The Girls of Gettysburg (4 page)

“Civilian life seems to go well for you. Have you finally comes to your senses about joining our cause?”

“We both know I can do more for our boys staying right where I am. As you can see. . . .” Mr. Wentworth pointed to the supplies.

Major Owens turned toward Annie. “This is the substitute for Margaret's grandson, I gather. That's one fancy rifle. A Whitworth, is it? How did you come by such a rifle, son?”

“My father bargained for it. It belonged to a captain in the Georgia cavalry. He liked my father's colt.”

“That must have been some colt.” Major Owens sucked in a whistle. “I suppose you can use that thing?”

“I've heard tell he's better than most, sir!” Gideon snapped to with a salute and a wily grin.

Mr. Wentworth pulled out Annie's papers from his inner coat pocket. “Here's his paperwork, John. I'm sure you'll find everything in order.”

Major Owens took the papers. Without reading them, he signed, his pen sweeping in big, scrolling letters. He then boomed to Gideon, “Sergeant, see this recruit to his new home! Jarrod and I have some old times to catch up on!”

“Sir, if you don't mind.” The sergeant's son, Dylan, stepped up with his own salute. “The Portsmouth Rifles have a fine and honorable reputation to uphold. Some of us have been here from the beginning, fighting proud in the Battle of Seven Pines, Second Manassas, Sharpsburg. Not too many flags fly as high as ours, sir, and well, we can't let just any strawfoot join us.”

“What are you suggesting, private?”

Something's afoot
. Annie tensed.

“Well, sir, a boast's been made,” said Dylan. “Seems to me, it's our duty to see if'n this boy and his fancy rifle can live up to it.”

“Jiggers,” Jasper, the potato boy, snorted, and not too quietly.

Major Owens brushed his beard in thought. For a long while he looked at Annie, and not once did he blink. Annie looked to Dylan, then to Gideon. Each wore the same crooked grin. She looked to the lawyer, who rocked on his heels in amusement, then she looked back to the major, who smiled, equally amused. Then the major said, “You may have a point, private. Well, sergeant, see to it that Private Gordon lives up to that boast.”

“Yes, sir!” Gideon slapped Annie's shoulder. “Follow me, son.”

Gideon led her through the camp. As they passed a row of tents, more men began to fall into place behind them, hooting and hollering.

“Dylan's got himself another pigeon,” someone shouted. There followed more hollers as others fell into line.

“Everyone knows Dylan's the best. Two bits say the strawfoot misses on the first shot!”

“That fancy rifle can tickle a bear's tail at fifteen hundred yards. He wouldn't be having the gun if'n he didn't know how to shoot it. My money's on the strawfoot!”

“Ah, that's a lot of rifle for a squirt. My money's on Dylan.”

“You're on!” another shouted.

Finally the procession stopped in a pasture. Much of the grass had been trampled and small trees broken in half from the footfalls of the thousands of men and horses. But an old oak stood defiant, a target attached to its trunk. Behind it, at regular intervals, were posted other targets.

“That”—Gideon pointed to the oak—“is one hundred yards if it's an inch.”

“It ain't the gun that matters, strawfoot. It's the one who's holding it.” Dylan loaded his rifle-musket, and swung it up with a movement smooth as a hawk's glide. Planting his rear foot firmly, he closed an eye, inhaled with a sharp whistle, and fired. A moment later the target bounced as the bullet found its mark, sending a cloud of birds cackling in fright and rage.

Soldiers behind him yodeled, Jasper the loudest. Gideon scratched his chin, trying not too hard to hide his prideful smile.

Now Annie swung her Whitworth off her shoulder.

She reached for a cartridge from her belt, then poured powder down the barrel and, with the ramrod, drove the bullet home, every move deliberate and determined.

“Slow as molasses, you ask me. I'll double that wager the strawfoot misses!”

“Thank god it ain't a Yank comin', or we'd be dead for sure!” someone clucked.

Behind her, soldiers exchanged more coins, upping the ante. And
the higher the ante, the louder the shouts. And the louder the shouts, the more men gathered to see what the ruckus was all about.

Annie cocked the hammer, breathing slow and even, dug in her foot.

“Target, sir?” Annie asked.

Gideon gave a nod. “Same tree, son. Sometime today, if you have a mind to. My bones are—”

Annie fired, a puff of white smoke circling her head.

Not a breath later, a branch exploded free from the trunk.

And the crowd exploded in whoops and hollers and more turkey dancing. The lawyer and the major were shaking hands in congratulations for a fair trade.

Dylan was already reloading his rifle-musket, his crooked grin suddenly straight.

“Target, Pop?” he swung his rifle up.

Gideon pointed to the next target. “See that tree with the two rags tied around the trunk? Two hundred yards!”

Dylan fired. Two breaths later, a branch above the rags shook with the impact.

Annie reloaded her Whitworth. She inhaled to steady herself, planted her foot again, stiffened her shoulder, then aimed and fired.

This time, the branch exploded.

And the crowd cheered. Even Mr. Wentworth whooped. Major Owens looked as pleased as if he had just eaten a slice of Mama's peach pie.

Dylan's scowl deepened as he reloaded.

“Target, Pop?” he spat, his voice close to cracking. Jasper snorted nervously. The crowd quieted, the silence thick as cold molasses.

Gideon pointed to the next target farther down the line, and boomed like artillery: “That tree with the red flags. That's five hundred yards!”

“Impossible shot,” someone said.

Breathing slow and steady, Dylan eased down onto his knees and aimed. Slow and steady, steady . . .

He fired. And then a branch burst into pieces as the bullet hit its mark.

The crowd inhaled, but did not yet cheer. Instead, their heads snapped about as one, turning to Annie.

Annie reloaded her Whitworth. She looked to the target, taking into account how the bullet might arc through the sky. There was no breeze. If she aimed too high, the bullet would just fly overhead. If she aimed too low, it would bury itself in the dirt long before reaching the target.

Now she, too, eased to the ground, using her elbows to brace herself.

Dylan chuckled. “Mighty odd time to take a nap, stawfoot.”

She flipped the sight up, closing one eye and focusing on another branch. She knew what she did next would set her place here in camp. If she missed the shot, Dylan would strut around like a cock rooster, crowing how great he was and slapping her shoulder. And then he'd forget her as just another pigeon in camp. Everyone else would forget her, as well. She would disappear into the crowd and become like everyone else.

She would know her place.
Know her place
. The words boiled inside her.

She moved the sight, focusing on a tree
behind
the five hundred mark, the one flagged at seven hundred yards.

“Seven hundred yards,” she announced.

And then she fired, a puff of smoke curling from the barrel. Her shoulder rocked with the recoil, but a branch toppled with the impact.

And the crowd erupted like a summer cloudburst.

“Glad you're on our side!” Major Owens slapped Annie's back. Others, too, greeted her with yodels and handshakes. “Not sure how that rifle will work at close range, son. But by thunder, we'll find a way.”

Dylan smiled, too, offering his hand. But Annie recognized that smile. She had seen it often enough on James to know that behind that honey sweetness stirred a bear, spoilin' for a fight.

“It's a different story when the target's coming at you,” Dylan said.

Annie gripped his hand, and squeezed. That bear was a-growling fierce, and she meant to meet him head-on.

“True enough,” she said, returning the smile.

Dylan sauntered like a young buck dancing proud in the springtime as he led her back to their tents. A few soldiers, those who took a chance and bet on the recruit, patted Annie's back in congratulations. Their day done, most of the soldiers meandered back to their tents, their cheers melting away. The spectacle was over for everyone but the strutting cock rooster.

“Seems like we're messmates, strawfoot.” Dylan eased next to her. “Just so you know, nothing's settled, despite your mighty fine rifle there.”

“Jiggers!” Jasper chuckled, his feet flopping hard on the ground, his new boots undone. “Haven't had that much fun in days.”

Dylan shot him a glance, and the potato boy bit his lip in silence.

The pup tent was small. Just those two stretched out would fill it up. Any more than that, and they'd fit together like spoons in a drawer. Even when everyone slept with their clothes on, this was still too close for comfort for Annie.

“I'll stay outside,” she said.

Dylan stretched out inside the tent like a yawning cat. “Suit yourself. Don't let the bedbugs bite. They're worse than the bears in these parts.”

Annie didn't mind sleeping outside. Chewing on bread and apples, she leaned against a tree. Not everyone slept. Campfires sparkled like stars above the Blue Ridge. Somewhere a harmonica played “Home, Sweet Home.”

Home
, and Annie thought of Mama. She felt guilty for sneaking away like a common thief. Maybe she should've at least left a note. Maybe . . .

But then the old anger rose up like swampy bile. No. She did what she had to do. Even her brother William would have given his nod.

Somewhere a fiddle cooed like a mourning dove. Using her haversack as a pillow, she scratched her head, stretched out, and looked up at the sea of stars. There was comfort in those stars, William always said. They had camped out the night before he left, in their favorite place across the far pasture, a clearing tucked in a grove of elm. The earth rose in the center and was crowned with a giant live oak. They climbed to the top to touch the stars. From atop that oak, William told her of the North Star that sailors used to find their way home. “No matter where we go from here, no matter what happens, when you think of me, find the North Star, there! And I'll look up; we'll see it at the same time, and it'll be like we're side by side, just like right now.” The next morning he waved good-bye as he disappeared into Pap's cornfield. She didn't know it would be his last good-bye, or she would have told him that he was her hero.

But she didn't tell him anything. She was too angry that he was leaving her behind. And she thought there was time enough to set things right.

The fiddle stopped playing, and the only sounds—besides Dylan's snoring—were the chirrups of crickets and the peepings of tree frogs. Annie took a long breath, and let it out slow.

Regret was a big apple to swallow.

Reveille sounded long before sunrise, but Annie was already up and about. She sought out the woods to do her business in private. By the time she returned to the campsite, Dylan was astir.

“A new day, strawfoot!” He slapped Annie on the shoulder. It seemed a little harder this time, and his grin a little sharper.

Jasper hacked deeply as he crawled out of the tent, and spat.

“Roll call!” Gideon boomed. He was stomping his way along the row of tents, rousing the men as he went along.

Annie stopped next to her haversack, and then she noticed her rifle was gone. Behind her, Dylan chuckled. She swung hard about to see him standing there, her Whitworth in hand. Behind him stood Jasper, holding his smile.

“Ain't no one tell you, strawfoot?” he asked. “This here rifle has been
conscripted
by the company's best, in service to Virginia.”

For a moment she stood stone still, so angry it was hard to breathe. She thought to fight him but knew she couldn't, not like this, not with any hope of keeping her disguise. Instead she spat, a solid good spit, and aimed for Dylan's boots.

And she always hit her mark.

She wasn't one for tears; she'd give no one that satisfaction. Instead she aimed all her anger at him, just like she was aiming her rifle, making the shot deliberate and precise.

“This ain't over,” she whispered.

“Course not, strawfoot. I'm a-counting on that,” Dylan whispered back, and winked.

The men fell into formation, some without pants, some without shirts, all in disarray of some kind, spitting, grumbling, but each snapping to when his name was called.

“James Anachie Gordon.” Annie snapped to attention when
his
name was called.

When roll call was finished, the men dispersed, and Annie turned on her heel. There again stood Dylan. He squared his shoulders and took a step forward.