Sisters of Shiloh (14 page)

“Oh, Libby.”

He clapped his hands and the flies scattered.

October 19, 1862

Dear John,

I am a soldier in Matthew Sterling’s company and found your name and address among his effects. I am deeply saddened to inform you that your gallant friend was lost while engaging the enemy near the town of Martinsburg.

A faction of Union troops surprised us one morning. Matthew was among the first to arise and prepare for battle, helping those less experienced than he with our gear and equipment. He was ever mindful and protective of his fellow soldiers, often placing himself in the clutches of danger whilst trying to protect our safety.

I was within sight of Matthew during the terrible fight and observed him bravely engaging the enemy when he was struck by a mortar shell. Although this may provide small comfort, please know that Matthew did not suffer, but was plucked from this life and delivered into God’s hands in an instant.

You need have no uneasiness about his future state, for by the comments he made to me I could tell his faith was well founded and he feared no evil.

Pvt. Joseph Holden

Stonewall Brigade

The river next to the camp twisted through the lowlands, urging crayfish and colored leaves along as it flowed. Other leaves had been trapped by the bracken that lined the bank, gathering until they became like their own plant, made of every color imaginable. Minnows scattered in clear water as sunfish approached. The riverbed was furry with silt. It took a winding swipe and formed a pool.

A thicket of willow trees and scrub stood between the river and the greater woods, seemingly impermeable. But Libby and Josephine had discovered a path. They sat in a patch of yellow grass on the bank, watching shadows play across the pool in the river. They had taken off their shoes, rolled up their trousers, and dangled their bare feet in the river.

Libby rubbed her eyes. Lately her dreams had begun to extend themselves during early morning hours. A fog grown by twisted sleep would follow her around, and bits of the dream appeared where they should not: a nose, a buckle, a fingernail, a scar. And occasionally Arden’s whole face, his eyes looking straight into hers. At first she had welcomed these visitations. But lately they had started to frighten her. Sometimes when she spoke, she heard his voice in her own, so distinctly. She wished for just one night’s sleep without him. A dreamless rest. One day without the memory of him waking itself up to follow her around, because the memory no longer seemed a choice. He had once seemed so far away, in a heaven that existed somewhere past the farthest star. But now he was with her, in her clothes, in her ears and mouth and throat like the smoke from a campfire. She was not certain, anymore, which part of her uniform she inhabited. Did she only exist in a pocket or a fold, and was Arden back, taking up the rest? She wanted to tell her sister all this. Instead she said, “Do you think it is safe to bathe?”

Josephine didn’t seem to hear her. She’d taken off her shell jacket and was sitting on it now, her eyes closed. Her belt was draped across a willow root. No hat, no gun, no haversack. She’d seemed weighed down by something these past weeks, and Libby wanted to ask her what was the matter. And still the nagging question in her own mind. That memory lacking resolution. It played itself out and started over again. She couldn’t even say, with definition, that she’d seen anything at all.

She reached over and brushed a stray hair away from Josephine’s face, a gesture of tenderness meant to brush away her troubled thoughts. Josephine opened her eyes and looked at her sleepily. “You know what? Sitting here, you’d never know a war was going on.”

Libby started to tell her that war was a duty, but she decided against it. Such remonstrations seemed out of place here. Instead she balanced a dime of water on the top of her toe and flicked it at Josephine. Josephine responded in kind and giggled.

The sound of her giggle reminded Libby of another grudge, this one more immediate, and one she felt compelled to speak up about.

“That giggle,” she said accusingly.

Josephine glanced at her. “What of it?”

“I heard you speaking to Wesley alone, just the two of you by the campfire. He told a joke and you giggled. Not like a man. Like a woman. A flirtatious woman.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You forget yourself when you’re with him. You forget who you are supposed to be.”

“I know who I’m supposed to be.” Her sister’s voice had turned a bit cold. “But when I’m with him, I remember who I am.”

“You’re Joseph.”

“I’m Josephine!” she shouted, with a vehemence that startled her.

“Keep your voice low!”

“I’m Josephine,” she repeated in a fierce whisper. “Libby, I’ve sacrificed quite a bit for you. But you will not take my name, or my feelings. I know what you are hinting about, and, yes, I like Wesley. I am drawn to him. If I didn’t like him, I’d have nothing to remind myself that I am a woman.”

“You are not here to be a woman. You are here to fight for your country.”

“I’m here because you forced me to be here. And I’ll be here when you come to your senses, but don’t banish me from Wesley’s company. He is the only one who keeps me sane in this army.”

“You will give us away.”

“I will not. Wesley looks at me and sees his friend. His male friend. It is the worst punishment for me, worse than you can imagine.”

“Your suffering doesn’t come close to mine,” Libby said, her anger rising, “until you find Wesley dead on a battlefield.”

They sat glaring at each other a minute, neither giving ground.

Finally Josephine’s eyes filled with tears. “You have Arden’s memory. I have no one. I’ve never even had a proper kiss.”

“Arden’s memory is not always so pleasant.”

“What do you mean?”

Libby said nothing more. Josephine stood up and began to unbutton her shirt.

“I hate these clothes,” she said. “They are so heavy and so filthy.”

She finished the buttons, removed her shirt and then freed herself of her trousers, her long johns and finally the winding-cloth around her breasts, and stood naked in a filter of sunlight and gloom. Her shoulders were square from the weeks of drilling, but softened by the V of her collarbone and the aureoles of her breasts.

Josephine looked down at herself. “It’s strange. It’s like seeing someone else’s body.”

“You’re beautiful,” Libby said.

“Of course I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You see me?”

“How can I not see you? You’re standing right here.”

Josephine gave her a long, searching look.

Josephine held her eyes for a moment longer but did not answer. She stepped into the water and kept going, her naked body submerging bit by bit until only her head remained dry. She took a breath and slid under the surface, reemerging in a different place, her hair soaking wet.

Libby got up and began to undress.

“Is it cold?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Libby stepped into the river, feeling the bracing chill of the water. She stopped when the water reached her shoulders.

Josephine disappeared and came up ten yards away. She gave Libby one last look and glided into the shadows and a world of her own.

Alone now, Libby ran her hands down her face and the line of the jaw and the throat, her skin turning alabaster as her fingers approached the breastbone. Arden used to run his fingers down her throat. He’d move his mouth toward hers, his words slowing until his eyes closed, revealing blond lashes and spider-veined lids. Their lips would touch, gently and then with more pressure, until Libby felt the saliva on the inside of his bottom lip, that wetness provoking the clasping of their hands.

She continued moving her hands down her body to where the Y of her legs made a dowsing stick, touching the secret, the immutable evidence of fraud. She had done this, made the whole world her fool. Wouldn’t Arden be proud of her now, although she had killed but one Yankee? She submerged fully and swam toward her sister smooth as a fish. Josephine came to meet her underwater, body pale and cheeks puffy with gathered breath. They stopped a few feet apart and lingered there, the need for oxygen beginning as a tickle.

They rose together, broke the surface, and laughed.

Libby did not know why she chose that moment to speak. It seemed as though some part of her was speaking in her place.

“That day at Sharpsburg, in the woods . . . you had a scratch down your cheek. You said it was caused by a passing vine . . .”

Josephine stopped laughing. She grew very still in the water as she listened.

“But there were no vines in those woods.”

Libby stopped talking and let the question linger.

Her sister shrugged. “I don’t know, Libby. Everything happened so fast. Perhaps I scraped my cheek on something else. A branch or a stick. I truly don’t remember. What difference does it make?”

“It doesn’t, I suppose,” Libby said at last.

A thin school of minnows swam between them. Above their heads, a colored leaf fell to the water and moved slowly past them.

November 1862

Camp Baylor, near Bunker Hill, Virginia

Night came on so quickly—a magician’s trick for a yawning audience. It was nearly three weeks into November. The air was chilly by day, colder by night, and still cold in the morning. The soldiers heated rye coffee and ate their meager breakfasts. Hardtack, molasses, sometimes eggs. Precious eggs. The pestilences that followed battles had set in: gangrene, pneumonia, strange fevers, nightmares. Lincoln had grown weary of McClellan’s reluctance to re-engage the Confederates after Sharpsburg and replaced him with a new leader—one who promised to bring the fight to Robert E. Lee. Rumors of a long march to meet this General Burnside were swirling, although no one knew when this march would get under way and where it would take them.

When Josephine came up for picket duty with Wesley, she followed his direction and stuffed old newspapers inside her coat to keep warm. They stood in the forest, a torch flaring between them, heating Josephine’s right arm and Wesley’s left. Snow had fallen in flurries all day. A layer had formed on the ground and entombed fallen hickory nuts, giving the appearance of a miniature battlefield covered with graves. Josephine’s breath made clouds that drifted through low-hanging cross vines. She had no doubt that, back at camp, the French police inspector was still chasing Jean Valjean, feeding his days to the fury of the quest. As for herself, she was content to be in Wesley’s company. On nights like this, the hours would go quickly before she reluctantly returned to her tent and a sister who seemed ever more removed. It was growing difficult to recognize her as the girl she used to be. Even the way she knitted her brows together was starting to resemble Arden’s expression. Once, when Josephine followed her younger sister from a fair distance on the way to the woods, Libby’s gait was indistinguishable from that of her dead husband. Since that afternoon in the river and Libby’s strange and quiet accusation, the subject had been closed between them, and yet it lingered in the air. Josephine thought Libby believed her, but she could not be sure.

Wesley cradled his rifle lengthwise in his arms. From this angle, the rifle and his body formed the shape of a scarecrow, and the sight was such a welcome relief for the worries on Josephine’s mind that she laughed. He looked at her and just smiled, evidently too cold to ascertain the source of the humor.

Earlier that evening, he had played his guitar by the fire. Perhaps his voice had been simply pretty once. If so, the last two years had changed it. Like Psalms, it held philosophies both lyrical and sad, and when he sang, the sorrows of his listeners achieved a crystal definition. Faces came into view that had been blurry for years, old wounds tore open, dead dogs caught sticks. Men caught glimpses of the boys they once had been, capable of cruelty to bullfrogs and garter snakes, the sudden clapping of their hands that ended a firefly’s light, but not killers yet of men.

Wesley’s face would change somewhere in the continuum of melodies. His smile would fade, and he would stop in mid-chord, close his eyes, and shake his head very slowly, then return to the song.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

His words became an endless apology fed to the stream of God’s uncertain mercies. The memory of it now made Josephine shiver. A newspaper bundle shifted inside her coat.

“Hey, Joseph,” Wesley said. “Look at that.”

He pointed at something on the ground.

“What is it?”

“Don’t be afraid, but an enemy turtle has infiltrated our post.”

He picked it up and held it up to the light of the torch. The legs and arms had retracted, leaving only a shell. Its head had pulled back so far it wasn’t visible at all. Josephine could see only a suction of darkness that warned away fingers. Wesley held the underside of the turtle to his mouth, inhaled, and then covered the shell with a long slow breath.

“What are you doing?”

“Warming it up.”

Wesley set it on the ground and waited for the appendages to show themselves again. “How nice to be a turtle,” he said. “You get to hide whenever you want, and nothing in this world could speed you up, even old Jackson.” He turned the shell so that the hidden head faced away from camp. “I don’t want him stumbling into Floyd or Lewis. They’d make soup out of him and wash him down with applejack.” He nudged the turtle’s shell with the tip of his shoe. “Go on, now. I just realized that I also want to make soup out of you and wash you down with applejack.”