Page 63 of Christmas at Carnton

AUGUST 17, 1863

In the hills surrounding the Union-occupied city of Nashville . . . First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper peered through the stand of bristled pines, his presence cloaked by dusk, his Winchester cocked and ready. Beads of sweat trailed his forehead and the curve of his eye, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. His focus was trained on the Negro hunched over the fire and what he was certain—if his last hour of observation proved true—the slave had hidden just over the ridge.

Best he could tell, the man hadn’t spied him, else he wouldn’t be going about making supper like he was. Beans and pork with biscuits and coffee, if Ridley’s sense of smell proved right. Real coffee. Not that foul-tasting brew the Rebs scalded over an open flame until it was sludge, then drank by the gallons.

Rebs. His brothers, in a way, every last one of them. Two of them the blood kind. And yet, the enemy. He hoped Petey and Alfred were all right, wherever they were.

A northerly breeze marked evening’s descent, but the air’s movement did little to ease the sweltering heat and humidity. Someone raised in the thickness of South Carolina summers should be accustomed to this by now, but the wool of the Federal uniform wore heavy, more so these days than when he’d first enlisted.

Yet he knew he’d done the right thing in choosing the side he had. No matter what others said or did. Or accused him of.

Ridley felt a pang. Not from hunger so much, though he could eat if food was set before him. This pang went much deeper and hurt worse than anything he could remember. God, if you’re listening, if you’re still watching us from where you are . . . I hate this war. Hated what this “brief conflict”—as President Lincoln had called it at the outset—was doing to him and everyone else over two bloody years later.

And especially what it called for him to do tonight. “At any cost,” his commander had said, his instruction leaving no question.

Jaw rigid, Ridley reached into his pocket and pulled out the seashell, the one he’d picked up on his last walk along the beach near home before he’d left to join the 167th Pennsylvania Regiment to fight for the Federal Army. The scallop shell was a tiny thing, hardly bigger than a coin, and the inside fit smoothly against his thumb. With his forefinger, he traced the familiar ridges along the back and glanced skyward where a vast sea of purple slowly ebbed to black.

It was so peaceful, the night canopy, the stars popping out one by one like a million fireflies flitting right in place. Looking up, a man wouldn’t even know a war was being waged.

When his commanding officer had called for a volunteer for the scouting mission, the man hadn’t waited for hands to go up but had looked directly at Ridley, his expression daring argument. Ridley had given none. He’d simply listened to the orders and set out at first light, nearly three days ago now. Ridley knew the commander held nothing personal against him. The man had been supportive in every way.

It was Ridley’s own temper and his “friendly” disagreement with a fellow officer—a loud-mouthed lieutenant from Philadelphia who hated “every one of them good for nothin’, ignorant Southerners”—that had landed him where he was tonight. The fool had all but accused him of spying for the Confederacy. Their commander had quashed the rumor, but the seed of doubt had been sown. And this was the commander’s way of allowing Ridley to earn back his fellow officers’ trust again, which was imperative.

Ridley wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat, careful not to make a noise. He’d tethered his horse a good ways back and had come in on foot.

He didn’t know the hills surrounding Nashville any better than the rest of his unit, but he did know this kind of terrain, how to hunt and move about in the woods. And how to stay hidden. The woods were so dense in places, the pines grown so thick together, a man could get lost out here if he didn’t know how to tell his way.

They’d gotten wind of Rebels patrolling the outlying areas—rogue sentries who considered themselves the law of the land—and his bet was they were searching for what he’d just found. So far, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them. But he could imagine well enough what they’d do to a Union soldier found on his lonesome—especially an officer and “one of their own kind” to boot—so he was eager to get this thing done.

Gripping his Winchester, Ridley stepped from the tree cover, still some thirty feet from the Negro. He closed the distance—twenty-five feet, twenty—the cushion of pine needles muffling his approach. Fifteen, ten . . . But the man just kept puttering away, stirring the coffee, then the beans, then—

Ridley paused mid-step. Either the Negro was deaf . . . or was already wise to his presence. Wagering the latter, Ridley brought his rifle up and scanned his surroundings, looking for anyone hidden in the trees or for a gun barrel conveniently trained at the center of his chest. It was too late to retreat, but withdrawal of any kind had never been in his nature, as that cocksure, pretentious little—he caught himself—lieutenant from Philadelphia had found out well enough.

He tried for a casual yet not too pleasant tone. “Evening, friend . . .”

The man’s head came up. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, which was still a good foot shorter than Ridley. He was thicker about the middle, older than Ridley too. In his thirties maybe, or closer to forty, it was hard to tell. The Negro was broad shouldered, and judging by the thickness of his hands and forearms, Ridley guessed that years of hard labor had layered a strap of muscle beneath that slight paunch. He hoped it wouldn’t give the slave a false sense of courage.

“Evenin’,” the man answered, glancing at the stripes on Ridley’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, sir.”

Not a trace of surprise registered in his voice, which went a ways in confirming Ridley’s silent wager. The man’s knowledge of military rank was also telling.

The Negro’s focus shifted decidedly to the Winchester, then back again, and Ridley couldn’t decide if it was resignation he read in the man’s eyes or disappointment. Or maybe both.

Ridley surveyed the camp. Neat, orderly. Everything packed. Everything but the food. Like the man was getting ready to move out. Only—Ridley looked closer—not one cup but two resting on a rock by the fire. He focused on the slave and read awareness in the man’s eyes. “How long have you known I was watching?”

The Negro bit his lower lip, causing the fullness of his graying beard to bunch on his chin. “’Bout the time the coffee came back to boilin’ sir.”

“You heard me?” Ridley asked, knowing that was impossible. He hadn’t made a sound. He was sure of it.

The man shook his head, looking at him with eyes so deep and dark a brown they appeared almost liquid. “More like . . . I felt you, sir.”

A prickle skittered up Ridley’s spine. Part of him wanted to question the man, see if he had what some called “second sight,” like Ridley’s great-grandmother’d had, but the wiser part of him knew better than to inquire. He had a job to do, one he couldn’t afford to fail. Not with his loyalty to the Union being called into question by some. “I take it you know what I’m here for.”

There it was again, that look. Definitely one of resignation this time.

“I reckon I do, sir. It’s what all them others been lookin’ for too.” The slave shook his head. “How’d you find me?”

Only then did Ridley allow a hint of a smile. “I don’t know that I can say exactly. We got rumor of horses being hidden in these hills. I volunteered, you might say, and then just started out. I followed where my senses told me to go. Where I would’ve gone if I was hiding horses.”