Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  When Maggie scolded him for thieving, Noah was unrepentant. “The farmer was a Union man,” he said. “He’s probably glad we’re here to chase the Rebels off.”

  “And how do you know he’s a Union man? I suppose he told you that just before he gave you all of this.”

  “Well…” Noah pondered for a moment. “For one thing, he didn’t have a row of cabins down by the cornfield.”

  “It isn’t quite as simple as that to know where a Missouri farmer’s loyalties lie,” Maggie said. “Not every Southern sympathizer in Little Dixie owns slaves. In fact, there’s probably more who don’t than do—but the ones who don’t might be just as rabid about states’ rights and such as an old Louisiana family.” She almost laughed at herself, then. She sounded like Uncle Paddy, going on about the political stew that made Missouri a slave state but had, thus far at least, kept it from seceding from the Union and joining the Confederacy.

  Noah was unimpressed by the lecture. He merely shrugged. “Guess maybe I could be mistaken.” He grinned. “But I can’t exactly take it all back. It’s getting dark. A man hears someone rustling around in his garden at night, he’s likely to shoot first and ask ‘who goes there’ later. How’d you feel if I got shot because you made me return a few turnips?”

  Maggie just shook her head as she pointed at the green beans. “Start snapping the stems off. I’ll be back after I find something besides a skillet to cook with. And if you run off, I’m liable to feed your portion to the dog, so you stay put.”

  Noah looked over at Hero. “He don’t eat turnips and green beans.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Maggie said. “I plan to put that ham hock you brought in the pot right along with the beans.”

  “And we all plan to help you eat it.” It was Seamus, who’d apparently caught sight of Noah headed this way with the bag over his shoulder and come to investigate.

  The rain held off, and while the stew pot boiled, Seamus and Ashby and Colt and Noah and a few other homesick soldiers sat around Maggie’s campfire listening to Noah’s aggrandized version of how he’d foraged for what they were eating, telling their own boyhood stories, and laughing. And for those hours Maggie thought that there was no more beautiful sight in the world than a soldier’s smile and nothing more important in the world than doing what a woman could to make it appear.

  Chapter 18

  Libbie stood at the top of the well-worn path to the levee, afraid to take a step. A night of rain had turned it into little more than a mudslide. Just as Ora Lee muttered, Lord, have mercy, a gust of wind swept up the hill and snatched the ivory-handled umbrella out of Libbie’s hand, carrying it halfway to the house. Libbie looked after it in time to see Walker hurrying out the front door. The same fierce wind that had stolen her umbrella nearly snatched the screen door out of his hand. Keeping the door on its hinges meant losing his hat, and it sailed away in the direction of the umbrella, both of them tumbling end over end, first toward the kitchen wing and then toward the necessaries at the far edge of the lawn.

  The early morning hours had been gloomy, but dry. Now the overcast sky and the wind kept their promise. With a flicker of lightning and a rumble that barely gave warning, it began to pour. Grabbing Ora Lee by the hand, Libbie shouted, “Come on!” and ran for the shelter of the front porch. Walker had gone after his hat. And, Libbie thought, perhaps the umbrella. Or perhaps not. She was not going to risk getting drenched chasing after an umbrella. And so she led Ora Lee back inside, where their footsteps echoed in the bare hall, for the red-and-white oilcloth had been rolled up and stored in the basement along with much of the rest of the furniture and all of the finer things that had made up the Blairs’ lives at Wildwood Grove.

  Walker came in the front door without his hat. “It’s a good bet the Nebraska will have tied up somewhere downriver,” he said. “There’s not much point in trying to get down to the levee this morning.”

  “Did you see the mud?” Libbie asked. “We’d likely break our necks trying.”

  Walker nodded. For a moment, he said nothing, but then his expression changed. “Come with me,” he said to both women, and led the way down the hall and out the back door where the three of them stood beneath the overhang created by the upstairs balcony. The kitchen door was closed against the storm, but there was a lamp in the window, and Libbie imagined Annabelle and Malachi inside, warm and dry, enjoying breakfast together at the little table crowded against the wall opposite the door.

  When Walker finally spoke, he’d come up with a plan. He sent Ora Lee to fetch Malachi and Robert and then directed Libbie to “run to the stable” as soon as the rain let up. “I’m going to have the men retrieve your trunks from the levee. We’ll load up, and Malachi can drive us to Littleton in the old phaeton. You and the girl can take shelter at the Littleton Arms until I learn where the Nebraska is and when it’s expected at Littleton. I’ll telegraph the captain of the steamboat about our change in plans. Once it’s all settled and we know more, I’ll leave you to wait while I return to the Grove to join my men. I should have known to make other plans as soon as the weather turned yesterday. That trail never has been worth much. I should have improved it last year.” He nodded. “Yes. That’s what we’ll do. Littleton. And then the path. When everything’s settled, I mean. Perhaps a new loading dock as well.” He broke off and looked off to the field where hundreds of tents reflected the pale light.

  Libbie imagined the men huddled inside, in a vain attempt to stay dry. Would they be forced to drill in the rain? Did wars go on in the midst of a downpour? It would be impossible—wouldn’t it? She couldn’t imagine loading a musket with wet hands. And wet powder—the thought of what would happen to the men camped off in that field, should the Yankees mount a surprise attack in the middle of this storm—but then, they’d be just as drenched as the Guard. Surely nothing would happen today.

  “And that field,” Walker was saying. “Something will have to be done. They’ve destroyed it. Never should have let them camp so close to the house.”

  From the subject of the encampment and the condition of the pasture, Walker took another detour and mentioned a long list of things that needed to be done at Wildwood Grove. Libbie supposed they did, but it was a strange time for Walker to be thinking about painting fences. Goodness, since the Guard had been camped here, many of the fences had disappeared into campfires. Why was Walker babbling on about fence lines and grading the road to encourage runoff?

  The combination of his rambling speech, his flushed face, and the wild expression in his eyes frightened her. She’d learned to deal with many of Walker’s moods over the years, but this—whatever it was—this mood almost seemed to be bordering on madness. He returned to the topic of her leaving. “The key,” he finally said to her. “You have the key, right? And the money box. And the papers I told you about. You must keep the papers safe.”

  “Yes, Walker.” She tried to keep her tone calm. Assured. “Everything’s in order. The money box is right here in my satchel. Do you want to see it?” She held the satchel up.

  Walker stayed her hand. “No, no. That’s all right. I just—” Again he broke off. “Ah, here they are.”

  Malachi and Robert exited the kitchen and stepped up onto the porch, and Walker told them what he wanted. “Miss Libbie will be waiting down at the stables for you,” he said to Malachi. “Waste no time in hitching up the phaeton. Take her to the Archer Arms.”

  “But—aren’t you coming?” Libbie looked up at him.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll come. I just—I need to be with the men. The situation has changed. It’s all—everything—” He looked behind him at the house. “Everything’s changed.” He barked at Malachi and Robert to hurry up and do what they were told. The two men turned their collars up against the rain and headed for the levee.

  Movement in the kitchen window drew Libbie’s attention, and at sight of Annabelle peering out, she found herself longing to step into the warm, dry kitchen, with its familiar aromas of
spices and yeast bread. To hear Annabelle humming about peace and God.

  Walker kept talking. Talking. Talking. About ruined crops and saving the house and hiding the silver. About the servants and how they’d probably all run off before much longer. The rain let up, and he nudged her. “Time to go.”

  And Libbie stood her ground and said no.

  Maggie woke with a start. It was still dark, but the rain had stopped, and where once its incessant drumming on the rubber sheeting stretched over the wagon bed above her had kept her awake, now the cessation of the sound did the same thing. She lay still for a moment, listening, and when she realized that Hero had risen to his feet and was standing, his ears alert, looking out into the night, she sat up and whispered, “What is it, boy?”

  The dog glanced at her, whined softly, and peered back into the night. Feeling the prickle of danger climb up the back of her neck, Maggie slipped her hand into her pocket, grateful that she’d just last night cleaned and reloaded the revolver. She put her thumb on the hammer, ready to cock it. When a low growl sounded in Hero’s throat, she took the pistol out and aimed it in the direction the dog seemed to think danger lurked. Her heart thumped.

  “If you’ve got that pistol out of your pocket, Maggie-girl, you can put it away.”

  Jack. Relief flooded through her. Maggie put the pistol away. She kept her voice low, even as she climbed out from beneath the wagon and whispered a scolding. “Yer a blessed fool, Jack Malone.” He stirred up the campfire, and as the flames flickered and she caught sight of him, relieved tears sprang to her eyes. Home safe, thank the good Lord. At least as close to home as she’d be able to drag him for a bit. And as safe as she could keep him.

  She didn’t bother to pin up her hair, but let the long braid trail down her back as she administered a fierce hug. Expecting to smell a week’s worth of filth and sweat, she was surprised to find him clean-shaven and sporting a new shirt. “What’s this?” She tugged on the kerchief tied about his neck.

  “Bridget Feeny,” he said. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sent the same for Seamus—along with enough notepaper for the boy to write her a book, if he’s of a mind to do it.” He took a deep breath and settled back, poking aimlessly at the fire.

  “I’ll make you coffee. I’m afraid rations have been a bit scarce, so I can’t offer much in the way of anything else—unless you’ve a taste for hardtack soaked in a bit of grease.”

  “You’re a dear, but the captain sent his aide after feeding me when I first came in an hour or so ago,” he said. “I wouldn’t say no to coffee, though.”

  So. He’d had time to dry out while he told the command what he’d learned sneaking about Littleton. And he likely had news, but he didn’t seem inclined to share it yet. All right. She wouldn’t ask about anything but family matters. “I’ve a bit of roasted grounds left from last night.” She emptied water from her canteen into the pot Fish had entrusted to her. “So tell me, now. How is Uncle Paddy?”

  “Back at the farm,” Jack said. He gave her the look she’d come to recognize as his way of scolding. It didn’t need words, which was just as well, since Jack wasn’t one to expend more than a few. “You didn’t really tell it true, Maggie-girl.”

  She snapped a reply. “Don’t you be calling me a liar, Jack Malone.”

  “You know what I mean. The garden. The house. The stock. It’s all so much worse than what you said.”

  “I said it was bad. That seemed enough.”

  Jack thought for a moment. “You should have made me see it,” he said. “Should have told me you needed me to come home.”

  Maggie harrumphed. “And what good would that have done but to make me look like a mewling weakling? You aren’t coming home anytime soon, so where’s the good in whining about it? You and Seamus have a bigger task at hand and I’ll not be weighing you down with worries over broken fences and missing shoats.”

  He smiled, then. “The shoats are back. All save two. Paddy claimed that walking the miles it took to round them up was good for him.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was.”

  “He’s on the mend, then?”

  Jack nodded. “Nearly mended. And singing your praises every chance he gets. I told him you’d taken to soldiering as if you were one of us.” He grinned. “If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve managed not to stink so bad as the rest of the boys—and the skirt, of course—there’d be little difference when it comes down to it.” He glanced up at her. “I meant that by way of a compliment. I don’t suppose it’s a very good one.”

  Maggie ignored what almost seemed an apology while she fetched a couple of tin mugs. Fish had helped her collect a dozen or so and told her to keep them at hand. He’d said that the boys who spent time around her campfire seemed to be better for it, and he’d do what he could to encourage what he called her “regimental tea parties.”

  “And how are things in the town?” she asked as she served the weak but very hot amber liquid. “Did you learn anything to help the brigade?” She handed him a mug. “It’s weak, but it’s the best we’ve got until the supply train catches up to us in a couple of days.”

  Jack sipped coffee and stared into the fire. “I learned a good deal. It was right that Sergeant Coulter had me stay behind.”

  “I’m not asking you to reveal any secrets,” Maggie said. “If you can’t tell me—”

  “Everyone will know soon enough,” Jack said. And just as he opened his mouth to speak, reveille sounded.

  “Seems early,” Maggie said as the sounds of an encampment of men waking up carried on the clear, night air.

  “It is,” Jack said. “The wait’s over, Maggie-girl. Half the regiment is to split off and march northwest to intercept the Wildwood Guard and the Ellerbe Militia.”

  “The—what?”

  Jack nodded. “I learned about it in town—courtesy of an article in the Littleton Leader. Walker Blair wasn’t the only planter bent on funding his own private army. The Guard is at least three hundred strong, and Ellerbe raised another couple hundred to join them. The thing is, the militia aren’t green recruits. They’re mostly General Price’s men, encouraged to stay up north after Boonville.” Jack finished his coffee and stood up. “We’re going to make them regret that decision.”

  “What about Paddy? You said he’s back on the farm? Alone?”

  “Not to worry, dearie. He’ll be driving the wagon back into town today or tomorrow, and he promised me he’d stay there until the Irish parade through Littleton to the cheers of the Union loyal.” He winked at her. “I told him to keep an eye out for you—that you’d be home within the week.” He reached for the haversack he’d dumped beside the fire. “Now I’ve got a package to deliver to me brother—who seems to have stolen a girl’s heart right from beneath my crooked Irish nose, and with poetry, of all things.” He chuckled. “To think that I told Seamus he didn’t know anything about women.”

  “You don’t—mind, do you—about Bridget?”

  “If Bridget wants a poet, she’d be miserable with the likes of me. Besides that, my brain’s been rattling on about someone else, ever since the sergeant and I—” He stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Ever since… what?”

  Jack shook his head. “Never mind. It’s foolishness anyway.” And then he smiled at her. “Speaking of the sergeant, he asked me if you were being courted.”

  Maggie sputtered disbelief. “He did not.”

  “Oh, but he did. Of course, I put a stop to that nonsense right away,” Jack said. “I told him you’re duty-bound to keep house for your two bachelor brothers and your uncle.”

  Maggie laughed. “Since I’m quite certain that none of this really happened, I’ll play along. What did the handsome Sergeant Coulter say to that?”

  “You think he’s handsome, then.”

  “I think,” Maggie said, glancing around her at the activity in the now fully awake and bustling camp, “that you likely have better things to do than tease your poor sister, and if I only had a dishrag i
n my hand, I’d be snapping it to encourage you to get to it.”

  “But I’m not teasing you—oh, all right, maybe I am a little. But he really did ask after you. Right before he said, and I quote, ‘She’s a fascinating woman.’ ”

  Maggie busied herself with drinking the rest of the weak coffee. Taking a last gulp, she said, “Go on, then. Take Seamus his new shirt and let him know you’ve done with poor Bridget Feeny.” Jack left, and for just a fleeting moment, Maggie basked in the idea that John Coulter had apparently thought it possible that a man might choose to court her. Her. And then she pondered the word fascinating.

  Chapter 19

  As the supply train topped a ridge on the third day of the march toward what the boys were already calling the Battle of Wildwood Grove, Maggie looked down to see that they would camp just beyond a bridge that afforded passage across a ravine intersecting the pasture from south to north. The recent rain had turned what was probably a meandering little brook into a swift-running creek. As she walked alongside the supply train toward the bridge, Maggie could hear the rushing water above the noise of creaking harness and plodding mules. When it was her turn to cross the bridge, she did so in the company of Noah, his bare feet nearly soundless, while her own heavy boots clomped as loudly as any soldier’s.

  “We getting close to your farm?” Noah asked as they stepped onto damp earth on the opposite side of the bridge.

  “Fifteen miles or so up that road,” Maggie said, nodding toward what old-timers in the area said had once been an Indian trail. “Wildwood Grove stands between us and the farm, and then Littleton is another five miles or so beyond that.”

  “You could be back home by sundown easy,” Noah said.

  “I could, but I’m not going. Not yet.”

  As the supply wagon came to a stop and Fish jumped down to unhitch the mules, Noah trailed after Maggie and helped her gather wood for the campfire. As they walked back toward the wagons, he asked, “How many slaves you figure they got on that plantation?”