Maggie snorted as she took a backstitch and then overcast the seam to reinforce it. “What nonsense.”
Seamus reached over to tug on the brim of her forage cap. “It’s not nonsense. A man might well have gotten a promotion for supplying his brothers with cartridges the way you did when those rebels attacked the wagon train.”
“The boys just like having a seamstress at their beck and call.”
“They’re all ‘the boys’ now, are they?”
“Not all,” Maggie said and patted the pile of shirts on the ground beside her, thinking of a few soldiers she made it her business to avoid as much as possible. “Besides, there’s only so much daylight for mending. It won’t be long and some of ’em will be disappointed in my ability to stitch or cook or something I haven’t even thought about yet that might be of use but that I just don’t have enough time to do.”
Seamus grinned. “If word gets around that you know how to clean a gun, you’ll be in real trouble.” He nodded at the pile of mending. “As for that, you could refuse, ya know.”
“Why would I refuse? I don’t really mind.” Maggie looked out over the men lounging about campfires reading, playing cards, or napping. “Any one of their mothers or sisters or wives would do the same if only they could be here.”
“Not many would care to be here,” Seamus said, and he nudged her arm. “You were raised to cope with a quartet of scurvy dogs,” he teased. “What’s a hundred more? Not many women who could sleep on the ground and eat hardtack day in and day out and not complain.”
“As it happens, I’ve been hearing stories to the contrary,” Maggie said. “Even Captain Quinn admits to knowing of women traveling with this or that regiment—good women, not the other kind. They work as laundresses and such. And according to Fish, there was a tradition in Napoleon’s army—I can’t say the French word for them, but they were regular members of the regiment. They carried the colors on parade, tended the men after battle—they even had uniforms that matched their soldiers.”
Seamus sputtered disbelief about the uniforms.
“Don’t be daft,” Maggie said. “Fish says they dressed like ladies in every way—although some of ’em shortened their hems a bit to make it easier to move about. But them that did such wore trousers beneath. They weren’t flashin’ their ankles like a bunch of heathen strumpets.”
Seamus was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was to comment on the idea of a woman in uniform. “You’re about there, Maggie-girl, what with the forage cap and the blue cape.”
“I won’t be donning trousers anytime soon, Seamus Malone. But I won’t deny being glad to hear that the boys don’t see my presence as a burden.”
“From what I know, most will be sad to see you go.”
Maggie concentrated on taking the last few stitches, knotted the thread, and snipped it off. Truth be told, she didn’t really want to think about it herself. Careful to tuck her needle away in the roll-up sewing kit the soldiers called a “housewife,” she folded the shirt and sat back. “Dr. Feeny told me that you would all be spending more time in camp than actually fighting. I thought he was telling tales by way of keeping me from worrying. Fish said something to that effect the first night I was here. I thought he was trying to make me feel better, too, but—”
“Fish likes you, but he wouldn’t lie just to make you feel better.” Seamus grinned. “Besides, he says you’re a better soldier than some of the men who’ve volunteered.”
“Just what a woman wants to hear.” Maggie laughed.
“It’s a compliment and not one to be taken lightly. According to Captain Quinn, Monsieur-with-the-name-longer-than-my-arm is descended from a long line of warriors. ’Tis no small thing to impress Fish.”
Maggie only shrugged. She liked the idea of being in the quartermaster’s good graces, but to have a man admire her because she was good at manly things—she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Seamus scratched at his patchy beard. “I’m glad you haven’t been terrified every moment you’ve been with us,” he said, and then gave a low laugh. “Do you realize that, when it comes right down to it, you’ve been in battle longer than either Jack or me?”
Maggie snorted in disbelief.
“ ’Tis true. From what you said about that day at the farm, that was more of a fight than Boonville. From first shot to last, we were only in it for about twenty minutes. I barely had a chance to fire my weapon.”
“I’d think you’d be grateful.”
“Oh, I am. It’s just—I didn’t volunteer to sit around a campfire playing my fife and honing my chess game. All the waiting makes for long days and longer nights. A man starts to worry that he’s missing the best of the action.”
“And again I say, it isn’t easy being the one who gets left behind, is it?”
“It isn’t easy bein’ ‘not Jack,’ either.”
“What are you talking about—‘not Jack’?”
Seamus sighed. “It’s nothing. I just—I thought soldiering would be my chance.”
“Your chance for what?”
“To find something in the whole of God’s wide world that I might do better than Jack.”
Maggie frowned. “You do many things better than Jack.”
“Really? Name something.” When Maggie was quiet, he nodded. “That’s all right. I didn’t expect an answer. Don’t misunderstand. I love my brother. It’s just—he casts a big shadow. I thought the army might give me a way out from under it.” He shrugged. “I should have known better. Jack’s the best shot. The fastest runner. The one Sergeant Coulter wants doing reconnaissance with him. The hero everyone looks up to.” At the sound of his name, Hero lifted his head and looked over at Seamus, who chuckled and pulled his fife out of the fringed leather bag hanging from his belt. “I’m sorry. I sound like a regular fool, whinin’ about me own brother.”
Maggie reached over and tapped the fife. “Jack may well be all those things you just said, but he has no music in him. He’d never have thought to give me that fire grate you had the blacksmith make for my Christmas that year.”
“He said it was a terrible gift,” Seamus muttered. “ ‘You never make a gift of something connected to a woman’s work,’ ” he said.
Maggie nudged his shoulder again. “Don’t you know what his making fun means?”
“It means exactly what he said,” Seamus muttered. “That I don’t know a thing about women.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not at all. It means that you, Seamus Malone, think of ways to make life better for the people you love. It means that you take the time to notice things Jack doesn’t. Any man can wander into a mercantile and buy a gift. You cared enough to do something special. And the woman who is blessed enough to share your life one day will thank the Lord for that part of you.”
Seamus grunted his disbelief. “That’s kind of you to say, but Jack’s the better man when it comes to the ladies, too. Bridget Feeny thinks he lifts the sun above the horizon every morning.”
Maggie looked over at him. For a moment she studied his expression. When he raised the pipe to his lips to play, she grabbed his arm. “Seamus Malone. Have you been pining for Bridget while she pines after Jack?” Seamus shrugged. Maggie sputtered, “Jack has no more interest in Bridget Feeny than Hero has in playing your fife. He teases her, is all.”
“And she blushes and hangs on his every word.”
“Have you ever once let her know how you feel?”
“When would I ever get the chance to do that, with Jack about all the time?”
Maggie got to her feet. “Wait right there. I’m going to take this shirt to Private Murphy. After that, I’m going to find the quartermaster, and when I get back, I’ll have an answer to that question. And you’d better still be sitting right here.” She looked at Hero. “See that he stays put.”
Maggie bustled off. Once she’d given Private Murphy his newly mended shirt, she sought out Fish. “Where might I find a sheaf of paper?”
“Writin’ a love letter?” The unwelcome question came from just past a supply wagon, where a half-dozen soldiers were playing a card game—and not a particularly friendly one, from the stack of coins in the center of the game.
Fish scolded the soldier who’d spoken. “I’ll thank you to show respect for the lady.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I sincerely regret, mademoiselle, that I do not—”
“I can get you some.” Noah ducked out from beneath the wagon.
With a stream of French that Maggie didn’t understand, Fish scolded the boy, who responded as if he’d understood every word. “You don’t have to yell, mon-sir. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was sitting right here under this wagon having a perfectly good nap when you yelled at Private O’Malley and woke me up.” He grinned at Maggie. “I can get paper. You need a pencil, too? What about an envelope and a stamp?”
Fish shook his head. “He is impossible, zis boy.”
“How much?” Maggie asked.
“I can get you everything you need for a nickel.” Noah looked up at Fish. “And I ain’t gonna steal it, so don’t ask. I’ll pay for it, soon as Miss Maggie pays me.”
Fish glowered at him. “And how much profit will you make from the transaction?”
Noah grinned. “What’s it matter, as long as all parties are happy?” He trotted away.
Fish shook his head. “That boy.”
Maggie smiled. “Have you been able to learn anything about him?”
Fish pursed his lips. “Sometimes, when he sleeps… he dreams. And he cries. There is water. He calls for his maman to ‘hang on.’ ” He sighed. “She must not have done so.” He paused, thinking. “He never speaks of his father. Perhaps he does not know who he was.” Again, he sighed. But then he said, “I think it is why Sergeant Coulter takes ze boy under his wing and pleads his case with the captain.”
“He—what?”
Fish leaned close and, with a conspiratorial smile said, “The sergeant is a very good man. He says to our captain that he knows something of the life this boy has had, and he wishes to see better things for him.”
“B-But,” Maggie said, frowning. “Haven’t I heard the sergeant tell Noah he can’t stay with the army?”
Fish shrugged. “Perhaps. And it might have been so, until the sergeant offers to pay for the boy’s rations, if only the captain will let him remain with the Irish.” He lowered his voice. “Of course, he does not want others to know. Not even the boy himself.”
“But you’re telling me,” Maggie said.
“Oui.” Fish nodded. “This is because you are not just ‘anyone,’ mademoiselle.”
Maggie didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Well… the secret’s safe with me.”
“As I knew it would be,” Fish said. “And now you know a little bit more about what a fine man is Sergeant Jean Coulter, eh?” And he winked.
Thankfully, Noah trotted up and, with a little flourish, presented Maggie with a sheaf of paper. It was folded in half with a stamped envelope tucked inside. The boy pulled a freshly sharpened pencil from where he’d had it tucked over his left ear. “Five cents, please. I promised the original owner I’d pay him right away.” He leaned close. “He’s losing badly at dominoes on the far side of the camp.”
“How does a man lose money playing dominoes?” Maggie would never understand the passion with which soldiers gambled. Noah looked over at Fish, and they both laughed. “Never mind,” Maggie groused. “Come with me and I’ll get your nickel.” They crossed the camp. At the sight of Noah, Hero wagged his tail and gave a little yip of welcome.
“That dog likes everyone but me,” Seamus said.
“Not true,” Maggie said. She dug a coin out of Paddy’s battered leather satchel and paid Noah, who scampered off. “But Noah pulled him to safety beneath the wagon the other day.” She bent down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “He never forgets a favor.” She looked over at Seamus and smiled. “Now that I think about it, Hero only objects to you. He hates Jack. So there’s something else you’re better at, ‘not Jack.’ ”
Seamus smirked. He looked over at Hero. “You hate me less than you hate Jack. Do I have that right?” The dog chuffed. Seamus laughed.
Maggie handed him the paper and the pencil. “And here’s something else you’re about to be better at than your big brother.”
“Writing? Writing what?”
“Not what. Who.”
“Who am I writing to?”
Maggie sighed. “If you don’t know the answer to that, Seamus Malone, you deserve to die a lonely old man.”
Both eyebrows went up as Seamus realized what Maggie was suggesting. “You think she’ll answer?”
“There’s only one way to discover the answer to that question, boy-o.” She settled beside him and reached for another shirt waiting to be mended. “Personally, I don’t think she’ll be able to resist. Not if you write even a wee bit of the music that’s in your heart.”
Seamus positioned the paper on his knee. Dear—he hesitated. Looked over at Maggie. “Music, you say?”
Maggie smiled. “There’s not a woman in the land who wouldn’t like to be serenaded by a handsome man.”
Seamus added e-s-t to the first word.
Maggie pretended to concentrate on threading a needle while she stole a peek at the letter. She smiled. Dearest Bridget… The boy had music in his heart, all right.
Chapter 15
At midday on the eighth day after Jack and Sergeant John Coulter had ridden out of camp—not that she was counting—Maggie had followed a limping Hero to the edge of the woods to do his business when a flash of gray made her look up. Sergeant Coulter astride Blue. The horse was moving toward her at an easy lope, and when Coulter saw Maggie, he raised his hand in greeting, almost as if he was looking for her.
To hide the fact that she was blushing, Maggie turned away and scolded Hero. “I’m not taking a stroll for my health. Get on with it.” The dog sat down, whined, and lifted his bandaged paw. “You’re a pathetic little beggar. You’ll want to get out of the wagon not fifty feet up the road.” With a sigh of frustration, she turned about and nearly plowed into the sergeant—made more disconcerting than ever because she wasn’t quite used to being that close to a man who was that much taller than her. It made her feel… womanly. Until, that is, Coulter muttered whoa, there—as if she were a horse.
“Captain Quinn sent me to explain what’s happened so you wouldn’t worry about Jack as soon as you saw me. It’s only me back with Company D, but Jack’s fine. We split up so that I could head back here to report what we’ve learned. Jack was going to do some more looking about in Littleton.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you.” And then she frowned, because the column was coming to a halt. “What’s happening?”
“Colonel Kelley has ordered us to make camp while he relays information to General Fremont in St. Louis. We’re to stay put until he receives new orders.”
New orders. “Rumors have been flying,” Maggie said. “I know not to believe them all, but it’s only logical that Jackson’s army in the south would be growing. Whatever the exact numbers, it has to be thousands.”
Coulter nodded. “Between five and ten thousand, according to what I just heard.”
The idea that he trusted her with news he’d just received in a meeting with the command was gratifying—but the news itself terrified her. “But if there’s only the Irish to face them… how many are we? Surely not nearly so many.” She barely managed to stifle a horrified shudder.
“Colonel Sigel’s regiment has been sent out from St. Louis.”
A regiment. Another thousand men. Still not enough. If they were forced into a confrontation, Maggie couldn’t think of any way her boys could win. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow herself to imagine the aftermath of such a battle. And in the aftermath, who would care for them? To mask her fear, she went to Hero and crouched down to pet him.
The sergeant followed suit. His voice was gentle as he said
, “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be in camp at least until Jack reports in. Then there will be more relaying of messages back and forth. Don’t borrow tomorrow’s troubles.”
Maggie forced a smile as she stood back up. “You sounded a bit like Private Ashby there at the last.”
“Ashby quotes the Bible?”
“That he does,” Maggie said. “Carries a prayer book in his breast pocket. He doesn’t read it. I don’t think he needs to read it. Seems to have it memorized.”
“The few phrases I remember,” Coulter said, “are remnants of Sabbath School training. My grandparents were quite devout.”
“I never knew mine,” Maggie said. “Nor my Mam, who died when I was just a wee child, may the good Lord rest her soul.”
“I didn’t really know my father. But my grandparents were good people. Very good people.”
Was he avoiding mention of his mother? “At least you have your uncle,” Maggie said. “I imagine you’ve heard about our Uncle Paddy from the boys.”
Coulter ignored the mention of his uncle. “Anyone who heard you talk about your family would think you were at least a dozen years older than Jack and Seamus. The way you call them ‘boys’—the way you mother them.”
Maggie shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it. ’Twas only natural for me to step into the role, I suppose.” She hesitated. “As it happens, I’m the youngest of us three.” She looked down at her hands. “But I see why you wouldn’t think it.” Feeling self-conscious, she reached down for Hero and swept him into her arms.
“The youngest,” Coulter murmured as he reached out to pat Hero on the head. “Well, you certainly don’t act it—and I mean that as a compliment.” He smiled. “I think I missed a great blessing by not having a sister.”
He was standing so close. So very close. She laughed and made a joke. “There’s been times over the years when you could have easily had one. Me brothers would have gladly given me away more times than I care to admit.” She glanced off in the direction of home. “Jack went into Littleton, then?”
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