Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Colt didn’t say anything at first. He did, however, put one warm hand to the small of her back as he murmured, “Don’t be afraid, Miss Maggie. It’s going to be all right.”

  She didn’t dare look at him. She stared into the fire and drank her coffee. It tasted bitter now. Fish and Seamus and Ashby stepped out from behind one of the supply wagons and headed toward the campfire. Colt only dropped his hand when she moved to get up and pour their coffee. But before she stood, she looked over at him and murmured, “I’m going to need one of those Henrys.”

  Chapter 16

  As she rode through the encampment with Major Green on a cloudy Wednesday morning, Libbie detected something different about the Guard. The men greeted her as always, but their smiles quickly faded. And there was no music. She’d grown accustomed to the sounds of mouth harps and fifes. One gray-haired man she’d heard others call Pops even had a violin. Today, Pops was nowhere in sight.

  When Libbie mentioned it on the way back to the stable, Major Green simply shrugged and said, “Weather rolling in.” Back at the stable, Green dismounted quickly, handed the reins of his white horse off to a waiting Malachi, and took his leave—with a muttered apology for “desertin’ her.”

  Libbie rather preferred tending Pilot at her own pace and without the need to keep up conversation with Isham Green, but as she brushed Pilot’s coat and combed his mane, she couldn’t shake the sense of—something. Perhaps it was just the weather. Clouds had rolled in, and the sky was that unnatural color that usually preceded a high wind and a downpour. She supposed that could be it. And then there was the idea that there would be no Fourth of July celebration tomorrow. She supposed that might have cast something of a pall over the camp.

  Ah, well. Finishing with Pilot and turning him into his stall, Libbie made her way to the kitchen to tell Annabelle that, as expected, Walker had declared that no one at Wildwood Grove was to have anything to do with the “Yankees’ Independence Day.”

  Annabelle barely looked up when Libbie said it. “No surprise, Miss Libbie.”

  “It’s less work for you,” Libbie said.

  “Yes’m,” Annabelle said. “And it gives me more time to bake the pies for the calico ball.”

  Annabelle wasn’t complaining. She was just stating fact. Skipping an Independence Celebration really hadn’t changed her workload all that much. This coming Saturday the Ellerbes and all the other planters’ families in the county were coming to the Grove to help stage a barbeque and a calico ball. And so while Annabelle and the other cooks might not be in the throes of planning for a party tomorrow, there would still be hours and hours of extra work in coming days. Hours and hours of work added to the already heavy load created by the men who’d been invited to be Walker’s guests.

  “Should we call some more help up from the quarters?” she asked.

  “Nobody left down there I want in my kitchen,” Annabelle said quickly. “Betty said she’d give me a hand if it comes to it. I’ll be all right, Miss Libbie. Didn’t mean to complain.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” Libbie said. “Tell you what. How about I see if Susan Ellerbe will lend us Mavis and Doll?”

  Annabelle glanced up. Smiled. “That’d be mighty nice of you. Those girls know what it means to work hard. I could turn all the piecrusts over to Mavis and never give it another thought. Be free to tend to other things.”

  Free. Hearing Annabelle use the term so casually made Libbie want to do more than just call in some more slaves. Could she do more? “I’ll see to it,” she said, and turned away. Stepping outside, she looked off toward the encampment, shivering as a cool wind blew up from the river. Rain was coming. She could feel it. She imagined she could even smell it. Just a hint of damp on the breeze. Oh, she hoped it didn’t rain on Saturday. The men needed something to take their mind off a July 4 devoid of celebration.

  Independence Day. Libbie glanced back toward the kitchen, and then wandered toward the front of the house and the view of the clouds gathering toward the west. What did Annabelle and the others think every year in July, when their masters celebrated by reciting the Declaration of Independence and the Preamble to the United States Constitution? All men are created equal… She’d never considered the irony before. But now—now that she was wondering and worrying over what would happen to Ora Lee and Annabelle and the others, should the fight come to Walnut Grove, the term Independence Day made her uncomfortable.

  As she rounded the back corner of the house and made her way past Walker’s office windows, she could hear the rumble of men’s voices. Another meeting. More plans. Wishing she had her shawl, she continued on past the colonnaded porch and then toward the edge of the lawn and the drop-off, where brambles and tangled underbrush obscured the earth at the base of the trees growing on the steep hillside all the way down to the water’s edge. The distant clang of a steamboat bell drew her attention upriver, but she couldn’t see the packet yet. Perhaps it was at the Littleton landing a few miles away.

  She glanced back toward the house, wondering if the men inside were planning for more shipments of weapons. Or would they be gathered about that map strategizing? What were they planning anyway? Surely they weren’t going to spend the war here at the Grove. What was going to happen? How foolish she felt for getting caught up in something as inconsequential as a calico ball. Walker said such things helped the men. He said that just seeing a beautiful woman reminded them of what they were fighting for. She didn’t like the idea of men fighting for her.

  A lot of things made her uncomfortable these days. Wondering about Robert’s knowing more about the house than he probably should. Imagining Jack Malone and that sergeant who wouldn’t tell her his name taking aim at the men camped in view of the house. Noticing how young Cooper had grown recently and thinking about what it must be like to have a child and not know if you would get to see him grow to manhood. Why hadn’t that ever bothered her before? Walker had advertised “Negro Boys at Auction” in the past. No faces came to mind when she thought about them. How could she not have cared?

  She had just turned away from the river to go back up to the house when Ora Lee came trotting into view from the direction of the kitchen. “You best be comin’ in, Miss Libbie. Mastah Blair fit to be tied. He say you got to come pack.”

  “Pack?” Libbie frowned.

  “Yes’m. He packing, too.”

  “But—why? What’s he packing?”

  “Seem like everything,” Ora Lee said as she hurried alongside Libbie. “Don’t know why. He sent me to get you. I heard him tell Robert and Malachi to bring down your trunk.”

  Ora Lee hurried around back. She would mount the steep, narrow servants’ stairs to the second floor and enter Libbie’s room by way of an unfinished room at the back of the house. Libbie, on the other hand, hurried up the sweeping front steps, crossed the veranda, and entered through the front door, just in time to see Isham Green clomp down the stairs with Cooper in tow, the latter bearing two huge carpetbags. Green and Cooper were followed closely by Mason Ellerbe and his private servant, the latter burdened with the two monstrous valises Ellerbe had brought with him when he moved over from Hickory Hill.

  “Ah, there you are.” Walker stepped outside his office door just as Robert and Malachi rounded the corner from the servants’ entrance, a large trunk between them. “That’s the one,” Walker said, motioning for them to take the trunk into the library. “Retrieve the other two while I speak with Miss Libbie. Just line them up along the fireplace wall.” He motioned for Libbie to follow him across the hall and into the formal parlor. “We’ll talk in here.” He seemed to be in a hurry, but as soon as he’d closed the door, it was as if he didn’t know what to say. He crossed to the window and stood, staring out toward the river. Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned to face her.

  Libbie hadn’t noticed it, but in the gray light she realized that Walker had aged in recent days. He looked almost haggard.

  “The officers are joining their men in the field,�
� he said.

  “So I assumed,” Libbie said. “But Ora Lee said that you’re packing up the whole house. I thought she was exaggerating, but now it seems that there’s at least some truth to what she said.”

  Walker nodded. “Our… activity here at the Grove has been detected by the enemy. Plans had been laid down carefully, but based on some new information that’s just been received, those plans must now change.” He paused. Looked about them. “When I formed the Guard, I never expected—well. I don’t suppose that matters now.” Again, he hesitated. “I suppose you’ve been aware of the fact that it isn’t just foodstuffs and blankets that we’ve been unloading off the packets that have been stopping at our landing.”

  She didn’t quite know what to say. After all, Walker had gone out of his way to keep her from knowing very much at all. “I haven’t really paid very much attention. I thought that was the way you wanted it.” Without her really thinking about it, her hand went to the place where he’d struck her.

  His expression changed to something resembling sadness as he studied her face. Finally, he said, “You’re almost healed up.” He brushed his own hand across the side of his face.

  “Yes. It’s fine.”

  He nodded, and looked back out the window, just as thunder sounded. “It’s goin’ to pour rain any minute.” With a deep sigh, he finally turned to face her again. “Why’d you come up with that story about you and Pilot colliding? Why’d you protect me?”

  Lightning crackled, and the flash of light made Libbie start. “I wasn’t protecting you. I was trying to avoid being locked in my room until the bruises faded.” The rain began. She motioned toward the window, although she did not move closer to Walker. “We should close the windows so it doesn’t rain in.”

  “It’s falling straight down,” Walker said. Again, he swiped across his forehead, and then he looked about him, almost as if he were seeing the room for the first time in a long while. He sighed. “I am very sorry for what happened that day. Truly sorry.”

  Was he waiting for her to say that she forgave him? She hadn’t. Maybe she would one day, but right now… no. Something deep inside her had changed since that day. Not only on that day, but also on the day when she’d suggested that Jack Malone and his sergeant lead her horse along with them until they felt safe. She wasn’t certain what that meant, but she did know that she’d begun to change. For one thing, she was stronger now. She supposed at least some of the strength was fueled by anger, but whatever it was, it had been useful. It made her remember to be wary of Walker and what he might do. She’d stopped taking her position in this house for granted. She’d begun to think for herself, and to question things. She didn’t know where any of it would take her, but she wasn’t going back to the way things had been between them. And she wasn’t going to brush off what Walker had done, as if it didn’t matter.

  Walker cleared his throat. “A couple of the shipments of arms were intercepted by the enemy. Apparently that caused someone to look more closely into what might be going on, both here at Wildwood Grove and in Littleton with the militia. The details aren’t really important. The way it affects us now—today—is that there is at least part of a brigade marching toward us. That means that Wildwood Grove is to become a battleground.”

  This time when thunder rolled, Libbie’s hand went to her throat. Were the heavens providing them all with a preview of what it would sound like… here… in coming days?

  “You needn’t be afraid, Elizabeth. I have made plans to protect you—and our home.”

  There was a knock at the door. Libbie stepped aside as Walker went to answer it. Robert said something about keys. Walker started to answer, but then he glanced over at Libbie. Instead of answering Robert’s question, he mentioned newspapers in the attic. “Begin wrapping the books,” he said. “Wrap each one separately. There are some valuable volumes on those shelves. I’ll be out directly.”

  Robert murmured, “Yes sir,” and Walker closed the door and turned back to Libbie. “I have done the only thing I could think of to save our home in light of these changes. Wildwood Grove is to become a field hospital. We’ll fly a white flag beginning tomorrow. The Yankees will honor a flag that designates a hospital.”

  So this was why Walker was in such a state. Libbie’s mind began to race as she looked about her. “We can have all the furniture moved into the hall. If we roll up the carpets and open the pocket doors”—she motioned to the doors separating the formal from the family parlor—“if we do that, this side of the house can be an infirmary. Ora Lee and I can bring down the feather beds, while the men move the furniture.”

  Walker frowned. “What in the Sam Hill are you talkin’ about, carrying feather beds down?”

  “For the wounded. We can’t have them lying about on the bare floors.” She brightened. “And if you let Malachi drive me into town tomorrow—a farm wagon, not the carriage—I can go door to door collecting blankets. More feather beds. I’m sure people will want to help.” She was rambling on when Walker interrupted her.

  “Elizabeth. I am not draggin’ my feather bed down here so that some sharecropper can bleed all over it. As for your going into town, no one is askin’ you to organize a ladies aid. All I want you to do is go upstairs and pack your own things. It’s all arranged. The Nebraska will stop here tomorrow evening. I’ve booked passage for you and Ora Lee to Omaha. You’ll have rooms in the Herndon House there. I’m told it’s the finest hotel in the city. You’ll be comfortable—and safe—until this”—he gestured about them—“until this is nothing but a terrible memory.” He forced a smile. “And when you return, I’ll give you a very impressive budget with which to redecorate. Lord knows the place will need it.” He hurried on. “I’m going into town first thing in the morning to make a withdrawal from the bank—”

  Libbie interrupted him. “But, Walker—I don’t know anyone in Omaha.” It was a stupid thing to say, even if it was the truth.

  Walker paid her no mind. “Wait here just a moment. I’ll be right back.”

  While he was gone, Libbie moved to the window. The rain had stopped, but the clouds moving in were thick and obviously heavy with still more rain. The break in the storm wouldn’t last long.

  Walker returned with a square metal box in hand. He set it on the marble-topped table in the center of the room. “You can use this as a strongbox when you travel. I’ve already put some important papers in it—things that must not fall into enemy hands.” He paused. “Now. As I was sayin’, I’ll be making a withdrawal, and you’ll have all the money you need to live quite comfortably for several weeks. I don’t expect it to take that long to settle the matter of Missouri, but should it last longer, I’ll send more. Barrett Dunning knows trustworthy bankers in Omaha, and he’s sending a letter of introduction so that should there be some unforeseen difficulty, you will have contacts. Which answers the worry about knowing anyone. I’ll ask Barrett to give you a personal letter of introduction to a few of his friends. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You must,” Walker said. He reached for her then, and grasped her upper arm—gently. Almost fondly. “I really do care about you, Elizabeth, in my own way.” He let go. “I wasn’t at all happy with the idea of taking you on when you first arrived. I suppose that comes as no secret to you. I can be a rather—abrupt man. But you’ve proven yourself to be a lovely—well—an asset, really. You’re a delightful hostess. Major Green and the others have all been quite taken with you. You’re also managed the servants very well, especially in recent days when we’ve needed so much more help here at the house—and on such short notice. But you won’t be needed now. Dr. Johnson and his two assistants will be moving in tomorrow evening. I offered to leave one of the guest rooms set up for him, but he seems to think he’ll need every room for patients. I hope to God he’s wrong about that, but if he wants to sleep under canvas in the yard or out in the stable, I suppose that is his prerogative.”

  Libbie barely heard what Wal
ker said about the surgeon. Had he really just called her an asset? Indeed. “I could be useful here,” she said. “You’re still going to need someone to run the house. I know the servants and they know me. They don’t know Dr. Johnson. What’s to become of them?”

  “That is not your concern,” Walker said. He picked up the metal box and thrust it at her just before opening the door and striding out into the hall. Then he turned back. “After you’ve packed,” he said, “would you help Betty with the china?”

  Libbie nodded. She had to think. Her heart hammered in her chest as she headed for the stairs. She was halfway up when Betty called to her and hurried to catch up with her.

  “Mastah Blair say you put the key to that box on this. Wear it around your neck.”

  Libbie took the chain.

  “What’s gonna happen to us, Miss Libbie?” Betty asked. She looked behind her toward the library, obviously making sure that Walker didn’t see her.

  “I don’t know,” Libbie said. “But I’ll try to think of something. Just—I’ll be back down directly to help with the china. Try not to worry.”

  The words felt empty. They were empty. God help me. Please. Help me. All the way up the stairs she thought of Annabelle and Betty singing while they worked. Singing about peace. Thanking God. And she felt ashamed.

  Chapter 17

  Libbie paused in the doorway to her bedroom. Ora Lee had been hard at work, lighting lamps to overcome the gray light of the stormy day, selecting some gowns to pack, spreading them across the bed for Libbie’s approval, and collecting the small mountain of unmentionables that would be required to accommodate a fashionable journey and introduction to Omaha society. Libbie’s trunk stood open by the window, the removable top tray waiting on the window seat beside the carpetbag she’d carried from home all those years ago. Her traveling case sat on the dressing table. Libbie slid the black metal box Walker had given her onto the bed next to the footboard, crossed the room, and raised the lid of the leather-clad case.