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  Dedicated to the memory of these

  Daughters of the Regiment

  and the heroines who served with them

  Kady Brownell, 1st and 5th Rhode Island

  Lucy Ann Cox, 13th Virginia

  Bridget Divers, 1st Michigan

  Annie Etheridge, 3rd and 5th Michigan

  Hannah Ewbank, 7th Wisconsin

  Jane Claudia Johnson, 1st Maryland

  Lizzie Clawson Jones, 6th Massachusetts

  Arabella “Belle” Reynolds, 17th Illinois

  Rose Quinn Rooney, 15th Louisiana

  Sarah Taylor, 1st Tennessee

  Nadine Turchin, 19th Illinois

  Eliza Wilson, 5th Wisconsin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, Christina Boys, for believing in this story. Thank you for the long, brainstorming phone calls and for blessing me with the uncanny knack you have for guiding me to a far better version of each story. As author Anna Quindlen recently said of her editor: “It’s like invisible ink, what a great editor does; the notes fade, and all that is left feels as though it belongs to you alone. But we [authors] know the truth.” And I do.

  Thank you, Daniel, for embracing the writing life, for understanding the long hours, for tramping through old cemeteries and haunting libraries, for willingly touring obscure museums, and for allowing my imaginary friends to become your friends, too.

  Thank you, Janet Kobobel Grant, for championing my writing. Thank you for persevering when the answer was no, for never giving up on me, and for rejoicing when you found the way to a yes. I can’t imagine doing this job without you to guide my career.

  Thank you, Judith Miller and Nancy Moser, for bringing so much joy to this journey. Thank you for your listening ears, your honest critiques, your unfailing support and prayers, and for being everything a sister in Christ should be. I treasure your friendship more than words can say.

  We have not seen a woman for a fortnight, with the exception of the Daughter of the Regiment who is with us in storm and sunshine. It would do you good to see her trudging along, with or after the regiment, her dark brown frock buttoned tightly around her waist… her hat and feather set jauntily on one side, her step firm and assured, for she knows that every arm in our ranks would protect her. Never pouting or passionate, with a kind word for everyone, and every one a kind word for her.

  —A soldier’s letter home, June 1862

  I hope you will get your reward in heaven when your campaigns and battles in this life are ended. For no one on this earth can recompense you for the good you have done in your four years’ service for the boys in blue, in the heat of battle, on the wearied marches, and in the hospitals and camps.

  —Union soldier Daniel G. Crotty, 1874, writing about Annie Etheridge, 3rd & 5th Michigan

  Chapter 1

  Little Dixie, Missouri

  May 14, 1861

  Given the choice between facing down a pack of wolves or half a dozen plantation belles, Maggie Malone would choose the wolves. With Kerry-boy at her side and Da’s hunting rifle in hand, she’d do just fine against wolves—had, in fact, proven just that when half a dozen had come too close to the chicken coop last winter. But winter was over, and Maggie was alone at Barnabas Irving’s mercantile counter, waiting while Mr. Irving weighed out the butter and counted the eggs she’d brought into town. Kerry-boy, the Malones’ Irish wolfhound, was with her brothers, Jack and Seamus, and her Uncle Paddy. And here came half a dozen tiny-waisted, elegantly dressed plantation ladies, tittering their way across the threshold of the expansive mercantile.

  Maggie had intended to trade for coffee and two yards of a lovely blue-and-white-checked cotton for a new apron, but she wasn’t about to shop for anything remotely personal now. She glanced behind her. And quickly looked away. Where was Mr. Irving, anyway? How long did it take to count three dozen eggs and weigh five pounds of butter? And why, oh why hadn’t Maggie had the good sense to take her wares around to the back door? She could have easily made her escape from there and sent Jack back for the coffee.

  The Southern belles liked Jack. They made Maggie feel like a circus freak. She was neither deaf nor immune to the glances cast her way over the tops of those painted, gilt-edged fans, and no matter what Jack said, they did whisper about her. As if they’d never seen a six-foot-tall woman who farmed alongside the men in the family; a woman who could outshoot most of the men in Lafayette County. Not that Maggie had ever been allowed to prove it. Ladies weren’t allowed to compete at shooting events. Ladies. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Why’d they have to pick today to come to town?

  The sound of another carriage rattling up to the mercantile door caused a fresh wave of conversation among the newly arrived belles. Maggie looked toward the street. All she could see of the female passenger in the carriage was an elegant parasol, but Maggie didn’t have to see the face to know that Miss Elizabeth Blair of Wildwood Grove Plantation was about to grace Barnabas Irving’s mercantile with her presence. Everyone in Lafayette County knew that carriage. And the high-stepping horse. And Malachi, the driver, who always sported a black top hat and a red cravat.

  As Miss Blair rose to descend from her carriage, Serena Ellerbe and company swept out of the store like so many worker bees hurrying to cluster around a particularly promising blossom. Maggie smiled at the thought, for although she had about as much in common with the plantation belles as Kerry-boy did with a poodle, she could not deny Miss Blair’s beauty. She’d once heard the sheriff say Miss Blair was every bit as pretty as a newly opened rose. And probably just as useless, Maggie thought.

  “Here, now.”

  At the sound of Mr. Irving’s voice, Maggie whirled back around.

  The storekeeper pointed to a number he’d just noted on the Malones’ page in his ledger. “A very nice credit balance, Miss Malone.” He set the ledger down, smiling as he reached for the bolt of blue and white fabric. “Was this the one?”

  Maggie ran her palm across the smooth surface of the bolt of cotton cloth. Maybe there was time to indulge herself, after all. But just as she was about to request that Mr. Irving cut two yards, Serena Ellerbe led the group of ladies back inside.

  Maggie snatched her hand away. Shook her head. “Not today. I’ll—think about it.” Feeling her cheeks grow warm with a blush, she reached for the now empty crate she’d used to carry her eggs and butter into the store. She would have made her escape if not for Jack, who came storming through the mercantile door and very nearly knocked Miss Ellerbe off her feet. Or so she made it seem.

  “Goodness!” the young lady exclaimed and stepped back—so far that she bumped into Miss Blair.

  An apology on his lips, Jack reached out to steady Miss Ellerbe.

  Miss Ellerbe blushed as she looked up at Jack, put one gloved hand on his arm and then pretended to feel faint. Jack guided her to the bench just this side of the mercantile display window, seemingly oblivious to the satisfied little smile of triumph that accompanied Miss Ellerbe’s syrupy-sweet I declare’s.

  Maggie barely managed to keep from laughing out loud. Just because she didn’t personally parti
cipate in the “courting dance” didn’t mean she didn’t recognize it. After all, she’d seen Miss Ellerbe and her circle of empty-headed friends move through the steps before, both here in the mercantile and on the board walkway just outside. Or anywhere Jack and Seamus encountered pretty girls. The ones who found boisterous Jack’s broad shoulders and flashing blue eyes overpowering merely turned their charms on Seamus, “the quiet one” with the easy smile. Plenty of emotion smoldered beneath those warm, hazel eyes, and the feminine population of Littleton seemed to sense it. How they did that remained a mystery Maggie did not expect to ever solve.

  The snap of a fan being closed drew Maggie’s gaze away from Jack and Miss Ellerbe to where Miss Blair was standing. Was it her imagination, or was Miss Blair equally disenchanted with Miss Ellerbe’s obvious flirting? Miss Blair seemed about to say something, but then Seamus and Uncle Paddy and a group of men charged into the mercantile and, with much bowing and tipping of hats, hurried past the ladies, past the display counters, and up the stairway at the back of the store that led to the second-floor meeting room.

  Maggie caught only snatches of what was going on, but it was enough to make her personal feelings about uppity plantation belles seem insignificant. There was more war news, and this time it wasn’t about the secession of some distant state or President Lincoln’s response to the rebels’ firing on an East Coast fort. Something had happened in St. Louis, a place that could be reached by steamboat in only a few hours.

  Dread washed over Maggie as she realized that what Uncle Paddy had been saying in recent weeks might be coming true. He’d said that the uneasy peace in Missouri wouldn’t last; the state might not have joined the Confederacy, but with the governor planted firmly in the secessionist camp and many of the state’s citizens either neutral or determined Unionists, trouble was on the horizon. It was inevitable, Uncle Paddy insisted. Had his prediction just come true?

  As the men clomped up the stairs, Jack, ever the gentleman, turned back to Miss Ellerbe. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.” The girl rose from the bench and gazed after the men who’d just gone upstairs.

  Jack had just put his hat back on and taken a step toward Maggie when a commanding voice sounded from the doorway.

  “Elizabeth.” Miss Blair’s older brother, Walker, removed his top hat as he stepped across the threshold and into the store. He nodded at the group. “Ladies. Mr. Malone.” He spoke to his sister. “I’ve directed that Malachi drive you home. If you wish to invite your friends to tea, you have my permission, but news of events in St. Louis requires my immediate attention.”

  “But, Walker, I just—”

  Blair cut his sister off in mid-protest. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was an edge to his tone as he said, “I must insist, Elizabeth, that you proceed back to Wildwood Grove immediately.”

  For a moment, all was silent in the mercantile. The fact that Miss Blair didn’t want to go home was evident in the lift of her chin. But when Mr. Blair arched one eyebrow and tilted his head, Miss Blair lowered her gaze and murmured, “Yes, Walker.”

  Jack spoke next, bidding the ladies farewell, crossing the length of the store to where Maggie waited, and motioning for her to follow him up the stairs to the meeting room. Maggie heard Serena Ellerbe give an exclamation of joy over being invited to tea at Wildwood Grove. Mr. Irving told Jack that it was fine for them to leave their empty crate in the back room, and together Maggie and Jack headed up the stairs to join the meeting. She paused to watch as the belles fluttered out of the store, wondering at Miss Ellerbe’s excitement over having tea in a fancy parlor. Maggie could not imagine anything more boring. Nor could she imagine any of the men in her life ordering her about the way Walker Blair had just done his sister. She suppressed a smile as she imagined what would happen if they tried. Bowing her head and murmuring a submissive yes didn’t come to mind.

  An uneasy silence reigned over the meeting at the top of the stairs. Mr. Edward Markum, the editor of the Littleton Leader, was talking about something that had happened in St. Louis the previous Friday. Maggie and Jack slipped into the chairs Uncle Paddy and Seamus had saved for them in the back row. When a man sitting in front of Jack glanced Maggie’s way, frowned, nudged his neighbor, and whispered something, Maggie pretended not to notice and gave her attention to Mr. Markum as he introduced one of Littleton’s physicians, Dr. Duncan Feeny.

  “… and so, since he has just this morning returned from St. Louis, and since he was present in the city to witness what happened there, I’ve asked him to provide a firsthand account of the situation as he sees it.”

  Dr. Feeny had a copy of a St. Louis newspaper with him, and he began by reading a verbatim account of what was being called the “Camp Jackson Affair.” Apparently Missouri’s own governor had written to Confederate President Jefferson Davis asking for heavy artillery to breach the walls of the St. Louis arsenal. Next, he’d called up part of the Missouri Volunteer Militia, who set up “Camp Jackson” about four and a half miles northwest of the arsenal. When Captain Nathaniel Lyon led Union troops to surround “Camp Jackson” and force their surrender, the Confederates refused to take an oath of allegiance to the United States. Lyon placed them under arrest, but as the rebel troops were being marched away, angry secessionists in a crowd of civilians began to throw rocks at the Union troops. Gunfire broke out, and in the ensuing melee, over two dozen people died—among them women and children. The disturbance in the city was ended only by the imposing of martial law.

  “I fear,” Dr. Feeny said, “that the days when a Missourian could remain neutral have ended. A Confederate flag has been raised on the bluff immediately east of the governor’s mansion in Jefferson City.” He read from the newspaper that Southern sympathizers were calling upon Missourians to “fight for the liberties of 1776,” calling the Stars and Bars “the ensign of Southern rights” and encouraging “a union of all hearts and hands to repel the invaders.”

  Invaders. Maggie looked about her. Had it come to that, then? Even here in Missouri, would one group of Americans turn on another? The longer Dr. Feeny spoke, the more restive the men in the room became. Some shook their heads. Others muttered in angry tones. Unable to sit still, Maggie thrust one hand into her apron pocket and worried the crocheted edge of the handkerchief tucked inside. Fear clutched at her midsection. What would it mean for the Malones?

  Governor Jackson himself had called Federal troops “Goths and Vandals.” He was predicting that the South would, before long, “have Washington City for its capital.” At mention of the South overtaking the nation’s capital, the men in the room leaped from their seats as one, stomping and shouting against the “traitors” and vowing to “fight to the death” to ensure that Missouri would know “true liberty.”

  As shouts and curses echoed through the room, Seamus moved his chair out of the way and motioned for Maggie to follow him toward the door. Relieved, she did so, but her relief was short lived when she realized that both Jack and Uncle Paddy were going to stay behind. Together, she and Seamus made their way up the street to where the wagon was still hitched just outside the newspaper office.

  “It’ll be all right, Maggie-girl,” Seamus said as she climbed up to the wagon seat.

  Kerry-boy, who’d been waiting in the wagon bed, nudged her with his huge, wheaten-colored head, demanding attention. Maggie ruffled the dog’s wiry fur absentmindedly. She said nothing. It was not her way to make dire predictions and had never been her way to fear the future. And yet as Seamus unhitched the team and climbed up beside her, Maggie could not still her sense of dread. Uncle Paddy had been right all along. The war had come to Missouri, and while Uncle Paddy might be too old to fight, twenty-year-old Jack and nineteen-year-old Seamus were not. Things were not going to be “all right” again for a very long time.

  The meeting at the mercantile finally ended, and the Malones returned home to the farm that lay about ten miles outside Littleton. As Maggie had feared, tal
k of the war continued for all of the drive back to the farm and over every meal in the days that followed. She tried very hard not to resent Uncle Paddy for fanning the flames. It was as if he’d signed the very constitution that had created the United States for all he had to say about the current situation. Time and time again, as the men talked into the night, it was all Maggie could do to keep from shouting at Uncle Paddy to hush. Didn’t he realize that the same people who put those NO IRISH NEED APPLY signs in their windows and drew cartoons giving the Irish the same exaggerated features as slaves and freedmen would surely not hesitate to send the Irish into battle first?

  Cannon fodder. That’s what the boys would be if they fought in the Americans’ war.

  If it was the very last thing Maggie did, she would keep her brothers from joining in the fight. Let the “Americans born and bred” settle things in regards to states’ rights and slavery and any other of a dozen problems that could be traced to the days long before the Malones crossed over the ocean and set foot on American soil.

  For the first week after the Camp Jackson Affair, Maggie did a masterful job of keeping Jack and Seamus focused on the things that mattered—like planting, tending livestock, repairing the roof on the smokehouse, and keeping the boar away from the sow lest he kill the dozen recently farrowed shoats. She kept them so busy, in fact, that they didn’t so much as broach the topic of even going to town. And then, exactly eight days after the town meeting, Dr. Feeny drove out with news that changed everything.

  Maggie was hard at work turning over the earth to create a flower bed the length of the front porch when she saw Dr. Feeny. Instead of stopping at the house, he waved and kept on going, down the hill, past the barn, and out to the edge of the field where the boys and Uncle Paddy were planting the last few rows of corn.

  Maggie didn’t really know why the doctor’s arrival made her wary, but as she watched him climb down and hurry to the edge of the field, as she saw first Paddy and then the boys trot over to speak with him, as she left off digging her flower beds and headed inside to heat water for tea, her hands trembled. It wasn’t long before she knew why.