EIGHT #2
Plastering a fake smile, she grinned and hurried as he said. As soon as she was in the shelter of the trees, she let the pack fall from her skirt, threw it onto her back, and ran.
Thanks to the mud caking the ground, the Van Buren party’s wagon tracks were visible.
Just a few miles. She could make it. All the days of hiking ten, twenty miles a day had strengthened her legs.
This was nothing. She slipped a few times in the swampy ground, but it barely slowed her.
Running through the marsh as children with Hugh and Joel had taught her how to stay light on her toes and maintain her balance.
Coming to a bend in the road, she spotted the Van Buren wagon ahead.
The wheels were sunk deep in the muck. Following in the beaten trail of the infantry, their wagon hadn’t stood a chance of passing through.
John was berating the poor Union soldier who had been commandeered to guide them.
The soldier hopelessly dug, trying to free the wheels.
They wouldn’t be witnessing any battle today.
She would have to make do on her own. She turned back a bit, then started making her way east through the woods until she came to the rain-swollen creek.
The muddy water moved swiftly but didn’t look very deep.
The only way was to cross on foot or swim across.
Locating a narrower area of the stream would take too long, and if one had to guess, any sort of bridge had been destroyed by either army.
With one final glance to ensure she was the only body around, she stripped down to her shift and thrust her shoes and garments into her bag.
She gasped when she stepped in. The water was freezing.
When it rose above her navel, the shock of the cold made her misstep, and her foot slipped on the algae-covered rocky bottom.
She dipped down, catching herself just before she dropped the bag from on top of her head.
Paddling with one arm, she kicked her feet frantically to make it to the other side.
She emerged soaked and shivering, but the bag was nonetheless dry.
Now or never.
Dumping the bag out, she took hold of Henry’s uniform.
It would be big on her, but she hoped the chaos of the battle would cover any attention to her person.
Then it hit her—she didn’t have any boots.
It was one item that she hadn’t considered.
Too late to find something suitable now. Her lace-ups would have to do.
Trousers first. She cinched the waist as tightly as she could, then rolled the bottoms of the legs.
Her off-white blouse would have to do underneath the dark blue wool overcoat.
The brass buttons felt large in her fingers.
The gold fringe on the shoulders felt conspicuous, but if she removed it, she feared the seam would tear.
“No boots, no hat, no belt… I’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” she groaned. When the wind blew hair into her face, she realized she had another problem.
Then, something that McDewitt said came back to her. ‘A dead man’s uniform.’
Corpses had been scattered from Dinwiddie to Five Forks. There was a chance that not all of them had been collected yet. The very idea caused bile to rise in her throat, but it was the only option.
Reverend Adams had mentioned a skirmish near the creek.
This was as good a place to check as any.
She walked back out to the bank and watched the sky.
She’d found a body before, back when Henry was taking her up to the mountains.
It had been entirely by accident that time, but the only image clear in her mind was the buzzards flying overhead.
There.
Some were circling, just towards the horizon.
When she reached them, she couldn’t see anything at first. The underbrush was thick, especially up the creek. She scoured the ground, searching for any sign of blood. Finally, she found it.
The blood trail led to a Confederate soldier. He’d been shot in the torso. Three bullet holes showed on his back. Laying face-down, she couldn’t tell anything else about him.
The loss of a life. One of many during this war. Somewhere, this person might have a family. Would he ever be found so concealed as he was in the brush?
Without turning him over, she braced herself and dug in his pockets, searching for anything that might identify him.
Maggie pulled a single photo from his front pocket.
It was ragged and hard to see, but it was a portrait of a single woman.
His wife or betrothed, perhaps? Not knowing what else to do, she pocketed the photograph.
Promising herself that after the war was over, she would submit it to the newspapers in an effort to find her and bring answers. She knew how unanswered questions felt.
Focusing back on the task at hand, she continued down the creek.
Another quarter mile and there were buzzards up ahead. Half a dozen or more.
This time, the bodies weren’t hard to find. They lay on the bank of the creek. Shot down where they were. Union soldiers evidently ambushed while trying to cross. It was a grim sight.
Any one of them could be Henry.
She felt lightheaded at the realization. Sitting for a moment, she put her head between her knees and breathed until the dizziness passed.
“Be brave,” she ground out as she stood to her feet.
Forcing herself to look, she scanned each of their faces. None of them was him, thank God.
There were too many bodies here to go unnoticed.
Someone would find them and haul them away to be buried.
Instead of looking through their pockets, she focused on finding the remaining items she needed.
Their weapons and boots were gone, presumably taken by the ones who shot them.
But there was a cap that would conceal her hair and a belt.
A quick braid and she thrust it up into the stolen cap.
“Trousers, coat, belt, hat. It will have to do,” she muttered.
The squelch of mud underfoot reminded her of one last disguise. Taking just a bit of the drier mud, she slathered it along her lower jaw and cheeks.
At least at a distance, she would pass for a young boy. But now more than ever, she walked with a target on her back. Resigning herself to what may come, she withdrew the pistol from the bag and stuck it in her belt.
Midday sun shone overhead and there were still a few miles to go after taking the detour. Hoping that she was heading in the right direction, she plugged back into the woods, following the distant sound of gunfire.