Where Dandelions Bloom

by Tara Johnson

  Spying a cluster of tents in the distance, she decided to remain sheltered in the trees to wait for morning’s light. She stretched out on the cold ground and listened. The sound of her breathing melted into the cadence of nature, and she gazed up at the stars scattered across the wide expanse of sky.

  “He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names.”

  The psalm rolled around her brain. If God knew and named every single star in creation, surely he saw her too. Saw her and knew her. Not just Thomas Turner or any other mask she might wear, but her.

  “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him?”

  She exhaled slowly and squinted at the winking bodies of light. Indeed, why would the Creator be mindful of someone like her? She was nothing. Only a girl trying to escape a future of gloom and heartache. A life each of her sisters had submitted to, a future that encircled her like an ever-tightening noose.

  Her throat convulsed.

  Did you see, God? Did you see the way my father hurt Mother over and over again? Did you really see every time he took delight in tearing her heart to shreds? Why did you turn away when he struck me and cursed my existence? Why were you silent when he corrupted everything and everyone in his path? Why didn’t you stop him?

  Though a vast expanse of heaven loomed overhead, her pleas felt trapped, held captive by some unseen hand that echoed them back unheard.

  She listened. Waiting. But God was silent.

  It seemed to her, he grew quieter with every passing day.

  Chapter 29

  APRIL 26, 1862

  YORKTOWN, VIRGINIA

  The red-faced soldier studied her with a scowl.

  “A peddler, you say?” He grinned sardonically, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. “Unless you got whiskey or rum, I doubt the boys will be interested.”

  Cassie smiled and let the Irish brogue spill from her lips, remembering the lilt of her brother-in-law’s speech. If Peter knew she was imitating him as a way to deceive the Rebels, he’d be right proud.

  Keep the accent at the front of your teeth, not the back of your throat. “Sorry I am to say I’ve not a drop of spirits, but I’ve plenty of other goods to make the heart light.”

  “Do you now?” His voice dripped with derision.

  “Aye. Socks and apples. Playing cards and dominoes for what folks is pining for a bit o’ sport.” She leaned in and winked conspiratorially. “Even managed to smuggle me way into some chocolate if the price is right.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Got soap too. You telling me some of you boys couldn’t do with a good bath?” She grinned. “Or are ye aimin’ to cut down the bloody Yanks by smell alone?”

  The soldier chuckled. “You make a good point.”

  Cassie nodded smugly. “O’ course I do. And I reckon your commanders will be happy to know I even have a few prize oranges in me pack for any soldiers sufferin’ from scurvy.” She shook her head and tsked. “And here ye are, refusin’ to let me pass. What’ll they say when they learn the dreadful news?”

  The soldier laughed again. “All right, all right. You convinced me. I’ll have to take you to my captain first to get his approval, but I’m sure the men will be happy to see your goods.”

  Cassie squeezed his hand in as manly a hold as she could manage. She could not let him detect any weakness in her grip. “Good man, ye are. I’m thankful.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She adjusted her bulging knapsack as she followed him into the Confederate camp. There was no going back now. “Barney O’Shea, at your service.”

  She smiled at the gray-clad Confederates who eyed her with curiosity as she walked through their camp, yet coals burned her insides at the sight of slaves being forced to shovel gravel and carry loads of rocks to repair fortifications. One of them met her eyes as she walked past. Perspiration ran down his face, and the fingers clutching his bucket were cracked and bleeding.

  “Get to work on that parapet!”

  The order was barked from a soldier with bulging eyes. Before the slave could move to obey, the soldier kicked the backs of his knees. He fell to the ground, scattering his load of gravel in a puff of dust.

  “Darkies who are too lazy to do their share will be shot. Do you understand?”

  The slave slowly rose. “Yessir.”

  Cassie dropped her gaze and pressed her lips shut as she walked past. Lord, give me wisdom to focus on the task at hand. The injustice chafed, but she would do the slaves no good if she failed in her mission.

  The captain waved his approval at her arrival with a disinterested air. “Peddle your goods, but be quick about it. We don’t need hawkers here all day distracting our men.”

  “Aye, sir. Last thing I’m wantin’ is to be keepin’ our brave defenders from their tasks. Just as soon as the boys are done lookin’, I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  The captain nodded and wandered off, his brows lowered. He muttered under his breath. Whether in irritation or deep in thought about some other matter, Cassie couldn’t tell.

  She spent the morning talking to soldier after soldier, using the glib tongue and easygoing manner of Barney O’Shea to win the favor of the Confederates. Most were friendly and curious, some suspicious. Others were downright hostile and “didn’t cotton to no Irishmen.” Those she gave a wide berth. No sense making enemies. Well, more so than they already were.

  While plying her wares, she subtly attempted to gain information, but the soldiers were far more interested in swapping lighthearted stories and teasing each other about the need for soap. She could understand. It would be the same in her own regiment. When death constantly loomed overhead, diversion was always welcome. Still, she couldn’t leave empty-handed. She would not leave unless she had something to report to Pinkerton.

  By midday the sun beat down in relentless anger. Dust coated her tongue. A soldier approached, holding out a cup of water. “You look done in. Drink.”

  She swallowed the cool liquid so quickly, she nearly caused herself to choke. The water dribbled down her chin and ran down her heated neck. She wiped away the liquid with the back of her hand. “Much obliged.”

  He pointed at her deflated knapsack. “You sell all your goods?”

  “Almost. Got a few things left yet.”

  He gestured toward some large tents in the distance. “You try peddling to some of the commanders? They can seem a bit intimidating, but if you catch them at the right moment, you might find their favor and come out with a pocketful of cash.”

  She chuckled, her heart leaping. Instructions to head to the commander’s tent? Perfect. If she were caught lurking, she could simply blame it on the young private.

  “Bully good idea. Thank ye kindly.”

  The young soldier adjusted his gray kepi against his straw-colored hair and nodded. “I’m thankful for the playing cards you brought. Gets mighty dull around here waiting for those cowardly Yanks to decide to do something. They’re so chicken, they could be stuffed and eaten for dinner.”

  Cassie forced a grin. “They know how fearsome their opponent is, aye?”

  “Absolutely.” He punched her in the shoulder, then strolled away whistling a tune.

  She narrowed her eyes and turned, her focus set on the tents in the distance.

  As she approached, voices drifted through the open flaps of the large canvas tent. Cassie crept closer, running the numbers she heard over and over in her mind until they were properly committed to memory.

  Fourteen twelve-pounder cannons, eight-inch columbiads, ten-inch mortars, twenty-one howitzers . . . fourteen twelve-pounder cannons, eight-inch columbiads, ten-inch mortars, twenty-one howitzers . . .

  Memorizing the details must suffice until she found a private place to scratch the information on the slip of paper secreted away in her shoe. When heads turned at the arrival of the white-headed, noble G
eneral Lee, she knew the opportunity was providential. She slipped closer to the commanders’ tent and hunkered behind a tree, her ears perked for anything McClellan might want to learn.

  “McClellan can’t keep waiting indefinitely. He’s playing with us. Just like a cat toying with a mouse before it strikes. What say you, General?”

  Rustle of papers. Shifting footfalls.

  A deep voice drawled, “Gentlemen, the fortifications are admirably constructed, but if the information we’ve obtained is correct, McClellan has enough guns to blow the entire length of our parapets and barricades into dust.” Lee sighed heavily, the rich timbre of his voice grim. “We cannot hold Yorktown if McClellan strikes.”

  A different, more nasal voice wavered through the air. “What shall be done then?”

  “We must evacuate Yorktown.”

  A horse whinnied, causing her pulse to ricochet. She ducked low and snuck away from the tent, her mind churning over what she’d heard. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

  McClellan and the other generals needed to know the news with all haste.

  Cassie felt as if she were crawling out of her own skin.

  Frustration scratched her insides. It had been four hours since she’d overheard General Lee’s intentions to evacuate Yorktown, and she’d yet to find an escape. Word had drifted through the ranks about the peddler who was visiting. All were anxious to grab her dwindling supplies. If she didn’t make her way out soon . . .

  Pain exploded in her backside as a booted foot slammed into her posterior.

  “You there!” A booming voice washed over her as she stumbled to the ground. She tasted dirt. A shadow drifted across her sprawled form, and she glanced up with gritted teeth. She recognized him—the burly fellow who had mouthed off about “cursed Irishmen.”

  “Come along with me, boy.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  The grating sound of minié balls sliced the air. Cassie ducked low, but the soldier only glanced at her as if she were nothing more than a skittish cat.

  “Minié balls.” He jerked his thumb to some distance ahead. “Greetings from the Yankee demons.”

  Please, Lord . . .

  “A man’s life is at stake. Hurry.”

  Though leery, she hastened to follow him. The sun had nearly set. Dark shadows crept over the woods beyond camp. Her ankle twisted, snagging on a gnarled tree root. Cringing, she hurried to keep pace.

  When they’d reached the outskirts of the Confederate camp, the soldier stopped and whirled back to her, grabbing her by the shoulder. “You’re to take this wounded soldier’s picket until I return.”

  Her eyes darted over to a man lying not twenty feet away, his leg bloody and torn apart. He said nothing but suddenly thrashed.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I saw you first. I’ve got to go find his replacement. As soon as those minié balls started up, our men had work to do.” He sneered at her. “We have real work, you know. Something you and your peddling kin know nothing about.”

  The fingers digging into her flesh tightened until she almost cried out.

  “You try to wiggle out of helping and I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like a rabid dog.” He suddenly released his iron grip, and she nearly collapsed in relief.

  He thrust a rifle into her hands and glared. “I’ll be back just as soon as I get him to the medic.” He hoisted the wounded man’s weight and departed with a dark glower.

  Cassie’s legs felt like jam as she stood and waited, making sure the irate soldier was out of sight. Another minié ball shrieked overhead, landing somewhere nearby. The ground beneath her feet rumbled.

  A few minutes more.

  Light drizzle dampened her skin. The feathery-fine mist grew oppressive. A flash of lightning split the night sky, unleashing a torrent. Her thin clothing became heavy and sluggish with the downpour. No one would be able to hear her running.

  Now.

  Hot blood coursed through her veins as she pumped her legs as fast as they would carry her against her wet pants. Heart pounding, she ran like an unleashed beast. Water pelted her eyes and slapped her face. Her lungs and legs burned.

  She darted between trees, splashing through watery holes and fumbling over slick tree roots. Silver fire lit up the sky. The sky boomed and growled. The rifle grew slippery and heavy in her fingers.

  She was closing in, nearing the Union picket lines. She froze, gasping for air, and blinked against the lashing rain. If the Union pickets saw her running toward them, brandishing a gun, they would shoot her first and ask questions later.

  Pain clutched her heart with the exertion. Dropping her hands to her wet, muddy knees, she sucked in a deep draught of air, mind spinning. A crack of thunder caused her to look up at the trees. Their tops thrashed back and forth like the ends of a broom. The ground shook. A jagged thread of white snagged the black sky.

  She had no choice. It was move forward or be caught. She would have to sneak into camp just as she’d maneuvered her way into the Confederate line.

  She stumbled ahead, sloshing through the mud. A sharp pain stabbed her side. The click of a hammer sounded to her right. Her pulse tripped.

  “You have one second to flash the Union sign before I pump your guts full of gunpowder.”

  She slowly dropped her rifle to the ground, lifted her hands, and turned to the scowling soldier. Rain dripped from the brim of his kepi, but the hands he curled around his gun were steady. She flicked her fingers, contorting them into the designated sign.

  With a nod of satisfaction, the soldier lowered his weapon and jerked his head toward camp. “Report to your commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heaving a sigh, she willed her heart to resume a normal pulse. She’d made it.

  The urge to drop to her knees and kiss the muddy ground was overwhelming.

  APRIL 29, 1862

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Pinkerton steepled his fingers as he sat behind his desk. Cassie kept her eyes trained on his.

  “What makes you believe the Rebel forces are preparing to leave Yorktown?”

  Her gaze flickered to General McClellan’s grim visage not ten feet away. She straightened, swinging her focus back to the detective. “Because I heard General Lee speak the words himself.”

  Pinkerton’s brows rose into his hairline. He leaned forward. “You saw General Lee?”

  “Yes, sir. I snuck close to their tent and overheard him discussing strategies with his commanders.”

  Pinkerton studied her for a long moment and leaned back in his chair. The underside squeaked with his shifting weight. A smile tugged at his lips. “You know, Private Turner, it’s not uncommon for new recruits in our department to misjudge information they gather. The nature of this work is often predicated on tight nerves, close encounters at being caught, and emotions that swing like a pendulum. Why, only last month, a new recruit mistakenly reported the Confederates had twenty thousand more soldiers at a Tennessee town than there actually were.”

  Her brows furrowed. What was he saying?

  “It would be understandable if you’d misheard.”

  She lifted her chin, a hot fire kindled in her middle. “I heard them clearly, sir. Lee was quite adamant they could not hold Yorktown if General McClellan used the full force of our current arsenal.” From her periphery, she caught the general shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He told his generals to make preparations to leave Yorktown.”

  Pinkerton rose and strolled to stare out the long window behind his mahogany desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “And what else did they discuss after that?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. I made haste to withdraw. I was in danger of being caught.”

  “So you admit you did not hear the conclusion of their conversation.”

  She spoke slowly, clenching her teeth. “No, sir, I did not.”

  Pinkerton shot a look to McClellan, who ran his fingers down his mustache in a repetitive motion. “Genera
l, what say you?”

  McClellan sighed and dropped his arms to his sides. “I have no doubt Private Turner performed admirably in his duty, but I cannot reconcile that General Lee would give up Yorktown so easily.” The long mustache drooped. “No, it’s not possible.”

  “But, sir, if I’m correct, you could attack Yorktown now and crush the Rebels in one fell swoop.”

  McClellan’s eyes grew cold. “I’m well aware of the advantageous position Yorktown affords, Private.”

  “I heard Lee, sir. They are leaving.”

  McClellan’s face darkened. “Thank you, Private Turner. You are dismissed.”

  Clamping her lips shut, she knew any further protests would fall on deaf ears and quite possibly lead to getting her court-martialed for insubordination. Pleading words burned her lips, but she saluted and left the two men instead.

  What good was spying on the enemy if her own commanders refused to believe the information? She marched down the long hallway, grinding her teeth.

  Her hard work had been for nothing.

  Chapter 30

  Dear Gabriel,

  As I make preparations to depart for my own sojourn into this photographic endeavor with equal parts terror and fascination, I longed to stop and write you. This journey we have embarked upon is being marked as a successful contribution to the war efforts by General Winfield Scott. He has realized the value of photography as a kind of military topography, deeming our work invaluable. I pray other military leaders will heed his words as well. This praise is due, in no small part, to you and all the other photographers we have sent out to record this great drama.

  I see you took my most recent instructions to heart. Your piece “Beautiful Heroines of Home” has been favorably received by five major newspaper publications. I suspect this is only the beginning. If other papers respond as enthusiastically as these, you shall be receiving a tidy sum for your efforts. The piece is, I think, quite intriguing. Aside from the woman’s beauty, there is something quite telling in her expression. Hope, sadness, courage, uncertainty—her visage is like the multiple facets of a cut jewel. Each part just as fascinating as the last. You are to be commended.