The Men of Pride County: The Rebel (5 page)

“Are
all
these bags yours, ma’am?”

“Mine and Mrs. Bartholomew’s. We’re setting up households at Fort Blair.” She wondered why she felt it necessary to explain but heard herself making excuses. “There’s no telling if they have a decent sutler’s store, so I’ve grown used to carrying everything we might need.”

“A resourceful lady.”

“I try to be, sir.”

He began loading the wagon boot with trunks, bags, and bandboxes, the last belonging to the style-conscious Maisy. Juliet traveled with a practical wardrobe pared down for utility.

Noble gave a sudden groan as he struggled to get under one of the battered boxes. “What are you carrying in this? Gold bars?”

“Something more precious than gold, Major. My books. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to strain anything.”

“I meant be careful not to drop them.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?” He shoved the heavy crate into the boot and straightened slowly, rubbing at his lower back. “What kind of books, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A little of everything. Poetry, philosophy, history. My interest is in the Napoleonic Wars and anything French at the moment.”

“Really.”

“You sound surprised, Major. That I am
well read, or by my topics of interest?”

“Not surprised, Miz Crowley. Just hoping you’ll be willing to loan out some of your volumes once we get established at the fort.”

“I am not a library, sir. I place considerable value on my books.”

“Of course you do. Forgive me for asking.”

He bent to continue the loading and Juliet took a moment to consider her reaction. She was being rude and miserly, and neither trait pleased her.

“Once I’m set up, you may borrow whatever you like, Major Banning.”

He glanced up at the offer. “Thank you, Miz Crowley. I look forward to examining your volumes.” He was smiling as he grabbed the next crate, then reared back in alarm at the sudden loud squawking. Juliet rushed forward.

“Oh, do be careful. That’s Hortense. She and Hernando will ride up with me.”

Noble regarded the crated poultry with a blink of surprise. “Dinner?”

She snatched the crate away as if he’d planned on roasting them up right there. “Fresh eggs, Major Banning.”

He turned to look at the spotted goat that had begun chewing on the hem of his jacket. Pulling the fabric free, he said, “Don’t tell me—

“Fresh milk. Things you take for granted until you have none.”

“And what’s this fellow’s name? Billy?”

“Willamina.”

“Does she ride with you, too?”

“Don’t be silly. Tie her behind. She’s a regular trooper and can make the walk easily.”

“And these things?”

She took the potted plants from him and placed them gently inside the wagon. “These are mine as well. They’ve been traveling with me for years.”

“A strange group of companions, Miz Crowley.”

“The only ones I have, sir.”

On that melancholy note, she strode away, leaving Noble bemused and more intrigued than he cared to be by the quixotic female who considered houseplants and barnyard creatures her only friends.

Looking ahead over the vast miles of desert, Noble agreed with Colonel Crowley’s assessment. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

Born and bred in the lush green of middle Kentucky, Noble was used to thick grasses under his feet and to leafy trees casting a relieving shade, to hills that were forested and water aplenty.

New Mexico was a different world.

Under a sky of unbroken blue, sand and scrub stretched from horizon to horizon. Plant life crouched low to the ground, none growing high enough to shade a jackrabbit. A harsh, wild landscape, offering little, forgiving nothing.
His new home for the next months or maybe years.

Noting his misgivings, Crowley angled his horse closer.

“Humbling, isn’t it?”

Unwilling to admit to intimidation, Noble asked, “When do my men get proper side-arms? I think you’ve led us far enough away from civilization to trust us with the means to save our own lives.”

Without hesitation, Crowley swiveled in his saddle. “Corporal, break out the armaments.”

A change came over the thirty-two former Confederate soldiers when they took possession of the seven-round Spencer carbines and Navy Colt revolvers. They became fighting men again, sitting tall in the saddle, in control of their own destinies. In that moment, Noble realized he could never regret his decision to free them from Point Lookout. These were men meant to battle for survival, not to huddle helplessly beneath an enemy’s reluctant charity. At least on these cruel plains, they would have the opportunity to strike back against a bitter fate, and if they were to die, would die as free men. He might have thanked Crowley for that chance, but he wouldn’t. Nor would Crowley have expected him to.

Armed and in columns of four, they set out for Fort Blair. Thirty-two sullen Southerners, twelve raw recruits, three seasoned sergeants, and five officers escorting an army ambulance and a supply wagon.

Riding straight into hell.

The wagon struck a deep rut, throwing the three occupants back and forth. Juliet dodged the penduluming plant pots as frantic clucking was followed by a filtering of chicken feathers. Maisy Bartholomew’s strained temper cracked.

“Must those creatures be inside with us?”

“The travel is as hard on them as it is on us,” Juliet said with what she hoped was a calming sensibility. But her companion wouldn’t be soothed.

“I did not expect to have to share my accommodations with barnyard refugees. I insist you put them out this instant.”

Juliet’s demeanor hardened into a likeness of her father’s. “Mrs. Bartholomew, I agreed to put up with your squawking, so the least you can do is reciprocate.”

The woman drew an indignant breath, but seeing the steel in the other’s glare, thought better of releasing more protests. Instead, she began a fierce fluttering of her fan within the ovenlike heat of the closed wagon. They’d had to drop the flaps when Maisy complained continually of the dust. To Juliet, the dust was preferable to the stifling temperature.

Sweltering minutes ticked by, slowly adding up to hours. Had Maisy been the least bit interested in what lay ahead, Juliet could have filled the time by educating her about frontier life: where to hang laundry to dry so that it wouldn’t be ripped to ribbons by the wind-driven
sand, putting tin cans underneath bed legs to keep ants from crawling up them, how to deal with niggardly quartermasters who doled out every nail as if it came from their own pockets and that sour milk made a passable skin bleach and borax would soften water for a hair rinse. She would have even shared her own secret—a mixture of castor oil and pure whiskey scented with lavender for a fine homemade shampoo. But any attempts on her part led to a quick dismissal.

“Colleen will take care of those matters,” was the captain’s wife’s answer to everything.

So Juliet gave up and stayed silent, sympathizing with the freckled girl who would have the miserable task of pleasing her impossible mistress.

By late afternoon, Juliet could no longer stand the oppressive heat inside the ambulance. Across from her, Maisy and Colleen were dozing fitfully, leaving her to face her discomfort alone. Impulsively, she threw open one of the canvas sides to address the driver.

“Private, see if you can find me a mount. I’d like to ride for a while, if I can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was no cooler in the saddle. The desert air lay in heavy waves that rippled the distant scenery. But just the freedom of sitting a horse made the journey more comfortable. She tucked her skirts to assume an unladylike straddle, and nudged the animal forward, cantering along the ranks to where her father rode
flanked by the three Southern officers.

“Hello, my dear. I wondered how long it would be before you tired of civilian travel.”

She smiled, too aware of Captain Bartholomew to say it was the company she’d tired of. “How much farther?”

“We’ll put in another hour before making camp. We’ll see Fort Blair day after tomorrow.”

Juliet rode on in contented silence. This was the life she was used to, the sound of men on the march with sabers rattling to the rhythm of hoofbeats, on the move from post to post. Her thoughts were already far ahead to the things she’d have to do to make the isolated post a home for herself and her father. Looking upon it as a challenge rather than a hardship was something her mother had taught her as they migrated the length of Texas as army nomads. She’d never heard her mother complain, despite conditions unfit for man, let alone a woman with a child. And that was the example Juliet swore to follow as the monotonous drum led her farther into the New Mexico wasteland at her father’s side.

Needing daylight to accomplish the task of setting up camp, the column halted early and began the complicated routine of preparing for the night. Picket lines were strung and the animals fed and watered. After guards were posted, water and fuel details were assigned and two-man tents erected on the sandy soil. Without cooks while on march, the men did
for themselves, parboiling their ration of salt pork and roasting green coffee beans in their own skillets before settling in for the evening.

Exhausted in body and mind, Juliet retired early, the sound of her father’s voice outside their tent as he spoke to his officers comforting her like a sonorous lullaby, just as it had since she was a baby. Accompanying his low tones were the soft, drawling syllables of the Southerners, making a quiet night music as she drifted off to sleep. The last image to dance traitorously through her weary thoughts was that of a certain Southern major.

Reveille came before daybreak so that they could be on the march before the light. It was a routine Juliet followed instinctively: first call roll out at 4:45, reveille and stable call at 4:55, mess call at 5:00 followed by thirty minutes in which to prepare and eat a hurried meal. The camp was struck at 5:30, boots and saddles at 5:45, fall in at 5:55, and forward march at 6:00. It was a rhythm as predictable as the tides.

Choosing to ride over the dubious pleasure of listening to how Maisy Bartholomew spent her first night rough camping, Juliet bound her hair back in a heavy knot and secured a flat cavalry hat on her head to shade her eyes against the glare of daybreak.

As she fell in with the precision of a veteran campaigner, it was impossible for Juliet not to notice the change in the Southern soldiers. Seemingly overnight, with the aid of their
campfire fraternity and the extra weight of steel riding on their hips, all of their cocky bravado had returned. Hints of their former allegiance were evident in the knotting of a butternut-colored sash here, in a CSA buckle there, in the jaunty cockade tucked into the band of a regulation hat. Small jabs of defiance that her father chose to overlook, but that Juliet feared were symptoms of a greater, more dangerous outbreak of sentiment. She watched them warily.

As the day progressed, those subtle shades of rebellion grew more blatant. Orders issued by Northern sergeants were ignored until repeated by a Southern counterpart. Ranks shifted, forming a division like the separation rending a nation apart, with Rebs bunching together in front and Yanks eating their dust in the rear. Again, nothing was said, but Juliet knew her father too well to think him ignorant of what was happening. Perhaps he preferred to let them stage their little insurrections in hopes that it would soothe a pride rubbed raw by defeat and incarceration. Perhaps he feared a reprisal now would end in an overt refusal to comply. If that was the case, he was wise to wait until they were closer to the reinforcements at Fort Blair.

Still, it made for an uneasy ride as tensions chafed across a razor edge of distrust.

“How are you faring, daughter?”

Juliet glanced up from her tin of bitter coffee
to smile at her father’s concern. “Better than Mrs. Bartholomew.”

The entire camp had been privy to an argument between husband and wife that the thin canvas walls of a tent couldn’t contain. Though Juliet couldn’t sympathize with the woman for her accusations, she could understand her fears—fears of the unknown, of being without home or permanent shelter, the fear of vulnerability—fears Juliet suffered from in silence because speaking them aloud made them all too real.

“Now, Jules, don’t be unkind. Not every female has your fortitude.”

She could have pointed out that not every female grew up trailing behind a column of fours. She and Maisy Bartholomew were as different as the sun and moon. And she was suddenly angry with the captain for not showing a whit of common sense where his wife was concerned.

“He never should have brought her out here. Perhaps she’s right in calling him insensitive. You’d think a man would know his own wife well enough to realize her shortcomings. She’ll never be frontier stock.”

Crowley sighed at his daughter’s cool assessment. “That’s not for us to judge. It’s their business.”

“Well, if they want to keep it private business, they’d best discuss it at lower registers.” She set aside her cup and bent to tug off her
father’s boots, standing them at the flap of the tent as ready sentinels.

“I’d hoped the company of another woman would keep the journey from being quite so tedious.”

“Mrs. Bartholomew and I have little in common. She’s made it clear that she prefers it that way.”

“Perhaps things will improve between you when we get to Fort Blair.”

She didn’t share his optimism but offered a quiet, “Perhaps.”

Crowley studied his daughter’s solemn features for a moment then asked, “Regrets?”

“About what?”

“Coming along.”

Her smile was genuine. “No.”

“I know I promised you a home and a yard and regular neighbors. When this campaign is over—”

“There’ll be another.” She placed her hand on his arm before he could protest. “It’s all right, Papa. I understand your devotion to the army, just like Mama did. You’ll never settle for a yard and nosy neighbors.”

“But you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not, Papa. My place is with you. You know I’d have it no other way.”