by Kelli Estes
“I’m happy to meet you both. Your father was a good man, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
Emily nodded her thanks, and saw Ben do the same. This close, she could see that Schafer had a scar angling from the corner of his nose down to below his ear.
Schafer introduced the redhead as Donald MacGregor.
“Where are you from, MacGregor?” Ben asked as he tucked into his meal.
“Glasgow, lad,” MacGregor answered, his thick accent giving him away as a recent immigrant. “In Scotland. I’ve been here two years, and I served with your father and your brother, God rest their souls.”
“You’ve lost a brother, too?” Schafer asked them. When they told him they had, he shook his head. “That’s a shame, but a testament to your family that you two are now here serving in their place.”
MacGregor’s next question sent a lightning bolt of fear through Emily.
“I thought for sure Calvin Wilson said he had two sons and a daughter, yet I’ve met three sons now.”
Emily could not stop herself from looking at Ben, who was looking back at her with panic on his face. They had not considered there might be pitfalls to joining their father’s regiment. How stupid of them! She had to think of something fast, before she made MacGregor even more suspicious.
Ben, recovering faster than her, laughed and shook his head as he said, “I always wondered if Pa thought we were one person, being only ten months apart and all.” He looked squarely at MacGregor. “Our parents had three sons. Our sister, Emily, is at home with our aunt and uncle.”
“Ah, my mistake.” MacGregor finished off his meal with a final swipe of his bread across his plate. He washed it down with the contents of his cup as Emily watched, her stomach still churning.
“All this meal needs now is a good smoke.” Schafer set his empty dinner plate aside and pulled a pipe out of his jacket pocket, which he lit with the glowing end of a stick from the fire. As smoke rose, he closed his eyes and gave a moan of pleasure.
“Hand that here,” MacGregor ordered. He had drawn out a pipe of his own and, after the stick was handed over, was soon puffing away.
“I’ve got something better than a pipe,” Willie Smith said with a mischievous grin as he drew his hand out of his coat to reveal a flask. “My own sweet mama’s applejack recipe. Who wants some?”
“But we have picket duty,” Emily reminded them.
There was a momentary pause before the men burst out laughing. Emily looked to Ben for help, but he quickly looked away from her, biting back his smile in the process.
Quincy Rawlings, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, told her, “Nothing ever happens on picket. Besides, it would take a lot more than Willie here is willing to share to have any ill effects.”
Every man held out his cup, including Ben. He shot Emily a look that told her she’d better join in or risk being ridiculed further. She drained the rest of her coffee and stuck her cup out toward Willie.
Once the cups were filled, Emily watched as the other men downed their portions, noting how they smacked their lips and obviously found the drink pleasing. Encouraged, she followed suit, putting the cup to her lips and throwing her head back so all of the liquid would go straight down her throat.
She felt as if she’d swallowed flames. Sweet flames, but flames all the same. Without anything else at hand to wash the flavor away, she felt the heat rising until she had no choice but to cough. Her stomach revolted at the strong liquid, and she swallowed hard to keep it down.
Schafer saw it all. He pounded her on the back and laughed until his eyes teared up. “First applejack, huh, boy?” He didn’t wait for an answer but kept on laughing and slapping her back, which was actually helping a bit.
At first, she panicked, thinking she’d just made a huge mistake. But then she realized he thought of her as a young boy and didn’t think it odd that she had not yet tried alcohol. She started laughing, too, relieved and not at all offended at being the butt of his joke. “Guilty as charged,” she admitted.
Ben had not reacted as she had to the powerful alcohol, and she wondered if he had gotten his hands on liquor in the past. She sent him a questioning look, but he only shrugged and reached out to take the pipe MacGregor passed to him.
Emily’s shock deepened as she watched her brother expertly smoke the pipe, clearly not for the first time. Ben raised his eyebrows and wordlessly offered the pipe to her.
A quick glance confirmed that all eyes around the fire were on her. Wondering if she’d regret it, she took the pipe from Ben, put it to her mouth, and inhaled.
Her lungs spasmed, and she coughed. Smoke poured from her mouth and her nose, burning as it went and making her cough all the more.
That sent everyone into peals of laughter until Willie took pity on her. “You’ve got to draw in a little at a time,” he explained. “As you get used to it, you can take more.”
Emily had had enough for one night and handed the pipe back to Ben, who took another drag before passing it to MacGregor.
Willie, his face turned toward the fire, asked, “You ever seen a tobacco field before?”
Most of the men shook their heads. Willie continued, “It’s green plants as far as the eye can see with slaves with rags on their heads bent scattered throughout.” He shook his head. “And an overseer whipping anyone he thinks isn’t working fast enough.”
“Is it true this war is about ending slavery?” MacGregor asked as he whittled a stick into a sharp point.
Quincy shrugged in answer. “Partly so, I reckon.”
“I’m no’ here to free negroes,” MacGregor grumbled. “I’m here to preserve our Constitution. For all I care, they can sell off all the slaves to pay for this war and then do the same to the abolitionists. The institution has been working just fine all this time, and we should leave it alone. Anyone protesting and fighting against it is only stirrin’ up trouble.”
Emily had heard Uncle Samuel grumbling like MacGregor on many occasions. She’d never been able to say anything in response to her uncle, but now that she was a man, she felt the need, and the freedom, to speak. “What if you were born with black skin, MacGregor? Wouldn’t you feel differently about slavery?”
The man let out a sound of disgust. “And what if I was born a pig? Wouldn’t I want to avoid being Sunday supper?” He shook his head. “Your argument is stupid, boy.”
Emily felt her anger rise. She’d never personally known a black person, but she had never believed they were less than human. It was illegal for black people to live in—or even visit—Indiana, but occasionally some who did not know better traveled through. On one such occasion when a handful of black folks walked past their farm, Pa had offered them fresh water and food for their journey. It wasn’t until Emily got older that she realized they were probably escaped slaves on their way to Canada. Another time, Uncle Samuel had come across an escaped slave resting by the creek and chased him off with his shotgun, yelling that he was lucky he didn’t sic the dog on him. Ever since, Emily had promised herself she’d be like Pa and not Samuel if given the opportunity. She would help.
She tried to keep emotion out of her voice. “Why is it stupid? Explain it to me.”
MacGregor dropped his hands to his lap and stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Because everyone knows the negroes aren’t as smart as white folk. Their brains are closer to those of farm animals than to ours.”
Emily had never heard that before, so she waited to see if anyone else would refute the statement. When no one did, she could not stay silent. “That can’t be true. I’ve read of free black folks in northern states who have become doctors and business owners. No pig or cow could accomplish that.”
MacGregor went back to whittling, clearly bored with the subject. “They must be the exception.”
Schafer, sitting next to him, grunted and jerked his head toward the path to t
he river. “Speak of the devil.”
They all turned and saw a black family of camp followers walking past carrying water jugs.
Emily had seen many camp followers but had not interacted with any of them. Some followers were family members of a soldier, as she would have been. Others made their living selling goods or services such as cooking or laundry washing to the soldiers. Some were prostitutes who welcomed men with coins into their tents. As far as Emily could tell, the followers represented all of America in the colors of their skin and the languages they spoke. As for this particular family, Emily didn’t know if they were former slaves or free persons.
“Hey, darkie!” MacGregor called to the father. When he stopped and looked toward their fire, MacGregor called, “Yeah, you. Come over here and entertain us. There’s a three-cent silver in it for you.”
The man hesitated, but then he set down the jugs he carried and crossed the dusty street to approach their fire, his worn hat hanging limply in his hands. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
MacGregor waved a coin in the air. “Show us something you can do.”
Emily watched the man eye the coin before looking back over his shoulder to his wife, who held their baby in one arm with the other wrapped around her two older children. All but the baby watched with wide eyes.
The man faced MacGregor again, and Emily saw a careful mask come over his face, as though he was used to hiding his true self. He dipped his head. “I can do a real fine dance, sir.”
MacGregor slapped a palm on his knee. “It’s decided. Someone play a tune for this darkie.”
O’Brien got out his fiddle and started playing “Camptown Races.” The black man lifted both hands in front of his face and started clapping along, providing a beat. He stomped his feet, and soon his whole body was moving, knees lifting, arms waving. The man’s wife watched him, stone-faced.
Emily felt paralyzed. She should stop this, but how?
When it was over, MacGregor flipped the coin in the air, and the man caught it before hurrying back to his family.
Emily hated that she’d sat there and done nothing. Before the man got too far away, she called to him, “That was real nice dancing. Thank you, sir!”
The black man turned back to her long enough to dip his head in acknowledgment before rushing his family out of sight.
The men around the campfire were silent.
Finally, Willie Smith broke the silence. “That was a low thing to do, MacGregor.”
“What?” the Scotsman said. “I paid him!”
“You treated him like a slave. Like his only purpose is to serve us white folk.”
MacGregor took a long drag on his pipe and blew it out in Willie’s direction. With a smirk, he reached into his pocket. “Here you go, boy. I can see you’re wanting a coin for yourself.” He flicked it across the fire to Willie, then got to his feet and sauntered away.
A few of the other men laughed. The coin dropped into the dirt. Willie’s face was dark as he watched MacGregor go.
A bugle call pierced the evening air, and men all through camp groaned. It was time to line up yet again for one last roll call before they were to prepare for bed and be in bed when “Taps” played at nine. It also meant it was time for Ben to report to picket duty.
Emily did not complain about the call. She was quite happy to move away from that conversation. As she headed toward the parade ground, she fell into step beside Willie.
Now she understood why Ben liked him.
* * *
As it was only two hours until her picket duty, rather than going to sleep, Emily lay awake in her tent thinking through all that she’d experienced in the last months. It nagged at her that Aunt Harriet was likely worrying about her and Ben and wondering what had happened to them. No one had written home with the news of David’s death either.
No one had written to David’s girl, Nancy.
She and Ben owed it to the people at home to tell them David had died, and how, and that she and Ben were safe. But she worried that if she wrote home and told the truth about her disguise and subsequent enlistment, Uncle Samuel would notify the military authorities and have her arrested and sent home. Emily wasn’t ready to go home. At least not until the fighting was over and she could bring Ben with her.
Her thoughts drifted back to the black man who had danced for them this evening. It was the closest she’d ever been to a black person, and tonight was the first time she’d seen the kind of treatment even free black people received from white folks. It made her feel ugly and dirty. She could only imagine how the man and his family had felt.
Pa had made her understand the importance of fighting to preserve the Union, but now she was also starting to understand the importance of fighting for the abolishment of slavery. Human lives were at stake. How could anyone possibly be on the side of the Confederacy when slavery was so morally wrong?
She must have fallen asleep because, before she knew it, she was being shaken awake by the corporal of the guard, whispering that it was time for picket. She passed Ben as he returned to their tent, and he clasped her hand in his, as men do in greeting. Obviously fatigued, he trudged off to sleep for the night.
Emily reported to her post, a good distance from camp in the woods. It was dark, but from where she stood, she could see light from a few fires in camp piercing through the gloom. With the full moon filtering through the canopy, she felt confident that if anything moved, she’d see it. The light also made it easier for her to see the other guards nearby. Willie Smith was stationed a hundred yards west, and another soldier she didn’t recognize the same distance in the other direction. Knowing they were nearby kept her from feeling completely alone. She pulled up her collar to ward off the cold and leaned her back against a tree trunk as she waited to see if anything would happen.
The first hour was quiet, with only the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of some night creature in the underbrush. Emily found she did not mind, and even started to enjoy, being one of only a few awake because life in the Army meant she was never alone. The solitude felt peaceful, and she might have forgotten she was in a war if not for the ever-present knowledge that Confederate scouts had been seen in the area. She figured the Reb she’d seen was long gone by now, but that didn’t mean others weren’t lurking about, and that thought kept her wide awake, her gaze constantly searching the shadows.
At first, she thought her active mind was playing a trick on her. But then she realized something was definitely jostling a shrub a short distance from her. Was it a Reb?
She’d been resting against a tree, but now she jumped to her feet and aimed her musket at the bush. “Who’s there?” she called, not loud enough to alert the camp, but loud enough for the spy in the bush to hear her.
The movement paused, causing her heart to ratchet up even more so now she could hardly breathe. “Show yourself! Hands up!”
Another sound caught her attention, and she turned to find Willie running toward her, his own weapon at the ready. “What is it, Jesse?”
“I don’t know. Something’s in that shrub.” She had to admit, she felt better with Willie there, even though her training had ensured she knew what to do.
The bush rustled again. Willie jerked his weapon into position, and together, they slowly approached the bush. Emily made sure that with each step she took, she avoided stepping on a twig or dry leaf that would give away her position. The darkness was her cover.
Emily motioned for Willie to go one direction around the bush while she went the other. When they were both in position, Emily drew a deep breath, cocked her weapon, and hissed, “Come on out, Reb. We’ve got you cornered.”
A furry body about three feet in length darted out of the bush and came straight at her. Emily could not hold back a scream, but she was able to silence it almost immediately. A small white face looked at her and then darted away, and in that
moment, Emily realized it wasn’t a Reb at all, but a possum.
Willie saw the possum at the same moment Emily did, and after the animal had disappeared again, they both looked at each other and then broke into laughter.
When he finally caught his breath, Willie said, “You didn’t even give him time to play dead! I think your scream scared him more than he did you.”
His comment sobered Emily right up. Men, in her experience, did not scream. Had she just revealed herself to Willie? She grunted in a manner she hoped sounded like a man. “He did scare the socks off me, that’s for sure. Thanks for coming to my assistance.”
Willie slapped his back. “Anytime, Jesse. You’d do the same for me.”
With that, Willie returned to his post and Emily to her tree, feeling that now Willie wasn’t only Ben’s friend. He was her friend, too.
Chapter Thirteen
Present day: Woodinville, Washington
Larkin hid out in her room all day Sunday and spoke to Grams and Kaia in monosyllables—and only when they opened her bedroom door and asked a direct question. She knew she was being infantile, but she felt so raw and exposed from revealing her greatest shame to them that she might as well have been a bloody pulp of flesh left to shrivel in the hot sun.
She’d talk to them eventually and apologize, but for now she had to be alone.
On Monday morning, she lay in bed and listened as Kaia left for work, then fell back asleep. An hour later, the creaking of the floorboards in the hall outside her room woke her again, and she heard Grams talking to Bowie, telling her to watch over Larkin while she was out at her meeting.
The house was empty, and Larkin was sick of her bedroom.
Bowie lay right outside her door, and when Larkin stepped out, she jumped up with her tail wagging, deliriously happy to see her. If only humans gave this kind of unconditional love, Larkin thought as she rubbed Bowie’s fur. If only humans didn’t mess up so royally and make it difficult to be loved.
Downstairs, she had some toast and tea and set herself up at the kitchen table with the diary and her laptop and notes, with a plan to look for evidence of Emily Wilson’s service. Larkin knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if not for this diary, she’d be in a dark place right now. Maybe she would have even found more pills, or another way to end the pain.