“As will I,” she said. Her expression transformed, and Colt was glad that he wasn’t going to be on the receiving end of that temper. She glanced down at Hero. “He’s a fine fellow when he behaves himself. Looks like something of a soldier himself, sitting there at attention.”
The captain agreed with a laugh. He returned Colt’s salute and sent them on their way.
Colt led the way to the tent Jack shared with his brother Seamus and four others, all of them gathered around a chessboard sitting atop a tree stump. Jack had his back to them, and so it was Seamus who saw his sister first. His mouth fell open. He stared.
“Quit stalling,” Jack said, gesturing at the board.
“It’s M-Maggie,” he stuttered. Still, he didn’t move.
Miss Malone stopped. She set her bag down and waited. A muscle in her jaw twitched.
“It’s going to be ‘checkmate’ if you don’t pay attention,” Jack teased.
Again, Seamus pointed. Finally, Jack looked behind him. He jumped to his feet, and the others followed suit. “Maggie?”
She didn’t speak.
“But—why? How?”
“We heard you were wounded.” Emotion flashed in her pale blue eyes as she glared at her brothers. “And no one wrote.” She paused. “And so I came to fetch you home. To care for you myself.”
Jack held up his bandaged hand. “For this? I lost a finger. It’s not that serious.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “So I see. So the sergeant told me.”
Jack looked at Colt, who explained, “She means Captain Quinn.”
Miss Malone looked over at him. “He’s a captain?”
Colt nodded.
“That’s better than a sergeant, isn’t it?”
The men burst out laughing. “By several ranks,” Jack said.
She lifted her chin. “Well, he didn’t correct me. How was I to know?”
“He was too amazed by the way you corralled his dog,” Colt said, and grinned at Jack. “One word from your sister and Hero was transfigured into an angelic version of himself.”
“She tamed the demon-dog?” One of the other men spoke up—Ashby, Colt thought. When Colt relayed what had happened, Ashby put his hand over his heart. “Please, Miss Malone. Stay and be our guardian angel.”
Another man nodded. “Stay and be our cook.”
“I’ll pay you to mend my shirt,” another said, displaying a jagged tear in one sleeve. “A minié ball. Barely missed me.”
Seamus looked over at him. “You caught it on a bramble harvesting gooseberries last night.”
The soldier was unrepentant. “Well, it needs mending just the same.” He looked hopefully at Maggie.
“She’s our sister, not a maid,” Jack said, “and I’ll thank you to show some respect.”
Miss Malone glowered at him. “Aren’t you the one to be talking of respect? A man who can’t even write to say he isn’t anywhere near death’s door, the image of which has kept his sister awake, lo these many nights.” She turned to Seamus. “How is it, Seamus, that neither of you thought to let us know that there was no need to borrow money and set off downriver; no need to ignore the broken windows and the ruined garden; no need to wait to put things to rights?”
Apparently, she was angry enough to ignore the tears spilling down her cheeks as she gave her brothers the finest noncursing tongue-lashing Colt had ever witnessed. She was amazing—anger and hurt spilled out of her in a raging torrent, and yet she never descended into anything approaching female hysteria. She was, in a word, magnificent.
In the wake of Miss Malone’s tirade, Ashby and the others drifted away. Finally, it was just Colt and Miss Malone, Jack and Seamus standing in front of an empty tent, the forgotten game of chess waiting on the tree stump behind them.
At some point, Jack reached out, grabbed one of sister’s hands, and gave it a tug. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘broken windows’? The garden’s ruined? And bushwhackers? What’s happened? What have they done?”
Miss Malone jerked her hand away. “What haven’t they done?” She described the state of things on the Malone farm.
“But how—how’d it happen?” Seamus asked.
She’d been hunting, she said. She’d interrupted the attack. When she mentioned that their Uncle Paddy had been hurt, Jack began to swear. “He’s mending,” his sister said, then pointed at Jack’s hand. “Hurt worse than you, though. Broken ribs. A fractured collarbone. Bruises—such a beating they gave him. One eye swelled shut. The color got worse before it began to fade, and then we thought he had pneumonia. We’ve lost the cow and her calf… the boar… maybe the shoats.” She paused. “And one of them had a burlap sack full of my chickens tied to the saddle when he turned tail and ran.”
Seamus broke in, suggesting they all sit down.
Miss Malone bent to pick up her satchel. “Don’t think I’m finished being angry with you,” she said. She sank onto the single camp chair just outside the tent.
He should probably leave them to talk things through, just the three of them, but Colt didn’t want to leave. Not yet, at least. Besides, Captain Quinn would likely want a full accounting of what had ensued. An awkward silence reigned for a moment after they’d all settled around the chessboard.
Seamus was the first to speak. “Thank God you weren’t hurt. It’s amazing, what you did.”
Miss Malone shrugged. “Kerry-boy distracted them. Gave me time to load the old rifle and get off a couple of volleys.”
“You must be quite a good shot,” Colt said.
Seamus grinned. “She’s better than me, and almost as good as Jack.”
Miss Malone opened the satchel at her feet and motioned for Jack to show her his hand. “I brought some of our medicine with me. If you don’t think your fancy doctors would object, I can help it heal.”
Jack nodded and held out his hand. He looked over at Colt. “Our Da taught Maggie some of the old ways. She could see to that arm. It’ll heal faster.”
Miss Malone glanced over at Colt. “If you like.”
Seamus said something about fetching fresh water. Grabbing his and Jack’s canteens, he hurried off toward the creek at the bottom of the grassy hill where Company D had pitched its tents. Colt offered to get fresh bandages from the surgeon, but Miss Malone shook her head.
“No need,” she said, and withdrew a roll of bandages from her satchel, along with a cotton bag of what looked to Colt like dried weeds. Shrugging out of the blue cape she’d been wearing, she draped it over the back of the camp chair.
In the next half hour, Miss Malone tended both Jack and Colt’s wounds. She moved with a quiet confidence acquired, Colt assumed, from years of tending the various and probably common injuries and illnesses her men encountered as a normal part of farm life. She didn’t flinch at the first sight of the place where her brother’s little finger had once been attached to his hand. She didn’t go pale as she cleaned and then rewrapped it in a way that held a mix of dried herbs directly on the wound.
When it was Colt’s turn, she untied the sling and laid it over the back of the camp chair where she’d hung her blue cape, waiting while he removed his belt and cartridge pouch and then setting them on the camp seat as well. He felt foolish wincing over the simple task of unbuttoning a row of gilt buttons, but apparently the muscles above a man’s elbow helped the hand manage even simple tasks, for as he worked, the wound began to burn. When she’d helped him wrestle his way out of his uniform jacket, he fumbled with rolling up his shirt sleeve.
“Let me get that,” she said, and took up the task as matter-of-factly as had the surgeon’s assistant just yesterday when he’d checked the wound and pronounced it to be healing. “The angels must have been watchin’ over you,” she said when she saw the gouge the bullet had carved out. She glanced at Jack. “And you.”
While Miss Malone tended Colt’s arm, he recounted the story of his horse, Blue’s, charge across the open field and Jack’s marksmanship. “Of course, we both looked like darned
fools in the end—celebrating victory a second too soon. I waved a thanks and Jack signaled back. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same bullet got us both.” Miss Malone glanced up at him. He couldn’t read the expression on her face, but he was grateful not to be on the receiving end of another scolding like the one she’d given her brothers moments ago.
“Blue sounds like a fine horse,” she said.
Colt was just about to offer to walk her over to the line of tethered horses so that she could see his pride and joy when Captain Quinn came into view, Hero trotting along at his side.
Miss Malone kept working as he approached, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a woman to be tending the men of Company D. She rolled his sleeve down and buttoned the cuff, then reached for Colt’s jacket and held it up while he put it back on. As soon as the captain was within the sound of her voice, she said, “I called you the wrong thing. I am sorry, Captain Quinn.” She smoothed Colt’s coat into place across his shoulders, then reached for his cartridge pouch and handed it over. She tapped one of the shoulder straps. “I don’t know how to read all of this.” She looked over at the captain and put her hand to one of her own shoulders. “But I should have seen that it’s not the same as Sergeant Coulter’s.”
The captain waved her words away. “There is no need to apologize. I’ve sent someone into town to find proper accommodations for you,” he said. “There’s not another packet headed upriver until tomorrow. I wonder if you would consider dining with me this evening.” He glanced at the three men. “We’ll invite these three to join us as well.”
Colt thought it a fine plan, but Miss Malone never had a chance to respond, because just then a courier ran up. While the captain scanned the contents of the message he’d just been handed, Hero padded over to Miss Malone and sat beside her.
The courier left, and Captain Quinn said quietly, “Gentlemen, we’ve received orders. We’re to move out immediately in the direction of Carthage, in hopes that we can catch up with the retreating State Guard, which—according to all reports—is growing in numbers with every passing day.” He turned to Maggie. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Malone. Sergeant Coulter will escort you back into Boonville. Unfortunately, in light of this recent information, I think it best for you to remain in the city, at least until the safety of river travel between here and Littleton can be guaranteed.”
After promising Miss Malone he wouldn’t be long, Colt hurried off in the wake of the captain, wondering how his arm would fare when it came to saddling Blue—and what Miss Malone would have to say to her brothers, now that their failure to write was about to leave her stranded miles from home.
Chapter 8
The meaning of stripes on sleeves and bars on shoulders wasn’t the only thing Maggie didn’t understand about the army. There was obviously a language to the bugles and drums sounding throughout the camp—a language spoken by everyone but her.
First there was a four-note call, and all around them, men rose to their feet. “That just means ‘heads up,’ ” Seamus explained. In a minute—and before he could say the words, another call sounded. “And that’s ‘The General.’ It means we’re to pack up. I’m sorry, Maggie—about everything.” Seamus handed her the leather satchel and joined the other men in striking the tent.
Maggie stood, satchel in hand, feeling strangely isolated, even though she was standing in the middle of a camp full of busy men. The captain’s ordering her to stay in Boonville had happened so quickly she’d hardly had a chance to react. Not that he’d given her the chance. He’d barked the order, assumed it would be obeyed, and left. Which, she supposed was what captains were supposed to do. Their men probably trusted that they could make the right decisions and make them quickly. And of course it was Sergeant Coulter’s duty to follow those orders. Jack’s and Seamus’s and everyone else’s, too. But as she stood quietly in the midst of the chaos around her, Maggie rebelled against the idea of being ordered away.
Why couldn’t she march at least part of the way with her boys? Even a day with them would give her more good news for Uncle Paddy. All they were doing was walking. What could it hurt for her to walk with them? Captain Quinn didn’t think the river was safe, but surely she’d be safe with an entire brigade of soldiers. How many was a brigade, anyway? From the looks of things, at least a few hundred.
Gazing about, she saw plenty of opportunities to make herself useful, and in spite of scattered protests, she set the satchel down and began to help. Anyone could roll up a blanket or extinguish a campfire. There was nothing to striking a tent. As she worked, protests died down. When she returned from filling the men’s canteens in the creek and handed one to Ashby, she remembered the torn sleeve he’d asked her to mend. She could do that when they made camp this evening. In fact, she could do a lot of mending in the course of an evening.
Another bugle call sounded, and Seamus spoke up. “That’s the order to fall in, Maggie. It’s time for you to go.”
Maggie pointed at the men working to hitch mules to what she assumed were supply wagons. “Can’t I walk alongside a wagon? You know I won’t be any trouble. Just for a day. You won’t exactly be marching past our front door, but it’ll be close enough to get me home, won’t it?”
Jack shook his head. “You heard Captain Quinn. Things are changing too fast. You need to stay here—at least until the army’s sure it’s safe to travel the river.”
“Stay here? With Paddy hurt and the farm undefended?”
“You said that Paddy’s at the Feenys’. They’ll keep him in town with them.” He paused. “In any case, you and Paddy can’t expect to defend the farm. He’ll be safe in Littleton, and you’ll be safe in Boonville. You can telegraph word that all is well.”
Maggie snorted. “And who’s to say bushwhackers won’t set fire to Boonville tonight?”
“Not likely,” Seamus said. “Company A—that’s a hundred men—has been ordered to stay behind to defend the town. You have to stay and we have to go.” He kissed Maggie on the cheek. “I’ll write. I promise.” He hurried off.
Jack promised, too. “We’ll send our letters in care of Company A. They’ll find you.”
“Why would they bother?”
“John Coulter isn’t the only man in this army who owes his well-being to my marksmanship. Remember the name Donald Ryan, and if he comes looking for you, have a kind word. He’ll be bringin’ your mail.” He seemed about to say something else, but Maggie preempted it.
The last thing Jack needed to carry away with him was the memory of a willful sister—at least the kind of willfulness that made them fight. As if she was going to blow him a kiss, she bussed the tips of her fingers, then carried the kiss to his cheek with a little pat. “God keep you and Seamus,” she said. Her voice broke, and so she picked up her satchel and began marching away in the general direction the captain and Sergeant Coulter had gone.
She’d taken only a few steps when hoofbeats sounded behind her. Wherever or however he had done it, Sergeant Coulter had circled around and caught up with Jack. Whatever he said, Jack turned about and walked with him to where Maggie stood waiting. The hope that had flickered about the captain changing his mind and her being allowed to stay with the men died as soon as they reached her side.
The sergeant patted his sling. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hold on to the satchel. Do you think you can do it? We aren’t that far from Boonville.”
As if she didn’t know that. As if she hadn’t walked through the town just hours ago. She was perfectly able to walk, but she supposed this wasn’t the time to argue about it. With a deep sigh, she set the satchel down and let Jack lift her up to sit just behind the sergeant’s saddle. Jack handed the satchel up, and with a final good-bye and yet another promise that they’d write, he hurried off to take his place in the ranks.
Feeling sure she would slide off the tall gray horse at any moment, Maggie grasped the edge of Sergeant Coulter’s saddle with her free hand. At least the horse was blessed wi
th a broad back. Still, Maggie couldn’t help but wonder how a lady managed to control a horse while she was seated with both legs off to one side. The way perching atop a sidesaddle twisted a woman’s spine, it was a wonder Serena Ellerbe and Elizabeth Blair weren’t permanently deformed. It was unnatural—and if Sergeant Coulter’s horse made any sudden movements, Maggie wasn’t going to be able to stay aboard.
The sergeant urged his horse forward, even as a soldier bearing a green silk flag decorated with the gold harp of Erin took his place next to the Stars and Stripes. So that was the flag Jack had told her about. Sure, and it was a beautiful thing. The flag bearer looked like a child as he waved the flag back and forth and shouted “Fág an Bealach” at the top of his lungs. When the columns of men answered with a rousing cheer, Maggie’s blinked unwelcome tears away. What if this was the last time she saw her boys? Don’t dare even think such a thing. It’s bad luck. She shifted to praying. Heavenly Father, keep them safe. Bring them home soon.
She scanned the rows of men, looking in vain for Seamus and Jack. “They don’t match,” she said aloud.
“Ma’am?” Sergeant Coulter spoke over his shoulder.
“The uniforms. I thought—I hadn’t noticed, but they don’t match. They aren’t really uniforms at all.”
“Production problems,” the sergeant said. “It must take miles of blue wool and thousands of hours. Think of all the buttons. Can you imagine the logistics? You should have heard Fish swear when he got word that only one of the three regiments in the Irish Brigade would be outfitted before we left St. Louis.”
“Fish,” Maggie said. “That’s such an odd name.”
“Not as odd as his real name.” Without Maggie’s asking, Coulter recited it. All Maggie heard was Marquis and a couple of other syllables that made no sense at all. He chuckled. “So you can see why we’re all grateful he answers to Fish. He’s an interesting man. A professional warrior, from what I can tell. Fought under Napoleon. I don’t really know much about how he ended up here—other than he came upriver from New Orleans and joined up, literally the day after President Lincoln made the first call for volunteers.”
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