Erin's Rebel (5 page)

When she peered out, Brigid’s round face greeted her.

“I heard a crash,” the Irish cook said. “Are you all right?”

“Oh...ah...I fell off my bunk.”

Brigid blinked. She hesitated a moment before saying, “Doc asked me to look in on you to see if yer recollection had come back a’tall.”

Erin shook her head. Since she seemed to be stuck in this God forsaken time, the loss of memory story would be her only salvation.

“You’ll be needing help setting up the laundry, then?”

She nodded. “Ah...yeah.” Brigid had told her she was a laundress. She wondered what doing laundry in this century entailed as she eased out of the tent opening.

The Irish woman’s gaze dropped. Her face reddened when she stared at Erin’s bare feet. “You’ll be wanting to dress before you come out of there. You don’t want the men in camp to be seeing too much.”

“Oh.” Erin backed up. “I guess I’ll put something on then.”

Brigid smiled. “I’ll bring you some kindling for yer fire while yer dressing.”

“Okay,” Erin called. She studied the dress and petticoats she’d discarded the night before. A fine sheen of dirt covered the clothing. She wanted something clean to put on. Jeans and a tee shirt were what she preferred, but she doubted she’d find those items here.

Sighing, she reached under the bunk and brought out the trunk. She’d hoped the past day and a half had been a bad dream. But, somehow, she was still here. Well, she could do nothing but get dressed. She needed to uncover more information to discover a way to get back to where she belonged.

She pulled out a brown calico dress with a starched white collar. Beneath it were two cotton petticoats. How many was she supposed to wear? When undressing last night, she’d found she’d been wearing three. She eyed the white, boned corset. No way was she putting that on.

By the time she slipped into one of the petticoats, tied it at her waist and settled the dress over her head, Brigid had returned. Erin slid on a pair of stockings, tied on a pair of those flat, stretchy things she’d discovered were garters when she’d undressed last night, and stepped into and laced up her shoes. She lifted the tent flap to find the Irish cook crouched before the fire pit, adding bits of kindling.

“Do you recall where you left yer matches?”

“Ah, yes, I think so.” Erin wasn’t sure where she’d tossed the matches after Brigid had helped her locate them on the table in her tent yesterday, but she managed to find the container on the table amid a pile of clothing.

Reaching into the box, Brigid removed a thin wooden match. She struck it against the log she’d placed in the fire pit yesterday. After the kindling caught, she rose and wiped her plump hands against her apron. “I’ll fetch me teapot and a few biscuits I saved from last night’s meal. We’ll have a bite to eat before we head down to the stream.”

“The stream?”

“To fetch the water for washing,” Brigid said.

“Oh, sure.” Erin shrugged. She didn’t like the sound of that.
This totally sucks! Just how far away is this stream, and how much water do we have to carry
? She watched the cook scurry to her tent.

She eyed two tin buckets sitting upside down alongside her tent. They’d need more than that to fill the large wood laundry tub.

Once Brigid returned and they’d eaten, she instructed Erin to bring along the buckets by the tent and produced two more. Erin followed her down to the stream, where they filled the containers before lugging them up the slope. After they poured the water into a large copper pot hanging from a cast iron rail over the fire, the Irishwoman brought out a large bar of lye soap from a wood box set beside Erin’s tent. While the water heated, soldiers arrived bearing soiled shirts.

Erin rubbed her aching arms. She anticipated a long, hard day ahead of her and wished there was a way she could transport a modern washing machine from the twenty-first century.

****

Will ducked into his tent and sifted through the folded, crumpled papers he’d found yesterday after he’d escorted Mrs. O’Connell to her tent. The pages had obviously been torn from a journal. The writer had penned a list of recent and future Confederate troop movements. He studied the small, neat handwriting looking for any clue as to the writer’s identity. They likely had a spy or traitor amongst them.

Mrs. O’Connell had only been here two weeks. Sergeant Wagner had appointed her laundress, claiming she was a recently widowed relative who desperately needed the money. He’d noted Wagner’s comings and goings to her tent at all hours and wondered about their relationship. But he hadn’t given a thought to them being involved in espionage. The sergeant could be a trial at times—insubordinate and late for roll call. He’d been caught drinking while on picket duty. And he’d had his share of punishment.

Wagner wasn’t much different from many of the men. They’d left their homes to defend the rights of Virginia to govern itself and not be dictated to from Washington. But camp life wasn’t an easy way to live, and the time between battle engagements could be endless. Men sought diversions any way they could.

Will folded the papers and stuffed them into his leather haversack. He’d turn the pages in to the colonel. But without proof, did he want to cast suspicion on Mrs. O’Connell and the sergeant? He wouldn’t voice his doubts to the colonel, but he’d keep an eye on them. If they had anything to do with the papers, maybe they’d trip up, and he’d catch them.

A loud, male voice outside drew Will from his tent.

“I told you, woman, I want what I was promised. You won’t put me off again.”

He glanced a few yards down the row of military tents toward the laundress’ tent. Wagner held Mrs. O’Connell’s forearms.

“Let go!” She struggled against the sergeant’s grip.

Will’s jaw tightened when he strode down the path to face the couple. “Is there a problem here, Sergeant?”

Wagner released Mrs. O’Connell. “She owes me money, sir.”

The woman glared at Wagner.

“I’m sure you’ll get your money when Mrs. O’Connell gets paid,” Will reassured.

“But sir—”

“She wasn’t able to work yesterday due to her injuries. You should be a bit more understanding of your own relation.”

Wagner dropped his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed, Sergeant.”

Wagner saluted and stalked off without looking back.

Mrs. O’Connell hadn’t moved or spoken during the exchange. Will’s gaze drifted over her. She wore a bib apron pinned to her worn, calico workdress. Her hair was now arranged in her usual bun.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” She seemed fragile. He longed to put his arms around her and reassure her.

She brushed her hands over her apron. “I’m fine.”

“If he hurt you,” he continued, “I’ll see that he’s punished.”

She glanced in the direction Wagner had taken and scowled. “I can handle him.”

He doubted that. He’d seen Wagner drunk and knew how mean he could get. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, how are the two of you related?”

Her mouth dropped open. He didn’t consider it an unusual question, since a sergeant normally appointed his wife, or one of his other relatives as laundress and took a cut of her pay.

“He’s a cousin,” was all she said.

“Well, cousin or no, if he bothers you again, you come to me.”

She smiled. Her teeth were small, even and white, surrounded by lush, pink lips. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He had a hard time drawing his gaze from her mouth.

Whoa, I don’t know anything about this woman. Getting involved with her will likely bring me nothing but trouble.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d better be getting back to the laundry.”

Will tipped his cap. “Ma’am.” He watched her return to the washtub. She rolled up her dress sleeves, exposing the ivory skin of her forearms.

He admonished himself as he turned away.
Don’t get sweet on a camp laundress, especially one who could turn out to be a Yankee spy.

****

After a meal of salt pork and corn the men had been permitted to pick from a local farm, Will spotted Wagner leaning against a wide oak tree at the edge of camp. The sergeant puffed on a cheroot.

Will watched him, and anger bubbled up inside. What hold did he have on Erin O’Connell? Maybe a talk with the man would shed light on their situation.

Wagner’s eyes widened, then narrowed when Will approached. He tossed his cheroot to the grass and ground it out with the toe of his brogan.

“I’d like a word with you, Sergeant,” Will said.

Wagner straightened. “Sir?”

“Mrs. O’Connell has not been herself since she fell off the horse.”

“Ah...” Wagner hesitated. “She does seem to be having a hard time recollecting things.”

“Perhaps if she were to return home, a familiar setting might jar her memory.”

Wagner glanced away. “She don’t have a home to go to. That’s why she’s here.”

“But surely, your family—”

“My family?” The sergeant shook his head. “I have no family I care to associate with.” He raised his gaze to Will. “She has nowhere else to go, sir.”

The bleakness of Wagner’s statement caused Will’s chest to tighten. Mrs. O’Connell had no one but this man?

He dismissed the sergeant but noted the intense glare in the man’s eyes as he turned to go. He was dangerous. Will didn’t know Mrs. O’Connell’s true relationship with Wagner, but he was damned if he’d allow him to hurt her again.

Chapter Six

Erin arrived at the medical tent that evening cradling a peach pie Brigid helped her make that afternoon after she’d hung laundry to dry. Doing anything in this century took so much time and effort; she was amazed these people had any leisure time at all. When Doc dropped by to invite her to share his evening meal, she couldn’t resist the opportunity, hoping she could pump him for more information about Erin O’Connell’s past. Brigid didn’t know anything about her, other than she was a widow.

After reading the journal entries, she learned Erin O’Connell had tolerated Wagner for the information he provided. But a later entry revealed that her Civil War relative had been more than a bit attracted to Captain Montgomery, although he showed no indication of reciprocating her feelings. She suspected the woman had a secret crush on him.

And she couldn’t blame her. That afternoon, when he’d come to her rescue, she’d forced herself to breathe after having been literally swept off her feet three days before into his strong arms.

In her dreams, she’d had a romantic relationship with the handsome captain. Maybe the dreams were some kind of psychic connection to Erin O’Connell’s spirit, and she’d been experiencing her relative’s life.

Hopefully, Doc could help her learn who she was supposed to be in this century, so she’d at least have a clue how to act. She could hardly tell anyone she’d come from the future. They’d lock her up in the insane asylum.

The savory smell of chicken stew wafted from the cast iron pot hanging above the fire pit by Doc’s tent. He leaned over and stirred the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon, straightening his long, thin frame when she approached. He wore a voluminous, long-sleeved cotton shirt covered with a gray wool vest and appeared overdressed for this humid, summer night.