And One Wore Gray

Prologue  ————
 
CALLIE
 
July 4, 1863
Near Sharpsburg
Maryland
 
Beneath the light of a lowering sun, sometimes brilliant and sometimes soft, the woman at the well beside the whitewashed farm house seemed like a breath of beauty. Her hair, a deep rich auburn, caught the light. At times it shimmered a russet, and at times it was softer, deeper, like the warm sable coloring of a mink. It was long and free, and cascaded around her shoulders like a fall, framing a face of near perfect loveliness with its wide-set gray eyes, fine high cheekbones, and full, beautifully shaped mouth. A hint of sorrow touched the curve of her lip, and rose to haunt her eyes, but that very sorrow seemed to add to her beauty. Against the ending light of the day, she was a reminder of all things that had once been fine and beautiful, just like an angel, a small glimpse of heaven.
 
She stood there clean and fragrant, and though simply dressed, she seemed an incongruous bit of elegance as she watched and waited while they came.
 
And come, they did. Endlessly.
 
Like a long slow, undulating snake, they came, hundreds of men, thousands of men, the butternut and gray of their tattered uniforms as dismal as the terrible miasma of defeat that seemed to hover about them. They came on horses, and they came on foot. They came with their endless wagon train that stretched, one weary soldier had told Callie, for nigh onto seventeen miles.
 
They were the enemy.
 
But that mattered little as she watched these men now, for she was surely in no danger from them.
 
There was only one rebel who could frighten her, she thought fleetingly. Frighten her, excite her, and tear at her heart. That rebel would not be passing by. He could not be passing by now, for he had not fought in the battle. The war had ended for him. He awaited its conclusion behind the walls and bars of Old Capitol Prison.
 
If he were free, she thought, she would not be standing here, by the well, watching this dreadful retreat. If there had been any chance of his being among these wretches, she would have run far away long before now. She would have never dared to stay here, offering cool sips of water to his defeated countrymen.
 
He would no longer be the enemy just because he wore a different color. He would be the enemy because he would seek her out with cold fury, with a vengeance that had had endless nights to simmer and brew in the depths of his heart.
 
It was her fault that he lived within those walls and behind those bars and fences while his beloved South faced this defeat.
 
If he were free, it would not matter if she tried to run or hide. He had told her he would come for her and that there would be nowhere for her to run.
 
She shivered fiercely, her fingers tightening around the ladle she dipped into the deep bucket of sweet cool well water for each of the poor wretches who strayed from the great wagon train to come her way.
 
He had sworn that he would come back for her. She could still hear his voice, hear the deep, shattering fury in what he thought had been her betrayal.
 
Even if these men marching by were the enemy, they brought nothing but pity to her heart. Their faces, young and old, handsome and homely, grimed with sweat and mud and blood, bore signs of exhaustion that went far beyond anything physical. Their anguish and misery showed in their eyes, which were like the mirrors of their souls.
 
They were retreating.
 
It was summer, and summer rain had come, turning the rich and fertile earth to mud. By afternoon, the summer heat had lessened, a gentle breeze was stirring, and it seemed absurd that these ragged and torn men, limping, clinging to one another, bandaged, bruised, bloody and broken, could walk over earth so beautiful and green and splendid in its cloak of summer.
 
The great winding snakelike wagon train itself had not come close to Callie’s farmhouse. Stragglers wandered by. Infantry troops, mostly.
 
It was the Fourth of July, and on this particular Fourth of July, the citizens of the North were at long last jubilant. Over the last few days, around a sleepy little Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg, the Union forces had finally managed to give the Confederates a fair licking. Indeed, the great and invincible General Robert E. Lee, the Southern commander who had earned a place in legend by running the Union troops into the ground in such cities as Chancellorsville and Fredericksburg and numerous others, had invaded the North.
 
And he had been thrust back.
 
“It were over shoes, mum,” a Tennessee fellow had told her, gratefully accepting the cool dipper of water. He was a man of medium height and medium weight with thick dark hair on his head and a full, overgrown beard and mustache. He wasn’t wearing much of a uniform, just worn mustard-colored trousers and a bleached cotton shirt. His bedroll and few belongings were tied around his chest, his worn hat sported several bullet holes. “We were on our way to attack Harrisburg, but we needed shoes. Someone said there were shoes aplenty in Gettysburg, and first thing you know, on the first of July, there’s a skirmish. Strange. Then all the southern forces were moving in from the North, and all the northern forces were moving in from the South. And by nightfall on the third of July …” His voice trailed away. “I ain’t never seen so many dead men. Never.” He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the bottom of the ladle, and his gaze seemed hopeless.
 
“Maybe it means that the war will be over soon,” Callie said softly.
 
He looked up at her again. Reaching out suddenly, he touched a stray wisp of her hair. She jumped back and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, ma’am. You standing here being so kind and all, I don’t mean no disrespect. It’s just that you’re nigh onto one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and it’s just making me think awfully hard of home. Your hair’s just as soft as silk. Your face is an angel’s. And it’s just been so long … well, thank you, ma’am. I’ve got to keep on moving. Maybe I will get home soon enough.” He handed her the dipper and started walking again. He paused and looked back. “I don’t expect the war will be over any too soon. Your general in charge—Meade is his name these days, I think—he should have followed after us. He should have come now, while we’re hurt and wounded. Even an old wolf knows to go after a lame deer. But Meade ain’t following. Give our General Bobby Lee a chance, and he runs with it. No, the war ain’t going to end too soon. You take care, ma’am. You take great care.”
 
“You too!” she called after him. He nodded, smiled sadly, and was gone.
 
The next man who passed her by had a greater story of woe.
 
“Ma’am, I am lucky, I am, to be alive. I was held back ‘cause of this lame foot of mine here, took a bullet the first day. Comes July third, and General Lee asks us can we break the Union line at the stone wall. General George Pickett is given the order. Ma’am, there ain’t another man in my company, hell, maybe in my whole brigade, left alive. Thousands died in minutes.” He shook his head, and seemed lost. “Thousands,” he repeated. He drank from the dipper, and his hands, covered in the tattered and dirty remnants of his gloves, shook. He handed her back the dipper. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you most kindly, ma’am.”
 
He, too, moved on.
 
The day passed. The long, winding wagon train of Lee’s defeated troops continued to weave its way over the Maryland countryside. Even though Callie was appalled by the stories told her by each weary man, she still held her ground. She already knew something of the horror of the battlefield, for less than a year ago, the battle had come here. Men in blue and in butternut and gray had died upon this very earth.
 
And he had come to her….
 
She dared not think of him. Not today.
 
She lingered by the well, but toward the late afternoon Jared began to cry, and she went into the house to tend to him.
 
He slept again, and she returned to the well, entranced by the flow of time.
 
Dusk came. And still the men continued to trickle by. She heard about strange places where battle had raged. Little Roundtop, Big Roundtop, Devil’s Den. All places where men had fought valiantly.
 
Darkness fell. Since all who had passed her way had been on foot, Callie was surprised to hear the sound of horses’ hooves. A curious spiraling of unease swept down her spine, then she breathed more lightly as she saw a young blond horseman approach. He dismounted from his skinny roan horse and walked her way, thanking her even before he accepted the dipper she offered out to him.
 
“There is a God in heaven! After all that I have seen, still I have here to greet me the beauty of the very angels! Thank you, ma’am,” he told her, and she smiled even as she trembled, for in his way, he reminded her of another horseman.
 
“I can offer you nothing but water,” she said. “Both armies have been through here, confiscating almost everything that resembles food.”
 
“I gratefully accept your water,” he told her. He took a sip and pushed back his hat. It was a gray felt cavalry hat, rolled up at the brim.
 
It, too, brought back memories. “Are you a southern sympathizer, ma’am?”
 
Callie shook her head, meeting his warm brown eyes levelly. “No, sir. I believe in the sanctity of the Union. But more than anything these days, I just wish that the war would be over.”