Walk By Faith. Rosanne Bittner

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      And because I’d left a man behind me to die. For one quick moment a flash of memory from the day he’d run away actually made him wince.

      “I was thirteen when I joined,” he continued. “I was big for my age so they believed me when I said I was sixteen. I fought in the Mexican War at fourteen years old, saved a major’s life and that major’s family had money. He sent me to Philadelphia to get a decent education and then made sure I was gradually promoted to where I am now. He was killed by Indians, and I still think about him. He did a lot for me, probably the only person in my life who ever cared if I succeeded at anything.”

      Bridger frowned. “Sir, why are you telling me all this?”

      Dawson shrugged. “Maybe because I know I might be dead in a couple of hours. Such thoughts make a man do and say things he never would normally.”

      The sergeant grinned. “Maybe so.” He reached inside his Union blue jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Which prompts me to give this to you.”

      Curious, Dawson took the paper. “What’s this?”

      “It’s my will.”

      “Your will?”

      The sergeant nodded. “For what it’s worth.”

      “Why are you giving this to me?”

      Bridger moved closer to the dwindling fire, the hot coals having a hard time keeping up with the rain. “Because earlier today you bayoneted a Graycoat who was about to shoot my head off. We were so busy fighting I never had a chance to thank you, sir, but I am grateful. I want you to know that. I have some money in a bank in St. Louis, and I’ve got no family left, so in case I’m the one who ends up with his face in the mud later today, I want somebody worthy to have my money. It’s not a whole lot, but enough for a man to get a pretty good start in life. I hope you can put it to good use.”

      Dawson put the note into his own pocket without reading it.

      “Don’t you want to know how much I’ve got?”

      “No, because it won’t matter,” Dawson said. “You’re going to be just fine, Sergeant Bridger. You’ll end up back out west with me once this war ends.” He leaned against a wheel of the cannon cart. “Tell me, how did a man on sergeant’s pay manage to save up any money at all?”

      A patient inside a nearby hospital tent let out a gut-wrenching scream that quieted both of them and sent shivers to Dawson’s very bone marrow. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Another man has lost a limb, most likely.”

      More screams came from the tent, and in the distance the continued groans and sobbing of other wounded men pierced the dark night. Dawson’s face burned from black powder that seemed to eat into his skin, and his eyes stung from it washing into them because of the rain, which the wind drove into his face in spite of the brimmed hat and the poncho he wore.

      “Well, sir, to take your mind off that poor fellow in there, I’ll tell you how I came to have that money. It came from my grandma.”

      “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.”

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