The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Yes, Mr. Beckman, come in. I’ve been expecting you.” Alden stood and welcomed the man with a handshake. “Mr. Beckman, this is my brother, Captain Roger Haynes of Company K. Roger, Mr. Beckman is a tailor and dressmaker.”

  Offering the merchant a distracted nod, Roger shook his hand.

  Alden looked at Roger as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Mr. Beckman is here on behalf of our friend, Miss O’Connor. You will recall that the lady needs some traveling clothes.”

  Roger drew his lips into a tight smile. “Yes, of course. Very good.”

  “I brought some samples,” Mr. Beckman said, opening a book of fabric swatches. “I have several gowns already made, they adjust to fit with ties and laces. But you did not specify what sort of apparel the lady will be needing.” He lowered his chin and peered out across the top of his glasses. “Perhaps the lady is nearby? She could choose her own—”

  “No,” Alden interrupted. Crossing one arm over his chest, he lifted a finger to his lips and smiled. “The lady is indisposed at the moment and unable to receive visitors. She has every confidence in me.”

  Roger gave Alden a quick, denying glance. “In me, you mean.” He bowed slightly to Mr. Beckman. “Miss O’Connor is my fiancée. I believe I know her tastes better than any man alive.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Beckman turned several pages of a catalog, pointing to several workday fabrics. “The ladies do seem to like these plaids for traveling. The material is sturdy and holds up well even in damp weather.”

  “That looks very nice.” Alden pointed to a green plaid. The color would complement Flanna’s eyes, and it matched a perky bonnet she’d worn in Boston.

  “Plaid!” Roger’s voice brimmed with disbelief. “You’d dress my betrothed in common plaid?” He turned to the merchant and grimaced in good humor. “My brother is a soldier, sir. He knows nothing of the feminine nature or fashion. Please, show me your finer fabrics.”

  “Of course, sir.” A wide smile gathered up the wrinkles by the merchant’s full mouth as he turned to swatches of satin and velvet. “I can see that you are a man of exacting taste, and these are our finest materials. These dresses are tailored by hand, of course, but the extra expense is a small price to pay for quality.”

  “This is more like it.” Roger stared thoughtfully at the fabrics for a moment, then ran his fingertips over a rich red velvet. “That would be wonderful for my Flanna. She has red hair, you see, lustrous lengths of it. A gown of this material would make her shine like a fair ruby in a setting of pure gold.”

  Alden rubbed his temple, not daring to mention that Flanna’s lustrous lengths were long gone.

  “Very good, sir.” Mr. Beckman snapped the book shut. “Any particular style? A ball gown, perhaps?”

  “She needs traveling dresses,” Alden interrupted, his voice flat. “I doubt she’ll be attending any balls in the midst of the war.”

  Mr. Beckman laughed. “Oh, but the Washington social season is in full swing! The ladies are so patriotic, they struggle to outdo each other. We’ve sold more red, white, and blue gowns and bonnets in the past month than in the last ten years.”

  “Make her a dress of the red velvet.” Roger hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Spare no expense, but you’d better do as my brother suggests and make it fit for traveling. Oh, and outfit the gown with”—he waved his hand—“whatever she needs.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Beckman’s brow lifted in understanding. “She will need a full set of…inexpressibles?”

  “Exactly.” Roger ignored Alden’s glare. “Imagine that you are providing for a lady who needs everything. She is a medium-sized woman, about”—he held his hand out to his shoulder—“this tall. And slender.”

  “Sounds like the size of my Marianna.”

  “You’d better make her two dresses,” Alden said. His wages had been sitting at the bottom of his bag for months, waiting to be spent. “Make the second one out of the green plaid.”

  The merchant nodded. “Very well, gentleman, I’ll have the garments for you in two days.”

  “Tomorrow, please,” Alden said, shaking the man’s hand in farewell. “I’ll reward you generously for a speedy delivery.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you very much.” The merchant smiled again, then backed out of the tent, clutching his catalog to his side.

  Roger ran his hand absently through his hair, then dropped his hand to his belt and turned to Alden. “One thing perplexes me, brother. I can almost understand why you feared for Flanna’s safety and didn’t tell me that she was here.” His eyes flared, hot with resentment. “But since when have you become so concerned about her welfare that you’d part with your hard-earned wages?”

  Alden shrugged and moved to the security of his desk. “She will be my sister, won’t she? Since I don’t smoke or drink, there’s little else for me to spend my wages on.”

  “I can take care of her.” Roger pressed his hands to the desk, then leaned toward Alden until their eyes were only inches apart. “She’s my betrothed.”

  Alden crossed his arms and calmly met his brother’s gaze. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “See that you don’t.” Roger straightened and tugged down the hem of his coat. “And since you don’t think I can hold my tongue or cool my ardor, heaven forbid that I should spoil her little game. I believe I’ll refrain from visiting her until she’s decently dressed and ready to resume her rightful role.”

  Alden gave him a brittle smile. “See that you do.”

  Twenty

  Saturday, 8 P.M., December 21

  Charity did not show up for dinner this afternoon. I suppose it is just as well, for after my discussion with Major Haynes I was hungry enough to eat a rider off his horse and snap at the stirrups. I’m afraid I ate a full day’s ration, and can only hope that Charity’s new friends, whoever they are, are sharing their rations as liberally as I usually do.

  A number of the officers have colored servants to handle the laundry and their cooking. Charity became acquainted with several of them while we were fighting at Ball’s Bluff, and she seems to prefer their company to that of my messmates. After our conversation tonight, I can understand why.

  One of the men asked about “Charles,” and I gruffly replied that he was a free colored and could go where he pleased. Whereupon Diltz remarked that he thought nothing at all of darkles, he’d as soon shoot them as free them.

  I was surprised and said so. After all, wasn’t that why these men joined the army? After Fort Sumter, the Boston churches had spoken of nothing but the evils of slavery. But Diltz only looked at me and laughed. “The runaway slaves that come over the border think freedom means freedom from work,” he said, his voices drawing the others to the fire like fascinated moths. “The blacks I’ve seen in camp are nothing but nuisances. They have been dependents and treated like children for so long that they are children, nothing else.”

  “I don’t have nothin’ against the coloreds,” Sergeant Marvin said, and we all fell silent to listen, for rarely does he offer an opinion “But I don’t want to lose my job to one. I hear Old Abe intends to send them off and colonize them in Haitt or Africa. If our bein’ here frees the coloreds, fine, but I am not in favor of freeing them and leaving them to mingle among us. You can be sure the government is already making preparations to send them away.”

  Andrew Green put down his notebook and pen and looked up at the sergeant, his eyes shining with wetness. “I used to feel the same way, Sergeant,” said he, “until one afternoon when I met an old black man at the train station. He was born in America, just like me, but he was scarred from head to foot where he had been whipped. He showed me his backs–‘twas a great solid mass of ridges from his shoulders to his hips. That beat all the sermons I ever heard. I’m here because my country called me. If my dyin’ helps preserve the Union, I’ll meet death without complaint. But if my dyin’ helps stop that kind of evil, I’ll go joyfully to meet death, honored to do my part so that others can live free.”

/>   Andrew’s Speech said it all for me. Though Diltz, Valentine, and O’Neil continued to argue about the vices and virtues of the black race, I thought of the slaves on Wesley’s plantation. Were they still there? Or had they fled toward the seashore in hopes of meeting the Federals at port Royal?

  O’Neil told me that Abe Lincoln would let the South keep its slaves if peace could be made and the Union preserved. Already Lincoln has promised the Union’s Border States that they can preserve their system of slavery.

  But I believe we held the wolf by the ears for too long—and now he has escaped our grasp. May God’s will be done.

  Flanna closed her journal and crossed her legs, then pulled a slab of salt pork from her haversack. Scattered fires dotted the darkness beyond Company M’s street, and she stared absently at them, a confused haze of feelings dulling her senses as she nibbled on the meat.

  “O’Connor! Didn’t you hear me, lad?” Flanna jerked her head around. Paddy O’Neil was squatting behind her, his hand extended. “I asked you to pass me the coffeepot.”

  “Sorry.” She pulled the pot from its bed of coals and carefully passed it to Paddy, then returned to her scant supper. A high, melodic tenor floated over from the next campfire, and Flanna relaxed as she listened to the music.

  She was going to miss all this—the music, the men, even the mayhem. As soon as she donned a dress, she would be forced to surrender her role as their friend, messmate, and doctor. For though none of them hesitated now to come to her with medical problems or for a dose of calomel to cure the Maryland quickstep, she knew none of them would feel at ease in her presence once she revealed that she was a woman.

  Roger—who surely knew her secret by now—would insist that she surrender her disguise immediately. And though Alden had demonstrated remarkable restraint thus far, he would support Roger. Both brothers would ask her to give up all she had gained as a soldier of Company M.

  But what else could she do? If she wanted to go home, common sense told her that she’d have to agree to Alden’s plan. Franklin O’Connor would have to walk into a tent and vanish so Miss Flanna O’Connor, the nurse, could take her place. Soon she’d be wearing a corset again, and pantalets, and a hoop skirt so wide that no man could come within three feet of her without tilting the birdcage beneath her skirt and risking an immodest glimpse of the lace at her ankles.

  She reached for her bayonet, stuck it through the meaty middle of her salt pork, then held it over the fire. Rufus Crydenwise squatted next to her, his arms on his knees.

  “O’Connor,” he said, a slow flush creeping up from the flesh at his neck, “can I ask you somethin’?”

  “Ask away.”

  Rufus squirmed in his jacket, then leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I think I got lice. I’m itching something fierce, and at night I can feel things crawling over my skin.”

  Flanna crinkled her nose and pulled her bayonet from the fire. “When’s the last time you bathed?”

  The boy—though he was twenty-two, Flanna couldn’t help but think of Rufus as a helpless boy—shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. Flanna lifted her chin, then made a face. Even in the fire-tinted darkness she could see the tiny white specks sprinkled throughout his brown curls.

  “Oh, Rufus!” She dropped her bayonet and scrambled backward. “You’re lousy! Ugh!”

  His face went as scarlet as a ruptured artery. “What can I do about it?”

  Kneeling a safe distance away, Flanna exhaled loudly and tried to think. “First, ask Diltz to cut your hair real short—he’s handy with a blade. Second, soak a cloth in kerosene, then wrap your head in it. Wear it for twenty-four hours, and you’ll kill any remaining nits. Third, go down to the river and take a bath, or better yet, get a pass and go to a bathhouse in town.”

  “But what about now?” He ran his hand over his jacket, his fingers busily scratching at the wool coat.

  “Take off all the clothes you can,” Flanna said, one corner of her mouth twisting. “And we’ll see if we can find a big enough pot to boil ’em in. Hot water ought to kill the little buggers.”

  “Is that why you wash your hands so much?” Andrew Green looked up from the guitar he’d been picking. “Are you afraid of lice?”

  “No more than anything else.” Flanna picked up her bayonet, brushed the dirt from the meat, then popped the last bite into her mouth. She chewed, ignoring the gritty texture of sand on her teeth, and smiled at Green. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you to wash your hands before supper?”

  She looked around for Charity, hoping to ask her to scout out a large pot, but she was nowhere in sight. She’d been leaving Flanna alone a lot, but Flanna hated to rebuke her. Life in the camp had been slow. Aside from morning drill (McClellan was a drilling fanatic), there was not much work to do. So they sat around playing cards, swapping stories, and complaining about everything from the food to the officers. The sergeant, Diltz, and Sheahan played poker nearly every afternoon, and Flanna joked that they won the same ten dollars from each other over and over again.

  She glanced back at Rufus, who was still scratching. “If we can’t find a pot, lad, you find yourself a nice busy anthill and leave your clothes there overnight. The ants will eat the lice right up.”

  “Just don’t forget to brush the ants away in the morning,” Sheahan called. “Or the ants might eat you up!”

  “O’Connor!” Flanna looked up at the sound of Paddy O’Neil’s voice and saw that he had moved inside the tent. He lay on his blanket, his wounded leg stretched out before him. Having avoided the Union hospital altogether, O’Neil seemed well and hearty, with nothing but a slight limp to show that he’d been hit. Flanna insisted that he limped now only when he wanted to be excused from drill.

  “What is it?” she called, ducking beneath the canvas tent flap. In the candlelight, she saw that Paddy held a letter in his hand. From the worried look on his face she feared he’d received bad news.

  “My sweet Maggie has me worried.” O’Neil held the letter up and began to read in a falsetto voice. “Och, my darling, our babe is growin’ so! Just last night he kicked me so hard I couldn’t sleep.”

  O’Neil lowered the letter. “Is that normal, for the babe to be hurt-in’ her?” A glazed look of despair began to spread over his face. “’Cause I can’t abide the thought that the wee one is hurting sweet Maggie. I shudder to think she’s in pain on my account.”

  “You fine eejit, don’t you know that all babies kick their mothers?” Sinking to the ground next to Paddy, Flanna wrapped her arms around her bent knees and decided it would be best not to broach the subject of labor pains. “And what are you going to do about it, you bein’ here and Maggie at home? You’ll trust the good Lord to take care of her, and stop filling your mind with these foolish worries.”

  O’Neil scowled at her, his ruddy brows knitting together. “I’ll not have you make fun of me, you wee stripling! Besides”—he smiled as his flesh colored—“what do I know about having babies? And for that matter, what would you be knowing about it?”

  “Naturally, no more than you.” Flanna gave him a slow smile, then stretched out on the ground, not caring that her hair brushed the dirt, that the boy outside had lice, that the man next to her smelled of sweat and grime. Things that would have sent her reeling across the room six months ago now mattered not at all, and all the silly rules and conventions she’d held so close to her heart seemed about as pointless as scratching a wooden leg. But if Roger had his way, she’d soon be a lady again, wrapped in corsets and silk and a touch-me-not air of isolation.

  She folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, sighing loudly.

  “Tired, O’Connor?” O’Neil asked. “If it’s rest you’re wanting, I could sit outside to read.”

  “Stay where you are, O’Neil,” she answered, not opening her eyes. “Right now I could sleep in the middle of a stampede if I wanted to.”

  She heard him chuckle, then he fell silent, doubtless rereading his letter. Fl
anna did want quiet and time alone, but she wanted to think, not to sleep. Over the course of the afternoon, one fact had crystallized and become abundantly clear—she did not want to leave her messmates. Alden might get her a dress, a new identity, and a tent of her own, but when Franklin O’Connor disappeared, so would her easy and open relationship with these men. And until it was time to go home, they were the only family she had.

  She rolled onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm, and silently swiped at the tear that rolled from her eye. How foolish she’d been at fifteen, thinking herself too ladylike to play with Wesley and her cousins! She had thought the world revolved around beaux and balls until Mammy died. In that hour, nothing mattered but medicine, and though everyone said Flanna could charm the red off an apple, she couldn’t stop Mammy’s lifeblood from draining away. “Go with God,” Mammy had whispered when she realized the end was near. “Do your papa proud, honey. And remember that your Mammy will be waiting for you just inside those pearly gates.”

  Flanna let the words wash through her, shivering her skin like the touch of a gentle ghost. The medicine was important. Not the dresses and proprieties, but the men and their care.

  Roger and Alden would just have to understand.

  Charity pushed Beau’s hand away from her waist, then clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her giggles. “You is bad, Beau!” She stepped back into the shadows near the cargo wagons, knowing he would follow. They were completely alone here, for the soldiers had all gone to their tents and the other servants had bedded down. Like whites in society everywhere, the army didn’t care what the servants did after hours.

  “You come here, woman.” Beau’s arm went around her waist and drew her back into the moonlight, and Charity caught her breath at the strength in his arms. Seemingly oblivious to the cold, he wore a common shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The skin of his hard arms gleamed like polished ebony in the silver light. “Is you gonna speak to your mistress or not?”