“That’s not necessary,” Libbie said. “I know a way down there that doesn’t require anyone to scale a cliff.” She hesitated and asked Robert, “You’re certain this is necessary?”
“Yes’m. I think so.”
With a sigh, Libbie turned to Maggie. “Please. Go back to your men. I’ll see to this—matter—as quickly as possible.” She paused. “And I’ll bring you something to eat—and more thread—when I return.”
Maggie considered insisting that she go along again, but the initial shock regarding Walker Blair’s fate was over, and it was clear that Robert didn’t want a stranger involved in the matter of his master’s personal effects. So be it. “I’ll watch for you,” she said. And then she thought of the wounded men who’d begged her for something to eat while she tended them. “Bring as much food as you can,” she said. “We can share it with the boys.”
Chapter 24
It was nearly sundown before Maggie and Libbie staggered into the yard behind the plantation house. By then they were calling one another by their given names, for at some point as they worked alongside one another, each woman had shed her preconceived ideas about the other. Maggie had realized that Miss Blair was no empty-headed, tiny-waisted Southern belle interested only in being served. There was, in fact, a prodigious amount of gentle strength beneath that refined exterior. As for Libbie, she’d quickly realized that Jack Malone’s sister used her size and a slightly mannish manner to hide an uncommon capacity for tenderness that, for reasons Libbie did not understand, seemed to embarrass her.
Numb from all she’d seen and done that day, Maggie sank down beside Libbie, grateful to finally be done with the battlefield, and yet newly aware of just how much there remained to do. The yard was filled with the less seriously wounded, and if this many men were still in the yard, Maggie couldn’t imagine what it was like inside the house, where Dr. Feeny and two other doctors who’d driven in from Littleton were caring for the worst cases.
When Libbie had been up at the house retrieving two baskets of bread—and thread, as promised—she’d learned that the confederate surgeon and his assistant would oversee the transfer of their rebel patients to Hickory Hill, the Ellerbes’ plantation. It was farther upriver near Lexington, she said. The Ellerbes had offered a corner of the family burial plot for the “heroic dead” of the Guard and the Militia.
Heroes. Rebels. Invaders. Defenders. Still more words with different meanings, depending on who spoke them. Maggie stirred. “That first boy you helped me tend,” she said. “I need to find him.” And John. I have to find John. And Seamus. And Noah.
“I’ll come with you,” Libbie said. This time, when the women rose to their feet, there was a stir among the men seated around a campfire over by the garden.
“That you, Miss Maggie?”
It was Noah. Relief flooded through her as the boy emerged from the kitchen behind them. “Barely.” Maggie forced herself to make a joke, lest she cry with joy.
“It’s Miss Maggie, boys,” a nearby soldier called, and all around them, one by one, men struggled to their feet. Scattered applause was broken by a call to “Give her a cheer, boys!” And voices filled the night. “Hurrah for the ladies! Hurrah for Miss Maggie! Hurrah for Miss Libbie!”
Grateful for the lengthening shadows, Maggie put one hand to her heart. The other, she extended out over the yard, returning the emotion and then trying in vain to quiet them. “Go on, now, that’s enough!” she cried, but the din went on.
Jack and Seamus emerged from the shadows, standing beside the two women like sentinels. Seamus. Alive. Whole. Seeing her brothers broke through Maggie’s resolve. She’d managed to hold her emotions in check all the day long, but the combination of being cheered by the ragged, hurting men in the yard and seeing Jack and Seamus unharmed burst the dam. Tears flowed as Maggie and Libbie made their way to the back door of the house.
With a little wave at the cheering men, Libbie stepped inside. Jack and Seamus followed her, but Maggie stood for a moment in the doorway, letting the men see how much their accolades meant to her before finally swiping her tears away and ducking out of sight. Her joy was short-lived, for here in the house the suffering was palpable. Libbie was waiting by the doorway tucked beneath the sweeping front stairs, talking to Jack and Seamus. Two slaves were moving among the men in the hall, wiping foreheads and giving drinks of water.
“You can come with us,” Seamus said.
“Wh-what?” Maggie rubbed her forehead and tried to remember what they’d been talking about.
“To Littleton tomorrow,” Libbie said. “It seems so long ago that it happened, but when Walker first told me about the Guard and offering the house as a hospital, I wanted to take the farm wagon into town and collect feather beds and blankets. He made fun.” She nodded toward the wounded men lying on the bare hallway floor. “Now I wish I’d done it anyway.”
“We’re going to get permission to do it tomorrow,” Jack said, then glanced down at Libbie. “And I’ll drive.”
Seamus looked over at Maggie. “He should let me drive. I could see Bridget.”
Dr. Feeny strode up. “Did someone mention Bridget?”
“Yes, sir,” Seamus said. “Is she well?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“She must have been terrified,” Seamus said.
“Thankfully the fighting never got that close to our home,” the doctor replied. And then he smiled. “I had to practically tie your Uncle Paddy down to keep him from heading into the fray.”
“That would be Uncle Paddy,” Maggie said.
“Once the rebels cleared out—there really wasn’t much in the way of a battle in Littleton—a few chases through this garden or that, but it was all over very quickly. At any rate—I’ve offered the house as the colonel’s headquarters for as long as he requires it.” He paused. “And I was amazed to meet a young man who says he spent a great deal of time there as a child. Apparently his grandparents nearly raised him.”
Jack nudged Maggie, who was in no mood to be teased about John Coulter. She barely managed to croak the name. “He’s all right then? John—I mean Sergeant Coulter?” And when Dr. Feeny said yes, relief surged through her—and something else, too; an emotion so strong that she feared her knees would go weak. And so she asked about Leander Ashby. Immediately, Dr. Feeny’s expression sobered.
“He is clinging to life, but I cannot think why. Short of a miracle…” He shook his head.
“May I see him?”
“Miss Malone, after what you’ve done today, you never need ask that question. He’ll be very glad to see you. When I asked him who’d tended the wound, he said something about an angel.”
“He was barely conscious,” Maggie said, and then she remembered Hero. “Maybe it was the white dog.” She looked over at Jack.
“The dog’s still with him.” At Maggie’s look of surprise, Dr. Feeny nodded. “Refused to stay outside.”
Maggie remembered the stories about Hero and Fish and how Hero had an uncanny talent for seeking out “his” wounded and guarding them on the battlefield. If Hero was with Ashby, did that mean that Ashby was the only one from Company D who’d been badly hurt? May it be.
Jack and Seamus said something about “corn pone,” and with a low laugh, Libbie offered to escort them to the “dining room.”
Maggie said she’d be along directly, but first she wanted to see Ashby. Directly. An afternoon with a Southerner, and she was beginning to sound like one. Taking a deep breath, she picked her way through the crowded hallway of what had obviously been a beautiful mansion. It seemed little more than a battered shell now. Thinking back to her own emotions when she’d stood in the doorway looking at what the bushwhackers had done to her home, Maggie wondered if Libbie had felt similarly dismayed moments ago. If so, she hadn’t shown it. In fact, the first words out of her mouth had been about rounding up mattresses and feather beds for the wounded. Yet another surprise. Maggie grunted. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to en
d up wanting to be friends with the woman.
Ashby was in one of the front rooms off the main hall. He lay unmoving, the rising and falling of his chest the only sign that he was alive. When Hero caught sight of Maggie, he gave a little snort. The tail thumped. Once.
Ashby opened his eyes, but they didn’t seem to focus.
Maggie sank down beside him and took his hand.
“Molly?” He moistened his lips.
Maggie squeezed his hand. “ ’Tis Maggie Malone, Ashby.”
With his free hand, Ashby tried to pull something out of his pocket. The testament. Maggie did it for him. “I’ve the testament here in my hand. Would you like me to read to you, Leander?”
“Lee,” he said, so quietly that she could barely hear it.
“Would you like me to read to you, Lee?”
Ashby squeezed her hand.
Maggie looked down at the little booklet. She’d need a lamp if she was going to read. “I’ll get a lamp and be right back.” Before Maggie could get up, a slave woman was there, lamp in hand. She opened the shutters and raised the window and set the lamp on the windowsill, where it would spill down onto Ashby’s face—and the booklet, if Maggie held it just right.
The pamphlet wasn’t a testament, after all. The Soldier’s Prayer Book contained page after page of prayers; prayers for congress and the president; prayers before a battle; finally, one that spoke to the moment. A prayer for a sick person. Maggie read.
O Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need; Look down from heaven, we humbly beseech thee, behold, visit, and relieve thy sick servant, for whom our prayers are desired. Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy; comfort him with a sense of thy goodness; preserve him from the temptations of the enemy; give him patience under his affliction; and, in thy good time, restore him to health, and enable him to lead the residue of his life in thy fear, and to thy glory. Give him grace that, after this painful life is ended, he may dwell with thee in life everlasting; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
A nice enough prayer, Maggie thought, thinking back to the pages of Mam’s prayer book, and feeling guilty that she’d never really read it. She paged past more prayers and paused at the one the seemed the best of all. The Soldier’s Prayer.
O GOD our Father! Wash us from all our sins in the Saviour’s blood, and we shall be whiter than snow. Create in us a clean heart, and fill us with the Holy Ghost, that we may never be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner, against sin, the world, and the devil; looking to Jesus the great Captain of our salvation. We ask it all, because He lived, died, rose again, and ever liveth to make intercession for us. Amen.
Now that was a wonderful prayer. Who wouldn’t like the idea of Jesus as the Captain of salvation? Maggie couldn’t help but smile a bit, wondering why the Protestants who’d written the prayer book hadn’t called the dear Lord by the highest rank in the army. Maybe they were just as ignorant as she’d been at first, when it came to ranks and titles. Then again, she didn’t suppose the Lord Jesus minded, as long as a man called upon him for all the things mentioned in that beautiful prayer.
Ashby stirred. “More,” he said.
The prayers gave way to Psalms and hymns. Maggie kept reading, aware that a new stillness had settled over the men in the room with them. Were they listening, too? Finding comfort in the words? If it gave them comfort, she would read all night long. And she meant to. But after a while, the flickering light and the sounds in the night conspired against her. The day took its toll, and Maggie fell asleep, right where she sat.
As the sun dipped behind the western horizon, Captain Quinn ordered Colt to ride to Wildwood Grove at the head of a squad the colonel was sending out with various orders connected to the occupation of the county. Apparently the Irish Brigade would be in Lafayette County for at least a few days. Colt was to select a burial detail and oversee the transporting of the deceased to be buried with honors in the churchyard. Headboards were being made for each of the graves, and the colonel was already at work gathering the details of each man’s sacrifice to share with families and loved ones. He’d charged Colt with the unhappy but necessary duty of making certain that identities were accurately recorded and personal effects collected for return to the grieving families.
As a result of helping locate homes willing to house the colonel and his staff, Colt had met the doctor who’d purchased his grandparents’ home, and consequently, Paddy Malone—and Kerry-boy, who snuffled Colt up one side and down the other, sneezed, and then ignored him. When Malone realized that Colt was the man who’d been sent with Jack to spy on the rebels, it took very little to encourage a retelling of Maggie’s encounter with the bushwhackers.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Colt said. “The woman’s a wonder,” and he told Maggie’s uncle about the way she’d run onto the battlefield to tend “her boys.” “I would have had to carry her bodily off the field to stop her,” he said. “And then she’d only have waited for me to ride away before she went right back to it.” He paused. “There’s no stopping her when she puts her mind to something, is there.”
Paddy Devlin laughed. “That’s our Maggie-girl.”
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but as Colt rode out of Littleton in the direction of Wildwood Grove, it seemed to him that Paddy Malone had taken a sudden interest in learning more about Colt’s background after Colt praised Maggie. Which was fine with him. If he could get Paddy Malone on his side—and win Kerry-boy over—perhaps it would help convince Maggie to lower her guard. With the day’s duties behind him, he could think of little else but Maggie. She might be magnificent, but she was also hardheaded. And brave. Stubborn. And tireless. Headstrong. And fearless. Willful. And still fascinating. Heaven help him, he loved her. Couldn’t imagine life without her.
Hands on her shoulders brought Maggie instantly awake. Her first thought was for Ashby. He lay still. But… yes. Praise be to God, he was still breathing. Hero was sitting up. Looking at her. Wagging his tail. But he didn’t make a sound.
“Come and rest, Maggie-girl. You’ve done all you can do for him.”
John crouched down beside her. Reaching for her hand, he drew her to her feet alongside him. She stifled a groan as her weary muscles protested. Saints preserve us, but she was stiff. She’d been sleeping so soundly she was drooling. It was a wonder she hadn’t toppled over.
John led her out of the room and through the front door, but once they were out on the porch, she pulled away from him and looked back into the house. “Do you know where Libbie is? And Noah—what about Noah—is he—”
“Noah and—Cooper, I think his name is—Noah and he volunteered as waterboys for the men out on the lawn. Dr. Feeny said he ordered Miss Blair to bed about an hour ago.” He smiled. “Is it Libbie, then?”
“And if it is?”
“I’d say there’s hope for the nation, if a Southern rebel and an Irish Federal can be friends.”
He was teasing, but she wasn’t in the mood. “Don’t make light of it.”
“All right.”
“And don’t scold me for yesterday.”
“All right.”
“And don’t treat me like I’m a child.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re doing it right now,” she snapped. “Agreeing with everything I say.”
He gave a soft grunt. “Have you seen Seamus and Jack?”
“Jack’s already charmed Libbie’s cook to the point she’s talking about baking him a gooseberry pie tomorrow, and Seamus can’t speak of anything but getting into town to see Bridget Feeny. They’re going to drive a wagon in and try to collect mattresses for the boys.” By the time she said the next words, she was choking back unspent tears. “We’re—all—j-just—f-fine.”
John reached for her.
She pulled away.
“Let me hold you.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“No,” he said, �
�you’re not.” Before she could duck away, he wrapped her in his arms and held on. “And if you were, I’d think you were daft. Dear Maggie Malone, you’re a wonder. But you’re still only human, and the things you’ve seen—the things you’ve done—”
She shuddered. Couldn’t hold it back. “S-So many d-died,” she said. “I tried to keep them alive, but I couldn’t. There was this boy—he was barely old enough to grow a beard. And I was looking in his eyes and the light just—went. There was nothing I could do.”
“You were there,” John said. “He didn’t die alone.”
“But others did,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t—h-help—them all.” He held on. He didn’t try to tell her not to feel the way she felt. He just held on. She’d been standing with her arms at her sides, but now she wrapped them about his waist. She felt the strength in him, and for the first time in her young life, Maggie didn’t have to be strong for herself. John was there and he would be strong enough for them both. It was all right to feel what she felt. It was even all right to cry a little. John held her until the moment passed and she realized how she must smell and how she must look and she stiffened and pulled away.
“I must look like a witch—and I reek.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “As for the smell… we could both use a bit of that lavender soap.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “If only you’d married me the first time I asked.” And then he frowned. “But wait—I don’t think I did ask, did I?”
“You’re safe, John Coulter. You didn’t ask.”
He grimaced. “You still doubt me.”
She shrugged. “A little less perhaps. It’s the best I can do.”
“Then it will have to be enough. For now.” He paused. “I met your Uncle Paddy. And that monster you call a dog. Your uncle agreed with me that you’re a wonder. I should probably tell you that I’m determined to win the dog over and to enlist Paddy’s support to win your heart.”
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