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

Chapter Three

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.”

Her embarrassment had turned to anger at such foolishness. One thing the hospital needed now more than ever was doctors and nurses, with so many hundreds of wounded soldiers coming in almost daily. It seemed incredible that her divorced status should cause so much havoc in her life.

Even Carolyn and Michael had suffered. Michael, a deacon at the Light of Christ Church, where Clarissa had attended so faithfully until Chad left her, had grown disgusted over the insinuations from other men in the church, even the deacons and the minister, that he should not be known to associate so closely with a divorced woman, or he could be asked to leave the church. Michael refused to let such ugliness destroy his and Carolyn’s happiness. And because he wanted a place where Clarissa could also feel free to worship, he left the church and started his own ministry at his house. Now he hoped to take that ministry to Montana and start his own church there for the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who would settle there under the Homestead Act. Thousands more had gone before because of a fabulous silver strike at what some said was now the thriving town of Virginia City, Montana.

It was time to move on and start over. Surely a place like Montana needed nurses, and the more she thought about leaving behind all the bad memories here in St. Louis, the more excited Clarissa became over her decision.

“Mommy, I want to go home,” Sophie complained, turning from a big window where she’d been watching the street traffic outside.

“We’ll leave soon, honey,” Clarissa answered. She picked the girl up and set her on her lap, pushing some of the child’s red curls behind one ear. “You’ve been very good.”

Thank goodness she’d received enough money for the house after paying off the bank to be able to pay for her own supplies and even her own wagon. Michael would buy all the oxen, and Clarissa could hardly bear the wait. The sooner she got out of St. Louis, the better.

“Here you are!” The land agent, Eric Fastow, interrupted her thoughts when he finally returned to his desk. “Your official Homestead Certificate. I made sure your section would be located adjacent to Mr. and Mrs. Harvey so you could all be together. Everything is signed. Mr. and Mrs. Harvey each signed up for one-hundred-sixty acres, so between all three of you, you’ll have four-hundred-eighty acres to build a fine ranch! And it’s all located just five miles south of Virginia City! You’ll be close enough to go there for supplies whenever necessary, as long as mountain snows don’t hold you up.”

Clarissa took the paper, studying it a moment. There was her name as owner: Clarissa Lynn Seaforth Graham. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, showing it to Sophie. “See, Sophie? We’ll have land that’s all our own! We’re going on a long trip to live there.”

“Can Lena go?”

“Oh, yes. Lena and Carolyn and Michael are all going!”

Sophie clapped her hands and smiled. This child was another reason to leave St. Louis. Away from here Sophie never had to suffer from gossip and teasing. Clarissa folded the deed and placed it into an envelope Fastow handed her. “Thank you so much, Mr. Fastow.”

“My pleasure!” The thin, bespectacled man put out his hand, and Clarissa set Sophie on her feet and got up from her chair, shaking the man’s hand. “I wish you good luck, Mrs. Graham. I’d be worried about you if you were doing this alone, but as long as you are traveling with the Harveys, you should make it just fine.”

Clarissa squeezed his hand and then let go, appreciating the few people who treated her like a respectable person in spite of her being divorced. She put the deed into her handbag. “Thank you again, Mr. Fastow,” she said before taking Sophie’s hand and leading her back out into the lobby.

Immediately Sophie again pointed to the spectacular rotunda and stared upward. “Look, Mommy, it’s high!” The child spoke loudly, obviously enjoying the way her voice echoed in the large hall. “Can we go up there?”

“No, we certainly cannot. I’m not climbing all those steps just so you can get up there and fall and hurt yourself. Besides, I have to get you home. We have to meet Carolyn and Michael there to get some shopping done. We have so many preparations to make for our long trip. It takes a lot of planning.”

They walked across the marble floor toward the courthouse entrance, literally having to stop and dodge people who swarmed inside the busy lobby. The Homestead Act had created quite a commotion this year and last. People were excited about free land, theirs to keep as long as they farmed or ranched it and made it worth something. The government was aiming to settle and build the West, Indians or not, and there were plenty of people ready to help, especially since the war was escalating.

Already many had lost their farms and large plantations. Men were dying by the thousands, and homeless people filled St. Louis, many of whom were the ones most willing to head west to start over.

Clarissa kept hold of Sophie’s hand so she wouldn’t lose her among the throngs. She thought about the note from Chad that accompanied the divorce papers, saying he hoped she would sign them quickly and not prolong the matter. Such a cold, unfeeling letter. He’d not even asked about Sophie, but he made sure to tell her that the store had already been sold and the new owner would be showing up soon to get the keys from her.

She was almost glad Chad had been so coldhearted. That made it easier for her to stop caring about him. She knelt down to help Sophie put on her little woolen coat. Early April had brought a damp cold that seemed to go to the bone, and Clarissa was anxious for the warmer weather that should come very soon now. She buttoned up Sophie’s coat and tied a wool scarf around her head, then stood up and retied her own wool cape, pulling up the hood.

She took Sophie’s hand, and they slowly walked down the courthouse steps, Sophie insisting on jumping down one step at a time. The girl’s sweet nature made it easy for Clarissa to be patient with her. Always all smiles, Sophie found excitement in the smallest of things. She seldom asked about her missing father anymore, which made Clarissa both sad and relieved.

Once they reached the bottom of the steps, Sophie suddenly tore away from Clarissa, squealing something about a kitten.

“Sophie!” Before Clarissa could react in any way, she watched a man wearing a dark blue duster and black, wide-brimmed hat scoop up Sophie with one arm just in time to keep her from being hit by a team of horses pulling a wagon. However, he didn’t get out of the way in time to keep a wagon wheel from catching one leg and knocking him down. He cried out as he rolled out of the way, still clinging to Sophie and keeping her wrapped safely in his arms.

The wagon driver shouted “Whoa!” and looked back with terrified eyes as the stranger holding Sophie got to his knees. “You all right, mister? Is the little girl okay?”

“She’s fine.” The stranger waved the man off. “Go on. I’ll be all right.”

The wagon driver shook his head and drove off.

“Sophie!” Clarissa ran to the site, kneeling down to take Sophie from the stranger’s arms. “Look what you’ve done because you let go of Mommy’s hand! This poor man is hurt now!”

Sophie began crying, and the man who’d saved her got to a sitting position. “Don’t do that!” he told Clarissa rather gruffly. “Don’t blame the child. An accident is an accident.”

“I’m so sorry!” Clarissa told him. “And it is Sophie’s fault!”

A man passing by stopped to help the stranger up, and the man limped to a street lamp where he grabbed hold for support.

“You are hurt!” Clarissa said, setting Sophie on her feet and ordering the still-crying girl to stay put.

“It’s just a war wound that’s not quite healed,” he said.

“Let me get a cab and take you to the hospital.”

“Never mind. My horse isn’t far. Besides, I just got out of the hospital a few days ago.”

Clarissa could see the pain in his eyes. “Please.”

He shook his head. “No. No more hospitals.”

“Then tell me where your horse is. I’ll go get it for you and call a cab to take you to the house where I stay. Sophie can ride with you and I’ll follow on your horse. It isn’t far. I’m a nurse. My name is Clarissa Graham. I can take a look at your leg and rebandage it, or whatever else it needs.”

Clarissa could tell by the way the man closed his eyes and sighed that he was embarrassed at his condition. He stood a good six feet tall and had a rugged look that told her he preferred to fend for himself. Under his Union blue greatcoat she saw scarlet trim on a short jacket, which she knew meant he was part of an artillery unit and probably an officer, although because he wore a plain black hat rather than the common small kepi with an insignia on it, she couldn’t be sure what his station might be.

“Please let me help you,” she urged again. “It’s the least I can do after what’s happened.”

He met her gaze, and a quick surge of something unexplainable swept through Clarissa, something she hadn’t felt since the first time she looked into Chad Graham’s unnerving green eyes. This man’s were a striking blue, almost too dark, as though some kind of cloud hung somewhere behind them. She’d not realized until just now how handsome he was, in spite of several days growth of beard.

“I’ll let you help me if you promise to tell that little girl what happened was not her fault,” he told her. “I can’t tolerate a child being blamed for an accident.”

Clarissa thought what a strange request that was. “All right.” She knelt down to Sophie and wiped tears from her pudgy cheeks. “It’s all right, darling. You just scared Mommy, that’s all. Sometimes when we’re scared we yell and say the wrong things.” She kissed her cheek. “Just tell this man you’re sorry you ran into the street without looking.”

Sniffing, Sophie craned her neck to look up at the tall stranger. “I’m sowwy, Mistoo,” she told him, still having trouble with her r’s.

He managed a smile. “It’s okay, honey. What’s your name?”

“Sophie. What’s yours?”

The man looked from her to Clarissa. “Dawson Clements—Lieutenant Dawson Clements—of the Second Illinois Light Artillery Battery, now retired from the army. I, uh, I really don’t want to put you out—”

“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid I’ll take you up on the offer. The leg is hurting pretty good.”

“Wait right here then.” Clarissa looked at Sophie. “And you stay right here by Mr. Clements.” She stepped off the curb and waved down a one-horse cab coming toward them from farther up the street, hoping Carolyn and Michael wouldn’t mind her bringing home a stranger.

Chapter Four

Carolyn and Michael appeared almost comical as they scurried around the house following Clarissa’s orders after she arrived with a limping Dawson Clements. Because the fair-haired, brown-eyed Carolyn was actually taller and more robust than Michael, a short, slender, quiet man with black hair and deep brown eyes, they seemed mismatched physically, but Clarissa could think of no other couple more devoted to each other than these friends who’d been so good to her, especially since her divorce. If only her own marriage could have been so happy and perfect.

Little Lena, one year older than Sophie, had her father’s dark hair and eyes, quite the contrast to Sophie’s orange-red hair and pale blue eyes. The current excitement in the house kept the girls glued nearby, staring at the tall stranger who’d come unexpectedly into their midst.

Carolyn gave Michael orders for towels and whiskey and hot water while Dawson sat down in a kitchen chair. He winced with pain as he obeyed Clarissa’s order and let her help put his wounded right leg up on an opposite chair. She pushed up his pant leg to see the entire calf of his leg was wrapped in bandages showing stains from both old and fresh blood.

“Oh, my!” She looked at Dawson with a frown. “How long has it been since this was changed?”

He shrugged. “Five, six days, something like that.”

“Didn’t they tell you how important it was to keep the wound clean? If it gets infected, you could lose your leg.”

He sighed. “I am well aware of that. I’ve seen piles of legs and arms lying outside of hospital tents at a friendly battleground called Shiloh.”

They all gasped. “We’ve heard about Shiloh,” Carolyn said with an air of sad respect.

“Nevertheless, why haven’t you kept treating this wound?” Clarissa asked.

“Look, Mrs.—Graham, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who insisted I come here. Don’t be scolding me for not changing this thing. I don’t have a friend or relative to my name, so there’s no one to care whether I lose a leg or not. I was told at the hospital that they’d done all they could do and that it should be all right, so what more could I do? I’ve been traveling through the camps outside of town talking to families who’ve lost their homes because of this senseless war and I haven’t had time to tend to the leg. I haven’t even had a bath or a shave for days. Just clean it up if you must and I’ll be on my way.”

His abruptness made Clarissa bristle. “I don’t know of one person, man or woman, who wouldn’t do everything they possibly could to keep from losing a limb, so don’t try to tell me you don’t care. Whatever you’re angry about, you needn’t take it out on me.” She began cutting off the bandages with scissors Michael handed her.

“Here’s some hot water,” Carolyn said, bringing over a pan of water. “Michael, did you get those towels?”

“Right now, dear.” Michael hurried into a back room and emerged seconds later with several towels and washrags.

“I’ll get some clean bandages,” Carolyn told Clarissa.

Clarissa glanced at Sophie and Lena. “You girls had better go and play.”

Sophie’s eyes were teared. “Did I make it bleed?” she asked.

Clarissa glanced at Dawson, remembering his deal—she was not to blame Sophie for any of this. He gave her a warning look, and Clarissa turned to Sophie. “No, Sophie. His leg was already wounded from the war. This is not your fault. Now run and play.”

“Can I give him a hug?”

Clarissa had to smile, then. “After I fix his leg, okay?”

“Okay.” Sophie grabbed Lena’s hand and the two girls ran up the narrow, enclosed stairway to Lena’s room upstairs, closing the stairwell door behind them.

For the next few moments no one spoke as Clarissa peeled off the bandages. She could see Dawson’s calf muscle tighten and knew the leg was hurting him, but he made no sound. “Set a bucket under his leg, Michael, will you? I have to wash this off and water and blood will drip.”

“Sure thing,” Michael answered, hurrying to the kitchen.

Clarissa looked up at Dawson. “Bullet wound?” she asked.

“Shrapnel.”

Michael returned with a bucket, and Clarissa began washing the blood off Dawson’s leg. “You said you’re retired from the army?”

“My time was up just a few days after I was wounded, during Grant’s campaign to free up the Mississippi to Union control. After sixteen years of fighting Indians and then seeing the horrific things I’ve seen in this war, I decided not to re-up. I’m doubting that decision, since the army is all I’ve ever known since I was thirteen years old.”

“Thirteen!” Michael had drawn up a chair beside Clarissa to see if there was anything he could do to help. Carolyn sat down across the table from them. “You’ve been in the army since you were thirteen years old?”

Dawson grinned, then suddenly winced and grunted when Clarissa got close to the still-festered wound. “They thought I was sixteen.”

Michael chuckled. “Well, considering your size, I can understand that.”

“I’m going to have to douse this with whiskey, Mr. Clements,” Clarissa told him.

“So be it.”

Clarissa uncorked the small bottle Carolyn handed to her and took a deep breath before splashing some into the wound. Dawson grunted and jerked his leg, then cursed.