Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [104]
We both halted when we were a few feet apart and drank in the sight of each other from head to toe. The gray uniform coat he’d had tailor-made a year ago was wrinkled and worn at the cuffs. A rip in his right sleeve had been crudely patched. His trousers were baggy-kneed, the hems caked with dried mud. The soles of his scuffed boots testified to miles of hard marching.
Charles gazed back at me, his eyes as soft as blue flannel. “You’re even more beautiful than your picture,” he said. “Your letters keep me going, Caroline. I read them over and over.” He slid his knapsack with his blanket roll off his shoulders as he talked and leaned his rifle against it. Water sloshed in his canteen as he lifted the strap over his head to remove it. Then he opened his arms to me.
“Let me hold you, Caroline.” The gray wool of his jacket felt rough against my cheek. It smelled of woodsmoke and gunpowder and sweat. “I want to memorize what it feels like to have you in my arms,” he murmured, “and the scent of your hair, your skin.”
We might have been the only two people on the wharf as Charles held my face in his hands and kissed my forehead, my temples, my neck. I felt the strength in his arms as he held me tightly to himself, the warm pressure of his body against mine. Neither of us wanted to let go. I listened to his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing, remembering the delicate thread of life that held both of us to this earth. I had watched that thread break so many times now—watched helplessly as a heart ceased to beat or a last breath was drawn—and I willed life to fill Charles, to remain in him.
“When I left home,” he said, “I didn’t think it was possible to love you any more than I already did . . . but I do.”
“I love you so much!” I told him, but I don’t know if he heard me as the blast of a steam whistle drowned out my words.
“That’s my ship,” he said.
“Charles, don’t go!”
He clutched me tighter still. “Listen now. God willing, I’ll be back to hold you again soon.” He bent down, and his lips briefly kissed mine. It was all we dared do in such a public place. I sensed his reluctance as he finally released me from his arms.
“Where are they sending you?” I asked as he retrieved his gun and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.
“Yorktown.”
My stomach rolled like a wave at his words. “One hundred thousand enemy soldiers.”
“Don’t go . . .” I whispered.
As the call came to begin boarding the ship, Sally and her carriage driver arrived with food. She filled Charles’ arms with sacks and parcels, so he wasn’t able to hold me or squeeze my hand a final time. I reached out once more to touch his cheek, his hair. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Caroline.” He walked backward as far as he could, unwilling to lose sight of me, then ran up the ramp and dropped his packages so he could crowd near the ship’s rail and wave.
The soldiers gave the Rebel yell as the boat steamed from the dock, and the sound of it—bold and defiant—shivered through me. I waved until my arms ached and Charles’ boat finally disappeared from sight. Then, as I turned away to wipe my tears, I saw Tessie hurrying toward the dock, searching for Josiah. Too late.
Charles remained in besieged Yorktown, sixty miles away, for nearly a month while McClellan’s massive army assembled nearby. When the report came that the Federals were moving their heavy guns into place to fire on Yorktown, I spent every spare moment in prayer for Charles’ safety.
Such dreadful news filled the newspapers throughout the month of April that Tessie begged me not to read it anymore. “It just making you upset, honey,” she insisted. “Where’s the good in knowing what’s happening in all them places if you can’t change anything? I wish I never learn to read about