Alias Dragonfly (7 page)

“Yes, sir,” I said. Before I left, I took another look at the clergyman. There was something about him. What was it? Sure, he wore a cleric’s collar and was gripping the Bible, with . . . Yes! That was it. One crooked pinky finger rested on an open page. I squinted hard to see his face. I couldn’t, but I saw a gray-streaked beard, and then it came to me. I knew just who he was! It was our boarder Timothy Webster, I was sure of it!

Could he be a Pinkerton detective, like the soldier said? Mr. Webster told us he was a Rebel cotton trader when he came to the boardinghouse.

But I’d dallied too long. No time to ponder all I’d seen, though I knew I’d remember every detail. I had to get to my father—in one piece.

I ran fast along New York Avenue until it met North Capitol Street. Remember, I told myself; there was a shortcut, a pathway. Yes! There it was. I stumbled through a clump of willow trees toward a vine-covered footbridge leading to a towpath along the Potomac River. The water was brackish, a black sheen smeared like petroleum oil atop it. The river smelled of decay, and no wonder, as a horse’s corpse floated by, its belly bloated and the ears half eaten off by many a passing fish.

I trekked farther, so tired now I was almost fainting. I’d walked at least three miles. I kept going along to a narrow walkway overhung with moss-covered trees. I knew this would lead straight to the grounds of the Eckington Hospital and my father’s camp.

I’d been walking a good while longer when at last I spied rows of whitewashed wooden buildings nested on a sprawling lawn of bright, green grass. Just beyond them were brown tents, cook fires, and crowds of soldiers as far as I could see. Like water beetles they scurried about, piling mules with packs, dragging cannons, their voices muted. I knew my father’s fine regiment would be armed with breech loading Sharps rifles, stick-like, but holding a mighty power.

“Halt! Not another step.” Three armed soldiers flanked me, moving me forward in a ragged two-step, finally stopping at a new, wooden gate.

“Pass?” One of the soldiers demanded, his voice hard.

“What?” I winced.

“Pass! Or you can’t go any further.”

“State your name and business, uh . . .”—one of them scanned me from head to toe—“sir.”

I had to think fast. Who was I?

“Looks like he’s got up in something passing strange,” another soldier said. “Smells like the dickens, too.”

“I have a message for—”

“What? Speak up, son.”

My voice was cracking. “Yes, sirs, I need to see Private Summoner Bradford of the Second New Hampshire. Urgently.”

“You don’t say?”

“I don’t say what?” I whispered.

They moved closer. The largest loomed over me. “What is your business with him? I won’t need to ask again, will I?”

“His daughter is dying!” I blurted out. I tried to push past them. I was shoved hard, and nearly toppled to the ground.

“Do you have a damn pass, or what?”

My mind went blank at this. How could I not have known what I’d need? Foolish! I was foolish!

“You just can’t cross into a camp, see,” the soldier said, brushing his hand along my cheek. I drew back. “We got a war on, in case you didn’t notice . . . sir.” He leered and winked. “Cub of a boy here, I’ll bet, or, better than that . . .” He jostled my hat, and a rush of damp curls fell straight down my shoulders and back.

I faced him straight on, my hands on my hips. “I said it’s an emergency. Please help me find my father.” I stood my ground. My heart was racing, but I’d come too far to give up now.

“I’ll see what I can do . . . Miss.” He strode away, chuckling some. “And if you are dying, I’m a straw-footed Rebel.”

I slammed my hat back on my head. “Which way to the Second New Hampshire?” I yelled after him.

“Keep here,” he answered, laughing hard. “Don’t die on us, now.”

A boil of anger rose up hard in me. I’m not waiting for anyone, I swore to myself, and ran headlong toward the first pitched tent I saw.

I burst into the tent, knocking hard into a half-dressed soldier just as he was holding a razor to his cheek. He wheeled around whipping shaving soap all over my face and coat.

“What in Hades? I’ll beat you blue!” He pushed me to the ground, his foot on my chest.

At the sight of me sprawled on the floor of the tent and helpless, he emptied the rest of the shaving water all over me. He reached for his rifle.

“Summoner Bradford!” I yelled loud as can be. “Summoner Bradford! He’ll know me.”

“Sergeant!” he shouted out the tent flap. “Intruder!” The gun was pointed at me.

Three men pushed into the tent. One of them was my father. The soldier, half his face shaved and looking like a striped raccoon, motioned to me. I must have looked a fright; a mass of coat, hair and mud-covered boots splayed on the floor.

My father knelt over me.

“My God, Maddie.”

“Please, sir,” the shaving soldier said, “this brat barged right in!”

“I’ll take it from here,” my father said.

“The ‘it’ is me, right, Papa?” I summoned sass, swallowing the bile in my throat.

“Do something about her, Private Bradford,” a soldier ordered. “We leave soon.”

“Yes, sir,” my father answered, holding me tight.

When the soldiers backed out of the tent, my father picked me up in his arms.

He wiped my face with the sleeve of his coat. “My God, child, this is madness. I’m sending you straight back to my sister.”

“No! No! No!” I yelled. “I’m not going back!”

My father slapped my face. He’d never struck me. We both jumped back, horrified.

“Oh, Maddie, I’m sorry, I—”

There was a thudding of booted feet outside the tent. “Private Bradford?” a voice called. “Muster, and inspection. The Captain’s orders.”

Just as my father lifted the tent flap, I slipped past him, dropped low, and crawled under horse’s legs and shiny, new soldier boots, sliding along like an eel on a river bottom.

If my father tried to push through the masses of men and mounts to come after me, I was long gone, having shinnied up an oak tree, hidden in the thick branches.

“Maaaadddiiie!” My father’s cry was muted by the stamping and snorting of the horses.

“I love you, Papa,” I whispered.

I stayed up in that tree until the endless ant line of soldiers wound their way out of the campgrounds. My body was aching, my stomach rumbling with hunger. I must have been there for at least four long hours.

A lone picket—one of the soldiers who’d caught me—paced to and fro beneath the tree. I could hear his sighs like he was breathing in my ear. I dared not move. At last he mounted his horse, spurring him to a gallop.

Now what? I looked down to see if any horses had been left behind for me to ride. There were none in sight. I swore to myself that I’d find a way to follow my father’s regiment.

I shinnied down the tree trunk. Just as my feet neared the ground, someone grabbed me by the leg.

I aimed my boot at his head. “Stop!” he yelled, “I’m—” He dodged another kick. “I’m here to help you.” He tucked me up under his arm like I weighed nothing and carried me to an open rig. I twisted and kicked against him. “Let me go!” I yelled. He staggered and then caught himself. Was I being kidnapped?

“Get in, head down,” he ordered, lifting me inside the rig. My coat hung in tatters from being torn by branches. It was flapping behind me as I slumped behind him in the seat, trying to catch my breath.

I pulled my revolver out of my boot, and pointed it at him.

“Don’t shoot!” He pushed back the slouch hat that nearly covered his face. I saw black, shiny curls. And eyes, well, that were greener than green. It was Jake Whitestone.

“How dare you!” I shouted.

“Dare I what? Rescue you?”

“Follow me, find me, and chase me!” I was steaming mad, and relieved that he wasn’t a Rebel. Or maybe he was, and I didn’t know what to think. I was really tired, and hungry and thirsty, and—

He handed me a canteen. I gulped the water.

“Find your strength,” he said. Then he gave me a piece of hardtack. The cracker was rock-solid. I bit down but couldn’t make a dent.
Find your strength.
He slapped the reins. “Get, now get!” The horse vaulted forward.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Your father’s regiment is going to face General Beauregard at Manassas Railroad Junction. It’s a twenty-mile ride,” Jake Whitestone said, his back to me.

“How do you know this?”

“Centreville is two miles from Manassas,” he said. “I figured it out from there.”

“It’s twenty-two and three-quarters miles, exactly. I know just where. I’ve studied a map of Virginia,” I snapped, bouncing and pitching in the carriage seat.

Whatever Jake Whitestone was doing there, at least he was getting me closer to my father. I’d leave him at Centreville no matter what.

“I’ve never driven a rig like this, so hold on,” he shouted over the crunch and crackle of wheels and reins. “And if you hit me again, I’ll throw you out. I rescued you, remember?”

“Oh, yeah? I was doing just fine until you showed up.”

The map in my head told me that we had to wind along New Hampshire Avenue, going straight down to reach the Potomac River and cross over at the Long Bridge. The streets were clogged with pedestrians and wagons as usual, but there weren’t many soldiers among them. Had all the Union troops gone into Virginia?

I smelled a briny and swampy odor I was sure must be the river. I knew once we crossed it we would be on the Confederate side.

Two soldiers stood near a wooden hut. They raised up their rifles as our carriage drew close. One of them leaned down and took a long look at me. His rifle butt was really close to my face.

“What is your business?”

I started to speak, but Jake interrupted me. “My little brother here got drunk back in Washington City. I have to get him back to Centreville before my Pa finds out he’s missing.”

The soldier studied me, the ragged boy I was pretending to be.

“Yesh, sir,” I slurred my voice. “I can’t stand up for nothing. Jeez, all I had was a pint of ale, jeez.”

“Shut up, Tommy,” Jake said, producing a paper and waving it in the soldier’s face. “I’m with the medical corps. After I get rid of him, I’m going on to Manassas. I hear they’ll be a fight.”

“Praise God, yes,” the other soldier said. He looked nervous. I realized he was really young. His blue uniform looked brand new. “Go on over,” he said. “Sober up that smelly kid there. Get going before I change my mind.”

Jake saluted them, and we started over the bridge.

I was amazed at how Jake handled the pickets. And he called me Tommy! I couldn’t help but smile to myself. But I sure wasn’t going to praise him to his face.

Right then, Jake ducked as a bullet sailed straight over his head and crashed into a tree. The horse reared up, nearly pitching over the carriage.

“Damn, I missed!” a voice shouted from behind us.

“Do you have a weapon?” I grabbed Jake’s arm.

“No.” He slapped the reins, hard.