Authors: Ann Rinaldi
Quantrill never came for Christmas. A single outrider arrived a week ahead of time instead with a note that said he didn't dare leave Texas; his men were planning some mischief in the town of Sherman and he had to be there to keep a lid on the shenanigans. The rider also delivered two bottles of whiskey "rescued" from a Yankee supply-train wagon.
We had a sumptuous Christmas dinner.
We read a while later in the local paper about the shenanigans. Quantrill's men got drunk on Christmas Eve and rode through Sherman shooting off their guns, knocking off people's hats, making holes in church steeples, and blasting away at doors. They rode their horses into the town's only hotel and smashed into furniture, broke mirrors, and their horses' hooves broke the floors. The people of Sherman were paralyzed with fear. Quantrill had to send some of his other men to round the hooligans up and bring them back to camp. And the next day he sent them back to town to apologize and to pay for all the damages.
"Funny thing about Quantrill," Seth told us. "He's got his own moral center and it beats the hell out of that of most men."
D
URING THE
days now, Seth kept away from the house. Mostly he stayed around the barn or corral, working with the help. There was a new horse he was breaking in that he'd been given by one of Quantrill's guerrillas who came 'round to visit. Several of them did in the weeks after Christmas. They'd come with news, gossip, whiskey, and maybe a horse they wanted Seth to keep for them until "it was all over." Seth obliged.
When this happened, when one of his fellow guerillas came 'round, they stayed out in the camp Seth had constructed on the other side of the creek. There were a couple of tents, a rough stone hearth, a firing range, and
plenty of food brought down from the house by me. Oft as not, I brought deer meat, ham, casseroles that Martha had made, potatoes he could bake on the hearth, even cake and ground coffee.
Always, I wanted to stay as they practiced their shooting skills or played a round of cards, but no, Seth wouldn't let me. He'd introduce me politely, then order me back to the house with some message for Martha. Always I'd hear the words
pretty
and
sweet
from the visitor about me as I went my way, and I'd know why Seth didn't want me lingering about.
Most nights when nobody was visiting, Seth would come up to the house and get in bed in the traveler's room with Martha. He'd stay for breakfast, take stock of what was going on, make sure I was doing my schoolwork, and go back to his work or his camp.
We had it arranged that if Heffinger or any other Yankee came along, I'd run out quickly and put a small quilt on the fence that surrounded the house. If Seth didn't see it, word would get to him and he'd skedaddle out of there.
Heffinger rode in on a Sunday night at the end of December, alone. He gave his horse over to Echo and knocked on the door, pretty as you please in his federal
winter coat, with a gift wrapped in brown paper for Martha. Turned out it was yards of warm fabric to be made into whatever she chose for whomever she chose.
I escaped briefly to put the small blue and white quilt on the fence. Then realized it couldn't be seen in the early darkness. So I put on my warm woolen cape and my boots and picked up the Sharpe's rifle and made up some lie about going to the barn to see a sick mare. Then I picked up a lantern and, bowing my head against the cold, headed for the barn. As I passed through the kitchen, I picked up a piece of ham and bread and a half bottle of rum and shoved it in a basket.
I ran into Seth in the barn. "He's here. The Yankee captain. You better skedaddle. At least to your camp for the night."
Seth cursed. Oh, how I admired the smoothness of the words that had to do with hell being damned as well as purple, and naming God's son and calling him Almighty, words he'd have sent me to my room for saying.
Then he stopped and looked at me. Or rather the Sharpe's rifle. "Didn't I tell you not to carry that thing around with you?"
"No."
"Why do you? You can't shoot it."
I'd never told him I could. Only a fool would tell him now. "People don't know that. I feel that it protects me."
"Tell you what. You'll need protection if I see you dragging it around again."
Oh, he was good, shooting a bull's-eye with every word. I loved it when he went on like that because the words had no meaning. Yet I was expected to take them seriously.
I played the game. I handed the rifle over. It made him feel better.
"Better get back to the house. Thanks for the vittles. And tell Martha I'll be fine and to get rid of that son of Satan soon as she can."
"Yes, Seth." I kissed his cheek. He grunted and we parted.
On Monday morning Heffinger was still there.
I
T WAS
on Monday that Sue Mundy hurt herself in the barn. She, or he, had gone down there to help Harvey, the woodworker, make a side table for the parlor. In the bright and dry morning air her scream echoed against the bare landscape and blue sky.
"Oh, hurry," Martha pleaded, as I grabbed my coat. "Oh, thank god Heffinger is still sleeping. Please hurry, Juliet."
Like a bat I was out of the house and running to the barn. There was Harvey holding some burlap around the forearm of Sue Mundy or Jerome Clark, his eyes big and frightened. "Doan know what happened," Harvey kept saying. "That saw just slipped. Doan know what happened."
"It's all right," I said, though I knew it wasn't. "Here, I'll get her up to the house and we'll take care of it. It's all right, Harvey, let go."
"Best fetch your brother."
"Ssh, remember, the Yankee is here!" I led Sue out of the barn and up to the house. There was blood all over my apron and her dress.
We walked right past Martha and into Sue's room, which was downstairs.
Remember, no one must know that Sue Mundy is a man. Not Martha, not Maxine. And especially not Captain Heffinger.
Right off, Maxine wanted to take charge.
"No." I pushed past her and Martha. "I'm taking care of her. She saved my life. Twice. She's mine! Just get me
some vinegar for her wound and some water and fabric to bind her up in."
"Juliet, you can't," Martha started to say. She followed me into Sue's bedroom.
"Why? I can do as well as anybody. Besides, ask her who she wants to help her. Go ahead, ask."
Martha asked.
"Juliet," Sue said. "My little friend, Juliet." She must keep her identity hidden, even at the cost of refusing expert help from Martha.
Martha shook her head in puzzlement and left the room. Then another figure appeared. Captain Heffinger.
"What's this? Somebody shoot her?"
"No," Sue managed. "I cut myself with the saw. Now leave me be, Captain. It's just a little cut. Maud here knows how to take care of it."
It made me daft, having to be called Maud in front of him.
"Well." He yawned. "Long as nobody's been shot, I suppose you three women can handle it. Maxine? Can I have some breakfast?"
"She might need stitches," Martha said to me.
"My ma taught me to stitch when I was five. Didn't
I make shirts for Seth? We'll be all right, Martha. Please let me do this!"
She agreed and left. I stripped off the top of Sue Mundy's dress.
"You don't go ripping off anything below the waist now, you precious little girl, you. And don't let anybody else in here."
"Do I look like I am?"
"And don't sass me. You're an impudent little thing. Don't know why that brother of yours don't put a stop to it."
A knock came on the door. "Here, cover yourself up," I told her.
Maxine came in with a basin of water, cloths, and liquor.
"No vinegar?" I asked. "And what'd you do with Heffinger?"
"Gave him enough ham and eggs and fish and coffee to feed his whole army. That's what that man needs. It'll keep him busy all morning. What this gal needs is rum to dull the senses. Liquor to wash the wound. You ever done this before?"
"No."
"I have."
Silence. "Whatever you got goin' here," Maxine told us, "you kin swear me to secrecy. Seth always did. I kept more secrets for that brother of yours."
Sue Mundy and I exchanged glances. "Ail right," Sue said, "but only you. Not Martha. Only get her in trouble. Seth knows, but he's not here."
Sue told her. Maxine made low noises in her throat. "Thought I done heard everything," she said. "Thought I done seen everything by half. Still doan know that I believe it."
Sue Mundy took the sheet that I had covered her with off her upper body to display the chest of a healthy midtwenties man. "Name's Jerome Clark, ma'am," he said to Maxine.
Maxine kept a straight face. "Ain't proper a young girl seein' such. But with a war on I suppose the lines are blurred."
"The Yankees can't know, Maxine," I told her, "or they'll kill him. They love him as a girl. And as a girl she's accepted as a Yankee spy. As a man they'll hang him. And all of us, too."
Maxine nodded. "Why doan you go in the kitchen and get yourself a nice cup of tea, while I stitch this up and put some laudanum on it."
Strangely, I welcomed the idea. But I was no sooner in the kitchen, getting a container of tea out of the pantry, when Heffinger came out of the dining room, patting his stomach and belching. "'Scuse me, that was some breakfast, Maxine. Did I hear something about the Yankees hanging somebody?"
He did not see me in the pantry. He went right into Sue Mundy's room, which was off the kitchen.
"What in purple hell?"
He stood stock-still, as I saw him from the back, staring at Sue Mundy, laid out on her bed, and Maxine wrapping up the arm. Sun flooded in the kitchen windows, like God's blessing, trying to filter out the wrongness of the scene but succeeding only in planting it firmly in my mind forever.
"Who in hell are you, masquerading as Sue Mundy?" he demanded. "What's this all about?" And he drew his revolver. "I left Sue Mundy in this room. Where is she and why in purple tarnation are you wearing a skirt?"
He strode over to the bed and pulled Clark off it by his good arm. "You better come along with me, son."
For an instant I panicked. Then sense flooded my whole being and I knew I couldn't let this happen. The Yankees will hang Clark. And Sue Mundy. And they'll
find Seth and hang him, too, and maybe even me and Martha and Maxine, all my family.
I knew what I had to do, and I had to do it now. There was no question about it. That was Sue Mundy's revolver, wasn't it, hanging on a hook beside the hearth, where it always hung when she wasn't practicing. All right, it wasn't a Sharpe's rifle, but I knew enough now about handling and shooting a gun, didn't I? Sweet mother of God, I had to.
Thank you, Bill Anderson,
I thought as I grasped the revolver and held it in my hands. It was lighter than I thought it would be, and I held it with both hands to keep it steady and aimed it toward Captain Heffinger, who hadn't even sighted me yet.
He was intent upon bringing Jerome Clark out of the bedroom. "Stop where you are," I ordered. "Let him go."
Heffinger looked up. The surprise on his face turned into laughter. "Put it down, little girl. And when I get time later, I'll spank you."
"I'm serious. I can shoot."
"Oh, so they taught you to shoot, did they? Who taught you? Seth Bradshaw? Then you
are
the little sister."
"And proud of it. Now release Mr. Clark."
Maxine looked as if she was going to wet her pantalets. She had both hands over her mouth, horrified. I felt horrified. I was looking right at the dark side of my moon now and I knew it. But I was not afraid. There are times you must look at it, stare it down, know what it consists of, know what you are capable of, and face it.
The Yankee laughed and raised his pistol at me and I aimed mine right at him, at his heart.
"You're gonna be sorry, little girl," he said.
At that moment someone shot a gun and the noise in the house was enough to make your ears fall off. I saw the Yank drop his pistol and clutch his chest with both hands, saw his eyes go wide, saw him crumple to the floor in front of Jerome Clark. In the kitchen all around me, crockery fell from the shelves and shattered, glasses broke. I heard the world split in half.
Seth. I turned, expecting to see him standing there behind me.
All I saw was Martha, eyes wide in horror. She held no gun. Nobody held a gun but me. My gun was smoking. I was the one who'd shot the Yank.
He lay crumpled on the floor, blood seeping from his body onto Maxine's clean wood.
Can you get bloodstains from wood?
I found myself wondering.
A door slammed. Now there was Seth, bounding into the kitchen, his own gun in hand. He took in the scene: Maxine and the half-naked Jerome Clark leaning over the dead Yank, Martha standing there trembling. He sat her down, asked if she was all right. He looked at me, saw the revolver in my hands.
"You shot the damned Yankee?" he asked.
"Yes." Now I was scared. I had done it. Would I be punished?
Gently he took the revolver from my hands and laid it on the table. He lifted my chin so I would look at him, and looked into my eyes. "Maxine," he said, "give my little sister some rum."
She moved, glad to be able to do something. "He was going to take away Jerome Clark," I told Seth. "The Yankees would come and hang you. Hang us all."
He nodded. "Drink the rum," he said, "and stop shaking."
I drank it and watched as he knelt on the floor by the Yankee. "We've got to get him out of here," he said quietly, "bury him, clean this place up."
"I'll help," said Jerome Clark.
"No, you take care of that arm. Maxine, go to the barn and get a detail of men to help."
She left. In a few minutes about six nigras were helping carry Captain Heffinger outside, and another three were cleaning up the mess. Soon Seth had them taking Heffinger's horse aside and getting rid of the saddle and all the tack that indicated it belonged to the United States.
"We'll rebrand him this afternoon," he said.