Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Maggie just shook her head. Didn’t he know that he already had her heart? Couldn’t he see? She looked down at her filthy, faded skirt. Thought of the petticoat that hung in shreds because she’d torn strips away to make bandages. She couldn’t speak of love dressed like this. She put her hands in her pockets. And for some reason, the gesture made Colt swear.

  “What’s this?” He pointed to a frayed spot near the pocket. “And this?” He crouched down.

  Maggie looked down. What was he talking about? And then she saw them. Only three. No, there was another one. All right. Four.

  John took his hat off and stepped away to the edge of the porch. He slapped the hat against his thigh like a man trying to rid it of dust, but he didn’t put it back on. Finally, he turned about. “Bullet holes! Your skirt is riddled with bullet holes.” His eyes glimmered in the moonlight. Tears?

  “Well, as you can see, John Coulter, I’m fine.”

  “That you are.” He dropped his hat and pulled her into his arms.

  The first kiss was sweet enough to fill a year’s worth of dreams. She kept her guard up all the while, willing herself to memorize the moment for the future when she would need the memory.

  Somehow John must have read her thoughts, for he pulled away. His voice was gruff as he said, “Kiss me back. I love you. I won’t hurt you and I’ll never leave you. Now kiss me back.”

  She’d never been kissed before, but apparently she was getting the hang of it, for the second kiss left them both more than a little breathless. The third took them dangerously close to the edge of a cliff Maggie had never suspected she would ever approach.

  John ended that kiss, put his hands to her waist, and drew her close. “As long as I live, I’ll never love anyone else, Maggie Malone. Say you’ll marry me.”

  Somehow the fact that she could whisper made it easier. “I do love you, John Coulter. But I’m afraid.”

  He leaned away, just enough to look into her eyes. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known. How can you be afraid of love? Of me?”

  “I just—am,” Maggie murmured. “I can’t help it.”

  He sighed. “I don’t understand you, but I don’t suppose I have to. I love you. I’ll wait.” With a sweet hug, he stepped away and retrieved his hat. “Be forewarned. The proposals will continue until you say ‘yes.’ ” He put the hat on and offered his arm. “May I have the honor of seeing you home?”

  They walked around the side of the house to the servants’ steps at the back. Libbie had said that Malachi and Cooper would bring a mattress up from the basement. Maggie was to share Libbie and Ora Lee’s room as long as she was here at Wildwood Grove.

  John wished her good night with a kiss on the cheek. She might be his sister for all the passion in it. The flicker of doubt raised its head again. Until John leaned close and muttered something about lavender soap that made her blush.

  Chapter 25

  It was mid-morning before Maggie and Libbie awoke, and when Libbie scolded Ora Lee for letting them sleep, the poor girl actually got tears in her eyes.

  “All your mens said we was to let you sleep,” she said.

  Maggie and Libbie exchanged looks.

  Libbie asked the question, “And who, pray tell, are ‘all our mens’?”

  “Well…” Ora Lee extended a finger with each name. “Dr. Feeny said you was both close to exhaustion and you’d get sick if you didn’t rest. Then, when I went down early this morning to help Annabelle with the breakfast, there was a new boy, name of Noah, eating with Mr. Malone—that be Jack Malone—and they both say to let you sleep as long as you like. And the other Malone agreed. I don’t remember his name. He got red hair.”

  “That’s my brother Seamus,” Maggie said.

  Ora Lee nodded. “Yep. That the one.” She extended another finger. “Then another Irishman come looking for you”—she glanced at Maggie—“and when he heard you was sleeping, he said to tell you Uncle Paddy come out from town but he know you needs your rest. By then that handsome Sergeant Coulter was eating breakfas’ with Mr. Jack and he agreed with all the other mens that it was good you was both still asleep.” Ora Lee looked down at her hands. “So that’s six or seven men ordered us all to leave you be. I lost count, but don’t be yellin’ at me ’cause I done what I was told.”

  Libbie just shook her head. “All right. I won’t yell.” She started to get up, groaned, rubbed her back, and sat back. Sniffed. Looked up at Ora Lee. “Is that me I smell?”

  When the girl didn’t respond, Libbie nodded. “All right. Do you have time to haul a pail of water up here so I can wash up?”

  “Two pails,” Maggie said, and forced herself to stand up. “I’ll help get it.” She glanced over at Libbie. “I have to see if I can find Fish and retrieve my satchel. I’ve a change of clothes tucked in it.” Mention of the satchel reminded her of the letters that had been entrusted to her.

  Mention of a change of clothes seemed to attract Libbie’s attention to the holes in Maggie’s skirt. “Are those—bullet holes?”

  Maggie looked down at them. “I suppose so.”

  Libbie shuddered.

  Ora Lee spoke up. “You must-a had a angel running with you yesterday, Miss Maggie. You stay right here. I get the water for you both.” She hesitated. “Who that Fish man you need to find?”

  Maggie chuckled. “Fish is the quartermaster. His real name is something so long and French that no one can say it. But part of his name means ‘fish,’ so that’s what everyone calls him. Anyway, he keeps track of the supplies. Hands out the food, distributes letters—now that I think about it, Fish seems to run everything that isn’t associated with guns and cannon.”

  “He wear a funny red hat?”

  “He does.”

  “He set up down by the levee. Seem like maybe the Yankees expecting a steamboat sometime today. Anyway, I’ll send Cooper to find him and get your satchel. Send Betty up with some biscuits and coffee. Anything else you need?”

  Maggie protested. “You don’t have to do all that.”

  “What if I want to?” Ora Lee appealed to Libbie. “You tell her, Miss Libbie. You wasn’t orderin’ me around—except with the water, and I’m used to haulin’ water for a full bathtub. Two buckets ain’t nothin’. Anyway, tell Miss Maggie to let us help.”

  “Ora Lee wants to help,” Libbie said. “Let her.”

  Maggie gave up, although she made a face as she said, “Coffee and clothes and breakfast, if you please. And thank you.”

  Ora Lee smiled. “Comin’ up.” She ducked out of the room, then ducked back in. “Oh. And that Mr. Ashby doin’ better this morning. Dr. Feeny say to tell you.”

  Half an hour after Ora Lee hauled the two pails of cold well water up to the glorified closet that Libbie and Maggie now shared, the two women had let down their hair, scrubbed themselves clean, and donned fresh unmentionables—albeit Maggie’s were decidedly less fresh than Libbie’s, having suffered from the extended travel with the Irish.

  “I couldn’t exactly hang my drawers out to dry in full view of the boys,” she said, blushing at the thought. She put up only the faintest protest when Libbie summoned Betty and requested that she tailor a fresh chemise and petticoat for Miss Maggie. How Betty was going to accomplish such a miracle with anything that would fit Libbie Blair was beyond Maggie’s ability to understand, but she wasn’t about to insult Betty’s skills by declaring it impossible. And so she waited, and by the time she’d eaten breakfast and managed to comb out the disaster that was her hair, Betty was back.

  Maggie slipped the petticoat over her head and buttoned it at her waist. “It’s wonderful. Thank you. How’s Robert this morning?”

  Betty smiled. “He fine, Miss Maggie. Thank you for asking. He told me how you tended him.”

  “I didn’t, really. I was out of thread. And I didn’t have any way to make a sling.”

  “But you was willing,” Betty said. “That was very kind of you.” She glanced over at Libbie and said that she’d s
end Ora Lee up to finish her hair.

  Libbie stretched again, her arms lifted above her head. “It is amazin’,” she said, “that hot coffee, cold water, and clean clothes can make a woman feel like she just might be human again.” She stood up and looked out the window toward the river. “It seems strange, though—to hear birds singing. It’s almost as if the world hasn’t really noticed what happened here yesterday.”

  Maggie didn’t know whether she should say something or not, but when Libbie’s shoulders began to shake a bit and Maggie realized the woman was crying, she went to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “I—um—I don’t really know how to be—I mean, I’ve never been around women much. I grew up with my brothers and my uncle. So if this is all wrong—but—if you need a friend—I’ll try. I probably won’t be any good at it, but I’ll try.” When Libbie said nothing, but only cried harder, Maggie looked about her, feeling panic. She grabbed up the towel that Libbie had used to dry off and handed it to her. Libbie took it, blew her nose, and handed it back.

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” She snatched it away. “I’m not really sure how friendship works, either.”

  Maggie frowned. “But you—I mean—all those other belles. You were always with a group of them when I saw you in town.”

  “You mean the ones who made fools of themselves over your brother?”

  Maggie nodded. “You never did that, but still—I mean—you were with them.”

  “We aren’t really friends. They’d all known each other for years before I was forced on ’em.”

  “Forced on them?” Maggie asked. “What’s that mean?”

  Libbie told her. About her parents dying and her coming to live with her only brother. Who didn’t really want her, until he realized there was something to be said for having a “gracious hostess.” “Don’t misunderstand. Walker gave me many beautiful things. I even think he loved me, in his own way. But we never really knew one another. I always felt a little like a guest in the home of a stranger.”

  Maggie couldn’t imagine something so horrible. She had never for one moment doubted that Jack and Seamus and Uncle Paddy loved her. They drove her to madness sometimes with their teasing, but she also knew they’d die for her, and she for them. She might have been lonely growing up, but it was nothing like what Libbie had experienced. And she said so. “I’m sorry for you,” Maggie said. “Sorry for what’s happened. To you and your brother and your home. I was wondering about it last night, when you saw all the damage—thinking that you must feel horrible. And angry. No one would blame you.”

  Libbie crossed the room and ran her hands over the bullet holes peppering the wall. “I’m not sure what I feel. In the six years I’ve lived here, there have been times when I honestly wished this house would fall down.” She touched the left side of her face. “Walker was so caught up in making an impression on just the right people. I always thought this house was beautiful, but he was never satisfied with it. Or me. Now… I should feel terrible, but I don’t.” She grunted. “After all his strutting and all the talk and all the plans, he deserted the Guard. He ran.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say. The men she knew weren’t blinded by fear. They trembled, but they did their duty anyway. Libbie would have to find a way to live with awful news about her only brother. Maggie couldn’t imagine it. She blurted out the question. “What will you do now?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t seem to suss it out.” She lifted the corner of her mattress and pulled out an envelope. “This was in Walker’s saddlebags.” She pointed to the words Blair had scrawled across the envelope. For Libbie. “He never called me ‘Libbie.’ Well—almost never.”

  “You haven’t read it?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose I’ll be caught in some kind of limbo until I do, but whatever it says… he ran.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m furious. All those beautiful boys who died. And more who are hurting over at the Ellerbes. And Walker ran?” She shuddered. “I’m not ready to hear from him.” She put the letter back beneath the mattress, and then she asked Maggie, “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “Stay with the Irish, if they’ll have me.”

  “Even when they move on?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “You’d want to? After everything that happened yesterday?”

  “It’s because of everything that’s happened,” Maggie said, and she realized she wasn’t talking about John Coulter. Oh, he was part of it, of course. But not all of it. Not even most of it. “I did some good, and that felt wonderful. Do you think it’s odd for me to feel good about it?”

  Libbie sighed. “If it is, then we’re both odd.” She paused. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same. I dread going downstairs, and yet I look forward to it—to doing something beyond sitting at the head of a dinner table and fluttering my eyelashes at a man who needs to be reassured about his rightful position as the ruler of his kingdom.” She grimaced. “I sound like a spoiled brat. Let’s find ‘our mens,’ as Ora Lee calls them, and see what we can do to help them today.”

  Sometimes the thing that helped a man the most was the thing a woman least wanted to do. And yet it was necessary. Perhaps even hallowed, in some way, Libbie thought, when Sergeant Coulter asked for their help identifying the dead and recovering their personal effects before they were taken into Littleton for burial.

  “The day will be warm,” the sergeant said. “We must act quickly.” He looked over at Maggie. “If you think you can bear it—”

  “I can,” Maggie said. “It’s important.”

  Libbie wasn’t certain she could bear it, but she didn’t admit it, and once she got past the first few moments and realized that Maggie was right—it was important, and it would help the living—she was able to bear it.

  Maggie came up with the idea of writing each man’s identity and a note about how they died along with the personal effects that had been found with them, and then to seal it in a jar that would be buried with each man. The goal was to provide still more certainty as to identities. After all, headboards would weather and fade. If families decided to reclaim the bodies, there should be no doubt as to the identity and no doubt that the men were treated with honor and respect.

  Libbie served as Sergeant Coulter’s secretary, completing four columns on several sheets of paper, noting each soldier’s name including his rank, his regimental affiliation, any personal effects found with him, and the exact location of his grave. Jack Malone saw to the personal effects, stowing them in sugar sacks or flour sacks, tying them closed, and then affixing a shipping tag to each bag that duplicated the information on Libbie’s list. The bags would be crated and shipped downriver to St. Louis, where they would be held at headquarters until claimed by the families.

  It took most of the morning to accomplish the sad duty, and more than once Libbie had to blink away tears as lockets displaying children’s faces, locks of hair, and other sentimental relics were removed from pockets and hiding places. Many of the dead had written letters the night before the battle. Some were bloodstained. They were treated with special reverence.

  The bodies were transported to town as quickly as identifications were completed, and as the last wagon trundled away with its tragic cargo, Sergeant Coulter touched Maggie’s arm in a way that communicated more than he’d likely intended. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Maggie shook her head. “No. But I will be.” And she turned to Libbie. “We can collect the bedding in town this afternoon. I’d like—a cup of coffee.” She shrugged. “Or whiskey. I can’t decide which.”

  Together, the women trudged to the kitchen. Something about seeing all those letters reminded Libbie of the letter waiting beneath her mattress. She was still angry with Walker, but there didn’t seem to be any point to ignoring his letter. She was only hurting herself by refusing to face it. She would read it tonight.

  When it came time to make the drive into Littleton to gather bedding, Libbie held back, suddenl
y afraid of what the citizens might say to her. When she finally told Maggie the real reason for her reluctance—she was afraid that Union supporters would slam the door in her face—Maggie understood. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Paddy and I will go.”

  “Would you mind if I rode as far as the livery? I’d like to bring Pilot home. I’m hoping the owner will just take the carriage horse in payment for the board.”

  Jack Malone spoke up, offering to borrow a mount and ride alongside the wagon so that he could escort Libbie back to the Grove.

  The livery owner seemed delighted to accept the carriage horse, who really was a fine animal, as payment for Pilot’s board. “Wish I had a dozen like him,” he said, and then, with a glance Jack Malone’s way, he lowered his voice and said, “I thought you’d want to know, Miss Libbie, that I happen to know that our former sheriff is on his way to join up with General Price.”

  Libbie frowned. “Isham was—here?”

  The livery owner nodded. “He’d actually left his own horse here at the livery. Rode one of Ellerbe’s Thoroughbreds into the fray.” He snorted. “Said the fool horse went crazy when the first shots were fired. Arrived here on foot, saddled that big white gelding of his, and hightailed it south.”

  “I see. Well… thank you.”

  Pilot must have heard her, for he thrust his head over the half door to his stall and whickered. As soon as Libbie was near enough, the horse nuzzled her shoulder.

  “Seems happy to see you,” Malone said.

  Libbie smiled and nodded.

  “And you’re happy to see him.”

  She leaned into the horse’s neck to hide her tears. As they headed out of town, Pilot danced and pranced, and Jack Malone seemed truly concerned that Libbie might be thrown. “I’ve been riding since before I could walk, Private Malone,” she said. “He’s just happy to have me back,” and she patted Pilot’s broad neck.