Daughter of the Regiment

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Yes.

  She didn’t know when it had happened. Only that it was true.

  John took his leave, and Maggie watched his retreat until the darkness gathered him in. John. The intimacy of even thinking the name made her heart pound. After tucking his letter into her satchel, she pulled her blanket about her and lay back on the earth, staring up at the night sky and trying to remember every word that had just been spoken. He’d written to his mother about her. His mother, for heaven’s sake. He’d called her magnificent. She would store the memory up against the future.

  Admire her as he would, once the battles were over… well. He might think her magnificent to the end of his days, but he would inevitably come to his senses in the matter of marrying. She lay staring up at the stars replaying their conversation over and over in her mind until she fell asleep.

  Chapter 20

  It was still dark when a general murmuring rolled across the camp. Rising to see what was happening, Maggie caught her breath at the sight of the fire in the distance. Noah climbed out of his bedroll beneath the wagon and came to stand beside her. “Jack was right,” he said. “They burned the barn.”

  “But—why?”

  “Jack said it was a perfect place for sharpshooters to hide and pick off the Irish as they marched toward Wildwood Grove. Command must have agreed and given the order to burn it dow—” A horrific blast sent Noah ducking for cover. In the space of a moment, a screeching grew louder and louder and then, the sound of splitting wood on the hill above them—complete with the crash of trees being felled.

  Maggie had joined Noah beneath the wagon, and now she peered toward the hill in the direction of the noise. “Wh-what was that?” Noah didn’t answer, but someone in the camp hollered about a “12-pounder.”

  “Guess the rebels didn’t appreciate the burning barn,” Noah said when it seemed they were safe and the soldiers settled back in their tents.

  Maggie rolled up her blanket and tucked it into Fish’s wagon before luring Hero out and encouraging him to walk to the tall grass to attend to necessary things. As dawn lit the eastern sky, Noah pointed to three dark sentinels standing on the hill where trees had once been in the path of the cannonball. Nothing remained but bare trunks a few feet tall and, scattered about them, the shattered remains of branches and leaves. Maggie shivered. For a moment she thought she might be sick. If a cannon ball could do that to an oak tree…

  Bugle calls sounded and the camp came alive. The men ate quickly, many of them not even bothering to sit down in their hurry to get on with the day, strapping on newly filled cartridge pouches, filling the cap pouches hanging from their equipment belts, slinging canteens over their heads, piling knapsacks and haversacks into the supply wagons that would stay at the rear during the battle.

  Ashby came trotting up just as assembly sounded. He was carrying a scrap of paper, which he handed to her. “I meant to ask you last night, but then Sergeant Coulter—I didn’t want to interrupt, but—would you put my name down?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “It’s Leander, Miss Maggie. Leander Ashby. Mount Sterling, Missouri.” He patted the pocket where he kept the little testament he read every night. “Want to tuck it in—just in case—well, you know. I’d want my people to know if I was to—you know.”

  Maggie retrieved her pencil and wrote the name—ashamed that her hand trembled.

  “I got a girl,” Ashby said as he watched her write. “Name’s Molly. Molly Darnell. If it happens—would you make sure she gets word? And my prayer book. She gave it to me, and I want her to know I kept it close. Looked at it every day. Will you tell her so she knows I died a Christian?”

  Maggie nodded. “Of course I will, but, Ashby, it would have meant so much more to her if you’d written something yourself. When you have a chance, you should write and tell her in your own words.”

  Ashby shrugged. Looked about, as if making sure no one could hear them. “Yes’m, I know. The thing is—I was ashamed to admit it, after all the boys made fun. You know—about me reading the testament so much.”

  “Don’t let anyone make fun of your faith, Ashby. It’s to be admired, no matter what the heathens say.”

  “I know that. The thing is—” He cleared his throat. “I ain’t really reading it. I’m just sort of… pretending.” He blushed. “I never quite learned.” He tucked the paper with his name on it into his pocket. “You won’t tell, will you, Miss Maggie?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Thank you, Miss Maggie. And—God bless you.”

  Maggie croaked, “You’re welcome,” and turned away. She put the pencil in her pocket and busied herself with trifles, thinking all the while of Leander Ashby marching into battle, the name he couldn’t write himself tucked into his pocket along with a testament he couldn’t read.

  Ordered to stay in the rear, Maggie watched as her boys moved away from camp as one dark, moving mass, their polished guns gleaming in the sunlight, banners waving, drums beating, the men stepping out in cadence. It seemed to Maggie that every able-bodied man in Little Dixie must be stretched out before her, even though she knew that just as many awaited them less than two miles away.

  Word was that once they realized they would have to fight their way south, the Guard and the Ellerbe Militia had dug trenches in a wide arc, their position designed not only to protect the plantation house but also to prevent the enemy from approaching Littleton. Whoever won the battle would also win control of a long stretch of the Missouri River.

  As the wagons trundled along through the clouds of dust raised by the marching men, it was all Maggie could do not to run ahead in search of Jack and Seamus. She could see John Coulter in the distance, riding alongside Captain Quinn. How could the sky be blue, the birds be singing, the air be clean and fresh on a day that would soon take them all into—what, she didn’t know. It was all she could do to keep walking.

  As she moved along, Maggie thrust her left hand into her pocket and touched the beads of Mam’s broken rosary. She’d never really seen the point to reciting the same rote prayers over and over again, but she’d cherished the rosary as a connection to Mam. Today, as she fingered a bead, she spoke a name. Ashby and Thomas. Seamus and Jack. John and Fish. Captain Quinn. Private Murphy. And yes, even Philem O’Malley, who might not be the best sort of man but who should have a chance today. A chance to survive. A chance to change. When she ran out of beads, she began again, reciting more names, praying for each one. Let them do their duty. Let them be brave. Let them survive.

  She thought of the stack of letters in her satchel. John’s had only been the first. Other men had come to her this morning. Because of Ashby, she wondered if they were carrying something with them that would tell others who they were. As she scanned the column of men, she regretted the names she didn’t know. Why hadn’t the army addressed the matter? Perhaps they had, and Ashby had misplaced his. When the battle was over, she would ask Captain Quinn. She would find a way to help keep track of her boys.

  As her thoughts settled onto the ways she might be of use, Maggie wondered if she should have offered to help roll bandages. Did the surgeons have enough? And canteens—if she could get to that spring Jack had talked about on the plantation, she could fill and refill canteens so the boys didn’t go thirsty. A man could fight when he was hungry, but thirst—thirst had a way of cutting a man down. She’d seen that happen in the fields. But she had not seen war. Had not seen the aftermath of battle.

  You can do nothing about that now. Think on what you can do to help them. And so Maggie prayed, reciting the names of her Irish Brigade boys, holding them up for the Almighty’s notice. What was it John had said about God? That God had numbered his days and would see that he received every single one. She had not thought on it all that much, but a God who could create a world in seven days could number a man’s days. Didn’t the Bible say that God noticed when a blackbird fell? No—not a blackbird. A sparrow. That was it.

  She thought back to the day when
she’d watched Jack and Seamus leave home. A day when there was no John Coulter in her life. She’d thought her heart was breaking that day. She hadn’t known the half of it.

  Holy Father in heaven. Please help us. Remember us… let us live another day. Make me brave. Make me strong. Show me what needs doing and help me do it. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth…

  It was not yet light out, when a thunderous blast shook the house. Ora Lee shrieked. Libbie bolted out of bed and ran to the second-floor hall windows and saw—nothing unusual. Campfires glowing in the darkness. A few tents illuminated by lamps someone had taken inside. The familiar golden light spilling out of the kitchen window that said that Annabelle had awakened and descended the exterior stairs to begin her day in the kitchen. A pale light in the eastern sky.

  As Libbie stood at the railing, Annabelle stepped into view in the kitchen doorway and looked in the direction of the awful sound. “Did you hear it?” Libbie called down.

  When Annabelle looked up, the light from the kitchen illuminated her strong jaw, her broad shoulders. Libbie could not quite make out the older woman’s face, and yet she could imagine the expression in Annabelle’s amber eyes as she said, “The saints at rest in the Littleton cemetery heard that, Miss Libbie.”

  A voice sounded in the night from the direction of the stable. “Just a little welcome for the boys in blue.”

  Libbie recognized Isham Green’s voice before he stepped into the pool of light spilling out of the kitchen. He swept the plumed hat off his head and nodded up at her. “You have nothing to fear, Miss Libbie. Five hundred men will give their lives today rather than see you harmed.”

  The very idea made her go cold. Wrapping her arms about herself, Libbie stepped back from the railing. She didn’t want five hundred men to give their lives. She wanted them all to go home. If the Yankees wanted to free the slaves, let them. If the editorials in the Littleton Leader were any indication, much of the state of Missouri agreed with her. Walker and his compatriots hadn’t even been able to get the resolution passed to secede from the Union. The Guard should all just go home. If the South wanted to fight a war, let them, but leave Missouri out of it.

  All of that and more ran through Libbie’s mind as she stood barefoot in the dark, looking down at Isham Green. But she said none of it, lest Major Green scold her for not taking “the cause” seriously. She was taking things quite seriously—just not the same things as Major Green and Walker. They spoke of states’ rights and political agendas. Libbie cared about what was going to happen right here at Wildwood Grove when the Federals engaged the Guard. She’d seen Surgeon Johnson’s medical equipment when he laid it out in the upstairs bedroom late yesterday, and it didn’t take any imagination to know that the doctor was expecting horrible things to happen in that room. The prospect terrified her.

  The eastern sky was growing light. A golden glow was visible just above the roofline of the stables. Had something exploded? She asked Major Green, and he laughed. “I sincerely hope so. We wouldn’t want to think that Major Lusk’s battery just wasted a 12-pounder.”

  “Looks like it set fire to something,” Libbie said, and just then one of the other officers came hurrying up and in a low voice, obviously designed to keep Libbie from hearing what was being said, reported something to Major Green, who did not take care to lower his voice as he swore about whatever it was he’d just heard.

  “I must go,” he called up to Libbie and headed off into the night.

  Libbie retreated back inside. Her refusing to leave had thrown Walker into a momentary tizzy. He reminded her that all of her furniture had been broken down and put in storage. Libbie said that she and Ora Lee could camp in the back room. It wasn’t possible, Walker said. Well, of course it was, Libbie replied, and proceeded to prove him wrong. She and Ora Lee descended to the basement and dragged Libbie’s feather bed and another mattress back up the stairs along with enough bedding to be serviceable, and before all was said and done, Libbie was comfortably “camping” in the back room.

  As soon as she was dressed, she descended to the kitchen, just as Annabelle pulled a loaf of fresh-baked bread out of the oven. Libbie closed her eyes and inhaled. Her mouth watered as she envisioned a generous slab of butter and a dollop of Annabelle’s blackberry preserves painted across a slice of that bread. But that would have to wait. First—Robert.

  “Robert’s down at the encampment,” Betty said as soon as Libbie asked about him. “Mastah Blair said all the officers travel with at least one slave.”

  “You want I should take a message down?” Malachi had been sitting at the small kitchen table when Libbie first came in. Now he rose, hat in hand, ready to do Libbie’s bidding. Libbie hesitated. “I don’t—know. I thought we should have a plan of some kind. Walker assured me that there was no need for concern, what with the white flag designating us a hospital, but—”

  Cooper came hurrying in. “Yankees coming,” he said. “I was up to the quarters and I heard the cannon. Climbed that tree just off Overseer James’s outhouse. I could see ’em, flags and all. Heard ’em, too. The drums.”

  A chill swept over her and Libbie said, “I want you all to come into the house. We’ll go down to the basement, where the furniture is stored.” No one said a word, but Libbie pressed on. “We should haul some buckets of water down there. Food, too.”

  “This house a hospital, Miss Libbie,” Betty said. “No one gonna fire on a hospital.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when Isham Green came loping across the yard with four soldiers in tow and bounded into the house. Maybe she was worried for no reason. With armed men in place—but just then, the upstairs windows opened and Green could be heard giving the men orders to “make every shot count.”

  Malachi spoke up. “Sharpshooters.”

  Libbie frowned. “But—that means the enemy will—”

  “Yes’m.” Malachi nodded. “Soon as they catch on, the Yankees will fire on the house to put a stop to it.”

  Libbie looked at the people in the room. “So. Unless you’re planning on leaving—and I don’t blame you if you are, but—if you’re staying, we need a plan. Now. And the only one I can think of is to take shelter in the basement, because you won’t be allowed weapons.”

  Annabelle harrumphed. “Ain’t no freedom-lovin’ Yankee chasin’ me outta the only home I’ve ever known.” She reached for a basket. “I be gatherin’ up what I can soon as my bread comes out the oven. Then I’ll head for the basement.”

  Betty spoke next, and she sounded almost hopeful. “Robert says we be safe right here in the house.” She glanced at Libbie and then away. “Wouldn’t mind if you was to get the key, though, Miss Libbie—now that Robert got to be with Mastah Blair.”

  Annabelle let out a huff. It sounded suspiciously like she was trying to silence Betty, but when Libbie looked her way, Annabelle said nothing.

  “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on? I’m concerned for more than just you—us. I was hoping Robert or Malachi would somehow get word to the field hands, too. Tell them we’ll do our best to shelter them if they want to come to the house. That’ll be nearly thirty people, and from what I know of the basement, we’ll be hard pressed to keep that many safe, what with all the furniture and half the things that were in the attic filling it up now. I know I should have said something—or done something—before now, but—well, I was afraid of what Walker might say. Or do.” She felt foolish when she realized that she’d just raised her hand to touch the place where he’d struck her. She sensed rather than heard or saw communication passing among the people in the room.

  Malachi was the one who finally spoke, and what he said was directed at Ora Lee. “Tell Miss Libbie about them keys,” he said.

  “She know they there,” Ora Lee responded.

  Libbie frowned. “Are you talking about the row of keys in Walker’s office? Behind that panel?” It was a stupid question. “If I retrieve them—
does someone know what they open?”

  “Robert knows about all of ’em,” Betty said. “But he won’t say. He never dared.” She took a wavering breath. “Don’t want nothing to happen to my two mens. Don’t think I’d live through it if Mastah Blair was to take a notion to sell ’em, and if he find out we been talkin’ about them keys, he do it, sure.”

  “I’ll get the keys,” Libbie said. “As it happens, I already knew about them. What I don’t quite understand is how they’ll keep us all safe.” She glanced at Malachi. “But I expect I’m about to find out.” She nodded to Betty and Ora Lee. “You two see what you can do about getting us some water.” She glanced outside, wondering how long they would all be trapped in the basement. How many wounded would be brought to the house? How much blood would spill onto the polished wood floor in that upstairs bedroom? She shuddered.

  Malachi took a step. Libbie looked up just in time to see the exchange of knowing looks between the old man and his wife. An imperceptible nod from Annabelle, and Malachi spoke to Betty. “You tend to the water, like Miss Libbie says. Then see about breakfast for the surgeon and his men. I’ll show her what she needs to see.” He hesitated before asking Libbie, “You sure you want to invite the field hands up here from quarters?”

  Annabelle muttered something about “no-account field hands,” but when Malachi put his hand on her shoulder, she stopped. “I know, old man, I know. The Lord don’t like it and I am willing to change how I feel, but that’s how I feel now.”

  “You can stand it if you have to,” Malachi said.

  “Reckon I can,” Annabelle muttered. “Reckon I will. Don’t mean I got to like it.”

  Libbie took a deep breath. “They deserve a chance,” she said.

  Malachi nodded. “Yes ma’am.” He glanced over at Cooper. “You run down there, tell them Miss Libbie say if they want to stay on the place, they come to the stable. Wait for Malachi.” He glanced at Libbie. “I am sorry, Miss Libbie, but they’re not likely to trust you. Best they come to me. I’ll bring them in—the ones that want to come.”