Betty spoke up. “They Yankees. Maybe they kilt Mastah Blair.” Her eyes filled with tears as she croaked, “Maybe they kilt my Robert.”
Betty was right, of course. Perhaps they had. But as Libbie looked about her, all she could think was that she didn’t want any part in killing or, for that matter, in causing still more suffering by withholding help.
“If you don’t want to do it,” she snapped, “then don’t. But if someone I loved was hurt in some Yankee town, I’d hope there’d be kind women there who’d look past the uniform and see a man who needed help.” She glanced over at Ora Lee. “Will you do it?”
“Yes’m,” she said.
“Thank you.” In the kitchen, Libbie retrieved a dipper, and picking up the water bucket, she headed for the battlefield.
Chapter 23
Closing her eyes, Maggie listened. To silence. Blessed silence, at last. The din of battle stilled. The killing over, at least for now. She’d emptied the last of the four canteens she carried with her moments ago, dribbling the last few drops across the parched lips of a dying man. She could hear shouts in the distance. The creak of wagon wheels and then… a bark. She opened her eyes, and here came Hero. He was barely limping as he made his way, first to one man and then the next. What was he doing? Maggie didn’t know. Finally, though, the dog sat down next to a soldier and began to bark. Wondering what he was up to, Maggie rose and trotted over, and her heart sank.
She hadn’t seen any of the boys she knew by name since John and her brothers had disappeared in the thick of the battle. She had no idea where they’d gone, and she hadn’t let herself think on it, knowing that if she let herself wallow in worry, she’d be of little use here where she was most needed. Now a new challenge, as she put a trembling hand to Ashby’s forehead and willed him to be alive.
At her touch, Ashby’s eyelids fluttered. He groaned. “It’s Maggie, Private.”
He opened his eyes, but there was no recognition in them. Hero came alongside. Whining, he began to lick Ashby’s face, but the soldier didn’t respond. Maggie scanned his still form. No blood, anywhere that she could see. But then she saw a dark stain at the back of his collar. Oh no. Moving him as little as possible, she slipped her hand beneath him. Sticky. Her heart lurched. He’d been shot in the head. But he was still alive.
Clearing her throat, she willed her voice not to wobble. “I’m going to help you, Ashby,” she said, praying that it might be true. Hero yipped just as a shadow fell across Ashby’s face. Maggie had time only to register the yellow skirt before a woman set a bucket of water on the earth and knelt down beside them.
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
Hearing the Southern drawl, Maggie frowned as she glanced over and recognized Miss Blair. Still lovely, in spite of the terror in her eyes. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks as she waited for Maggie to answer.
When Maggie said nothing, Miss Blair filled a dipper with water and held it out. Maggie took it. First, she drank half of it herself. She was grateful for the water, but if all the woman could do was tremble and cry, Maggie wished she would just go away. She turned back to Ashby, moistening Mam’s wedding handkerchief and pressing it against the boy’s lips, rejoicing when he responded with a flick of his swollen tongue.
“That’s it,” she said. This time she dipped the handkerchief into the bucket, squeezed it out, and dripped water into Ashby’s mouth. She wanted to shout with joy when he parted his lips to accept the offering.
Miss Blair withdrew her own handkerchief from her pocket. Moistening it, she folded the kerchief and swiped at the filth on Ashby’s forehead.
“Don’t waste the water,” Maggie warned.
“There’s a spring not far away. I’ll bring you as much as you want.”
Quickly, Maggie shrugged out of the four now-empty canteens she’d been carrying with her. Perhaps Miss Blair would be of some use, after all. If Maggie could just stop being so irritated by the sound of the woman’s voice.
Ashby groaned. Hero yipped and swiped at his forehead with a pink tongue.
Was it her imagination, or had one side of Ashby’s mouth curled up? Was he trying to smile at being licked by the captain’s dog? That had to mean there was hope, didn’t it? She needed to see the wound. “Can you roll onto your side, Ashby? Let me see what’s happened?”
She watched his face, and perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed a furrow appeared just above his brow. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it for you. Just—it may hurt, and I’m sorry, but I have to see it.” Bracing herself as best she could, Maggie managed to roll him onto his side. What she saw first made her flinch, but then she thought that perhaps the boy’s longish hair all tangled in the wound was making it look worse than it was. She bound it as best she could, and she’d just finished when Miss Blair spoke. Maggie was surprised the woman was still there.
“If this man’s canteen’s empty,” she said, “I could fill it for him.” She glanced about them. “I could take ever’ one we find… fill ’em at the spring and bring ’em back. That’d help—wouldn’t it?”
“You came out here to be a water girl?” Maggie let the doubt sound in her voice. She couldn’t help it. She’d never seen anything to indicate that any of these Southern ladies were worth much when it came to real work.
Miss Blair arched one eyebrow. Anger flickered in her dark eyes. “I came out here to be a help. And to look for my brother. If the water isn’t what y’all need, then tell me what is.”
Her brother. Of course. Maggie glanced about them. Men bearing litters were beginning to fan out across the battlefield, assessing the need, carrying the wounded up toward the mansion. Hero had nosed up next to Ashby, clearly intending to stay put. Across the way, a wounded man was struggling to sit up. Calling for help. Maggie relented. “All right then. Bring water. And if you see anything we can tear into strips for bandages—I just wrapped the last of mine about Private Ashby’s head.” Inspiration struck. Her petticoat. She’d have to untuck her skirt from her belt, but—she began to work at the side seam of the petticoat, dismayed by how filthy it was. Still, it was better than nothing.
Miss Blair’s eyes opened wide, but then, with a glance about them, she followed suit, talking as she ripped. “It won’t be enough. What about the sheets at the house? I could—”
Maggie interrupted her. “The water’s more important.” She looked about them. “Some of these boys have been out here for hours by now.” She spoke to Ashby. “But don’t you worry, Ashby. I’m getting the litter bearers over here as fast as I can.”
Miss Blair frowned. She glanced at Ashby. “You know him?”
Maggie nodded. Her voice faltered. “He’s one of mine.” And then she looked out across the field. They were all hers in a way, weren’t they? They all held part of her heart.
“How do ya—stand it?”
“They need me,” Maggie said, impatient. Irritated. And then angry. “If you can’t stand it,” she snapped, “then be gone with ya.” She grabbed the bucket. “But leave me the bucket. And the canteens.”
The change was almost imperceptible, but it was there, as Miss Blair lifted her chin and narrowed her gaze. “Tell me what to do.”
Maggie swallowed. Her throat was parched. She took another drink. “Stop caring so much. If you care too much, you’ll be of no use to them. Wipe your tears. Hide your horror. And do the next thing.” And with that, she picked the bucket up and hurried off toward the man who’d been calling for help.
Libbie watched Miss Malone hurry away, thinking that the bucket was, after all, a rather clumsy way to bring water to the men. One by one, she slung the empty canteens Miss Malone had left in the dirt over her own thin shoulders. She couldn’t just leave the suffering man without a word, and so she bent down and said, “You hold on, y’hear, Mr. Ashby?” When her voice threatened to wobble, she stopped. Swallowed. And said as clearly as she could, “Help is comin’ directly. You hold on.”
She headed for the spring.
Someone had dropped a canteen a few feet away, but when Libbie picked it up, there was a hole in it. She began to look about her for more canteens, wondering how many she could carry once they were filled with water. With a shudder, she bent over a dead soldier. “I am sorry,” she whispered as she peeled the canteen away. “May you rest in peace.”
With the five canteens, she hurried to the spring, slipping and sliding down the trail, filling them as quickly as possible, pausing only to splash her own face with cold water before heading back to Miss Malone, who continued moving from one soldier to the next. Details of uniformed Yankees were now combing the battlefield as well. Some transported the wounded up to the house on litters. Libbie caught sight of her two field hands and realized they weren’t rescuing the wounded anymore. They were adding to the row of bodies lined up near the road.
With every trip to the spring, Libbie traversed a different part of the battlefield, always on the lookout for Walker. Finally, she saw a wagon coming up the road from the direction of Littleton and realized that the men in the back were part of the Ellerbe Militia. The militia had decided to set themselves apart from the Wildwood Guard by attaching a red cockade to the crown of their slouch hats, and as the wagon trundled onto the battlefield, the cockades glowed in the afternoon sun. The skirmish in Littleton must be over. The militia was here to gather the dead—accompanied by mounted Yankees keeping watch. Men she might know were now prisoners of war.
There was something familiar about the man who was driving the wagon. He seemed older, and Libbie’s heart thudded, thinking it might be Walker. But it wasn’t. When the man took his hat off, wildly curly hair sprung to life, and Libbie recognized Mason Ellerbe. What would happen to him, she wondered. To Serena and her mother?
On Libbie’s fourth trip to the spring for water, she was filling the last canteen when a twig snapped just above her. She started, looked up, and saw Robert. He was limping and hugging one arm to his body as if it might be broken. Blood trickled down the side of his face.
“Thank the Lord Almighty,” he said as he limped toward Libbie. “I been hiding down by the river, wondering what to do. Couldn’t let any of the Guard see me for fear they’d shoot me just out of spite. Afraid of the Yankees. Got so thirsty I thought I’d surely die. Finally told myself to brave the spring—” He broke off then, and while he wasn’t crying audibly, tears began to stream down his cheeks.
Libbie handed him a canteen, but he waved it away. “Don’t think them soldiers care for a Negro drinking outta their canteens, miss.” He crouched down at the spring and lapped up water.
“Sure is good to see you, Miss Libbie. Everybody all right?”
Libbie nodded. “We were safe in that secret room.”
“Glad you found it. Betty told you?”
“Not exactly. It isn’t important. She’ll be so happy to know you’re all right.”
There was an awkward silence, with Libby somehow reluctant to ask the obvious question and Robert not seeming to want to raise the subject. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I am sorry about Mastah Blair, Miss Libbie.”
“You know where he is?”
“Yes’m. I can take you.”
When Robert refused to meet her gaze, Libbie knew with certainty. She looked away for a moment. Remember what Miss Malone said. Wipe your tears. Do the next thing. She took a deep breath. “I need to carry these canteens to Miss Malone first. She’s up there helping her boys. That’s what she calls them. Her boys.”
Robert extended his good arm. “I’ll help.”
“No. You’re hurt. Come with me, though.” Libbie scrambled back up the hillside, hesitating at the top of the trail to watch the groups of soldiers. They seemed to be more methodical now. Did that mean all the survivors had been identified? She glanced toward the house. It was hard to tell from this far away, but it looked as if the yard was a sea of wounded men. Annabelle would be beside herself at the prospect of feeding so many. Surely the army would have supplies. Wouldn’t they? Behind her, a steamboat whistle sounded, and while she and Robert watched, a packet named the McDowell churned its way upriver. Maybe the Yankees were bringing supplies to the Wildwood Grove landing. Someone could have telegraphed from Littleton.
Together, she and Robert hurried to Miss Malone, who was standing at the edge of the battlefield near the quarters. Libbie handed the first canteen to her. “Have you had anything to eat all day?”
Miss Malone shrugged. “Hardtack in my haversack. I’m fine.”
“You’re done in,” Libbie said.
“They need me.”
“But they won’t have you if you make yourself sick.”
Miss Malone looked over at Robert. “You’re hurt.”
“This is my brother’s man, Robert,” Libbie said. “He found me at the spring.” She turned to Robert. “Tell Miss Malone how you were hurt.”
“Slipped and fell is all,” Robert said. “Hit my head.”
Miss Malone looked at his head first. “Needs sewing up,” she said. “I can do it, but I’ve used up all my thread.”
Was it Libbie’s imagination, or was the exhausted woman about to cry because she’d run out of thread? “What about the arm?” she asked.
Miss Malone grasped Robert by the wrist and slowly rotated it. Robert winced. “I don’t think it’s broken,” she said. “A sling would be the best we can do until you see one of the doctors up at the house.”
“I’ll be all right,” Robert said.
Libbie began to take the rest of the canteens off. “I—um—I need to go with Robert for a minute. He knows where—I mean—he can take me to Walker.”
Miss Malone nodded. “He’s all right, then?”
Libbie hesitated, and in hesitation said what she could not quite say aloud just yet.
“I’ll come with you,” Miss Malone said, and picked up the canteens.
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to. If it was Jack or Seamus—” Her voice wavered. Or John. Oh… dear Lord. She cleared her throat.
Libbie huffed regret. “Heaven forgive me, I thought you’d know—but then, how would you?” She told Miss Malone about encountering Jack up at the house. “I’m sorry that I didn’t think to ask about Seamus.”
A brief smile flickered. “How would you know that I was the madwoman out here on the battlefield? Jack’s all right. I’m thankful to know it.” And Seamus and John will be all right, too. And Noah. Surely Noah would have managed to stay safe. For she could not imagine her life without them.
Maggie felt guilty, smiling at Miss Blair’s news of Jack when the poor woman’s own brother was dead. But a few moments later, as she stood gazing down at Walker Blair’s remains, Maggie realized that whatever feeling Libbie Blair had for her brother, it was nothing like the furious love Maggie felt for her brothers. She had expected wailing and perhaps fainting. After all, the Southern ladies in town got the vapors over the slightest thing. But Miss Blair stood quietly, looking down an incline so steep a man would have had to be mad to try what Walker Blair had tried, listening quietly while “her brother’s man” told the story as he knew it. With careful wording, Maggie thought, designed to spare Miss Blair the shame attached to a death without honor.
The rebels on the battlefield behind them could claim honor. They’d died defending something they believed in, and even if what they believed in was wrong, Maggie could allow them an honorable death. She’d tended a few of them today, and found it impossible to hate any of them. That both surprised and confused her. But there was nothing confusing about what had happened to Walker Blair. He’d been running.
The top of the ridge where he’d fallen was trampled—as if the horse hadn’t wanted to plunge over. But Blair had won out. Had he felt a few seconds of relief as the horse carried him over the ridge, into the air, and away from the battle? That had to be what he’d been doing, for the only thing beyond this ridge was the river. But the horse hadn’t cleared the narrow strip of land. Hadn’t made it to the water. Neith
er had Walker Blair, who’d fallen off his horse and, from the position of the body, broken his neck.
Maggie looked over at Miss Blair. “I am so sorry,” she said, and in an uncharacteristic show of femininity, she grasped the other woman’s hand. They stood together for a moment and then, with a little shudder, Miss Blair said to Robert, “Miss Malone and I are going to return to helping the living,” she said. “I would appreciate it greatly if before you go up to the house to get that arm attended to, you would take word to the Guard’s men out here on the field so that they can retrieve the body. They can tell me later what arrangements have been made.”
Robert hesitated. “You want me to move him first? I mean—bring him up here?” He paused. “The horse could have bolted, Miss Libbie. Everybody knows that animal had a wild streak in him.”
Miss Blair thought for a moment. She shook her head. “God bless you, Robert, but I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do such a thing.”
“Might be something important in those saddlebags,” Robert said.
It might only be her imagination, but it seemed to Maggie that Walker Blair’s man was trying to say something important without actually saying it. Was that the way slaves communicated to their owners, or was it just that Robert didn’t trust the Irishwoman? Either way, Miss Blair apparently shouldn’t leave her brother’s belongings at the bottom of this ridge. And so Maggie spoke up. “Let me climb down there,” she said. “I mean—someone might misunderstand Robert carrying saddlebags and—whatever else.” She felt awkward bringing it up, but a Negro who seemed to have taken something off a dead soldier risked being shot if anyone saw him.
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