Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “For your own safety,” Blair interjected, “I do hope you’ll agree to seek rooms in Littleton, Miss Malone. At the very least until your brothers can be contacted.” He paused. “They will surely wish to return home when they realize that their absence has put you at risk.”

  “Bushwhackers put me at risk,” Maggie snapped. Jack and Seamus hadn’t done anything wrong. She wanted them home, but not because she couldn’t manage without them. “I can’t be begging my brothers to run home, just because there’s been a bit of trouble.”

  Blair and the sheriff exchanged looks. The sheriff took over. “All due respect, Miss Malone”—he nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the farm—“that’s more than just ‘a bit of trouble.’ ” He turned his gaze on Dr. Feeny. “You’ll help her see reason, I hope. No woman should be alone in times like these. It’s a wonder worse didn’t happen.”

  The overseer spoke up. “If y’all will excuse me, it’s time I was getting back to attend to things at the Grove.” The man barely glanced at Maggie, but the look in the glittering eyes visible just above his thick, dark beard made her uncomfortable. Her gaze slid to the neck of his horse. She half expected to see a splash of white.

  Mr. Blair spoke again. “Please let me know if you decide to accept our assistance. Neighbors must support one another in times like these.” He paused. “I am truly sorry that the fears I expressed to your uncle the other day have been realized. I was afraid somethin’ like this would happen when Mr. Devlin told me your brothers had volunteered with the Irish.”

  Dr. Feeny broke in. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to be getting to the business of taking an accounting of things at the Malones’.”

  Maggie chirruped to the team and got the wagon moving again. She looked over at Dr. Feeny. “What did he mean, the ‘Wildwood Guard’?”

  “Another volunteer militia, this one probably funded by Walker Blair, since it’s taken the plantation name.” The farm came into view, and he muttered a low curse.

  Things were worse than Maggie remembered. Intending to pull as close to the barn as possible so that Dix could get Hermione into a stall without too much trouble, she drove the wagon past what had been a thriving garden. It was as if someone had walked the rows with the sole purpose of uprooting every plant. Maggie circled the corral and pulled up at the back of the barn.

  Dix jumped down to open the wide double barn doors. As the pulleys and gears creaked and the doors opened, Maggie looked toward the hog pen. Her heart sank. Seamus’s magnificent boar lay dead in the tall grass, shot in the head, already beginning to bloat in the summer sun.

  As she and Dr. Feeny climbed down from the wagon seat, Maggie heard rather than saw Dix get Hermione penned up in one of the stalls. When Dix exited the barn door, Maggie thanked him and glanced off toward the woods. The cow lay dead up there. Why wasn’t the calf bawling? While she and the doctor trudged past Uncle Paddy’s cabin toward the house, Dix trotted off to see if he could find the calf.

  At the back of the house, Dr. Feeny reached for a chair and pulled it off the top of the pile of furniture that had been tossed out the back door, grimacing as he swore. “They were planning a bonfire. I smell kerosene.”

  “At least they didn’t break it all up,” Maggie said. Still, her heart sank. How would she ever get rid of the smell?

  Crossing to the open back door, she paused at the threshold and took a deep breath before stepping inside. Bits of broken crockery littered the floor. The ruined quilt she’d used to put out flames lay crumpled atop the blackened floorboards bordering the stone hearth. The bushwhackers had even ripped the green beans down from the rafters.

  As Dr. Feeny helped her right the overturned kitchen table, Dix appeared at the back door. He’d found the calf not far from the cow. “I think it was coyotes,” he said. “At least your uncle’s place don’t look bad. They must not-a had time to git to it.”

  A burst of cool air drew Maggie’s attention to the windows. Da had been so proud when he could replace oiled paper with real glass. The bushwhackers had broken every single cherished pane. The stew she’d left simmering when she went hunting had been poured all over Jack’s bed. Only two square panes of glass in the upper corners of the bedroom window had survived.

  In Maggie’s room, the bushwhackers had pulled Da’s small trunk out from beneath her bed, ripped the lid off, and scattered the contents. Pages from Mam’s prayer book lay strewn about the room among the broken bits of her rosary. At the sight of Mam’s torn wedding handkerchief, Maggie groaned oh no and began a frantic search for the coin that had been tied in one corner.

  “What is it?” Dr. Feeny asked.

  Maggie choked out a reply. “An ancient coin that Da dug up when he was a boy. It was the first thing he gave Mam. She had it t-tied—” Her voice gave out. Mam had carried the handkerchief with the coin tied in one corner tucked in her sleeve on her wedding day.

  Why, of all the things in the house, would a man steal an ancient, discolored coin? It made no sense.

  Slumping to the floor, Maggie braced her back against the wall, hid her face in her hands, and gave vent to everything—to fear, to anger, to the sense of loss, and to the longing for things to be as they had been. Kerry-boy padded into the room. Stretching out next to her, he forced his giant head beneath one arm and rested it in her lap while she cried.

  Dr. Feeny handed her a clean handkerchief. “You’re a brave girl, and you’ve earned a good cry, Maggie. I’ll be out back if you need me.”

  The sound of sweeping in the main room finally got her attention. With a last sniff, she moved to get up. Kerry-boy rose with her. Dix kept sweeping. Dr. Feeny was drawing a bucket of water out back. Setting it on the ground, he dipped a brush in it and began to scrub Maggie’s rocking chair.

  Defeat washed over her. Paddy wouldn’t be able to help for weeks, and while Dr. Feeny was being kind to help, he had patients to attend to. Crossing to the back door, she called to Dr. Feeny. “It’s too much for us to handle,” she said. “I’ve something to do for Paddy down at his cabin, and then we can head back into town.” She looked about her. Shook her head. “I just—I need some time to think.”

  As she trudged down the hill toward Uncle Paddy’s cabin, Maggie’s gaze roved back and forth between the distant ridge and the edge of the woods to the east. When a hawk took flight from the top of one of the trees, the sudden movement made goose bumps rise on her arms. The truth was, she might don a courageous mask, but she didn’t want to stay out here by herself—not even with a rifle and Da’s pistol and Kerry-boy—Da’s pistol. Perhaps the bushwhackers had stolen something besides Mam’s wedding coin, after all.

  The leather satchel was right where Uncle Paddy had said it would be, hanging just to the right of his front door. Maggie counted boards and knotholes and retrieved first the key and then a metal box, both of which she thrust into the leather satchel. She paused to look around her before stepping back outside. The bushwhackers hadn’t bothered things here. Surely they’d intended to. Maybe she and Kerry-boy had managed to save something, after all.

  When Maggie stepped back outside, Dr. Feeny was driving the team in a wide semicircle to get the wagon turned around. Dix came trotting out of the barn—he’d said he would see that Hermione had water—smiling. He held up Da’s pistol. “Hermione found it,” he said. “Rutted it out of the straw in that stall where I put her.”

  Learning how Da’s pistol had ended up in the barn would have to wait until Paddy was well enough to tell her. For now, though, Maggie was grateful for the feel of the grip in her palm. She thrust it into her skirt pocket, then handed Paddy’s leather bag to Dix and climbed up beside Dr. Feeny. Kerry-boy and Dix climbed into the wagon bed and they were on their way. As the wagon turned into the road, Maggie gazed back at the ruined garden, which looked like so many piles of wilted weeds just waiting to be gathered and burned.

  Again, uncertainty swept over her. She was not one to cower in the face of a challenge, but she couldn’t he
lp feeling overwhelmed by the task that lay before her. What if the attack on the farm was only the beginning of trouble in Lafayette County?

  In the week after the bushwhackers attacked the farm, it seemed to Maggie that some new bit of gossip or news was forever drawing the men of Littleton out of their homes and into the streets, where they milled about outside the newspaper office, smoking and swearing as they resolved to “fight tyranny” and “preserve liberty at all costs.” The definitions of words changed, depending on who spoke them and whether they sympathized with the North or the South.

  For all his initial reassurances about finding the men responsible for the attack, Sheriff Green did nothing beyond resigning his post and taking up residence at Wildwood Grove as an officer in the Wildwood Guard. He clearly had no intention of “pursuing justice” for the Irish. In the wake of the mounting unrest, Maggie’s neighbors also proved reluctant to help her. She could not blame them. After all, with the former sheriff in the Southern militia and no new sheriff taking the office, wasn’t everyone who flew the Stars and Stripes vulnerable to something similar?

  In the midst of all the turmoil, Maggie did what she could at the farm. With Dix’s help, she swept out the house, scrubbed the kerosene-drenched furniture with lye soap, and hauled bedding and clothes back to town, where together, she and Sally did laundry and mended what they could. By Friday of the week after the attack, the house itself was habitable again, but Dr. Feeny insisted that Maggie could not live there alone—and that Uncle Paddy needed a few more days of recuperation before the two of them returned to the farm.

  Maggie didn’t argue. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but she was grateful for the delay. Confederate and Union militias had taken to marching the streets of Littleton. Thus far, they seemed willing to organize things so that they didn’t meet face to face. Still, things were growing increasingly tense.

  When Paddy developed a rattle in his chest and a wheezing cough that caused him agonizing pain, Dr. Feeny and Dix fetched Hermione into town and Maggie gave up going to the farm. She and Sally took turns sitting with Uncle Paddy, wiping his brow, spooning broth into his mouth, and running for the doctor more than once when it seemed that death had a stranglehold on the wiry little Irishman.

  And still, there was no word from either Jack or Seamus.

  Chapter 6

  Twenty-two days. Maggie stood at the infirmary window looking toward the east as the night sky gave way to the dawn. Jack and Seamus had left twenty-two days ago and she had not heard a word from either one. Paddy had been near death’s door for part of that time, and all told, it had been the worst twenty-two days of her life. But thanks be to the dear Lord, Paddy’s fever had broken in the night.

  “As I said when you first brought him in,” Dr. Feeny had said, “he’s the toughest little man I’ve ever seen.” He’d put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder and given it a pat as he ordered her to get some sleep—lest he have another patient made ill from sheer exhaustion.

  She had slept—for a while. Now, though, as Maggie watched the sky and listened to the morning cries of the songbirds nesting in the trees across the way, she determined that today she would finally write the boys and tell them what had happened out at the farm. Paddy had been very ill. He was going to live, but the farm—Maggie couldn’t handle everything on her own. She needed help and they could decide which of them would give it, but one of them must try to come home. She hated admitting that she needed help, but it was the truth and she supposed there was no shame in telling the truth, even if it did mean she had to admit a weakness.

  Startled by noise out in the street, Maggie slipped out the door and stood, listening. Flickering lamps caught her eye. When she looked toward Main Street, she realized that a good-sized crowd of townsfolk were making their way by lamplight toward the east. She heard the back door of Dr. Feeny’s house open and close, and the doctor came to her side.

  “Is the patient still sleeping?”

  Maggie nodded. “Snoring, in fact—the first natural sleep I think he’s had since he was hurt.”

  The doctor nodded. “That’s good. I’m going to follow those folks and see what I can find out. I’ll be back directly.”

  At first light, Sally crossed the yard from the direction of the cabin where she and Dix lived, just the other side of Dr. Feeny’s barn. She brought a tray out to the clinic, and it wasn’t long before Bridget came in search of her father. Hearing that he’d gone up the street to learn the news, she went after him. Both returned shortly thereafter.

  One look at the pair, and Maggie knew the news was bad. Bridget was clinging to her father’s arm while she sobbed into a handkerchief. The minute she saw Maggie, she wailed, “It’s Jack. There’s been a battle at Boonville and the newspaper has the list and he’s on it.”

  “What list?” Maggie almost barked the question. Was Jack wounded or—please, Father in heaven, Mother Mary, and all the saints—please, not dead.

  “Wounded,” Dr. Feeny said quickly, grasping Bridget about the shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Hysterics are of no help, daughter. Get hold of yourself.”

  Relief so strong that it made her ache flooded through Maggie. Not dead. Something to cling to. Something to hope in. Her weariness forgotten, Maggie asked Sally to stay with Paddy, then lifted her skirts and ran for the newspaper office herself, only vaguely aware that Kerry-boy was at her side. Snatches of conversation among those gathered on the street told her nothing about Jack. If only she’d paid more attention to Paddy’s and the boys’ conversations. If she had, maybe terms like untrained Home Guard and howitzer, picket fire, and retreat would do more than just fray her nerves.

  Thankfully, Dr. Feeny was soon back at her side, and in the next few moments he’d learned enough to explain what had happened. “You already know about the Camp Jackson Affair in St. Louis,” Dr. Feeny said.

  Maggie nodded. “Fighting in the streets. A Captain… Lyon, I think his name was… led Union soldiers to roust secessionist troops from an encampment. He was worried they were planning to march on the arsenal.”

  “That’s right. Since then, Captain Lyon has been promoted. He’s now General Lyon. A week ago, there was a meeting in St. Louis—an attempt to mitigate hostilities between the two sides. It went badly. General Lyon stormed out, but not before saying, ‘This means war.’ Governor Jackson and General Price fled St. Louis and headed for Jefferson City, intending to ‘protect’ the state capital from what they consider an ‘invasion’ by Union troops. General Lyon took two volunteer regiments—Jack and Seamus’s Irish Brigade would have been with them—and went after them, intent on securing the capital and dispersing the rebel troops.

  “Governor Jackson is no fool. He realized that he and his volunteer militia were outnumbered, ordered the bridges on the main rail lines burned, and withdrew fifty miles upriver from Jefferson City to Boonville. When the two sides met, Lyon not only had superior numbers, but many of them were well-trained regular army—and they were supported by a howitzer mounted aboard the steamer McDowell.

  “It was more of a skirmish than a battle. Word is that the state’s secessionist government is in flight, with Governor Jackson and his supporters retreating toward the southwest in concert with Major General Price and the Missouri State Guard which, by all accounts, is growing as they march south and are joined by secessionist sympathizers bent on ‘saving Missouri from tyranny.’ ”

  “If the Southerners mean to join up with their men in the southwest,” Maggie asked, “doesn’t that mean the Wildwood Guard will go, too, and leave us in peace?”

  Dr. Feeny pondered the idea. “I don’t know, but—there’s sure to be a struggle for control of the river, because that represents communication and supply lines. A Union-controlled river would also be a natural barrier to rebels trying to cross over from the northern part of the state and join up with the enemy.”

  The enemy. To General Lyon’s men, the Wildwood Guard was the enemy.

  Dr. Feeny put a
comforting hand on her shoulder. “As I said, it was more of a skirmish than a battle. Only three of the wounded are local boys.”

  Three. Maggie hadn’t even thought there might be others and felt guilty for it. “Who else?”

  “Edgar James and Dick Green—both with the Guard.”

  With the Guard. The Rebels. Dick Green was the sheriff’s brother.

  When Maggie said it aloud, Dr. Feeny nodded. “You know Edgar’s brother, as well. He’s the overseer at Wildwood Grove.”

  Maggie just shook her head. The men who should be chasing down the bushwhackers were more than just “sympathetic” to the Confederacy. They had family in the fight. Family who’d shot at Jack and Seamus… who’d tried to kill them. She blurted out a question. “What will they do with the wounded?”

  “Army surgeons will have already tended to Jack,” Dr. Feeny said. “If his injuries are slight, he might remain with the regiment while he heals. He could be given light duty in camp—depending, of course, on whether they remain in camp. They could be charged with holding Boonville, or they could be sent elsewhere. No one believes that one skirmish is going to settle things in Missouri.”

  War. Battles. Skirmishes. Was anyone safe? “And if his injuries aren’t slight?”

  “Then he’ll probably be sent downriver to the military hospital at St. Louis. By steamboat or a combination of steamboat and railcar—assuming the track from Jefferson City to St. Louis hasn’t been entirely destroyed.”

  Destroyed. Train track destroyed, steamboats armed with howitzers… it made what had happened at the farm pale in comparison. How long would things go on? How much more would be destroyed… how many lives… Maggie and Dr. Feeny had been walking back toward the clinic while they talked. It was going to be a fine day with bright blue skies and brilliant sunshine, but as Maggie contemplated the future, she clutched her shawl about her in a vain attempt to cast off a bone-deep chill.

  Maggie had never paid much attention to the steamboat whistles that drifted up from the levee when she was in Littleton, but once she knew that Jack was hurt, every signal roused her. What if, at this very moment, he was hearing arrivals and departures sounded downriver at the Boonville levee? Who was tending him? What if he needed extra care? Was there anyone to ease his pain? What, exactly, had happened to him?