Alias Dragonfly

by Jane Singer

  I burst into the tent, knocking hard into a half-dressed soldier just as he was holding a razor to his cheek. He wheeled around whipping shaving soap all over my face and coat.

  “What in Hades? I’ll beat you blue!” He pushed me to the ground, his foot on my chest.

  At the sight of me sprawled on the floor of the tent and helpless, he emptied the rest of the shaving water all over me. He reached for his rifle.

  “Summoner Bradford!” I yelled loud as can be. “Summoner Bradford! He’ll know me.”

  “Sergeant!” he shouted out the tent flap. “Intruder!” The gun was pointed at me.

  Three men pushed into the tent. One of them was my father. The soldier, half his face shaved and looking like a striped raccoon, motioned to me. I must have looked a fright; a mass of coat, hair and mud-covered boots splayed on the floor.

  My father knelt over me.

  “My God, Maddie.”

  “Please, sir,” the shaving soldier said, “this brat barged right in!”

  “I’ll take it from here,” my father said.

  “The ‘it’ is me, right, Papa?” I summoned sass, swallowing the bile in my throat.

  “Do something about her, Private Bradford,” a soldier ordered. “We leave soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” my father answered, holding me tight.

  When the soldiers backed out of the tent, my father picked me up in his arms.

  He wiped my face with the sleeve of his coat. “My God, child, this is madness. I’m sending you straight back to my sister.”

  “No! No! No!” I yelled. “I’m not going back!”

  My father slapped my face. He’d never struck me. We both jumped back, horrified.

  “Oh, Maddie, I’m sorry, I—”

  There was a thudding of booted feet outside the tent. “Private Bradford?” a voice called. “Muster, and inspection. The Captain’s orders.”

  Just as my father lifted the tent flap, I slipped past him, dropped low, and crawled under horse’s legs and shiny, new soldier boots, sliding along like an eel on a river bottom.

  If my father tried to push through the masses of men and mounts to come after me, I was long gone, having shinnied up an oak tree, hidden in the thick branches.

  “Maaaadddiiie!” My father’s cry was muted by the stamping and snorting of the horses.

  “I love you, Papa,” I whispered.

  I stayed up in that tree until the endless ant line of soldiers wound their way out of the campgrounds. My body was aching, my stomach rumbling with hunger. I must have been there for at least four long hours.

  A lone picket—one of the soldiers who’d caught me—paced to and fro beneath the tree. I could hear his sighs like he was breathing in my ear. I dared not move. At last he mounted his horse, spurring him to a gallop.

  Now what? I looked down to see if any horses had been left behind for me to ride. There were none in sight. I swore to myself that I’d find a way to follow my father’s regiment.

  I shinnied down the tree trunk. Just as my feet neared the ground, someone grabbed me by the leg.

  Seven

  I aimed my boot at his head. “Stop!” he yelled, “I’m—” He dodged another kick. “I’m here to help you.” He tucked me up under his arm like I weighed nothing and carried me to an open rig. I twisted and kicked against him. “Let me go!” I yelled. He staggered and then caught himself. Was I being kidnapped?

  “Get in, head down,” he ordered, lifting me inside the rig. My coat hung in tatters from being torn by branches. It was flapping behind me as I slumped behind him in the seat, trying to catch my breath.

  I pulled my revolver out of my boot, and pointed it at him.

  “Don’t shoot!” He pushed back the slouch hat that nearly covered his face. I saw black, shiny curls. And eyes, well, that were greener than green. It was Jake Whitestone.

  “How dare you!” I shouted.

  “Dare I what? Rescue you?”

  “Follow me, find me, and chase me!” I was steaming mad, and relieved that he wasn’t a Rebel. Or maybe he was, and I didn’t know what to think. I was really tired, and hungry and thirsty, and—

  He handed me a canteen. I gulped the water.

  “Find your strength,” he said. Then he gave me a piece of hardtack. The cracker was rock-solid. I bit down but couldn’t make a dent. Find your strength. He slapped the reins. “Get, now get!” The horse vaulted forward.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Your father’s regiment is going to face General Beauregard at Manassas Railroad Junction. It’s a twenty-mile ride,” Jake Whitestone said, his back to me.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Centreville is two miles from Manassas,” he said. “I figured it out from there.”

  “It’s twenty-two and three-quarters miles, exactly. I know just where. I’ve studied a map of Virginia,” I snapped, bouncing and pitching in the carriage seat.

  Whatever Jake Whitestone was doing there, at least he was getting me closer to my father. I’d leave him at Centreville no matter what.

  “I’ve never driven a rig like this, so hold on,” he shouted over the crunch and crackle of wheels and reins. “And if you hit me again, I’ll throw you out. I rescued you, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah? I was doing just fine until you showed up.”

  The map in my head told me that we had to wind along New Hampshire Avenue, going straight down to reach the Potomac River and cross over at the Long Bridge. The streets were clogged with pedestrians and wagons as usual, but there weren’t many soldiers among them. Had all the Union troops gone into Virginia?

  I smelled a briny and swampy odor I was sure must be the river. I knew once we crossed it we would be on the Confederate side.

  Two soldiers stood near a wooden hut. They raised up their rifles as our carriage drew close. One of them leaned down and took a long look at me. His rifle butt was really close to my face.

  “What is your business?”

  I started to speak, but Jake interrupted me. “My little brother here got drunk back in Washington City. I have to get him back to Centreville before my Pa finds out he’s missing.”

  The soldier studied me, the ragged boy I was pretending to be.

  “Yesh, sir,” I slurred my voice. “I can’t stand up for nothing. Jeez, all I had was a pint of ale, jeez.”

  “Shut up, Tommy,” Jake said, producing a paper and waving it in the soldier’s face. “I’m with the medical corps. After I get rid of him, I’m going on to Manassas. I hear they’ll be a fight.”

  “Praise God, yes,” the other soldier said. He looked nervous. I realized he was really young. His blue uniform looked brand new. “Go on over,” he said. “Sober up that smelly kid there. Get going before I change my mind.”

  Jake saluted them, and we started over the bridge.

  I was amazed at how Jake handled the pickets. And he called me Tommy! I couldn’t help but smile to myself. But I sure wasn’t going to praise him to his face.

  Right then, Jake ducked as a bullet sailed straight over his head and crashed into a tree. The horse reared up, nearly pitching over the carriage.

  “Damn, I missed!” a voice shouted from behind us.

  “Do you have a weapon?” I grabbed Jake’s arm.

  “No.” He slapped the reins, hard.

  The horse stumbled over a rock, nearly tipping us over again.

  I pulled out my gun. “I know how to use this, even if you don’t.”

  “Sure I do,” he answered in a wobbling voice, turning the color of ash. Did I mention that Jake Whitestone had really pale skin?

  A man with red, tangled hair, wearing a jacket striped green and yellow, galloped past, his revolver pointed straight at us.

  I aimed at the man. My God, could I shoot him if I had to?

  “Go, go!” Jake yelled at the horse.

  The man lowered his weapon and spat into the air. “Not worth it!” the man laughed. “Itty bitty pea fowl in that buggy. I got bi
gger to catch. I got to kill me some Yanks!” Cursing and laughing, he sped past us.

  I slumped back into the seat, my back sore, and my body weak with hunger.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he answered, his voice a bit shaky. “Are you?”

  “Of course.” I wasn’t really okay at all, but darned if I was going to tell him.

  I kept dozing off, and jerking back awake as we passed through miles of beautiful farmlands. Horses and cows grazed in the green, tall grasses. Spring flowers dotted hillsides. Far back from the road sat wide-porched houses, with low-slung ramshackle buildings—shanties—scattered behind them. Negro men, women, and children, lines of them, trudged through the fields. The men were pushing plows. Even women with babies in slings were carrying heavy bags on their backs. Now and again a white man on a horse would appear wielding a whip. I saw a young Negro man down on the ground, his shirt in tatters, his back bloodied.

  “Welcome to Virginia,” Jake said.

  I was too stunned to answer. Sure I’d seen so many different, unsettling things in Washington City, but the sights, the truth of what people did to one another, made a deep furrow of pain in my heart. I will never forget those moments as long as I live.

  From afar, Centreville was a town of low-lying wooden buildings, clusters of soldiers milling about, some mounted, some not. Jake Whitestone veered off the road into a grove of tall oaks. We pushed further into a glade where the air dipped to coolness, and there was nary a sound except for the bubble and rush of a stream.

  “We’ll camp here and follow the regiment as soon as they move,” Jake said, unhitching the horse.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I answered, heading away. He really muddled me. I was really muddled myself. But I had to get to my father. So I just ran. I was so tired and clumsy in the stupid old boots, I stumbled as I scrambled over some rocks and fallen tree limbs.

  He caught up to me.

  “Let me go!” I pushed him away. “Unless you want a fight.”

  “Go then, you damn fool! They’re in camp now, not moving. If you even spot your father, he’ll send you back! Is that what you want? Or are you really crazy enough to think you can pass as a soldier?”

  “Yes!”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, yet. I’ll figure it out!”

  “Crazy, and dangerous, and . . . forget it.” He wheeled around and limped off.

  I sat down on a tree stump. Okay, I thought, what the heck do I do now? He’s got the horse and buggy. I’d keep my distance from him and then make a decision. Right. I’d steal the horse.

  I crept close to the buggy. No good. Jake was there, hoisting a feedbag. I’d have to wait until nightfall. “I’ll feed the horse,” I said.

  Giving me a wary look, he handed me the feedbag. I slipped it over the animal’s neck. The poor horse looked as weary as I felt. At least someone was eating.

  Jake Whitestone handed me down a wrinkled, homespun dress and a heavy blanket. “Mrs. Salome’s laundry pile does come in handy,” he said. “Wash up, for all our sakes, and change back to your true self, I might add.”

  Rudely, I yanked the dress from him. He turned his back to me.

  “Your true self is not so bad,” he said, walking away. “Call me when you’re done.” I think I must have turned fifty shades of red when I heard that.

  I kept walking, following the sound of water on rocks. Just ahead was a stream. I stood there for a moment. Should I run off? Find my father’s camp? What if he wasn’t there? Oh, but the water looked so inviting, and I was so weary. I plunged my hands into the stream and splashed my face. Coolness, blessed coolness. I lowered my head and drank like a parched animal.

  My filthy clothes felt like they were plastered on me. I glanced around. No, Jake Whitestone wasn’t limping through the brush. I would have heard him approaching anyway, right?

  Slowly I removed the jacket. I waited, listening.

  Next, the ragged pants. And oh, those killing boots! Off they went. I held the revolver over my head with one hand, and waded waist-high into the stream in just my bodice and pantaloons.

  With one hand, I splashed water on my face and hair again. My curls ran with dirt into long, wet tendrils. Oh, how good it felt. My aching body slowly relaxed, my face and eyes washed clean of grit.

  “If you’re through, help me make camp,” Jake called out.

  I cleared out of that stream in an instant, grabbed up the blanket and dried myself. I threw on the dress. With no corset at hand, and no petticoats, the dress felt soft and giving against my skin.

  “Come on!” he called again.

  When I returned to our camp, Jake was scooping pine needles into his hands, sitting flat on the ground, his bad leg stretched out, looking wan and tired.

  “You look better clean,” he said.

  Without saying anything to him—and believe me, I did want to sass him good—I broke a three-forked branch off a tree and used it as a rake. In minutes I had a large, soft pile of pine needles topped with leaves. He’d be better off on something soft than lying on the ground. Oh boy, why did I care?

  I backed away and motioned to the pile. He lay down on it, and sighed.

  “Have you got food?” I asked. “And don’t tell me just hardtack.”

  He was rubbing his leg as though to put strength back in it. “In the rig, in a tin box.” His voice was weary. “Please, can you fetch it?”

  Why didn’t I answer? Why was I being so rude? Wasn’t he trying to help me? You know how sometimes you get all the words ready to say, and nothing comes out? Yes, that was me.

  I climbed into the rig, rummaged around until I found the tin box. Inside were apples and walnuts and a bit of cheese.

  Should I flee? No. Food first.

  I cracked the nuts with a rock with nary a break in them, as I’d seen Mama do.

  We gobbled the food.

  I’d never been alone with any man other than my father, and yet I felt no fear. Strange, it was, and new and . . . okay, it was exciting.

  How would I get away? And then it hit me. Did I really want to?

  Jake Whitestone stared at me as though he was reading my thoughts. I knew he couldn’t, but it made me feel warm, jittery, and anxious, all at once.

  I found a place for myself a good distance from him under a willow tree. Jake Whitestone lay down, his eyes closed.

  I sat there watching him, the way his young face relaxed, the rise and fall of his chest, and—

  A hawk screeched overhead. Night birds were descending. A bat flew out of a tree, seesawing into the sky. Things, live things chirred and chittered in the bushes. Late day was fading, night loomed.

  While I was focusing on every little sound, I noticed Jake was awake, staring at me.

  “Why don’t you get some rest,” he said, moving his leg and wincing from pain. I felt sorry for him right then.

  “My mother would make a plaster of nettles and mustard grass, to take the ache out of that leg of yours,” I said. “But I can’t scout out those things with so little light.”

  Darkness was closing over the canopy of trees. In the distance, horses whinnied, and I could hear the low voices of soldiers, the clanking of cook pots, and smell the sharp, acrid tang of fire smoke. I leaned back against the trunk of a sturdy oak, listening, ever listening for the smallest sounds of hoof beats, the calls of moving soldiers. Why were they staying put? I wondered. What were they waiting for?

  Jake’s voice was quiet, and very sad. “I wish I could turn back time, to stop the omnibus from crushing my leg when I was four years old. And killing my mother when she jumped out to help me.”

  “My mother died six months ago,” I said. I felt a sharp pain where my heart was. I hadn’t spoken about her until that moment.

  “I’m really sorry, Miss Bradford.”

  He moved a bit closer to me, slowly, like he was approaching a deer that was about to bolt away.

  I didn’t bolt, but I was ready. I’
d never been in a situation anything like this before. I was uneasy and curious at the same time.

  “I hardly remember my mother,” he said. “We lived in Georgia. My father was a cotton merchant. He decided to move to New York, where his business was headquartered. He was making piles of money off the backs of slaves. I’d seen plenty of their suffering, and it never seemed right to me, but then I heard Mr. Lincoln speak at Cooper Union about how no man should ever be in chains. Oh, how I agreed! I was in school in New York and after classes, working at a job . . . well, it was something I’d always wanted to do.”

  “What job was that?” I asked

  “It was . . . teaching, teaching children. I love children.” He was rambling a bit. Maybe he was just tired. “I hardly saw my father,” Jake said. “When the war started, he declared his allegiance to the Confederate cause. He said now that South. I refused to go. He hit me hard and told me to get out. I stayed in a sad old rooming house full of poor people and women, who, well, were not seemly, and then I was sent, I mean, I came to Washington City.

  “To join the fighting?” Right away I felt guilty. That was nasty of me to say. I could see his leg was really bad. “Wait here,” I said, heading for the stream. I scooped up a bit of wet mud.

  I went over to Jake. “Rub this on your leg,” I said stiffly.

  He did just that. “It’s warm, then cooling, then, oh, God, that feels better. Thank you.”

  His face relaxed. He moved his leg back and forth. I started away.

  “Please stay,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Okay.” I have to admit, I wanted to stay.

  “I’m ashamed that I cannot be a soldier,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m nearly eighteen, old enough to serve in that way.”

  “Why did you follow me?” I asked. And what should I do? I wondered. I stood up and moved a bit closer, my hands on my hips. “Why did you follow me?” I asked again when he didn’t answer. “Why?”

  “I need to be here too,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

  “Why?”

  “None of your business,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, Miss Bradford. I’m . . . I’m trying to help, okay?”