back.

Corinth was propped up on one elbow. “It’s not even four in the morning.”

“I know.”

“And it’s pitch dark.”

“My eyes are used to it. I can see fine. It’s not a long letter.”

“Who can you write to? We’re shunned.”

“I hope they’ll get my note anyway.”

“You’re writing Lyndel, aren’t you?”

“So what if I am?”

Corinth flopped back onto his makeshift pillow. “You have it so bad. A horse must have kicked you in the head. It’s been more than a year since you’ve seen her. How can you even remember what she looks like?”

“Her hair is red and her eyes are blue.”

“Naomi Miller has black hair and green eyes but I hardly think of her anymore. It’s so long ago.”

“Naomi Miller never held your hand.”

“Is that all? Lyndel Keim only held your hand?”

“And put her head on my shoulder.”

The ring of the bugle cut through the silent dark.

“That’s it,” said Nathaniel. “Up early to march circles around Stonewall Jackson.”

“Or maybe he’s marching circles around us.”

Nathaniel grinned. “Maybe.”

“Corporal!”

Nathaniel jumped up. “Right here, Sergeant.”

“Shake the platoon out. We’ll get an hour’s march out of the morning before we have breakfast.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Nathaniel grabbed his Springfield musket, his unfinished letter to Lyndel, and his Hardee hat. “I’ll make sure the boys are up. Then I’ll come back for my bedroll.”

Corinth rolled up his own bedroll as he listened to his brother calling out names in the dark: “Hey, Nip. Hey, Stewart. Crum. Harter. Rise and shine. Time to find Stonewall and trim his beard.”

Corinth strapped up his knapsack, ran a hand once or twice over his
head of tight blond curls, and clamped his Hardee hat on. He stopped a moment and smiled in the dark.

“Naomi Miller,” he said out loud. “Huh.”

The brigade went a mile and stopped for breakfast. Corinth got a fire going for the platoon and Nip, a boy not much older than him from Indiana’s Delaware County, scrounged some flour and baking soda from someone and made flapjacks.

“If only we had honey and butter,” one of the men said, squatting by the fire and eating one of Nip’s flapjacks with his fingers.

Nathaniel nodded. “Or maple syrup.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had maple syrup, Corporal.”

“Why, Ham, tomorrow morning I’ll get eggs, honey, and maple syrup and we’ll have ourselves a feast,” smiled Corinth.

“Where you gonna find all that?” Ham was licking his fingers. “You’re mighty sure of yourself.”

“I have a nose for forage. If it’s in Virginia, I’ll find it.”

“Likely Stonewall has it in his kit.”

“Then I’ll borrow the fixings from him and invite him to a sit-down meal.”

Ham laughed. “I believe you mean it.”

Corinth put his hands on his hips. “An hour’s truce is all I need. We could end the war with a good meal. The Rebs’d realize there’s no sense in going on fighting when we all could be sitting down and eating instead.”

The platoon laughed. The sergeant began pouring mugs of what he called his rough coffee, smiling under his large black mustache. “Well, that’s something to look forward to, Private King. I hope you can deliver on your promises.”

“Oh, that’s strong brew, Sergeant!” One man shot to his feet, his face twisted and turning red. “Hot as a stove and sharp as a bayonet. What did you put in it?”

“Same as always, Private Jones. Generous measures of rock, sand, and Pennsylvania coal. And some of that good black grease the wagoners slap on their wheels.”

“Don’t joke. I believe what you’re saying when it hits my stomach.”

“Who’s joking? What else does the army give me to make coffee with? When they get us out marching again you’ll be glad you had a cup. It’ll keep you ramrod straight. You can’t never fall down when you’ve had a shot of Tippecanoe County coffee.”

A man got up and stowed his cup in his pack. “You’re saying not even a mess of minie balls could knock me over, Sergeant Hanson?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Corporal Nicolson.”

“You reckon I’ll ever get a chance to find out?”

“Well, Corporal, if we keep marching long enough I expect we’ll wind up in Stonewall Jackson’s kitchen before the year’s out. He might take offense and then you’ll have your hat full.”

It was a long day of marching and Nathaniel noticed they were soon on the Warrenton Turnpike. After a while the brigade was ordered off the turnpike and stood waiting in the heat with their columns pointed toward Manassas Junction. Men gulped from their canteens and put wet cloths under their tall black hats. The breakfast had worn off and he knew the troops were famished. Still there was no movement forward and no order to forage for food. Finally General Gibbon had an ox killed and the meat given out to the regiments and their companies. Nip and Corinth started roasting the platoon’s beef before the fire was little more than a few smoking sticks.

“You’re in an awful hurry,” grunted Ham, squatting far away so that he didn’t feel the heat.

“I know enough about the army,” Corinth replied, laying out the slabs of beef on rocks, “to know we’ll no sooner start eating than the captain will tell us to start marching.”

“Sergeant Hanson!” the second lieutenant yelled, reining in his brown mare.

The sergeant had been poking a large chunk of beef toward the flames that had suddenly burst upward from the wood. He jumped to his feet and saluted, leaving the beef to sizzle. “Yes, sir.”

“Have the men fall in. We’re getting back on the Warrenton Turnpike.”

“Any idea where we’re headed, Lieutenant Davidson?”

The officer shrugged. “I hear we have Stonewall surrounded. Who knows?”

“What about the ox meat, Lieutenant?”

“Eat it. Quickly.” He galloped off.

“I knew it,” groaned Corinth.

“Take your knives,” said Nathaniel. “Cut off a portion and swallow it whole if you have to. It will be hours before we get a chance to eat again.”

Nip made a face. “It’s not cooked.”

“Wave it over the flames once or twice. That’ll have to do.”

Ham crammed a huge piece in his mouth. “Rare, smoked, roasted,” he said around his chewing. “I’ll take it anyway it comes.”

“Fall in! Fall in!” thundered Sergeant Hanson, a strip of undercooked beef in one hand. “We’ve got a lot more marching to do before your mother kisses you goodnight.”

“Where are we headed?” asked Corporal Nicolson, wrapping raw beef in a piece of paper and stuffing it in his pants pocket, the blood quickly seeping through the paper.

“I told you before. Stonewall’s kitchen table. Are you ready for the sweet potatoes and greens he’s got spread for you?”

The marching continued for hours. Nathaniel found that thinking about Lyndel, or what he remembered of the face and smile that passed for Lyndel, made the walking go by more quickly. It was something he had been doing for more than a year. Not just entertaining a few thoughts now and then that flitted in and out of his head. He strove to recall all the minutes of all the hours they’d spent together, the buggy rides, the meals at her mother’s dinner table, every word she had spoken, every movement of her face and hands, no matter how slight. He found he became so immersed in his memories that the miles peeled away under his boots.

When the 19th Indiana entered a strip of forest and cannons rumbled like a thunderstorm a little ways off, his green eyes suddenly focused as he quickly glanced around him.

“You just come back to us from Lancaster County?” smiled Corinth as they marched.

“What was that I heard?” asked Nathaniel.

“Artillery. Or a storm brewing up. Take your pick.”

“Which direction is it coming from?”

A sudden shriek made the brothers and the troops in their regiment stop marching and look up. Treetops exploded and rained down bark and branches. More shells struck the trees and spat wood splinters and the soldiers ducked and cringed. The air filled with whistling and howling as artillery fire kept crashing in. One cannonball hit and bounced and plowed a long rut along the side of the road, coming to a stop just by Corinth’s left boot. He and Nathaniel looked at the ball and then at each other. Corinth’s grin broke through the fear tightening his young face.

“Pretty big marble to play with, brother,” he said.

Lieutenant Davidson came racing along the turnpike on his mount. “Get off the road, men! Move into the trees on the Douglas Brawner farm here! Stay in your platoons and companies and keep your heads down! General Gibbon has Battery B up after them!”

Nathaniel and Corporal Nicolson and Sergeant Hanson yelled at the men to get into the trees north of the road. They crouched there as shells continued to fall. Then the fire slackened as Rebel gunners engaged the Union gunners. Suddenly the firing swelled again as more Rebel cannon sounded as if they were firing at the Union guns from a different direction. This went on for ten minutes or more before Davidson came galloping along the turnpike once again.