Volunteer for Glory

Chapter One

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

— Gray, Elegy in a Country Churchyard

The Illinois snow all but covered the cabin; it mounded on the roof, bulked over eaves and formed icicles that glinted gold, blue, and pink. Smoke from the fieldstone chimney rose into the cloudless sky, and wind-sculpted drifts swirled around fence posts and barn walls. In an unusual quirk of benevolence, the previous night’s storm had scoured most of the snow from the road leading out of the farm, a fact Stuart noted as he looked out the small frosted kitchen window. Scraping a circle on the glass with his hand, he squinted against the blinding sunlight that danced over the white fields.

Rachel stirred in their bed, and he heard her sleepy voice. She had been dreaming when he’d gotten up, her eyes moving behind her closed lids, one arm out-flung, pink lips parted. He had lingered, tempted to indulge in lovemaking, but he had more important plans for the morning. He pulled on warm trousers and a thick flannel shirt and added wood to the fireplace. Felt-lined boots in hand, he sat on the bed.

Rachel drew her nighttime braid from behind her shoulder, and when her husband leaned down for a quick kiss, she took his face in her hands, rubbing her thumbs over the dark sandpaper of his jaw. Hurry back, she whispered.

I’ll be ready for breakfast after chores. I’m going to town, so if you need anything at the store, write it down. He shrugged into his coat and stepped out into the cold.

He hadn’t closed the bed curtains, and a gust of ice crystals and sharp air blew in, making Rachel gasp. She dressed by the fireplace, now crackling with flame, and stepped into flannel bloomers, petticoats, and skirt. Dropping her shawl, she hurried into her camisole and linsey-woolsey blouse. A splash of cold water to wash, and, thank goodness, the builders of this cabin had situated it directly over a well. A water pump came right up through the floor into the kitchen.

Rinsing her mouth, she reached for the little elm twig with its frayed end and rubbed it vigorously over her teeth. She had learned to do this from one of her father’s old parishioners and employed it twice a day. A tiny mirror over the washbasin enabled her to admire the results.

Touching the circle Stuart had made in the frost, she looked out at the snow. She couldn’t see the barn, but easily imagined him gently haranguing the cow before milking, throwing grain to the chickens, corn and slops to the pigs, and hay for the horses. She knew he would slip his riding mare, Flossy, an extra helping of oats. But the two draft horses would stomp and snort until they too were favored. When she told him he should treat them the same, Stuart had only laughed, saying it was a game between him and Flossy. She’s like you. Wanting to be noticed and made over.

Removing a stove lid, she put bits of wood shavings and twigs over the coals that smoldered under last night’s ashes. The hinged stove door was left open to encourage a draft.

Winter had begun early that November, and now, in January of 1861, spring seemed far away. Before moving to Illinois, all of Rachel’s nineteen years had been spent in Massachusetts, so she had experienced cold weather. But winter in the city was a far cry from the isolation of a farmstead. In Boston, streetcars provided transportation, and houses were cozily situated side-by-side, making visitors and shopping only steps away. In that old life, she had been kept busy with church and household duties.

Her father, a widowed Presbyterian minister, had not remarried after his wife’s death. By the time Rachel was fifteen, the parishioners considered her a permanent fixture, prevailing upon her for everything from visiting the sick to baking and selling cakes at fundraisers. Now her own mistress, she was expected to obey her husband rather than her father.

Taking the mixing bowl from its shelf behind the calico curtain, she dipped two cups of flour from the storage bin. Salt, baking soda, and two brown eggs to break into the cup of milk came next. A bit of lard set to melt on the stove, and she was well on her way to making pancakes. But her thoughts wandered from pancakes to late summer when she could wear cotton dresses with big skirts and ruffled aprons.

She and Stuart would walk through the tall prairie grasses, surveying their hundred and twenty acres. It was a vast amount of land to a city-reared girl, and this would complete their first year of residence. Although the deed was in Stuart’s name, the land had been purchased with an inheritance from her mother—money her father felt should have been his by rights. And, hadn’t she had to work to screw that out of her father’s tight fist? Arthur Comstock hadn’t known what to make of his meek little daughter flying at him with fire in her eyes.

Rachel loved their cabin with its round logs, beautifully hewn, and tightly chinked. On the plank floors were the bright rag rugs she’d made when she was still in her father’s home. They weren’t large, but added color and warmth to the furnishings. The bedroom was a curtained alcove, and the lean-to kitchen narrow.

She thought of Stuart. He wasn’t fooling her with talk of groceries. The papers would be in from Chicago, and the local men would be waiting to receive them. Following Lincoln’s election only months ago, South Carolina had openly rebelled against the Union. Talk of war dominated every gathering from Atlanta to Massachusetts.

But war wasn’t in her plans. She and Stuart were starting out, their whole lives ahead of them. Whisking the eggs into the milk, she tried to think of something else.

The fragrance of boiling coffee filled the room, making Stuart sniff appreciatively when he returned from the barn. Ruddy with cold, he set the milk pail on the sideboard. Tossing jacket and hat onto a chair, he caught Rachel about the waist, and held her against his slim, horseman’s body. He nibbled her neck, just under the ear, where she was ticklish. Giggling, she fended him off, and when he had taken his seat at the table, she set his plate before him piled high with hot cakes. A jug of maple syrup and a pat of butter completed their breakfast.

Anything special in town today? she asked, pretending she had no idea why he intended to travel miles through the snow.

Papers’ll be in. If more states follow Carolina’s lead, there’ll be a showdown. Buchanan might play safe, but once Lincoln’s inaugurated, things’ll change. He won’t take secession laying down.

I don’t see how threats will change anything, Rachel objected. She salted the smoking griddle, and set it on the stove shelf to cool.

Not threats. A good fight. Wiping his mustache, Stuart abandoned breakfast. Pat and Carter say there’ll be a military call-up come spring.

Rachel flushed with more than the heat of the cook stove. You’d like that, I suppose? she asked with sarcasm.

For Christ’s sake! Stuart threw his napkin down where it stuck to his pancakes. What’s wrong with you?

Nothing. But I know what’s in your mind. And I won’t be left to milk cows and slop pigs while you play soldier.

Oh, you won’t, will you?

Stuart’s expression was alarming and suddenly hateful. Unthinkingly, Rachel raised her hand, but before she could slap him, he seized her wrist. They glared at each other fiercely.

Goddamn you, Rache! He shook her hard enough to make her head wobble before he released her. When he did, she was sent staggering into the doorway.

As Stuart moved toward her, Rachel ran behind the unmade bed, posture defiant, eyes brilliant.

Rache. He extended a hand as though she were a skittish animal. I’m sorry. Tense seconds passed before she came into his arms, barely suppressing a sob.

I’m going to have a baby, she blurted. You can’t go to war.

He sat on the bed, pulling her down beside him. Sunlight had begun to melt the frost on the window, and thin beams of light crossed the quilt. You couldn’t be mistaken, could you?

No. It’s been over two months since—

They heard the fire shift in the stove, the wood settling. She pressed his reluctant hand against her still flat belly. You wouldn’t leave before the baby’s born, would you?

I guess not, he said grimly. But there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go to town now, is there?

* * *

Rupert’s Prairie, like most farming communities on a railroad line, had expanded from a single mercantile store, one saloon, and a church into a respectably sized town. Two churches served the spiritual needs of the community. In addition to the depot and telegraph office were Puckett’s General Store, a smithy, a harness and carriage repair shop, two saloons, a doctor’s office, and Gallatin’s dressmaking establishment. The sheriff’s office had three jail cells that were seldom occupied, for Rupert’s Prairie, despite its saloons, was rarely disturbed by anything more serious than a fistfight or an occasional dispute over land boundaries.

Further away, and opposite the schoolhouse, a grain elevator loomed against the sky. Children looking out classroom windows could sometimes see sacks of pale wheat and golden corn being loaded into railroad cars. Nearby stockyards held cattle and hogs awaiting shipment to big city slaughterhouses.

Jared Westbrook, his height and blond good looks betraying a Scandinavian heritage, was tying his team to the hitching post in front of Puckett’s Store when his attention was distracted by a rider whose mount threw up bits of snow. Stuart Norcross was making his predictably flashy entrance.

Stuart dismounted, so near to Jared that the other man had to move aside to avoid being jostled. Papers in?

Expect so. Jared tossed a blanket over his team before joining Stuart who was already crossing the wooden porch that ran the length of the store.

Ian McGruder greeted them with unconcealed excitement. They’ve fired on our ship in Charleston Harbor! And more secession! Mississippi, Florida, Alabama. He ticked them off, one by one.

Dang ’em anyway, observed one shabby fellow, aiming a stream of tobacco juice into a nearby spittoon. We ain’t gonna let ’em bust the Union.

Murmured assents arose from the men who sat, stood, or leaned on counters. Stuart, adopting a careless pose, pulled his hat off, revealing thick dark hair. Isaiah Puckett, a mere raisin of a man, paused in his wrapping of a parcel to listen.

Once we retaliate, there’ll be no going back, Jared said slowly.

This comment roused both agreement and disapproval. Though Jared was respected as an educated man for having graduated from the Bloomington Normal School, several men frowned and muttered among themselves.

You can’t just let armed rebellion go by. You have to admit that, Jared. Stuart leaned forward slightly, as though daring him to disagree.

But it was the elder Westbrook who spoke, shifting his weight on the wooden packing case where he sat. As he placed his reading glasses into his jacket pocket, Ferris’s blunt kindly features creased with thought.

Any of you been to war? It’s a bloody business, and it doesn’t take long to get a bellyful of dust and dysentery. Keeping the Union’s a better cause than fighting the Spanish over Texas, but war doesn’t prove who’s right. Only who’s strongest. His voice held authority for he had fought in ’47

They’ve dishonored the flag, and I say we give them a licking. Stuart argued. The way I see it, it’s a question of whether you believe in the Union or not.

Ferris shook his graying head. The Union must stand, he admitted. And if it comes to a fight, I’ll defend her.

To the Union. Stuart raised his hand as though proposing a toast. Then suiting his action to his words, he swept up his hat, and opened the door, inviting the assembly to join him. Let’s wet our whistles at the Red Dog. Arguing politics is mighty dry work.

* * *

Rachel, muffled in a heavy winter shawl, pail in hand, met them in the yard. The afternoon had grown late, and, as twilight approached, she had prepared to milk the bawling cow. Now she was embarrassed, for Stuart had not come alone. Her dress was limp and bedraggled after a day spent over the laundry tub. Angry with her husband, she would have liked nothing better than to withdraw to the house in silent dignity.

Hello, sweetheart. Stuart swung off his horse, well aware of her displeasure, but willing to risk a kiss anyway. I wasn’t going to leave you with the chores. He smiled as he took the empty pail from her unresisting hand. I’ve brought company. Mrs. Westbrook’s nursing at the Dudleys so I thought Ferris and Jared could use some home cooking.

By the time the men came in from the barn, stamping snow from their boots and unwinding their mufflers, Rachel had regained her composure, though her cheeks were hot with hurry. While they unhitched, and Stuart did chores, Rachel had been tidying, smoothing her hair, and tying on a fresh apron.

Jared, who had only seen her once before at a distance, was taken aback at her nearness, and the sound of her pretty voice. Her blue dress made her eyes seem all the bluer. At twenty-four, he was inexperienced with women. School studies and work on his father’s farm had conspired to keep him solitary. His only near romance had ended prematurely when the young lady he had been attracted to had grown tired of his procrastination and married another. A fleeting picture of the girl passed through his mind but without regret.

He hung his hat and coat on the pegs by the door, and feeling too tall and clumsy, sat down by the fire. Looking around, his attention focused on a nearby bookshelf. Books, he knew. He was comfortable with them, the way he was comfortable with the changing seasons that dictated the work of the land. He couldn’t help trying to guess which books she had chosen. Whittier, Longfellow, Keats, and the several anthologies were most likely hers, for he couldn’t imagine Stuart musing over an Ode To A Grecian Urn. The books on agriculture and animal husbandry were likely his, he conceded, but not the rest. While his father and Stuart debated secession, he glanced at an open book lying on the footstool beside him.

The table had been set, and he caught Rachel’s inquiring glance as she passed him. Yours? He lifted the volume of Emerson’s Essays to show her. A shy nod acknowledged his gesture.

Catching the by-play, Stuart quipped, Rachel fancies herself a scholar, but I tell her blue stockings are out of fashion for pretty young ladies.

Laughing, they took their places around the table for a meal of smoked ham and delicately seasoned root vegetables. Rachel’s experience as a minister’s daughter had taught her be both quick and inventive when dealing with unexpected guests.

When Stuart mentioned the shots fired in Charleston Bay, her dark brows drew together. Divining that a change of subject would be welcome, Jared urged his father to tell them stories of the early days.

Warming to this, Ferris related that he had come west, and fallen in love with a pretty Norwegian girl. Once married, he and Elsa began farming in 1830. Wolves had roamed the prairies, and he made a good story detailing how they had huddled together on winter nights, listening to howls rising from the creek bed that now ran through the Norcross acres. But wolves no longer roamed the prairie, Ferris assured Rachel. The farmers and the railroads had driven them out.

* * *

After their guests had gone, Stuart helped Rachel carry the damp laundry out of their bedroom. You didn’t mind me bringing company, did you? he asked, haphazardly draping a garment across the wooden drying rack. He glanced sideways at her.

No. Rachel shook the wrinkles from an apron and rearranged his part of the work. But I was mad about the milking. They laughed and Stuart caught her to him. He pulled the pins out of her hair, fixing her with an intense look. Seeing her with the Westbrooks, watching their gallant attention, her desirability was enhanced. He had forgotten her pregnancy. Her dark lashes and full pink mouth intoxicated him. He unbuttoned her dress.

The Star-Spangled Banner

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hailed

At the twilight’s last gleaming,

Lyrics by Francis Scott Key

Music by Samuel Arnold

Chapter Two

Politics were not discussed in the Norcross home in the following days. Rachel was, of course, well aware that Stuart’s weekly trips to town were for political reasons. But an unexpected source of pleasure had been found in a friendship between themselves and the Westbrooks. Elsa Westbrook had invited them to come by after church one Sunday, and the women found much to discuss—babies, recipes, personal histories, and again, babies. When the men talked war, they took care to do so out of earshot of the women. Like Rachel, Elsa hoped that war would be avoided.

The Westbrook farm lay to the east of their acreage, at one point falling on both sides of the road, so it was an easy stop to make. The large white house, surrounded by elm and poplar trees, appeared welcoming rather than intimidating. Above that canopy, the second story rose, its three brick chimneys reminding Rachel of Boston’s nicer neighborhoods. Two large barns and several outbuildings, including a small house, diminished the sense of loneliness that often surrounded farmhouses set in the wide stretching prairies.

Behind the main buildings and down a gentle slope, a stream wandered through ground swells, nourishing a small grove of black willow and cottonwood. On a hillock higher than the rest lay a small graveyard encircled by a low fence. During one visit, Elsa showed Rachel the white stones that marked the resting place of the four children preceding Jared: two boys stillborn and two girls dead in infancy.

This is why Jared is so precious to us. Elsa’s blue eyes reflected remembered sorrow. We had almost given up hope.

Rachel’s hand went protectively to the slight curve of her pregnancy. She remembered her father’s words when consoling the bereaved, but she could only whisper, That must have been so hard.

Elsa patted Rachel’s shoulder and led her closer to the creek where they could watch the water. The leaves had not yet budded, for it was only mid-March, and the weather was capricious, sending snow flurries one minute and sunshine the next. Walking back to the house, they saw the men, still in their jackets, talking on the front porch.

Across the wide yard to the barns, Mike Shaunessey, the live-in farm hand, was busy with the chores that needed doing, whether it was the Sabbath or not. A spiral of smoke from the little house nearest the larger barn showed that his wife, Kathleen, was busy with their Sunday dinner.

Rachel loved their time at the Westbrooks. Politics were left at the front porch, and, over dinner, conversations of more general interest prevailed. Discussions centered around what crops were being planted, what fields would lie fallow, and how many head of cattle could graze on how many acres to best advantage. This was fascinating to Rachel, since she and Stuart hadn’t lived on the farm long enough to actually put in a crop. So she paid attention and asked questions. Stuart would raise an eyebrow at her, intimating that she was getting into men’s things and ought to be quiet. But her questions were intelligent, and Jared decided that the books on farming and livestock might be hers after all.

When the snow melted and spring promised to come early, Stuart hitched their two draft horses to the plow and attempted to ready at least one field for planting. After great discussion with the Westbrooks, they had decided to plant four acres to corn and another four to wheat. Although the ground had been broken before, it had not been cultivated for well over a year, and the prairie grass was spreading tenacious roots through the wet sod.

Stuart became increasingly ill tempered during this process, for he had always hated farm work, despite the fact that he had bragged to Rachel how easy it would be to make a living on the land. Mealtimes were silent for the most part. Lovemaking was reserved for Sundays when the horses rested and their master thanked God for the Sabbath.

Rachel’s father wrote that Henry Ward Beecher, a Brooklyn minister and known abolitionist, was urging the formation of military companies. Enlistments and company formations were springing up all over the country, and he asked what Stuart intended to do. When Stuart read that, he scowled and slapped his hand on the table hard enough to make her jump.

"I know what I’d like to do, and it sure isn’t farming."

Stuffing the offending letter into her pocket, Rachel pressed her lips together and busied herself in the kitchen.

After supper, Stuart sat on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. "Rache, your father isn’t saying anything I don’t know. Some old bugger in Alabama outfitted a troop with Sharp’s rifles. and Bibles! he added. Nothing’s ever going to be the way it was. Oh, I know, he waved her silent. The baby. But I will go, Rachel. I will go."

After this, Rachel gave up hope that war would be averted. She pored over the newspapers. Article after article described the arming of young men North and South. Congress became a platform for differing views, but increasingly, southern officials were leaving the Capitol.

If that wasn’t enough, Elsa contracted scarlet fever, and the whole Westbrook farm was in quarantine. Rachel knew that the Westbrook men, as well as Shaunessy, would be working from sun-up to sundown as long as they could. Fortunately, they had Kathleen Shaunessy to nurse Elsa.

Stuart seemed unable to knuckle down to farming. He excused himself, saying he should have waited for warmer weather, and it was true. The ground was heavy and wet. Consequently, he got up late and quit early. The sacks of seed corn and wheat sat in the small granary just off the barn, and Rachel fretted they would never be used.

She had been a fool, she decided, listening to Stuart’s ideas of going west. He obviously knew little of farming and cared less. She realized he had probably been nothing more than an unwilling helper on his uncle’s farm. Otherwise, why had he run away at 16, and earned his way at a girl’s school giving riding instructions? Blinded by love, she had not connected this incongruity to his talk of farming.

The money from her mother, which had seemed like so much, was dwindling. Rachel counted only a little over $350 in gold coins. These were kept wrapped in a clean cotton sack at the bottom of the flour bin. Without a crop, they would have to use cash to see them through to another season. Gloomily, she sat in her cane rocking chair, darning stockings. Rising to look outside, she saw that Stuart had put away the plow and horses. It was too early to stop work, but she was hardly surprised. When he didn’t come in, she opened the door just in time to see him ride past on Flossy.

* * *

Stuart’s hands were blistered. His legs, back, and shoulders ached, and he hated farming. If Rachel hadn’t been so dead set on having a place of her own, their own, out west, he would never have chosen such an occupation. He conveniently forgot that he had been the one who had been so eloquent over the chance to get cheap land in Minnesota or Illinois. Additionally, he was about to become a father, a role he had never coveted. He was eager to blow off steam.

Riding into town, he joined the crowd gathering by the telegraph office where Ezra Culhaney told him Sumter had been fired on.

News and opinions hummed through the assembly.

Beauregard’s started the war now!

The stars and stripes are still up. They’ll not take her.

Isaiah Pucket spoke with a storekeeper’s instinct. They’ll need supplies. They can’t hold out long without provisions.

McGruder thrust his shaggy head into the open office window, demanding news. Simmons listened to a series of clicks, holding up his hand for silence. Finally, Two of the fort’s guns are out of action.

Are we goin’ let those goddamned sesechanists take the flag? Carter Jansen jumped onto a wooden bench beside the rough-walled depot. His features worked with emotion. He raised a fist. Let’s go get ’em!

Hell, Jansen, Charleston’s a powerful stretch from here. A rangy farmer, his cheek bulging with tobacco, spat to emphasize his words.

The sally brought a few chuckles, but the men crowded closer to Carter who still stood, feet wide on his improvised platform.

We got near enough right now for a company, Carter observed after a silent head count.

Sure, and any one of us is worth two of them, roared Pat Devlin, a redheaded bantam of an Irishman, an ex-railroader turned farmer.

Who knows anything about soldiering?

Ferris Westbrook’s been in the military.

I drilled with the Ohio militia. Stuart, having dismounted, replaced Carter on the bench. I’m no expert though, he warned, for his involvement had lasted less than a year.

Well, who is? This was intended as wit but drew little laughter.

I know enough cavalry maneuvers to get started.

Several men called their encouragement. That’s what we want! To get started!

Who has a horse and rifle he’s willing to pledge? Most hands rose, with the exception of a few older men. Now we need a leader. Stuart’s knuckles whitened as his hands curled into fists. All memory of his grudging promise to Rachel vanished.

I say Norcross is our man. Pat Devlin’s bull voice was joined by several others.

Stuart’s teeth flashed and a sudden alchemy fused him with the eager men. The mood sagged briefly, diluted by confusion as to what should happen next. But excitement returned when Carter Jansen offered a vacant field at his farm where they could meet. Pucket passed around a paper for the volunteers to sign.

We’ll meet after church. Galvanized with power and excitement, Stuart’s voice rose over the sound of the crowd. Rupert’s Prairie will be ready when the call comes!

* * *

Stuart seemed not to notice Rachel, though she’d stepped out to meet him, anticipating news from the Westbrooks. The April breeze, while balmy in comparison to March winds, had rain in it, and reluctantly she closed the door. She would have to wait until he had tended to Flossy, something he was meticulous about.

In the house, he shrugged out of his coat. Doc says Westbrooks’ll be out of quarantine next week since nobody else has been taken sick. He paused. South Carolina’s fired on Fort Sumter, and a cavalry unit’s been raised in town. McGruder, Devlin, Jansen, and that bunch. He paused briefly before adding, I was elected Captain.

Rachel realized she had been waiting for this day. Stuart seemed transformed. He appeared taller, hard, and lithe. Quietness, like an absence of feeling, filled her.

Washington’s bound to act now. He talked to himself, rather than to her, snapping a leather strap lightly against his thigh.

It’s certain?

He flung the strap aside, and took her hand. When she pulled away, he erupted angrily. Damn it, Rachel. Do you think every man jack in the nation’s going to ask his wife’s permission to fight?

You promised to wait, she said, even as she wondered why she should bother to remind him.

You’d use that against me?

She shook her head and moved close to one of their precious glass windows, staring out at the rain that drizzled down.

Don’t be like that, he pleaded, hugging her against him. I wish it wasn’t this way, but it is. Now show me that you love me.

Turning in the circle of his arms, she drew his face down to hers, while her tears ran hot between their kisses.

Persuading her to the bed, he comforted her the way he knew best, murmuring endearments, kissing her hands when she tried to hide her face, making love to her as though she were a bride, the room dark with closed curtains. Her tears dried at last, she lay on her side, one hand on his chest, the other beneath her head.

Will you go soon?

Don’t know. His eyes took on a far-away look, as though spying out bivouacs, planning charges. We’ll probably have to wait to see if Sumter falls. But he knew, that cut off from reinforcing federal ships by high seas, starvation, if nothing else, would force surrender. It shouldn’t take long to whip the secesh. I could be home by the time the baby’s born. Anyway, coming home, I saw Jared. He was working near the road, and we talked. When I told him I’d probably be leaving before planting, he said he’d see to things for you.

Sensing her protest, he hurried on. I told him we could pay him, but he said no, it was being neighborly.

Rachel’s eyes closed, and she felt bereft of strength. They have their own farm to tend.

This is between Jared and me. Besides, by next week they’ll have hired a big crew. He’ll see you’re all right. So don’t go all fussy on me.

She lay quiet, listening, feeling the baby move in her womb. The baby, she said softly. The baby’s moving.

* * *

Jared walked past the main house and barns, following the familiar twisting course of the creek where coarse grass and scrub trees marked the way. One of the dogs followed him, flushing birds almost from under his feet, while high above, the shadows of hunting hawks and falcons glided over the ground. Air currents mingled the scent of plowed earth, water, and wild growing things. A faint green haloed the trees and bushes. A cow lowed mournfully in the distance, and he heard Shaunessy calling, Bosseee! Bossee! It was milking time, though only enough cattle were kept for milk and the larder. The lifeblood of the Westbrook farm was grain, wheat, corn, and oats.

Work had stopped early that day because of the weather, though in general contrariness, the drizzle had stopped soon after the teams had been unhitched. Stuart’s news of Sumter gave him a sense of having stepped into