Rosanne Bittner - Walk By Faith

Bridger sighed. “I sure hope so, sir. I just—do you believe in God, sir?”

The question caught Dawson off guard, and it brought back painful memories. He could still see Preacher Carter’s face plain as day, his scowl, his piercing dark eyes and sharp nose, his face red from giving Dawson another beating with his wide, black belt, screaming that he needed to “beat the devil” out of him again.

“Sure I do,” he answered Bridger, only because he knew that was what the man wanted to hear. “Why?”

“Well, I mean, do you really think a man goes to heaven when he dies, where everything is beautiful and peaceful and all that?”

Dawson decided this was not the time to tell a man there was also a hell, where some men, including himself, were bound to go no matter what. The worst part was that Preacher Carter would probably be there, too.

“Of course there’s a heaven,” he answered, forcing himself to sound positive, “but you’ll be an old man before you get there.”

“Lieutenant Clements!” A young private ran up to salute Dawson, interrupting the conversation. “I was told by a Major Coldwell to tell you to prepare the men and artillery for attack. We’re going to sweep this whole area clean of Rebels forthwith! General Grant is mustering all troops as well as the new arrivals, sir.”

“They’re here then?”

The private grinned broadly. “Yes, sir! All seventy-five hundred of them! They’re coming off the steamboat right now at the landing!”

Dawson saluted in return. “Thank you, Private. Tell the major we’ll have our cannon and rifles ready.”

“Yes, sir!” The private hurried away, excited now that it looked like enough help had come to turn this battle around. Dawson heard a man crying bitterly inside the hospital tent, and he supposed it was the same man who minutes ago had screamed in agony. For all he knew, after the next few hours of fighting he’d be missing a limb himself, or worse.

He stood and nodded to Sergeant Bridger. “Thank you for thinking of me, Sergeant. Go and prepare your men.”

The young man stood up with a tired groan, and the two men saluted one another. “Yes, sir.”

Their gazes held a moment. “God be with you, Sergeant,” Dawson told him, sure he detected a trace of tears in Bridger’s eyes.

“And with you, sir. Once this is over we’ll—”

A shot rang out before Bridger finished the sentence. His body lurched forward and fell, just missing landing in the campfire. In his back was a bloody, gaping hole.

Startled, Dawson watched a wounded and badly bleeding young Confederate soldier crawl toward him, a smoking pistol in his hand. It took Dawson a moment to realize what had just occurred.

While the wounded soldier fumbled with his pistol, Dawson quickly grabbed his musket, bayonet attached, from where it rested against a nearby log. Swiftly he jammed the tip of the bayonet against the Confederate man’s forehead. “Don’t bother reloading, mister!” he warned.

The young Rebel looked up at Dawson and grinned. “At least I got one more of you yellow-bellied Yanks before I meet my Maker.”

“And meet your Maker you will!” an enraged Dawson answered. He pulled the trigger of his loaded musket, wiping away not just the man’s grin, but nearly his entire face. Never in his life had he considered committing such a heinous act, but in this moment of pain and disbelief, he didn’t care.

Grief washed over him with the cold rain when he managed to turn his gaze to the young man who’d just willed him what little money he had in the whole world, and all because he’d saved his life earlier today. This time he’d failed him. He’d promised that boy that he’d be all right, but then such promises were only for God to make.

He knelt and gently he turned Bridger’s body over, hoping beyond hope that he might still be alive.

“Sergeant,” he spoke, a sob engulfing him at the same time. He felt at the man’s neck for a pulse, but there was none. He struggled to keep from breaking into all-out tears over the man’s shockingly sudden death, as several men gathered to see what had happened.

“Sir, are you all right?” someone asked.

Dawson nodded. “Go away—all of you,” he told them gruffly. “Get ready for the advance.”

“Yes, sir. What about Sergeant Bridger? We can’t bury him right now, sir. Grant is ordering—”

“I know what we have to do!” Dawson barked. “I’ll be along!”

“Yes, sir.”

Dawson sensed the men leaving. Dawn was barely breaking, and men who’d lain wounded all night still cried and groaned throughout the surrounding woods and orchards. How strange that he should feel so sad over the death of a young man he’d known only as a fellow soldier for the past year and a half. Preacher Carter had been right. Maybe he was evil and deserved this constant punishment.

He removed his rubber cape and laid it over the sergeant to keep his body dry and respectfully covered until he could return and bury the man. Feeling numb and strangely removed from reality, he headed for duty. There was a little church situated somewhere south of them, and their goal was to reach it before the sun set again.

The cold rain began soaking his blue greatcoat and running down his neck under his shirt. He thought it only fitting and proper that he should suffer from its chilling wetness. The discomfort would help shroud his inner pain for the next few hours.

When I was in trouble, I called to the Lord,

And He answered me.

Save me, Lord, from liars and deceivers.

—Psalms 120:1-2

April 20, 1863

Breathing deeply to calm her nerves, Clarissa glanced around the land agent’s office, studying the marble floors, the mahogany furniture and glass bookcases, the high windows with fancy drapery. As she appreciated the beauty of St. Louis’s grand courthouse and its magnificently painted central rotunda in the main hall, she had to wonder how long it would be before she saw such civilized grandeur again after leaving this city where she’d grown up.

It was almost impossible to calm the butterflies in her stomach at the thought of what she was doing. If not for Carolyn and Michael Harvey she would never have had this chance to finally leave St. Louis and start a new life.

After her embarrassing divorce, a kind and understanding Carolyn continued watching Sophie so that Clarissa could go back to her nursing job at City Hospital to support herself and Sophie. Chad had indeed sold the store and all the inventory without her knowledge. Thank goodness the house they’d shared had been her father’s and willed to her. When she married Chad the house was never put into his name.

Apparently Chad had only cared about the store because it was paid for free and clear but the house wasn’t. Clarissa was left with that debt, but she’d worked hard to keep up the payments on the two-bedroom frame home she’d now miss dearly. She’d sold the house and most of the furniture in order to have the necessary money to leave St. Louis.

Michael Harvey planned to settle in Montana under the new Homestead Act. The cotton wholesaler for whom Michael worked had gone out of business because of the war, and being deeply religious, Michael refused to join the fighting for either side. St. Louis was in chaos, and danger lurked everywhere. For the sake of their little girl, Michael intended to head west with his family, and Clarissa and Sophie would go with them. Clarissa’s latest embarrassing ordeal made her more determined, because she’d been fired from her nursing job just for being divorced! Ordered to take care of only the female patients, she was let go when she dared to help a poor, wounded soldier that no one else seemed to have time for. The firing was partly because that soldier was a Confederate, and Confederate soldiers always got helped last; but it seemed obvious to her that helping the man was also the hospital’s excuse to get rid of a woman about whom other nurses, and even some patients’ wives, had complained should not be around any of the “lonely, vulnerable male patients.”