Chapter 1 
Chapter 1 Elim Smith held his breath as he faced his men, a section of the 105th Colored Infantry Regiment, keeping his expression neutral. These were the men he had been promoted to lead. The gold double chevrons of his corporal rank felt like a vise on his arm. His uniform a skin needing to be shed. Then the real Elim Smith would be seen. A failure and a fake.
He took in a deep breath and then bellowed the instruction. “Support arms!”
Only half the men performed the first motion correctly. Even fewer followed through with the second and third motions of the command. A few dropped their pieces, and several men had to duck to avoid being hit with their neighbor’s weapon. None of them did anything in the right timing.
Elim’s shoulders sagged but only for a second before he corrected his posture. This was the simplest command in the drilling manual. Heaven help them when they reached the harder commands. If they ever—
“Rest!” he shouted. The men almost accomplished it but were still shifting about from the first command.
He worked to relax his expression. His men looked back at him with the same shame that was gnawing at his thoughts. “I think that is enough for the day. Private Holt, a word.”
The men dispersed and Private Holt walked to Elim with worry creasing his face. Holt was the youngest and newest member of his squad. He was also the prime recipient of the men’s ribbing. They had taken to calling him Private Halt because the young man was a chatterbox. Elim had fought the urge to laugh when he first heard the nickname but recognized the chatter as nervousness. Holt was also the most forgetful and scattered person Elim had ever met.
“Whatever they said I did, sir, I didn’t.” Holt didn’t give Elim a chance to speak.
Elim motioned to the front of Holt’s uniform, which was missing two buttons.
Holt looked down. “Oh.”
Elim reached in his pocket and produced four buttons and a sewing kit. “I want those buttons on by the next drill. Can you sew?”
Holt dropped his head. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Sew them tight so you won’t lose them again. Keep the extras in your kit.”
“Thank you, sir.” He shoved the buttons in his pocket. Elim wondered how long they would stay there.
Elim waited until Holt was out of sight before he dropped his rigid posture. Other battalions drilled around him in the open field. These soldiers were everything his men were not. Skilled, precise, and white. He stood, one colored man in a sea of whites. The story of his life.
Memories rose like fog, and he quickly dispelled them. A lock of his hair had escaped from under his cap. When he tucked it back into his cap, he caught a glimpse of his hands. They were red from being in the sun, and soon he would tan. Thankfully his men didn’t resent that he looked more like the soldiers in the white battalions than them. He did though. He was a mutt, a Mulatto, and had told his men right from the beginning. He had been a slave like them, and his color hadn’t saved him from any of the horrors they had suffered.
He was one of them … except he was taught to believe the lie that he was different. Better.
A private from one of the other squads trotted up to him and saluted. “Sir, Major MacDonald wants to see you.”
Elim nodded and pressed his lips into a tight line. No good could come out of a summons from the third in command of the regiment. The man was hard to puzzle out. He had reluctantly allowed Elim’s squad, a colored one, to muster under his command. It was clear, however, that he wasn’t committed to the arrangement. Elim’s men were an afterthought when it came to handing out provisions, and first in line for any unpleasant job that needed completing. While the other men manned the cannons and worked in the armory, Elim’s men drove supplies back and forth to an outpost on the other side of Alexandria, and one of his men almost always had night duty.
The officer’s quarters, which doubled as their meeting place, sat to the east of the drilling ground. Elim knocked on the door and received a sharp, “Enter,” from inside.
Major MacDonald sat at his desk writing something with such force that Elim thought he would tear the paper. He dropped the pen and it clattered on the desk. “Corporal.”
“Sir,” Elim said with a salute.
“I will be quick as I have other, more pressing matters to attend to. I need to speak to you about your men.”
Elim’s chest nearly caved in, from both the major needing to discuss his men and his insinuation that colored troops weren’t a pressing matter. “Yes, sir.” This is what Holt must have felt like. Elim would make sure to speak to him later.
“Your men are not progressing. Your drills have been described to me as organized chaos.”
Elim clasped his hands behind his back to hide the tremble in them. Major MacDonald had never seen his men drill, which meant someone else had told him about Elim’s men. “The men are newly mustered and need time to—”
MacDonald held up his hand. “I don’t have time or resources to waste on you or your men. They were more useful to me when they were digging ditches.”
“Sir, I’m sure that with a little more time, they will be ready for battle.”
The major let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Slow down there, Corporal. Those are pretty high expectations for colored troops.”
“The men are capable of fighting for the Union.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Right now, it seems that they are only here to receive benefits from the Union. I have capable men working as teamsters and horsemen while I have a section who can’t even get into formation correctly.”
“I can get the men into shape.”
The major sighed. “I allowed this because I saw potential in you. There are not many educated Negroes around, and I thought you would be a good role model for other coloreds. It looks like I was wrong.” He gave Elim a piercing glare. “Am I wrong, Corporal?”
“No, sir.” Elim’s voice held more confidence than he felt. “I will make sure you don’t regret mustering us.”
MacDonald leaned forward. “When?”
“Sir?” The question bounced around Elim’s mind.
“When will you have the men properly trained and drilling correctly?”
Elim toyed with time frames in his mind. Based on the major’s expression, six months was too long, which was probably what the men really needed. Anything shorter than that would be impossible, especially since he didn’t know why the men were struggling so much. “Three months.” The words stung his tongue. He couldn’t do it in that time unless he drilled the men nonstop day and night.
“How about a month?”
Elim sucked in a breath. “Sir, I—”
Major MacDonald stood. “You mean, ‘Yes, sir.’”
Elim swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
The sunlight seemed hotter as he stepped outside the hut. The Virginia heat stuck in his throat as he fought to keep his breathing regulated. One month. No matter how much hope he had that his section would improve, it would not, could not, happen in a month. The men would lose their chance to prove that they were worth more than trench digging and supply hauling. So would he.
When the wagon stopped, Adeline Barris wanted to bolt from its confines. Instead she remained on the hard wooden bench for a few seconds more, calming her breathing.
She was back in Virginia, a moment she’d dreamed about for many years.
The trek had lasted three days instead of the weeks it took to run from Alexandria to Philadelphia on foot. The passing landscape was the only thing that had kept her from going mad with her thoughts. Once again, they drifted to Papa as she scooted toward the wagon’s gate. He would have been overjoyed to be back in the place where he was once enslaved. Happy to be near dear Florence, Adeline’s mother, and her brother, Michael. Both joy and pain swirled in her heart.
Mr. Hunter, a tall man with a broad, dark face, came from the front of the wagon, rubbing a hand over the flank of one of the horses as he did. “That was a long ride. Looks like a long one for you too.”
Adeline smiled at her fellow teacher, sliding down from the wagon with as much grace as she could. “Yes, but not too long.”
Mrs. Hunter, much shorter and fairer, appeared from around the back of the wagon. She walked with a stiff limp. “Oh my. I am glad to be on solid ground.”
The wagon sat in front of a simple wood building, their lodgings for the time being. Supporters of the Society for the Betterment of Colored People in Philadelphia had provided the funding for the trip. The problem of orphaned colored children had been the main topic of discussion in the Society’s meetings. But their trip had put another need before the Society. Illiterate colored troops. Adeline and the Hunters had been dispatched to Alexandria after the chaplain sent a request for someone to teach the soldiers and the orphaned children down in the freedman’s village in a town called The Bottom.
A woman sat at a small desk in the entryway of the house. She smiled at them when they entered, introduced herself as Millie, and explained the rules of the house and the meal schedule. “Your trunks arrived a few days ago along with some mail.” Millie passed two letters to Adeline. “For Miss Barris.”
Adeline’s heart thumped. She had left careful instructions for her mail to be forwarded to this location. Any responses to the advertisement she placed in the newspaper could be the linchpin in her success. “Thank you.” Adeline’s voice squeaked with excitement.
Millie showed them their rooms. Adeline’s trunks holding her clothing and books sat next to a small bed. There was also a small writing desk and chair. She shut the door, removed her cloak, and laid the letters out in front of her.
The first letter was from someone she didn’t know, probably answering the advertisement. She opened it and found her assumption was correct, but the contents of the letter were not what she was expecting. In a neat hand, the writer stated that he had information about the slaves from Ashton and informed her that some of the slaves had run west to Kansas.
Adeline let out a loud sigh. This was not about slaves from Ashton Place Plantation in Virginia. The writer was speaking of another Ashton in Mississippi.
She flipped to the second letter with a return address from Baltimore. This letter was from the National Freedom Committee, an organization that assisted runaways who came through the Underground Railroad. The committee collected information and the stories of slaves who passed through Baltimore from the South. She had written to them before she and the Hunters left home. In the letter, a Mrs. Tuttle informed Adeline that she had no information about slaves from Ashton Place, Virginia. Adeline’s heart sank even though the letter closed with Mrs. Tuttle’s promise that she would continue to look for information.
Adeline folded the letters, her mind racing. This was only one tiny setback. There were still lots of sources of information, especially since she was so near to Ashton Place. Now that she was closer, she had a better chance of finding her family. Then the cloud over her could finally dissipate.