Faith by Lyn Cote

Faith felt the same.
    At any time the opposing army could envelop the medical contingent, and they could find themselves under direct fire. And Honoree would be in the gravest danger if they were overrun by Rebels who didn’t take kindly to free blacks. Yettelling Honoree to stay back in camp never met with success. Father, keep us safe. And give us victory.
    The ground underneath them shook with cannon fire. Faith felt it shuddering through her. Why was bloodshed required to end slavery? This dreadful war had become the only way slaves would be set free. Faith prayed, and as the battle sounds deafened her, words failed and she depended on the Light of Christ to pray for her.

    The battle had moved on   —or Faith hoped it had. She and Honoree had filled their apron pockets with bunches of herbs and rolled bandages, and now they hefted several canteens of water over their shoulders and headed toward the wounded men who had been abandoned as the battle had progressed.
    Faith silently repeated the Twenty-third Psalm as she met the first casualties. This was surely the valley of the shadow of death.
    A soldier in butternut, the homemade gray of the Confederacy, moaned. Faith dropped to her knees and offered the man water.
    “Thanks,” he muttered.
    She quickly assessed his injuries, tied a tourniquet around his arm, and bandaged his forehead. “Thee is still able to move. I’ll help thee up.”
    “What?”
    “Thee has suffered the shock of being injured, but I think thee can walk.” She helped him rise. “Try a few steps.”
    He did so, then stood leaning on his rifle. “Which way?”
    “I think west.” She gestured.
    “Thank you, miss. I was . . .”
    “Stunned. Thee has lost blood and is weakened.”
    He stared at her, registering her words. “You a Quaker?”
    She turned to the next soldier who showed movement. “Yes, and one of those vile abolitionists.”
    The Rebel moved away, staggering a little and muttering in disbelief, “A Quaker.”
    “What good does that do?” Honoree protested. “He’ll just go on and kill some of ours.”
    They’d had this type of exchange many times before. But Faith had an aversion to sending men to prisoner of war camps. “Or be killed himself. It is all in God’s hands.”
    Shaking her head, Honoree moved farther on, bending or stooping here and there.
    Faith tried to keep track of her amid the not-so-distant sounds of gunfire and cannon.
    Then more troops   —blue and gray, firing at each other   —poured up the road and over the open field. Men screamed, bellowed. Gunfire exploded. Faith threw herself facedown among the wounded and dead, her face buried in the wild grass. Grapeshot pelted down all around her. As if caught outside in a violent storm, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.
    But troops rarely stayed in one place long. Soon the gunfire had moved southward, away from them. Faith rose cautiously, scanning the area, seeking her friend. “Honoree! Honoree!” she called.
    She received no reply save the groans and cries of the wounded. Panic fluttered to life. She’d lost Patience and Shiloh. I can’t lose Honoree too. The urge to run pell-mellnearly overwhelmed her. She stilled herself, swallowing down the panic, and began threading her way through the bodies around her. A few men grabbed her skirts as she passed, and she stopped to minister to them.
    “Honoree!” she cried again and again. And finally she found her, lying unconscious. But breathing. Faith dropped to her knees, lifted Honoree’s head, and put the canteen to her lips. “Honoree, please wake up. Please.”

    In the summer twilight of a long day, Dev led his men and their horses to a creek they’d glimpsed through willow trees. His head still ached and he’d jarred his shoulder when he fell from his horse. But he was alive.
    Hot and dry, he and his men took their mounts farther downstream to drink. After a time, they drew their horses away from the water before they could drink