The Girls of Gettysburg (12 page)

“No, you ain't a coward,” Annie growled back, shaking his shoulder, trying to knock the sense into him. “You sticking up for that family in town proves that. But I ain't no coward either. Seems to me, we're more alike than different. Let's leave it at that.”

She raised herself slowly off Dylan, who lay as still as death more from the force of her voice than from her weight. She picked up her brother's book, brushing the dirt and mud from its cover.

Gideon's voice was deep and low like a preacher's, scolding. “You two at it again? Didn't you get enough of that in town? Maybe some extra chores might help calm your spirits.”

Annie tied her handkerchief tight about her mouth and nose, and shoved her hands into her leather gloves. She grabbed a shovel and moved toward the company “sink.” The latrine.

“Pop?” Dylan shouted out in a final plea. Gideon raised his arm, dismissing the young soldier as he walked back to the tents. Dylan grunted, turning toward the job at hand.

Annie chuckled. But her smile quickly vanished as her boots sank ankle deep into the muck, making a gurgly sound as she lifted them.

Dylan wheezed, turning as green as the waters pooling about them. Then he sputtered, spitting as he tasted the air, driving his shovel into the muck not far from her, glaring at her. But neither opened his mouth to talk, especially as the sun rose higher, heating the day.

It was a hopeless cause to clean out the long, open ditches. The more they worked to bury the muck, or at least move it away from their tents, the more it oozed. The slick of slime crept across the ground. The smell was powerful and raw, the air thick with flies. Black gnats swarmed the back of her neck and ears, and itched as fierce as the heat, under her arms, behind her knees, even in her ears. She'd risk another cigar, if need be, to be rid of these nippers.

“Blasted gallinippers,” she yelped.

“Bloody damn hell,” Dylan wheezed, swatting at the flying cloud, leaning against the shovel. “Them's not just any nippers. Them's gray-backs for sure. Only one way to get rid of them; you'll have to shake your duds over the fire. They jump like regular popping corn.”

Annie scowled, shaking her head.

“You think you got something nobody else does?” Dylan swung his shovel. “Can't be shy in the army, strawfoot!”

Evening couldn't come fast enough. Finally Jasper came to fetch them, with orders to wash before coming to camp. Before Jasper could finish his sentence releasing them from duty, Annie dropped her shovel and raced off. She had been careful since the first day to stay private about her routines. She recognized early on that taking no baths encouraged others to keep their distance. But now she'd risk the chance. There wasn't a place on her that didn't itch fierce as fire.

And she didn't slow any as she reached the pond. She jumped—boots, clothes, and all. The itching burned right through her, a thousand needling buggers all feeding on every inch of her body. She peeled off her britches, throwing them ashore, and scrubbed with pond sand until she was near raw. Taking off her shirt, she scrubbed with the same fierceness. Again and again she plunged, until at last the itching eased to tolerable. Her head just barely above the water, she let the pond's coolness ease her soreness.

Good great glory
. She moaned and shook her head, remembering how carefully she had carried her boots across the Potomac. Now they were covered in muck.

“Hey, strawfoot!” a voice called from the woods.

“Jiggers,” another chuckled.

Annie stayed nose deep in the water. Little moonlight filtered through the tree cover, but she could see the long shadow stretching across the shore. Dylan and Jasper!

“So, strawfoot, come and get your britches!”

She was done for!

Annie stayed put, stirring the water very little. She couldn't go deep enough, or far away enough, to hide. If Dylan took another step, he'd see her in all her glory.

“Privates!” another voice boomed in the distance, and all three—Dylan and Jasper on the pond's edge, and Annie in the water—snapped to as a soldier stepped into the moonlight. “Haven't learnt your lesson yet? You two get back to camp now. Step lively. Gideon wants you
yesterday
. And you in the water”—he threw Annie her britches—“move it quick!”

“Yes, sir!” Annie boomed, slipping into her pants.

The soldier stepped back into the shadows, stomping through the woods in a hasty retreat. Annie climbed out of the water, wringing her shirt dry and shaking out her boots.

As she entered the camp, she found Dylan and Jasper crouched before the fire in front of the tent.

“How's them woods, strawfoot?” Still smelling like latrine sweat, Dylan smirked, winking at Jasper.

Gideon spat. He eased next to the fire, tapping his pipe, and the skirmish was over.

Others of the Ninth walked into the camp, too, sitting between Dylan and Annie, crowding around the fire, aiming to keep the peace.

“I, for one, am spoiling for a good fight,” one spoke up. “Them
Federals are a bunch of thieves with no regard for personal rights. We've been putting those blue-belly cowards in their place all along. Let's finish the job so we can go home.”

“Hear! Hear!” rose a cheer.

“Heard tell they bayonet the prisoners of war, slash their throats, and cut their tongues out. Uncivilized they are, just plain scum.”

“We can always have James here sit on them,” Gideon said then, lighting his pipe. “It seems to do the trick.”

Chuckles rumbled through the crowd. Even Dylan had to crack his crooked grin, still rubbing his chest. Annie smiled, too, turning and smoothing the pages of William's book.

“Sergeant?” Jasper spoke up. “What was the fiercest battle you ever saw?”

Gideon puffed more circles as he searched his memory. He had seen the battle between the ironclads, the USS
Monitor
and the CSS
Virginia
. He had seen his home city, Portsmouth, burned to the ground by the Federals. He had fought in the battle of Seven Pines and in the Seven Days Campaign, where the company fought courageously at Malvern Hill. There wasn't too much he hadn't seen.

“Boys”—he lit his pipe slowly, and drew a breath—“there was one particularly gruesome fight. A group of us had gone foraging one warm night and came to rest on the banks of a river. Now just so happens, across the very same river camped a bunch of blue boys. And by and by they noticed us. ‘How's old Jeff?' one called out. ‘Come to Richmond and see for yourself,' I yelled back. ‘Enough with the jawing,' he shouted back. And we knew the battle was begun. Then, by thunder, this Federal took to singing a round of “Yankee Doodle.” Not to be outdone, we sang two rounds of “Dixie.” They opened fire with “Hail, Columbia,” and we fired back with “Bonnie Blue Flag.” Then it was all quiet. We thought we won this battle. Then a voice rang out, the purest voice I ever heard.”

And then the burly Gideon sang, his voice rising in an unexpected tenor. A moment later, Jasper joined in perfect harmony, his voice that of an angel.

We're tenting tonight on the old campground
.

Give us a song to cheer

Our weary hearts, a song of home
,

And friends we love so dear
. . . .

When the song was over, Gideon hit his pipe on a rock to clean its bowl. “That voice shot us all down that night, brought us all to tears. That voice raised us above the war, made us men again. I tell you, it was a brutal and bloody battle, ripping our very hearts out.”

As Annie looked around, she saw as many casualties here, their faces shadowed in the moonlight.

“Boy”—Dylan broke the silence, turning to Jasper—“once your voice changes, you'll sound full-growed.”

“Jiggers,” Jasper said then. “Your voice changed, and you still sound like a pig's fart.”

The men of the Ninth crowed with laughter. Even Annie had to laugh. Dylan gave a nod to Gideon, who smiled and winked at his boy.

“What are you going to do after the war, sergeant?” Jasper said then.

“I suppose I'll pick up the plow again.”

Dylan whistled. “I hope not, Pop. Picking up the plow is one thing. Making it work is another.”

Gideon chuckled. “Naw, I suppose I won't. Your ma could, though. She could make anything work.” He smiled at his son, and tousled his hair. He turned to Annie. “And you, James Anachie Gordon, what plans do you carry with you?”

“I want to go out west,” Annie said. “They say, out west all things are possible.”

Jasper smiled large as his feet. “Hear tell there's so much land out west, they don't know what to do with it all. River water so sweet, bees drink it. The land so rich, wheat and corn grow six feet overnight. Jiggers! A garden of Eden, hear tell.”

“Seems the only place possible for a big foot like you!” Annie said flatly. The soldiers hooted in merriment, including Jasper himself.

“Why not home, strawfoot?” Dylan asked.

Annie shrugged. “I've no home left to return to. The Yanks burned
most of the farm. The war took my brothers. My pap died, and my mama left to live with her sister. And I didn't leave on good terms with my mama. Don't know if she'll want me back.”

Gideon leaned back. “Whatever was done then, can't see that it matters now. I know it wouldn't matter to me so long as everyone got home.”

Dylan gave a nod, and looked at his pop.

“We'll go out west, you and me, James!” Jasper hooted. “Besides, I hear tell those western ladies are filled with sass and gumption. What say you, James, the two of us out west!”

“Well”—Annie gave a slow nod—“I'm quite fond of gumption.”

Then someone began a tune on his harmonica, a rowdy tune that spurred another to join in with a foot-stomping fiddle.

And as the men sang, Gideon leaned in close to Annie.

“Need to ask you a favor, son,” he said, his voice low and solemn as a grave. “I've been long gone from home. I was never a good farmer, but I was good enough for my wife and my sons. Not been a man of church, leastways not to my wife's thinking. But I always tried to do right by them. I need you to do me a favor, James Anachie Gordon. I need you to write me a letter, just in case. They should have some words to remember me by.”

Annie understood: they were going into battle soon, and it was going to be a fierce one.

Annie nodded.

“Thank you mightily, son,” Gideon said. “I'll get the paper and whatever else you need. I am not without my resources.” He pouched his pipe.

That night, as she rolled onto her blanket under a sky heavy with stars, she saw that the Whitworth lay by her haversack pillow. It had been cleaned bright as ever. Near to it was her box of cartridges.

Seems like done is done, Annie thought.