The Velvet Shadow (21 page)

“What’s in it?” Flanna wondered aloud.

“Your haversack, your cartridge box, your bayonet and scabbard.” Flanna froze at the sound of the familiar voice. Alden! She could fool anyone in this camp, but not him.

“Your cap box, a rubber-backed woolen blanket, mess equipment, mending kit, and canteen,” he continued. “Now get along to the quartermaster, and there you’ll receive your rifle and uniform. Hustle, Private, time is short.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bringing her hand over her face, she coughed the answer and turned her head so that the brim of her cap blocked
him from view. Without waiting for directions to the quartermaster’s tent, she took off as quickly as she could under the weight of a forty-pound bag.

Not until sunset had stretched glowing fingers across the sky did Flanna step out of the quartermaster’s tent. Charity, who was sitting on the ground outside, looked up slowly, her eyes widening in slow recognition.

“Blazes, Miss—”

“Hush, boy.” Flanna shifted her shoulders in her new garb and gave Charity a withering look.

Behind a sheltering screen in the quartermaster’s tent she had donned the uniform of a Union soldier: cotton flannel drawers, socks, a shirt, light-blue trousers, and a dark-blue jacket called a blouse. A blue cap with a black visor covered her hair, and two different coats hung over her arm: a long single-breasted dress coat of dark blue with a stand-up collar, and a long blue overcoat with a cape at the shoulder. The quartermaster had offered her a black felt hat for dress parade, but Flanna had refused it, not understanding how she was supposed to carry a knapsack, haversack, and rifle, let alone a useless frippery like a befeathered dress hat.

Now she tossed the overcoat to Charity. “This is for you, Charles,” she said, taking pains to make her voice gruff. “Since we have no blanket for you, you can sleep on this and wear it in the rain.”

Charity accepted the overcoat with a bewildered look, then shrugged her way into it. Flanna exhaled in relief as her maid settled into the overcoat. The coat completely covered Charity’s gray shirt and ought to prevent any zealous sharpshooters from mistaking her for a Rebel in the woods.

“Franklin O’Connor!” Flanna whirled in surprise, then saw the quartermaster gesturing to her. “Forget something, lad? You can’t expect to whip the Rebels without a rifle.”

The last item of issue was a shiny new. 58 caliber Springfield rifled musket. The quartermaster handed it to Flanna with a great deal of
pride, remarking that he and some other fellows had recently tested the new shipment. “We put 360 balls into a mark the size of old Jeff Davis from a distance of 600 yards. You’ll do right by this gun, lad.”

The gun felt cold in Flanna’s hand, dark and alien. She did not want to touch or carry it, but every man around her carried a rifle on his shoulder or hanging from his knapsack. From the looks of things, this rifle would soon be her new best friend, no matter how much it repulsed her.

Night had spread sable wings over the camp by the time Flanna and Charity returned to the tents of Company M. A small campfire glowed in front of each shelter, and men huddled around the flames, their faces subdued and shadowed in the fire-tinted darkness.

Avoiding the curious glances that lifted in her direction, Flanna walked steadily forward until she found Sergeant Marvin.

“Private Franklin O’Connor,” she said, so nervous she could manage no more than a rough whisper. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

One corner of the sergeant’s droopy moustache lifted in a half-smile. “Aye.” He jerked his thumb toward a tent behind him. “You sleep in there, Private. You and your boy.”

Flanna nodded, then she and Charity dragged her equipment into the tent and looked around. Several knapsacks were stowed along the outer rim of the circular tent, so Flanna motioned to Charity and dropped her knapsack in an empty space. After an awkward moment of silence, they sat in the dirt.

“What do we do now?” Charity asked, drawing her knees to her chest.

“We do whatever the others do,” Flanna whispered. “But not tonight. I’m not going out there to the campfire.”

“Okay.” Charity smiled in relief.

“You hungry? We could see what’s in that haversack.”

“No, I ain’t hungry. I can keep till morning.”

“Good.”

They sat in companionable silence for a long time, listening to the sounds of camp. Flanna heard hundreds of voices—the soft tones
of men sharing stories around the campfire, the angry chiding of a captain rebuking a recruit on the next street, a wave of laughter from behind the tent. From somewhere in the distance a violin sang, an astonishingly sweet sound that tugged at Flanna’s heart and evoked memories of loving faces at home. The air was so warm that if she closed her eyes and blocked out the voices around her she could almost believe she was already back in Charleston.

“Why’d you join this army, boy?”

Flanna opened her eyes, her heart thumping madly. A tall, thin man stood above her, his hand tucked into his blouse, his sad, droopy eyes fixed upon her face. “What’s the matter?” he asked in a low, resentful tone. “Did your father make you sign the roll?”

“No.” Flanna inhaled sharply. “I joined because I want to whip the Rebels.”

The man looked at her for a long moment, his features hardening in a stare of disapproval. “You look too young to whip anything bigger than a tomcat.”

“I’m old enough.” Flanna threw back her head and crossed her arms. “Old enough to do what I want, mind you.”

He didn’t seem angered by her retort. He merely gazed out at the campfire, where a group of men played cards and a handful of others scraped their mess kits clean. “We’re all going to die someday,” he said, his narrow face firmly set in deep thought. “And to some of us, it’ll come sooner than later.”

“Och, Valentine, haven’t we told you not to pester the new boys?” Another man, a red-haired, freckled youth not much older than Flanna, stooped to enter the tent. A loose thatch of silky hair fell across his forehead, and he swiped it away before extending his hand and giving Flanna a wide smile. “Paddy O’Neil’s the name, and ’tis a pleasure to meet you.”

“You’re Irish.” Flanna gratefully shook his hand. “Me too. My grandfather was William O’Connor of Dublin.”

“Ah!” Paddy’s white teeth shone in the golden light of the single lantern. “Glad to know you, I am. You’ll get used to the other fellows
in time. Most of them have been here a week, at most. The sergeant says we’re to ship out soon, so you’re lucky—you won’t be drilling as long as the others have been.”

“Have you—” Flanna cleared her throat, still a little nervous about speaking. Her voice was naturally low, though not exactly boyish, but so far no one had remarked upon it. “Have you been here long, Mr. O’Neil?”

The man bit his lip, then wagged a finger at her, schoolteacher style. “Never call another enlisted man
mister
.” He dropped down to sit beside her. “There’s none of that kind of manners in this army, and only military manners matter now. You’ll have the others calling you a pantywaist or some such thing if you insist upon respecting your equals, mark my words.”

Flanna nodded without speaking. So much to learn! She had so many secrets, so many weaknesses. This disguise might be harder to maintain than she’d thought.

“So who’s this with you?” O’Neil gestured toward Charity.

“My body servant, Charles. He’s not a slave; he’s a free man.”

“I expected as much.” Flanna blinked in surprise when O’Neil thrust out a hand to Charity. “Good to meet you, Charles. Welcome to our little war.”

“Little war?” Flanna turned wide eyes upon the friendly lad.

O’Neil laughed. “Of course. We’re going to whip the secesh before Christmas, now that Lincoln’s put McClellan in charge. Little Mac will show the Rebs that Bull Run was just a fluke.”

“Are you spouting nonsense again, O’Neil?” This came from another soldier who entered the tent with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The young man had dark eyes, a riot of curly black hair, and wide, expressive features. His hands, Flanna noticed, were beautiful, long-fingered, and strong. A surgeon’s hands, or perhaps a musician’s. “War is not about whipping and such,” the soldier said. “It’s about might and right. It’s about truth.”

“Well, we’re right, isn’t that the truth?” O’Neil answered, shaking his fist.

“Time will tell,” the newcomer answered, moving to the other side of the tent.

O’Neil jerked his thumb toward the retreating soldier. “That’s Andrew Green, our resident poet. The man’s been here only two days, and he’s written half a dozen poems already, most of them about his ladylove at home.”

Flanna smiled as she watched Andrew Green spread his blanket on the ground. She didn’t think she would mind having a poet as a comrade.

“You’ve already met Albert Valentine,” O’Neil said, pointing toward the thin, mournful man who’d asked Flanna why she joined the army. “Valentine’s a real cheery one.”

“So I noticed.”

The other men began to enter the tent, and O’Neil made quiet comments as each man settled down for the night. “That man over there, the thin one with the guitar? That’s Philip Hart. He’s a bummer.”

“A bummer?” Flanna lifted a brow.

“A forager, a beggar, whatever you want to call it. He couldn’t make a living on his own, so he joined up to rob the army blind.” O’Neil chuckled and rested his arms on his bent knees. “Can’t say that he isn’t useful though. He found that guitar in a pile of trash. Maybe by the time the war’s over he’ll actually learn to play it.”

“That’s not likely.” Another man, this one with a narrow face, dirty blond hair, and torn trousers, came into the tent and grinned at O’Neil. His hair grew upward and outward in great masses of disobedient curls, and his body seemed as powerless and limp as a filleted fish. He hadn’t taken two steps before he bumped into the center pole, causing the suspended lantern to swing in a threatening arc. A riot of oaths erupted, and every eye followed the lantern, waiting to see if it would fall and burn. Gradually the lantern slowed and stilled.

“Sorry,” the man murmured, taking the space next to Philip Hart.

“That’s Jonah Baker.” O’Neil’s mouth curled as if on the edge of laughter. “A country boy who’s spent his life in a plowed field. You
should see him in the drill—he marches like he’s still stepping over furrows.”

“Can we shut out the light?” Albert Valentine lifted his head from his bedroll. “I’d like to get some sleep before reveille.”

“Please, leave the light on, I beg you,” another man called. Flanna glanced at him and knew in an instant that he was what Wesley would call a dandy. He wore a uniform of much finer cut and quality than the factory-made garments she’d been given. A paper collar lined the jacket at his neck, and instead of common brogans he wore knee-high enameled boots that gleamed like polished ebony in the lantern light.

“Freddie Smith,” O’Neil said, following her gaze. “Don’t get dust on his things, whatever you do.”

“The light, man, turn out the light!” Valentine roared again.

“Aw, quit your bellyachin,” called a new voice as the quartet of card players came in from the fire.

The biggest of them, a blond, blue-eyed fellow with arms like tree trunks, came and stood before Flanna, his hands on his hips. A black beard bristled on his face like a porcupine’s quills, and beneath it he wore an expression of remarkable malignity. “Who’s this?” he asked O’Neil, his eyes not leaving Flanna’s face.

“A new man,” O’Neil answered. Flanna saw O’Neil’s body tense, but the lad kept gallantly smiling.

“Why does he need a darkie?” The brute drawled the question. “None of the rest of us have a colored boy to tote our loads.”

O’Neil had no answer for this, and from the corner of her eye Flanna saw him turn to her.

She answered over her choking, beating heart. “Charles is a friend of the family. I’m Franklin O’Connor, and pleased to meet you. May I have your name, sir?”

Scowling, the giant looked back at the others. “Lookee here, boys, a real gentleman. He wants to know my name.”

The other card players laughed, and Flanna’s heart began to thump almost painfully in her chest. She had already messed up, she couldn’t even pass one night without being discovered—

The giant put out his meaty hand and grabbed her by the collar. With scarcely any effort at all, he lifted Flanna to her feet. She had the feeling that he could have held her above his head, so great was his strength and determination, but he seemed content to lift her just five inches off the ground until he stared her in the eye.

“My name is Herbert Diltz.” He ground the words out between his teeth as his sour breath smote her face. “And I don’t like your looks, boy. You look too soft to belong in this company. I’ve a good mind to pound you into the ground before the Rebs have a chance.”

As panic rioted within her, Flanna lifted her hand. “Mr.—um, Diltz, I beg your pardon for anything I may have done—”

“Put the lad down, Diltz.” The voice rang with command from outside the tent, and a different kind of fear shot through Flanna as she recognized it.

Diltz hesitated, his small, bright eyes training in on Flanna like gun barrels. He seemed to be weighing whatever punishment an officer might dish out against the pleasure he’d derive from hurling Flanna through the canvas roof.