by Murray Pura
I will succeed at this subterfuge. I did it on the Railroad with my old man outfit; I can be a Union corporal in the dark on Cemetery Ridge.
She knelt and rubbed handfuls of dirt all over her uniform. Then she scrubbed it into her face and hair. She kept her nails short, so there was no need to do anything there except get more grime under them. She even nicked her cheek with the tip of the bayonet and let the blood dribble down her cheek. She spread some of it around her jaw and smeared it over her eyebrows and eyelashes and the bridge of her nose. And then ground it into her chopped and ragged hair. I must look a fright. Good. The uglier, the better.
“Wish me luck, Sam Rutgers,” she said to the dead corporal. “It wouldn’t do to get shot by a picket right off.”
She kissed his forehead. He was still warm. Then she took up his musket and cartridge pouch, attached the bayonet to the muzzle with a click of steel on steel, and began to walk up the short slope to the ridge. The moon made it easy to see where she was going. Union soldiers and officers didn’t so much as glance at her as she went past. Until she came within fifty yards of where the troops were dug in.
“Who’s that?” A picket challenged her as she approached the ridgeline, lifting his musket.
Her heart thumped in her chest and ears. “Corporal Rutgers.” She growled as darkly as she could, chewed as hard as she could, and spat. “Who’re you?”
“Sorry, Corp. How’d it go for ya out there? Find who ya were looking for?”
Clarissa spat again. “I found him. Stone dead.”
The picket grunted. “What unit?”
“New York.”
“We’re New York. The Fifty-Ninth.”
“The 124th.”
“You gave it to ’em today. But you got hit, ya got hit rough.” The picket lowered his musket. “Looks like ya got the raw kick of the mule ya’self.” He looked Clarissa up and down. “Any chance I could have a chaw o’ that, Corp?”
“Sure enough.” She tugged the pack off her back and dug out the long twist. “Take what you need, soldier. I reckon it will be a long night.”
“And a longer day tomorrow. Ya think Lee’ll hit us again, Corp?”
“Well, he sure ain’t pulling out, is he?”
“No, Corp, no sign o’ that. Hood’s Texans are still in that pile of rocks down there, that Devil’s Den, the locals call it.” The picket began to chew vigorously and handed back the twist. “Thank ya.”
She slung the pack and began to move to her left, toward the copse of trees and, she hoped, Iain’s position. “None of the regiments have shifted over the past two hours, have they, soldier?”
“Not to my knowledge, Corp. Ya looking for your boys? Ya know they pulled ’em right back and out of it.”
“I know. But I want to find a friend. He’s with the Pennsylvanians.”
“Tight on our right flank, Corp. The Sixty-Ninth and the Seventy-First are stacked on our right flank.”
“Much obliged, soldier.” She spat a huge stream of juice and was glad to get rid of it. “Luck.”
“Thank ya, Corp.”
She made her way along the line, canteens still dangling from her shoulders, musket in her left hand. No one paid her any attention. She knew the ground and didn’t have any trouble finding her way. It took a while, but she finally saw the trees and a stand of colors—one flag was the Stars and Stripes, the other had a harp. She spat, making a few soldiers near her look up with frowns on their faces, since she’d almost hit one with her stream.
I’m not very good at this, soldier.
“What’re ye doing, boyo?” The one she’d nearly hit looked like he wouldn’t mind a fight. “Go spit on Lee. Not on me. Unless you meant to spit on me, and we can blow off a bit of steam and settle accounts. Whaddya say to that?”
“Pat, he’s a corporal.”
Pat snorted. “Spit is spit no matter who’s dishin’ it.”
The Irish accents were thick as wheel grease.
“You lads like a chaw, you’re welcome to it.” She reached in her pack and tossed Pat the twist. “I’m lookin’ for Major Kilgarlin.”
Pat bit off a plug of tobacco. “You a courier from Meade then?”
“Maybe.”
“Why’d they send a corporal and not an officer?”
“The captains and lieutenants are in short supply after this evening’s disagreement down below.” She chewed and let her cheeks bulge so much her voice was distorted. “Is this the Sixty-Ninth?”
“Aye.”
“Is Kilgarlin here or not?”
Pat spat a dark stream near her boots. Then raised his voice: “Major Kilgarlin, darlin’! Some leftovers o’ today’s brawl come to pay their respects, sir!”
A moment later a voice shot back, “None of your pranks, Pat. I’m busy.”
She knew the voice. And felt wonderful.
For a few moments.
Till she heard Pat’s voice again.
“And so am I, Major Kilgarlin, darlin’. This corporal from Meade is tiny as a mouse now, but he roars like a lion. Best come quick before the two of us get into it and I turn him into a mess o’ busted bones.”
Clarissa’s temper found her with a burst of heat. “Try it, wee little man. Your own mother will only recognize you from the dirt between your toes.”
Pat laughed. “He’s a rare one.”
“Leave it be, O’Shea.” Iain’s voice. “I don’t want you in the brig when Granny Lee comes calling. Send him over.”
“Away with ye, lad.” Pat laughed. “I’ll be here if ye feel the need to finish spittin’ on me.”
Clarissa wanted to say more but moved on through the dark and silver mixture the moon and night had created to where a tall man in uniform was brushing his horse. Her whole body lit up inside as if someone had placed a hundred candles.
He heard her footsteps. And continued brushing Plum Run. “What is it, Corporal? Are you truly from General Meade?”
She spat to clear her mouth.
He turned around, eyes narrowing. “Pardon me?”
She fought to clear her throat of tobacco juice.
He was not impressed and his eyes were like bayonets. “You’re a sorry excuse for a soldier, Corporal. The fighting’s been over for hours. You could’ve at least cleaned up in a horse’s trough.”
She couldn’t move or speak.
“Well?” He put his hands on his hips, one still gripping the brush he was using on his horse. “Don’t stand there as if you’ve been struck by lightning, Corporal. Speak your piece and get back to headquarters.”
She exhaled. “Iain.”
But forgot to change her voice.
“Iain?” Anger crowded his handsome face. “What do ya mean by calling me by my Christian name, Corporal? Address me properly. I’m Major Kilgarlin. Let me hear you say it.”
“Iain,” she said again.
He stared at her, unsure now. “Corporal? What are—”
“Liberty.” She wiped a hand over her face, taking away some of the blood and grime. “Kyle Forrester.”
His face looked as if she’d punched him. “What?”
“Iain Kerry Kilgarlin.” She wiped away more of the dirt. And smiled her smile. “I love you.”
July 3
Morning
Cemetery Ridge
Gettysburg
Clarissa knew she slept. She knew she dreamed. But she couldn’t remember her dreams. And every twenty or thirty minutes a pop-pop-pop made her stir and he would say, in his softest voice, “It’s all right. It’s just that the pickets are jumpy on both sides. Sleep.” And she would drift back into the dreams she would not recall once dawn came. And his arm was around her, so strong, so good, and her head was on his chest, and he was the best pillow and the best blanket and the best sleep, war or no war.
She had absolutely stunned him. And she enjoyed seeing the effect of that on his face. He had hauled her back behind the ridgeline, into a dark area where there were dozens of horses tethered but no sol
diers within a hundred yards, and kissed her so deeply and so powerfully and with so much passion, she felt as if she were suspended in the silvery night air and spinning around and around. He complained once that she tasted like a cigar. But that did not stop him from kissing her as if he had been wanting to kiss her for a hundred years. And he complained another time that she tasted like a spittoon. And she’d responded by asking him when he had last kissed a spittoon. They’d both laughed about that. And then he had kept right on kissing her with more ardor and outright intensity than she had ever experienced in her life. The taste of her mouth, apparently, was not the most important thing when it came to Major Iain Kerry Kilgarlin loving Clarissa Avery Ross. For that she was grateful. Because she was aware that her lips and mouth and teeth were all stained brown from the tobacco she’d used to roughen up her voice, and she knew she probably did taste like some smelly old officer’s pipe. C’est la guerre.
Of course, the scolding eventually occurred, which was something she’d been bracing herself for, even while they gripped one another as if they were dying and a kiss was their last chance at life and air.
Didn’t she appreciate how dangerous a battlefield was? Her experiences on the Underground Railroad were not sufficient preparation for facing screaming Rebels and blazing cannons. How did she manage to get onto the ridge without getting shot? Did her mother and father know where she was? Where did she pick up a Union uniform? How did she cut her cheek? What on earth had happened to her beautiful hair? And what was he supposed to do now? Put her on the front line when everyone was certain there’d be another attack from Lee on Friday?
All this with her head nestled on his chest.
She smiled at his tantrum because it showed her, once again, how much he cared about her. And every now and then, as he raved, she would place a hand on his beautiful face and guide it back down to her lips. Which quieted him considerably for several minutes. Once released from her spell, however, he would launch back into his tirade, as if he were dressing down one of his soldiers. But this made her chuckle. Oh, but he is so sweet.
When he began to just simmer, instead of boil over, she calmly began to explain everything to him, throwing in more of what she called her deep-dish-apple-pie kisses on the way to keep him soothed. Honestly, she giggled to herself so that he couldn’t see, it’s like reining in a spirited horse with the delicious red apples in my dress pocket.
Her parents knew where she was—not that the knowledge would necessarily bless them that much, since her being on a battlefield was not likely to grant them peace of mind—for she had sent them a note through the good graces of a Rebel sergeant from Alabama.
She had been giving water to the wounded and helping find soldiers to take back to the hospital at Christ’s Church in an ambulance, so that had given her freedom to roam the valley between Seminary Ridge and Cemetery Ridge, canteens on her shoulder, a lantern in her hand.
Soldiers on both sides had treated her with utmost consideration and respect. She had never felt she was in any danger during the brief truce.
She had sat with a dying corporal from the 124th New York, and he had been pleased to know he would fight on in her spirit. He had offered her the spare tunic and pants in his pack, and she had accepted. He’d wanted her to take his name and rank, and she had. That’s all there was to that. Well, except that she’d used his bayonet to cut her hair short and nick her cheek, and chewed his tobacco to disguise her voice. She was getting better at spitting.
There was no fear of Bobby Lee or his minions in her heart, Clarissa told Iain. She could see clearly and shoot straight. The Railroad had been better training in dealing with dangerous men than he gave it credit for. What was worse—a bunch of snarling slave catchers from Georgia or a bunch of snarling graycoats from the same place? She had handled one mob, her Navy Six smoking in her fist, and she could handle the other. She was not some dainty Gettysburg belle. She was a big, strong, knows-her-business Yankee woman. Well, maybe not big. But big enough to handle anyone from any state in the Confederacy and make them turn tail and run for their lives.
What was he going to do with her? That was his problem. But she was Corporal Samuel Rutgers of the 124th New York, and Major Iain Kilgarlin had better treat Sam Rutgers right. Iain was an officer and a gentleman, wasn’t he? So then, he was bound by honor to use Corporal Rutgers in his capacity as a noncommissioned officer to help stave off defeat in the conflict before them. Was the issue resolved between Meade and Lee? No it was not. Was a victory for the North still hanging in the balance? Yes it was. Therefore, Iain had better not toss Sam Rutgers aside instead of letting him fight. Sam might make the difference, as much difference as Pat O’Shea, that was for sure.
Of all the places she could be, this was exactly where she wanted to be, right at his side, regardless of the danger. And she could do battle as well as any man. Just because they were taller and stronger than her didn’t make them better than her.
“Do you want me to go?” she had finally asked him, pouting and thrusting out her lower lip as far as she could.
“No,” he had replied. “It’s too dangerous to send you anywhere now.”
“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere anyways.”
And then had come more wonderful kissing and hugging and being held in those strong, sturdy arms of his, the moon drifting past overhead and the stars appearing in its wake with the extra shadow of darkness now afforded them. The night air was softer than cotton or velvet, and his regular breathing and his heartbeat were gifts of God she had been starved for since August of the summer before. Maybe she couldn’t remember the dreams from her sleep, but she could remember this dream, this God dream, this man dream—Iain Kerry Kilgarlin. The groom at the altar. The wedding ceremony only the Lord had witnessed. But the Lord was enough.
Everything dreamy and sweet broke apart and splintered at four thirty Friday morning when a racket of firing made her sit up, bewildered and frightened. The horses whinnied and stamped their hooves and tugged on the lines that tethered them. Iain was not there but had wrapped his frock coat around her. She pulled it tighter as the firing increased. It was off behind her and toward town. Was Lee coming at them from the back of the ridge? She sat in the dark and scarcely moved. The moon was gone and the sun had not yet returned. Now she wondered if she truly was ready for everything hateful the day might bring.
“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”
“Are you all right?”
Iain was back at her side.
Clarissa immediately leaned into him. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“I just wanted the boys to be ready in case the fighting moved this way. It’s at Culp’s Hill. Again. They’ve been at it for days. Only the night sky makes them stop.”
“When’s sunrise?” she asked.
“Not for a while yet,” he told her. “Can you sleep some more?”
“No.”
“Then let’s walk some. Stretching your legs will be good for Avery Ross.”
“Avery Ross Kilgarlin.”
“All right. Good for Avery Ross Kilgarlin.”
“And Sam Rutgers too. Don’t forget him.”
He laughed. “My beauty, I don’t think I’ll forget Sam Rutgers as long as I live.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Because he is Avery and Avery is him.”
They walked among horses and commissary wagons. For a while they held hands, and she loved it. It felt incredible to be in uniform and near a battlefield and, in spite of the danger, holding hands with the man she cherished. It was something new, a beautiful new, and she reveled in it. The shooting continued, but she ignored the rough and ragged sound. They walked and chatted and walked some more, always avoiding concentrations of troops. It was five, five thirty, six. Every fifteen minutes, he left her and went back to the line to check on his men. Once he was gone for half an hour. The west silvered. As soon as he got back, he reached for her hand, held it a minute, then took his away.
&
nbsp; “We’re going to start running into soldiers everywhere now,” he said.
“I understand.”
“I want people to look at us and think of you as my adjutant.”
“I’ll make a perfect adjutant.”
“I have no doubt of that. That’s how I’ll explain your ongoing presence with my men too. Which won’t make a lot of sense to them because they’ll wonder why I don’t pick someone from the Sixty-Ninth.”
“Did you have an adjutant?” she asked.
“He was killed yesterday,” Iain replied. “The Georgia boys attacked us at the stone wall here. It was a brisk fight. He fell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A bright lad. I miss him.”
“I’ll be sure not to disappoint you.”
“You can’t be harmed. Ever. In any way. That’s an order.”
She arched an eyebrow and saluted. Several others saw the salute and snapped their hands to their foreheads for Major Kilgarlin. He rolled his eyes at her and returned her salute, and the salute of the other soldiers and lieutenants and captains. “You do beat all,” he hissed.
“Of course I beat all. That’s why I’m the woman standing by your side this morning.”
“Let’s go watch the sunrise.”
“That will start your men’s tongues wagging.”
“I’m sure. ‘Who is this corporal from the 124th New York? And why is Kilgarlin settling for a corporal when he should have a captain or a lieutenant?’ But we’ll save that gossip for later. I don’t want the sunrise disturbed. We’ll watch it with the Seventy-First Pennsylvania or the Fourteenth Connecticut. They’re on our right flank.”
They made their way on horseback. He mounted Plum Run and gave her the dead adjutant’s horse—he had been an officer.
“What’s the mare’s name?” she asked, holding the horse’s reins.
“Stranorlar. It’s a town in County Donegal in Ireland.”