Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(35)

It’s been reported from an unconfirmed source that following the Confederate loss in Chattanooga, General Braxton Bragg—who made a hurried retreat to Dalton, Georgia, after his troops were routed—has resigned. President Davis is said to have immediately accepted his resignation.


Jake felt the air leave his lungs. General Bragg . . . resigned? He bowed his head, his thoughts spinning. Hurried retreat to Dalton. Troops routed. Thinly stretched army of Confederates. He slowly lifted his gaze, the flames from the fire in the hearth blurring in his gaze. And here he was at a farm in Franklin assisting a Women’s Relief Society.

He rose and tossed the newspaper aside.

Suddenly feeling caged and needing to move, he opened the cabin door and stepped outside onto the porch, welcoming the cold air. He breathed deeply, willing the cool to clear his head. The hoot of an owl carried toward him from some distance away, and he looked in the direction of the darkened house, then to Aletta’s window.

Friends. And that’s all they ever would be. For so many reasons. Least of which was the war. He determined right then to contact Colonel Stratton and ask him to review his assignment here. Stratton had sent him to Carnton to fulfill a favor of General Bragg’s to Colonel McGavock. Since Bragg was no longer in command, perhaps Stratton would rescind the order, consider the obligation met, and then Jake could return to his regiment. Still unable to shoot, of course, but there were other ways he could help them win this war.

He simply needed to convince Stratton of that fact.





CHAPTER 12

His left shoulder complaining, Jake managed to carry another table into the room where Aletta had instructed. He set it down just inside the door. It was still early, but the various rooms of the church building were already brimming with women again, same as the past three days.

Females young and old, with children in tow, had shown up to help with preparations for the auction. So much crinoline. Too much. And the thrum of conversation filled the place. It occurred to him that these women would use more words in a minute than he would likely use in a month of Sundays.

Being the only male in the group, he’d met many if not most of them by now, but had stopped trying to keep track of names after the first four or five. He did recognize Kate Zachary, the widow Aletta had visited last month, and was surprised but pleased to see her among the volunteers. Per Aletta, as soon as the body of Mrs. Zachary’s husband was returned, there would be a funeral. Same for the body of Aletta’s husband. Jake had offered to help with both in any way he could.

True to Aletta’s word, the women had made enormous progress over the past three days. Which, considering all the visiting they did, he found impressive. Some sewed on quilts, others knitted various articles of clothing, all grouped in circles, heads together. And though he still held to his original opinion—it would be far more efficient if everyone simply donated their money to the cause straightaway—he wasn’t about to voice it.

“Jake.”

He turned to see Aletta looking at him and was glad she couldn’t read his thoughts.

“That table goes over there, please.” She gestured. “Then would you retrieve the crates of yarn from the back of the wagon? The ‘caps and scarves’ ladies—those four groups knitting over there—are running low.” She flashed him a smile. “Thank you.”

She immediately returned to her tasks, not waiting for his response. She was working hard, a bit too hard, if you asked him, for a woman in her condition. He’d encouraged her to take a rest but she’d waved aside the comment, saying she was enjoying it. And granted, it did appear that way. They’d fallen back into a comfortable pattern with each other, which he was grateful for. Still, it wasn’t quite as it had been before. He was simply more aware of her. No matter where she was in a room, he knew it. And he sensed she knew it. Which likely accounted for the increased distance she kept between them.

Nothing anyone else would notice, but he did. He positioned the table as she’d indicated, then went outside to get the crates of yarn from the wagon.

He couldn’t fault her for keeping that distance either. Like yesterday when she’d placed Andrew squarely between them on the bench seat of the wagon as they’d ridden into town. She hadn’t told him until they’d reached her house what they were there for. He shook his head.

Foreclosure.

He’d loaded as much of the smaller furniture and her belongings from the house as he could manage into the back of the wagon and—with Colonel McGavock’s approval—had stored it all in one of the outbuildings on the Carnton estate, along with a trunk full of her husband’s clothes. Jake was certain Andrew hadn’t noticed his mother’s silent tears as they’d driven home.

Still, he wished she would’ve told him about the foreclosure. Not that he could have done anything to stop the bank from repossessing the home, but at least he would’ve been aware of the situation and could have been more sensitive to her and Andrew’s plight.

He stacked the two crates and headed back inside the church, eager to walk the short distance to the telegraph office later that day to see if Colonel Stratton had responded yet. Surely the man would see his side of things and agree to allow him to return.

Jake delivered the yarn to the “caps and scarves” groups of ladies as requested when he heard a sudden cry. He turned, as did everyone else, and spotted a young woman across the room, a newspaper clutched in her hands. He’d scanned that day’s edition an hour earlier and knew the War Department had issued another list of soldiers either killed, wounded, or missing.