Asia drew back and, caressing his gaunt face, shook her head at his condition. “Oh, Fitz,” she said, the tears coming again. “What have you done?”
He laughed, surprising himself, and then a thought struck him. She had not meant it to sound accusatory, but Asia’s question had reminded Fitz of his childhood; yet the question wasn’t the same.
Fitz’s father, upon finding out that his son had no interest in farming, had fixed him with a hard disappointed glare and said, “What will become of you?”
Here it was again—what will become of you? His arm may take months to heal. Or it may never entirely heal. He knew of men whose open wounds still drained blood and pus years after the event.
He would become one of those pathetic old men who marched each Fourth of July, ignoring the taunts of vagrants and children. Or a neighborhood curiosity who droned on about his life in the army until the bored stares of those around him became too much. In short, he would live as an embarrassment.
He could go back to his regiment, if his regiment still existed. He would heal and return to the army and fight the enemy. But perhaps the war was over? Perhaps the mounting casualty lists sickened the nation and the soldiers were so disheartened they simply went home. Maybe the government was not capable of pursuing victory.
No. That couldn’t be. Fitz knew brave soldiers and capable officers, and he knew that President Lincoln would never accept defeat.
Fitz was a soldier. There was nothing else to it. Ultimately it was a simple life of simple virtues, one that suited his nature. He fought, and led men in battle, and was well suited to the endeavor. Goddamn it, Dunaway, General Yardley had said after Stones River, you’re arrogant and hot-tempered, but I’d give my right arm for a regiment like you.
The thoughts drifted out of his mind like the early morning autumn fog that rolled over the Tennessee mountains. It was time to stop thinking about anything except the woman he loved.
Fitz smiled at Asia. He would not think of it now. He was home. He was with Asia. He was alive.
Chapter 1
Winter 1863
Twelve miles from Wilmington, Delaware
God spoke to Gantter on Tuesday. He thought at first it was Wednesday, but the Baltimore stage had passed him on its way to Wilmington, so he knew it was Tuesday. The people riding in the coach stared at him, disapproving faces, features plucked from the darkness by the vehicle’s running lamps until distance and the darkness robbed the travelers of the strange sight of the man that locals called Preacher Jim. He knew he was the target of derision, and he dragged a trail of taunting children behind him on his daily crusade up and down the turnpike. But he was a soldier of God, God’s instrument to warn the wicked of the eternal flames of damnation and prod the errant back to church. He set out each morning, long legs carrying a thin chest, spindly arms pumping, worn jacket and baggy trousers whipping in a stiff wind that meant nothing to James Gantter.
Especially after Tuesday.
He sat against the thirty-eight-mile marker, digging through the soiled canvas bag that held beef jerky and five or six apples, the stone fitting nicely into his narrow back. He decided instead to build a fire. The setting sun fell below the distant horizon, taking with it what pitiful heat it had once offered. Jim was cold, and the Devil told him to go home, but clutching the battered Bible in his thorny hand he vowed to stay two hours more. The Devil lost interest and fled into the failing sun.
Jim was pleased with himself, despite the cutting wind and hands that shook so much with the cold that he could barely strike a flint. He had bested the Devil, and in doing so had proved God’s power, which in turn validated his ministry on the Baltimore Turnpike.
He struck the flint a third time and sparks flew into the tiny nest of kindling he had prepared at the base of a dead log. The shavings glowed with hope and then sprang into life with a whisper of Jim’s stale breath. He tended the fire carefully, laying dry twigs just so across the struggling flames. The fire was God’s reward, he thought; he preached the Gospel and damned the sinners, and made the Devil turn tail and run. The fire stretched, its long fingers spinning tentacles of smoke into the night.
But Jim felt ashamed. He had given in to the Devil by reveling in pride. All that he accomplished was rightfully the Lord’s. He stared into the fire, feeling its comforting warmth drive the cold from his aching hands, letting the heat rise to caress his numb face. He had made the fire, but it was God’s doing as was all on the earth and in the heavens, so the pride that he had allowed to enter his heart was an effrontery to the Almighty.
Jim brought the heel of his boot down, crushing the life out of his fire. He fought back regret, knowing self-pity would follow close behind. The light was gone and with it the warmth that was a comfort on a miserably cold night. All that remained was the scent of wood smoke, taunting him.
He leaned back against the marker, fighting back the desire to curse himself and the Devil, and the desire to question God’s wisdom. He glanced up at the stars, the Almighty’s children, seeking guidance. When he saw the three lights, he cocked his head to one side, quizzically.
They glowed, these three lights, with a translucent yellow cast, moving in unison against the blackness. They were not stars; they were too large and did not have the clear shimmering light of winter stars. Jim watched them float toward him, so transfixed that he did not remember getting to his feet or walking into the middle of the turnpike for a better view.
The three yellow lights floated together, yet bobbed playfully, as if leaves sliding over waves. When he realized what they were, his legs failed him, and he fell to his knees.
He clasped his hands together, tears rolling into his greasy beard as three angels of the Lord passed above him. He prayed excitedly, the words running together in a wild stream, his eyes fixed on the angels. Preacher Jim was stunned by the wonder of the sight, filled with reverence and awe so completely that his actions were not initiated by command—he was moved solely by the spirit of the Lord.
The angels disappeared. Jim jumped to his feet, frantically searching the sky, hoping that he would find them again—God rewarding him with just one more glimpse of his wonders. It was God’s judgment that the angels came to him, Jim knew. He had known pride, and God had commanded him to banish pride from his heart and smother the fire that had been the creator of pride, and in turn, as God’s recognition of Jim’s obedience, He had sent His angels.
“Glory, God, hallelujah,” Jim said, the words floating away in pale clouds.
There!
He saw them, far away in the sky, their flight casual, unhurried, and God’s children. Jim started to follow them, but the spirit of the Lord so gripped him that he could not force more than a few steps from his trembling legs. Emotion paralyzed him. He buried his face in his hands, sobbing in relief and gratitude. God was good, God was good. He had led man on the path of righteousness and, finding man tempted, had sent three angels to proclaim His glory.
When James Gantter raised his eyes toward Heaven to give thanks to the Lord, he vowed that he would rededicate his life in service to God.
He wondered, also, but in a respectful way, should God suspect he was plagued by doubts, why one of the angels had a flaming tail. It was not important, he reasoned. The Lord did as the Lord thought best, and Jim was to accept the miracles of God.
Jim set off for home, imbued with the power of belief, grateful to the Almighty for showing him the way. He marveled over what he had seen and the wondrous nature of the Holy Spirit. A marvel, he decided, and was so lost in the glowing memory of the incident that he forgot the cold, or even that God had made him deny the warmth of a perfectly good fire.
That miracle, his miracle of the angels, would have been enough to carry him