Her imagination sketched horrible things against the backdrop of the day’s activities. Round and round her thoughts went, while Paddy alternately sipped broth and slept like the dead—a healing sleep, Dr. Feeny declared it. Maggie allowed a little smile at the notion that Paddy’s snoring meant he was returning to himself. His horrific snore had inspired the construction of his cabin. Da had tried to save Paddy’s feelings by saying that Paddy had more than earned a place of his own, but they all knew the real reason—and here it was, loud enough to raise the rafters and rattle the windows.
The day dragged on, with Maggie walking back and forth to the newspaper office several times, hoping for more news or a miracle in the form of a letter from Jack or Seamus. With the sun setting and the last steamboat whistle of the day sounding, she shrugged into her shawl and stepped outside to look up at the evening sky. If Jack had a fever, would anyone sit by his cot and sponge his forehead? Would anyone spoon broth into his mouth and help him regain his strength?
With a glance behind her and a murmured “come along” to Kerry-boy, Maggie hurried back to the newspaper office. Boonville was only a few steamboat stops downriver. Whatever had happened to Jack, not knowing was causing her more suffering than anything she might discover by going to him. If she left in the morning, she could be there by sunset—maybe sooner if she managed to board a lightly loaded packet piloted by a captain bent on speed. Paddy was on the mend and in good hands. As for the farm, it would have to wait. In the grand and horrible scheme of her boys being caught up in a war and one of them wounded, wandering pigs and broken windows didn’t really matter that much.
Once at the newspaper office, Maggie peered up at the riverboat schedule posted on a board just outside the door. The Nellie Magee was expected tomorrow, her destination St. Louis by way of Lexington, Glasgow, Boonville, and a long list of other stops that didn’t matter, because Maggie wasn’t going beyond Boonville—unless Jack had been sent to the military hospital at St. Louis.
She would need money. Would Dr. Feeny make a loan? She would offer to work it off washing windows or cleaning the clinic. She’d offer him Hermione. If he refused, she’d talk to Mr. Irving and ask him to make a loan against the credit balance they had at the mercantile.
She’d do whatever it took to get to Jack.
Uncle Paddy was sleeping soundly when she returned to the clinic. After Dr. Feeny made his last check for the evening, she followed him outside. Her voice lowered, she told him what she wanted to do and then, swallowing, asked him to loan her the money.
Dr. Feeny’s response was not what she had expected. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I cannot agree to it. No gentleman in his right mind would allow a lady to undertake such a journey alone.”
“It’s a short steamboat ride downriver. I’ve done it dozens of times with Da or the boys.”
“The key part of that being ‘with Da or the boys,’ ” the doctor said.
“It’s only to Boonville.”
“Not if Jack’s wounds have required he be taken to the military hospital in St. Louis. I know you, Maggie. Once you set out, you won’t give up until you’ve found both your brothers—no matter what that involves.”
“If you know me,” Maggie said, her voice trembling, “then you know I will find a way to go.” Tears threatened. “Please, Dr. Feeny.”
He put a fatherly hand on her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “You are a brave woman and a devoted sister and niece. But I must decline. You’re needed here.” He paused. “I’ve a friend attached to the medical department in St. Louis,” he said. “I’ll send a telegram tomorrow, asking him to look into Jack’s situation.”
It took all of her self-control for Maggie not to argue. Somehow, she managed to mutter a terse thank you. She retreated back inside. She would speak with Mr. Irving first thing in the morning. There had to be a way to get to Boonville, and she would find it. She had taken down her hair and was brushing through it in preparation to retire, when Paddy stirred and croaked her name.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Paddy. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Paddy dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “What disturbs me is knowing you’ve been keeping things from me. I heard you just now, and I’ll thank you to tell me what’s happened to our boy. All of it, if you please.”
Maggie told him.
Paddy was quiet for a while, and then he said, “And now, about the farm. How bad is it?”
“Not so bad as it could be,” Maggie said. She could feel him peering at her. She sighed. “Bad enough.”
“Tell me true, Mary Margaret. All of it.” Maggie told him everything, from broken windows to dead livestock to ruined garden and on through to the fact that people seemed afraid to leave their own places long enough to help with the cleanup.
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Did you bring what I asked for from me cabin, Maggie-girl?”
“It’s right here,” Maggie said. “Dix helped me load Da’s trunk and bring it to town for safekeeping, and I put your satchel inside.”
“Open it.”
Moments later, Maggie sat on her cot staring in disbelief at the contents of Uncle Paddy’s cash box. How on earth had he managed to save so much?
The old man chuckled. “You won’t be needing it all, but be sure you take enough. Enough to bring Jack home or feed him at hospital or do whatever is necessary. And allow plenty for postage. You’ll want to write so as not to leave me wondering as the both of us have been these long weeks since our boys left us.”
With trembling hands, Maggie counted out what Paddy said she should take with her.
“Don’t keep it all in the same place,” Uncle Paddy said. “ ’Twould be best to stitch the most of it inside a hem or two.”
“Dr. Feeny won’t be pleased,” Maggie said as she lit a lamp and got to work, snipping at hems, inserting a bill or a few coins, and then stitching them back up.
“He’s a good man,” Uncle Paddy said, “but he doesn’t realize there’s a world of difference between his daughter and Keagan Malone’s.”
Maggie snorted. “In more ways than one.”
“In all ways that matter for a time such as this,” Paddy said. “I only wish we’d had time for that target practice. But you keep Keagan’s pistol with you just the same.” He closed his eyes. “And don’t you dare depart without myself saying a prayer over you.”
As the steamboat Clara edged away from the Littleton levee, Maggie steadied herself by bracing one knee against the crate that served as a barrier between her and the edge of the freight deck. When the final whistle sounded, she raised one hand, signaling good-bye to Dr. Feeny and Bridget.
Dear Dr. Feeny. She’d been right when she told Paddy that the doctor wouldn’t be happy about her leaving. But he’d finally relented and insisted that he and Bridget would see her off. As the packet moved into the channel, Kerry-boy charged along the riverbank. Maggie held her breath, willing the dog to go back, when he launched himself into the river and attempted to catch up. Finally, as the Clara picked up speed, Kerry-boy relented and returned to shore. Shaking himself off, he let out a final, sharp bark of disapproval and loped back to where Dr. Feeny and Bridget stood.
As the Littleton levee slipped out of sight, Maggie watched the shoreline slide past, willing the packet to go faster. She’d spoken to no one on board, keeping a promise to Uncle Paddy to “watch out for the snakes, and should anyone try to take liberties, thump them alongside the head with me satchel.” Thinking on it now, Maggie slipped her hand into her left pocket, where she’d secreted the broken bits of Mam’s rosary and a small cake of lavender soap. “Lavender soap and a broken rosary,” she muttered. “You’re a sentimental fool, Mary Margaret Malone.” The incongruity of feminine things in one pocket and Da’s pistol in the other made her laugh at herself.
She was surprised when the Clara stopped at the Wildwood Grove landing, and even more surprised by the number of crates the deckhands unloaded—among them, the one she
’d been using for her perch. Even more surprising—and unsettling—was the fact that the men receiving the freight onshore wore uniforms. Apparently, at least part of the Wildwood Guard was staying put in Lafayette County.
The Clara continued downriver, past the mouth of the Grand River and finally on to the Brunswick levee, piled high with barrels and freight—most of it apparently intended for destinations upriver, for the Clara took on only a few crates and passengers before sliding back into the channel. Maggie found another perch on another crate and had just eaten the bit of bread and cheese she’d brought along when the Clara put in at Boonville. Her heart pounding, she disembarked and crossed the levee, hesitating just long enough to gain the unwanted attention of a ragged mulatto boy, who offered unsolicited advice on everything from where to find good lodging to which livery offered the best prices if a lady wanted to hire a buggy.
“You seem to know everything about Boonville,” Maggie said.
“Nobody knows everything about anything,” the boy said, and then he grinned up at her from beneath the brim of his battered straw hat. “But I know more’n most and charge less.”
“You charge for information?”
The boy shrugged. “A feller’s got to make a livin’ somehow. Can’t live on catfish. A body gets tired of catfish. Hankers for a taste of pie now and again.”
Behind them, the Clara sounded her departure and, with a clattering and clanking, pulled away from the levee and into the channel. Another shrill whistle, and the paddlewheel reversed direction and, with the help of the river current, swept the steamboat downriver.
The boy was still there, and when the noise died down, he tilted his head and asked, “You looking to find the Irish?”
“And why would you think such a thing?”
The boy put his hand to his heart as he said, with the perfect inflection of a newly arrived immigrant, “Because me heart lep into me throat the minute I heard ye speak. ‘Noah,’ I says to meself, ‘did ya ever hear the likes of it?’ ”
Maggie laughed. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Chapter 7
As Sergeant John “Colt” Coulter of the Irish Brigade approached Captain Quinn’s tent, he kept a wary eye on the dog curled up next to the captain’s camp seat. Colt was still a good distance away when the mostly white, medium-sized dog raised its head and looked his way. Colt slowed down a bit when the dog sat up, his brown-tipped ears alert. Captain Quinn, who’d been working at the portable desk positioned just inside his tent, looked first in Colt’s direction and then down at his dog.
Once he was within earshot, Colt patted the sling the surgeon insisted he wear. “What? No welcoming snarls? Don’t let this fool you. I’m still the man you love to hate.”
Hero tilted his head, but he didn’t growl. In fact, he whined and thumped his tail.
“What’s this? Sympathy?”
The dog chuffed softly and ambled toward him.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Colt said, and backed away. “I may not be hurt badly, but this arm makes it a challenge to clean my boots. I haven’t forgotten what you did to them the first time we met. You just keep away.”
The dog sat. Tilted his head. Whined again.
“That’s pathetic.”
“I think it might be sincere,” the captain said. “He has a soft spot for the wounded.”
“Really.” Colt looked back at the dog. “Is that true, old man?”
Hero’s tail thumped the grass. He lifted his chin and gave a little yelp, then rose up on all fours and spun about.
When Colt knelt down, the dog trotted over. First, he nuzzled the sling. Then, he licked Colt’s hand, and finally, he circled him, yapping and generally making such a scene that Colt had to laugh. A sudden surge of relief and gratefulness that he was alive clouded his eyes with tears.
When Captain Quinn rose from his camp chair, Colt jumped to his feet and saluted. “Sergeant Coulter, reporting for duty, sir.”
Quinn returned the salute. “Thank God,” he said, motioning toward the desk just inside the tent. “I’m drowning in reports. But you’d better check in with your horse before I put you to work. From what I hear, even Fish can’t get him to eat.”
Colt grimaced. “I… um… actually, sir—”
“You checked on the horse before you came here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quinn chuckled. “And I would have done the same. So tell me, did you get him to eat?”
“Yes, sir. Had a feed bag strapped on when I left.”
“That’s good.” The captain pointed to the sling. “You were lucky.”
“Yes, sir.” Thinking about his arm made him flex it—which hurt, but the wound was healing. Colt had been charging across an open field past a farmhouse—which he’d suspected might house a rebel sharpshooter—when a bullet sliced across the outside of his upper arm, leaving a finger-sized gouge. Thanks to Jack Malone’s answering shot, the rebel sharpshooter didn’t get a second chance to fire. “The sling is just to remind me not to move around too much and rip the stitches. It’s really not serious.” He expected to be back at full strength within the week. “I only wish Private Malone could say the same.”
At that moment, Hero barked sharply and was off like a shot, tearing across the earth and then launching himself into the air and into Fish’s arms. The gangly quartermaster was nearly bowled over by the force of the dog’s landing against his chest. But it wasn’t Fish who caught Colt’s attention. It was the woman with him.
She was taller than Fish—taller than any woman Colt had ever seen. She wore a dark blue cape and an outmoded bonnet that reminded him of something his mother might have donated to a missionary barrel. Whoever this was, she wasn’t anyone of means. Captain Quinn must have made the same assumption, for he muttered oh no as she approached. Colt almost felt sorry for the woman, knowing what was about to happen. Captain Quinn did not tolerate “camp followers.” Whoever she was and no matter how sad her story, this woman was about to be summarily escorted out of camp with orders to return whence she came and to stay there.
The closer she got, the more Colt thought she looked familiar. Which was impossible. And yet there was something about those blue eyes and that firm jaw. She was not going to be easily run off. She had a firm grip on the battered leather bag in one hand, and she walked with a confident stride that almost reminded Colt of a soldier on parade. Not very feminine, now that he thought about it. But not unattractive, either. How was that possible?
Fish set Hero down. “Captain Quinn, may I present—”
The woman didn’t wait for Fish to finish. “I’ve come to fetch me brother home. He”—she indicated Fish with the flick of her wrist—“won’t tell me where the infirmary is.”
When she looked past the captain toward the other tents, Colt thought her expression almost wistful. Or maybe she was just nervous. The wind shifted, treating them all to a heavy dose of the stench from the latrines. The woman reached for the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve. When she withdrew it and shook it out, Hero snarled and charged her. Instead of backing away, the woman made a strange hissing sound and stepped forward, then uttered a firm “No. Stop that.”
Hero hesitated.
The woman held out the handkerchief as she said, “Such a show of nonsense over a bit of white cloth, and you a fine, intelligent dog. Quit playin’ the fool and behave while I speak with the sergeant.” She didn’t wait to see if Hero would respond. She obviously expected to be obeyed, and she was. Hero sat down and the woman turned to Captain Quinn. “Now, Sergeant—”
“How did you do that?” Captain Quinn didn’t even bother to correct her regarding his rank.
“Do what?”
“My dog. He doesn’t like strangers.”
“I didn’t ask him to like me. I demanded he behave himself.”
“But—Hero doesn’t do that.”
The woman frowned. “He doesn’t obey? A big, strapping man like yerself—an officer in the army—what cannot get
his own dog to obey?” She waved the handkerchief toward the rows of tents just beyond an expanse of pasture. “How is it that you command men?”
The captain shot back, “How is it that you weren’t afraid of being bitten?”
The woman glanced at Hero. “By that? That’s scarcely a dog compared to my Kerry-boy.”
Kerry-boy. Suddenly, Colt knew why the woman looked so familiar. “You’re Maggie,” he blurted out. “Maggie Malone.” When the woman turned to look at him, Colt said, “You’re here about Jack.”
“You know my brother?”
Colt put his free hand to the sling. “He saved my life.”
Miss Malone looked back at the rows of tents in the distance. “Can you take me to him?” Again, she looked at the captain. Her voice wavered. “Please, sir. I—we—we only saw his name on the list. Is he—is it bad? Littleton’s not so far, sir. I thought I could take him home and care for him there. If he was—is—able.” Again, her voice wavered. “I’m hoping Seamus might be given leave to help me get him home?”
Captain Quinn scowled. “You haven’t heard from either of your brothers?”
“No, sir.” The woman’s face paled. The hand that clutched the handkerchief went to her chest. “Don’t tell me—is Seamus hurt, too? His name wasn’t on the list.”
“Seamus is fine,” the captain said quickly. “As for Jack—he’s something of a hero—just ask Sergeant Coulter, here. And yes, he was wounded—as you can see from the sergeant’s sling, they both were. But neither one was hurt badly enough to need medical leave.”
“It isn’t sserious, then?” She swallowed and looked away, clearly having difficulty controlling her tears.
The captain nodded at Colt. “Sergeant. Escort Miss Malone to her brothers’ tent.” His smile was kind as he said, “You can see for yourself. And don’t think I won’t have a ‘word’ with them both for worrying you.”
Daughter of the Regiment Page 7
