The Velvet Shadow (22 page)

“Diltz.” The voice came closer, and Flanna caught a glimpse of Alden Haynes’s familiar form. He now stood in the opening of the tent, his arms crossed, his eyes intent on Diltz. Even in this rough crowd, he exuded an air of command.

“I’m puttin’ him down, Major.” Diltz’s voice was soft, but the venom in it was clear. He set Flanna on the ground, and she turned her head away from the lantern light, turning to her knapsack as if she’d suddenly remembered something important stowed there.

“Take your anger out on the Rebs,” Alden told the offender, a silken thread of warning in his voice. “If I hear one report that this company’s been fighting amongst itself, I’ll have Sergeant Marvin make the lot of you pull double guard duty.” He paused, moving into the circle of men. As his shadow fell across Flanna’s knapsack, she recoiled as though it were a living thing. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, sir.” The reply came from a dozen lips, and Flanna closed her eyes, praying he would soon leave. She heard the soft sounds of
footsteps and muffled laughter from somewhere outside the tent; then, without warning, his voice floated down to her from above.

“Are you all right, son?” Alden Haynes stood at her side, speaking to her.

Flanna looked up and caught Charity’s eye. Like Flanna, the girl was hiding her face beneath the brim of her cap, afraid to look up at the only friend they had in this camp.

“Fine, sir.” Forced through a tight throat, her voice came out hoarse.

“Very good. Get some rest—you’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

Major Haynes turned and walked away as a bugle began to play in the night. Someone rose and blew out the lantern, and the tent quieted as if by magic. Flanna sat very still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lingering light from the campfire.

She brought her thumb to her mouth and absently chewed on her thumbnail—a childhood habit she had broken years before, but it felt strangely comforting now. If she had known this morning that she’d be exchanging more than a dozen snobby boardinghouse roommates for more than a dozen terrifying men, she would never have found the courage to leave her room. The beloved men in her life—her father, Wesley, even Roger—had vanished, and a bizarre assortment had risen to fill the empty spaces.

Under this canvas roof, the strangers stretched out, arranged like the spokes of a wheel, with feet in the center and heads to the outside. The men had rolled up the sides of the tent in order to take advantage of the cool evening breeze, and Flanna felt a moment of gratitude for good weather. If the tent flaps were lowered, the resulting odors from twelve men in various states of cleanliness would be anything but pleasant.

The warm sound of the lonely bugle had no sooner faded than someone began to snore. Flanna unfroze long enough to remove the blanket from her knapsack and unfurl it. She gave Charity her dress coat to use for a pillow, then she lay down, pillowing her head upon her haversack.

As tense as a cat, she lay still for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of snoring and breathing from the men who were now her comrades. Outside the tent, the waning fire popped and crackled, and occasionally she heard the soft sound of footsteps and muffled voices. Somewhere in the bushes, crickets filled the air with a continuous churring.

Flanna closed her eyes. Alden Haynes had saved her tonight—not only from Diltz, but from the humiliation and exposure she would have suffered if she had lost control and burst into tears. Yet though he had never been as close to her as he would be tonight, he had never seemed so far away.

Thank you, God
, she prayed, folding her hands across her chest as her eyes searched the canvas above.
Thank you for bringing us this far, and thank you for sending Alden. Protect him and Roger, please…and see Charity and me through this.

In her mind’s eye she saw God looking down upon two slender forms, two additional cogs in the war machinery. Flanna didn’t care whether God supported the North or the South as long as he helped her and Charity make a life in this army for as long as it took to get home.

Flanna’s week of training passed in a blur of activity. Each night she fell asleep feeling empty and drained, and each morning the bugle woke her before sunrise, mocking her with its bright reveille.

No matter how early the hour, Paddy O’Neil was always ready to go, laughing at his sleepy comrades as he slipped on his blouse and shoes. On Flanna’s fourth morning in camp, when she awoke with her nerves still throbbing in exhaustion, he leaned near her ear and sang with the bugler: “I can’t wake ’em up, I can’t wake ’em up, I can’t wake ’em up in the morning.”

“Shut up, O’Neil,” she slurred, sitting upright. She blinked, realizing that it hadn’t taken her long to shed her ladylike manners. Mammy would be aghast at Flanna’s rudeness, but Wesley would be right proud of her.

Charity was awake, too, scowling at O’Neil as she slipped on her shoes. Both girls slept in their trousers and shirts, as did a few of the men. Though the weather was warm, a general modesty pervaded the camp, particularly among the rural recruits. Flanna’s worries about privacy had vanished.

“Rise and shine, men, and polish those uniforms!” Sergeant Marvin’s head appeared in the tent. “Inspection and awarding of the colors today! Look sharp!”

The men around her groaned, but Flanna said nothing as she studied her hands. Black grime had etched little half-moons under each fingernail, though last night she had tried to scrub her hands in a water bucket. The other men didn’t seem to mind a little dirt. But though Flanna could tell O’Neil to shut up and address the others by their surnames with impunity, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to get used to feeling dirty.

“Hurry up, we’ll be late for roll call.” O’Neil tugged on Flanna’s sleeve. “Roll out, shake a leg!”

“Coming!” Flanna gave Charity a little smile, then pushed herself up and took off after the lumbering O’Neil. Tardiness to roll call usually meant extra work or a stint in the guardhouse, but because the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts was in an all-fired hurry to get to Washington, tardiness now meant only one thing: extra drill.

Flanna couldn’t see the purpose of drill, which consisted mainly of exercises in the handling of arms, various shooting positions, and
marching maneuvers. While a sergeant yelled, “Stand erect! Salute! March forward! To the rear!” Flanna shifted her gun from shoulder to shoulder, sweated under her heavy uniform, and wondered if she’d be certifiably insane by the time she reached South Carolina.

But it was too late for second thoughts. She was in the army and could only survive by doing what she was called to do without drawing undue attention to herself. So she worked hard, learning to fire in standing, kneeling, and prone positions, practicing parrying and thrusting with the bayonet (a nasty implement she hoped she
never
had to use), and firing her rifle “in nine times,” “in four times,” and “at will.” After drilling for four days, Flanna wondered if her feet kept tramping in her sleep.

The camp routine itself was simple: roll call, breakfast, and fatigue duty, which meant that she walked around with a gunny sack and picked up trash. After fatigue duty, the musicians sounded the call for guard mounting, where the first sergeant of each company turned out his guard detail for the next twenty-four hours’ duty, inspected them, and marched them out to the parade ground. Flanna felt lucky that she was never called for guard duty. In the stillness of the dark night or the heat of the afternoon, she was quite likely to fall asleep, a serious infraction of military law.

The bugle next called her company for drill, which lasted until the midday meal. After a short spell of free time (during which Flanna was obliged to learn about her gun and how to fire it), the bugle sounded again, and Company M fell in for more drilling. Finally, after another roll call and inspection, came a dress parade, a ritual Flanna found especially silly—at first.

Only occasional glimpses of Alden Haynes kept her attention from wandering dangerously during dress parade. Each afternoon, hot, sweaty, and exhausted, the entire regiment drew up in a straight line when the order “Parade rest!” rang out. The drummers beat a regular rhythm, marching slowly in front of the regiment. The officers stepped four paces in front, Major Haynes and the lieutenant colonel in advance of the rest. After listening to the commander’s remarks and
orders, the officers returned to their posts. As the drummers beat a quickstep march, the regiment broke up into companies, each company tramping back to its quarters. No matter how tired Flanna had been going into the dress parade, the sight of Alden’s resolute face always refreshed her spirit.

Supper call came shortly afterward, followed not long after dark by tattoo, a ritual which brought another roll call and an ordering of the men to their quarters. The final bugle call of the day was taps, at which all lanterns were extinguished and all noises ceased.

And each night, as the mournful bugle lifted its silvery notes to the silent sky, Flanna closed her eyes and held tightly to the haversack under her cheek. Each day was one fewer she would have to live away from her loved ones.
Please, God, let it be over soon.