Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  It made sense. Why would any of them trust her? Why would anyone, when it came down to it? What had she ever done to show herself worthy of trust? She thanked Malachi, and together they went inside. She could hear men in the upstairs hall. The surgeon and Major Green were having a heated debate about the presence of the sharpshooters. Libbie hurried into Walker’s office, pressed on the false panel, and collected the keys—which were no longer covered with dust and cobwebs. Someone had used them.

  Annabelle met them at the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. She’d lit two small kerosene lamps—the kind that everyone used for middle-of-the-night visits to the necessary at the edge of the woods. Handing one to Libbie and one to Malachi, the cook said something about warm bread and hot coffee and retreated to the kitchen.

  The stairs to the basement had always been steep. Libbie descended slowly, grateful for the whitewashed walls to reflect the light. At the bottom of the stairs, she realized that early morning light was spilling through the narrow basement windows on the eastern side of the house.

  She was about to extinguish the lamp when Malachi said, “No’m. You be needing that directly.” He motioned for Libbie to proceed into the half of the basement where the furniture had been stored.

  All the bedding in the house had been required to drape things to Walker’s satisfaction, and things had been arranged in the four corners of the room depending on what room they would be returned to one day. At one time, he’d almost had a second kitchen added down here, and even had paneled walls installed. But then a fire at another house where the owner had installed an oven in the basement convinced Walker that the plan was unwise. Libbie had never questioned the story and never paid the wood paneling any mind. But as she stood with Malachi, watching the old man survey a portion of one paneled wall, Libbie realized there was more to the way the furniture was stacked in the room than where things belonged upstairs.

  Malachi was running his calloused hands across those boards, obviously looking for something. Ah. A loose board. When he dislodged it and pulled it away from what should be the rough stone foundation to the house, a key hole came into view. Next, Malachi counted a few boards over from the key hole and removed two more loose boards. Hinges. He ran his hand over the rest of the boards. “This here the foundation wall of the house, Miss Libbie. Whatever’s on the other side of this door is under the yard. A good place to be safe, if a body was to need one.”

  Libbie had just tried the first key when she heard booted feet clomping down the stairs.

  Chapter 21

  Deafening rebel yells and smoke, thundering cannon, and a constant barrage of rapid fire from the trenches. Blue reared up and tried to bolt, but Colt held him in, and the Irish kept going, a solid line responding to the drums as the cadence quickened until finally, with the order to charge, what had once been a few acres of farmland was transformed. Slouch hats and kepis, flannel shirts and frock coats all blended together as the men of the Irish Brigade surged forward to meet the Wildwood Guard and the Ellerbe Militia.

  When Colt first saw the flash of pale green calico and realized what it was, his blood ran cold. The din of battle folded in on itself as he focused on a lone figure crouching over a fallen man. Still astride Blue, Colt charged behind the lines and dropped to the earth, screaming at Maggie. “What d’ya think you’re doing!”

  She was carrying a canteen—no, four. And two haversacks. While Colt watched, she opened one haversack, pulled out a roll of bandages, and quickly fashioned a tourniquet about the man’s upper leg. She was pale, but she worked quickly, leaning close and saying something to the soldier, who lay back, his expression one of agony—and no wonder. The leg was mangled.

  Colt yelled at her. “You have to move back! You’re to stay in the rear!”

  Wild-eyed and red-faced, Maggie refused. She pushed him away, screaming, “Go on with ya! Win the blessed battle before anyone else dies!” On the far side of the field, another man went down, and before Colt could prevent it, Maggie was off and running, her skirt tucked into her belt, her feet flying, her back hunched—as if by bending low she could protect herself from the virtual hail of minié balls peppering the Irish.

  Libbie had handed Malachi the keys and stepped in front of him before Major Green appeared in the doorway. No acting ability was required to make her voice tremble when she spoke. “I—I thought—” She bit her lower lip and put her hands to her temples. “I’m goin’ ta bring the house servants down here,” she said. “I’ll go mad if I have to listen to it.” Just then a cannon blasted away in the distance. Libbie let out a little screech. “I saw you bring those men in here. They’re sharpshooters, aren’t they? That means the Yankees will fire on the house!”

  Major Green looked back up the stairs and then at her. “I was just coming to find you,” he said. “To tell you to do this very thing.” He motioned around them and then looked at Malachi. “Have your woman bring some provisions down here and y’all stay put until this thing is over, y’hear?”

  “Yes sir,” Malachi said. “We do that, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  Would he see the boards they’d removed? Did he know about whatever was behind the hidden door? If so, Green gave no indication, but they couldn’t afford for him to stay down here any longer. Libbie hurried to his side. “I should have gone to Omaha,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’.” She put her hand on the major’s forearm.

  He covered it with his own and gave it a pat. “I’ll send some of my own men to guard the stairs if it’ll give you peace of mind.”

  “You mustn’t do that,” Libbie said quickly. “You need every able body in the camp to get rid of the infernal Yankees.” She glanced back toward where Malachi stood, positioned in a way that mostly hid the boards he’d removed and leaned against the wall. “We’ll be all right,” she said. “Just—” She gave his arm a little squeeze, hoping he would take her inability to finish the sentence as evidence of a heart filled with emotion. It would not do for him to witness Libbie’s discovering one of Walker’s secrets—with the help of a slave.

  Green cleared his throat and spoke to Malachi. “You take good care of Miss Libbie, and you will be well rewarded.”

  “I will, sir.” Malachi nodded. “Ain’t no reward necessary, Mastah Green. We all loves Miss Libbie. We won’t let nothin’ happen to her.”

  Finally, Green turned and headed back up the stairs.

  In minutes, Libbie had discovered the right key. The door opened, revealing another room, this one empty. Set into the far stone wall was yet another door. Libbie hurried over to it. Once the right key was inserted into the old lock, Malachi pulled it open. A gust of damp, dusty air blew past thick cobwebs trailing down from the moldy ceiling. With a shudder, Libbie backed away. Tilted her head. Peered into the darkness, and saw… a circle of light at the far end of what had to be a tunnel leading down to the river.

  Colt was about to run after Maggie and carry her bodily back to the rear, when the odd angle of a muzzle flash made him look toward the brick plantation house. They were flying a white flag—marking it a hospital and, therefore, not to be a target, but when yet another flash emerged from the second-story window, Colt realized it was only subterfuge. They might be planning on using the house for a hospital at some point, but right now it was providing cover for at least two rebel sharpshooters. Unless someone stopped them, they’d have free rein to fire on the Irish.

  Leaping back into the saddle, Colt urged Blue forward. He charged past Maggie, who was kneeling beside yet another fallen soldier in a vain attempt to stanch the flow of blood from a neck wound. “Go back, Maggie! Go back!” he screamed, and then he was gone, flattening himself against Blue’s neck and charging into the fray.

  He couldn’t do it alone. Dear God, show me. He slid off Blue, slapped the horse’s haunches, and sent him running, then hesitated, grateful when he caught sight of Jack Malone with a squad moving toward the river. An attempt to flank the enemy, come up behind the bat
tery, and eliminate the threat of those cannons.

  Catching up with the squad, Colt charged after Jack, slapping him on the shoulder, pointing at the house, and yelling “Sharpshooters!”

  The squad slid down the steep hillside toward the river, moving from tree to tree, taking cover, catching their breath, and finally making it to the rock wall. A blast from the howitzer aboard the McDowell hit the rock and sent them all ducking for cover. Jack slapped one man on the back and sent him scrambling up into one of the trees, from where he’d use a mirror to help the howitzer operator on board the steamboat hone in on the enemy battery. Those cannons had to be put out of commission.

  Another squad was coming up behind them, and when they arrived, Colt gave orders that would provide cover for the man going up the tree. Pointing at Ashby and Thomas, Seamus and Jack, and motioning for them to come with him, Colt set off up the river in the general direction of the house.

  They would have to clear out the rebels guarding the levee to reach the house—unless they could creep past unnoticed. They almost made it, but not quite. Ferocious fire broke out between the two squads. The rebels took shelter behind a six-foot wall of hemp bales stacked on the levee, and for what felt like hours, Colt and his men used the trees for cover, ducking out to take shots that had no more effect on the rebels behind the hemp bales than a child tossing pebbles to destroy a rock wall.

  Feeling helpless, Colt looked past the bales of hemp and toward the hillside beyond where a narrow path led up to the house. He was just about to order all of the squad except Jack to fire at will and create cover for a desperate charge toward that narrow trail when a Negro boy skittered into view. He seemed to have emerged from the hillside itself. Another man appeared next to him, and together the two launched something at the bales of hemp. They disappeared from view—but not before Colt realized what they’d done. They’d thrown oil lamps—lighted lamps—at the hemp.

  When the hemp began to burn, the rebels who’d been using it for cover scattered, some up the very path Colt wanted to follow to the house, others upriver along the water’s edge, and still others actually into the river itself. Colt signaled Seamus and the others to defend their current position. Then, firing their pistols, Jack and Colt charged past the flaming bales of hemp and after the men who’d run up the trail. A massive explosion sounded from the direction of the battery. Apparently the howitzer had finally done its work and eliminated that threat.

  Together, Jack and Colt chased up the trail. Four rebels waited at the top of the trail, determined to keep them from reaching the house. Spinning away, Jack and Colt dove for cover beneath a tangle of vines while shots peppered the earth around them. Colt had just about managed to reload when a loud pop sounded. Whoever was out there was coming after them. Plunging out from beneath the cover, Colt wielded his rifle like a club. The butt hit the soldier just below the ear and he went down like a felled tree, but not before a minié ball cut a path through one sideburn and clipped Colt’s ear. His hand went to the side of his head. It came back red with blood. He staggered and almost went down. Jack took aim and fired. The rebel fell at the top of the trail, and together the men charged up the last few feet, broke into the open, and raced across the lawn to the house.

  They took shelter behind the hedges flanking the steps, catching their breath and taking stock. Jack checked Colt’s ear. “Just a nick, but it’s bleeding bad.” He untied the kerchief about his neck and handed it over. Colt took his hat off, tied the bandanna around his head and over the torn ear, and pulled the hat back on.

  “You think there’s really wounded men inside?” Jack asked.

  “Hard to tell,” Colt replied. “Haven’t seen them carry anyone off the field, but that doesn’t mean much.”

  “Has to be a surgeon and a couple of assistants at least inside.”

  “They’re supposed to be noncombatants.”

  “Right. And this is supposed to be a hospital, not a nest of sharpshooters.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, at least.”

  “Wouldn’t mind having a couple more of our boys with us.”

  “Wouldn’t mind it,” Jack agreed. “Don’t have it.”

  Colt nodded, and together the men crept up the steps and onto the porch. They hunkered down so they wouldn’t be visible through the narrow windows on either side of the door. Jack popped up quickly to take stock and whispered, “The hall’s empty.”

  “What about Miss Blair?” Colt asked.

  Jack shook his head. “Bridget heard she was being sent to Omaha.”

  Colt nodded. That was good. Slowly, he turned the knob and opened the screen door just far enough for Jack to do the same with the main door. The door wasn’t locked. They both took a deep breath. Exchanged glances. Nodded. And burst through the door.

  Libbie stood at the base of the basement stairs, trembling—listening. Only moments ago, Malachi had brought half a dozen of the field hands up from the stable. Now the four women and two men crouched in a corner of the safe room clinging to one another and seemingly afraid to accept so much as a drink of water, even from Annabelle’s hand. One of the women had been crying since the moment they arrived. She didn’t make a sound, but tears streamed down her face in spite of attempts to comfort her from the younger of the two men.

  “Only six?” Libbie had said after the half dozen had passed by her and settled in a corner on the opposite side of the room from the house servants.

  “Six is better than none,” Malachi said.

  Libbie supposed he was right. Still, she was disappointed. If Malachi knew what had become of the rest of the field hands, he wasn’t saying. Perhaps they’d run off as soon as they could get away without being noticed. As for the six who braved a glance her way every once in a while, who could blame them if they didn’t trust her? She’d never done anything for them. Never paid them any mind.

  Shots rang out from up above, and Libbie’s heart began to pound. It was hard to believe that Walker would have agreed to the stationing of sharpshooters on the second floor of the house. He’d done everything he could to protect the place. But where was Walker? Libbie had expected him to check in with her at first light. She’d asked Isham Green about him, but Green had merely shrugged and said that he and Walker were acting “independently” today—whatever that meant. Walker wasn’t a soldier. Where was he? Maybe they’d argued about the sharpshooters. Was that what Green had meant about their “acting independently”?

  Ora Lee was the first one to cross the room and speak to the newcomers. Taking up a loaf of bread, she offered it to the youngest of the four women, who took it, tore a bit off, and then passed it to the next person. Betty brought a bucket of water and a dipper over. The youngest woman said thank you, took a drink, and passed the dipper.

  Cooper came to Malachi’s side and said something. Malachi brought the boy’s concern to Libbie. “Might be we should talk,” he said, clearly wanting to have a word in private.

  Libbie led the way into the storage room. “What is it?”

  “Might be we should think on what we’d do if the house don’t hold. Them Yankees get mad enough, they’re likely to use some mighty big guns to stop them men up on the second floor.”

  Shouts and curses sounded from up above. A thud and then an odd sound just outside the narrow basement window as if gravel were falling from the sky.

  “Somethin’ hit the house,” Malachi said. “Back wall. They’ve seen the sharpshooters.”

  A chill coursed through Libbie, and she looked past the stairs and at the door to the tunnel. “But even if we run to the river, what then? It can’t be any safer than an underground room.”

  “Likely be just fine right where we are,” Malachi agreed. “But we’d be safer if it was up to us who we opened doors to and who we kept out. At least until it’s all settled.”

  He thought they should hide in the secret room. Maybe he was right. Libbie nodded. “All right. Let’s move everyone in, but—we won’t be able to lo
ck it from inside.”

  Malachi knew what to do. In a few moments, they’d moved all the food and water into the secret room—along with the candles Annabelle had brought with her. Both doors opened into the room, and they used furniture that had been put in storage to bar the one that connected to the house, but Libbie wanted to know more about the tunnel, and so she and Malachi and Cooper went into the tunnel with the small kerosene lamps to light the way.

  Libbie shivered as cobwebs swept across her face and shuddered at the imagined sounds of creatures scuttling away from them. Halfway down the tunnel, they stumbled over an odd collection of crates and boxes. When shouts and gunshots echoed up the tunnel from the direction of the river, Malachi and Cooper put the lamps out. They stood in the dark, listening. Something was going on down at the levee. The Yankees must have gotten past the trenches and come up along the river. Thinking on it reminded Libbie of the day she’d caught Jack Malone and John Coulter doing just that.

  Malachi muttered something about seeing what was happening, and although Libbie protested, he paid her no mind, but crept away. His hulking form almost obliterated the light at the far end of the tunnel where it must open just above the river—not far from the levee. A smaller form was following Malachi; Cooper was going after him.

  Minutes passed. Suddenly, there was an odd flash of light and a shout and more gunfire, and suddenly Malachi and Cooper were hurrying back toward her. They were only halfway to her side when they both stopped. Waited. And then, for whatever reason, they seemed to think it safe to move again and they came to her side. They smelled of kerosene, but when Libbie wanted them to light one of the lamps again, they didn’t have them. Cooper slipped away and was back in a moment with a candle, which flickered dangerously low but gave enough light for Libbie to look over the crates. They were nailed shut.

  “Leave them,” Libbie said, and together they returned to the secret room. They didn’t completely bar the door that opened onto the tunnel. Instead, they cracked the door to let air flow into the room, and to listen to the distant sound of the battle. Things were quiet on the levee now as far as Libbie could tell, but she knew that what sounded like distant thunder was nothing so harmless as a summer storm.