Walk By Faith. Rosanne Bittner
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“I thought you said you had no family.”
Bridger chuckled. “I didn’t know I did. My ma was good to me, but she was…well, let’s just say she never knew who my pa even was. Funny how we’ve fought together out west and now here, but we never knew all this about each other. Anyway, I grew up helping out in a saloon where Ma worked, and when she died I joined the army—kind of like the reason you joined, I guess. Anyways, low and behold I got this letter about six months back from a woman who claims to have been my grandmother. I don’t know how she found me, but she did. Come to find out, she lived in the same town where I grew up, St. Louis, Missouri. She wrote that her and my ma never got along, so I was never told about who she was or where she lived. The letter said she was soon to die of cancer and she wanted me to have some money she’d saved from working two jobs in her old age. Said it helped her passing to know somebody carrying her blood would go on in this life and maybe be a better person than she or my ma ever were.”
Dawson nodded in understanding, thinking how young Bridger was for being a sergeant; but then this war seemed to spur promotions that would never normally be given. Men were badly needed, and those with the slightest bit of army knowledge and any kind of schooling rapidly became in charge of the others. He was himself just twenty-nine, but before this war ended he could end up a general. He’d seen other colonels and generals who were barely any older.
“Anyway,” Bridger went on, “I couldn’t think of one other person than you who ought to have the money in case I die. It’s in the Federal Bank of St. Louis. So, if something does happen to me, it’s yours. Just make sure there’s a grave site someplace in St. Louis with my name on it, even if my body isn’t there. Just something that shows I once existed. My name and birth date are on that piece of paper.”
Dawson reached out and touched his arm. “I’ll do that, Sergeant, but like I said, you’re going to be just fine.”
Bridger sighed. “I sure hope so, sir. I just—do you believe in God, sir?”
The question caught Dawson off guard, and it brought back painful memories. He could still see Preacher Carter’s face plain as day, his scowl, his piercing dark eyes and sharp nose, his face red from giving Dawson another beating with his wide, black belt, screaming that he needed to “beat the devil” out of him again.
“Sure I do,” he answered Bridger, only because he knew that was what the man wanted to hear. “Why?”
“Well, I mean, do you really think a man goes to heaven when he dies, where everything is beautiful and peaceful and all that?”
Dawson decided this was not the time to tell a man there was also a hell, where some men, including himself, were bound to go no matter what. The worst part was that Preacher Carter would probably be there, too.
“Of course there’s a heaven,” he answered, forcing himself to sound positive, “but you’ll be an old man before you get there.”
“Lieutenant Clements!” A young private ran up to salute Dawson, interrupting the conversation. “I was told by a Major Coldwell to tell you to prepare the men and artillery for attack. We’re going to sweep this whole area clean of Rebels forthwith! General Grant is mustering all troops as well as the new arrivals, sir.”
“They’re here then?”
The private grinned broadly. “Yes, sir! All seventy-five hundred of them! They’re coming off the steamboat right now at the landing!”
Dawson saluted in return. “Thank you, Private. Tell the major we’ll have our cannon and rifles ready.”
“Yes, sir!” The private hurried away, excited now that it looked like enough help had come to turn this battle around. Dawson heard a man crying bitterly inside the hospital tent, and he supposed it was the same man who minutes ago had screamed in agony. For all he knew, after the next few hours of fighting he’d be missing a limb himself, or worse.
He stood and nodded to Sergeant Bridger. “Thank you for thinking of me, Sergeant. Go and prepare your men.”
The young man stood up with a tired groan, and the two men saluted one another. “Yes, sir.”
Their gazes held a moment. “God be with you, Sergeant,” Dawson told him, sure he detected a trace of tears in Bridger’s eyes.
“And with you, sir. Once this is over we’ll—”
A shot rang out before Bridger finished the sentence. His body lurched forward and fell, just missing landing in the campfire. In his back was a bloody, gaping hole.
Startled, Dawson watched a wounded and badly bleeding young Confederate soldier crawl toward him, a smoking pistol in his hand. It took Dawson a moment to realize what had just occurred.
While the wounded soldier fumbled with his pistol, Dawson quickly grabbed his musket, bayonet attached, from where it rested against a nearby log. Swiftly he jammed the tip of the bayonet against the Confederate man’s forehead. “Don’t bother reloading, mister!” he warned.
The young Rebel looked up at Dawson and grinned. “At least I got one more of you yellow-bellied Yanks before I meet my Maker.”
“And meet your Maker you will!” an enraged Dawson answered. He pulled the trigger of his loaded musket, wiping away not just the man’s grin, but nearly his entire face. Never in his life had he considered committing such a heinous act, but in this moment of pain and disbelief, he didn’t care.
Grief washed over him with the cold rain when he managed to turn his gaze to the young man who’d just willed him what little money he had in the whole world, and all because he’d saved his life earlier today. This time he’d failed him. He’d promised that boy that he’d be all right, but then such promises were only for God to make.
He knelt and gently he turned Bridger’s body over, hoping beyond hope that he might still be alive.
“Sergeant,” he spoke, a sob engulfing him at the same time. He felt at the man’s neck for a pulse, but there was none. He struggled to keep from breaking into all-out tears over the man’s shockingly sudden death, as several men gathered to see what had happened.
“Sir, are you all right?” someone asked.
Dawson nodded. “Go away—all of you,” he told them gruffly. “Get ready for the advance.”
“Yes, sir. What about Sergeant Bridger? We can’t bury him right now, sir. Grant is ordering—”
“I know what we have to do!” Dawson barked. “I’ll be along!”
“Yes, sir.”
Dawson sensed the men leaving. Dawn was barely breaking, and men who’d lain wounded all night still cried and groaned throughout the surrounding woods and orchards. How strange that he should feel so sad over the death of a young man he’d known only as a fellow soldier for the past year and a half. Preacher Carter had been right. Maybe he was evil and deserved this constant punishment.
He removed his rubber cape and laid it over the sergeant to keep his body dry and respectfully covered until he could return and bury the man. Feeling numb and strangely removed from reality, he headed for duty. There was a little church situated somewhere south of them, and their goal was to reach it before the sun set again.
The cold rain began soaking his blue greatcoat and running down his neck under his shirt. He thought it only fitting and proper that he should suffer from its chilling wetness. The discomfort would help shroud his inner pain for the next few hours.
When I was in trouble, I called to the Lord,
And He answered me.
Save me, Lord, from liars and deceivers.
—Psalms 120:1-2
Chapter Three
April 20, 1863
Breathing deeply to calm her