Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  She hadn’t witnessed the scene in town when news came that some of the local boys had been wounded, but she’d heard about it from Serena Ellerbe. Serena’s beau had fought at Boonville, too. Unlike Sheriff Green and Asa James’s brothers, William Dunn escaped the battle without injury. William would have a chance for “greater glory.” That was how Serena put it when she talked about it. It was, in fact, how many of the men talked about the upcoming battles. Fighting was a matter of honor. Not just a duty, but a privilege. Libbie didn’t understand the way they felt. Sometimes, the glittering fervor with which they spoke of fighting frightened her. Especially when she wondered if men on the other side of things felt the same way. Did the two standing here with her right now feel just as passionately about keeping the thirty-four states united under one flag as Walker and the Wildwood Guard felt about being part of an independent Confederacy? Best not to think too much about that right now.

  Libbie focused once again on the Malones. “It’s good that your sister knows you’re all right. As to what happened on your farm, I am sad to say that I doubt you’ll be able to count on Sheriff Green to do much about finding whoever did all the damage. He’s resigned to join the Guard.”

  “We heard,” Malone said. “To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have expected him to do much anyway. After all, we’re Irish.”

  Libbie tried to suppress a sigh. Yes. She knew. As far as Walker was concerned, in the hierarchy of humanity, the Irish were barely above the Negroes—and only because they had white skin. She imagined Isham Green shared Walker’s opinion on the matter. “The sheriff’s Major Green now.” She looked from Malone to the sergeant and back again. “I suppose that’s why you’re here. The Guard.” Malone didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. With a little nod, Libbie asked again, “So. What are you goin’ to do with me?”

  “That depends,” Malone said. “What are you ‘goin’ to do’ about us?”

  Libbie considered. She wasn’t inclined to raise the alarm. The Malones were good people.

  At the sound of a steamboat whistle screeching its approach, Libbie started. Time was passing. “If I don’t get back to the house, Walker will send someone after me. As it is, I’m not supposed to be out ridin’. He’ll have my hide.” She gazed up toward the top of the ridge. “He knows this place. Knows I like to come here.”

  Something flickered in Jack Malone’s blue eyes. He was looking at the bruises on her face. “You mean he’ll hurt you. Again.”

  A combination of the look on his face and the tone of voice made Libbie tremble—for Walker. She lifted her chin and forced conviction into her voice as she said, “He won’t. Not ever again.” Just saying the words made her feel stronger. Not brave yet… but getting there. “Before you ask for more information, I’ll tell you truly that I have made it my considered duty to mind my own business when it comes to my brother’s affairs. I already told you all I know about the military. I saw earthworks along the road as Pilot and I came this way.” She took a deep breath. “And so I ask again, what are you two gentlemen goin’ to do with me?”

  When Malone’s gaze flicked to the other soldier and then down to the river, Libbie realized that the stranger was the problem. Jack Malone might trust her to keep the peace, but the sergeant never would. She looked over at him. “I don’t suppose you’d do me the honor of introducin’ yourself.”

  “No ma’am. You already know more than you should.”

  Libbie sighed. “Well, what amazin’ bit of information do you think I might reveal? Even if I said anything, all I could say was I saw a couple of raggedy-lookin’ men camped by the river. Deserters, to my way of thinking. How’s that gonna do anybody any good?” She tilted her head. Studied the stranger’s handsome face. “The truth is, there’s somethin’ familiar about you. As if I’ve seen you before.” She waved the thought away as if it were a pesky fly. “No matter.”

  She looked off toward the river. Toward the landing. And just like that, she knew what to do. She gave the sergeant the most charming smile she could muster. “I’ll ride with you gentlemen a ways. Far enough and long enough that even if I did raise the alarm, you’d be long gone. Why, you can even lead Pilot until you decide to let me go.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. “Here. Gag me so I can’t holler.”

  Jack Malone spoke up. “You won’t holler.” Doubt flickered. “Will you?”

  “If I was inclined to holler, don’t you think I would-a done it?” The soldier who wouldn’t tell her his name still looked doubtful. Libbie waved the white handkerchief at Malone. “Your friend doesn’t believe me.” She turned around so that he could tie the gag in place. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m waitin’.”

  Malone touched her shoulder and turned her back around. “Just don’t try to run for it,” he said, and smiled. “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. Sergeant Coulter’s a first-class rider, and that horse of his—”

  “Don’t I know it,” Libbie said. “That big fellah could likely give Pilot a run for his money.” She looked at the blue-eyed sergeant.

  He said nothing. Instead, in one fluid movement, he mounted the gray horse. So. The man with the fine horse was also a fine horseman. When he nudged his gray horse close enough to reach Pilot’s reins, the two horses snorted and made a show, but Coulter wasn’t rattled. He simply grabbed Pilot’s reins and waited for the two geldings to make peace.

  When Malone laced his fingers together to make a platform to boost her into the saddle, Libbie hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt that bandaged hand.” Malone took her hesitation for permission to pick her up, and before she quite knew what had happened, he’d lifted her into the saddle. She clutched Pilot’s mane as Coulter nudged his horse toward the trail that would take them away from Wildwood Grove.

  Pilot tried to resist, but when Libbie urged him forward, he settled down and followed the big gray gelding. She glanced behind her just as Jack Malone mounted the bay. It was clear that that horse and rider weren’t used to each other. Thinking about Malone’s poor horsemanship reminded her of the fine team of Belgians the family owned—the ones Walker had tried and failed to buy.

  What would Walker think if he could see her letting herself be led along the river between Sergeant Coulter and Jack Malone? What would he call her if he knew she’d been the one to suggest a brief “kidnapping”? The thought made her shudder. He’d call her a traitor, or worse. But as Libbie and the two Yankees made their way along the trail, Libbie realized that she didn’t feel like a traitor. She felt like a woman who was beginning to find her way to her own ideas about honor and duty, loyalty and strength.

  As the three horses picked their way along the river’s edge, Libbie thought back to the night she’d heard more about Maggie Malone’s encounter with the bushwhackers. Miss Malone had to be a brave woman to have defended her uncle the way she did. It had been the talk of the dinner table one evening right after it happened. Walker’s friends had said some very unkind things about “a woman who behaved in such a manner,” but Libbie knew that while they might be horrified on the surface, they were flat out amazed by what Miss Malone had done that day. They’d be even more amazed if they knew about Miss Malone’s having set out into a battle zone in search of her brothers. Where did a woman get that kind of courage? Libbie supposed it came from having to do things for oneself—having to depend on oneself.

  What would that be like? Libbie had always had either parents or Walker to take care of her. Or servants. And then it hit her. The servants! What would happen to Ora Lee and Annabelle and the rest of the slaves if—no, not if—when war came to Wildwood Grove? They’d be defenseless, unless they ran. Maybe even then. With war all around, where would a slave go? She twisted about in her saddle. Jack Malone nudged his bay and came up alongside Pilot.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinkin’. If you’re coming to fight the Guard, what’ll happen to the Negroes?”

  The sergeant reined his gray horse around. “We’re n
ot having a tea party here, and you need to keep your voice down. And for the record, no one’s received orders to fight the men camped on your plantation.”

  Libbie snorted. “First of all, no one in the Guard is hidin’ in these woods. I happen to know they’re plannin’ to start patrolling tomorrow, so as long as I don’t scream to high heaven, y’all are safe. As to fightin’, there’s earthworks along the road. I’m no fool. Someone’s expecting a fight.” She paused. “Which is a special cause for concern for me as the mistress of the plantation. Walker will never let Negroes have weapons.” She glared at the sergeant. “I don’t suppose the Yankees will, either, will they?”

  The sergeant was quiet for a moment. Finally, he asked, “How many slaves are you talking about—not in the county, just at Wildwood Grove?”

  Maybe he was just trying to do more spying, but for that moment Libbie cared more about Ora Lee and Annabelle, Malachi and Robert, Betty and Cooper—and the others—than she did about anything else. “Twenty down in the quarters and six at the house.” She paused. Tilted her head. “Malachi and Annabelle—that’s our driver and the cook—I suppose they’d be safe if I sent them into town. They have family there, who work for the doctor.”

  “You mean Dix and Sally?” Malone sounded surprised.

  “You didn’t know? Dix bought himself and Sally from the Ellerbes. He’s tried to get Malachi and Annabelle away from the Grove—Annabelle and Sally are sisters—but Walker won’t hear of it.” Her voice wavered. She touched the side of her face. “Walker doesn’t let his possessions go. Not as long as they can do him any good.”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Malone said, “It’s never been truly safe for anyone to harbor runaways, but right now, with things the way they are, it’d be even worse for free Negroes if they were caught doing such a thing. If you send anyone to Dix and Sally, they’ll all have to run for their lives.”

  Of course that made sense, but it didn’t solve the matter of how to keep the Wildwood Grove slaves safe in the midst of a battle right here in Lafayette County. Libbie glanced over at the sergeant. “If I wanted to protect my people, how long do you think I’d have to figure a way to do it?” The sergeant looked at Malone. Libbie might not be raising the alarm, but the two Yankees weren’t about to trust her with any more information. And who could blame them?

  “Y’all aren’t goin’ ta answer that. Don’t reckon I blame you.” Libbie smiled. “If it’s all the same to you two gentlemen, I think we’re far enough away now that you might let me go. Even if I was inclined to raise the alarm—which I am not, although I don’t expect you’ll believe that—you’d be clean into the next county and then some before anyone could give chase.”

  Chapter 14

  The sergeant and Jack Malone had taken cover in a stand of pines just as Libbie rode away. She could feel them watching her as she cued Pilot into a canter and headed home. She spent much of the ride back to the stable practicing the story she would tell to explain the bruising and swelling about her eye. Once she had that ready, she moved on to the problem of the slaves. What would happen to them when the Yankees came? What will happen to me? For all the drilling and target practice that had been going on in recent days, she hadn’t really considered what it all might mean for her beyond… something different. She was presiding over more meals and Sheriff—Major Green was ever about, but beyond that… what would happen to her? She’d thought of the war and battles in the sense of something that happened somewhere else. To someone else. But now… she pulled Pilot up, and as he stood in the road, she tried to imagine the landscape around her. How would it change? What did a battle do to fields of hemp and hedgerows, to houses and barns?

  She thought of the Malones’ farm—the empty house, the ruined garden. That wouldn’t happen to Wildwood Grove—would it? Swallowing, she turned about and looked behind her. An army might soon be marching up that road; an army bent on forcing every man in the Wildwood Guard to surrender; an army willing to kill the ones who refused.

  Libbie had known fear before. She’d been afraid when the steamboat that brought her to live with Walker landed and she made her way across the gangplank and up the levee. She’d been afraid the first time she performed her duties as Walker’s hostess. And she was always afraid of his anger. But this new fear was something else. Forces beyond her control were coming to attack the way of life that had sustained her since the day she was born. Neighbors were willing to fight to destroy it. To kill Walker, and Isham Green, and every man who had smiled at her in recent days. Will they be willing… will they want… to kill me? Cold fear and dread washed over her as she wondered.

  She hadn’t been afraid once she realized the men at the spring were Jack Malone and a friend. Her appearance had been a problem for them, but they’d been kind. After those first few seconds when the sergeant was afraid she might scream, she hadn’t felt threatened or in danger. But now, as she thought about what they were after and what they would do with what they learned, she shivered at the idea of how things might have gone if it had been two other Yankee soldiers spying.

  Libbie was less than a mile from the stable at home when a white horse appeared on the road up ahead. When Isham Green caught sight of her, he slowed his horse to a walk and waited for her to come alongside. Libbie slowed Pilot to a walk and called out to him. “Is the service already over, then?”

  “Long since,” Green said. His expression changed when she got close enough for him to see her bruised face. “What’s happened? Walker said you were indisposed.” He frowned. “You shouldn’t have taken the horse out alone.”

  Libbie did her best to sound lighthearted as she said, “Nothing’s really hurt but my pride.” She told the well-rehearsed story about Pilot’s shying and nearly unseating her, hoping God would forgive the lie. “I was feeling a bit peaked earlier, but I just couldn’t stand being cooped up in that house one more second. Which leads me to a question I been ponderin’. Is there any chance you’d drive me over to the Ellerbes’ after lunch? I want to plan something special for the Guard. A social—maybe a calico ball. Would you be willing to help?”

  Doubt and displeasure gave way to a smile. The major gave a little bow. “I would be truly honored, Miss Libbie.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Major Green.” Libbie batted her eyelashes at him. “Now if you’ll only be my gallant defender in the matter of Walker. Sometimes I don’t think he remembers what it was like to be young. But you know how desperately I love riding. This morning when I woke up, I was feeling so blue I didn’t even want to come down to breakfast. But then I thought that maybe if I took the air—I know it was impetuous, but I just up and did it. Will you be my savior and help me make Walker understand?”

  Green was lapping it up, preening with every compliment. And so Libbie kept talking, barely giving the sheriff a chance to speak until finally, they were back at the stables. The major had just helped Libbie dismount when Walker strode up with an expression on his face that made her tremble. Thankfully, Isham spoke for her.

  “Here she is, safe and sound, just as I predicted—although she’s had a little mishap.”

  Libbie picked up where the sheriff had left off. “Now, I know what you’re gonna say, Walker, but Pilot didn’t mean it. A gopher or some other creature darted out onto the road. When Pilot shied, I just wasn’t ready for it. I lost my seat—just for an instant, mind you—and Pilot’s head came up and mine went down and—well—” She turned her head to the side, making a show of displaying the result. “As you can see, I suffered the brunt of it. Who would have thought a horse’s head was that hard?”

  Walker stepped right into the role. “I suppose I must forgive you for the worry you’ve caused us, now that you’re safe at home.” Malachi walked up from the direction of the kitchen, and Walker ordered him to tend Pilot before saying to Libbie, “But you must come inside now. We have important things to discuss.” He took a step toward the house. When Libbie hesitated, he looked back. “I said come a
long inside, Elizabeth.”

  Libbie stood her ground. “I’ll be there directly. First, though, I’m gonna help Malachi see to Pilot.” She reached up and tugged on the horse’s dark mane. “Just so he knows there’s no hard feelin’s about the bruises.”

  Walker studied her face. She met his gaze and held it for a long, tense moment. Finally, he relented. With a shrug he muttered, “Suit yourself,” and retreated toward the house.

  A thrill of victory surged through her for a moment. And then, her courage wavered. A shiver crept up her spine. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Had she really just defied Walker, in front of Isham Green and Malachi? What price would she pay later? She closed her eyes, remembering what she’d said to Jack Malone. Never again. Malachi led Pilot away without a word.

  Libbie reached in her pocket and dabbed at her forehead with the white handkerchief—smiling at the memory of how she’d offered it to Jack Malone and how he’d waved it away. You won’t raise the alarm—will you? She looked about her at the house, the kitchen, the gardens. Why hadn’t she hollered? And just now—why hadn’t she told Walker about the Federals? She wasn’t sure.

  Pilot whickered and Libbie turned about. Malachi had already hitched him to the ring just outside his stall and was carrying the saddle into the tack room. Libbie followed him through the door. Hanging her riding crop on a hook, she grabbed up the bucket of grooming tools and carried it to where Pilot waited in the passageway. While Malachi worked with the hoof pick, Libbie brushed the chestnut’s coat until it gleamed.

  Maggie was sitting beside Fish’s wagon stitching up what felt like the hundredth rip in the hundredth soldier’s uniform when Hero lifted his head and growled. She glanced up at Seamus and smiled, and he settled beside her—away from the dog.

  “The mutt’s feelin’ better, I see,” Seamus said. He nodded at the shirt in her lap. “You’re becoming somethin’ of a darlin’ to the troops, Maggie-girl. In less than two weeks you’ve got them calling you ‘Miss Maggie’ to your face and ‘our warrior-seamstress’ behind your back.”