An Uncivilized Yankee

by V. V. Wedding

  Her face became pale, marble in the moonlight.

  “Two, we arrange a truce, send you and that Yankee through the lines, and hope they let you go to the Greers in Boston. Or three, you dig down deep, find the grit I know you have, and make a place for yourself here. Which is it going to be?”

  Star buried her face in her hands, not crying, but still trembling. I can never go home, not as long as he is there. And there’s no promise the Yankees would let me go to Boston. They’d probably lock me up as a spy. I really have no choice in this. She looked up at him.

  “I stay here. With you.”

  Will finally smiled. “That’s my girl. Now, you still trust me, don’t you?”

  “Of course!” She was shocked he’d even asked.

  “Then take my advice. Find other people you can trust, in case I’m not nearby. For instance, once we rejoin the cavalry, I will personally vouch for all of the staff officers. I’ve served with most of them before, and they are complete gentlemen. Can you take my word for that?” he asked, glancing over at her.

  Her face twitched. “I will try,” she said haltingly, “but it may take me some time.”

  “It’s enough that you try. Shall we, then?” He stood, reached down to help her up.

  She managed a weak smile. “Yes, sir, Major Lewis sir.” Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her chin in determination and took his hand. “I’m ready now.”

  Thankfully, they met no one as Will led her in through the kitchen, gave her a quick hug, and pointed towards a mug and plate. “Take that on upstairs. I’ve got some work to do down here. And get some sleep—it’ll be your last night in a bed ‘til Heaven knows when, so enjoy it.”

  “Will,” she said around a mouthful of ham and thick, coarse bread. He paused, his slim frame silhouetted in the doorway. Swallowing hurriedly she asked, “What exactly do you do here? You’re not neglecting your men on account of me, are you?”

  “No, dear. I’m just an aide. I run errands, write reports, nice unimportant things like that. That’s why the general could let me stay behind with you for a few days. Don’t worry—you’re not in my way at all.”

  Balancing the plate and mug in one hand and a candle in the other, Starla made her way upstairs. She set the candle down carefully—she didn’t want to be left in the dark yet—and sat down by the window to finish her meal. Munching thoughtfully, she felt almost calm for the first time in days. Now, if I can just get that Yankee fixed up, then, maybe then, I can really rest. She peered over her shoulder at the freshly made bed. Her dress was laid out on it, washed and mended from the looks. She felt a faint pang of disappointment. I rather like wearing these trousers. She looked down at the dark gray cotton trousers with a speculative eye. They’re incredibly baggy, but a needle and thread can fix that, and if nothing else, I do know how to sew. She smiled to herself in the moonlight, then yawned broadly. Guess I had better....

  She fell asleep mid thought.

  Dawn peeking in the window and a gentle tapping on the door finally awakened her. “Come and get some breakfast, Star,” Will called softly. “Then you’d better go check on your patient. We need to get moving within the hour.”

  She groaned and tunneled deeper under the covers. Covers? When did I go to bed? The last thing she remembered was sitting by the window. Sometime during the night Will must have looked in on her and put her to bed. She lay motionless, luxuriating in the cradling comfort of the feather mattress. But a little voice started nagging at her, Go check on the Yankee, go....

  “Fine. I’m up,” she muttered aloud, dragging her stiff and sore body from the bed. She was still in her borrowed outfit from the day before. She looked at her blue dress, still lying on the bed, but now fairly crumpled, and sighed. She yanked the shirt over her head without bothering to unbutton it, and put her chemise and dress on over the trousers, wincing slightly as the bodice skimmed her bruised shoulders. The combination felt odd, but it should make riding easier.

  Dashing downstairs, she ducked back into the kitchen long enough to wolf down a cup of coffee, real coffee at that, and some leftover ham and corn dodgers. Whoever had shared the house last night had obviously breakfasted long before. Will must’ve let me sleep as late as possible.

  She paused, then made a plate of food to take to Travis. He’s probably ravenous, she thought. As an afterthought, she poured him a cup of coffee too. “No coffee, no army,” Will often said. Juggling the hot mug and plate, she made her way out into the yard.

  The Yankee lay motionless under tree and jacket where she had left him. Please, Lord, no! Then she saw his chest moving, and she too began to breathe again.

  “Now, should I work on you now, while you’re unconscious, or should I let you eat first?” she debated. Travis himself answered that question by letting out a moan. “I guess you’re awake, so let’s get you fed.” She waved the coffee cup under his nose; he sniffed at it instinctively, and tried to sit up.

  “Mo Dhia, but my head hurts,” he groaned, eyes clamped shut. “Are you sure someone didn’t shoot me in the head while I slept?” Then he sniffed again, and opened one bleary eye. “Am I still dreaming, or is that coffee?”

  Star’s smile was half welcoming, half wary as she held out the steaming tin mug. The other eye opened now, blood shot, but fairly alert. He scooted back until his back rested against the tree trunk, then accepted the coffee and food with a thankful grin. “And here I thought I was going to have to start gnawing on that tree, I was getting so hungry. A good morning to you, Miss Anderson. You sure are quiet this fine summer morning.”

  She said nothing, but smiled a little wider, and moved down to unwrap his leg. They both recoiled at the smell.

  “And I thought … the rest of me smelled bad! Phewww!”

  She set the water to boil, then took a closer look at the leg. Under the sickly yellow mist of infected tissue, the bone was already beginning to knit itself back together. “Actually, it’s not as bad as it smells,” she offered, pressing lightly near his shinbone. Travis yelped, almost spilling the last of the coffee down himself.

  He gave her a baleful look. “You’re going to hurt me again, aren’t you.”

  “At least the pain means you still have a leg,” she retorted, feeling a little braver today.

  “My Da lost his right leg in Mexico, but it still pains him. Phantom pains, you know,” he muttered.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a tiny, wrinkled apple from his plate. “Chomp down on that while I work. And try not to move.” She laid a hot knife to the decaying flesh.

  He screamed, back arching as he tried unsuccessfully to keep the leg steady. She yanked the knife away. “I said don’t move! Unless you want an amputation instead!”

  Travis was still twitching, breath coming in small ragged gasps. “Damnation, girl! If you want to kill me, would you please use a bullet!”

  “Should I go find some more whiskey?”

  He shook his head gingerly. “Not on your life. That was the ghastliest stuff I’ve ever drunk.” He sat there for a minute, breathing heavily. Then he took up the apple, crammed it between his teeth, and locked his hands around the tree trunk behind his head, ignoring the wounds in his arm and side. He nodded curtly, brown hair flopping down into his face.

  Without thinking, she reached out and brushed the wayward lock out of his eyes. He glanced up in surprise. She snatched her hand away, and hurriedly picked up her knife again.

  He managed to remain fairly still, and conscious, this time, but his face was ashen gray by the time she finished and the apple lay in two chunks in his lap.

  She spent extra time bandaging his leg, making sure it was splinted tightly. Travis watched with narrowing eyes.

  “Is something happening today?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  “Will says we’re leaving.”

  “And what of me?”

  She refused to meet his gaze. “Let me take a look at your side and then that arm,” she ordered instead, moving to unbutton his shirt. H
e was faster.

  “I can do it,” he insisted, struggling one handed with the buttons. Star watched him for a few moments, wavering between pity and exasperation. “There,” he said, tugging the shirt open, exposing a broad, hairy chest. “See, you don’t need to keep undressing me.”

  She blushed violently at his words. Stop it! You had better get over that problem and quick, Starla Shane Anderson, she told herself fiercely. You can’t be blushing at the sight of every half dressed man, nor at comments like that. Not if you want to be of any use here.

  Neither wound had received much of a soaking in that filthy river, so while they both were still angry red and seeping blood, the pale greenish blue that signified healing tissue was also there. Thank goodness. Those won’t need much more than cleaning and bandaging.

  She was so focused on her work that she jumped when Travis coughed. She turned to look at him; they were mere inches apart. He seemed not to notice her hasty retreat.

  “It’s your uncle,” was all he said.

  She whirled around. Sure enough, Will stood there quietly, holding Iris’ reins.

  “It’s almost time. Is there anything you need from the house?”

  She scrambled to her feet to greet Iris. From under the mare’s neck she answered, “I could use that spare shirt I had yesterday. And a brush if you can find one.”

  He nodded. “Be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said, and left. He hadn’t mentioned Travis.

  “Pardon me, Miss Anderson, but am I expected to walk?” The Yankee’s words seemed a deliberate echo of her own.

  She picked up her father’s leather case and repacked it carefully in one of Iris’ saddlebags, noting that Will had added the leftover cornbread and ham to the other, and attached a canteen and a blanket wrapped in a rubberized poncho to her saddle.

  “Do I at least get the courtesy of a reply?” His voice was cold, and scared.

  “I’m thinking,” she snapped back. Actually, she wasn’t. She had already thought on this. There were only two choices she could see, and she didn’t like either of them. She could ask Will what to do with the prisoner, and risk having him immediately sent to Richmond. Or, she could take him double on Iris and pray no one said anything. She ran a loving hand over the mare’s sleekly muscled hide. No, Iris wouldn’t have any problem with both of them; Woodhaven horses were bred tough. But I’d have to spend all day, maybe days, with Lieutenant Black. Touching. She shivered at the thought, rubbed her eyes, suddenly very tired again. I should just leave him here. It would be a lot easier.

  Then she made the mistake of looking down at him. Blood stained shirt still open, shoulders slumped, eyes staring out past her. His jaw, black with stubble, was set in a grim line. There was no laughter in him now; he had already given up hope. And she did owe him….

  “Oh, blast those growling dogs anyway. Can’t run forever,” she said, and began to button him up with shaking fingers.

  He looked at her with a puzzled expression.

  “What did you say?”

  “Never you mind. Come on, get up.” She pulled his good arm over her shoulders, shrinking from it even as she did so. “Just don’t put any weight on that leg, understand?” She stood up, straining to haul him with her.

  “Starla? Time!” Will’s voice echoed across the yard.

  “Blast!” she muttered, half dragging a bemused Travis next to Iris.

  “What are you trying to do, Miss Anderson?” He clutched at the saddle, struggling to stay upright.

  “Please, just get in the saddle before I realize what I’m doing,” she begged, feeling close to tears. “Put your leg in the stirrup and I’ll try to give you a lift up.”

  Somehow he managed to flop into the sidesaddle and stay there, swaying terribly and holding onto the pommel for dear life. Iris turned her slender head to stare at him with wide brown eyes, as if to ask what business he had on her back, but said nothing.

  “Move your leg—I need the stirrup,” Starla ordered from the ground, shoving his boot in a saddlebag. For once she was too pressed to recoil from his nearness as she threw herself across Iris’ rump, behind the saddle. Thank Heaven I’m wearing trousers under this dress.

  “Starla!”

  “Coming, Will,” she shouted back. “Soft as you can, Iris love,” she said, patting the warm back.

  “Right o,” the horse said, starting into a pace. They were practically floating, but Travis still gasped with each beat.

  This is not going to work, she thought as they approached the forming lines of troops. “I know you’ll look ridiculous, but put your leg across her withers and rest it as if you were riding aside. Does that help any?”

  He nodded, but the tiny noises continued. This is going to be torture for him, but going to prison would be much worse.

  Will cantered up. Star wouldn’t look him in the eye, kept her gaze focused on his neat brown moustache. But he was smiling. Somewhat grimly, but smiling nonetheless.

  “Good,” was his cryptic greeting. “Stay here at the rear, out of trouble. If you need anything, I’ll be at the front. Do you see that guidon?” He pointed to a fluttering flag near the head of the columns. She bobbed her head. “There. Whatever you do, do not drop out of sight. If you hear gunfire, get under cover. Don’t be stubborn today.”

  “Yes, sir.” She risked a small salute, though he seemed so serious all of a sudden. He flashed her a normal grin, then rode off. She slowed Iris to an amble. That should help, she thought. And I can at least manage some pain dampening....

  She gathered what strength she could, lightly touched the Yankee’s back, and pulled. She stiffened as wave after wave of deep red pain rolled over her, slowly dissipating into the air.

  “Any better?” she asked softly, trying to catch her breath.

  “Yes.” His reply was a whisper. “Don’t know what you just did, but pain’s much less now.” He paused. “Thank you, Miss Anderson. I can only imagine … how hard this situation must be for you.”

  He must have overheard her talking to Will. But I want no pity, especially not from him. “I repay my debts,” she replied shortly before turning her attention to the difficult problem of keeping her balance while keeping her distance from him.

  4. The Deal

  June 28-30, 1862

  When the girl had first set his broken leg, Travis thought nothing could be more painful. He was wrong. Despite her best efforts, by mid afternoon he felt as if his entire body was on fire, and staying upright in the blasted sidesaddle occupied him fully. He had stopped whimpering long before; it only made the mouth drier. He rode, chin upon chest, eyes and lips clamped tight shut, barely conscious. There was little to distract him, just the sound of distant cannon. Behind him, the girl was silent. Once or twice her head bobbed forward, resting between his shoulder blades, only to be jerked back within seconds.

  Only once had they heard gunfire and shouts ahead. She immediately stopped her sturdy horse and, wonder of wonders, waited patiently for it to end. I guess she didn’t trust me enough to follow my instructions, he thought, teeth clenching as the mare twitched her shoulders at a fly and moved his leg instead. Now, that’s not fair, he answered himself. She didn’t know me from Adam, and after hearing what she’s been through, it’s a small wonder she didn’t shoot me first and ask questions after. The pause from the movement of the horse was bliss. At least Iris had an incredibly smooth gait. He had heard of the Virginia pacer, but had never ridden one. He did not want to imagine the pain he would have been in on old Nutmeg. Poor Meg. She had been a good partner, steady as a rock, but not made for comfort.

  A gentle touch brought his fever fogged mind back to the steaming present. The first thing he realized was that his leg was dripping blood down the mare’s silky hide. Sorry, Iris. Another soft push on his right arm—the girl, handing him a canteen. He took it gratefully, letting the warm liquid slide down his raw throat.

  “How are you, Lieutenant Black?”

  He passed the water back to her. “I’
m not dead yet,” he responded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “That’s not exactly encouraging.” She sounded very tired, distant.

  Travis gazed ahead, feeling his eyes glaze over. Then he realized there was something ahead of them other than the backs of gray coated, dust covered soldiers. No, someone was coming towards them. Major Lewis.

  “Still with us, lieutenant?” The major reined in his horse, a fiery gray mare that could have been Iris’ twin, and matched their slow pace.

  “Yes, sir,” Travis answered, a ghost of a smile quirking his mouth. “Though if you’d like me to go back to Pennsylvania, I would be more than happy to oblige you.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” Lewis, a peculiar look on his tanned face. “What part?”

  “Um, southern. Just outside a place called Gettysburg. You probably won’t have heard of it.”

  “Strangely enough, I knew a kid named Black from Gettysburg, back at the Academy and out West afterwards. Rob Black. Any relation?”

  I might have known, Travis thought sourly. Rob casts the longest shadow.

  “He’s my brother,” he said with a sigh. “Let me guess—math tutor?”

  The major grinned. “Wouldn’t have graduated without him. So you’re Rob Black’s little brother. No wonder you looked so damn familiar. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out who you reminded me of. Small world,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Indeed,” was the dry response. Entirely too small. Perhaps Europe would be far enough away to escape Rob’s influence, but somehow I doubt it.

  Lewis shook his head again, as if he still didn’t quite believe it. Then his smile faded and he turned to his niece, who had been pointedly ignoring their conversation.

  “Star, I came back to warn you,” he said soberly.

  Travis couldn’t see her face, but he felt her stiffen.