Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
The Velvet Shadow (24 page)
“Thank you, Major.” Smiling as if he had handed her the world, Miss Scott released him and stepped back.
Alden replaced his hat and slapped the reins, gently nudging his horse forward. They would need prayers, probably more than these excited patriots realized. This unseasoned army would face the enemy with an abundance of pride and an appreciable lack of experience. Alden himself prayed every night that the Union might be brought together as painlessly as possible, and that he would be able to do his duty without failing in the face of battle.
A snippet of Scripture, a favorite of the West Point chaplains, filled his thoughts:
“If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small.”
“Oh, God,” he murmured, his eyes roving over the surging crowd by the road, “give me the strength I will need.”
The crowds thickened as they neared the railway depot, crowding the sidewalks and tearing the air with cheers. Red, white, and blue bunting fluttered from lampposts and storefronts. A pair of enterprising young lads worked the crowd, yelling “Hot popcorn! Fresh from the oil!” while in the distance a politician stood on a podium outside the depot and thundered at the men as they filed by. Above the noise of the crowd, the regimental band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” inspiring marchers and observers alike.
Alden dismounted when he reached the depot and tossed the reins to a waiting soldier. The disciplined marching formation broke here, each man making his way through the mob as best he could. Young women waved handkerchiefs and embraced every man who passed, while the more cheeky soldiers took advantage and stole kisses whenever possible.
Alden frowned as he watched the mindless merrymaking. Did any of these fresh-faced young men have any concept of war’s horror? Probably not, since most of them had not lost a father to war. Or perhaps they did know and had determined to throw restraint to the wind in exchange for allowing Uncle Sam to use their bodies as targets for Rebel sharpshooters.
What would you do, asked a little voice inside his head, if Flanna O’Connor stood here and offered you a farewell kiss? As an officer and a gentleman, he should refuse it, of course, but as one who stood to become her brother-in-law, he could probably accept it in all propriety.
But it was not a chaste, affectionate kiss he yearned to give her.
Abruptly slamming the door on his thoughts, Alden spun on his heel and went in search of Colonel Farnham.
Saturday, August 31
The train to Washington
I can scarce believe it, but Charity and I are on our way home! the glamour and excitement of our glorious send-off has faded to good-natured grumbling and discontent amongst my comrades, but I care not. Let them grumble, I am overjoyed!
These accommodations are a far cry from the luxurious train car in which Charity and I rode to Boston. Gone are the wide seats and soft-spoken stewards—this car way designed for moving cattle, I daresay, not human beings. The car lacks proper ventilation, water, and sanitary facilities. I am sitting on the floor near Charity, while my messmates stretch out around me. If this entry is illegible, ’tis the jostling and constant rumble of the car that makes my handwriting tremble so.
A railroad attendant tried to close the door as the train jerked forward, but Sergeant Marvin thrust the butt of his rifle into the opening, glaring down at the wide-eyed porter. “Leave it open,” the sergeant yelled, “unless you want these union men to suffocate before we reach the war!”
I hope we never reach the war, and Charity agrees with me. She watched our “parade” from the sidewalk, keeping pace with me as we moved through the city. She did make one curious remark, which I shall record here in case something should come of it. My skin crawls to think that Alden Haynes might be attracted to a vain creature like Miss Nell Scott, but Charity says she saw that young lady standing at his side, her hand on his leg. “She was flipping her eyelids at him,” Charity told me, “and you know what that means.”
Indeed I do. And though I am certain young ladies have been “flipping their eyelids” at Major Haynes for years, I cannot help but wonder if Miss Scott holds some special place in his heart. If Roger still thinks of me with affection and will marry me when the war is over, shall Nell Scott be my sister-in-law?
I shudder to think of it, yet stranger things have happened. I have only to look at where I am, and with whom, to know that nothing is inconceivable. War makes all of us bold.
Flanna blew out her cheeks in relief as the train picked up speed, sending a rush of warm wind through the railroad car. The summer heat was nearly unbearable, assaulting them like a silent enemy. Dressed in undershirt, shirt, blouse, and a wool dress coat, Flanna’s own internal furnace burned until rivulets of sweat streamed down her face and she thought she might faint.
“Might as well make yourselves comfortable, boys,” Sergeant Marvin called out. Standing near the open door, he dropped his rifle and began to unbutton his dress coat. “Ain’t no one here to impress, so lighten your load as much as you want.”
The other men immediately followed suit, doffing overcoats and dress coats, even shirts and shoes. Flanna undressed down to her
trousers and shirt, then stuffed her outer garments under a strap of her knapsack. Why did the army give them so many clothes in the heat of summer?
The uncomfortable benches held knapsacks and propped up a line of rifles. The men sat on the floor, leaning against the walls or each other, while a lucky few stretched out in the center and pretended to doze. The ubiquitous poker game ensued, and a host of cigars and other forms of tobacco magically appeared from shirtsleeves and coat pockets. A couple of men pounded holes into the narrow wooden sides of the boxcar, creating windows of a sort, and Flanna let the wind flow over her face, grateful for every breath of moving air.
A whiskey bottle appeared from a haversack and began to move from hand to hand and mouth to mouth. Albert Valentine lifted his soulful eyes and offered Flanna a swig from his flask with the admonition, “Better drink it while you can. We’re on our way to meet death, you know.”
Flanna held up her hand, refusing. “If that’s the case, you’ll understand why I prefer to keep all my wits about me.”
Valentine shrugged and swigged from his flask, then smacked his lips in appreciation. A rising devil-may-care mood permeated the car, and as the alcohol began to take effect, some of the men began to pound on the others in a spirit of riotous jesting.
Easing away from the merriment, Charity curled into a ball on the floor beneath one of the benches. Flanna sat beside her, resting her elbow on the bench. Across the crowded aisle, she glimpsed Matthew Larry, the company’s chronic borrower and shirker. The man had proved himself a nuisance already, since he refused to clean up after himself and routinely slept through guard duty. O’Neil had assured Flanna that Larry was nothing but lazy when he reported sick this morning, abandoning his place in the line as the company marched to the depot.
Haunted by the suspicion that she and the others might have judged Matthew Larry too harshly, Flanna squinted at the man. He
lay on his side, his face pale, his upper lip lined with tiny pearls of sweat. She recalled that he had visited the latrine at least half a dozen times before roll call.
Flanna frowned slightly as she watched him. He was more likely than any man in the company to feign illness, but why would he pretend to be sick today when there was no real work to be done? He’d copped out of drill practice twice last week due to “dizziness and weak bowels,” but had eaten as heartily as any man at supper.
The man shivered in his sleep, and Flanna felt her adrenaline level begin to rise. This man might be
very
sick. Dr. Gulick was supposed to appear at roll call to take an accounting of those who were ill, but he had not visited the camp this morning. Flanna suspected the surgeon spent the morning in a tavern, bolstering his courage and his spirits with whiskey.
She bent her knees and locked her arms around them, making a mental note to keep an eye on Matthew Larry. Gulick was a poor excuse for a doctor, but there would be other physicians in the Washington camp. Once the train stopped, she’d ask the sergeant to make sure Larry went to a proper hospital.
“Don’t you cheat me, you vile snake!” Diltz roared from the midst of the poker game, and Flanna idly turned her eyes to the sound of his tirade, surprised at how little his outbursts affected her now. Diltz was a hotheaded fool, unafraid even to hurl curses at an officer, and he spent most of his free time assigned to guard duty or in the guardhouse. If there was whiskey in the tent, he’d certainly find it, and he was the last person Flanna would trust with a secret. But, she mused, turning her eyes to the gray outskirts of Boston rolling by the window, Diltz was the kind of man she’d want next to her when it came time for battle…
if
it ever came time for battle.
Roger had been confident that the struggle would not last long. In the hope that he was right, Flanna prayed for peace…and hoped that the leaders of the North and South would come to their senses before the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts stepped onto a battlefield.
She would never be able to fire at an army in which her loved ones might march. Beneath every gray Rebel cap she’d see Wesley’s face, or Arthur’s, or Brennan’s, or Carroll’s. And since her present comrades would depend on her to hold her place in line, she prayed that God would soon send victory, compromise, or even defeat. Anything that would end this great civil war.
Saturday, September 7
We have arrived in the union camp outside Washington. General McClellan has placed us here to guard the capital, though I see no signs of Rebel aggression or activity. I have in fact, seen nothing but men, mud, and muck. It rained several days before our arrival, and, after disembarking at the train station outside the city, we were marched under a hot sun to our camp, several miles away in Maryland.
While Andrew Green gazed wistfully at the foliage around us, Philip Hart voiced my feelings more appropriately. “If there is anything particularly attractive in marching from ten to twenty miles a day under a scorching sun with a good mule load and sinking up to one’s knees in the ‘sacred soil’ at each step,” said Hart, “my mind is not of a sufficiently poetical nature to appreciate it.”
As uncomfortable and tired as we are, sweet Charity and I are in good spirits. For though we are yet in Maryland, we have heard talk of a great movement south, as soon as McClellan prepares the federal force. They say Lincoln is anxious for the
army to move, and so are many of the gentlemen in Congress. But no one is more ready to go than I.
Shall we be home in time for Christmas? Nothing would bring me more pleasure.
Alden read the newspaper article, folded the paper, and placed it on the colonel’s desk. Colonel Farnham’s eyes locked tight upon him, and neither man spoke for a long time.
Outside the tent, Alden could hear the busy sounds of men and horses, but those sounds seemed miles away.
“You knew him?” Farnham finally asked, using his knuckle to wipe small sparkles of sweat off his upper lip.
Alden nodded, still reeling from the news. “Yes sir. General Lyon was a friend from West Point.” His hands tightened on the arm of the chair. “He was a good teacher, a good man.”
Farnham lightly touched his forehead in a subdued salute. “God rest him. I didn’t think the Rebs would get him. Not this soon.”
Alden brought his hand to his chin, thinking. The loss of Brigadier General Nathaniel Lyon was a tragedy for the Union, but even more unsettling was the news of Confederate victory in the West. Half of Missouri, a slave state that had remained loyal to the Union, now lay in Confederate hands.
Alden had read the details in the newspaper story. The Missouri catastrophe had begun when a crowd of secessionists pelted a group of Lyon’s men with stones. The generals men shot back, killing twenty eight people, including a baby in its mother’s arms. The secessionists quickly raised an army, but Lyon chased them to the quiet area known as Wilson’s Creek. There he died, a victim of his own zeal.