Measure of Devotion Read online

  Measure of Devotion

  Synopsis

  Disguised as her late brother, Cooper, in the 19th Massachusetts Volunteers, Catherine Samson fights to quell the Confederate rebellion and preserve her nation’s unity. She believes the Constitution’s declarations of equality and freedom apply to everyone, and dreams that someday they will extend to her own pursuit of happiness with a woman.

  Helping her father raise her siblings on their Gettysburg farm, Sophie Bauer likewise clings to hope for a woman to love, but when she serves as an army aide and meets Cooper, Sophie is confounded by her growing feelings for him. Catherine, meanwhile, wrestles with her deception and the disguise she must maintain. Disclosure could not only repulse Sophie but send Catherine home a social outcast.

  When the Battle of Gettysburg engulfs the Bauer farm, Catherine and Sophie learn far more about themselves than they ever expected. But first there’s a war—and hearts—to be won.

  What Reviewers Say About CF Frizzell’s Work

  Exchange

  “CF Frizzell really knows how to write tension! A great read, a real roller coaster of emotions with a sensational love story.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog

  Night Voice

  “CF Frizzell has written a beautiful love story, a romantic tale that will have you cheering on Murphy and the lady who has stolen her heart. …There was just enough angst and plenty of hot sex in this excellent book to keep anyone hooked. Emotions ran high and how all of those involved communicated their feelings made for a very interesting read. I loved it.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog

  “I very much enjoyed it. The main characters felt real and likeable. The connection between them was palpable and the slow build-up was a pleasure to read. The supporting characters were also well developed. …I liked the author’s writing style and will keep an eye out for her future works.”—Melina Bickard, Librarian, Waterloo Library (UK)

  Stick McLaughlin: The Prohibition Years

  “[E]xciting reading and a story well told!”—Golden Threads

  By the Author

  Stick McLaughlin: The Prohibition Years

  Exchange

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  Measure of Devotion

  Measure of Devotion

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Measure of Devotion

  © 2021 By CF Frizzell. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-952-1

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: June 2021

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design by Jeanine Henning

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  Acknowledgments

  Being a die-hard history buff, I always hoped to visit Gettysburg National Military Park, but it took the Golden Crown Literary Society’s 2019 conference in Pittsburgh to get me there. My ever-understanding wife, Kathy, and I took a roundabout vacation that included three days at the historic site, and that, of course, set off a cannonade of storylines in my head.

  One idea kept recurring and, during a Pride Festival that summer, fellow BSB author Jesse Thoma pressed me for specifics, pen and paper poised to record details as they fell out of my imagination. The story probably would have evolved eventually, but Measure of Devotion is due in very large part to her dogged insistence and unfailing support. So, a heartfelt thank-you goes to Jesse, an author who lends as much of herself to others as she devotes to her own remarkable novels.

  I extend hugs to best bud and award-winning BSB’er, Kris Bryant, and readers Deb, Nadine, Val, and Jesse for all the enthusiastic encouragement and invaluable feedback. I hope you’re pleased with this end result.

  A thank-you also goes to my gracious brother-in-law Frank Creedon who landed at auction a priceless 1866 volume of Massachusetts military info. One of dozens of references I accumulated for this project, the book provided remarkable detail (and required a cautious, delicate touch).

  No BSB novel gets into a reader’s hands without a ridiculously talented editor having waved her magic wand over each word, and, once again, I am ever so grateful for the wizardry that is Cindy Cresap, my personal Merlin.

  But Kathy took every step with me, lovingly and with superhuman patience. No matter how many times I just had to read her an author’s quote that became six tedious pages; or drew battle maps on the kitchen counter; or spewed TMI about disgusting camp conditions, her support held strong. I’m sure it must have wavered now and then, but even though I fought my way to victory on this campaign, she’s my Medal of Honor winner.

  Dedication

  To the women and men, very young to very old, who lent their full measure of devotion to American democracy.

  And, always and forever, to my wife, Kathy, truly one of this world’s better angels.

  To the Reader

  The trouble with writing historical fiction is, well, history. It’s demanding. It’s a copilot, not a backseat driver. The author is obligated to remain respectfully attuned throughout, to look history in the eye, and to hear its voice. When I stood on the actual site of this novel, history sized me up like a stern parent and demanded I respect, remember, and learn. This place is not a simple backdrop for fictional escape. What happened here to families, citizens, and governments in 1863 is just as critically important today. A viscerally divided nation, feverish with patriotic fire, fell upon itself here in the Battle of Gettysburg, a climactic death match between one hundred fifty thousand Americans.

  Measure of Devotion is a fictional tale of a fictional woman soldier, Catherine “Cooper” Samson, who happens upon love through the course of very real battles, including the greatest engagement ever fought on American soil. At stake, that July 1-3, 1863, is her very survival, not to mention the preservation of American democracy. Her courage is tested like never before. Our nation’s identity begins turning on this vast, bucolic farmland.

  Building a story around the Battle of Gettysburg in America’s Civil War often felt like an overwhelming constitutional challenge unto itself—my constitution. While the storyline and main characters are my creations, all locations, action, dates, and conditions, as well as the majority of events, characters, and details, are as accurate as my research-addled mind could handle. There are no embellishments or exaggerations.

  Many of the thirty-eight farms on and around the battlefield at the time are now the property of the Gettysburg National Military Park, and some are private residences, but the Bauer farm in Measure of Devotion is a fictional property. It is an incorporation of location and construction held by several farms of that day. Caught “in the middle of it all” during the battle, farming families and their homes were subjected to horrific conditions far beyond what any of us could imagine today. I have woven some of their experiences into those of the Bauer family.

  Measure of Devotion is no lighthearted romp through sunny wheat fields. It deta
ils two women’s hope and courage through hellish times and their discovery of lasting love. Civil War realities of hunger, fear, and danger, and societal realities of conformity, family, and propriety are all their realities.

  I have sought to deliver a unique experience through these characters, and to share how they are changed forever by the profound significance of this event and place. Today, as back then, walking onto the battlefield itself, some two miles wide and a mile across, the vista beckons you with a church-like reverence and humbles you where you stand.

  Fellow citizens marched across this plain, actually thirteen thousand of them, elbow to elbow, on July 3, 1863. Along the distant tree line, you can picture them coming, shouldered guns glistening, flags fluttering, advancing on drummer boy beats too faint for your ears. Determination to dominate, to carve their own nation from yours, to sacrifice their last breath, is evident in their rigid, methodical pace. And here, behind a stone wall that hardly reaches your knees, you stand awestruck by the sight, barely cognizant of what it all means.

  One hundred and fifty-six years later, I set foot on that wall and an honest-to-God lump formed in my throat. Why? Not because I recalled something from history class or was eager to see the movie setting. But because I—and every American should—know that “Fore score and seven years ago” originated here for a reason. I looked down at my comfy walking shoes on the rock and meadow grass where dead soldiers fell, piled four or five bodies high. The magnitude of where I stood rumbled through me. Maybe it was the touch of spirits forever cast in this stone.

  The soil of this miles-wide acreage is enriched with blood—literally. For several growing seasons after the battle, some crops flourished like never before, grasses grew greener, oats darker, corn more luxuriant than ever. Many years later, a simple shovel could still turn up belt buckles, bullets, bones. Reportedly, bodies remain to this day.

  For at least seven months, resident farmers and their children witnessed gruesome work on their land, as human remains were moved from backyards, wheat fields, drinking wells, and shallow battlefield graves to the new national cemetery. There would never be another Civil War battle on northern soil, but the Confederacy fought on for two years, defensively, until it expended all its limited resources.

  Today, Measure of Devotion feels complete at last, and, admittedly, timely. For reasons beyond this author’s gratification, I hope it leaves the indelible mark on you that it has left on me. Never again will I be an innocent Gettysburg tourist. I have walked and slept here and crawled through its wheat. I have bled and cried here, faced and delivered death, and, ultimately, found love and eternal peace here.

  Truly, hallowed ground. It has been an honor.

  Chapter One

  Dying wasn’t unthinkable, but today would not be that day.

  Catherine Samson’s heart pummeled her rib cage as if trying to escape, as if it knew better than to challenge death again.

  The bayonet at the tip of her long gun glinted with bravado in the sunshine, undaunted by swirling clouds of smoke. As much as it represented a last line of defense, it always seemed so eager to lead the way, dutifully blind.

  She tightened her sweaty grip as she tramped across another unfortunate farmer’s second-growth hay crop. Part of a human wave of blue uniforms, she advanced on the wall of Confederate guns, thinking she probably should be praying right now, because on this steamy September day, she was in hell.

  Lead minié balls the size of acorns whistled by. Continuous cannon fire shook the ground, buffeted her body, and made her flinch. Dirt and rocks erupted, balls and chunks of iron rained from the azure sky. She counted her blessings to be only staggered, nicked thus far. Purpose and duty drove her forward, outranking fear and exhaustion. She’d overcome so much to fight for the Union cause, kept her gender hidden for more than a year, and refused to consider her luck changing now.

  Better to focus on love of country, to stand tall for it, as tall as any man, just as resolved as her late twin brother, Cooper, had been when he enlisted. She knew she risked everything by adopting his identity, but she saw it as the only significant means available to defend her nation. After all, American freedoms hung in the balance, and she fully intended to pursue happiness in a life of her own choosing. No matter how great the cost.

  As Cooper of the 19th Massachusetts Volunteers, she quick-stepped through clouds of gunpowder and narrowed her itchy, watery eyes against the sting. Smoke clogged her nostrils, so she sipped at the air, even though it soured the back of her throat and caused her to spit. Grit clung to her heated face and neck. Sweat compounded the burden of her regulation wool frock, the blouse beneath it, and the ever-present undershirt tight against her skin.

  Shells splattered against the sky, piercing and concussing soldiers in groups, slaying them beneath hailstorms of shrapnel. Screams rang out amidst shouts, commands, and bugle signals as chaos intensified.

  Just ahead, two comrades in the 19th regiment fell. Friends, men she knew lay motionless. Keep going.

  Dodging them on the run, she focused on a target through the haze, paused for a half-beat, fired, and strode on. The rebel soldier jerked and disappeared behind his stone wall. She picked another cartridge from her pouch and stopped to reload, her body bent into as much of a crouch as her Springfield rifle musket would allow.

  Dozens of bluecoats pounded past her as she bit off the paper tip and poured. Bullets swarmed in all directions, and, with barely a pop, one pierced the tail of her frock. With a furious thrust, she rammed a minié ball down her gun barrel. Another comrade spun to the ground within her reach and Coop fought the distraction of his grotesque, fatal head wound.

  Outnumbered two to one, the Confederates deserved credit for their valor, but she knew the federals would win the day and take this sunken Maryland road. After three hours, and a fourth assault, this must settle things.

  Cooper fired again, slammed a rebel officer from his horse, and paused to reload.

  Faster.

  Now, at less than one hundred yards, she was an easy target. She thanked the fates that, somehow, her steady hands, her marksmanship, and her luck continued to serve her. With practiced speed, she reloaded, took aim through the drifting smoke, and spun another rebel from his battle line.

  Hustling on, she again reached for a cartridge, but came up empty-handed. Her heart skipped. The moment had arrived when she faced the most vicious element of combat, the last resort. She eyed the bayonet, knowing it would force her close enough to deliver shock and agony with her very hands, to see a life stop forever as she shivved her blade into a human body. Flashing upon her own mortality, she rushed through the smoke.

  The Union’s screaming charge crashed upon the enemy, leaped onto the wall, shooting, thrusting, batting away rebel rifles. Cooper’s ears rang from the close proximity of gunshots. Stricken comrades tumbled against her. Blood splattered against her cheeks. She hurdled the wall, prepared to lunge, just as the entire Confederate line fell back with hands raised. In what seemed to be the first time all day, she took a breath.

  That night, Cooper and others from her exhausted regiment sat around a cookfire and mourned the missing. Her friend Timothy Doten was among the absent, and her heart ached for him. With mixed feelings, she pictured that surrender scene: a moment’s jubilation, quashed just as emotionally when word came of the day’s other engagements. The list of casualties ballooned to unimaginable numbers, far greater than any battle she’d fought to date, and made this conflict at Antietam Creek feel like a draw instead of a victory.

  Fellow soldiers debated this outcome long into the night, as a temporary truce allowed for the wounded to be collected and the dead buried. Cooper knew she’d never unsee the hundreds of bodies strewn about the fields. Talk around camp indicated Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee soon would withdraw his army and leave the Union as the victor, but thousands had been killed or disabled in the multiple battles of the day. She considered herself incredibly fortunate to have emerged unscathed, again. T
im, it seemed, had not been as lucky. Spiritually and physically drawn, she left the camaraderie for her tent. It probably was time to write a letter to the family of a fallen friend.

  She stopped her regiment’s hospital steward as he hurried by. “Hey, Paddy. Any word on Doten? We were separated this afternoon and I haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Haven’t seen him.” He pointed to the sea of hospital tents at the rear of their encampment. “Stretchers are still coming into C tent, though. That’s where I’m headed. A few of ours could be there.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  Although bone tired, she kept up with Paddy’s speedy pace and struggled to be patient.

  Tim had become her dearest friend in the army, and to lose his down-home wit and bear-like presence would knock her spirit sideways. The confidences and family orientation he offered so freely had tempted her to share her true identity, but too often she lacked the courage to broach the subject. His had been the first true, look-her-in-the-eye test of her disguise, back when they had mustered in together fourteen months ago.

  Inside the medical tent, she felt the crisp, subdued autumn night surrender to the frenetic atmosphere of urgent care and the agonized cries of the wounded. The air was heavy and thick, too warm, and the scents of chloroform, blood, and scores of candle lanterns hung in the humidity, enveloping everyone. Cooper rubbed her nose and, as she scanned the dozens of injured soldiers, their protruding bones and oozing tissue, their terrified and tortured faces, she had to fight the impulse to run.

  The setting’s grim aura aside, the threat it posed to Cooper’s participation in this war bore down upon her. Hospitals made her nervous and skittish, after many months of hiding inside her twin brother’s persona. Obviously, disrobing for wound care was out of the question, but these days, just being a visitor was a challenge.