The Spinster

by Kim Murphy

    Virginia red clay gave way to the brown earth of Maryland. The snaking blue column had marched sixty miles in three days through brutal heat. Many boys were stricken with sunstroke, including the colonel. Leading his horse alongside him, Lieutenant Colonel Sam Prescott uncapped his canteen and swallowed dust. Choking, he spat the grit from his mouth. A freckle-nosed private offered his canteen. Appreciative of the gesture, Sam accepted. He gulped a swallow and returned the canteen, thanking the boy for his thoughtfulness.

    Unlike Virginia, the people welcomed the Union with milk and loaves of freshly baked bread as they passed. Sam wished a resident would appear by the road with a dipper of cold water. Rumors floated through the ranks that Bobby Lee was in Pennsylvania. With the breakneck speed of the march, he believed the rumors must indeed be fact.

    Feet trod and hooves plodded against the sunbaked surface. Up ahead a flurry of riders and lathered horses caught Sam's attention. A courier brought the word. Halt the regiment and bivouac. Relieved with the break, men began breaking fence rails for cooking fires and pitching tents. Many sank to the ground, falling asleep where they fell. A few boys located a stream and uniforms went flying.

    Expecting the rest to be brief, he had an aide see to his horse and quenched his own thirst while the boys frolicked and splashed. He spotted the girl soldier, Jo, standing on the bank staring wistfully at the rushing water. Even her bobbed hair and baggy clothes might not hide her sex if she dove in.

    Grateful for the opportunity to jot a few lines in letters home, he returned to the main camp and awkwardly balanced pencil and paper on his knee. He barely got settled when shots from the picket line broke his concentration. Sam tossed writing equipment to the ground and dashed off in the direction of the gunfire. By the time he reached the picket, all was quiet.

    A private with a pitted face saluted. "Rebel cavalry, sir."

    Returning the salute, Sam merely nodded. General Stuart had been hassling their tail throughout the march. One thing didn't make sense -- if the Rebel army was in Pennsylvania, what was their cavalry doing in Maryland? He suspected the Rebs were closer than top command let on.

    Dizzy from the heat, he trudged over to the stream. As he splashed water on his face, he felt lightheaded. Damn -- if he keeled over, only junior officers were left to command the regiment. "Sir," came the girl soldier's wheezy voice, "you're lookin' a might flushed." She grasped his arm and guided him to the shade beneath a river birch, then handed him a tin cup. "Drink."

    "Is that an order, Sergeant?"

    Jo flashed him a knowing grin, and he obeyed. Although he had come to think of her as one of the boys, he recalled the truth when she doted like a mother hen. Some had kept her secret in exchange for carnal favors, which only confirmed his belief that women had no business in the army. Still -- he couldn't deny her grit, and he was honor bound not to say anything after she had pulled him out of hell during the war's opening battle.

    Slightly refreshed, Sam struggled to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of light reflecting from the stone house on the ridge. There it was again -- sunlight glinted off metal from a second story window. He sent up the alarm, "Sharpshooters!"

    Without bothering to don uniforms, the boys scrambled from the stream for their muskets, and Jo shouted for them to get down. Lined up along the bank on their bellies, they waited. No gunfire. Tense minutes passed.

    Weary of the Rebs' recent cat and mouse games, Sam motioned to Jo. "Take a few of the boys and flush them out."

    She saluted and called out several names to follow her. Snatching up uniforms and dressing in a hurry, the boys crossed the stream. Crouched low in the waving grass, the line made its way up the ridge. Halfway up, the skirmishers hit the dirt, but no shots were exchanged.

    Suddenly uneasy that enemy cavalry and sharpshooters were raising a smoke screen, Sam decided to lead his own group. If Reb infantry lurked beyond the ridge, top command had best be alerted. He motioned for five men to join him and waded across the stream. As they made their way up the hill through the waist-high summer grass, Jo's group began moving again.

    Sunlight reflected from the second story window. Signalling the boys to lie low, he reminded them to hold their fire. Without exchanging a single shot, the first line reached the stone house and disappeared beyond the ridge. The reflection vanished from the window. Baffled by the Rebs' behavior, he had anticipated the sharpshooters to fire a couple of rounds as they beat a hasty retreat. He ordered the boys to march at the double-quick.

    After they scrambled over a snake rail fence, Sam was finally in range and drew his pistol. A private from the first group reappeared to the side of the house and waved the all clear. "Colonel, I think you'd best get up here."

    Out of breath and ready to succumb to the heat, he reholstered his pistol. "Did you nab the sharpshooters?"

    "Uh ... not exactly, sir."

    "Not exactly? Then why in the hell did you give the all clear?" Before the private could answer, Sam shoved past him.

    The girl soldier sprinted down the wooden steps of the front porch to greet him. With a snappy salute, she said, "Sir, the house belongs to Miss Lawson. We couldn't find any evidence of Rebs, but she's visibly shaken and said she'd only speak to command rank about it."

    The poor lady was probably frightened out of her wits from the Rebel raids. Accompanied by Jo, Sam climbed the stairs. Inside the parlor, a lean woman with streaked gray hair stood with her hands behind her back. On such a sweltering day, she even wore a cap and shawl.

    As he approached, her beady eyes peered over spectacle rims. "General, it's impolite to keep a lady waiting," she chastised.

    He lowered his hat. "Lieutenant Colonel Prescott, ma'am."

    She tapped an impatient foot. "You're the one in charge of the men camped along my stream?"

    "Your stream?"

    Indignant, she pointed a bony finger in the direction of the stream. "In case you hadn't noticed my house is only half a mile away."

    Beginning to comprehend, he suspected she was about to request protection from the Rebels. "I'll post a guard ..."

    "Is there something wrong with your hearing, sir? They are in my stream."

    Ready to roast alive in the heat, Sam wiped his sweaty brow, wishing he had taken the opportunity to join them. "We've had a long, hot march, Miss Lawson. I'm certain they're staying out of trouble."

    Her face turned several shades of red, and he thought she might swoon. He reached out a hand to catch her before she fell, but she swatted his knuckles. "Buck naked, sir. I can see them frolicking through these ..."

    She pulled her other arm from behind her back. Clenched in her hand were a pair of field glasses. There had never been any sharpshooters -- only a prissy battle ax. Nearly splitting a gut, Jo doubled over in a fit of laughter. Sam shot her a glare. Wiping the grin from her face, she straightened to attention. He swallowed hard before addressing her. "I shall tell the boys to be more discriminating. Is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"

    "That will be all, sir." Tightening the shawl about her shoulders, she gave them a curt dismissal.

    Outside, the boys had sought refuge from the scorching sun under the limbs of a spreading oak. Sam gave the order to return to camp. As they regained their feet, they grumbled under their breath and meandered down the ridge toward the stream. "Why didn't you tell her to put the damn field glasses away?" Jo asked, snorting back a belly laugh.

    "Can't afford to make enemies of the civilians, Jo." They reached the snake rail fence, bordering the spinster's house. "Is she up there?"

    Glancing over her shoulder, Jo stole a peek. "Yes sir. And she's still got the dang field glasses."

    Who would have thought ...? Sam shook his head. In the absurdity of the war, he thought that beat all and broke down laughing. His sides ached before he got a grip on himself once more. When he looked up, a courier on a black horse galloped up the hill with the order to march. God, he was growing tired of this damned war.

The End

The Spinster © 2001 by Kim Murphy

Loosely based on a true story before the Battle of Gettysburg, The Spinster is an excerpt from Honor & Glory, the second book in the Promise & Honor trilogy. Both books will be available in trade paperback from Coachlight Press in 2002.

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