Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(10)

“So you’re sending me . . . sir?”

Stratton smiled. “That’s right, Captain. General Bragg expresses, and frankly, I agree, that sending a visibly wounded soldier—one of the amputees, for instance—would upset the ladies, make them more anxious about their men. But your shoulder’s healing, and you’re healthy looking enough. And according to my wife, you’re young and dashing.” Sarcasm weighted the colonel’s tone. “At least you might be . . . somewhere beneath all that growth of beard. And I imagine you can be sufficiently charming, when you put your mind to it.”

Jake didn’t share his humor. “Wouldn’t it be easier, sir, just to tell the women to donate their money and valuables and be done with it? Would save us all a lot of time. After all, the gentler sex has no place in matters of war, sir. They’re best shielded from war’s cruelties. Better for them to stick to hearth and home.”

Stratton smiled. “You sound like that letter to the editor I read yesterday.”

“Sir?”

Stratton reached for the newspaper buried beneath the piles on his desk and pushed it toward him. “Fellow wrote in and lambasted the editor for suggesting that some women were actually fighting, even now, alongside the men. As if we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

Jake unfolded the paper, found the editorial page, and scanned the letter.

“Next thing you know, Captain, they’ll be saying we ought to allow women to hold command.” Stratton laughed. “Can you imagine?”

Jake finally looked up and managed a smile. The wording in the letter was overly harsh, but he couldn’t say he disagreed with the opinion overall. The way he looked at it, it wasn’t so much that women lacked the constitution for war as it was that men had a God-bestowed duty to protect them from the horrors of it. He laid the paper aside.

“Back to your assignment at Carnton.” Stratton reached for his partially smoked cigar, struck a match, and breathed new life into the tightly rolled tobacco leaves. Circles of smoke coiled upward. “We already know the Federals pulled out of Franklin some time back. Scouts confirmed this week that General Grant’s army is advancing toward Mississippi while Rosecrans is pushing toward Chattanooga. There’s a small garrison still holed up at Fort Granger, but they’re keeping to that area. And word is, the fort has fallen into disrepair. We have Confederate troops quietly patrolling the area. Still, there’s enough Federal rabble around to raise a ruckus, so best be on watch. And considering the money the women will be raising for the cause, having a soldier on the premises isn’t a bad idea.”

“Even one who can’t see to shoot, sir?”

“I’m not sending you down there to kill Yankees, Captain. I’m sending you because you’re not ready to fight again yet. I need you back here as soon as possible. The Army needs you back. But I need the man who moves like a ghost in the wind and hits his target from another world away. So keep to Carnton and to the town. And concentrate on healing up.” His gaze sobered. “I trust you won’t disappoint me or the General . . . Jake.”

Jake shook his head, both humbled and resigned. “No, sir, Colonel. No disappointment. What are my duties while I’m there?”

Stratton puffed on the cigar, his smile coming slowly. “Whatever Mrs. Colonel John McGavock bids you to do. General Bragg also requests that something be written up about the Christmas event the women are hosting. You’re good enough with a pencil. I’ve seen your sketches. Capture a scene or two that the newspaper can print and pen a few words to go with it. Come Christmas, it’ll be published with a paragraph from General Bragg.”

Jake simply nodded.

Stratton stood and rounded the desk, then moved toward the entrance of the tent, the canvas flap whipping in the wind. He nudged back the opening, and Jake stared past him out across the rippling tide of dingy-looking tents dotting the field as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by the occasional confiscated Federal soldier’s tent, so prized among the men.

“Morale is low in the camps. You already know that,” Stratton continued. “The men are worn down, short on hope, and they’re worried about their families back home. So whatever scarves or gloves or knitted together whatnot you bring back from Carnton will be a boon to them, I’m sure. All Christmas furloughs are being canceled too. So when the men are told they won’t be seeing their families, that won’t help either. And despite the overall victory at Chickamauga, the losses at Vicksburg . . . and all that happened there . . . haunt us still.”

At the mention of Vicksburg, Jake briefly bowed his head. He’d lost so much on that battlefield. Far more even than he’d lost at Chickamauga.

Stratton said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “Your fellow soldiers need to be reminded of why they’re fighting, Captain. And of who they’re fighting for. We could all use that reminder.”

Jake heard fatigue in the colonel’s voice.

Clearing his throat, Stratton turned back. “Captain Roland Jones from Captain P. R. Leigh’s Company of Infantry, Mississippi Volunteers, should be here anytime to escort you to Carnton. Meet him on the main road south of camp. Godspeed, Captain. Dismissed.”

Jake saluted, and Colonel Stratton returned the gesture.

“And, Captain . . .”

Jake turned.

“First chance, you might want to get a shave and a haircut. No need offending the ladies.”