"You have no quarrel with the ladies, Lieutenant," Ashton said, his voice cool and in smooth control.
"7 have a quarrel with these men, General." It was Mrs. Thaw, her voice hard as flint. "They killed my husband and my boy. I have a quarrel."
There was a moment of studied silence as the opposing sides eyed each other, taking their measure.
"Gentlemen." The Union lieutenant tossed his head in the direction of the other soldiers. "We have ourselves a Reb general and Reb soldiers. They're surely scraping the barrel if they hide behind the petticoats of their women ..."
The Union soldiers laughed, and Margaret closed her eyes and pressed herself into Ashton's chest. She whispered something to him, and his arm closed protectively around her. But his eyes never left the Union men.
The young lieutenant suddenly looked furious and leveled his pistol at Margaret.
"What did she say?" he demanded. "General, raise both of your hands away from your pistol and tell me what she said."
"Her words, Lieutenant, are of no importance to you," Ashton's tone was again full of authority, even though they were outnumbered and outgunned. He made no move to surrender.
The Union officer glared at Margaret and raised the pistol to Ashton's head.
"No!" shouted Margaret. "I'll tell you. I said *I love you, Ashton Johnson.' That's all I said. . . ."
The lieutenant blanched and lowered his weapon, his mouth slack before he spoke. "You're General Johnson, sir?"
Ashton nodded once, his gaze full of rage.
"Sir." The lieutenant's posture and tone were meek and apologetic. "Do you remember Norman Hale, sir? You taught him at Magnolia, sir. Rhetoric, I believe, and Greek translation."
"I remember him." Ashton's voice was tight. "I failed him for not reading The Iliad."
"I know, sir. He's my brother."
"How is he, Lieutenant Hale? I believe he took the oath and signed up in New York. Does he fare well?" Ashton's tone was honest and compelling, as if chatting with an acquaintance at a tea party.
"Well, sir," The lieutenant dropped the pistol to his side, and Margaret held her breath as Ashton's hand crept again to his own pistol. "Old Norman came down with the camp diarrhea, then the mumps. They sent him home, sir. Back to Westchester."
Ashton actually smiled then, his white teeth flashing in the fading light of the afternoon sun. "Please give my regards to your brother, and tell him to read his Homer. When this cruel war is over, there's going to be a test."
The young lieutenant made a small bow and turned to his soldiers. "Men, forget who you saw here today. General Johnson's just about the most decent fellow on either side, and if we don't win, we'll surely need him to give us all a hand."
He motioned for the men to retreat, and they did, with perplexed shrugs and backward glances, as if forced to pass up a memorable meal. The young lieutenant approached Ashton and Margaret, trusting the enemy not to shoot him.
"Sir?" he said to Ashton. "I hear you were wounded in Gettysburg. I trust you are recovered."
"Almost, Lieutenant Hale. I thank you for your concern," Margaret swallowed as the lieutenant began to whisper.
"Sir, my men don't know this, but there's a price on your head. Keep low, General, because any Union officer would sell his soul to get a potshot at you."
Ashton's expression remained bland. "Again, Lieutenant, I thank you."
The lieutenant then gave Margaret a small smile and nodded. "I apologize, ma'am," and then he was gone.
It wasn't until they began riding again that Margaret realized Ashton's hand was still gripping the fully cocked pistol. He would not have hesitated to blow the life from the chatty young lieutenant had the need arisen.
CHAPTER 8
The travelers paused for the night several miles north of Chattanooga. After running into the Yankee patrol, Ashton determined it was far safer to rest away from the town, which was still reeling from the Battle of Chickamauga the month before. There were a few homes Ashton could have taken them to, but he didn't want to endanger either the homeowners or themselves. Without any means to communicate, it was impossible to tell which homes the Yankees were using as quarters, which farms were occupied by the enemy.
For Margaret, the realization that there were no telephone lines was startling. Of course she was aware, once she understood where and when she was, that most of the modern conveniences she took for granted were not in existence. But not to be able to flip on a radio or television for news, or to simply pick up a phone and call, seemed absolutely primitive.
The men and Mrs. Thaw were busy tying the horses for the night and opening saddlebags to retrieve their belongings. Margaret wandered to a rock and plopped down, massaging her saddle-sore thighs and, for the first time in her life, feeling absolutely inadequate.
A stinging phrase, "worse than useless," kept on dancing through her mind. For that's exactly what she had become, a burden and a complete drag on these brave people. They knew how to make do in the wilderness, ingenious ways to survive without so much as a gas grill. Margaret had camped out once, with twenty-five pounds of freeze-dried food, a water-proof tent, and a fully functioning Coleman stove. At the time, Margaret and her friends had felt like real pioneers, heating up their beef stroganoff without a microwave, listening to a portable radio and the creepy sounds of the woods. But they returned to civilization after two nights, feeling bold and grungy after not washing their hair or taking a steaming shower for almost forty-eight hours.
She couldn't even ride a horse. How much had Ashton risked by carrying her in his lap, the helpless prima donna? For all those thousands of hours she had spent studying this era, she truly believed she understood their minds and souls. She would read quaint words, lose herself in the surface charm of a bygone era, and then flick off her electric light, snuggle into her Sealy mattress under no-iron sheets and an electric blanket, and dream of the past.
Sure, she could book an airplane flight and load an instamatic camera, but she couldn't explain how they worked if her life depended on it. She could repro-gram her word processor in a flash, just don't ask her to change a simple typewriter ribbon or build a ballpoint pen or even a pencil sharpener.
Without the benefit of vaccinations, she, too, could fall prey to lockjaw and polio; smallpox could disfigure her; she could keel over with yellow fever or cholera. And no matter what illness she might develop, she couldn't even reach for an aspirin unless she could hold out for another thirty years.
"Aw, Miss Mag, why the long face?"
It was Ethan, the vested scout, and something in his cheerful, matter-of-fact tone struck her as funny. She shot him a beautiful smile and shook her head.
"No reason, Ethan," she announced as she rose to her feet. "No reason at all."
She took a deep breath and stretched, her arms high above her head, glancing around for Ashton. He was talking to one of the scouts and suddenly threw his head back and laughed at something the young man said. Several hours earlier he had come within an inch of being killed by a trigger-happy Union officer, had learned that the United States was willing to pay his assassin, and now he was behaving as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"I'm going to the woods. Would you like to come?" It was Mrs. Thaw, and it took Margaret a few blank seconds to catch her meaning.
Margaret gaped, then nodded. "Oh, you're going to the ladies' room, eh? I'd love to go, Mrs. Thaw."
The older woman led the way, turning once to Margaret. "It ain't so much the ladies' room as the bears' room and the wolves' room . . ."
"And the owls* room and the raccoons* room," Margaret added, and Mrs. Thaw giggled softly, an unexpectedly girlish giggle.
"I'll keep watch first, Miss Mag," she said.
"No. You can go, Mrs. Thaw. To tell you the truth, I've been holding it in for so long, it's going to take my body a while to realize it can be relieved without disgracing the general and Waffles."
"Why, Miss Mag!" But there was pleasure in her voice, and
Margaret heard her scratching out a place behind a tree. In an instant she was back at Margaret's side, buttoning up her slit skirt. Margaret smiled and ducked behind the same tree, holding the cumbersome skirts as high as possible.
"Please don't let there be any poison ivy," moaned Margaret, and again Mrs. Thaw erupted in a startled laugh. When Margaret emerged, Mrs. Thaw stared at her a few moments.
"Miss Mag. I mean no offense, but why are you wearing your dress backwards?"
"To tell you the truth, I didn't want to bother you this morning," she admitted, and began to walk back to camp.
"Would you like me to help you now?" The offer was not made grudgingly, but in friendship. Margaret shot her a grateful smile.
"Oh, Mrs. Thaw, would you mind? This dress is so tight in the front. . ."
But before Margaret could finish the sentence, the capable hands of Mrs. Thaw were flying down the buttons. Lifting the gown over Margaret's head and smoothing out the bodice, Mrs. Thaw gave a few motherly clucks and rebuttoned the dress in the back.
Margaret was silent for a moment, and just as Mrs. Thaw finished the buttons, Margaret grasped her hand.
"Mrs. Thaw, I'm so sorry about your husband and son. Please, if you wish to talk about it, or if I can do anything at all, I hope you won't hesitate to come to me. I'll be here for you."
The older woman's mouth parted slightly, and she returned her gaze to Margaret's face. Her expression was one of softness and sorrow, and she brushed a wisp of Margaret's hair back into the snood.
"I thank you kindly, Miss Mag." And with a brief squeeze of their hands, the two women returned to the camp.
One of the scouts had captured two rabbits and a squirrel for dinner, and they were roasted over a small flame, to be eaten along with cornbread and a few squares of hardtack.
Margaret avoided looking at the animals. There was no way she could possibly eat any of the meat, especially after seeing their little paws and the bright button eyes of the brown rabbit. Even the scent of the roasting flesh was making her nauseous, and she concentrated on her hands in her lap, rotating her thumbs over each other and staring down as if it were the most fascinating sight on earth.
They were all seated in a circle around the low fire, careful not to let the flame get too high in case there were more Union patrols exploring the side of the mountain. The scouts were laughing softly with Mrs. Thaw, but they each glanced over to their general, who sat in silence with Margaret.
"You'll feel better after you eat." Ashton leaned over Margaret, placing his hand over her forehead. "No fever. Good. Can I get you a piece of squirrel or rabbit?"
"Nothing. I'll just have some bread . . ."
"Margaret, look at me."
She took a deep breath and faced him, his features hard in the flickering glow of the campfire. His hat was off, and his gray jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt beneath. He was, she mused, astonishingly handsome.
"What ails you?" As he spoke he placed a small, charred animal leg on a tin plate.
"That bothers me." She nodded toward his plate.
"The plate?"
"No. The meat."
He stared at the plate, incredulous. "My dear, I apologize for the humble fare. I was hoping to prepare a piquant fricassee, but that would require a fine red wine to complement the flavor. . . ."
"That's not it at all," she began, realizing how ridiculous it was, but unable to stop. "It's the animals. They were so, well, cute and furry. I just couldn't eat an animal so helpless. The bread is all I want."
"Margaret," he said softly, and she could tell what an effort it was for him to control his temper. "I don't know when we will be able to eat next. In all truth, we have very little bread. You need to regain your strength, even if that means you must eat a 4helpless' animal. The alternative, my dear, is that you will become a weakened, helpless animal yourself. Please curb your distaste and eat while there is still food remaining."
Seen in that light, she knew what a fool she was being, jeopardizing everyone in the party for the sake of her pseudo-yuppie mentality. With a small smile, she nodded, slight embarrassment in her eyes.
"Fine." His tone was clipped as he reached for another plate. "Would you prefer squirrel or rabbit?"
Margaret closed her eyes and swallowed. "Surprise me," she whispered miserably, unaware of the brief smile that flitted across his strong features.
"Cornbread or hardtack?"
"Either one." She opened her eyes, gazing at the plate. Her eyes met his tawny gaze, sparkling with the fire's reflection. "I hate to ask this of you, but the paws. Uh, could you do something with them?"
"Of course." His voice was full of warm understanding. "Would you like them to wear mittens, gloves, or shoes?" He grasped the piece of meat on his own plate. "Of course, with his partner here, we could perform a number of popular dances . .."
"Thank you," she snapped, and pulled the plate into her lap. The meat, thankfully, was charred, so she could not easily reconstruct the full animal in her mind. Instead, she pretended she was at a cookout, and that she was eating a piece of chicken previously wrapped in cellophane.
After one bite, she realized how ravenous she was. The food was gone all too soon, leaving her to gnaw in silence on the bone. Ashton said nothing, but he did grin when he caught her licking the tips of her fingers.
"Would you like anything else?" he murmured into her ear and, ever so slowly, she turned to face him, her fingers curled in front of her, still damp.
There was a moment of silence before he began to laugh, a low, rich chuckle. She joined him in the laughter, and all of the tension that had built up between them seemed to melt away in an instant.
With a graceful nod, she removed his empty plate and helped Mrs. Thaw clean up after the meal. The men remained around the fire, all leaning back as if they had enjoyed a sumptuous feast rather than a few meager bites. If she was still hungry, they must be famished. It was all playacting. Behaving as if one was relaxed and well-fed was the only way to maintain sanity, to give an air of normalcy and to fight the gripping knowledge that at any moment they could be killed or captured.
When the plates were scraped and wiped clean, Mrs. Thaw prepared a pot of peanut shell coffee and placed it in the dying embers. The women then resumed their places around the fire, and Margaret settled a little closer to Ashton.
"Does anyone know any ghost stories?" asked the freckled scout, his eyes darting hopefully around the circle.
"Oh, I do," said Margaret, remembering the classic tale of the lovers' lane couple and the maniac with a hook for an arm. She swiftly made some adjustments in the story, changing it from a 1950s setting to an 1860s scene. With her voice low and menacing, she began.
"What I'm about to tell you is true, and it happened not too long ago right in these mountains."
The scouts exchanged eager looks and moved closer to catch her every word. Ashton leaned back, propped up on his elbows, and watched her lovely profile in the fading light.
"There was once a couple who were very young and very much in love. Unfortunately, their parents were against the match, so they had to meet in secret, away from their strict families.
"One night the young man managed to get the family carriage without their knowledge."
"How'd he do that?" asked one of the scouts. He turned to his friend. "I swear, if I had a penny for every time I tried to sneak out with a carriage, I'd have bought myself a substitute to fight this war." His friend hushed him, and Margaret continued.
"Anyway." She gave a pointed look to the young man. "The lovers decided to go to the top of one of these mountains at night to look at the scenery and spend a few precious moments alone."
Ashton cleared his throat, and Margaret took a deep breath. "Yes, sir?" she asked without looking at him.
"Nothing, Mag. Really it's nothing." Margaret remained silent, and he finally spoke. "What were they going to see from the top of a mountain at night?"
Of course they would
be able to see nothing, absolutely nothing. This was a time before battery-operated headlights, car radios to hum "Teen Angel," and, more importantly, town lights. All her lovers would be able to see was blackness.
"Well," she improvised, "they really just wanted to be alone. So they crept up to the mountain with the carriage, but what they didn't know was . . . Yes, Ethan. What is it."
"Who drove the carriage?" Ethan asked reasonably. "If the young man's coachman drove, well, they would hardly be alone. And if the young man himself drove, wouldn't that leave the young lady all by herself in a dark carriage?"
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