Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(9)

“He says my shoulder’s healing fine, sir. Bullet went clean through. But he says I need to give it more time. That my long-range vision might come back. Or . . . it might not.”

Stratton stared. “What does your gut tell you, soldier?”

Jake straightened. “That I’m ready for battle, sir. Not like before, of course. But I can still shoot well enough to kill a Yankee.”

“Is that so?” Colonel Stratton rose, his already imposing figure seeming more so in the confines of the tent. He laid aside his cigar and grabbed the rifle atop his trunk. “Follow me.”

Outside, in the chill of early morning, dawn cloaked the encampment in a dusky purple gray as the sun edged its way up over the hills. Fog hung in ragged patches like tufts of cotton torn and scattered on the breeze. Jake followed, already knowing where the colonel was leading.

When they reached the target range, Stratton handed him the Whitworth and pointed. “Lowest limb of that poplar. Sixty feet out.”

Mindful of the wound healing in his left shoulder, Jake brought the rifle close to his right, the movement as familiar to him as breathing. He lowered his head, feather-closed his left eye, and peered through the scope. Then blinked. Again and again. Despite the bone-chilling temperature, sweat slicked his skin. He squinted, concentrating. But no matter what he did, the world through the scope remained a distant blur.

“Take aim and shoot, Captain,” Stratton commanded.

Jake’s gut churned. He gritted his teeth. Focus, focus! Exasperated, he finally shook his head. “It’s no good, sir,” he whispered, his breath puffing white.

“You said you’re ready for battle, soldier! That’s a Yankee coming straight for you, sixty feet out. Except he’s covering ground, and he’s got a load of lead aimed straight at your heart. If he’s slow and has some girth to him, that might give you a chance. But if he’s fast and a fair shot, you’re already dead. So take aim and fire, Captain.”

“Sir, I said it’s no good. I-I can’t—”

“Take aim and fire!”

Jake squeezed the trigger and absorbed the familiar recoil of the rifle even as the sound of the bullet missing its mark caused something deep inside him to give way. An ache lodged in his chest and his eyes burned with emotion.

“Congratulations, Captain.” Stratton clapped him on his good shoulder. “You’re a dead man.”

Stratton turned and strode back to his tent. After a moment, Jake did likewise, rifle in hand. He followed the colonel inside, returned the firearm to the trunk, and stood at attention before Stratton’s desk, waiting to be dismissed. Stratton took his seat and said nothing. Just shuffled through papers, head down.

Moments passed.

Finally, the Colonel sighed. “Captain, you’re obviously not ready to return to battle yet.”

“But, Colonel, I—”

He raised a hand. “I spoke with the doctor, too, and he believes this assignment will be good for you. You need to rest your eyes, he says. Use those compresses and whatever other medicine he’s given you. Doc says it’ll speed the healing. If there’s healing to be had,” he added in a quieter voice. “And I concur with him that some time away from your regiment and the camp would do you good.”

Jake looked at him. “Some time, sir? But we’re scheduled to move out day after tomorrow, and I—”

“All the wounded are being transferred to Thompson’s Station this afternoon. The convoy leaves at noon. Except for you.” Stratton leveled his gaze. “General Bragg wrote asking for a special favor to an honorary colonel friend of his. That’s where you come in.”

Mention of General Bragg got Jake’s attention.

Stratton eyed him. “It’s a gathering of women, one of the Women’s Relief Societies.”

“A Women’s Relief Society, sir?” Jake caught Stratton’s frown and knew better than to interrupt again, their history and the permission to speak freely notwithstanding.

“They’re hosting a fund-raiser for the Confederacy. It’s being sponsored by some of Nashville’s most prominent families, including General Bragg’s cousin.” Stratton picked up a letter from his desk. “The fund-raiser is being held at the home of a Colonel John McGavock of Carnton. Colonel McGavock’s father was mayor of Nashville some time back. You heard of him? Or of Carnton?”

Jake shook his head. Had it really come to this for him? Looking after a bunch of petticoats?

“Carnton looks to be three or four miles south of here, down in Franklin.” He pointed to the map lying open on his desk. “Seems Mrs. Colonel John McGavock, as she apparently prefers to be addressed, petitioned the higher-ups. She must have some pull with someone, too, because she sufficiently gained their attention. The letter is in General Bragg’s own hand.” Stratton began reading. “‘Mrs. Colonel John McGavock requests that we show our support for the Women’s Relief Society as they show their continued support for the soldiers.’” Stratton looked up from the letter. “In short, Mrs. McGavock thinks that having a soldier in their midst would not only be an encouragement to the women, but also provide security for the event and the funds they’ll be raising. But with the recent losses we’ve sustained”—Stratton tossed the letter aside—“I can’t spare to send a man who has the ability to fight.”