Measure of Devotion, page 8
“Sophie.” He stood his rifle on its butt and enclosed her hand with both of his. “You never fail to make me smile.”
“Oh, Coop. My goodness.”
“You look wonderful.”
“And I’m happy to see you’re well.”
“Some nasty scrapes but…” He squeezed her hand. “The fates were kind.”
“Come.” Sophie waved him to a nearby tree but could tell he was reluctant. “Sit here so I can look at these scrapes.”
“There are far more who—”
“Sit. I’ll be quick.”
She knelt beside him, her heart still reveling in the first happy moment in far too long. He pulled up his pant leg to offer his wound.
Sophie frowned hard at the elongated swath carved along his calf. Fresh blood glimmered around the edges, trickled from beneath what had already dried over the surface, and followed a preexisting trail into his stocking.
“Did a bayonet do this? A saber?”
“Case shot. Miserable things go everywhere.” He grimaced when she turned his leg slightly. “Stings and still bleeds.” He lifted his left arm. “Same over here, I’m afraid. Like a burn. But mostly, they’re nuisances.”
“Nuisances? They’ll be a tad more than that once I start cleaning them.” She set to work, unwilling to meet his eyes. Somehow, she had to accept the fact that Coop stirred her senses, even the most sensitive ones, and she couldn’t stem their reaction. Certainly, there wasn’t time to ponder it, but she vowed to find some, because there was just something about him that spoke to her. No man had so reached her before.
He jerked and inhaled sharply when she dabbed the dirt and woolen thread from his wound.
“Sorry,” Sophie said just as Coop said it, and she forced her concentration back to the task at hand. Focused on being thorough, she couldn’t help but notice the undamaged skin around the raw tissue, so pale and smooth, even with grit clinging to the hair on his leg. Such remarkably fine hair for a man.
She prepared a roll of bandage. “Show me your arm next, won’t you?”
Coop swung his cartridge box and canteen over his head, then shrugged out of his knapsack and bedroll, and unbuttoned his frock. He withdrew his wounded arm and held it out.
Finished wrapping his leg, Sophie took his wrist and moved up what had once been a white shirt sleeve to look at his forearm. “Good gracious, this is just as messy.” Blood caked over the broad gash and had dried in a path through more of his delicate hair to the back of his hand.
“Sophie, I shouldn’t keep you. I…I appreciate this special treatment, but there are—”
“It’s not special treatment.”
Coop raised his arm with her hand on it and looked directly at her. “Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not,” she countered, equally determined, and urged his arm down to rest on his leg.
Okay, yes, it is.
But she wasn’t about to stop. “I wish all the wounds here were as easily tended as yours.”
Thankfully, Coop stopped pressing the subject. He studied her every move and probably a lot more of her as she worked. She could feel his eyes stroking as tenderly as fingers, on her hands, neck, and face. Those intimate sensations tingled again. “You nearly had both arm and leg broken beyond repair.”
He didn’t respond. The concept probably unnerved him.
“We should have written more to each other,” he said at last, his voice shy.
She looked up, taken by the little smile, the slim lips pressed tightly together as if holding back words. “You write eloquently. Has anyone ever told you?”
“I do? Well, no. That is, I don’t write much.”
Now, Sophie sat back on her heels, recalling her own debate about writing at all. She wouldn’t mislead such a sweet man into thinking something might come of their correspondence, not when he was alone in this world, not when her heart ached for female companionship.
“I’m sorry I didn’t write more, Coop. I promised to, I know, and I’m embarrassed—”
“Don’t be. Nothing could be better than our times together. And this is better than a letter.”
Sophie swallowed hard. Is this what friends do?
“It’s hard to see being hit by cannon fire as a lucky stroke,” she said, “but I’ll admit that saying hello in person outweighs a piece of paper.”
“Agreed.” With his free hand, he drew Sophie’s drooping shawl farther up her shoulder. “Do you have warmer clothes? There’s enough sickness in the army, Sophie. Don’t let it claim you, too.”
She had to smile as she worked. “I’m cautious of that, yes. Thank you. And I do have a heavier shawl as well as a coat, but I’m in such constant motion, in and out of those hot stuffy tents, leaning over cookfires. I’m usually warm enough.”
“Hm…Well, good. You have enough blankets in your wagon? I could get you more if you’d like. The quartermaster owes me.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, but you mustn’t worry. So far, the weather has been bearable.”
“It’s hardly that, Sophie. We were frozen to the grass the other night before we slid away. Surely you could use another blanket.” He sat forward urgently. “You know, if you set a bucket of hot rocks among you, it would warm the wagon.”
Sophie grinned at him. “Well, that sounds worth trying. Now sit back, Private Samson, and let me work.” His thoughtfulness and eagerness to please had her pulse running high. He definitely wore his heart on his sleeve. “How is Tim?”
“He’s well, I think. He was unconscious for a while and they hauled him into a wagon, but I heard he walked most of the way here with a headache. I haven’t seen him for two days and it’s hard to get word with so many injured.”
“They say it was bad out there, the worst of the war.”
“You can only ram your head against rock so many times. Never seen such slaughter. Needless. And all for naught.”
“To think, three days of it.”
“No, really all in one day. Yesterday, we grouped in town and thought Burnside was just crazy enough to send us back at them in the dark.”
“After such loss, he’d do that?”
“Nobody wanted to believe it, not a night assault and not with our numbers down so badly. We just returned to the field to cover the retreat.” He pinched his eyes with his free hand, inadvertently smeared the gunpowder on his cheek. In Sophie’s opinion, the streak, combined with his other smudges, lent him quite the roguish air. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, tired, and he did not look up. “We withdrew all the way. Lost it all.”
“But I’m glad you made it through, Coop. I know the army will recover from this.” Wishing she had something less hollow to say, she slid his tattered sleeve down over his bandage and watched as he redressed. “I know that’s easy for me to say, but we all believe in the cause and must let it drive us forward.”
He pursed his lips as if he doubted her. “Burnside practically invited Longstreet’s entire corps to dig in all nice and comfy over there.” He draped his canteen and cartridge box over his shoulders and sagged back against the tree, cushioned by his knapsack. “The man’s a fool,” he said in a low grumble, and reset his cap. “You’ll find no one disagrees now. Probably not even Mr. Lincoln himself, once he hears of this catastrophe.” Suddenly, he leaned forward and pointed far up the Rappahannock. “Did you know, the man stayed at headquarters, never once stuck his head out to see what was happening? Never even crossed the damn river.”
“Hush,” she whispered, a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t be overheard.”
Maybe recalling his words, Coop stared back at her for a long moment, and Sophie felt the heat of his agony seep into her. She wished she could assuage the despair, erase the disillusion.
At last, his eyelids lowered. “You’re right. I’m sorry I—”
“Do not apologize,” she said softly, and bent closer. “Talking’s good for the spirit, and I believe you and I are good at it, but men are whispering of desertion now. Morale is terrible.”
He nodded as he looked around. “I think Ol’ Burns will end up paying for this one.”
❖
Cloak covering her shoulders, Coop sat cross-legged on her bedding, thankful to be back in one piece, back in the stockaded tent they abandoned before the battle. Coop endured these days of army recovery and tedious drilling, particularly with the vile bayonet, by appreciating the accompanying hours of prolonged rest.
Not only could she devote more than a half-minute to cooking salt pork for supper, but she had time to enjoy Silas Benning’s harmonica at the 42nd New York, and even tolerate the Harvard boys long enough to listen to Red McIntyre’s poetry. Playing cards lost its luster because she often won, and gossiping around the fire held little appeal, although she did learn tidbits of fact sprinkled in those conversations. Today’s highlight had been hearing of Lieutenant Adams’s promotion; she had witnessed his heart-stopping bravery, a flag in each hand amidst the tumult and smoke, and knew the image would never leave her. Nor would she forget the carnage.
But she found comfort in thoughts of Sophie, the main reason Coop appreciated this abundance of free time. In contrast to her relatively subdued army encampment, the medical area still bustled, treating battle wounds and a multitude of ailments, and Coop pictured Sophie scurrying among surgeons, nurses, stewards, and other aides, relentless at her labor. Her hair would be awry, her apron soiled, her winning eyes weary.
From her brief visit several evenings ago, Coop knew Sophie had little free time to socialize, but felt they enjoyed those few minutes together, shared over warm cider. It had been a snowy night, as cold as tonight, she thought, and hoped Sophie didn’t regret her decision to stay with the army this long. Christmas with family, home cooking, and a real bed had such allure, and Coop believed Sophie’s presence spoke volumes about her character, her dedication to the troops and the cause.
Coping with memories of her own past Christmases seemed a bit easier this year, occupied as she was with preparing a gift for someone who mattered. Last year, Coop’s first without her parents and brother, had been tortuous, and she would have bypassed the holiday completely if Tim hadn’t included her in his reverie.
A stick fire in her tent’s tiny rock stove provided just enough warmth to keep her fingers nimble, and by candlelight, she checked the materials she just acquired at the sutler’s wagon. Grumpy Mixon typically overcharged her for the three blankets, one for Tim, and two others for Sophie. Coop planned to create a useful gift for her by attaching the light blue flannel blanket to the one of dark gray wool.
She paired the blankets and began stitching them together, gathering the yards of material onto her bedding to keep it off the tent’s dirt floor. Sewing brought back recollections of hearth-side work with her mother, as many years spent creating and mending as Coop had managed to put toward shooting and riding. Stitchery always served a cathartic purpose, allowed her to escape into youthful, fanciful thoughts and grown-up dreams. And as a soldier, helping her comrades with mending kept the lurid images of war at bay and allowed for those of Sophie, sitting beside her, sipping coffee, her voice as sweet as her manner.
Tim called her name from just outside and lifted the tent flap. “There you are. What’s that you’re up to?”
“A Christmas present.” Coop’s candle flame bucked against the sudden breeze.
“You’re sewing. As if our entire company hasn’t given you enough things to mend.”
“Guess I’m good at it.” She shrugged. “Look, squeeze in if you’re ready, but drop that flap. The stove’s going in here.”
“Have to call on Mother Nature first,” he said, and dropped the flap. “For your Sophie, isn’t it?”
“She’s not my Sophie. But yeah. She works hard for everyone and won’t be home for Christmas.”
“Her family will probably send her presents. I hope to get a box from mine in the next few days, and we’ll eat well, my friend.”
Coop believed Tim to be a husband and father of the highest caliber, he cared so much for others. He knew Coop had no family, that there’d be no one sending presents, and here, as they approached another holiday in camp, he planned to share his bounty with her again. If they ever received a furlough near a decent town, Coop vowed to treat him to a dinner he’d have to crawl away from.
She liked hearing the uplift in his voice. Knowing his family stayed in frequent contact empowered him, and that bolstered her spirit. “You think Mary will send her fruit cake?”
“I’m counting on it. Nobody makes a better one. It’s what I married her for.” She sensed him grinning at his own words, standing out there in the cold. “You know,” he went on, “she might send some jars of jam, and maybe those pickled onions I told you about.”
“Stop. You’re making me hungry.”
Coop jumped when he jerked back the tent flap again and leaned in. He scanned the blankets across her lap.
“So, when you giving it to her?”
“I don’t—”
“Less than a week ’fore Christmas, Coop.”
“I know. I know.”
“Y’think she’ll give you something? Like a few good Christmas kisses?”
She jabbed her thumb toward the outside. “Go do your business.”
He laughed as he left Coop with excited thoughts.
My Sophie.
“Christmas kisses.”
Coop chortled as she worked. “Wouldn’t that be something? I’d kiss you right back, Miss Sophie Bauer.” She shook her head at herself. “I shouldn’t, because…Well, just because. But be crazy not to, and downright impolite. But you, pretty Sophie, you shouldn’t kiss me because…” She stopped and stared off at the candle. “But it’d be downright impolite if you didn’t.”
She shifted on her bedding to make room for Tim’s return, and tried to fold the yards of fabric into some semblance of neatness. With a little luck and another night’s work, she’d finish this project in time, thanks to the needle and thread in her housewife, the tiny kit of basics given to everyone by the Christian Commission many months ago. She’d have to buy more thread from the sutler but looked forward to that moment on Christmas Day when she’d see Sophie’s eyes dance with delight.
A thrashing noise behind the tent distracted her. She looked up at the canvas ceiling when something scratched across it. Then, Tim’s grumbling sounded from the front.
“There!” he proclaimed and poked his head inside. “Ain’t much to look at, but…Get out here and see what I got us.”
Coop set her blankets aside and joined him. The top five feet of a pine tree sat stuck in the dirt outside their tent flaps, a little tilted, but nonetheless upright. Hands on his hips and a smile lifting his beard, Tim studied his acquisition with pride.
“A Christmas tree,” Coop declared and clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent job.”
“Better than that branch the 42nd put up.”
“Sure is.” Coop walked around to examine the tree’s far side. “Bet those Harvard boys find themselves something bigger.”
Tim snorted. “The mighty 20th will probably have one shipped to them.”
“Y’know, we’ll have to decorate it with things that won’t be stolen.”
“The 42nd strung hardtack on theirs. No risk with that.”
“We could hang a few worn socks on ours. They’d be safe.”
Tim turned to her abruptly. “Thought you were gonna mend them?”
“I will. After Christmas.”
“Hm. There’s talk now of moving out after Christmas, so ol’ Burns can get even.”
“Cross the river again?”
“A ways farther up.”
Coop folded her arms and shivered. “In the dead of winter.” She shook her head. “I’d rather stay right here till the crocus bloom, thanks very much.”
Chapter Nine
Sophie added wood to her cookfire and watched Coop stack rocks into a knee-high crescent around it, touched by his effort to direct more heat toward her wagon. Most of her fellow Society workers dozed inside now, having sent off some of the last transport wagons to the area hospital, and Sophie relished having this Christmas Eve to herself—and Coop.
His arrival through the thin veil of falling snow brought a smile to her heart. He said regiments in his brigade had spent the entire day drilling, which made his mile-long trek across the snowpack to her all the more special.
“Do not try to convince me you ate supper, not that I care to even picture what that might have been.” Sophie placed a bowl of hearty vegetable soup into his hands and sat beside him at the fire. His eager acceptance pleased her immensely.
“Most generous of you, madam, but ye have little faith in military cuisine.”
“Ye speaketh truth,” she replied with a light laugh.
Sophie hummed along to a distant Christmas carol, content to watch the flames as he ate. She admitted to herself that she treasured his company, his easy humor, and thoughtfulness, and that his presence brightened this special night in ways beyond those of a good friend. She’d miss him when the Society ended its term of service next week. And she fretted over how to break the news.
Coop pointed to the army encampment. “That’s Captain Pierce,” he said, and smiled into his soup. “One of many decent voices in Mr. Lincoln’s army, I do say. The pride of New Hampshire.”
Sophie looked toward the settlement of tents, silhouetted against the glow of hundreds of tiny fires, and listened to the smooth tenor sing “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.” “I don’t believe it’s ever sounded more beautiful.”
“Do you sing at home with your family?”
“We sing often, actually. Years after Mama died, Greta and Karl developed sweet voices that she would’ve loved.”
He set the empty bowl at his feet and turned to face her. “I bet they’re hard workers like their big sister.”
Sophie tilted her head. “Most times. Compared to others around us, ours is a small farm but every part of it is necessary so we all work hard at it. But those young ones do get into their share of mischief.”
