16

 

November 6th 1862

 

A camp near Bridgeport

 

Dearest Mariah,

 

Your eyes are not mistaken: the address I write from tonight is, indeed, within a hundred miles of where you are.

Marching orders have taken us back to home territory, our regiment sent in pursuit of Union raiders who plague the local farmers. It is a simple mission, as far as they go, and I expect surrender will be swift, since we greatly outnumber them and come unexpected. Already, some have begun to celebrate as if we stormed the camp, with prisoners taken and not a single shot.

 

The sun burned low as Arthur tucked the letter inside his haversack, envelope unsealed for finishing later. He would fill the paper’s remaining space with details of tomorrow’s raid, where they planned to surprise the enemy still at breakfast, or asleep even, if they could ferret out their hiding place in time.

This, combined with the fact they were back in home territory at long last, had brightened the mood of more than a few in the camp. Songs were raised from a smattering of instruments, shouts, and cheers accompanying the anthem “Dixie” and bittersweet chorus of “Home! Sweet Home!”

Arthur joined in now and then, his baritone fading when the hymns of praise began, lips stumbling over words he’d known since boyhood, a twinge of conscience rising inside him for the lack of enthusiasm. Given the circumstances, he should feel closer to God and not as if he were obliged to One whose debt he didn’t care to pay.

Across from him, Wray dozed on a blanket stuffed with straw. In his frocked coat and bare feet, a cap tilted over his face, he looked every bit the Johnny Reb from the newspaper drawings. He stirred as the song broke, the words to Amazing Grace fading with the last of the twilight. “Wish I hadn’t woke up,” he said, propping himself on one elbow, eyes heavy from sleep. “I dreamed Hattie Cray met me by the spring for Saturday night courting. She used to put her feet in the water, just to feel the cold—said it made her feel twice as alive.”

Arthur caught the wistful edge in his voice and wondered if it was for the girl or the simple memory of a time and place better than this. He was about to ask when another soldier joined them at the fire, younger in appearance, with tawny hair and freckled features that brought another face to mind.

“What will it be, then?” Henry Darrow questioned, fingers poised on the tin whistle as he glanced cheerfully around. “A love song for the girl back home?” He sent a wink in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur shook his head while others nearby laughed. “Something other than music,” he suggested, sending Henry digging in his pocket for an envelope that bore a woman’s handwriting.

“A letter from home,” Henry said, holding it up to the cheers of the other men, some of whom had never even been to Sylvan Spring. So deep ran the hunger for news of any kind, that it mattered little who or where it came from.

“My sister, Nell,” he continued, unfolding the stationary. “With a detailed account of the doings on Mischief Night.”

“Knobbly Nell?” cried a boy from the next campfire. One of the Stroud brothers, his recollection of the girl’s long ago nickname drawing snorts from their classmates who were close enough to hear.

Feeling protective of his childhood friend, Arthur interrupted. “Henry, your sister had a clever way of writing, I remember, from our days at school. Go ahead and read us her news.”

His compliment proved true, the letter’s narrative painting scenes from a world he’d almost forgotten, so altered was his notion of what it meant to celebrate. He saw again the lanterns carved from gourds, their fiendish grins alight with a candle’s flame. A bonfire made from broken furnishings; four scared faces as young Wray struck the match to light a trail of snuff before a woodland shack.

Afterward, he found his face was damp, an emotion that escaped the others’ notice in the firelight. He was not the only one who was in this state, but Henry and his friends were already drifting to another spot nearer the fire, where a soldier in a tattered coat sawed the chorus to a homesick tune on a violin.

Only Wray had remained, stretched over his blanket with his hands clasped behind his head. In a voice somewhat hoarse, he wondered, “Think we’ll winter over here?”

“Hope so,” Arthur replied. Inside, he was thinking of how Wray’s face had changed with the letter’s mention of his father. Mitchell Camden was furious that night they stole his snuff for the childhood prank. His anger had left a mark on Wray’s jaw, still visible in the form of a small white scar. He could see it when his friend turned towards the fire, eyes clear of the tears that must haunt his own.

“They might give us leave of absence for Christmas,” Arthur said, speaking aloud the hope he nurtured in spite of himself. “We could see our families again—”

“And you could see Mariah,” the other man finished, a half-smile forming on the usually stoic face. When Arthur didn’t reply, he propped himself on one arm, seeking his face in the firelight. “She didn’t break it off,” he said. “Did she?”

“There is nothing to break,” he admitted. “No promise except to write each other. There is an obstacle…a disagreement I refused to compromise the last time we talked. She refused as well,” he added, to make it fair. “We couldn’t see a way to make such opposite ideas live equally between us.” He swallowed, frustrated at the tug from his conscience. A stand-in for his waning faith, he envisioned bitterly. “I have wondered lately if it matters as much as I thought. If it is worth driving a wedge between us,” he said.

The violin was wrapping up its tune, the last sad note trailing off in a hum of strings. Wray said nothing for so long Arthur wondered if had drifted off. Finally he did speak. “Seems to me you owe her something more. For saving your life—if that is what she did.”

“It was.” He shoved another log on the fire, orange flames licking the bark. “She still does, in some ways. To read her sweet words is all that keeps me sane at times. That and the picture I carry in my mind of amber hair and shining eyes.” He lost himself in the image once more, her face easier to picture in the dark when nothing else could block it out. “You should write to Hattie,” he said, remembering the dream his friend had mentioned earlier. “For your sake, if nothing else. To hear from one who feels for you the way I do for Mariah.”

This time, no response came. The crackle of wood and coals was all he heard before sleep stole his thoughts.