Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  As she stuffed the hem of her skirt back into her belt so that she could run unimpeded, Maggie finally saw the other men. Her heart sank at the sight of two of them dragging a seemingly unconscious Paddy Devlin out of the barn. The owners of the remaining two horses must have gone into the house, for as Maggie grasped the rifle and rose to her feet, someone launched her rocking chair out the back door.

  Pulling the stopper out of the powder horn with her teeth, she planted the butt of the rifle on the ground and poured in powder. Next came the patch. She placed a ball atop it, thumbed patch and ball into the barrel, and ramrodded it into place, then charged down the hill, yelling at the top of her lungs. The two men carrying Paddy dropped him in the dirt and tried to wrest their guns from their holsters.

  When one of them got off a wild shot, Kerry-boy charged him. Seeing his partner dragged down by the snarling wolfhound, the other man yelled, dove through the two rails that formed the corral fence, jerked the reins of his horse free, mounted up, and took off. As their partner fled, the two men Kerry-boy had knocked off their horses began to fire at the dog. Her heart racing, Maggie stopped running, took aim, and fired. She didn’t hit anything, but with a glance in her direction, two more men scrambled aboard their horses and charged into the woods and out of sight.

  Maggie worked to reload and take up the fight against the lone bandit left down by the barn, screaming as she ran. Her lungs burning, she didn’t falter as she once again cocked the rifle. This time, though, she hesitated. Was it her imagination, or had Paddy moved? He must have, for Kerry-boy hesitated for a split second and looked over at him. The hesitation gave the lone man near the barn the chance to take aim.

  Her heart thumping, Maggie took aim herself and fired again. This time, she didn’t miss. The man screamed, dropped his weapon, and clutched his arm. Instead of attacking, Kerry-boy trotted to Paddy’s side, lowered his head to snuffle at his still form, and then stood over him, protecting Paddy. The injured bandit fumbled to pick up his gun, shoving it back into its holster while he charged to his horse. Flinging himself into the saddle, he hightailed it after the other three.

  Maggie looked toward the house. The men inside had stopped launching things out the back door. Crouching down, Maggie scrabbled her way to the well and ducked behind it, listening as she loaded the rifle, willing herself to breathe evenly, ignoring the terror clawing at her midsection. A scraping sound lured her to peer out from behind the well just in time to see the back door close. She heard the bar drop over it.

  Footsteps sounded as the two men—ran? Out the front! Half cocking the rifle this time, she charged right, rounded the front corner of the house, and jumped onto the porch, just in time to see a flash of gray as the two men disappeared in the direction of the barn. She was headed after them, but a flicker of yellow light made her look into the house. Fire! They’d raked the embers out of the fireplace, and flames had begun to lick at the floorboards near the hearth. Uncocking the rifle, Maggie charged inside.

  The interior of the house had been ransacked. The cream pitcher she treasured as the only thing she had of her mother’s lay in pieces on the floor. Setting the rifle just inside the door, she snatched up the quilt that was usually draped across the back of her rocker and threw it over the embers, smothering the flames as best she could. Snatching up the rifle, she darted back outside and chased after the two remaining gunmen. In their frenzy to escape, they hadn’t taken time to shoot at anything more. All Maggie saw was a flash of pale slouch hats and two dark bay rumps, as the last two men spurred their horses into the woods beyond the barnyard fence.

  Dropping her rifle, Maggie dove between the fence rails. When her skirt caught on the bottom rung, she ripped it free and sank to the earth beside Paddy’s still form. Kerry-boy stepped aside and sank down onto his haunches. She was shaking so, she could hardly manage to support herself with her arms as she leaned close, listening, praying to feel even the faintest whisper of a breath. Tears streaming down her face, she called the old man’s name, but in vain.

  Kerry-boy gave a soft woof. Stretching out his great head, he touched the tip of his tongue to Paddy’s cheek. When Paddy didn’t move, Kerry-boy gave the cheek a bigger swipe. His tail thumped. Just once.

  Maggie took up one of the old man’s still, battered hands and held it to her cheek, sobbing. And then the miraculous happened. A moan. A tremulous cough, followed by a louder moan.

  Kerry-boy rose to his feet and began licking Paddy’s swollen face in earnest, pausing from time to time to let out a bark. His tail never stopped wagging.

  “All right, Kerry-boy,” Maggie sobbed. “All right.” She looked down at Paddy. “I’m going to get the team hitched up and get you to Doc Feeny,” she said. “Do you hear me, Paddy? You’re going to be all right.”

  She rose to her feet and saw stars. Squeezing her eyes shut, she brushed her forehead with the back of one hand. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes again. For the first time, she noticed the milk cow. Dead, up along the tree line.

  The horses! The team! What if—she staggered toward the barn, relieved when two golden heads appeared over the tops of the stalls. She glanced over her shoulder at Paddy. He must have put himself between the bandits and the team. And nearly died for it.

  “You old fool,” Maggie muttered as she raced to harness the team and hitch them to the farm wagon. “You wonderful… stupid… brave… ridiculous…” As the words tumbled out, so did her tears. She mumbled and fumbled her way to being ready to drive Paddy to town, running back to the house only long enough to gather more blankets and quilts to cushion the ride as much as possible.

  Lowering the back gate of the wagon, she bent to pick the wiry little man up and transfer him to the pallet in the back of the wagon. She just managed it, albeit not without a few decidedly not-feminine grunts. Kerry-boy leaped up beside Paddy, and Maggie lifted the tail gate and bolted it in place. As she laid Paddy’s musket next to him, she said, “Don’t you so much as consider the possibility of slippin’ from this earth, Paddy Devlin.”

  Paddy grimaced as he raised one hand from the pallet. It wasn’t much, but it would do. Hurrying to the wagon seat, Maggie shoved Da’s rifle beneath it and climbed aboard. For the first time in her life, she was grateful that God had made her as she was. A fine lady would never have been able to lift Paddy into a wagon. Nor would she have torn down that hill, screaming while she loaded a rifle. What a sight it must have been. She supposed she should be embarrassed to think on it, but she was not embarrassed. She was proud. And furious.

  Maggie grasped the reins with her fine, strong hands and, bracing her feet against the footrail before her, leaned forward and urged the team into a barely controlled gallop. She could only imagine the pain Paddy was enduring as the wagon bumped along the rutted country road. Even poor Kerry-boy yelped from time to time as he was tossed this way or that. But, Lord bless him, he didn’t leave Paddy’s side.

  Terrified at the thought that at every turn she might encounter the bandits returning to finish what they’d started, wondering if she’d managed to put the house fire out or if a smoldering ember would reignite the pine floor surrounding the stone hearth, Maggie felt the effects of cold terror begin to wrap its way around her until she thought she might not be able to draw breath.

  Finally, gathering every ounce of her failing strength, Maggie shouted over her shoulder, “They haven’t beaten us yet, Paddy! Hang on!” She began to sing a tune that Da had learned from his father, who’d fought alongside Protestants in a rebellion against the British in 1798. She didn’t know the full meaning of the words, but shouting at the top of her lungs about warriors and “brave, warlike bands,” gave her courage.

  Chapter 3

  Malachi’s amber eyes were warm with sympathy, even as he refused to obey the mistress of Wildwood Grove. “I’m sorry, Miss Libbie, but Mastah Blair said you wasn’t to ride until the Home Guard has a chance to make the county safe again. He jus’ left with Sheriff Green. Don’t know wh
at that was all about, but the sheriff came charging up on that big white horse of his and fairly ran in the house and it wasn’t five minutes that here come Mastah Blair out to have me saddle Highboy. They rode off together and left me to tell ya. Mastah said he couldn’t find you.”

  Libbie looked toward the house. She’d been helping Annabelle hang herbs to dry on a rack in the keeping room. If Walker had made any effort at all, he could easily have found her. She would have heard him if he’d so much as stepped out the back door of the house and called her name.

  Malachi must have misunderstood Libbie’s silence, for his tone was placating as he said, “You know I got to obey, Miss Libbie. I shore am sorry.”

  “I do know, Malachi. Thank you.” Libbie looked past Malachi to the long row of stalls. Her chestnut gelding had heard her voice and thrust his fine head over the half door to his stall. He was looking her way, his ears alert.

  Malachi had been polishing the carriage when Libbie came out to the stable, expecting to take the ride she’d taken every afternoon since Walker had given her Pilot. She was so predictable about it that, once she was in the saddle, the horse scarcely needed to be guided. They would ride down to the river, following it for several miles, and then climb up to where the combination of a concave rock wall and the flat clearing at its base created a natural shelter that not only offered an expansive view of the river but also kept anyone resting there out of sight of anyone who might be riding along the ridge above. Pilot would drink from the natural spring bubbling out of the earth nearby, and then wait quietly while Libbie savored the time alone.

  Libbie looked back at poor Malachi, fidgeting with the polishing cloth, rubbing a corner of it between thumb and forefinger while he waited, no doubt expecting her to rain fire and brimstone down upon his head. After all, that’s what Walker did when things didn’t go according to his liking. Taking a deep breath, Libbie looked across the well-manicured lawn, past the house, and toward the ever-changing river. This, too, will pass. Let it flow on by. It’s just one more “Walker.”

  Libbie sighed. She supposed she could deal with one more Walker. After all, she’d been dealing with the difficulties that characterized life with her older brother for so long that she’d given them his name. Walkers were things ridiculous, things unreasonable, and—on occasion—things downright mean and ugly that no gentleman would want known among his gentlemen friends. Unless, of course, they were all smoking cigars together after withdrawing after supper, at which point Libbie supposed they commiserated over the silliness of the women in their lives so that they could feel absolved for the sins involved with their own Walkers.

  Malachi cleared his throat. “I know that color on your cheek blooms best when you is upset, but I can’t help what I got to do. Please don’t be angry with me, Miss Libbie.”

  Libbie smiled at him. “I know it’s not your fault. It’s just that I was looking forward to my ride.”

  “I know you was,” Malachi said and nodded at the horse. “And so was Pilot.”

  At the sound of his name, the horse whickered. That made Libbie smile. Waving Malachi back to his polishing, she stepped inside the open stable door and proceeded to the tack room. Laying her riding crop aside, she retrieved a currycomb, a brush, and a rope lead. At Pilot’s stall, she snapped the lead to his halter and led the leggy gelding out into the wide passageway. He didn’t really need grooming, but it was as good an excuse as any to spend time with him, and a better excuse than most to avoid going back up to the house before she’d had time to mitigate her frustration with her brother’s tyrannical rule over her life.

  If only Mama and Papa hadn’t succumbed to the cholera. If only there’d been anywhere else for Libbie to go. Of course, she could have married and remained in Tennessee, but that would have meant waking up every morning in bed with Lorenzo Cadwalader, and even eight years into life here on the Missouri River, that notion still made her shudder with revulsion. Life as Walker’s hostess might not be perfect, but it was far better than taking the name Cadwalader.

  Walker hadn’t wanted her at first, but that had changed, once he set his eyes on a political office. When he realized the benefit of having a beautiful hostess, there had been rewards for being in his good graces. Pilot was one of those rewards. Walker had presented the horse after a particularly wonderful barbeque here at Wildwood Grove. He’d called it an early birthday present, but Libbie had learned the real reason for Walker’s unusual display of generosity from Sheriff Isham Green the first time she rode Pilot into Littleton. Apparently someone powerful had complimented the fine food and “the lovely hostess” just before uttering the words governor and Walker Blair in the same sentence.

  Walker was nothing if not a man who made it his business to protect his assets, and apparently “his lovely hostess” was a valuable one. Which was probably why, Libbie realized, as she brushed Pilot’s already gleaming coat, Walker had told Malachi that Miss Libbie was not to be allowed to ride “until the Home Guard had made things safe again.” Heaven only knew exactly what that meant.

  As far as Libbie knew, the unpleasantness in the East had yet to affect Lafayette County—at least directly. Some of the local boys were rattling their sabers and heading off to join Governor Jackson’s Missouri Volunteers, but other than Billy Ellerbe, no one Libbie knew personally had done so. She only knew about Billy because Serena had driven over the day he left and made quite a dramatic scene of weeping and wailing.

  Malachi was humming a familiar hymn while he polished the carriage. When he stopped mid-verse, Libbie stood on tiptoe and gazed across Pilot’s broad back toward the house. Walker and Sheriff Green had returned. Both men were tying their horses to the hitching posts that bordered the curved drive behind the house, but instead of going on into the house, they were heading toward the stable.

  Libbie grimaced. If only she’d left Pilot in his stall and worked on him there. She might have had a chance to scoot out the side door. There was no chance of that now. The brilliant late afternoon sunlight behind the two men had obscured the details, but as they came closer, Libbie realized that Sheriff Green had donned a uniform. Malachi hadn’t said anything about it when he’d mentioned seeing the sheriff earlier. Then again, Libbie knew that the servants chose their words very carefully when speaking to or about white people.

  Libbie couldn’t decide if Green looked dashing or ridiculous, but when she caught sight of the exceedingly long ostrich feather tucked into the hatband of his pale gray hat and his thigh-high black leather boots, she was inclined to think the latter. Two rows of gold buttons accented his double-breasted gray frock coat. He’d tucked both sides of the coat out of the way in a rather obvious attempt to display the brown holster on the right and the glittering new cavalry sword on the left, each one held in place by a black belt fastened with a polished brass buckle. If there’d been any doubt as to where Isham Green’s loyalties lay, it was laid to rest by the letters C and S on the oval buckle.

  Green spoke first, sweeping the hat off his head and exclaiming, “I understood that Walker said you weren’t to go riding.”

  Libbie smiled at him. “Good afternoon to you, too, Sheriff Green.” She glanced down at the braid on his sleeve. “Or is it already General Green? I have no idea how to interpret all this finery—beyond the obvious, which is that you are goin’ to war. And as to my brother’s dictum, I have obeyed it.” She smiled at Walker.

  Walker smiled back—rather distractedly, Libbie thought—then said, “Recent events have made it clear that if we are to protect our way of life, we must all make sacrifices. I have decided to heed the call, Elizabeth.” With a little flourish, he indicated Sheriff Green. “Isham has accepted the appointment as my major.” He straightened a bit and lifted his chin. “I’m to be Colonel Walker Blair of the Wildwood Guard.”

  Taken by surprise, Libbie blurted out the first thing that came to mind at the ridiculous notion of Walker as a soldier. “You’re—but Walker, you’re nearly middle-aged. Surely you can’
t intend—”

  Sheriff Green interrupted. “It’s an honorary position, Miss Walker. No one expects your brother to actually take up arms and fight. That part of the battle is for younger men. But there is much that a man of your brother’s standing can offer to our valiant cause.”

  Ah. Suddenly, Libbie understood. She glanced at Walker. “They want your money.” The moment she’d said the words, she realized she’d made a terrible mistake. Walker would not appreciate her tone of voice. Even if she’d only said it in front of the servants, he would have been angry for days. He’d locked her in her room for lesser offenses. But for her to blurt out something like that in front of Isham Green?

  Libbie’s heartbeat ratcheted up as she wondered what Walker might do after the sheriff left. She began to rake her fingers through Pilot’s mane in an effort to camouflage the fact that she’d begun to tremble. “Of course I’m only a silly woman,” she said. “I don’t understand such things.” She took a deep breath. “I do suppose it takes money to fight a war, doesn’t it? And a great deal of it, at that.” She swallowed. “We must all make sacrifices, I suppose.”

  Sheriff Green nodded. “Your brother has made a much more personal sacrifice than money. Just now, in a meeting with several key men, he offered up his dearest possession for the sake of our glorious cause.”

  With a smug smile, Walker explained, “I’ve offered the Grove as headquarters for the regiment. The officers—including Major Green—will be our guests for the foreseeable future.”

  Hence, the Wildwood Guard. Of course. Libbie nodded. “I see.”

  “I’ve already put Asa James to work makin’ arrangements to move some of the livestock in preparation for the encampment—and a parade ground, of course,” Walker said. “In due course, I expect we’ll be able to see the light of a hundred campfires from our upstairs balcony.” His expression changed as he added, “And God help any Federal regiment that threatens Wildwood Grove—or its inhabitants.”