Harper's Rescue: A Novel of Redemption in the Civil War

By Sean Gabhann

March 1862. Grant's victories in the War of the Rebellion have forced the Confederates to abandon most of Kentucky. Harper and his men return to Paducah, only to learn that they must sit idle until the army exchanges their paroles. Harper's commanding officer has found menial work for him while the others

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natchez Trail Press
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734397437

Sean Gabhann

Sean Kevin Gabhann was born in Philadelphia, growing up in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey. He graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy and spent the next several years in the Navy, including seven and a half years serving in the Western Pacific. He saw combat with Coastal Forces, Vietnam in 1971-73 and was afloat with Seventh Fleet during the final evacuation in April 1975. He completed graduate studies in Applied Sciences at the University of California San Diego followed by a twenty-five year civil service career in the defense acquisition community. Several anecdotes from his career have made their way his books. He first became interested in American Civil War history during the centennial celebration and he owns an extensive library of primary and secondary material related to Civil War. Shortly before retiring, Gabhann became aware of the works of Bernard Cornwell. These excellent stories triggered a long-postponed desire first inspired by the Hornblower novels of C.S. Forrester to write adventure novels about the lives of common people during the Civil War. He especially wants to write about campaigns in the West because of a fascination with the careers of U.S Grant and W.T. Sherman. Sean reports, "My approach to writing historical fiction is to begin with a framework of the historical timeline and local geography derived from primary and secondary sources and then fit the plot within the framework. Then I edit for character development, followed by historical setting. Finally I edit for the reading experience: reorganizing chapters and scenes to enhance the flow before turning the manuscript over to his reading circle and to the beta readers. Accordingly, each manuscript undergoes at least five edits or revisions." Sean enjoys living in San Diego, California.

Book preview

Grant's Winter Campaign

Map by Sean K. Gabhann,

based on original contained in Official Records of the War of the Rebellion

Paducah, Kentucky

Paducah Kentucky

1862

Map by Sean K. Gabhann,

based on original contained in Official Records of the War of the Rebellion

List of Characters

Lieutenant James Harper - Adjutant, 1st Iowa Mounted Infantry

Corporal Gustav Magnusson - Corporal, Lead Skirmisher, Company B

Katherine (Katie) Malloy - Saloon girl, Lafitte’s Hideout

Military District of Cairo, USA

Brigadier General Ulysses Grant - Commander

Lieutenant Colonel John Norman - Director, Civilian Affairs

Major John Rawlins - Aide to General Grant

Major William Johncock - Provost Marshal, Paducah

First Sergeant Israel Hopkins - Assistant to Lt. Col. Norman

First Iowa Volunteer Mounted Infantry

Lieutenant Colonel Wesley Monroe – Commander

Major Asbury Porter - Executive Officer

Captain Brice McKinsey - Commanding Officer, Company B

Quartermaster-Sergeant Eugen Schmidlapp - Supply Liaison

Private Johnny Cooke - Soldier, Company B

Private Hermann Eberhart - Horse Wrangler

Private Frederick Fridholt - Assistant to Sergeant Schmidlapp

Paducah Civilians

Franklin Bosley - Co-Owner, Lafitte’s Hideout

Loreena Bosley - Co-Owner, Lafitte’s Hideout

Eleanor St. Croix - Owner, The Officers’ Club

Margaret (Maggie) Warren - Assistant to Eleanor St. Croix

Julia Walls – Lafitte’s Hideout, Roommate of Katie Malloy

Noah Kitchener - Lafitte’s Hideout, Bartender/Enforcer

William Tate - Lafitte’s Hideout, Second Floor Enforcer

Virgil McGurn - Lafitte’s Hideout, Saloon Enforcer

Thomas Pickpocket - Lafitte’s Hideout, Strongarm

Toby Mitchell - Lafitte’s Hideout, Strongarm

Angel Americus - The Officers’ Club, Major-domo

Ferdinand Hummel - Gunsmith

Harriett Wells - Nurse

Camp Creek, Kentucky

Image by Author

Courtesy of Harper’s War Stories

Wednesday, March 5th 1862

THE RIDERS SAW the turkey vultures circle the cloudless sky for an hour before they crested the low ridge where the Mayfield Road began its descent to Camp Creek. Now, halted at the top of the ridge, the destroyed camp of Captain Hollister’s Federal Volunteers spread below them. Between the ridge and the creek, scores of bodies lay among the crushed tents, most of the dead only partially dressed, a sure sign the company had been surprised during the night. Not a single tent remained standing. A dozen workers picked through the remains in the mid-day sun, loading the inert bodies into six wagons lining the road ahead of the riders.

Lieutenant Colonel John Norman, Civilian Affairs Officer for the Department of Cairo, led the riders up to the sole white civilian in sight, the burial group’s overseer. Beside Norman rode Captain John Rawlins, adjutant to General Ulysses Grant, while two of Norman’s assistants rode behind. The insignia on the officers’ hats marked the only distinction among the riders when compared to the kepi worn by the single enlisted man. Their full-length, dark-blue overcoats protected against the morning chill and disguised all other rank distinctions.

While the vultures hovered overhead, a murder of a hundred or more crows kept their distance in a circle surrounding the encampment or perched on the sideboards of the open wagons. Their ca-cawing rose up the slope of the ridge to greet the riders with the sounds of a theatrical audience waiting for the start of a favorite stage show. When the riders advanced, the crows in the road cleared a path with an indignant caw and an arrogant strut before they closed the circle behind the horsemen. Norman approached the overseer who stood among the wagons making a note each time the workers loaded a body. Mornin’.

The workers stopped to stare at the soldiers. The overseer set his notebook on the wagon bed and lifted his slouch hat. Mornin’ to you, sir. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve before setting the buff-colored hat back on his head. Although he led the workers, the man wore a gray-flannel business suit under a broad duster with a vest with a watch chain suspended between the two vest pockets covering his broad belly.

Norman and Rawlins remained mounted before the overseer while the two assistants separated from the group.

Can you tell us what happened here, mister? Rawlins asked.

Looks like they kilt the whole company the night a-fore last. The overseer waved a hand across the scene. We found about a third of them fellas still in their tents, under their blankets.

Rawlins stared at the bodies piled in the nearest wagon. How many do you count?

Maybe fifty or so. I still have men out walkin’ along the creek. My boys found maybe half-a-dozen or so over there, so far. Some tried to escape that way, but got run down.

Fifty or more. Rawlins faced Norman. Accounts for the whole company.

Norman stared at the place where the naked stave for the company’s guidon still stood. Did you find Captain Hollister yet?

Yes, sir. The overseer pointed to a cluster of collapsed tents closest to the creek. He was one of the first ones to get it after the sentries.

What about their horses? Rawlins glanced at the four horses lying among the human corpses, all unsaddled.

Lieutenant Richard Norden rode up. He had circled the perimeter of the camp. Whoever attacked them took their horses, Colonel. Both sides of the ford are a mess. A lot of horses moved through there.

Aye, the horses and the weapons. The overseer picked up a cavalry saber. We haven’t found any working carbines or pistols. He held up a saber. Left most of these behind, though. He threw the weapon into a wagon.

Norden continued. There’re tracks coming from two directions. I guess they knew they had the company pinned against the creek. He pointed to the road. One group hid in the woods we passed. They hit from the north, while another group came across that pasture. He pointed northwest. They must have hid in the woods behind that barn until the attack began. He faced Norman. Some got around to the other side of the creek.

The overseer added. They waited until the officers were together to kill them. We found all their bodies close by the command tent.

Norman nodded. With the officers gone, the rest were easy-pickings. He addressed the overseer. What do the locals know about the attack?

Colonel, with all due respect, that ain’t my job. I’m here to bring these boys back and make sure they get a decent burial. That’s what the county pays me to do.

Is it?

’Sides, Colonel, all the folks ’round here have cleared out. He pointed to a run-down, single-story farmhouse in the pasture near the barn. That one there is empty, same with the one across the creek. He used his thumb to point to it. Animals is gone, too. I sent a couple of boys around to draw water. Weren’t no one there.

Colonel. Lieutenant Norden spoke. Can’t be more than thirty or forty men who attacked. Maybe ten to fifteen from each side, plus however many they put across the creek.

What do you think, Sergeant?

Got caught with their pants down. Sergeant Israel Hopkins, Norman’s other assistant, had prepared notes in a small book while he rode amongst the corpses, burnt tents, and discarded equipment. We sent them out too soon, Colonel. He stared at Rawlins.

Rawlins scowled. General Grant needs men now, Sergeant. Rawlins pointed southward. He needs to block Reb conscription teams before they gather up too many Tennessee men.

I am aware of that, sir, but… He shook his head before he waved his hand across the scene. Now he’ll never have these men, will he?

Enough, Sergeant. Norman raised his hand to cut off Rawlins’s response. He sat in his saddle in silence for a few moments. They must have known.

Who must have known, Colonel? Rawlins’s horse pawed at the ground.

The people who did this, Rawlins. They had to know ahead of time in order to set this ambush.

Go on, Rawlins said.

The attackers could have been Polk’s cavalry or maybe local men. We know Polk is pulling back from Columbus. Norman stared at the western horizon. His army is only thirty miles or so in that direction. He pointed and swung his arm southward.

Rawlins followed Norman’s arm movements. Does Polk have enough cavalry to cover his retreat and to send out raiders?

Norman indicated for Norden to reply. Yes, sir, he has at least two cavalry regiments, plus at least half-a-dozen independent companies. I’d guess those are the fellows who did this.

The overseer leaned against the wagon. Y’all don’t think it was local men, Colonel?

I doubt it. Local men would need time to gather and move to the exact place where they could lay an ambush. Norman looked at the two wooded areas where the ambushers hid. Besides, locals wouldn’t have the discipline to stay hidden until the right moment and carry out a coordinated attack from three sides in the dark.

Lieutenant Norden added, The fact that they could destroy an entire company with a smaller force is another clue they were regulars.

Agree. Norman addressed Rawlins. We’re less than fifteen miles from town. It would take at least a day for the Rebs to set the ambush.

The overseer kicked at a crow which had become too bold about the corpses waiting to be loaded.

Norman addressed Hopkins. When did Sherman give the orders to Captain Hollister?

Not certain, sir. Friday afternoon?

So, between Friday night and Monday morning… Norman paused for a moment. Someone in town sent this information to the Rebels.

One turkey vulture swooped lower than the others to land on the chest of a nearby corpse.

Bamm!

Hopkins killed it with a single pistol shot.

After the bird’s feathers settled, Norman told Rawlins, Grant needs to know there’s a spy problem if he plans to use Paducah as a depot.

Part 1

Fort Donelson, Tennessee

The Dover Inn

Image by Kevin M. Smith

Courtesy of Harper’s War Stories

Thursday, March 6th, 1862

"GOOD EVENIN’, LIEUTENANT. My name is Maggie. If you like, I’ll be y’all’s escort tonight." The piano playing somewhere in the back of the room forced the woman to speak more loudly than she might have otherwise. Even loud, though, her voice had that confident, deep tone which Harper found attractive in women.

Lieutenant James Harper, Iowa Volunteers, had not planned to attend the soirée since it honored the officers of the brigade Grant had left behind to garrison Fort Donelson. The best uniform Harper owned showed blood stains, powder burns, and stitched-up tears, an embarrassment at a formal event. No doubt Oglesby’s officers would be in their best spit and polish. However, once Harper learned Franklin Bosley was the host, he had no choice. Besides, the soirée provided the only food available from the Dover Inn this night.

Harper expected to be met by the madam or even by Bosley, the whore monger himself. Instead, the woman asking to be his escort held herself with a certain dignity when she crossed the room to the door to greet him—far more composed than the saloon girls whom he knew in the towns along the Western frontier.

Maggie stood an inch or so shorter than Harper’s six feet and could look him square in the eyes. It was the gaze of a sweetheart greeting her favorite beau. However, there was sadness under the plaster of rice powder, shadow, and rouge. It showed in the faint creases in the powder surrounding her eyes and mouth. Her dark blue gown accentuated her pale skin. Her golden-yellow tresses wound into tight, vertical loops running in a band surrounding her head before catching in a large, dark blue bow at the back of her head. From the bow, ribbons and hair flowed past her shoulders. Her ball gown shimmered in the light from the gas lamps, with white-laced trim at the sleeves, bodice, waist, and hem.

What’s y’all’s name, Lieutenant?

James Harper, ma’am. Harper raised Maggie’s offered hand to his lips while he bowed from his shoulders.

Come with me.

He allowed her to guide him by the elbow to the left, away from dozens of junior officers filling the center of the room. Harper caught a subtle flowery scent of Maggie’s perfume under the wisp of bluish cigar smoke casting hazy mystery around the partygoers. On the open floor, each cluster of officers hovered around a nucleus of one or two women, all younger than Maggie, each done up in evening gowns.

The handbill which had appeared in Harper’s room this afternoon promised an: "All-you-can-eat buffet with a haunch of the ‘most tender of muttons’, an open bar, and the company of ‘the most beauteous of courtisanes from the finest establishments within the Jackson Purchase" –with a reminder that the officers conduct themselves as gentlemen. All provided courtesy of that most loyal of Yankee businessmen, Mister Franklin Bosley of Paducah, Kentucky.

Businessman, restauranteur, whore monger, smuggler. Bosley was all that but Harper was out to prove Bosley was more.

After drinking a pint of fine Tennessee whiskey alone in his room this afternoon, Harper had decided to hell with protocol. If a court-martial waited for him in Paducah, he might as well take advantage of the opportunities fate provided tonight. Attending would also allow him to observe Bosley’s operation first-hand. Bosley was a traitor, and Harper would do something about that if no one else would. He owed it to the men who had died already because of Bosley’s spy ring.

Maggie led him to a woman with alert dark eyes and complexion; a petite, bow-shaped mouth; and long, walnut-colored hair cascading in well-formed waves across the scooped bosom of her pale green gown. A major accompanied her who examined Harper’s uniform with puzzlement. He was the senior military man present. Harper could not see Bosley among the party-goers.

Under the major’s stern gaze, Harper quickly assessed his situation. The bourbon he drank earlier did not seem to affect his abilities. Certainly, his face and insides were warmer than normal, however, his vision remained sharp and without dizziness. He could not smell any alcohol about himself, but a drinker rarely could. Maggie had not reacted to the odor; however, as a paid escort, she would avoid any sign of rejection. He should attend to his speech in order to avoid slurring while he watched the reactions of those around him. With all his other problems with the army, he did not need a reputation for drunkenness.

Harper’s attention turned to the dark-haired beauty. Although younger than Maggie and only standing to Harper’s chin, her classic features contrasted with the youthful appearance of the women who drew the attention of Oglesbys’ junior officers. Like the major, her gaze revealed her puzzlement.

Under the scrutiny of the major and his escort, Harper resisted the instinct to brush at his uniform. Nothing he could do now would remove the blood stains and the powder burns.

Maggie twisted her body so her shoulder interposed between Harper and the woman with the walnut hair. "James Harper, I would like to introduce Mademoiselle Eleanor. She indicated the walnut-haired woman with an open hand. Eleanor is our hostess for tonight."

The whore madam. Harper nodded to Maggie before addressing Eleanor. "Tout plaisir est pour moi. I should have guessed Ma’amselle hosted tonight’s party. You’re certainly one of the most beautiful of the ladies here." Harper’s poor pronunciation of college French reflected the fifteen years since he had left school, including almost a decade spent mostly alone on the prairies and in the wilds of the Nebraska-Dakota Territory.

Eleanor smiled. "O! Tres gallant, Lieutenant ’Ar-paire."

The walnut-haired woman’s French accent sounded natural. She did not pull away when he spoke, so he probably did not project a heavy scent of alcohol.

Eleanor offered Harper her hand and performed a short curtsy. You should spend more time with the other ladies, Lieutenant. You might find I am quite plain.

Harper touched Eleanor’s hand to his lips as he bowed to match her curtsy. She used the same perfume as Maggie: foreign, expensive. When he rose, he glanced at Maggie with a wink. "As I said, ma’amselle, one of the most beautiful."

Maggie blushed under the rice-powder before she deployed a fan to cover her cheeks.

Eleanor watched the exchange between Harper and Maggie. "My! Are you not the char-maire, monsieur." With her eyelids lowered, Eleanor nodded slightly in Maggie’s direction before she continued with Harper.

In the corner of his eye, Harper thought he saw the tall blonde give the slightest of nods, the sign that the whore madam approved Maggie’s choice of customer for the evening. That was fine with Harper. Maggie had a confidence about her which intrigued Harper.

"Lieutenant ’Ar-pair, are y’all acquainted with Major ’otaling?" Eleanor’s accent contained an odd mix of French and Southern, delicate and beautiful to the ear.

Hotaling. The major offered his hand which Harper shook. What’s your unit, Harper?

Harper faced the major. First Iowa Mounted Rifles, sir.

"You did realize this was a dress-uniform event, didn’t you, Lieutenant? Hotaling’s gaze covered Harper from head to foot. Is this the best you could do?"

Harper adopted a more sober expression, eyes pinched in the corners, lips tight and straight. "This is the best I could do, sir. I’ve only escaped from a Reb prison a week ago and ain’t had time to sit for a fittin’." The hard edge to his voice mirrored Harper’s feelings about how the United States’ Army had treated him since his escape from Nashville.

Hotaling remained silent for a few moments. When he spoke, his eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. How long did the Rebs hold you?

A week. Harper thought of a ploy which might draw out the loyalties of the two women. Our keepers murdered two of my men before a different officer wrote us paroles. He watched the two women. Maggie’s horror appeared genuine with eyes wide open and her jaw partially lowered. Eleanor’s eyebrows drew down, her lips pinched to one side. Harper focused on Eleanor. They forced my men to run a gauntlet and killed them for no good reason except some sport.

His trick had worked. Maggie showed no sympathy for the Rebels while Eleanor was sensitive to unfavorable stories about the enemy.

Eleanor regained her party face. "Well, it must have been simply ’orree-ble for you, Lieutenant. She folded her hand under Major Hotaling’s arm and perched it in his elbow. I hope you are sufficiently reco-vaire?"

"Yes, ma’amselle. I expect so."

Her voice remained calm but a vein in Eleanor’s neck began to pulse close to the skin which let Harper know she did not enjoy the turn the conversation had taken. Eleanor looked up at Hotaling. Major, I am so disappointed we could not entertain General Grant and his officers.

It is a shame, yes. Hotaling gazed down at her. I hope you are not too disappointed with my company.

Maggie fluttered her fan. Also, it is a pity the colonels could not stay.

Ah, yes. The business of the army, miss. You understand. Hotaling lowered his voice. They are both married men.

I would ’ave liked to chat with them for a while, though. Eleanor turned. Is that not right Maggie, de-ah?

Ya might learn much from such senior officers. Harper’s voice carried an intentional, tiny accusation. He could guess why this woman with the Southern accent wanted to chat with the two most senior officers at Donelson. He should push her harder to see her reaction. Harper faced Hotaling. Major, did I tell you, when I was a prisoner, I saw the strangest thing.

Oh, what was that? The words hung flat in the air while Hotaling scanned the room behind Harper.

Harper faced Eleanor. "Well, apparently, even in the midst of an evacuation, the Reb commanders host their very own soirées, much like this one." He watched Eleanor’s face for a reaction but she kept her composure, the only indication his words had any effect: a slight hardening of the muscles around the corners of her eyes. She was a cool one.

Maggie’s reaction lacked Eleanor’s subtlety. Her eyes went wide open and she flipped open her fan to hide everything below.

Truly? Hotaling glanced at Eleanor and back at Harper. Have you been drinking, Lieutenant?

No, sir. Harper glanced at Hotaling, but fixed his stare back on Eleanor. Not much. Harper pressed on. The women travel in a riverboat, then stay the night right in the headquarters building.

Hotaling frowned and shook his head. Nonsense. Who would let them into their headquarters itself?

Maggie glanced at Eleanor before adopting the madam’s composed, fixed stare at Harper.

"Ma’amselle, I thought I saw your ladies arrive yesterday by riverboat. Was that you?"

"You know it was, Lieutenant ’Ar-pair. We hold passes from District Headquarters to travel on the river. Any loyal merchant can get them." Eleanor’s response confirmed that most, maybe all, of these women had gone to Forrest’s headquarters.

Eleanor stared back at Harper for a moment before she chuckled. "Why, Monsieur ’Ar-paire. Do y’all think I am a spy?" She batted her eyelashes in a practiced tease.

Her tease did not have the intended effect of embarrassing him. He had seen that parlor trick too many times. Still, this was not the time to reveal everything he knew about their trip to Nashville. "No, ma’amselle. Of course not. I have no reason to doubt the loyalties of any of these lovely ladies." He bowed. In spite of spending most of his life in the wilds, he could play the game, too.

Eleanor’s faced reddened and her lips pursed. "I am as loyal to the Union as you, monsieur." She flourished the front of her skirt with her hand when she spoke.

"Of course ya are, ma’amselle. I hope you can forgive my confusion after seeing all of you in Nashville."

Hotaling took a half-step toward Harper. "You seem very confused, Lieutenant." He straightened his spine in an attempt to tower over Harper.

The four stood in silence for a few moments.

The irritation left Eleanor’s face, replaced by a taunting smirk. "Tell me, Lieutenant ’Ar-paire." Eleanor looked around the room with faux-worried eyes. "Do y’all know any spy-catchers in this room, monsieur? My young ladies may be ve’y dangerous. We must catch them as soon as we can because they are such a truly great threat to Monsieur Lincoln."

"I would guess that these women could be a very great danger to any young man, ma’amselle. They are all so beautiful."

Eleanor stared at him, her face reddening again.

Harper spoke to head off the venom he saw rising in her face. "A danger to any young man’s heart, ma’amselle. Their heart. That is what I meant."

Eleanor let out a snort. "Maggie, here, would be la prima séductrice. Eleanor pointed across the room to a girl in an emerald-green gown whose bright red hair reached nearly to her waist. And young Katie, there, could be la grande saboteuse, ve’y skilled with dynamite. Eleanor’s eyes sparkled when she looked back at Harper. The rest could be my tireur d'élite, expert sharpshooters, non?" She formed a pistol with her fingers and pointed it at Harper.

Harper watched the hammer-thumb fall and smiled. I believe they could accomplish anything you directed. That could be why Eleanor and Bosley selected each of the women for this floating spy ring.

No one spoke for a few moments before Harper broke the quiet. "Ma’amselle, did I tell ya the officer responsible for our paroles was an Acadian? He came from Texas." There would be time in Paducah to prove Ma’amselle Eleanor to be a spy.

How interesting. Eleanor did not act very interested when she shifted her glance from Harper to Maggie. "I am French Creole. Do y’all know the diffe’ence, monsieur?"

"I believe so, ma’amselle."

Eleanor focused back on Harper. "I did come north from La Nouvelle-Orléans, but it was a ve’y long time ago." Eleanor fluttered her fan and looked away.

"You’ve retained your beautiful French accent so well, ma’amselle."

"Again, so gallant, Lieutenant. Now, I am a Yankee through-and-through. She saluted with her free hand. Bravo pour l’Union, oui?"

She was a Yankee who probably had visited Bedford Forrest’s headquarters.

Will you be with us long, Lieutenant? Hotaling actually looked down his nose at Harper, even though both men were the same height.

Harper stood straighter to bring his eye-level even with Hotaling’s We’ll be leavin’ for Fort Henry in a few days. I want to recover any damaged rifles we lost durin’ the battle last month. The leg wound from the battle at Belmont began to throb and Harper shifted his weight to his right leg. In the meantime, if there’s a boat from here to Paducah, we’ll take it. Otherwise, when we’re done searchin’, we’ll take what we find to Fort Henry and board a boat there.

Hotaling leaned slightly toward Harper, brows furrowed. What is so special about the rifles that you can’t manage with Army-issued muskets?

Harper glanced at the two women and nodded before he faced Hotaling to answer. They’re Sharps, Major. Very hard to replace now with demand being so high.

Hotaling nodded. Ah, I see.

Besides, my brother bought them for us and he’s holdin’ me accountable. He glanced at the two women to include them in a conversation which they must find very boring.

Umm. Hotaling paused to look at the blood on Harper’s uniform. If you’re crossing to Fort Henry… He raised his gaze to Harper’s face. What will you do if there’s no transportation to Fort Henry?

We’ll march. It so happens, I stole our horses back from the Rebs when I escaped.

Maggie and Eleanor stopped waving their fans and focused their attention on Harper.

Hotaling’s eyebrows rose. Remarkable. He appeared to be reassessing his opinion of Harper in light of this new information. After a few moments, the major smiled. Bully for you, Harper. Good man. He used his free hand to indicate Harper’s uniform, top-to-bottom. But if for some reason you are delayed, Lieutenant, visit our quartermaster. An officer cannot walk around dressed that way. His hand stopped to point at the blood stain on Harper’s chest from the Rebel captain Harper had knifed during the counterattack on February fifteenth.

Yes, sir. He would need to find a decent tailor before he could buy a replacement uniform and with the threat of a court-martial, Harper was not yet convinced it would be worth the expense. Hotaling must own uniforms to spare since his regiment was one of the first to skedaddle during the recent battle. There was little risk Hotaling ruined his uniform during the battle.

Hotaling turned to Eleanor and placed his free hand over hers. "Anyway, I am delighted the colonels are not here, madamoiselle. Now, I have you all to myself."

Maggie asked, Are there no ladies in this town, Major?

Most fled when the Reb army arrived. Those who stayed behind would not be very good company for the soldiers, I’m afraid. The sort of women whose age or condition would leave them with nothing to fear while living among hundreds of energetic young men.

Eleanor, returned her gaze from surveying the room. "Please excuse us, Lieutenant ’Ar-paire. I must see to our other guests." She used her leverage on Hotaling’s arm to aim him at a group of younger officers.

Maggie curtseyed. Of course, Eleanor.

"Au revior, Monsieur ’Ar-pair."

"Au revoir, Ma’amselle Eleanor."

For now.

****

Corporal Gustav Magnusson thought he heard music on the wind.

The afternoon sun had slipped under the cloud cover and lay low on the horizon when he and Private Johnny Cooke, Iowa Volunteers, directed their mounts up the hill. It stretched their shadows a dozen yards in front of them on the gentle slope. When they approached the town, he realized that the piano music flowed down to them from the Dover Inn on their right, the melodic tunes Magnusson had often heard coming from the parlors of people in the city when they wanted to dance. Magnusson’s plan to exercise the horses had been delayed by the scattered rain and snow earlier in the day and now they passed by the hotel party to reach the stables at Fort Donelson before darkness fell.

Hey, Gus, do ya think they’ll let us go back to Iowa for a spell?

Iowa? Hell, no. I’d rather be goin’ the other way, back to the Army. The Rebs are runnin’ like be-jesus and I want to be there when the war ends, ya know? Staying with the army would also avoid another confrontation with his father who had twice attempted to bring Magnusson back home.

The shortened ride-out had taken them to the hillside where Magnusson had led the Company B skirmishers with their Sharps rifles for the first time. They had continued to ride along the Rebel outer works until they reached the left portion of the line. The Rebs had attempted to break through Grant’s encirclement at this point, aiming south to reach the road to Nashville. Across the valley, they stared for a while at the low ridge where the First Iowa Mounted Infantry had helped turn back the attack. Eventually, they reached the extreme left of the Rebel trenches and rode down to the ford where the lunatic Rebel captain had captured him, Cooke, Harper and two others. The sight brought to mind his friends who had died in Nashville.

Well, I ain’t in all that great a rush to get back to the war, eh? Cooke stared up the hill ahead of them, alive with new, greening grass. If’n I have to be on parole, I’d druther go home, instead of stayin’ in Paducah doin’ nothin’ along with a few thousand other soldiers. His dark complexion and wiry build contrasted with Magnusson’s oversized bulk, though Cooke stood as tall as the average man.

Cooke might have some scheme brewing if he wanted to return to Iowa so badly. Going home definitely was not cowardice. Within Cooke’s small frame resided a physical toughness which had carried the man through the worst of what they had experienced so far in the war: the summer heat in Missouri, the snowy fields at Donelson, and the Rebel prison. At twenty-three, Cooke had a worldly cunning Magnusson was only beginning to appreciate.

A-yeh. Maybe. Magnusson felt as impatient as Cooke about the orders to wait out the exchange of prisoners in Paducah. Now nineteen, Magnusson had answered the call for ninety-day volunteers in April 1861 and re-enlisted three months later with most of the other First Iowa men. Without his men around him, Magnusson did not know what he would do if the stay in Paducah lasted more than a week or two. I wonder what the other fellas are doin’.

One reason why the shortened ride came as a relief for Magnusson was the behavior of the horses. While his own large black gelding, Nightspeeder, behaved, he had made a mistake when he tethered Harper’s gray mare to his own saddle. Santee had fussed and pulled away for the entire ride, constantly trying to take the lead and needing to be pulled back into place.

Who’re ya talkin’ about? Cooke rode Heather, the horse of Magnusson’s former skirmish team partner, since Cooke’s own mare, General Pillow, had not yet recovered from a gunshot wound received at Nashville. A sorrel mare with no name followed Heather. Joe Davis had never taken the time to name her before he died.

Ya know, Charlie Gettings and the other skirmishers.

I couldn’t guess. I don’t think Captain McKinsey likes havin’ the skirmishers around.

The reactions of the other three horses to Santee’s fussing forced Magnusson to a conclusion. All of the horses knew Santee led the tiny herd. Even Nightspeeder tried to fall-in behind her, in spite of Magnusson’s directions. Magnusson realized that he was working against their instinct, and that made his job harder.

At least we ain’t dead or in a prison somewhere, eh. Magnusson slapped Nightspeeder’s shoulder to distract him from Santee. Sooner or later, we’ll be back in the fight and not workin’ on a farm day after day. He had lost his guilt about abandoning his father’s plans for him and maybe being expelled from the Society of Friends. Harper was right: under Natural Law, males left their parents to make their own way in the world. He had no desire or need to return home only to listen to his father’s disappointment.

At the top of the slope, their current course would take them into the center of Dover town. Magnusson wanted to avoid a confrontation with any local Secesh so he directed Nightspeeder to the left in order to skirt past the houses.

Yeah, eh. Cooke brushed a beetle from his trouser leg before looking back at Magnusson. Odd, ain’t it?

What is?

We’re gonna spend all that work tryin’ to find them rifles. Harper wants us to fix ’em. ’Cept we ain’t allowed to keep ’em or to shoot ’em. How does he think we can test ’em if’n we cain’t shoot them?

We’ll think of somethin’. The legalities of repairing the rifles were the least of Magnusson’s concerns at the moment. The scenery around them had taken on the reddish tones of a partial sunset and the music faded behind them. Dropping into the shadows of the next valley, they found the trail back to Fort Donelson with difficulty.

If ya don’t get to go home, Magnusson said. I expect you’ll find some way to stay busy while we’re in Paducah, eh? Cooke’s fondness for female companionship was a legend among the trained skirmishers. Do ya think the ladies at the saloon will remember ya?

If not, I’ll help them remember. Cooke grabbed his trouser crotch and laughed. There’s a sweet young redhead there who I’d like to git to know a lot better, but she costs too much.

Magnusson shook his head and looked away, across the valley ahead. Although he had been in the army almost a year and fought in three major battles, he was an innocent when it came to intimate knowledge of women. If his family had their way, Magnusson would still work on the farm and would follow his father into a leadership role in the Quaker Meeting at Salem, Iowa. In the normal course of events, he would choose a proper wife in a year or two from among those few women who were of marrying age within the Society of Friends. Most members of the Salem Meeting had decided Prudence Kitchen should be such a wife. They had his entire life all planned out for him.

What’ll happen if they don’t let Harper come back to the battalion? Cooke’s question intruded into Magnusson’s memories of home.

I don’t know. Monroe’s supposed to be on the way out, so maybe Harper has a chance. I heard the governor wants to replace Monroe because he’s a Democrat.

Well, it figures, eh? Cooke spit into the new grass alongside of the trail. I won’t miss him.

Ya know, I’d rather be workin’ for Harper than Monroe or McKinsey. Magnusson pulled Santee’s tether tight against his hip to prevent her from taking the lead for the hundredth time. I think Monroe would get all of us killed so’s he could get his name in the papers.

Do ya know if’n he’s the reason we hafta stay in Paducah instead of goin’ home?

I hadn’t thought of it that way. Magnusson knew of the bad blood between Harper and the battalion commander. It might be.

I wonder what Cap’n McKinsey will recommend from his investigation.

Cooke and Magnusson had been the only witnesses in a court-of-inquiry held by Captain Brice McKinsey after the group escaped from Nashville. Magnusson had answered the questions truthfully, as had Cooke. Nevertheless, Magnusson still held misgivings about the results of that Inquiry.

I can guess, given he wanted us to say Harper ordered us to steal back the horses. Magnusson turned to Cooke. I saw McKinsey’s face when we found it in the transcripts, eh? He wasn’t happy when we corrected the words to say we went back on our own accord.

So why didn’t he do anythin’?

Don’t ya remember? He tried, but the sergeant from legal wouldn’t let him.

Their animals were not the standard army stock. The Nebraska and Dakota Sioux captured them on the open range and traded with Harper’s brother for cash or supplies. The brother oversaw their taming on his ranch near Sergeant’s Bluff — tamed in the Indian style, not broken in the normal way. As a result, each horse kept its separate personality. Harper had warned them they would need to become friends with their animal the same way they did with each other; maybe even closer.

Magnusson knew to trust the instinct of these horses and their contrariness on this ride-out had reminded him of their talents. With the fort in sight, he released Santee and she immediately assumed her natural place in the lead. The other animals followed her in single file as they had so often in the past. Their mustang heritage came to the fore as each horse made its way down the steep slope without guidance from the riders.

With no need to lead Heather, Cooke picked up their conversation. It’s because of Billy Monroe, eh?

Yah, I know. Magnusson paused, hesitant to reveal his thoughts to Cooke. Yet, he needed to make those thoughts known, even if it went against what everyone believed. I can understand now how someone would make a mistake like that, the way Harper did. He waited until Nightspeeder stopped to drink at the creek at the bottom of the valley. I don’t think anyone knows what they would do until it happens to them. Ya know how it gets real confusin’ in a battle sometimes.

When Heather came alongside Nightspeeder, Cooke twisted to face Magnusson. You wasn’t gonna leave Billy Monroe behind. Shit, ya told Harper to go to hell, didn’t ya? Cooke’s face showed the scorn most of the men felt for Harper after the incident during the battle at Belmont, Missouri.

Magnusson paused to consider whether he should share his thoughts with Cooke. I don’t think Harper knew I could carry him and not slow us down, ya know. He recalled the weight of Billy Monroe on his shoulders. Ya know how it was in those cornfields. We couldn’t see worth a damn and there was shootin’ all around us.

"You wouldn’t leave nobody behind."

I didn’t have to make the decision. Harper did, didn’t he? I don’t know what I would do if I was responsible for everyone getting back alive. I’m not so sure I could’ve done it any different.

After their time together in Nashville, Magnusson knew the mistrust in the battalion against Harper was unfair. "What I do know for sure is he couldda got away from Nashville by himself and he didn’t. Instead, he got paroles for all of us." The men needed to know they could trust Lieutenant Harper. Magnusson would set them straight when they all returned to the battalion.

Rain began to fall. Magnusson spurred Nightspeeder out of the valley behind Santee and into the Fort Donelson stables while the rest of the small herd followed.

****

Harper gave a short bow while he watched Hotaling and Eleanor depart for the nearest group. The young officers surrounded two young women, one a beauty with auburn hair and the other a much younger woman, tall, with straight waist-length red hair—the one Eleanor had joked was a dynamite expert. Harper attempted to look more closely to determine if the girl was Baby Red, the girl who had made his last night of leave so pleasant back in January. It certainly could be her, although she now carried herself with more refinement and confidence than seven weeks ago.

After she rose from her curtsy at Eleanor’s departure, Maggie pushed her hand against Harper’s side until she could rest it in his elbow. Y’all must be quite brave, James. She followed Harper’s gaze and used her free hand on Harper’s cheek to pull his attention away from the redhead.

Maybe. Harper took a final glance before turning his full attention to Maggie. Mostly, it’s experience more than bravery.

What do you mean?

Before the war, I served as a United States deputy marshal. I’m used to those sort of situations.

How very interestin’. Where did y’all do your marshallin’?

Along the Missouri River. Harper glanced back at the young redhead. Who is that girl?

Maggie looked across the room, sighed, and frowned. She’s our Miss Katie. This is her first trip with us. Maggie watched Katie for a moment. I’m supposed to be watchin’ her if she needs help, but she has so many gentlemen. She’s always so popular. She turned to face him. Would y’all like to meet her?

He watched Maggie’s gaze shift back and forth between his eyes, searching. In this moment, the sadness reappeared on her face bordering on desperation. He was going to bed this woman tonight and there was no need to upset her. Besides, her hidden sadness made him curious. Certainly, as the oldest whore at the party, she might feel uncertain of herself. Harper wanted to know her story, so he grinned when he met her