The Girls of Gettysburg (3 page)

Not done yet. As far as Annie had come, she still had a ways to go. She couldn't breathe easy, not just yet.

The carriage rumbled along the rutted road. Annie bounced as the wheels hit another deep pit. They had traveled now for more than an hour without saying a word. She was accustomed to the moods of older people, and let the dandified lawyer be in his thoughts. She'd seen it in Pap. Since the war began, Pap had sunk into his own despair, his blue eyes draining of their sky color, even as his mood turned dark and explosive like musket fire.

Her brother William had been the eldest son and Pap's true pride. William was smart enough to go to school, smart enough to be a doctor. He was going to take over the farm and bring the soil back to life. But like all of Virginia's sons, William had volunteered for the army. He had been killed at Manassas.

Her brother James had been the second son, and he was also Annie's twin. So filled with liquid fire to avenge the death of William, he ran off to volunteer. Too young to fight, too stubborn to quit, the officer liked his spunk and made him a drummer.

Annie tightened her grip on her rifle, scanning the woods ahead of them. This rifle-musket she carried now had been a Christmas present for James. It was a rare one—a Whitworth, and not a finer rifle was ever made. Pap had sold his favorite colt to a Georgia cavalry officer in exchange for the Whitworth. He had hung it on the mantel in wait for James to come home.

But James never did come home. He came down with the fever, and died three months after William.

The war spread all across Virginia like a storm surge, leaving in its wake a ravaged land. There had been no one tougher than Mama, and no one bigger than Pap. But the war had crushed them both. Pap died in his heartbreak. Then Mama took herself and the girls to live with Aunt Bess. Aunt Bess had strict ideas about a girl's proper place in society, and she meant to teach Annie how to become a proper lady.

But Annie had different plans.

Mama always warned Annie that she had too much gumption and not enough sense. “Fish don't fly and bees don't swim for a reason,” Mama said.

Annie guessed it was true enough that her stubborn nature could put a mule to shame. Mama had told her to pick her battles. “You're always at war with someone. Your brother. Your father. Your Aunt Bess,” Mama said. “Just learn your place and quit fighting everything that crosses your path. You'll be a much happier person.”

But no one was going to tell Annie her proper place!

So Annie decided to run. The idea came with the boom and flash of a sudden summer storm, the moment she saw the advertisement. It had been posted by a widow, Mrs. Margaret Trudeau of Portsmouth. Mrs. Trudeau needed a substitute to keep her grandson out of the army, and she'd pay three hundred dollars for the right man. Strange how money can reduce a life to the same level as a jar of peaches, all up for bargaining, Annie thought. But three hundred dollars! That was some powerful money that could get her away from all that grief and ruin. And from Aunt Bess.

Annie cut her curls off to her ears and put on Pap's woolen trousers and shirt. She buttoned the shirt all the way to the collar to hide that she had no Adam's apple. She'd convince the widow that she was the right man for the job, all right. Then she took James's Whitworth from the mantel, and the box of cartridges. She also took William's favorite book, the one he'd been reading to her when he left.

Stealing away with the late moon, she walked on through swamp and field. She passed gangs of Yanks, swarming like locusts across
Virginia, taking everything not tied down and burning the rest so no one else could have it. She hid at night, sleeping in the tops of trees. During the day, when she heard them coming she disappeared into a log, or a ravine, and once a tobacco field.

And when she finally reached Portsmouth, looking as ragged as any war-weary boy, she marched right up to the red brick home of Mrs. Margaret Trudeau. A large, bespectacled man opened the double doors. He wore a black suit, a white shirt with a black bow tie, and a clean mustache twisted neatly at the tips; even his fingernails were clean. He was a surefire dandy, never worked a hard day's work in his life.

“My name is James Anachie Gordon.” Annie lifted her chin, looking him square in the eye, using her brother's name. “I'm healthy enough to fight, and I'll take your grandson's place.”

Mrs. Trudeau was so relieved to see a body take the place of her grandson that she couldn't—or wouldn't—see the truth of Annie. She saw only a boy willing to fight. And the dandified lawyer—Mr. Wentworth—was too relieved that the deed was done. If either had seen through her disguise, she'd surely have been arrested.

But people see what they want to see.

There was no need to stay longer, no need to meet the grandson she had replaced, no need for any hospitality. The dandy offered the army contract to her, and Annie signed:
James Anachie Gordon
.

With a nod good-bye, Mrs. Trudeau promised to put the money into an account available to her after the war—as protection against Annie deserting her post, which would have the military come looking for her grandson.

The lawyer then grabbed a top hat and a frock coat, and led Annie to the back of the house, where a horse and carriage waited. Servants scurried out the back door with baskets of foodstuffs, packing the carriage.

And off they went.

She didn't look back. Her future was ahead of her, not behind.

The carriage eased around a bend in the road, passing a clump of trees.

“Hold up there!” boomed a bull-necked man, stepping from the
shadows. “You're mightily brave coming to these parts, with blue-bellied Yanks crawling like snakes all about.” The man was dressed in fading blue flannel with ragged green trim. Behind him stood two younger soldiers, dressed in similar uniforms, rifle-muskets aimed low at Annie and the lawyer. One tall and lanky fellow wore his cap cocked at an angle, red hair spilling from beneath its rim. His black pants seemed too short for his long legs, and his grin was as crooked as his cap. The other soldier was shorter, with broader shoulders, making him look more like a potato. This one had no shoes; his feet were wrapped in cloth.

“Hello, sergeant.” Mr. Wentworth smiled. The smile startled Annie, for it seemed out of place on such a sullen face. “This here is James Anachie Gordon. We're here to see Major Owens, if you please. He's expecting us.”

“So you finally reeled in a ripe one, did you?” The sergeant lifted his rifle. He looked at Annie, his brows knitted together as he took his full measure of James Gordon.

She held his stare, just as steady as his.

“And that”—Mr. Wentworth raised his voice, pointing to the baskets in the back of the carriage—“is for Company G, compliments of Mrs. Trudeau.”

The burly sergeant scratched his chin, a smile spreading across his face. And the two younger soldiers suddenly came to life. If men could fly, they surely did at that moment. In two bounds and a whoop, they were on the back of the carriage. It lurched under their weight, and the horse neighed in protest.

“Good great glory, Pop!” the tall one hooted. “There's cake and apples! Figs and berry jam! And, Pop, there's coffee!
Real
coffee! I shall name my rifle after the fine Mrs. Trudeau, such a proper Southern lady as ever there was, Pop!”

The sergeant had to see for himself. Coffee was rare as gold these days. The carriage bounced as the sergeant jumped onto the back of it. Annie grinned. Mrs. Trudeau was leaving nothing to chance.

The three soldiers sniffed the coffee in long, lingering whiffs.

“Mr. Wentworth,” said the sergeant, his smile now wide as the sky, “only an angel could find real coffee in these desperate times. You
must send our greatest compliments to that wonderful and lovely Mrs. Trudeau.”

“That I will, sergeant.” Mr. Wentworth giddyupped the horse.

“Jiggers! They got shoes!” hooted the potato boy as he unbound his feet. His soles were callussed and bloodied, his nails black with rot. How the potato boy walked at all was an amazement.

“You know, son”—the sergeant eased behind Annie on the carriage. His breath smelled heavy with rotting onions—“you don't look old enough to leave your mama.”

“No son is old enough to leave his mama,” Annie said, keeping her eyes straight ahead, tightening her grip on her rifle.

“True enough,” the sergeant replied. The old bear whistled then. “Why, is that a Whitworth? Mighty rarified and fine rifle, son. Can you shoot that thing?”

“Better than most,” she said.

The three soldiers hooted, but the loudest was the sergeant's son. Even the lawyer had to smile. Annie looked at him. He seemed a different man.

“You ask me,” the sergeant's son said, his mouth stuffed brimful with cake, “substitutes are shameful specimens of humanity, lower than a snake's belly. Not motivated by patriotism, their nature is to desert. Heard tell some regiments put them up front when marching into battle.”

The potato boy chuckled, his mouth so stuffed it overflowed, dripping onto his new shoes.

“You don't look to be the deserting sort, James Anachie Gordon,” the sergeant said.

“No, sir,” Annie said. “I am not. You can ask my mama.”

The sergeant chuckled.

“Well, we'll have time aplenty to find the truth of that matter!” He slapped her shoulder none too gently. “My name is Gideon, and that scrawny stick is my son, Dylan. He's too young to leave his mama, too. The last one, with the big feet there, is Jasper. His mama is with the angels now. And this be the Ninth Virginia, Company G! Better known as the Portsmouth Rifles. We have a proud and mighty heritage, son. You have a lot to live up to.”

Finally, near day's end, the carriage crested a hill and rolled into the valley below. Stretching to the horizon stood row after row of white tents, all sparkling in the waning sun. Cavalry units still trotted around the tents. Everywhere columns of men marched and drilled, thousands of men. There were flags waving, drums beating, flutes playing, men shouting, guns firing, wagons rolling, horses neighing, mules braying, dogs barking.

Dylan and Jasper were catcalling to others, hootin' and hollerin' and showing off their new wares courtesy of Mrs. Trudeau. Some whooped and others waved as a flood of men walked, then ran, to greet them.

At first Annie flinched, thinking they were too close and might see her disguise. But no one paid her any heed as all eyes were on the barrels and baskets provided by Mrs. Trudeau. Most of the men were a sorry sight, as ragged, lean, and hungry as the potato boy. Good enough, Annie thought. With them being so concerned about their feet and stomachs, who's going to pay attention to her?

A tall, gaunt man with more hair on his chin than on his head stepped toward the carriage. His officer's uniform, no longer shiny, showed the tears and grime of too many battles.

“
Major
Owens!” Mr. Wentworth's smile was now full-faced as he jumped from the carriage to greet the man with a hearty shake. “John! You are looking as dapper as ever. Seems like the army life suits you!”