Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(18)
He’d been surprised when, earlier, Jones had told him that his being wounded was a topic of conversation among some of the men. And while he appreciated the captain’s well wishes, Jake felt uncomfortable. Such praise had never bothered him before. But now it only served to remind him of his temporary loss.
At least he hoped it was only temporary.
“You’re from Mississippi?” Jake asked. “I think that’s what the colonel said.”
Jones nodded. “Town of Yalobusha. Born and raised there. You?”
“South Carolina.”
“A low-country man.”
Jake smiled.
“You got a family, Winston?”
“Nope.” Jake shook his head. “You?”
Jones didn’t answer for a moment. “I did. My wife and daughter died earlier this year. A few days apart.”
Jake looked at him. “I’m so sorry.”
His focus ahead, Jones nodded, then sighed. “Here I am in a war, and they die back at home. Doesn’t seem quite fair now, does it?”
“No,” Jake said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
As they passed a grove of pecan trees, Jake thought of the pecan pies his mother used to make, all sweet and buttery, especially just pulled from the oven, the pecans on top crusted with syrup. Best he’d ever had. Maybe it was seeing all the homes on his way to Franklin from the encampment, but he felt a measure of homesickness he couldn’t quite account for. His grip tightened on his rifle.
With both parents gone and Vicksburg having robbed him of what precious family had remained, there was nothing left for him back in South Carolina now. The family farm, modest even at its height, was gone to ruin. Only memories lingered now. Of good times, mostly. At least those were the ones he tried to nurture.
Jones guided the wagon to a stop behind a line of carriages parked in front of the house—quite the busy place—and set the brake. Haversack and rifle in hand, Jake climbed down.
“Thanks again for the ride, Captain Jones.”
“My honor, Captain Winston.”
To Jake’s surprise, Jones saluted, something not required of officers of equal rank.
Jake returned it, then retrieved his knapsack from beneath the bench seat. The still-tender wound in his left shoulder pulsed a bit, and he paused until the pain subsided, looking back at the house again. So this was Carnton.
If the McGavocks’ home wasn’t impressive enough, the acreage was. The gently rolling hills of evergreen, poplar, and pine. Cattle dotting the fields soon to be covered in snow. He’d seen sheep and hog pens in the distance and wondered if the McGavocks had had their hog killing yet. What with the freezing temperatures setting in, now would be the time if they hadn’t.
Jones crossed to a door located on the right wing of the house, and a black woman answered. Jake couldn’t overhear their exchange, but the woman nodded. Captain Jones returned and began untying the tarpaulin that secured the wagon bed. Jones pulled back the cover to reveal a load of supplies and hefted a large crate to his shoulder.
Seeing the amount of work ahead and with the wind and snow picking up, Jake set aside his gear and picked up a medium-sized crate—and immediately realized he’d underestimated its weight. What was in here? Cannonballs? He quickly shifted the weight toward his right arm. And call it pride, but he wasn’t about to set the box back down.
The captain paused and looked over at him.
Jake met his gaze. “I’m wounded, Jones. Not dead.”
The hint of a smile showed on Jones’s face as he walked on.
Jake deposited his box inside the kitchen door and caught a whiff of something that caused his stomach to rumble. Only then did he see the word Flour stamped on the side of the crate he’d just carried. A wagonload of kitchen staples? That’s what Jones had brought? Jake thought again of how much more sense it made for these women to simply donate their money directly to the cause instead of throwing parties for each other in an effort to raise funds.
Frustrated all over again at this assignment, he retraced his steps to the wagon, feeling muscles he hadn’t used in a while. The snow began to let up a bit even as the air seemed to grow colder.
A holler drew his attention and he turned to see two young boys racing for all they were worth around the corner of the house and toward the front gate. Time seemed to bend back on itself and he saw himself and young Freddie racing through the fields back home. Could feel the gentle whip of winter grasses as the two of them vied for a swift path of victory, Pa driving the wagon some distance behind them, the dinner bell urging them on. And Mother standing on the front porch watching for them all.
Jake swallowed at the vivid memory and took a deep breath, willing the emotion within him to subside as he pulled the memory closer, not wanting to lose hold of it. Or of them. Why the sudden tide of reminiscence, he couldn’t say. Time of year, he guessed. He’d always liked Christmas. Had looked forward to it in years past. But this year the approaching holiday had an empty feel to it, and he wished it were already past.
One of the boys opened up the gate and shot up the walkway and into the house, while the other lingered at the edge of the fence as the gate slammed shut on him.
“Andrew!”
Jake turned at the voice and saw a woman walking hurriedly in that direction. Her near ankle-length coat hid the precise definition of her figure, but he was fairly certain she was with child. As if sensing his attention, she looked his way. He smiled, and she acknowledged him with a brief but polite tilt of her head.