by J. F. Collen
Wordless, both men stared at her.
“I am afraid, good sir, that Cadet Searle is in no condition to answer. It seems he has quite a wide, but mercifully fairly superficial, gash on his leg. I must bind it immediately to stanch the bleeding, or he will not have the capacity to ever make it back to the barracks.”
As she spoke, Nellie lifted the bottom of her dress. Warren sucked in his breath at the lamplight sight of her ankles, but Nellie paid him no heed. She tore an arm’s length strip off the bottom ruffle of her best petticoat. No matter, can’t be helped. In any case, that rip I suffered earlier in the evening, when I stumbled over that log caused irreparable damage. I would have had to sew on a new ruffle to salvage this petticoat anyway. It is the least I can do for my sister’s beau, she thought. She clamped her hand back on Searle’s wound. Quickly but methodically she applied the ruffle to the wound, and then wrapped it as tightly as she could around his thick, muscular thigh. I will need a whole petticoat for this large limb, she thought. The slight pressure at least held the bleeding in check while she ripped the entire length of her bottom ruffle off her petticoat and into equal length strips. Warren made himself useful by holding the lamp and summoning another comrade to hurry back to the tavern and ask Mrs. Havens for some beer.
Nellie wound the last strip tightly around the other makeshift bandages, and tied it into a firm knot. Midwife Rafferty would be proud, she thought. Mrs. Havens came running out with the beer.
“How in t’ world did this occur? Was there an altercation? I noticed a bowie knife lying under t’ window as I came out,” Mrs. Havens panted, breathless.
Warren said, “Old Searle here would not hurt a flea. By the sword, he is our pacifist. He could not have been fighting.”
With one swig of the beer, Searle revived enough to confirm, “‘Twas not pugnacity but merely stupidity—in the scramble and press to climb through the window my fool knife decided to burst its sheath.”
“I told you to re-sew that old leather sheath, Zetus,” Warren said with a fond rub of Searle’s shoulder. “Did I not tell you it would poke free some day and slice you?”
“It was certainly fortuitous that you had a lantern Cadet Warren,” said Nellie, standing up and gathering herself. “How did you contrive to have one when all the other cadets seem to sneak about in the darkness?”
“I am a first-class cadet. I always arm myself for battle. I stash this securely in the woods for just such occasions—walks to and from our home-away-from-home.”
Does mayhem like this occur often? Nellie wondered.
Mrs. Havens gave Warren an affectionate pat on the arm. “‘Tis a blessing you did, son.” She turned to Searle and asked, “Well enough to walk, now cadet? I’m afraid t’ big brass is cozy in front o’ my fire, no room now for an A.W.O.L. the likes of you.”
“I can probably assist him on the walk back,” said Nellie, wishing they were underway already.
Mrs. Havens and Warren turned to her in surprise, as if they had forgotten she was there. “‘Tis a blessing you kept such a cool head. You are a most fortunate soldier, Zetus, to have received instant aid under these exceptional conditions,” said Mrs. Havens.
“My goodness, Florence Nightingale, in all this commotion we have not been introduced,” said Cadet Warren. “Searle, rouse yourself from your self-inflicted misery and introduce us to your fine lady.”
“She’s no fine lady—she is the sister of my spoony button girl,” said Searle. Was it pain that made him state her relationship in such an unflattering way? she wondered.
“Ye always were quite the flatterer now,” said Warren with a hint of vexation in his voice. Nellie and Mrs. Havens burst out laughing.
Then Nellie remembered they were not that far from the tavern, so not only were they still at risk of discovery, but also a long distance from the barracks.
“I am Cornelia Rose Entwhistle,” said Nellie. She extended her hand.
Warren bowed with the grace of a knight over a duchess’s hand. Nellie smiled. For a second her world righted itself.
“Mercy!” she said with a sharp intake of breath. “I fear we have been distracted from our sense of urgency. Perhaps I am being overly cautious, and the threatening visit was a false alarm?” She looked from the still pale face of the prone Zetus into the flushed face of G. K. Warren and then to Mrs. Letitia Havens.
“Alas, my dear, ‘tis a real danger for these lads. There are not often raids such as these, but when they come, t’ consequences can be dire. Two generals and a posse of cadet guards and patrols, tossing back Hot Flips and wolfing me roast pork! I do recall one patrol such as this capturing a certain Jefferson Davis. Goodness that lad got in more scrapes! Although I must say, he does not seem to be worse for the wear. Governor of Mississippi, with an eye toward Secretary of War, for the right President.”
Mrs. Havens commands an impressive knowledge of the whereabouts of one of her ‘sons,’ thought Nellie.
Warren emitted a low chuckle. “Every cadet in the long grey line knows the tale of Jeff Davis damn near falling to his death on these very cliffs, trying to escape a raid.”
“T’ lady is right,” said Mrs. Havens. ‘Ye must ‘make foot’ now.”
“Come,” Warren said. “Zetus stand and lean on my shoulder. Mistress Entwhistle, if you will be so kind as to support his other shoulder, I shall attempt the journey back to camp.”
Nellie dutifully shouldered Searle’s right arm and his weight almost sent her pitching forward. The team started off down the rocky path well enough, but when they came to the crude wood steps leading to the top of the cliff, and the treacherous woods above, Nellie’s heart sank in trepidation.
She drew in her breath and placed her right foot on the first step with determination. “Up we go then,” she said.
They climbed three steps.
Nellie was already out of breath. Where were the rest of the fleeing cadets? Have they all gone ahead?
Just then, a light shone below them.
“Busted!” moaned Searle.
“The cavalry!” rejoiced Warren.
“Most definitely not t’ cavalry young man,” said a stern voice in a thick Irish brogue. “As for ye Cornelia Rose Entwhistle....”
Nellie turned in disbelief and looked straight into the glare of the lantern, which blinded her. Her companions blinked in its brightness too.
Rough hands grabbed Nellie and two bodies brushed by her to assume the weight of half of Searle.
Nellie tried to pull away from the grasp, but the perpetrator held the lantern up to his own face. Nellie was gob smacked to see it was her own father.
“Papa? How did you get here? What business do you have here?” Nellie sputtered.
“I might well be ask’n’ ye t’ same sort o’ questions,” her father replied, tightening his grip on her arm and pulling her away from her two companions. “Tho’ I suspect the answer is ‘monkey business’!”
The men with her father steered the two cadets around the other way to face them.
“Sir, be you friend or foe to this lady?” asked Warren, as Searle gasped, “Unhand this angel of mercy!”
Mr. Entwhistle and his companions burst out laughing. “Well, I see ye be in the company of gentlemen at least. Unchaperoned, aye, jist as yer Mutter worried, but a wee bit o’ redemption in t’ fact that t’ men appear to be gentlemen. Come this way lads, ye appear to be in a bit o’ lather. Let’s get ye to me sloop and we can determine where to set course from there.”
“Your sloop? But where is...? How did...? ...Come here? When...?” Nellie’s tongue, still in a stupor of surprise, stuttered more bits of questions.
“Yer Mutter sent me, yer brother Patrick, and young Clayton here on a fact-finding mission, finding, in fact that only one Entwhistle colleen was present and accounted for, resting with her chaperone at t’ instructor’s fine home....” he said. Nellie winced because her father tightened his grip on her arm.
“Papa I can explain....” Nelli
e interrupted.
“An’ ye surely will. But for now, suffice it to say that Agnes was worried about you and her sister’s beau here....” Her father gestured at Searle. “...And relived to see me appear with t’ same concerns. She was only too willing to tell o’ yer whereabouts.”
Mr. Entwhistle turned to Patrick and Clayton, “Do not err, like I have meself. Do no’ ever underestimate t’ powers of our better half’s sixth sense.” To Nellie he said, “Yer Mutter was beside herself with worry, sure that a grave ill befell ye. I could no’ placate her. I had to come to find ye.”
“‘Tis well that you did,” said Nellie as her father said, “’Tis well I did.”
In the process of moving the wounded cadet, Patrick gave Nellie a reassuring clap on the back. Thank the Lord for small favors, ‘tis my brother Patrick come to rescue me and not Jerome or Jonas. Neither of them would ever let me forget this humiliation, she thought.
In minutes, they were at the sloop, anchored at a flimsy dock less than a quarter of a mile down the cliff from Benny Havens’. On the other side of the dock, several rowboats were in various stages of launching, with cadets perched on every available spot. Other small craft were still berthed, ostensibly awaiting other members of the cadet corps.
“Do you mean to say that instead of that trek through the dark and dangerous wood, I could have journeyed to that tavern via the river, with a short stroll up a well-trod path?” Nellie asked, fists raised as if to punch someone. “That Magruder is a ne’er do well!” She stamped her foot.
A big belly laugh rang out over the water. Nellie could only surmise it came from one of the crew or her father’s cohort, Clayton.
“You’ll be less than pleased to learn then,” said the still laughing voice from the shadows, “the float up the river to the cadet barracks is a scant five minutes.”
If that doesn’t make me a goat! Nellie thought.
Her two cadet companions, however, resuscitated her self-esteem. They talked over each other in their haste to exculpate her, explaining in detail, with laudatory words, how Nellie rescued Searle from certain death by her medical skill and cool head.
Somewhat mollified by learning the details, Mr. Entwhistle brought his craft to a small dock in close proximity to the barracks. Patrick and Warren almost lifted Searle ashore.
Nellie moved behind them, ready to disembark.
But Mr. Entwhistle laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“I’m afraid yer stay at T’ Point has ended m’ dear,” he said in a soft voice, no anger or rancor apparent.
Nellie drew back in surprise. “But Papa, I am to attend services in the Chapel in the morning and the band concert tomorrow afternoon.”
“Not any more, ye ar’n’t. Yer sister will send word to that cad who was to escort ye, and that will be the end o’ it.”
Nellie was actually grateful. I expected punishment and humiliation. But Papa is sparing me the ignominy of having to tell Magruder I never want to see him again.
She threw her arms around her father and gave him a giant hug. He immediately hugged her back. She said, “Oh Papa, thank you and Mutter for saving me from my own imprudence and folly.”
The world was right again as, in the ship’s light Nellie saw her father grin back.
Chapter 22 – Wedding March
Sing Sing, June 1850
Tarnation!
The memories that sprang to Nellie’s mind each morning, as soon as she awoke, washed her in a fresh wave of embarrassment and mortification. Scenes from her exploits, which she privately dubbed ‘The West Point Debacle,’ repeated in her head for what seemed like an eternity. When will I learn some restraint? she asked herself over and over, head bent in shame. When will I learn how to accurately assess the merits of a young man’s character? I will never return to that Academy—that location of my humiliation.
However, the invitations, received continually since the Entwhistle ladies’ debut last year, continued to come. The indignity of her father retrieving her from West Point, like some wayward, disobedient dog, remained within the family. But it needled her, prickling like a thorn within Nellie’s heart. She busied herself with the social life in Sing Sing, happy that the picnic social scene was budding with the June flowers. She eschewed invitations to West Point and declined Anastasia’s request that Nellie accompany her to see her beau Searle.
One Sunday evening, Nellie sat on her bed in their garret room and watched enviously as Anastasia and Agnes unpacked their cases from their weekend at West Point.
“Pshaw, Nellie, you should have come!” Anastasia looked at her with big, sympathetic eyes. “Elmer still pines for you. You also received inquires as to your whereabouts from that scallywag Magruder, and some cadet named Baker who did not look familiar. Can you enlighten me as to his identity?”
“I am afraid I cannot.” Nellie dismissed the message from the mystery man with a wave of her hand. “Magruder is a scallywag indeed...” she muttered.
She shook her head, as if trying to shake off his memory. “How fares Zetus? Any repercussions from his tragic injury?” Nellie stifled a grin, determined to focus on the lighter side of the whole sophomoric incident.
“Only his undying appreciation for you and your midwifery skills. He claims you saved his life! Instead of skulking about here like a culprit, you should be regaling all of society with anecdotes of the episode.” Anastasia threw her hand wide in a dramatic gesture. “Every man, woman and child should know of your heroism.”
“Pshaw,” said Nellie, face again burning with humiliation.
“Most truly, Cornelia,” said Anastasia with an earnest expression on her face. “There is no shame in the incident. ‘Twas just a bit of a lark of a caper, turned sour—followed by an act of selfless bravery.”
“Bravery? I merely applied my training.” Nellie scoffed at herself.
“Even Papa and Mutter speak of the incident with pride.”
“I almost believed you, until you proffered that proclamation. Our parents will never be proud of having to find and rescue me from that scrape.” Nellie buried her head in her hands.
“You would be surprised,” whispered Anastasia, her hand on Nellie’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “They are human. And they were young once too.”
Nellie looked up in disbelief, but Agnes, standing with her hands on her hips, captured her gaze.
“I am waiting for your undivided attention, sisters,” Agnes said, tapping her foot. Both girls dutifully, or perhaps from force of habit, deferred to Agnes’s orders, and turned expectant faces toward their domineering sister.
“I am engaged to be married,” she announced, and folded her arms across her chest, smug expression on her face.
Her two sisters crowded around her, hugging her, and squealing in delight. Agnes’s facial expression turned to satisfaction.
“So exciting! How wonderful!” the sisters chorused.
“How ever did you persuade that indecisive Armistead to make up his mind?” Nellie demanded. “I do believe that man truly could talk out of both sides of his mouth.”
“He is a man of action, once a firm woman takes him in hand,” replied Agnes, and then she grinned a smile so big Nellie was sure her sister had never before smiled that broadly.
Agnes held out her hand and her sisters saw a large, heavy ring. Nellie grabbed her hand and Anastasia bent to view it.
“Goodness that is massive!” exclaimed Anastasia.
“Why the black onyx contains an image of West Point,” said Nellie.
“Yes, it is Armistead’s class ring from the Academy. It is merely a placeholder for an engagement ring of my own,” replied Agnes.
Nellie examined the raised design of the almost triangular onyx stone set at an angle in intricately wrought gold. “A most remarkable placeholder indeed,” she confirmed.
“We must plan your wedding!” shrieked Anastasia. “Which do you prefer: a ceremony of splendor and spectacle in New York City like the viscountess at Tr
inity Church or a quiet one in our small village setting?”
“Viscountess? Sakes alive! Now that she has married a common American, for his wealth, that Hungarian ‘viscountess’ has been stripped of her honorary title,” said the bossy Agnes. Nellie would have challenged her statement, but somehow, she vaguely recalled that Agnes’ point of societal etiquette was correct.
“Therefore,” Agnes continued, “henceforth she will only be referred to as ‘the Honorable Mrs. Dunlap’.”
“Mercy, do you remember the pomp and circumstance of that wedding?” asked Nellie. The ladies nodded. “It was grander than even I could have imagined.”
Agnes raised a solitary eyebrow in a smirk of recognition at the vast capacity of Nellie’s imagination and the true grandeur of the nuptials they had the privilege of attending.
Anastasia took up the narrative. “The reception for the viscountess was both ostentatious and magnificent. The feast sumptuous and overabundant! After dancing the evening away, the guests were invited to say their farewells to the couple.” She traipsed through the sitting room as she recounted the tale. “The whole party filed across the grand lawn in a colorful parade of fancy couture. We sashayed down the steps in the exquisitely manicured landscape to the river estuary abutting their imposing estate.”
Anastasia stopped in front of them and whispered, “A hush fell over the assembled guests as we waited for the happy couple to board their boat and ship off to some exotic location in their own private sloop. As one, the crowd leaned over the bridge to bid the blissful newlyweds adieu....”
“And Mutter, of all people, dropped her glove!” Nellie started laughing as she uttered the words. Her sisters joined her.
“I truly thought it was you Nellie, for I will swear to this day, as the glove hit the railing and then plopped off, I heard your favorite excited utterance, ‘Tarnation’! Could Mutter truly have employed such boorish language?” asked Anastasia.
Agnes tossed her head, and defended their mother. “I only heard her whisper what any lady would say—‘my best kid glove!’ with a small groan.”
