He stepped a little closer. “It seemed to comfort you some.”
“Then maybe it has been helping with my healing.” She glanced at the chair next to the bed.
He frowned slightly, then pulled his Bible from his jacket pocket. Then he sat and began to read to her.
*****
25th of December 1862
Wheeling, Virginia
“There is still no news?” Bruna carefully placed the tray with the remnants of the roast onto the table and began slicing the meat.
Irish Mary shook her head in disgust. “Nary a word. The lad and lass should accept that they’re married true.”
Even as she said it, though, she herself had doubt. None of her memories of the day were very clear and Bruna’s were even less clear. Although the Armies exchange flags of truce for prisoner exchanges and other such necessities, the efforts to find the Confederate Chaplain had not been successful at all. With no name or specific unit to ask the question of, Confederate emissaries were amusedly willing to try, and very much willing to tell the tale of the might-or-might-not marriage to others, but had not had any luck.
The word had certainly gone far enough. Colonel John Hunt Morgan had his telegraph man commandeer a Union telegraph line long enough to send an amused message of “possible congratulations” to the “maybe couple.” Even Mary had smiled over that.
Fearing that the ceremony had been a sham, Jeremiah and Mary had treated themselves as betrothed, for lack of a better choice. With Jeremiah’s long absences on patrols and raids, they simply seemed to be resigned to wait for an answer.
What short furloughs he had were spent in Wheeling and as near to Mary’s side as possible and there certainly seemed to be no objection to that from Mary. While they seemed determined to maintain propriety, Irish Mary and Bruna both suspected that there had been more than a few stolen kisses.
The war, however, seemed hell-bent on interference, as war is wont to be. Jeremiah Lodge, the Captain, was detailed to commands that seemed to take him farther and farther afield.
He’d begun to write letters to Mary, letters that she impatiently waited for and read eagerly. She’d had some trouble writing back as her learning was that of a hill country girl, but she wrote back anyway. Her letters often took much longer to reach him as he always seemed to be on the move.
*****
9th of June 1863
Fleetwood Hill
Brandy Station
Culpeper County, Virginia
Jeremiah stared at the grand pageantry poised across the field, took another hasty bite of hardtack, then looked at Sergeant MacKay and at the scratch band of horsemen he’d been given to secure this bare track of path. “This is complete madness.”
“Tis certain that, Captain.” The Sergeant loosened one of the revolvers in his saddle holster. “Truly a wonder, Sir. It’s certain na’ war, but it is a wonder.”
Jeremiah had just finished tying up his remaining hardtack in the blue checked gingham cloth and securing it to his saddle when a harried-looking Lieutenant rode up. “Captain? Colonel Kilpatrick is preparing to advance to take the hill. He is gathering officers to relay his orders. Your presence is requested if you can spare yourself.”