I have started creating community service details. This is beneficial in several ways. It allows me to build teams that include both Ohioans and Pennsylvanians, encouraging the integration of my command. It also allows us to create personal links to the people of the community. It is very hard to hate the Yankees who come and repair your roof, stock your wood shed, repair your fences, and till the ground for the spring, asking for nothing in return but a drink of cool water to ease the sweat of honest labor.
Yet I lack the resources to address the most pressing and immediate needs. Something as simple as a supply of flour, beans, rice, and salt pork to share with the citizens would go a long way to improving things here. Woolen goods would also help, as these people lack clothing for the winter.
I believe we could make a huge step forward in our relationships with the civilians if we could add one more resource to our support for the community. If we had seed stocks that we could make available, we would be able to help them reestablish their basic economy. More than anything else, this would serve to give them hope and a vision for a future that is not as bleak as they currently expect.
Your direction and assistance in these matters would be greatly appreciated.
Cordially
Chas. Redmond
Regimental Colonel
13th Pennsylvania Light Cavalry
Having addressed what he could for the evening, Charlie’s thoughts turned to the situation with Rebecca. The woman was driving him crazy. Every night, she lay in his arms, sweet, warm, and trusting. Her hands caressed him gently, never overtly sexually, but often very sensually. Sometimes Charlie thought she wanted more than his gentleness, and sometimes it was clear she was terrified of greater intimacy. But whatever she wanted of him, Charlie had given his word they would progress at her speed.
The peculiarities of people baffled Charlie. Everyone thought they were lovers in all senses of the word. Charlie had made his intentions clear. He would marry her if she would have him, would offer her all of the protections of his honor, name, estateand love. They slept together every night. She cuddled into his arms and reached out for him in her sleep if he left the bed. They talked nightly, sharing their history, their fears, their hopes and dreams. But physical intimacy beyond mostly chaste kisses and tender embraces was not part of their relationship.
Dear God. Please help me. Every time she touches me, every time she looks at me with those trusting, welcoming eyes, I can feel it all through my body. She inflames me and there is no way to quench that fire. I do not want to frighten her, but I have to do something. Anything.
The evil little voice in his head just laughed at him.
Charlie shook himself. Perhaps a brisk walk in the chill night air would help cool his need, at least for the time being.
He banked the fire and extinguished the lamp. Shrugging on his lighter overcoat, he stuck a couple of cigars in his pocket and went out into the night to pace until he was more tired than he was desirous.
His brisk strides took him down to the lovely little terrace overlooking the pond. There, sitting huddled in the cold under the willow, he found Mr. Whitman, quietly smoking an old pipe and just watching the shadows dancing over the little wavelets generated by the light evening breeze.
Whitman looked up as the Colonel approached. "Good evening, Colonel. What brings you out at this time of night?"
"A host of night demons, Whitman, a host of them. What about you?"
"Ah, well, my friend Samuelson finds himself held to the bedside of Major Montgomery. We have been trading shifts to keep watch on him. I was not yet ready to sleep, and so came here to perhaps do a little thinking."
Charlie laughed. "In your case, Whitman, you are either composing poetry or thinking of things I am not sure I want to know. On the other hand, you could be doing both."
"Does that mean you have read my little efforts, Colonel?"
"I have indeed, Whitman, I have indeed. The poetry is outstanding, but I fear that many of our more……" Charlie paused, searching for the right word. "……our more tradition bound brothers and sisters may find it difficult." Charlie and Whitman had found common ground the previous year when Whitman had assisted Dr. Walker in treating Charlie for a minor injury.
Whitman laughed, a slightly bitter laugh. "Well, the soul of a man is his own, yet so many have sold their souls to propriety. Neither of us will ever find a place in that world of propriety, will we, Colonel?"
"No, Whitman, I fear you are right. I fear there is no place in this world for the likes of us."
The two men sat on the cold stone, each smoking their chosen form of tobacco, both staring into the infinity of reflections in the broken moon mirrors of the pond.
Charlie shrugged off his immobility. "Come, Whitman, this is a cold place to ponder the coldness of the world. There is a bottle of good French brandy in my office and a fire in the hearth. Will you join me?"
"Colonel, I would be honored."
The two men walked in companionable silence back up the lawn to the private entrance to Charlie’s office. Charlie built up the fire until he had a cheery blaze, then shed his coat. Whitman broke out the brandy and glasses Charlie had pointed out to him.
The two settled into comfortable chairs before the fire, refreshed their tobacco and sat quietly, savoring the brandy. Whitman broke the silence.
"Good quality brandy is hard to find."
"Yes, well, I have an associate in Washington who keeps me supplied when he can."
"Must be a very good friend."
"He is as a good a friend as I pay him to be." Charlie laughed. "You can get anything for the right price, my friend."
"Ah. I would beg to differ, Colonel. The important things in life you cannot buy for all the money in the world."
"True enough. And sometimes the important things in life are unattainable."
"So, Colonel, what are the important things in your life? I would think, from what I have heard of you and Mrs. Gaines, that you are well on your way to attaining what every man dreams of."
"Ah, Whitman, that is what concerns me. I fear that I may well be dreaming and will awaken one morning to find myself back in my tent, alone, surrounded by mud and miserable men, with no hope for the future beyond another day of waiting interspersed with bloody conflict." Charlie knocked back the last of his glass of brandy and poured himself another.
"It seems you and I have the mirror image of one another’s fear, if I may be so presumptuous."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, waiting for Whitman to continue.
"You, sir, have your dream before you and you fear you may never be able to grasp it. I have held my dream and find it slipping away to the duty that makes him who he is."
"Samuelson?"
"Yes."
"Well, at least you know where you stand."
The two men looked at one another, then by unspoken consent, silently toasted their respective loves. Once again, glasses were refilled.
"Yes, well, I may know where I stand, sir, but I certainly miss knowing where my head will lie –– on a cold pillow or a warm shoulder." Whitman’s smile was rather rueful.
"I have read your works, sir. And I am not clear that a warm shoulder is exactly where you choose to rest your head." Charlie’s grin was slightly licentious.
"Ah, Colonel, you must be referring to
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet."