could do to keep his eyes forward instead of sweeping the scene for her slight figure.
After securing the horses and checking in at headquarters, he and Will headed for their home and the welcome bath that awaited them. Will unpacked quickly, bathed first and then strode toward the sutler’s to collect their mail.
Caleb had just finished shaving when Will burst through the door with a loud huzzah, waving a letter over his head. “She’s coming! My Fannie’s coming!” He danced a jig before stopping in his tracks, a large smile wreathing his face. “Cap’n,” he said in a wondering tone, “my Fannie is going to marry me.”
“You’re a lucky man, Will.”
“A blessed man,” the lieutenant corrected him. “Blessed beyond all measure.” He stared at the letter before slowly folding it and stowing it in his pocket. As if speaking only to himself, he said, “I am half a man without my Fannie.”
Caleb turned away, lest he reveal too much of himself. Thanks to Rebecca, he knew that feeling of being half a man. Yet he, too, had a restless urge to complete himself, to know the kind of love Will celebrated.
That evening after supper, he sat rocking on the porch with Will, who smoked a cigar, its pungent aroma perfuming the night air. Mourning doves cooed in the distance. From the enlisted men’s barracks came the sound of singing, the rich harmonies a plaintive reminder of so many nights around campfires.
Suddenly, his breath quickened. Lily came out of the library and stood for a moment, a small book clutched in her hand, scanning the officers’ quarters. She must have seen him then, for she raised her hand in greeting.
He nodded, incapable of speech even if it had been called for.
Then she picked up her skirt and walked toward her home.
Caleb leaned back in the rocker, the sounds and the smells of the fort a comfort to him amid his questions. Had Lily been looking for him as he had been looking for her? And why, despite the need to exercise reason, had the sight of her filled him with such spontaneous joy?
Chapter Seven
N ot for the first time Caleb wondered why he had agreed to take part in the poetry reading. It was one thing to find personal enjoyment in the genre, but quite another to expose himself to possible ridicule by his men. At least his selection—Milton’s description of Satan’s fall from Heaven—had teeth in it. He stood at the back of the commissary, listening to the others rehearse. Major Hurlburt did a fine Longfellow, but the wife of a junior officer massacred her assigned Shakespearean sonnet.
Effie Hurlburt, self-appointed director of the production, positioned the readers on the makeshift stage, then hurried to the back of the room to be certain each could be heard.
Caleb was surprised by Lily’s absence. With her love of poetry, she, of all people, should be involved. As if anticipating his unvoiced question, Effie returned to the front and reviewed the program. “You will begin, Sergeant.” She nodded at a barrel-chested man with oratorical skill who had selected “No More Words,” a Civil War poem. “Then we will follow in the order by which we practiced, ending with Miss Kellogg’s reading. Alas, duties at the hospital prevented her from joining us for rehearsal, but I assure you she will provide a fitting conclusion for our evening’s entertainment.” She paused, eyeing them in the manner of a strict schoolmarm. “Now then, are there any questions?”
“Do you think anyone will come?” asked a jittery company clerk.
“If I have anything to say about it.” Effie glanced smugly at the major. “And if I have to pull rank, I will.” She smiled encouragingly at the clerk. “Listen to me, son. This is fine entertainment. Afterward, the others will all wish they could so commandingly declaim poetry.”
Caleb mentally rolled his eyes. It would take more than that to impress some of the more jaded fellows, but even poetry trumped boredom.
As the group
After securing the horses and checking in at headquarters, he and Will headed for their home and the welcome bath that awaited them. Will unpacked quickly, bathed first and then strode toward the sutler’s to collect their mail.
Caleb had just finished shaving when Will burst through the door with a loud huzzah, waving a letter over his head. “She’s coming! My Fannie’s coming!” He danced a jig before stopping in his tracks, a large smile wreathing his face. “Cap’n,” he said in a wondering tone, “my Fannie is going to marry me.”
“You’re a lucky man, Will.”
“A blessed man,” the lieutenant corrected him. “Blessed beyond all measure.” He stared at the letter before slowly folding it and stowing it in his pocket. As if speaking only to himself, he said, “I am half a man without my Fannie.”
Caleb turned away, lest he reveal too much of himself. Thanks to Rebecca, he knew that feeling of being half a man. Yet he, too, had a restless urge to complete himself, to know the kind of love Will celebrated.
That evening after supper, he sat rocking on the porch with Will, who smoked a cigar, its pungent aroma perfuming the night air. Mourning doves cooed in the distance. From the enlisted men’s barracks came the sound of singing, the rich harmonies a plaintive reminder of so many nights around campfires.
Suddenly, his breath quickened. Lily came out of the library and stood for a moment, a small book clutched in her hand, scanning the officers’ quarters. She must have seen him then, for she raised her hand in greeting.
He nodded, incapable of speech even if it had been called for.
Then she picked up her skirt and walked toward her home.
Caleb leaned back in the rocker, the sounds and the smells of the fort a comfort to him amid his questions. Had Lily been looking for him as he had been looking for her? And why, despite the need to exercise reason, had the sight of her filled him with such spontaneous joy?
Chapter Seven
N ot for the first time Caleb wondered why he had agreed to take part in the poetry reading. It was one thing to find personal enjoyment in the genre, but quite another to expose himself to possible ridicule by his men. At least his selection—Milton’s description of Satan’s fall from Heaven—had teeth in it. He stood at the back of the commissary, listening to the others rehearse. Major Hurlburt did a fine Longfellow, but the wife of a junior officer massacred her assigned Shakespearean sonnet.
Effie Hurlburt, self-appointed director of the production, positioned the readers on the makeshift stage, then hurried to the back of the room to be certain each could be heard.
Caleb was surprised by Lily’s absence. With her love of poetry, she, of all people, should be involved. As if anticipating his unvoiced question, Effie returned to the front and reviewed the program. “You will begin, Sergeant.” She nodded at a barrel-chested man with oratorical skill who had selected “No More Words,” a Civil War poem. “Then we will follow in the order by which we practiced, ending with Miss Kellogg’s reading. Alas, duties at the hospital prevented her from joining us for rehearsal, but I assure you she will provide a fitting conclusion for our evening’s entertainment.” She paused, eyeing them in the manner of a strict schoolmarm. “Now then, are there any questions?”
“Do you think anyone will come?” asked a jittery company clerk.
“If I have anything to say about it.” Effie glanced smugly at the major. “And if I have to pull rank, I will.” She smiled encouragingly at the clerk. “Listen to me, son. This is fine entertainment. Afterward, the others will all wish they could so commandingly declaim poetry.”
Caleb mentally rolled his eyes. It would take more than that to impress some of the more jaded fellows, but even poetry trumped boredom.
As the group
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