How odd, Libbie thought, as a gentle breeze wafted up from the river, that while his slaves thanked God, Walker Blair complained. About everything. How was it possible, Libbie wondered, for a man with everything to be so unhappy? He even complained about the house—the finest house in the county. The downstairs hall had been painted to look like a black-and-white checkerboard. It was the latest style, and every lady who saw it—including Serena Ellerbe, who normally would rather choke than give a compliment—oohed and aahed. But for some reason Libbie could not suss out, Walker decided he hated it. Trying to please him, Libbie oversaw the creation of an oilcloth floor covering. Walker stared at it with a frown and complained of the cost. And now… now someone had come stomping in the back door and there was even more chaos downstairs.
Libbie glanced behind her. Walker wouldn’t want her down there, but the sun was sinking fast. What would he want her to do about supper? Should she go down and ask, or let things calm down a bit? If she served at the usual hour and Walker hadn’t solved the problem yet, he’d grumble about “foolish women who think the world revolves around their entertaining.” If she delayed the meal and one of his guests said something about being hungry, he’d blame her for the delay. And Lord help Annabelle if the meal wasn’t perfect. Things dried out when you tried to hold them… didn’t they?
The truth was, there was just no way to please Walker. Even the fact that she’d followed his instructions and put up with Isham Green hadn’t won her brother’s approval. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t said a word. Libbie sighed. Ah, well. She would go down to the kitchen and see what Annabelle thought. Could the meal be delayed without ruining it? As quietly as possible, Libbie descended to the first floor and slipped out the back door. For a moment, she hesitated, looking off toward the stables with a twinge of regret. It had only been a few days since she’d been forbidden to ride, but it felt like a month.
Malachi had let Pilot out into the small pasture dotted with burr oak trees. Of course, the horse had found the one spot of bare earth in that pasture, and was determinedly rolling in it, grinding dust into his coat, his hoofs pawing the air. With a sad smile and a sigh, Libbie stepped off the porch—just as Walker barged out the back door behind her.
He let the screen door slam. “If you weren’t so all-fired taken up with standing out here daydreaming, you’d know we have guests waiting to be fed.”
Libbie turned to face him, folding her hands before her, doing her best to seem relaxed. “I was just going to check in with Annabelle to see if—”
“To see if what? If she’s cooking anything?”
“Well, of course she’s cooking. I was just… I didn’t know when you’d want to have it served.”
He glowered at her. “And you think Annabelle is the one to answer that question?” He sneered as he said, “By all means, let us consult the slave to see what might accommodate her schedule.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Libbie glanced past him at the house. “I didn’t think you would want to be disturbed until—”
“Until what? Until my guests started complaining of hunger?”
Libbie swallowed. Forcing a calm she did not feel into her voice, she said, “I didn’t think you’d want me interrupting.” She clenched her hands behind her, hoping against hope that her calm demeanor would help quench the wildfire that was Walker’s temper.
“What I want,” he snapped, “is for at least one tiny little part of this cursed week to go according to plan. Is that asking too much, Elizabeth? To at least have meals served on time?”
“I’m sorry, Walker. I—”
“Don’t apologize! Just—see to it. For once in your life, see that something at Wildwood Grove gets done properly without my having to personally oversee it!” He reached out and yanked on the edge of her sleeve. “Now—stop daydreaming about that worthless horse and do your job. Lord knows you’ve cost me a fortune. Gowns and shawls and bonnets and high-stepping horses. And what do I have to show for it? Very little.” He looked past her to the encampment and muttered, “An entire regiment eager to fight, and their weapons have fallen into enemy hands.” He glared back at her. “And all your precious Isham has to say is, ‘These things happen.’ ”
My… precious…? He’d demanded she walk with a preening fool she could scarcely tolerate, and she’d obeyed. How dare he use her obedience as a weapon? How dare he blame her—for anything? “My Isham? He’s not my Isham. May I remind you, dear brother, that you’re the one who insisted that I—”
She didn’t even see it coming. Had no time to step back. No chance to make it a glancing blow. It happened so quickly that Libbie barely remembered Walker’s palm making contact with her cheek. One second she was correcting him about why she’d deigned to walk in the moonlight with Isham Green, and the next she was standing with her own palm to her face, her eyes watering from a combination of shame and pain.
Walker’s anger disintegrated. He reached for her hand—the one she held to her face. When she flinched and pulled away, he bowed his head. “My God, Libbie. Forgive me. I—I didn’t mean—”
Out of nowhere, Libbie heard Ora Lee call out, “That’s all right, Mr. Walker. I’ll see to her. You go on inside, now. Supper be served before you know it.”
She must have been watching. From where, Libbie wasn’t certain, but here she was, taking Libbie’s arm—much as you would an old woman’s—and leading her away, assuring Walker that “little bit of ice, and Miss Libbie be good as new. She be in in just a few minutes to call the gentlemens to da table.”
Annabelle called out from the kitchen door. “Twenty minutes, Mastah Blair. And you best be hungry. I done roasted a ham just the way you like it. Sweet potato pie, too. Those gentlemens never gonna want to leave Wildwood Grove.”
Libbie let herself be led away. When they reached the kitchen door, she glanced behind her just in time to see Walker go back into the house. Ora Lee guided her to the nanny rocker by the window. Libbie sat while the girl leaned down and examined her face. Shame coursed through her. Why would they be kind to her?
“Get some ice on it,” Annabelle said. “She got supper to preside over.” She glanced over at Libbie. “Don’t think it’ll show until tomorrow, and I suppose you can be ‘sick.’ ”
Libbie frowned. She’d never pretended illness a day in her life.
“You gonna have a black eye,” Annabelle said. “It already swelling up. Ice will keep it so’s they don’t notice. Not by candlelight. And this here dinner ain’t gonna be ready until after sundown. Can’t be helped. I burned the taters.”
Libbie looked over at the perfect mound of mashed potatoes. Then she looked up at Annabelle. And then… then she let herself cry.
Chapter 11
When Sergeant Coulter dismounted and strode after him, the boy stepped behind Maggie, effectively using her as a shield. Maggie edged away. She’d waged many a war against vermin on the farm, and didn’t want a personal encounter with head lice ever again. The boy probably couldn’t help it, but still—before she spent much time with him, she’d want to see him deloused.
Coulter reached around Maggie and hauled the boy away from her, but his tone was almost gentle as he said, “You can’t stay with the army, Noah.”
“Why not?” He struggled to free himself.
“Promise me you’ll stay put,” Coulter said, “and I’ll let go.”
The boy nodded. When Coulter released him, he pointed at Maggie. “I can march as good as any woman,” he said. “Why—there’s drummer boys younger than me.”
“If we needed one—which we do not—would you want to be a drummer boy?”
The boy smiled, exposing a gap in his upper row of teeth. “Would I get a uniform? ’Cause I could use some new trousers.” He bent one of his legs, exposing a knobby knee through a gaping hole. When Coulter asked if he knew how to play a drum, the boy didn’t answer. He pointed at Blue. “I could take care of your horse some more. We get along. I can gather firewood, too. Repair harness
. Haul feed. I helped you get those wagons and the mules, and ain’t they good teams? I can do all kinds of things. You should give me a try.”
When Coulter said nothing, the boy spoke to Maggie. “Don’t you miss havin’ help? Let me stay. I’ll be better’n any of your other servants.”
Maggie sputtered, “I—what?”
“Servants,” the boy repeated. “Don’t you miss ’em?” He looked up at Sergeant Coulter. “You should have let her bring at least one. The army lets wives bring servants. I’ve seen ’em headed west to fight Indians. Steamboats full of soldiers and wagons and wives and servants. Pets, too. Whole families.”
Maggie felt her face heating up. “I’m not anyone’s wife.”
The boy blinked. “Well, I—I’m sorry. I just thought—” He shrugged. “Don’t make no difference to me if you’re married or not, ma’am. I’ll still help ya. ‘Judge not.’ That’s what the Good Book says, and I think it’s right good advice.”
Jack grabbed a handful of shirt and gave the boy a little shake. “Miss Malone is my sister, and you’ll keep your filthy ideas to yourself, or I’ll give your mouth a good cleaning out with soap.”
Maggie blanched. The boy thought she was a camp follower? There was no time to finish either the thought or the conversation, for just at that moment the woods to the north erupted with a barrage of terrifying, high-pitched yells. Shots rang out. A shower of splinters erupted from the edge of the wagon just to the right of where Maggie was standing. Mules brayed. Blue screamed. In the chaos, a hand closed about Maggie’s wrist like a vise. Sergeant Coulter pulled her beneath a wagon. She landed with a thud next to the boy, who’d somehow managed to collect Hero before taking cover beneath the wagon.
“Get that pistol out and stay put,” Coulter said, and then he was gone, racing to untie Blue and send the horse fleeing into the woods and away from the gunfire. Next, he darted around to the back of the wagon, lowered the tailgate, and scuttled into the wagon bed next to one of the crates of rifles.
Maggie stared after him in disbelief. He made sure I was safe. As she watched the sergeant work to open one of the crates in the wagon, she realized what he had in mind. At least two dozen men lay on their bellies beneath the wagons, with only their side arms as weapons—and only if they were already loaded, which was doubtful. Coulter was going to try to arm them with the Henrys—but that would only help if they had ammunition, and the boxes of cartridges were in the wagon right above her head.
Yelling at Noah to stay put, she crept to the back end of the wagon. Her heart pounding, she popped up to lower the tailgate. Her first attempt failed, but on the second try she succeeded. She could see the ammunition boxes, but they were out of reach. She was going to have to scramble into the wagon bed. She’d just grabbed a fistful of skirt and petticoat when Noah slipped past her and did just that. Keeping low, he shoved an ammunition box off the end of the wagon. It landed with a thud, and paper-wrapped cartridges spilled out. A second box landed beside the first, and then the boy jumped down, grabbed two fists full of cartridges, and set out for the men lying beneath the closest wagon.
Maggie focused on the one that was farthest away. A flash of a bandaged hand identified Jack. Fish was there, too. That red hat—didn’t he realize it made a perfect target? Taking her revolver out of her pocket, she stuffed both pockets with cartridge packets. Uttering a panicked prayer, she cocked the revolver and charged out from between the two supply wagons. It seemed to take a century to cross the open field. The weapon only fired .31 caliber balls and was of little use beyond close range. Still, just pulling the trigger made her feel better. She’d only gotten off two shots before she arrived at the wagon and threw herself beneath it. She tossed cartridge packages to the men with both hands. While they loaded, she flopped onto her stomach, and emptied the revolver’s remaining three chambers in the direction of the trees.
It was over in moments. As soon as the men began to return fire with the Henrys, whoever had ambushed them retreated. A few minutes of silence, and the men began to crawl out from beneath the wagons. Maggie followed suit, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries before she managed to get Da’s gun back in her pocket.
Jack grabbed her in a bear hug and spun her about. “I should scold you until I’m hoarse, Mary Margaret. What were you thinking?”
“That you needed cartridges.”
“You’re a blessed fool,” Seamus said, wrapping his arms about her and lifting her off the ground. “And may the dear Lord bless you for it.”
Fish handed her a kepi. “You are more soldier than you realize, mademoiselle. Wear it in good health.”
Maggie’s hand went to her bare head. What had happened to her bonnet?
“I don’t think you’ll be wearing it again, Maggie-girl,” Seamus said, and reached over to pull what looked like a rag dangling from a nail protruding from the bottom board of the wagon they’d all sheltered under. “You must have snagged it when you dove for cover.”
The poor old thing was shredded beyond repair. Maggie looked at the kepi.
“Go on, then,” Seamus said. Taking the blue cap out of her hands, he plopped it on her head, then stood back, arms folded to inspect it. “All you need is a bit of braid on the cape, and you’ll look a proper soldier—better than most of us, in fact, ragged lot that we are.”
Maggie just shook her head. She glanced back at the wagon where she and Noah had been when everything started. He was busy returning unused cartridge packets to the ammunition boxes. “I should help him. And see to Hero.”
The dog had crept out from beneath the wagon and was none the worse for being dragged unceremoniously from beneath Fish’s wagon seat. “You’re a brave little man, aren’t you?” Maggie said, scratching him behind the ears and happy to accept a couple of swipes from the pink tongue.
“He’s not the only one.”
Maggie turned around just as Sergeant Coulter strode up with Blue in tow. She nodded at the horse. “Glad to see he didn’t go far.”
“So was I.” When he smiled and Maggie realized he was looking at the forage cap on her head, she reached up to take it off, but he stilled her hand. “It suits you. You were very brave.”
“Not all that brave,” Maggie said. “If I’d stopped to think about it, I’d probably still be cowering beneath a wagon.”
“Who’s a coward?” the boy protested. “Neither one of us, if you ask me.”
“Neither one,” Fish said, and plopped a forage cap on Noah’s head.
Noah’s eyes shone as he took the cap off and inspected it. “Had me a good straw hat,” he said, “but it fell off when I was climbing into that wagon. Sure hated to lose it.” He put the cap back on, lifted his chin, and saluted. “This is better, though.”
“Finish packing those cartridges,” Fish said. “Then come and eat.”
“Yes, sir!” Noah hurried to obey the order.
Maggie peered into the woods. “How did they get past the pickets?”
“Untrained recruits,” Coulter said. “Those first shots that sounded so far away? The pickets thought they should investigate. They chased a handful of rebels halfway to the river, and by the time they realized that drawing them away was exactly the enemy’s plan, all they could do was circle around and hope not to get killed by friendly fire.”
“I thought Captain Quinn said the armed rebels were in the southwestern part of the state.”
Coulter shrugged. “It’s no surprise that they’d want to recover those rifles.”
“Were they really intended for Wildwood Grove?”
“It looks that way.”
Quickly, Jack told the sergeant about Maggie’s seeing freight delivered to the private Wildwood levee on her way to Boonville.
“I should have said something,” Maggie said. “I just—I didn’t give it all that much thought. I was too worried about Jack. The packet stopped three or four times, taking on freight, putting passengers off.”
“Think back to it,” Sergeant Coult
er said. “Tell me everything you can remember. Every detail.”
He wanted to know the number and sizes of the crates. He asked if Maggie had noticed any markings. How many men did she see on the levee? Were they all in uniform? And what, exactly, did she know about Walker Blair and his Wildwood Guard? Maggie told him everything she could remember, right down to the fact that Major Green rode a big white horse. “I—I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before now. I just—I didn’t think. Even though Dr. Feeny explained how important control of the river is—and how that particular plantation is well located for that purpose—” She shook her head. “I didn’t think.”
Coulter looked surprised. “Did you just say Feeny?”
“Yes… why?”
He shook his head. “Another time. It’s just—it’s an interesting coincidence.” He turned to Jack and Seamus. “How well do you know this Wildwood Grove?”
“Jack knows more than either Maggie or me,” Seamus said, batting his eyelids and lifting one shoulder as he pretended to fan himself and gave forth the worst imitation of a Southern accent Maggie could have imagined. “Oh, Jack eye-uh just cain’t tell yuh how mah little hahrt races when y’all come ne-ah.”
Jack pounded Seamus’s shoulder with a none-too-gentle fist as he explained to the sergeant. “I did a little harmless flirting from time to time when the planters’ daughters came to town, but Elizabeth Blair never took part in the game.” He abruptly changed the subject, telling the sergeant about the conversation he and Seamus and Maggie had had just prior to the skirmish.
“And you know the layout of the place?” Coulter asked.
Jack nodded, and a slow smile crept over his face. “If Captain Quinn was of a mind to authorize it, we could do a fine job of reconnoitering.”
Seamus agreed. “Jack and I know every hill and valley near that place—and most of the plantation itself. Officially, of course, we never dared trespass on Walker Blair’s private property. Not unless we wanted to risk a night in the Littleton jail.”
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