‘I suppose he thought nobody would mind,’ Will says.
Mrs. Greenhow looks calmly out at the street, but she don’t fool me.
After a bit, she turns, clasps her gloved hands together like praying, and gives me a nod. Then she raises her eyebrows at me and maybe I don’t fool her none either.
‘HEY, ROSS!’ SULLY yells when he comes across the prison yard for supper. ‘You heard how they’ve got a woman prisoner here?’ he says, looking right at me, and I wish Jeremiah weren’t off on his guard duty.
I give him a narrow look. ‘Sure did. We just guarded her.’
‘What was she like?’ Sully asks.
‘Can’t really say. She’s got mourning clothes on, but she don’t seem sad. She’s got a clever look about her too. Acts like you’d think a Southern lady would.’
‘I was guarding with Thomas Stakely and he heard she’s a real saucy thing, got a mouth on her. Kind of like you,’ Sully says. ‘He said how she sings “Dixie” real loud so the guards and anyone on the street can hear.’
‘I didn’t hear one peep out of her,’ I say.
Sully shakes his head, ‘You ever heard of taking your own child along to prison?’
‘Maybe she ain’t got another place to keep that child,’ Will says. ‘Being a widow.’
The bite of sowbelly in my mouth, the whole meal, goes sour. I wonder about Rebel Rose and why she ain’t got any folks who’d take her daughter, if there is anything more alone than a widow. I wonder if Hiram is the only one to heckle her, if any of her guards have done worse. Then I think on the notes she was writing, the way she looked out on the street.
‘What are they going to do with her?’ I ask.
‘Spying is treason,’ Will says.
‘Ain’t that a hanging offense?’ Jimmy asks, and I can’t help but look over at the gallows.
‘Oh, they ain’t hanging no woman for this thing. She’s been passing gossip, is all,’ Henry says.
That gets my dander up, even if what that lady spy done is wrong, like he thinks she ain’t smart enough to do more than gossip. I wonder about that candle Mrs. Greenhow had burning, her sitting there watching the street. I swallow the lump of sowbelly in my mouth quick and say, ‘Seems to me a lady don’t get arrested for gossip if there ain’t something to it.’
Will says, ‘I heard sometimes those guards out on the street see her waving to people, like maybe she’s still passing messages. I never would have thought—’
‘You think a woman can’t fight for her country?’ It comes flying out of my mouth, even as I wonder if I ought to go to Captain with what I saw. Jimmy looks at me, his mouth dropped open.
‘It isn’t usual, that’s all I mean,’ Will answers, but his words are careful, like he is measuring something he don’t like in my voice. ‘Can you imagine after what Hiram—’
‘Plenty of things that ain’t usual ain’t wrong,’ I say.
‘I heard they found some ladies in soldier’s clothes in the Second Maryland,’ Jimmy says, and it is my turn to look at him with my mouth gaping.
‘What happened to them?’ I ask.
Jimmy says, ‘They drummed them out of the Regiment with their heads shaved and then they clapped them in jail.’
‘How’d they get found out?’ I ask. The look Mrs. Greenhow gave me flashes in my mind, and I know right then I ain’t going to Captain with anything. That woman can’t be trusted if she knows what I am.
‘Don’t know,’ Jimmy says, and shrugs.
Henry looks at me and says, ‘Oh, a woman couldn’t stay a soldier long and not get caught. They should have made them put on dresses and go back home.’
‘Being a soldier isn’t a job for women,’ Will says.
‘Surely ain’t,’ Sully says, looking at me. My thoughts go dark and I wish Jeremiah were here. I take another bite of meat to keep from saying anything.
‘Isn’t a job for any of us, really,’ Will says, and gives me a look I can’t read.
CHAPTER
17
FORT CORCORAN, VIRGINIA: JUNE 1862
The relief of being back at Fort Corcoran after the week of prison guard has long since worn off with weeks of drilling when I decide I ought to send word home, even if my folks ain’t ever going to write me a kind word again. With Jeremiah sitting at our fire and the water on for coffee, I pull out my papers and write:
June 8, 1862
Virginia
Dear Papa, Mama, and Betsy,
I think You don’t like me to Write before now, but I thought You should Know how I fare.
I liked to hear about the Farm in your Letter. I want to know how that Spotted Calf does and if the Fields are planted and what in (Wheat or Potatoes or maybe Corn) and have you had Help to do it?