The Velvet Shadow (36 page)

Alden gave him a brittle smile. “See that you do.”

Flanna closed her journal and crossed her legs, then pulled a slab of salt pork from her haversack. Scattered fires dotted the darkness beyond Company M’s street, and she stared absently at them, a confused haze of feelings dulling her senses as she nibbled on the meat.

“O’Connor! Didn’t you hear me, lad?” Flanna jerked her head around. Paddy O’Neil was squatting behind her, his hand extended. “I asked you to pass me the coffeepot.”

“Sorry.” She pulled the pot from its bed of coals and carefully passed it to Paddy, then returned to her scant supper. A high, melodic tenor floated over from the next campfire, and Flanna relaxed as she listened to the music.

She was going to miss all this—the music, the men, even the mayhem. As soon as she donned a dress, she would be forced to surrender her role as their friend, messmate, and doctor. For though none of them hesitated now to come to her with medical problems or for a dose of calomel to cure the Maryland quickstep, she knew none of them would feel at ease in her presence once she revealed that she was a woman.

Roger—who surely knew her secret by now—would insist that she surrender her disguise immediately. And though Alden had demonstrated remarkable restraint thus far, he would support Roger. Both brothers would ask her to give up all she had gained as a soldier of Company M.

But what else could she do? If she wanted to go home, common sense told her that she’d have to agree to Alden’s plan. Franklin
O’Connor would have to walk into a tent and vanish so Miss Flanna O’Connor, the nurse, could take her place. Soon she’d be wearing a corset again, and pantalets, and a hoop skirt so wide that no man could come within three feet of her without tilting the birdcage beneath her skirt and risking an immodest glimpse of the lace at her ankles.

She reached for her bayonet, stuck it through the meaty middle of her salt pork, then held it over the fire. Rufus Crydenwise squatted next to her, his arms on his knees.

“O’Connor,” he said, a slow flush creeping up from the flesh at his neck, “can I ask you somethin’?”

“Ask away.”

Rufus squirmed in his jacket, then leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I think I got lice. I’m itching something fierce, and at night I can feel things crawling over my skin.”

Flanna crinkled her nose and pulled her bayonet from the fire. “When’s the last time you bathed?”

The boy—though he was twenty-two, Flanna couldn’t help but think of Rufus as a helpless boy—shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. Flanna lifted her chin, then made a face. Even in the fire-tinted darkness she could see the tiny white specks sprinkled throughout his brown curls.

“Oh, Rufus!” She dropped her bayonet and scrambled backward. “You’re lousy! Ugh!”

His face went as scarlet as a ruptured artery. “What can I do about it?”

Kneeling a safe distance away, Flanna exhaled loudly and tried to think. “First, ask Diltz to cut your hair real short—he’s handy with a blade. Second, soak a cloth in kerosene, then wrap your head in it. Wear it for twenty-four hours, and you’ll kill any remaining nits. Third, go down to the river and take a bath, or better yet, get a pass and go to a bathhouse in town.”

“But what about now?” He ran his hand over his jacket, his fingers busily scratching at the wool coat.

“Take off all the clothes you can,” Flanna said, one corner of her mouth twisting. “And we’ll see if we can find a big enough pot to boil ’em in. Hot water ought to kill the little buggers.”

“Is that why you wash your hands so much?” Andrew Green looked up from the guitar he’d been picking. “Are you afraid of lice?”

“No more than anything else.” Flanna picked up her bayonet, brushed the dirt from the meat, then popped the last bite into her mouth. She chewed, ignoring the gritty texture of sand on her teeth, and smiled at Green. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you to wash your hands before supper?”

She looked around for Charity, hoping to ask her to scout out a large pot, but she was nowhere in sight. She’d been leaving Flanna alone a lot, but Flanna hated to rebuke her. Life in the camp had been slow. Aside from morning drill (McClellan was a drilling fanatic), there was not much work to do. So they sat around playing cards, swapping stories, and complaining about everything from the food to the officers. The sergeant, Diltz, and Sheahan played poker nearly every afternoon, and Flanna joked that they won the same ten dollars from each other over and over again.

She glanced back at Rufus, who was still scratching. “If we can’t find a pot, lad, you find yourself a nice busy anthill and leave your clothes there overnight. The ants will eat the lice right up.”

“Just don’t forget to brush the ants away in the morning,” Sheahan called. “Or the ants might eat
you
up!”

“O’Connor!” Flanna looked up at the sound of Paddy O’Neil’s voice and saw that he had moved inside the tent. He lay on his blanket, his wounded leg stretched out before him. Having avoided the Union hospital altogether, O’Neil seemed well and hearty, with nothing but a slight limp to show that he’d been hit. Flanna insisted that he limped now only when he wanted to be excused from drill.

“What is it?” she called, ducking beneath the canvas tent flap. In the candlelight, she saw that Paddy held a letter in his hand. From the worried look on his face she feared he’d received bad news.

“My sweet Maggie has me worried.” O’Neil held the letter up and began to read in a falsetto voice. “Och, my darling, our babe is growin’ so! Just last night he kicked me so hard I couldn’t sleep.”

O’Neil lowered the letter. “Is that normal, for the babe to be hurt-in’ her?” A glazed look of despair began to spread over his face. “’Cause I can’t abide the thought that the wee one is hurting sweet Maggie. I shudder to think she’s in pain on my account.”

“You fine eejit, don’t you know that all babies kick their mothers?” Sinking to the ground next to Paddy, Flanna wrapped her arms around her bent knees and decided it would be best not to broach the subject of labor pains. “And what are you going to do about it, you bein’ here and Maggie at home? You’ll trust the good Lord to take care of her, and stop filling your mind with these foolish worries.”

O’Neil scowled at her, his ruddy brows knitting together. “I’ll not have you make fun of me, you wee stripling! Besides”—he smiled as his flesh colored—“what do I know about having babies? And for that matter, what would you be knowing about it?”

“Naturally, no more than you.” Flanna gave him a slow smile, then stretched out on the ground, not caring that her hair brushed the dirt, that the boy outside had lice, that the man next to her smelled of sweat and grime. Things that would have sent her reeling across the room six months ago now mattered not at all, and all the silly rules and conventions she’d held so close to her heart seemed about as pointless as scratching a wooden leg. But if Roger had his way, she’d soon be a lady again, wrapped in corsets and silk and a touch-me-not air of isolation.

She folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes, sighing loudly.

“Tired, O’Connor?” O’Neil asked. “If it’s rest you’re wanting, I could sit outside to read.”

“Stay where you are, O’Neil,” she answered, not opening her eyes. “Right now I could sleep in the middle of a stampede if I wanted to.”

She heard him chuckle, then he fell silent, doubtless rereading his letter. Flanna did want quiet and time alone, but she wanted to think,
not to sleep. Over the course of the afternoon, one fact had crystallized and become abundantly clear—she did not want to leave her messmates. Alden might get her a dress, a new identity, and a tent of her own, but when Franklin O’Connor disappeared, so would her easy and open relationship with these men. And until it was time to go home, they were the only family she had.

She rolled onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm, and silently swiped at the tear that rolled from her eye. How foolish she’d been at fifteen, thinking herself too ladylike to play with Wesley and her cousins! She had thought the world revolved around beaux and balls until Mammy died. In that hour, nothing mattered but medicine, and though everyone said Flanna could charm the red off an apple, she couldn’t stop Mammy’s lifeblood from draining away. “Go with God,” Mammy had whispered when she realized the end was near. “Do your papa proud, honey. And remember that your Mammy will be waiting for you just inside those pearly gates.”

Flanna let the words wash through her, shivering her skin like the touch of a gentle ghost. The medicine was important. Not the dresses and proprieties, but the men and their care.

Roger and Alden would just have to understand.

Charity pushed Beau’s hand away from her waist, then clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her giggles. “You is bad, Beau!” She stepped back into the shadows near the cargo wagons, knowing he would follow. They were completely alone here, for the soldiers had all gone to their tents and the other servants had bedded down. Like whites in society everywhere, the army didn’t care what the servants did after hours.