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A RIGHT HONORABLE Soldier

By Mrs. Jane Hadley.

IN WHICH battle blows up Charley’s secret.

XXVII

Eight miles outside of Somerset, Kentucky
Sunday, January 19, 1862

“Charley!” 

Henry was shouting in her ear, his hand on her shoulder. He wasn’t holding her back, though, and his voice carried a thread of encouragement that bolstered her, made her brace one boot on the lower rail of the fence as she drove the butt of her weapon into her shoulder and fired at a Rebel swiftly sharpening into focus as he ran toward her. 

There was a kickback to her shoulder, the brace of Henry behind her, and the fall of the enemy under the feet of his fellows. One Reb stooped over him, but quickly gave him up for dead. And Charley wasn’t sure if it had been her bullet or Robinson’s or Hower’s, but it didn’t matter because the man went down and she crowed, even as another greyback filled in the line and crashed his weapon down on the fence before her. 

Blades flashed and crashed together. Fire sparked and combustion rang in her ears so that she couldn’t tell what was the sound and what was the echo. Henry fired rounds over Charley’s shoulder as she slapped bayonets away with her own, pushing herself up on the rail of the fence and driving the enemy down in hand-to-hand combat no less dramatic than the demonstration Sergeant Schmöckel had made at Fort Snelling two months and a lifetime ago. 

She drove her blade through one fellow’s hat and cut another’s neck where it connected with his shoulder. It was a haphazard fight. None of the men were particularly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and the grappling was sloppy and awkward and deadly. The enemy brandished their guns like clubs and spears, not bothering to load them. Many of them had flintlock muskets, which explained why they hadn’t been firing fully. The rain must’ve drowned their powder pans. 

A fellow barreled down on Charley, using superior height to swing his musket like a bat toward her head. 

Henry’s rifle intercepted, and she found herself squeezed out of the front line as he struggled against the strength of the enemy’s blow. 

Charley dropped the butt of her rifle and loaded in faster than she had ever done in her life. Lifting the barrel, she pointed the bayonet at the enemy’s face and squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed and her eyes somehow managed not to perceive the way the man’s face rended as he crumpled to the ground. 

Another Reb was visible behind him, and Charley shoved her weapon forward, driving the bayonet into him with a soft squish. She shoved a ball of nausea down—strange, that—and struggled to pull her bayonet back out of the body that had draped over the fence rail, trapping her blade at an awkward angle. She squeezed back into the front line as she struggled and managed to retrieve the blade with a sickening fleshy sound as Henry wiped blood from his pale face with a shaky arm. 

⸻

XXVIII

It could have been five minutes or five hours. Henry lost time in the rote of battle. Gunpowder smoke stung his nostrils and his breath came fast and short, whether from fear or effort he wasn’t sure. Both, most likely. There was no time to think, no time to consider the best way forward. There was nothing but desperate movement, because if he slipped, if he missed, if he didn’t see an imminent threat coming, it would be the end of him. Or worse, of Charley. He had only a vague sense of his comrades but they moved together like one, united in purpose. The only thing that seemed able to stick in his mind was a desperate gratitude to his father and the Turners. He was strong and fast, faster than he’d ever thought possible. His body reacted, and he felt like he was constantly trying to catch up to his hands, to comprehend the bloody work that his body applied itself to with such familiar expediency. 

The fence was at once a monstrous annoyance and a blessed barrier. Bayonets clashed over its top rail, stuck through the rails halfway down. Hower was crouched in one of its zigzag corners, thrusting his bowie knife through a gap and slicing at the knees of the Rebels on the other side.¹ It was not the honorable clash boys fantasized about, of glory and dignity and righteousness. It was dirty, desperate, and fumbling. When Henry ended a life with his own hands, he sort of watched it happen with detached bewilderment, his bowels clenched in panic and his voice a ragged, wild thing he didn’t recognize. He’d spent a year longing for this chance to prove himself, but now that he was here, he didn’t feel like a man. He felt like a feral animal. 

Somewhere off to their right, an unholy roar of voices shook him. In his periphery, he saw a huge mob of men in Union blue charging full tilt at the far end of the enemy troops, barreling without hesitation into the field with bayonets fixed. The Rebel’s left flank scattered like leaves before the force of the furious charge.²

“Is that the Ninth?” Charley shouted in Henry’s direction. 

He felt chilled, but he couldn’t determine whether it was from fear or awe. “Yeah.” 

“Damned Dutch indeed,” she gritted as she took a Rebel’s bayonet blow with her own. Henry sliced the man’s neck below the ear with his own bayonet, and he slumped over another still warm body on the rail. Charley shoved them both off. No time to assess, no time for moralizing. Even if the coffee roiling in his stomach seemed desperate to evacuate. He swallowed and loaded in nine, firing over Charley’s shoulder as she engaged their attention with her bayonet. 

After the Ninth’s charge, the enemy troops thinned considerably. Shouts that sounded like “fall back” ricocheted from the mist and smoke. Some rebel companies retreated together, others just scattered back into the woods. Sergeant Webster stood on the rail a few feet to Charley’s left and relayed orders to mount the fence and charge. His face was sweaty and mud-smeared and the man who had always seemed so soft, so caring, had his face twisted in disgust, in battle-charged fury. He turned to face the remaining enemy soldiers, pointing his rifle, and shouted, “Surrender, you dogs.”³

A Secesh officer was trained under Webster’s aim. His men had gone, or died. Shoot, Henry thought. Shoot now. The Reb straightened, the flat planes of his face stark in disgust as he stared Webster down. He made no reply. 

Charley saw the revolver before Henry did. She scrambled over the fence and dashed toward the Reb. Henry vaulted the fence after her. His heart was choking him as the Rebel took deliberate aim. Charley barreled forward and the Reb fired. Henry’s ears were full of cotton. So was his throat. Charley stumbled and fell. Webster made an animal noise and fired on the Rebel. The greyback took his bullet with honor and proceeded to die. 

The Second Minnesota surged over the fence and pounded down the hill in pursuit of the remaining Rebels scattering into the woods. Henry shouldered against the surge and stood over Charley, a pillar parting a rushing tide of men with a thirst for blood and vengeance. 

“Charley, what the hell were you thinking!?” His ears were ringing. He was shouting at her, probably. “You had a gun! Why didn’t you shoot him?” 

“It wasn’t loaded,” Charley croaked. She pushed herself up on unsteady feet, and Henry caught her round the waist. “Ah, get off.” 

“Smith! Are you alright?” It was Jacob, running and skidding to a stop next to them. Elias, Williamson, and Krüger were at his side. “Osborn is down. What happened?” 

“Osborn?” Henry asked, looking up. Charley managed to flinch out of his arms.

Elias looked back toward the rail. “Yeah, I think that’s what got Webster on that fence. He’s with him now.” 

“Is he dead?” Charley asked, drawn.

“I don’t know.” Jacob was breathless. He gave Charley a glance. “What about you?” 

“I’m fine.” She sort of tipped into Henry’s shoulder. He caught her again, her hair in his face a most familiar and comforting scent. In the strange calm of smoke and mist, the sounds of battle ebbing, Henry looked down and saw they were standing in a graveyard. A surge of panic broke through. 

“Charley, you’re hurt,” he sputtered, his hands patting over her uniform, trying to discern whether any of the blood on it was hers. 

“No, I’m not,” she snapped and tried to step away again. She swayed on her feet and put her fingertips to her forehead. 

“I’m just drunk on … battle.” 

“Schlachtwut…” Krüger was saying. Henry’s eyes saw it then. A rip in her sack coat, under her left arm. He snatched her arms and pulled at her buttons. 

“Stop, stop it!” Charley bellowed at him, batting at his hands. They didn’t look like his own. They were smudged with soot and blood and his knuckles were scraped all to hell, though he couldn’t say when that had happened, or how. But those hands managed her brass buttons fine, and he swore when he saw her shirt dyed bright crimson at the armpit.   

“You’re hurt,” Henry said again, stupidly. He looked up, swinging his head around to determine what to do. 

“We have to fall back, go to the hospital tent,” Jacob said. “Come on, we have to find Webster. He’s already taking Osborn, I’m sure of it.”  

“No, we can’t!” 

Henry looked up at Charley. Her countenance was a fierce grimace, cheeks smudged with soot and blood. She was gripping her coat together in one hand and looking at each man of their squad like a threat. 

“I will not be sent back now. Never. I’d rather die.” 

Henry’s stomach dropped to his feet. What had he done? He hadn’t revealed her to everyone. He hadn’t secured her doom. Had he? He looked to Krüger. At Elias, and Williamson. Jacob had his teeth gritted. But none of them appeared to be shocked or appalled. 

“No one’s sending you anywhere,” Elias placated. “I’m sure it’s just a flesh wound.”

“If you need stitches, I know how to sew,” Williamson offered.  

“I’ll carry you,” Krüger added. 

Charley looked at Krüger with particular incredulity. “I’m fine. I’ll walk.” 

“No, please Charley. Let us carry you,” Henry heard himself say gently. “Not because you can’t walk, but because it will help if you don’t have to.” 

Charley stared at Henry. Her jaw was set so tight it trembled. He took her hand.

“Please, Charley,” he whispered. “No matter what happens, I’m with you. Remember?” 

Her fingers curled around his. Then, like an avalanche, she fell into him. She pressed her face into his shoulder. “Henry, I thought you were going to die.” 

Henry shook his head, bewildered. He put his hands on her shoulders. “What?” 

“In the battle. I thought you were a goner.” 

Henry looked up at the others. Robinson was sheepish, Williamson amused. Elias laughed. “I told you. The Turner spends too much time learning fancy tricks. Can’t do an honest day’s work to save his life.” 

His ribbing cut through, and the other boys laughed, though not so uproariously as they normally did. Henry scooped Charley up in his arms and lifted her over the fence rails as the rest of the boys climbed over. 

On the other side of the rails, at the edge of the woods, they found Webster. He had Osborn draped over his back, half carrying and half dragging him off the battlefield. The First Sergeant hung like a dead weight. 

“Blessed Mother of God, is he dead?” Jacob exclaimed. He and Elias ran over to Webster, Krüger on their heels. 

Webster turned and saw them. All of a sudden, his drawn expression cracked and he began to cry.

Henry hurried over as quickly as he could with Charley in his arms as Jacob and Elias pulled Osborn’s body off Webster’s back. Webster stumbled, but stayed on his feet and choked on a sob. 

“He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” he gasped. “He needs help.” 

Krüger didn’t hesitate. He pulled Osborn’s arms around his neck and hoisted the man onto his back like his weight was nothing at all. Elias and Jacob helped Henry situate Charley similarly, as it was a mile and half back to camp, while Williamson held Webster up while he caught his breath. The whole squad trudged back toward the camp with their wounded in arms. 

⸻

XXIX

Henry hung back when they reached camp, and Webster and Krüger made a beeline for the hospital tent. He let Charley slide off his back, but she didn’t seem steady without his support. Jacob came up next to him. 

“Schaef, you gotta do it,” he said under his breath. “Look at her.” 

Henry looked down at Charley slouched in the crook of his arm. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her brow furrowed, her breath short and staccato. 

“Charley, I’m going to take you to the hospital tent now.” 

“No,” she grit out. “Don’t. Please.” 

“Why doesn’t he want to go to the hospital tent?” Williamson asked. 

Jacob let out a frustrated sound and dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground in exasperation. 

“Does he not want anyone to see his body?” Williamson asked. 

Henry looked at him sharply. His eyes narrowed. “Yeah…” 

“That’s okay,” Williamson said. “I understand. I can sew. Maybe we take a look at the wound in our tent first?” 

Henry was not sure Williamson did understand, but he followed the boy back to their Sibley tent. Jacob trailed behind. Elias spluttered for a moment, but then followed. 

“Why not just take him to the hospital tent?” Elias demanded. 

“I’m fine,” Charley said weakly. 

“You’re not fine,” Henry replied. He thought fast, then addressed Elias. “He might have to wait, though, especially if it’s not serious. It’s better to tend to the wound quickly.” 

Williamson held the flap of the Sibley tent open. Henry scooped Charley up into his arms and ducked in. When he set Charley on her feet inside, she teetered. 

“Elias, get your gum blanket out, would you,” Henry directed. 

“Aw, come on, he’s gonna get it all covered in blood.” 

“Better his than yours. Come on.” 

Henry helped Charley lie on the gum blanket. She looked so fragile that for a moment, panic shot through him. Had the bullet pierced her lung? Her guts? Had she already spilled too much blood? Then she glared at him and the moment passed. 

“Don’t you dare, Henry Schaefer,” she said. Her eyes were wide, her lips pinched in pain, or fear, or rage at him. 

“Dare what?” Elias scoffed. “Save your life?” 

“Hower,” Williamson said, voice bright as ever. “Go get some yarrow.”⁴

“What?” 

“I seen some, out in the woods, over where we were gathering firewood yesterday.” 

“For what?” 

“To stop the bleeding, of course,” Williamson said. He smiled a little, like he wasn’t sure whether Elias was teasing him.

Elias blinked for a moment then nodded, and ducked out of the tent. 

“Some plant’s going to stop the bleeding?” Jacob asked incredulously.

“My mother used to always put it on skinned knees and elbows,” Williamson replied. “Didn’t yours?” 

Henry and Jacob exchanged looks. “No.” 

Williamson gave them a confused frown, then crouched down next to Charley. “It’s great medicine. I used it for my stomach when we drank that bad water, and it helped Smith get over his cold back in Lebanon Junction.” 

“Sounds too good to be true,” Jacob muttered. 

Henry crouched down beside Williamson. Charley was glaring at him like he was a snake looking to bite her. 

“Why don’t I just rip his shirt up the side?” Henry said tentatively. “I think the wound is under his arm.” 

“Good idea.” 

Henry flipped the sack coat out of the way. On her back, her breasts weren’t as obvious, but anyone looking would notice. He left the sack coat covering her right side as best he could. He pulled Charley’s shirt gently out of her waistband. She watched him with eyes hard and painful. He pulled on the edge of the shirt at the side seam, but it didn’t budge. 

“Here,” Jacob said. Henry looked up and accepted his jackknife. He made a small cut into the fabric. 

“Your knife is dull, Jake.” 

“I know. Rusty too, come to think of it.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t use it near an open wound,” Williamson pointed out. 

Henry nodded. He had been hoping to carefully slice the shirt open, so as not to reveal anything, but there was nothing for it. He gripped the shirt in his hands and yanked the seam open, snapping threads all the way up. He was pretty confident he didn’t reveal anything, especially since Williamson and Jacob were both on Charley’s right side, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Henry choked on his inhale. It was a mess of blood under her arm. 

“Here, put your arm over your head,” Henry managed to say, gently guiding Charley’s arm up. Charley gasped. 

“I think I mighta broke a rib,” she winced. Henry gingerly released her arm, then carefully folded the fabric aside, just enough so that they could see the wound. 

Williamson got up on his knees and poured his water canteen over the wound. Charley gritted her teeth, her breath fast. Congealing blood cleared enough that they could see the deep cut running along Charley’s rib. 

“I think it grazed him,” Williamson said. “It doesn’t look like the bullet’s in there anywhere. Does it feel like it is?” 

Charley growled. “How should I know? It hurts like hell. Does that help?” 

“Yeah, you did probably break a rib,” Williamson said thoughtfully.

The tent flap opened again, and Elias said, “Williamson, what the hell does yarrow look like?” 

Williamson looked up at him with a curl to his mouth Henry had never seen before, like he thought Elias was saying something extraordinarily stupid and couldn’t understand why. He gave an exasperated sigh and got to his feet. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Then he looked over his shoulder. “Schaefer, grab a clean shirt and hold it firm over the wound until I get back. He’s still bleeding.” 

The tent closed again. Henry scrambled to get his pack off his back. 

“Can’t you use his shirt? It’s already ruined,” Jacob said. 

“No, a clean one. I don’t want to risk any infection,” Henry replied. He didn’t know much about wounds, but he knew that much. He pulled his clean shirt from the bottom of his knapsack and used Jacob’s jackknife again to hack one sleeve off at the elbow. He bundled it up and pressed it on Charley’s wound. 

“Ouch!” she cried. 

“Here, put your arm down, hold it there.” 

“Shut up, Robinson, you damned piece of horseshit.” 

“What did I do?” 

“Did you tell Williamson?” 

“No! I … how dare you? I didn’t tell a soul! I swore on my mother’s grave, how could you even think—” 

“Leave off it! He’s got a full view of my chest, and he hasn’t said nothing. He’s the dimmest boy in the entire world. If he didn’t already know, there’s no way he wouldn’t be surprised to learn it now.” 

“Clearly not that dim, since he’s the only one who knows about yarrow.” Henry lifted his eyebrows and pressed his mouth into a thin line. 

“Yarrow, that’s nonsense,” Jacob flapped his hand. “You’re taking your life in your hands, Smith, and you need to know I think it’s damn foolish.” 

“Oh, thank you very much for your concern. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I CARE WHAT YOU THINK?!” 

“Don’t shout, Charley, come on. You’re hurt.” It looked like it hurt to shout like that too. 

“Henry, just you wait, I’ve got words for you too—” 

Henry bristled. “You’re wounded! Stop this. Just let us help you!” 

“I don’t want your help.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’d rather die. I know.” Henry growled. “Over my dead body.” 

“Can you two stop acting like Romeo and Juliet for two minutes please?” 

Henry and Charley both turned and snapped, “Shut up, Jacob!” 

“We’re back!” Williamson sailed into the tent with Elias on his heels. His hands were clutching handfuls of a wilted, weedy-looking plant, its leaves a little yellowed but still bushy with fronds. He looked between Henry, Jacob, and Charley and lifted his brows. “Excuse me.” 

Henry and Jacob moved aside. 

“Nice bandage, Schaefer,” Williamson said. “Here, Smith, open up.” He proffered a few fronds at her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Charley snapped. 

“Chew the leaves up.” 

“Why?” 

“So I can put them on your wound.” 

“I’m hurt, you do it.” 

“That’s precisely why you have to do it.” Williamson waited, but she didn’t open her mouth. He gave a long sigh. “You don’t want to get an infection. But you can’t infect yourself, can you? Whatever’s inside you is already there.” 

Charley glowered for a moment longer. Then she opened her mouth. Williamson merrily stuffed her mouth full of delicate fronds. They looked remarkably like dill, to Henry’s untrained eye. 

She chewed and glowered and chewed some more. 

“That’s good,” Williamson smiled and put his hand out for her to spit the masticated leaves out. 

“Ugh, disgusting,” Elias said. 

Williamson gestured for Henry to lift his makeshift bandage, which he did. Charley put her arm gingerly up over her head again, and used the other to clutch the opposite edge of her sack coat tightly over her chest.  Williamson patted the leaves down over her wound in an old-fashioned poultice. 

“There,” he said, sitting back on his heels. He looked at Henry expectantly. 

“What now?” Henry asked, feeling rather stupid. 

“Oh,” Williamson said with a start. “Right, sorry.” He stood up. “Come on, fellows, let’s go.” 

“What?” Jacob said. 

“Why?” Elias added on top of him. 

“So Schaefer can bind his wound,” Williamson said, again with that exasperated tone as though it were obvious. “He’ll want some privacy, I should think, since it’ll need to go around his whole chest. 

Elias’ eyes sharpened at that, looking right at Charley’s chest. 

“Jacob,” Henry hissed. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Jacob flapped a hand and hauled Elias out of the tent. Williamson hovered at the entrance. 

“You do know how to bind a wound, don’t you?” he asked. 

Henry threw his shoulders back. “No, I don’t. But you’re right, Charley won’t want you here.” 

“He can help,” Charley said. Henry looked over at her with such relief he could hardly stand it. He didn’t realize how afraid he was to hurt her until she conceded to help. “As long as he keeps in line.” 

“I don’t have to touch you at all,” Williamson said with his hands up. “I’ll just tell Schaefer what to do.” 

“With your eyes closed.” 

“Sure, of course.” 

⸻

If Charley laid perfectly still, the pain dulled to a throb. A steady thrum of ache consistent with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She had to focus on breathing shallowly; if she forgot and took a deep breath, she’d disrupt her ribs, which would spark her wound, and set off the entire cycle of pain and fear all over again. The only thing she could do was focus on breathing shallowly, carefully observe that dull thrum of pain, and not think about how everything was falling apart. 

Snippets of battle skated across her mind, along with half-formed worries and blunt facts. Henry was alive. She’d killed three men with her bayonet. She’d managed to avoid the hospital tent. Williamson knew her secret now. Hower too. Henry’s hand was stroking her hair. 

“Where are the others?” she whispered. It didn’t hurt to speak anymore. Thank heavens for small miracles. 

“Outside,” Henry replied. His voice was also quiet. The squad must be nearby if he was being so quiet. Every sound carried through the canvas of the tent, even the sound of footsteps approaching. Charley’s eyes swivelled to the tent flap.

“Oh, you’re all here.” 

She could hear the voice clear as day through the walls of the tent. It was Webster and  his tired voice was somewhat surprised. He must have finally returned from the hospital tent.

“Are we supposed to be elsewhere?” Hower inquired. 

“Most of the regiment is chasing Rebs over hill and dale,” Webster replied. “I’m a little surprised to find you all here.” 

“You needed help getting Osborn back,” Hower said. Charley could hear the shrug in his voice.

“I did, though I’m not sure I needed all six of you.” 

“Smith’s wounded too,” Williamson said. 

Inside the tent, Charley squirmed. She felt Henry sit up straighter to listen too. 

“What?” Webster, bless him, sounded so concerned. “Is he alright?” 

“Yeah,” Williamson replied. “He’s just in there.” 

A moment later, the tent flaps flung open. Webster and his drooping side-whiskers leaned in. “Corporal? Are you alright?” 

Charley tried to sit up. “Yessir.” She winced, then winced again for giving her pain away. 

“What happened? Did that mangy Reb actually manage to shoot you?” 

Charley gave a weak gesture that referenced a shrug, but she couldn’t manage a real one because it hurt too much. “Seems that way.” 

Webster’s face fell into a grimace. After a moment of his chin working, he stomped into the tent. “What the hell are you doing in here, then? Get to the hospital tent!” 

Charley wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Webster swear. Williamson, Robinson, and Hower were cramming in behind him, and Krüger’s face loomed between the tent flaps. The tent got very crowded very quickly. 

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Charley said, attempting to sit up properly without wincing, to prove her ease. “Williamson cleaned me up. I didn’t even need any stitches.” 

Webster spluttered. “Who would be giving you stitches? Nevermind, don’t answer that.” 

“How’s the Sarg?” Williamson asked. 

Webster’s face, already pale and drawn, sagged. “Not well, but he’s with the surgeon now. As you should be, Smith, if you value your own well-being.” 

Charley attempted a smile. “I don’t need to worry the surgeon over something so little.” 

“Little? Little? Smith, you took a bullet for me, the twin of one that has Ned in a fit of fever!” Webster shouted. His voice was hoarse and wavering. “I will not have your life on my conscience as well. Get to the hospital tent now. That’s an order.” 

Charley’s throat felt tight, like someone had their boot to her neck. Henry’s hands gripped her shoulders. He was still sitting behind her. “Webster,” Henry said, “it’s really not necessary.” 

Webster stared at Henry for a moment with a truly exasperated expression. He threw his hands up. “Have I died and gone to some level of purgatory where my endless punishment is to have you lot refuse to listen to me?” 

He looked back at the other fellows at his shoulders. Robinson avoided his eyes, and Williamson shrugged. 

“Why on God’s great, green earth would you not want to have the surgeon see to a wound?” Webster spluttered. 

Hower snorted. 

Charley’s heart was slamming in her chest now. 

Webster spun to look at Hower. “What? What is going on here?” 

Hower threw his own hands up as he looked around. “Come on, really?” He turned back to Webster with an exasperated expression. “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital tent because he doesn’t want anyone finding out he’s a girl.” 

“Elias!” Jacob shouted and smacked him in the chest. 

A din of voices went up inside the tent. Charley wasn’t following it all, wasn’t hearing much of anything except the roar of blood in her own ears. Her chest seized until it hurt, like her own body had her by the windpipe, and it was so much worse to breathe so shallowly with a broken rib. Fuck. Fuck.

“A woman?” Krüger boomed, then set off in German. Charley couldn’t understand anything he was saying, but it incited Henry enough that he shot up from behind her and charged at him. Williamson caught him by one of his arms before he could land a fist in Krüger’s eye—

“ENOUGH!” Webster shouted. 

The din stopped short. Charley was curled in on herself, just watching it all happen. Watching it slip away into nothing, all the months she’d spent hiding in plain sight, everything she worked for, everything they’d been to her. It felt almost satisfying, to see it all go up in smoke like this. Well, not satisfying, but inevitable, at least. Next, they’d look at her the way her father did, the way Richard did, with that exasperated frustration. She’d been a fool to dream this. She’d been mad to try. She’d gotten a lot farther than she’d ever imagined, though she’d wished for so much more. She looked at Henry, held by Williamson with an arm around his chest, his face angry and pained. He met her gaze with a furiously helpless expression. 

“Enough,” Webster repeated. He looked down at Charley, his mouth a grim line. Something about his face resolved, because Charley felt her fate seal.

“Smith, you’re being a damned careless fool, as usual,” he said. “But if you weren’t, I’d be carrying that bullet wound instead of you.” Webster blinked hard. “You saved my life. And for that I’m grateful.” 

“Webster, you’re not just gonna—” 

“Hower. Shut up.” Webster had a commanding voice when he needed it. “We’ve seen a whole lot of things today we’d never thought possible.” 

Hower was taken aback, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes glanced at Charley, then skidded away, abashed.

“Sir, we cannot stand by while such…” Krüger said, English failing him as he flapped his hand between Charley and Henry. 

Webster regarded the connection that gesture implied. His eyes tracked up to Krüger’s face and the grimace he settled on him was fierce indeed. “We fought for our lives today. We survived, in no small part because of the duty and courage of your corporal. I for one will not hear a word against him.” Webster turned to Hower. “You hear me? After what we’ve seen today, I should think you were ready to set aside baseless gossip. One of our number is on death’s door. A friend, a comrade. And this is what you concern yourself with? You should be ashamed of yourselves. As far as I can tell, every one of us in this tent fought today like men. I don’t need to know anything else. Neither should you.” 

Webster gave Charley a hard look. “If you say you don’t need the surgeon, then I believe you. I apologize for interfering.” 

Webster pushed his way through the other men and out of the tent. Robinson’s mouth was hanging open. Hower looked like he wanted to crawl into the ground. Williamson had released Henry and was rubbing his forehead with his hand. 

Krüger glowered at her and shook his head. “This is unacceptable.” 

“They’re married!” Robinson blurted.

Krüger was taken aback for a moment. His lip curled incredulously as he looked between Henry and Charley again. “What?” 

“You heard me,” Robinson said more firmly. “And you heard the Sarg.” He looked over at Charley. “We’d better let Smith get some well-deserved and much-needed rest.”

“Yeah,” Williamson added. “He’s got a lot of healing yet to do, and we’ll be on the march again as soon as the regiment gets back.” 

Robinson ducked through the tent flap, pulling Krüger along with him. Williamson followed. Hower dithered at the exit. 

“Smith, uh,” he said. “I didn’t mean—Well, yeah. Sorry.” 

Charley could not bear to dignify that with a response. She aimed her fury down at the packed earth floor until she heard the tent flaps close behind him. 

Henry exhaled all at once, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “Jesus fucking Christ.” The next moment, he was kneeling in front of her. “Charley. Oh, Charley.”

Charley opened her mouth and gasped in a big clutch of air. It hurt and her voice hitched, and then she was in Henry’s arms, weeping through a cycle of relief and shame and pain with every inhale. 

“It’ll be alright,” Henry murmured into her hair. “I’m with you, no matter what happens. It’ll be alright.” 

⸻

XXX

8 miles outside of Somerset, Kentucky
Monday, January 20, 1862

Charley woke from a fitful sleep to the painful reminder that she was still wounded. Still wounded, and her secret still ruthlessly exposed. In spite of Webster’s orders, that wound felt even more tender than the one the bullet had rent in her side. 

“Oh, good.” Williamson’s face swam into her vision. “Time to change your dressing.” 

Charley winced. “You just put it on.” 

“That was yesterday. It’s Monday, Smith, and guess what?”

“What? Where’s Henry?” 

“He’s sleeping just there,” Williamson nodded to her side. Henry was curled up, his mouth soft with exhaustion. “We have only twelve dead and twenty four wounded. Well, twenty five, including you.”

“Oh,” Charley thought about that for a moment. “Wait, is that all? In the whole Union army?” 

“Well, no, just in our regiment. I think I heard something like thirty killed and maybe two hundred wounded?”

“Well, still.” Charly was astonished. “There must have been at least five hundred rebels lying on that battlefield. That has to be a Union best.” 

 “It’s the greatest victory the Union has ever seen!” Williamson smiled, and he didn’t look silly or vapid or dim. He looked kind. Charley blinked. Had she been misreading kindness for foolishness her entire life? Dear God. That couldn’t be.

“I have some more yarrow for you to chew up,” Williamson said, holding up the leaves.

“Oh, goody.” Charley turned her head to see who else was in the tent. She was careful not to move too much but still, oh, it hurt like the dickens. 

“Don’t worry, they’re all gone.” 

“Where’d they go?” 

“Hospital tent,” Williamson said. His smile fell. “Sergeant Osborn isn’t doing so well. He was shot through the body, straight through. The bullet didn’t lodge, so that’s good, but it’s still a damn painful wound, and he’s got a terrible fever.” 

“Oh no,” Charley said. “Did you check on him?” 

“Oh, yes, I already brought him some yarrow yesterday,” Williamson said. “Got some extra bandages from the surgeon, too. Here, let’s just change out yours.”

Charley frowned. “Do I have to?” Changing the bandage meant sitting up, and moving at all sounded like a terrible idea. 

“I’m afraid so,” Williamson said. “Come on.” 

Charley steeled herself and sat up. She tried focusing all her attention on chewing the slightly bitter yarrow, breathing heavily through the pain. Henry woke up and helped wrap her new bandage after Williamson packed her wound with fresh yarrow. The whole routine highlighted in sharp relief how very exposed her secret was. 

“Well, you’re all set,” Williamson said, standing and dusting his hands. “I’m gonna go make some coffee.” 

“Thanks, Williamson,” Henry smiled wistfully. “You’re the hero of the Battle of Mill Springs.”

“Ha ha, that’s Smith,” Williamson said and made for the exit. 

“Williamson,” Charley said before she realized she was speaking. 

“Hm?” 

“Thank you,” she finished. She didn’t know how to qualify it, or whether she even could. 

“Of course,” Williamson grinned. He tipped his forage cap and tied the tent flap behind him.

Henry helped Charley as she laid back down on the gum blanket. He regarded her with serious, earnest eyes in a way that made her feel flayed. “Charley, it’s risky to stay. You’re wounded, and we’ll be back on the march as soon as the regiment gets back.” 

“Are they still gone? Did they catch up to the Rebs?”

“No, they got away.” 

“Damned sons of bitches.” 

“It’s not all a loss—the Colonel of the Fourth Kentucky shot General Zollicoffer dead on the road before the battle had scarcely started.” 

“What?” 

“They were both on the Mill Springs Road, maneuvering their troops. It was so foggy and they were wearing rain ponchos, they didn’t realize they were facing the enemy. They drew revolvers when they figured it out, and our man shot Zollicoffer straight through the heart.”⁵

Charley stared at him. “That is … extraordinarily stupid.”

Henry smiled crookedly. “I thought you’d like that.” 

“Well, I won’t begrudge the rebels for having incompetent leaders. In fact, they could use a lot more of them in my estimation.” 

Henry nodded. Charley let her eyes fall closed for a moment. Rain was pattering on the tent canvas again. 

“Henry,” Charley said after a moment. “Do you think I have a chance to stay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“If the whole squad knows, how can I go on?” 

Henry sighed. “I don’t think anyone’s going to report you. Webster made his orders clear. Hower and Krüger both seem abashed, or at least assuaged.”

“As long as I belong to someone, my presence here can be excused?”

Henry shrugged. “I dunno. I guess. At least for now.” He wrapped his arms around his knees. “I think you could manage a furlough for your wound.” 

“But what about you?” 

“I’ll go with you.” 

“You can’t. They won’t let you.” 

“They can go to hell.” 

“But then, when I’m well again, you can’t come back with me.” 

Henry searched her eyes for a moment. “You want to come back?” 

“Yes,” Charley said. “Yes, of course.” 

He blinked at her. “Why?” 

“Why? Why? Why does everyone keep asking me that? Aren’t you all here too, enlisted to fight in the single-most important war our country has ever seen? Don’t you have a duty to the Union? Don’t you care?” 

Henry’s brows knitted together. “I do care. But I care about you more. And I think, after yesterday, after seeing what glorious battle actually looks like… I’m not sure it’s worth the lives being spent.” 

“So you’d just let the rebels have their slave country?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“You’d let other men fight and die for you?” 

“No. No! Of course not!” 

Charley scowled. “If I wasn’t here, would you keep on fighting?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Then why do you think we need to stop now?” 

Henry spluttered. “Charley, you’re wounded—” 

“So is Sergeant Osborn. Do you see Webster at his sick bed imploring him to desert, to go back home and let someone else fight?” 

Henry’s mouth hung open. He didn’t say anything. 

Charley hissed. “I don’t need you to protect me.” She held her chin tight against its trembling. “I can fight. I can take a hit. I can win. I thought you believed that too.” 

“I do, Charley, I do,” Henry said. “I just … dammit, Charley, you could have died. I was terrified. I can’t lose you.” 

“You can’t control that,” she shot back. She sounded like Kloepfer. Perhaps his was a wisdom one could only earn with cannonfire. “This is what I want. This is where I belong. I’m going to stay until they force me out. If you think the boys will keep it secret, then I’m going to see it through.” 

Henry looked like she was causing him pain. 

“Henry, please.” 

He seized her hand with both of his. He pressed his lips to her knuckles. 

“I’m going to have to march no matter what,” Charley said. “Whether I’m sick or well. A furlough would take me away from you, which you don’t want. So I’ll just have to get better.” 

Henry looked up at her. His blue eyes were round. 

Charley steeled herself. “Go on. Tell me the truth—how bad is the wound?” 

“It’s stopped bleeding.” His voice sounded tired and scratchy. “It’ll leave a scar, but it doesn’t need stitching. At least, that’s what Williamson thinks.” 

Charley nodded. “I haven’t been feverish either.” 

“That’s really good.” 

“It’s just going to hurt for the first few days.” 

That looked like it hurt Henry. Charley reached out and touched his cheek. “It’ll be alright, Henry. I’ll be alright.” 

His face was still pinched. “You’ll tell me when you get tired.” 

Charley tried not to roll her eyes.

“No, Charley, I’m serious. Don’t push yourself too hard. You’re not alone, not anymore. You’re in a squad, and the only way through is to work together. Surely we’ve learned that by now. If you would just let us help you the way you help us, then I think I can believe that it’ll be alright. But if you refuse help and suffer silently, I won’t be able to trust you when you say you’re fine.” 

Charley’s lip curled. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that because … because … well, what if she took too much? 

“You have that look on your face.” 

“What look?”

“The one that breaks my heart and I don’t know why.” He reached out and touched her face. “I will help. We all will. You can depend on it.” 

“I cannot.” 

“No, you have not, because you haven’t been able to depend on it in the past. Take a leap of faith, Charley. It’s paid off so far.” 

Charley swallowed that and made a face. It didn’t go down easy. She reached out and held onto him by his lapels.

“I love you, Charley.” 

“Ugh, why do you have to be like this?” she said into his chest.

Henry laughed. “What, loving you?” 

“Yes.” Charley twisted his coat in her hands. “You invite all sorts of misfortune.” 

“I do not.” 

She looked up at him. “I got a bullet wound that says otherwise.” 

Henry shook his head. “Shut up. I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“If you must.” Her words were cut off by his lips, pressing down onto hers. God, this would never get old. If she lived for a hundred years, the warm application of his lips would never stop feeling like a homecoming. 

“Coffee’s ready!” Williamson’s voice called from outside the tent. 

Henry pulled back. “Do you want to try getting up?” 

“Do you think I should?” 

“I dunno…” 

“Hey, Williamson!” Charley shouted. “Can I get up?” 

“Sure! Give it a shot!” 

Henry was wincing. “Well, you can’t be that bad off if you can shout that loud.” 

Charley laughed and let Henry help her to her feet. It felt nice, once she shucked off the fear that he was a finite resource. Well, it also hurt like hell, but the pain wasn’t so bad either, if she didn’t believe it was an infinite well. 

Henry helped her through the tent flaps and out to the campfire. It felt good to move her body, stiff from lying on the ground. Hower, Robinson, and Krüger were out there, tin cups at the ready as Williamson served from the percolator. Charley’s heart beat double quick time, not sure what they would do. 

“Hey, he’s up and walking!” Robinson cheered. 

Charley gave a weak smile. “It’s just a broken rib. The bullet only grazed me.” 

“Only grazed him, ha,” Robinson said. “If you hadn’t gone after that reb, Smith, Webster would have taken that bullet.” 

Krüger said something in German around his cup of coffee. Charley looked to Henry expectantly. 

Henry grinned.

“What? What’d he say?” 

“You’re not gonna like it.” 

Charley glowered. “Tell me.” 

“He said, ‘That makes you a hero.’” Henry’s crooked smile crinkled his cheeks. “By definition, in fact.” 

“Schaefer told me you’d take a bullet for any of us,” Robinson said. “And I didn’t believe him, but look at that, he was right.” 

“Glad we elected you corporal,” Hower said as he sidled up, digging his cup out of his haversack. “I don’t think I could have done it.” 

“You wouldn’t have even thought to do it,” Robinson corrected. 

“I’m not taking bullets for all of you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Charley said as she sat gingerly on a log with Henry’s arm to steady her. Williamson filled her cup with coffee. 

“How about we don’t take anymore bullets at all?” he suggested, setting the kettle to the side of the fire to keep warm. 

“I’ll drink to that!” 

“Here here!” 

Charley held her cup out with her right hand. Her ribs hurt like the dickens, but the bitter, watery coffee was satisfying. There was something about coffee that made everything feel more surmountable. 

“Where have you been?” Henry asked Hower as Williamson filled his cup. Charley’s eyes swiveled to look at Hower sideways. Out of all the fellows, he was the least reliable with her secret, proven already during the confrontation with Webster that still made Charley feel like she was going to puke just thinking about it. 

Hower looked down into his cup sheepishly. “I was over talking to Griffiths. He said if Smith needs a break from the march tomorrow—or whenever we head out on the road again—he can ride with him and the other teamsters.” 

Charley couldn’t help but squint in confusion. “Why?” 

Hower rolled his eyes. “Because your rib is broke and marching for 20 miles with 45 pounds on your back is probably not the wisest path to recovery.” 

“No, I mean why did you arrange it for me?” 

Hower opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything right away. “I, uh . . . yeah, I guess I owed you one. After last night . . .”

Charley blinked at him. She really hadn’t expected anything from Hower, except perhaps for him to double down and maintain he’d done nothing wrong. But apparently, he was compunctious enough to make arrangements for her. 

“What exactly did you tell Griffiths?” Henry asked delicately. Christ, of course. Charley’s lungs seized a bit while she waited for Hower’s response. 

Hower’s eyes went wide and innocent. His mouth flapped aghast. “I refuse to acknowledge what you’re implying, Henry Schaefer. I simply informed Griffiths that Smith had sustained an injury that, while not immediately serious, would make marching exceedingly uncomfortable.” 

“He didn’t wonder why I wouldn’t travel with the surgeon and the other wounded men?” Charley was fairly impressed with how even she was able to assert that inquiry, given that she felt almost lightheaded with dread.

Hower shrugged. “I think he just thought if you were that hurt, you’d be with them, and if you’re not, you’re probably just fine and looking for an excuse to skirt the tedium of the march.” 

“I’m surprised he’d take anyone on,” Henry said. “After all those nights waiting for the wagons, I imagine the teamsters have to beat fellows back with sticks from trying to tag along with them.” 

“It’s too bad it’s so wet in these parts,” Williamson mused. “If it were colder, they could convert all the wagons to sleds and it would probably be easier going.”⁶

“Maybe we’d have more reliable access to supplies, but we’d still have to march in the snow,” Hower argued. 

“It’s already cold enough for me, thanks,” Robinson added. 

Charley sipped her cup of coffee and watched as the banter bounced casually around the campfire like it always did, like nothing whatever at all had changed. It hadn’t, mostly, except it had in an extraordinary way. But it seemed the squad had no interest in discussing Charley’s sex any further, and it wasn’t just because Webster had ordered them not to. It seemed quite possible—probable, in fact—that the fellows were operating not under orders, but under their own sense of duty. 

The realization of this felt more like wishful thinking than anything, but Charley sucked it in and held it close. When she’d stolen trousers and signed her name to the enlistment roll, she’d expected to struggle, to work hard, to fight and get hurt and face death square in the face. She hadn’t anticipated fellowship. Love. Belonging. 

Hell. She stared hard into her coffee cup until the prickling behind her eyes subsided. 

⸻

Epilogue

Faribault, Minnesota
September 28, 1873

Hannah Schaefer stepped off the train at the Faribault station alone. There had been plenty of people onboard, but it seemed no one else was especially interested in disembarking at Faribault, not when the train was bound for St. Paul. The sun was bright in her eyes and she adjusted her flat straw hat with one hand, the other clinging to the handles of her bag that contained all she had ever owned in her eleven years of life. 

Hannah’s heart began to race. She didn’t see her uncle anywhere outside. If he wasn’t here, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Wait, she supposed. What more could she do? She walked across the dry gravel and stepped up onto the boardwalk that lined the front of the station. Behind the train loading passengers departing Faribault was only rolling prairie. There didn’t seem to be a town. 

Hannah entered the train station. It was just a small room, with a few benches and a booth for the conductor. The conductor wasn’t there, though. Her uncle wasn’t there either. In fact, no one was inside the station but Hannah. She started to sweat. 

She crossed the station and exited the other side. There were railroad tracks on this side as well, and, blessedly, a view of the sprawling town dotted with houses among many shady trees. There was a river beyond. The tall bluff on the other side was the only landform that was anything but flat. The breeze stirred her calico dress and made her braids dance over her shoulders. 

“Hannah!” 

She looked over her shoulder, northward toward a road that passed over the railroad tracks. Her uncle was striding through the grass toward her, waving his arm and grinning as he held his hat against the wind with his other hand. Hannah’s relief swept through her, so much so that she felt her eyes water. Everything, it seemed, made that happen now. If her prevailing feeling wasn’t fear, tears were never far from her reach. 

“Uncle Henry!” Hannah cried in return, waving her arm back as she started toward him. She almost lost her hat as the breeze picked up, the ties behind her head sliding off. Her braids kept it in place, but half running, burdened by her heavy carpetbag,  she ended up abandoning her wave to adjust her hat as she trundled along. 

Uncle Henry cantered up to her and picked up her bag like it was nothing. “You’re here!” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad.” 

He looked at Hannah for a long moment. He had very straight teeth and a very crooked smile. Hannah couldn’t help but smile a bit in reply. It had been a long time since she’d seen him. Christmas, perhaps? He always came calling in New Ulm that time of year with a sackful of oranges, if the weather permitted. She felt like she should embrace him now. It would be the normal thing for family to do, especially in these circumstances, but they hadn’t yet, so it felt strange to do it now. 

“Thank you,” Hannah said politely, though she wasn’t sure what for. For taking her bag? Meeting her here? Taking her in when the only person in the whole world who cared about her had gone? 

The tears pricked again. Hannah tried to smile, to push them away. 

Uncle Henry was tall. He crouched down a bit so his face was even with hers. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, a bracing hand on her shoulder. “You’re here now. Come on, Charley’s over there with the wagon. Let’s get you home.” 

Hannah blinked back her tears and nodded. She wouldn’t be pitied. There were many children who didn’t have a kind relation at all to take them in under circumstances like these. The pastor at the church had reminded her as much as they interred her mother. He’d told her about orphans in the eastern cities loaded up on trains to be adopted by complete strangers out west. How lucky she was, that she had family to look after her. She counted her blessings and followed Uncle Henry to the road, where a wagon waited. 

Seated on the bench was a wiry man, with dark hair and heavy brows. He had a sort of romantic look to him, serious and clean-shaven, with hands gracefully holding the reins. 

“Hannah, you remember my buddy, Charles Smith?” Uncle Henry said.

Hannah did. She’d met him a handful of times. He was quiet and Hannah hadn’t the faintest idea about him, other than he worked the farm with Uncle Henry and they’d fought together in the war. “How do you do, Mr. Smith?” 

Mr. Smith nodded at her. He only glanced at her before he turned his eyes back to the reins, his chin working around the piece of sweet grass he had between his teeth. Hannah could tell he didn’t like her much. 

Uncle Henry helped her climb up onto the bench, where she sat between him and Mr. Smith. The wagon lurched forward and trundled west, out into the rolling prairie. 

⸻

“Hannah, are you ready? Come on, you’re gonna be late!” 

Hannah scampered down the steep steps from the attic chamber she’d made her bedroom in. It was nothing more than a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a window, but she’d made it her own with some wildflowers and the quilt her mother had made her. 

“Yes, sorry,” Hannah called as she reached the bottom of the stairs and snatched her hat off the peg on the wall. The room might be called a foyer, but it was rustic enough that the name didn’t suit it well. 

Mr. Smith came through the door from the kitchen with a basket. “You’ll bring your lunch. You won’t have time to walk back.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hannah said, accepting the basket with both hands. Mr. Smith hadn’t warmed much to her in the week she’d been in his house. His cold, serious manner made her uncomfortable addressing him with anything but honorifics, which felt both respectful and alienating in a house that was supposed to be her new home. 

Mr. Smith was looking at her with narrowed eyes. Hannah shrank a bit under his study. “Sir?” 

His mouth twitched for a moment. “Your braids are crooked,” he finally said.

“Oh.” Hannah wilted. She wasn’t used to braiding her own hair yet—her mother had always done that—and she didn’t have a mirror in her room. She didn’t want to complain, or be pitiful, so she said nothing and blinked the pricking in her eyes away. 

Mr. Smith sighed. “Come, sit.” He gestured into the kitchen. “Quickly now.” 

It took a moment for Hannah to comply. “I thought we were already late?” 

“Better to be a little late and make a good impression than to be on time and slovenly,” Mr. Smith said. Hannah bowed her head. He winced slightly. 

In the kitchen, Uncle Henry looked up from the percolator on the hob. “Charley?”

“It’ll take just a minute,” Mr. Smith said as Hannah sat in the chair at the work table. “Can I fix your braids?” 

Hannah couldn’t help but regard him dubiously. “Yes?” 

Mr. Smith pulled the ribbons off the ends of her braids and pulled his elegant fingers through to release her hair. Uncle Henry was looking between her and his farmhand with some skepticism, but said nothing. 

“Sorry, Uncle Henry,” Hannah felt compelled to say. “I … I’m not very good at braiding my own hair.” 

“Don’t apologize for anything that isn’t your fault,” Mr. Smith said crisply as he parted her hair cleanly. “You did as well as you could have given we haven’t even got a mirror.” 

Hannah nodded and choked down the urge to apologize for apologizing. It hadn’t been long since she arrived, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the orphan trains. She didn’t want to impose upon Uncle Henry or Mr. Smith, and she was sure two bachelor farmers had no interest in the trials and tribulations of a little girl. They’d only taken her in out of duty. But she wanted to stay, and she intended to make herself as useful and unobtrusive as possible. Except, well, she had already failed. 

Mr. Smith was surprisingly deft. He braided each side so tight Hannah’s eyebrows were pulled halfway to her crown. 

“There,” he said, letting Hannah tie the ends off with ribbon herself. “That’s better.”

“Very sharp,” Uncle Henry agreed, absently holding out a tin cup of fresh coffee to Mr. Smith as he regarded Hannah. “You’ll make a fine impression.” 

Hannah ran her fingers lightly over her braids. Mr. Smith had braided them the French way and the braids went all the way up over her temples. She looked at him. “How did you know how to do that?” 

Mr. Smith looked down into his cup of coffee and shrugged. “Sisters.” 

⸻

The waning  sun set the fall colors alight in orange and pink and violet. The hill across the Straight River was ablaze as the cold breeze undulated across the woods, with the School for the Deaf perched atop like a royal fortress. The view squeezed Hannah’s heart, reminding her of the oaks and maples that had framed the drive to her mother’s house in New Ulm. 

Faribault was aflutter with harvest activities, wagons hauling in grain to the elevator from the fields and farmhands, tired out from long hours flailing wheat, drinking their fill at the saloons on Main Street. Hannah bumped along the road on the wagon seat, shoulder knocking against Uncle Henry’s as they slowly made their way down Fourth Street. Hannah’s bones were tired too. It had been a hard day in the sweltering kitchen, canning with her uncle and Mr. Smith, but it could have been worse. It wasn’t near as hard as flailing wheat or shocking corn. 

“This’ll be a good break,” Henry said, pulling the horses up in front of Hower Hotel. “Their cook does an excellent roast.”

A dinner prepared by a professional cook. Hannah had never imagined she’d be eating a meal like that. Serving it, perhaps, but dining as a guest at a fancy hotel? She supposed it was the kind of class-mixing that only happened when fellows had served in the same regiment. She reached down and pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves. She had her Sunday best on, but it was a little small. Mr. Smith thought she was hitting her growth spurt. It was a lonely feeling, growing into womanhood all on her own. It made her miss her mother all anew. 

Uncle Henry handed the horses’ reins to the hostler of the hotel, puffing his chest out and making some joke that made the young hostler’s cheeks crack with a laugh. Her uncle was dressed in his best wool suit, with a fine felt hat and his beard freshly trimmed. 

Mr. Smith was turned out nicely too. He was always closely shaved, but he’d combed his dark hair back and spent the previous evening brushing his suit coat while Uncle Henry read aloud by the hearth. It seemed that even though the owner of the hotel was an old war buddy, they didn’t get invited to dine all that often. Hannah was determined to make a good impression. 

Uncle Henry led the way into the front doors of the hotel, striding right up to the innkeeper’s desk. Hannah supposed at a place this nice, he probably wasn’t called an innkeeper, but she didn’t rightly know what to call him, so she kept her mouth shut. 

“We’re Mr. Hower’s guests this evening,” Uncle Henry said. “Mr. Henry Schaefer and Miss Hannah, and Mr. Charles Smith.” 

Hannah stood between her two new guardians as the innkeeper, for lack of a better title, led them back through the hotel to a small private dining room with windows that looked out over Main Street. There was a group of people standing around the table, grouped up into smaller conversation groups. They all turned when they arrived. 

“Schaef!” cried a man with sandy blond hair and a mustache that curved round his mouth and connected with his sideburns. “Smith! So glad you could make it. And this must be your new ward.” 

Hannah smiled politely at the fellow. He was dressed in a fine wool suit with a silk vest and a gold watch chain. 

“Yes, this is Miss Hannah Schaefer,” Henry introduced with a fond expression that soothed some of the tension in Hannah’s shoulders. 

“Your brother’s girl?” asked a lovely blonde woman with a kind, heart-shaped face. She wore a sumptuous violet gown with a large bustle trimmed out in exquisite, box-pleated ribbon. Hannah tried not to gape as the woman grasped her hand. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. My deepest condolences, my dear. We’re so glad you can be here with us tonight.” 

The woman’s eyes were a sparkling blue and when Hannah looked up into them, she was surprised to find that the woman was deeply sincere. 

“Oh, but where are my manners?” the woman laughed. “I’m Mrs. Hower. It’s so nice to meet you. But of course, you don’t want to spend the evening with us boring old folks. Come, let me introduce you to the others.” 

Mrs. Hower delivered Hannah directly across the room, to where a girl and a boy stood together. The girl was younger than Hannah, but the boy appeared around Hannah’s same age, but it was hard to tell. 

“Miss Hannah Schaefer, please meet Miss Mary Robinson,” Mrs. Hower introduced. “And this is her brother, James Robinson.” 

“How do you do?” Hannah said with a little bob. Immaculate manners felt like a matter of course with Mrs. Hower in that gown, but the Robinson children’s regard made her wonder if it was a bit overly formal. 

“Good evening,” James Robinson said, reaching out to clasp Hannah’s hand. His sister, Mary, snatched Hannah’s hand first. 

“Oh, I know you from school!” Mary exclaimed. “You’re not in my form, but I remember seeing you.” 

“Yes, of course,” Hannah said, blushing a little. She did recognize them both from the schoolhouse, but she hadn’t had the courage to say much to anyone at school yet even though she’d been there for almost a month now. “I’m glad to see you again.” 

“Hannah just started last week,” Mary informed her brother in a superior tone as Mrs. Hower melted back into the group of fellows that had formed around Uncle Henry and Mr. Smith, collecting firm handshakes and hearty smacks on the back. “She’s just moved here from New Ulm because her mother died.” 

“Mary!” James admonished. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Miss Schaefer. That must have been a real blow.” 

Hannah swallowed hard. “Thank you very much. My uncle and Mr. Smith were kind enough to take me in.” 

“How do you like Faribault?” Mary asked. She looked at Hannah intently. She had spritely eyes and a mouth that curled with mischief.

Hannah shifted under the girl’s intense gaze. “It’s fine. I grew up in New Ulm so it’s not all that different.” 

“Oh, is that the German town?” James asked. “I went there with my father once, and everyone spoke German. It was like going to another country.” 

“Do you speak German, Hannah?” Mary asked eagerly. 

“Yes, I do,” Hannah replied, her cheeks hot under all the attention. 

“Oh, speak some to us!” Mary cried, clapping her hands. 

“I don’t know—” Hannah started to demure, but then she was blessedly interrupted by the sharp ding of a spoon against a crystal glass. 

“Thank you all for joining us this evening,” Mrs. Hower announced as the din in the room settled and the guests all turned to regard her and Mr. Hower at the head of the dining table. 

“It’s my honor to host this annual gathering of our squad from the Second Minnesota,” Mr. Hower put in. “It’s been eight years since the war ended, and eight years that we’ve gathered thus. While we remember the comrades we lost, we also celebrate our victory and the beautiful families we are so lucky to have now that the war is done. So come, share our table and eat your fill in celebration of another harvest and another year on this blessed earth.” 

The guests all moved toward the table and took their seats. Hannah noticed there were little cards on each plate with their names. Golly, she felt like the queen of England.

“Come on, you’re next to me,” Mary whispered, taking Hannah’s arm. 

They were toward the foot of the table, on the far side from the windows. James was across from them, and at the foot of the table sat another little girl about six years old. She had shining gold hair in careful sausage curls framing her face. 

“This is little Miss Minnie Hower,” Mary said. 

“Good evening, Miss Minnie,” Hannah said. “I’m Hannah Schaefer. Thank you for having us.” 

“How do you do.” The little girl nodded imperiously at Hannah. 

“Do you know what’s for dinner, Minnie?” James asked conspiratorially. 

“There is a big apple strudel for dessert,” Minnie replied. “I don’t know what else. That’s all I smelled.” 

Mary laughed. Minnie glowered. 

“Do you know everyone here?” Mary asked Hannah, ignoring Minnie and the menu both as two servers came and set bowls of pea soup in front of each guest. 

“Oh, no, I’ve never met anyone here before,” Hannah replied distractedly as she tried to figure out which spoon to use. “Except you and James, of course. And my uncle and Mr. Smith.” 

“What’s it like living with Mr. Smith?” Mary asked, her eyes wide. 

“Oh, Mary, don’t start,” James sighed. 

“I’m not!” 

“Mary has a little crush on Mr. Smith,” James intoned. 

“I do not! I just think he’s very interesting,” Mary pouted. 

“Yes, yes, very interesting,” James teased. 

“Hush you,” Mary snapped. 

“I don’t think there’s anything all that interesting about him,” Hannah hedged. “He sort of keeps to himself.” She didn’t add that she was still quite sure he was none too pleased about Hannah coming to live with them.  

“That is interesting!” Mary exclaimed. “Have you ever seen him do anything funny?” 

Hannah frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know,” Mary shrugged. “I just think it’s a little funny, you know, how clean shaven he is. Most fellows these days have beards, but Mr. Smith doesn’t.” 

“I’ve never seen him with a beard in my whole life,” James conceded.

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked, confused.

“It’s just funny, how Mr. Schaefer never married. How they live together in the same house. Do they have separate bedrooms?” 

Hannah frowned. “Of course they do. Well, at least they did before I arrived. There’s only one bedroom in the house, though, apart from the attic, which is where I sleep.” It was no wonder Mr. Smith was annoyed to have Hannah. He’d had to give up his room to her. “What are you getting at?” 

James shook his head and pressed his face into his hands. 

“I heard this story from out east, where a woman wrote a book about how she dressed up as a man and fought in the war—” Mary said eagerly, but James cut her off.

“And that’s quite the sensational story, but we live in Faribault, Minnesota and nothing half so exciting has ever happened here,” James said. “And even if that wild notion was true, why would Mr. Smith continue to dress as a man after the war?” 

“I dunno, maybe he likes it?” Mary argued. 

“Or maybe Mr. Smith is just one of those fellows who can’t grow a proper beard,” James replied, rolling his eyes. “Really, Mary. What must Hannah think of us?” 

Mary glowered but didn’t say anything more. 

Hannah shifted uncomfortably and tried to come up with a different topic of conversation. “It’s alright. Um, do you all live on a farm? Or here in town?” Hannah asked.

“On a farm,” James replied. “We’ve got a homestead across the river, just south and east of town.” 

“Our father is a wonderful farmer,” Mary said haughtily. “We grow wheat so fine they ship it up to Minneapolis for milling.” 

Hannah didn’t think it would be polite to mention that most farmers in the area sold their wheat to the growing mills in Minneapolis. 

Just then, a short, dark-haired woman stooped over Minnie.“Angel, are you eating your soup?” 

“I don’t like it,” Minnie sniffed. 

“Of course you do. You tried it last month and you were surprised how much you liked it. Remember?” 

“No.” 

Hannah tried not to laugh. The woman studied Minnie carefully for a moment, and as she did, Hannah studied her. She had a severe low bun and an austere, black gown, though still finely made and fashionably bustled. 

“That’s Minnie’s widowed aunt, Miss Sterling,” Mary whispered in Hannah’s ear. “She lost her husband in the war. She’s like the queen of England, in mourning forever. So she lives here with her sister, Mrs. Hower, and helps run the hotel.” 

“Oh,” Hannah said. “She’s Mrs. Hower’s sister?” 

“I know,” Mary squealed excitedly. “They look nothing alike!” 

“Who is everyone else?” 

“Right,” Mary nodded. “Well, there’s Mr. Osborn, the one with the mustache. He was their captain in the war. He’s got some sort of medal for bravery. Charged some Rebels on a hill in Tennessee somewhere. Anyway. Mr. Williamson doesn’t live here anymore, since his family went to Nebraska after the outbreak, but he comes back for this dinner every year. It’s easier now that there’s a train. Sometimes he brings his wife. She’s the Indian lady sitting next to him. And that’s my father, of course, and my mother. She grew up in St. Paul. We go back sometimes. The dress shops are so much nicer there.” 

Hannah pulled sheepishly at her too-short sleeves and tried to smile.

“And Mr. Kreuger—he’s the big man by your uncle—he was in the regiment too.” 

Hannah could hear Mr. Kreuger talking animatedly to Uncle Henry. “Oh! He’s Bavarian!” 

“Huh?” Mary asked.

“From Bavaria. It’s one of the German kingdoms. I can tell because he speaks German like my mother does. Did.” Hannah frowned. 

Mary reached out and squeezed her hand. 

“It’s alright,” Mary whispered. “It’s alright to be sad. You should be. If I had a daughter, I sure would feel bad if she didn’t miss me when I was gone.” 

Hannah squeezed her hand back. “Thanks.” 

⸻

“Um, I was wondering…” Hannah started one morning over breakfast after autumn had faded into the stark cold of winter. “Do you think it might be alright if I went with Mary Robinson when her mother takes her to St. Paul?” 

Mr. Smith was just resuming his seat, having topped off his coffee. It was dim in the kitchen, the single window framing the snowy prairie under perpetually low, leaden clouds. Uncle Henry looked up from his plate of fried eggs. “What for?” 

“My Sunday dress needs replacing. I thought…” Hannah squirmed under his gaze. “I just … well. Mary says the dress shops there … they have more choices…” 

Uncle Henry furrowed his brow. “There’s nothing wrong with your Sunday dress. It looks very smart. Are those Robinson kids giving you guff?” 

“Oh, no! Not at all. They’re very kind,” Hannah hurried to correct. “It’s just… the sleeves on my dress are getting short, so I thought—”

“Is that all?” Uncle Henry grinned and leaned back in his chair. “That’s an easy fix. We have some scrap linen somewhere. We’ll just add some cuffs. That’ll smarten up the whole get-up in a jiffy.” 

Hannah squinted as she tried to imagine Uncle Henry, with his big, blunt hands, sewing. She supposed he did. Neither of her guardians had a wife, after all, to do their mending. Mary was right. It was a bit odd. 

“You can travel with the Robinsons, though, if they invite you,” Uncle Henry added with an apologetic grin. “Get some ribbons or some other frippery, if you’d like.” 

Mr. Smith gave a cough. 

Uncle Henry’s eyes flicked to him immediately. “What?” 

Mr. Smith looked up at him.  “I don’t see why she can’t have a new dress.” 

Uncle Henry’s brows knitted. “I thought we were drawing the purse strings after the bank panic?”⁷

Mr. Smith pressed his lips together. “Yes. I know. But she’s growing so fast. Pretty soon she’ll be a young lady.”

Uncle Henry blinked blankly. “And that warrants a new dress?” 

“Yes,” Hannah said, and was surprised when Mr. Smith said the same thing in chorus. She exchanged a glance with him, an awkward acknowledgement of fellow feeling. 

“Yes,” Mr. Smith said again. “At least get some new fabric. We can make it at home—”

“—We can?” Hannah blurted. Fellows sewing was one thing, but it was impossible to imagine they knew how to pattern a dress. 

Mr. Smith shrugged. “I seen patterns in that magazine Henry was reading from the other night.” 

Hannah tilted her head to peer at him, quite at a loss. 

“Jiminy, you don’t know how to make a dress, do you?” Uncle Henry laughed. Mr. Smith hunched down into his chair and glowered. “How much does a girl’s dress go for these days, anyway?” 

Mr. Smith cast him a sidelong look and shrugged. “These days? Have you ever known how much a girl’s dress goes for?” 

Uncle Henry chuckled. “I suppose not.” 

“Who knows, now that gold is the only standard to be had…” Mr. Smith sighed. Hannah had heard many adults in the past year talking about gold and silver and coinage, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant. “If you wouldn’t mind something secondhand, Hannah, I’m sure we can manage a new dress for you.” 

Hannah deflated a little. It was selfish of her to wish for a brand new dress, but she had allowed herself to hope, in the excitement of Mary’s encouragement. “Of course, sir,” she said, looking down into her toast. 

“If your heart is set on new, we can try to make one,” Mr. Smith offered, flickering an annoyed glance at how Uncle Henry snickered at him. “Honestly. I’ve sewn shirts before. It’s a dress. It’s just a bunch of square panels gathered around a shirt, how hard can it be?” 

Uncle Henry laughed, a warm booming sound that tempered the room. “I admire your optimism, Charley.” 

Mr. Smith glowered at him from beneath dark brows as leaden as the sky. Hannah giggled. He glanced at her and crossed his arms. “We’ll make do.” 

Uncle Henry nodded and argued no further. 

“Thank you, Uncle Henry,” Hannah said, then quickly added, “Mr. Smith. Sir.” She cleared her throat and glanced down at her empty plate. “May I be excused?” 

“Of course,” Uncle Henry said. 

“Say, Hannah?”

Hannah froze from standing at her chair and looked up at Mr. Smith. 

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” Mr. Smith said. “Charley will do just fine.” 

Hannah blinked. She’d not expected that. 

“Oh,” she said. “Alright. Mr… Charley.” 

It felt so strange to say. Mr. Smith’s shoulders tensed, like he felt it too. Uncle Henry glanced between the two of them, then laughed. 

“What’s funny?” Mr. Smith snapped at him. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Uncle Henry said with a lopsided grin. 

“I have to get to school,” Hannah said, turning to the foyer. She didn’t have time to figure out how to deal with her uncle’s surly roommate who was also her guardian too, in a way, but not really. 

⸻

The winter persisted with bitter cold winds. After Christmas, there was a week where it was so cold, no one could go anywhere at all. Uncle Henry had fretted over Mr. Smith’s scarf when he went out to make sure the cow’s water didn’t freeze over inside the barn. Apparently it was so cold, just a short trip to the barn could have given Mr. Smith frostbite. 

After the holidays and the cold snap, Hannah visited St. Paul with Mary and her mother. She brought twenty dollars for a new dress and found that the amount did not get her far. Mrs. Robinson was generous, though, and provided her with the difference to buy a bonafide poplin from the Montgomery Ward catalog, displayed near her size at one of the dress shops. It had some fading from being in the window, which garnered a small discount. When she brought the dress home, Mr. Smith insisted on fitting it to her properly. It was a bit long, so they added a few tucks to the skirt with the Singer machine. 

School was back in earnest after the cold snap. By early February, the cold seemed like a given. By that point, the adults didn’t seem to care if the wind burned the children’s cheeks on the way to school. 

One day at lunch, Mary turned to Hannah and without any preamble, asked, “Did Mr. Smith grow a beard yet?” 

“Hm?” Hannah’s mouth was full. There weren’t many other children around, thank goodness. She and the Robinsons usually had the schoolhouse much to themselves, as most other children lived in town and walked home for lunch. 

“It’s been so cold, and I was wondering if Mr. Smith has grown a beard yet?” 

Hannah swallowed. “I think you were right. I don’t think he can.” 

Mary’s eyebrows went up, just as James let out a long sigh. 

“Mary, let it go,” he groaned. 

“I cannot let it go, James!” Mary cried. “I have a canary in the coal mine and it’s been months and there’s still no evidence that conclusively proves I’m wrong.” 

“I think you have to prove you’re right,” James pointed out. “It’s innocent until proven guilty. Not the other way around.” 

“But I’m not putting him on trial,” Mary complained. “I only suppose that there’s something about him that’s interesting, and I want to know what it is.” 

“Do you?” James asked. “Or do you just want to keep believing in your cockamamie story that he’s a woman in disguise?”⁸

“Wouldn’t that be so romantic, though?” Mary exclaimed. “Sarah Emma Edmonds did it! She was never caught, neither. She deserted so they wouldn’t catch her when she got sick, but she got the government to give her an honorable discharge after all. I think it’s perfectly possible that other women did that and just never got caught.” 

“It’s ridiculous.” 

“I just told you it’s not!” Mary stuck her tongue out at James. 

Hannah sat back and thought seriously about it. She’d never seen Mr. Smith shave. But she’d also never seen him dress or cut his hair or even trim his fingernails. She knew he brushed his teeth, but she’d also never expressly seen him do that either. He was a private man and did private things privately. There was nothing strange about that. 

“I don’t think there’s any basis for it,” Hannah said finally. “If Mr. Smith were actually a woman, that would… well, what would that make him to my uncle? They were friends in the war and now they’re business partners.” 

“Maybe they’re secretly married!” Mary whispered loudly, with wild eyes. 

Hannah stared at her for a moment. “No. That’s nonsense.” 

⸻

That evening, Hannah sat near the fireplace in the kitchen while Uncle Henry read aloud and Mr. Smith sat back in his chair and listened with his eyes closed. 

“‘Now hear me, both of you,’” Henry read. It was a story from some serial journal. He liked to do theatrical voices for all the characters. According to Mr. Smith, he’d done that for years before Hannah had ever arrived. “‘You have betrayed my confidence in the most shameful manner by endeavoring to elope with my daughter.’”

Hannah was working on the hem of her new dress, but the light from the fire was poor. 

“‘I won’t be snubbed so. I am old enough to love—’ cried Emily. Her father raised his hand to her. ‘You are but a child, and this man, a villain for stealing your heart!’”

Hannah sighed and set the work down so she could stand and throw another log onto the fire. 

Uncle Henry paused from reading as she did so. “I suppose that means you’d like to hear another chapter?” 

Hannah shrugged. “I suppose so.” 

“I didn’t think you cared much for this one.” 

Hannah sighed. “I don’t. I just don’t think it seems very reasonable. It’s all flights of fancy and melodrama. Real life isn’t like that.” 

Uncle Henry ticked an eyebrow up at her. “Isn’t it? I saw some pretty dramatic affairs during the war, I’ll tell you that much.” 

“Yeah, but that’s war. That’s different.” 

“Sometimes, I think a boring life is the best thing we can hope for,” Mr. Smith piped up. 

Hannah couldn’t help but let out a snicker as she remembered Mary’s crackpot theory. “My friend Mary would disagree with you. She loves to tell tall tales.” 

“A sign of a peaceful youth,” Uncle Henry grinned. 

“She told a really funny one about you today,” Hannah said with a grin to Mr. Smith. 

“Oh really?” Mr. Smith said. “What did she say?” 

Hannah opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. She wasn’t sure if Mr. Smith would be insulted to be supposed a woman in disguise. “Oh, well…” 

Mr. Smith held her gaze. “I’m sure it isn’t anything I haven’t heard before.” 

Hannah dithered. She tried to catch Uncle Henry’s eye, but he was looking at Mr. Smith quite hard. “Oh, well. It’s so silly, you’ll laugh. She just read a story about this woman, you see, who dressed as a man to fight in the war, and she caught this fancy that you had done the same thing…” 

Hannah cringed and looked down at her darning. When she looked up again, Mr. Smith had his lips pressed into a thin line and Uncle Henry had reached over to grip his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s such a stupid notion. Insulting too, probably. I apologize for repeating it.” 

“No,” Mr. Smith said slowly, giving Uncle Henry a long glance. “I’m glad you told us.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Well,” Mr. Smith played his fingers over Henry’s. “Because, frankly, it’s true.” 

Hannah gaped. “What?” 

“We didn’t know how to tell you, Hannah,” Uncle Henry rushed in. “We wanted to, but as you can imagine, it’s in Charley’s best interest to keep that information quite close—” 

“—But when we agreed to bring you here,” Mr. Smith continued, “we knew we wanted to tell you. You’d be a member of our household and we didn’t want to pretend that we’re something we’re not—” 

“Something you’re not?” Hannah whispered. She suddenly saw their enfolded hands in an entirely new light. “So you are secretly married? What? What?”

“Hannah, I know it’s a lot to take in—” They’d been sharing a room right under her nose this entire time! Did Mr. Smith ever actually have a room in the attic in the first place?

“—Mary is going to be overjoyed!” Hannah exclaimed. “James is never going to live this down!” 

“Hannah, Hannah, calm down,” Uncle Henry said, and Hannah realized she’d stood from her chair. “We didn’t want to tell you like this, but we do need you to understand that this information isn’t to be shared lightly.” 

“Oh,” Hannah said. She could feel her heart thrilling in her chest. She made herself sit down. “Right. Of course.” 

Mr. Smith’s face was quite serious. Of course, he was always serious. But he was especially so now. “For all intents and purposes, I live my life as a man. I want to continue to do that. It’s easier if people assume it to be so.” 

“Of course,” Hannah said, nodding. Her throat squeezed. “Of course you can count on me. I owe you everything. I would never betray your trust.” She looked up at them both imploringly. “Please. I’m sorry I got overly excited. Please believe me. I promise I’ll keep your secret.” 

Uncle Henry leaned forward and squeezed her hand in his. Now all three of them were linked. “I believe you.” 

“I do too,” Mr. Smith said. “I think it’s best if we can all be true to ourselves, at least in the privacy of our own home.” 

Hannah blinked hard, just once. It felt good to be included in that “our,” in that “home,” and to feel it was true, not just for Mr. Smith, but for Hannah as well. 

“So…” Hannah said at length. “This is why you know how to braid my hair? And sew a dress?” 

Mr. Smith gave a sheepish smile. “Yes.” 

“Huh.” Hannah took that in. “But, wait. You did this to enlist? How did you manage it?” 

Mr. Smith glanced at Henry and smiled. “Well, it’s a long story.” 

Hannah shrugged sheepishly. “I did just put another log on the fire.” 

⸻

Footnotes

1. Greubner, Constantin. We Were the Ninth: A History of the Ninth Regiment, Ohio Volunteer Infantry April 17, 1861, to June 7, 1864. Translated and edited by Frederic Trautmann. Kent State University Press, Ohio, 2009. 83. ↩︎
2. Bishop, Mill Springs Campaign, 67. “The enemy in front of the Ninth Ohio, sheltered by some buildings and fences, obstinately maintained their position, and a bayonet charge, in which a part of the Second joined, was finally ordered and made, and this finished the fight.” ↩︎
3. Bishop, Judson Wade. The Story of a Regiment: Being a Narrative of the Service of the Second Regiment, Minnesota Veteran Volunteer Infantry, in the Civil War of 1861-1865. United States, Published for the Surviving Members of the Regiment, 1890. 40. Also, Bishop, Mill Springs Campaign, 67. “One young lieutenant, as the firing ceased and the smoke lifted, stood a few paces in front of Company I, of the Second, and calmly faced his fate. His men had disappeared, and he was called on to surrender. He made no reply, but, raising his revolver, fired into our ranks with deliberate aim, shooting Lieutenant Stout through the body. Further parley was useless, and he was shot dead where he stood.” I changed it to Company K and stood Sgt. Osborn in for Lt. Stout.  ↩︎
4. Maštíŋčala Sáŋ. “All About Yarrow: Cold Remedy, Wound Medicine, and More.” Plant Stories from Lakota and Dakota Territory. dakotaplants.wordpress.com, Accessed 22 Nov. 2025. ↩︎
5. Bishop, Mill Springs Campaign, 70. “General Zollicoffer had been shot through the heart by Colonel Fry, of the Fourth Kentucky, early in the battle. The two officers, each with an aide, had met in the narrow winding roadway as they were respectively getting their troops into position in the woods on each side of it. All wore water-proof coats or ponchos, and at first did not recognize each other as enemies. As soon as they did revolvers were drawn; Zollicoffer’s aide fired at Colonel Fry and got out of the way, leaving his chief to fall by the return he had invited.” ↩︎
6. Foreshadowing, but not for a part of the story I intend to tell. After they march back from the Mill Springs battle, they do end up marching in a lot of slush and snow. Not enough to warrant sleds, though.  ↩︎
7. The Bank Panic of 1873 occurred after the Coinage Act was passed in April, moving the US to a strict gold standard (where we’d previously used both gold and silver). This decreased the amount of value circulating in the economy, causing mass deflation and economic recession. Before the Great Depression of the 1930s, this was the most devastating economic crisis the US had seen.  ↩︎
8. “Woman in disguise” is a phrase often used by newspapers of the era reporting on people like Charley. In fact, ‘disguise’ is a useful term for historical newspaper keyword searches and has been used to find stories of trans and nonbinary gender people in the historical record. However, ‘disguise’ is a misleading term and usually applied to people by journalists without concern of whether they identified with it. By describing folks as ‘disguising’ their gender, journalists implied a universal assumption about the subject’s gender identity that is often at odds with how they presented themselves. ↩︎

⸻

Copyright 2025

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