A Perfect She-Devil

The room darkened as evening fell, the night held off only by the lamp Bruna lit before leaving. Despite her utter exhaustion, Mary laid wide awake in her bed, unable to even close her eyes, much less sleep. A creeping unease began to fill her thoughts, growing larger and larger until she was afraid to even blink. She felt pinned and trapped by the shadows.

She gasped when the door to her room silently opened, trying to build the strength to scream.

"Miss Green, may I come in?"

The amazing relief at the sound of Jeremiah's voice pushed the fear and darkness away at once. She caught the scream in her throat before responding. "Yes. Please...please come in."

He carefully stepped around the door. "I, uh..." He paused, obviously at a loss. "I just wanted to look in on you. I've been...." He stopped, not sure what to say.

"They said I'll be better in a month or two."

Jeremiah nodded. "Do you need anything of me? Or I can go get Bruna if you would prefer."

The thought of the darkened room sent a chill through Mary; the idea of being alone at night was horrifying. "Did you really read the Bible to me every night?"

He stepped a little closer. "It seemed to comfort you some."

"Then maybe it has been helping with my healing." She glanced at the chair next to the bed.

He frowned slightly, then pulled his Bible from his jacket pocket. Then he sat and began to read to her.

*****

25th of December 1862

Wheeling, Virginia

"There is still no news?" Bruna carefully placed the tray with the remnants of the roast onto the table and began slicing the meat.

Irish Mary shook her head in disgust. "Nary a word. The lad and lass should accept that they're married true."

Even as she said it, though, she herself had doubt. None of her memories of the day were very clear and Bruna's were even less clear. Although the Armies exchange flags of truce for prisoner exchanges and other such necessities, the efforts to find the Confederate Chaplain had not been successful at all. With no name or specific unit to ask the question of, Confederate emissaries were amusedly willing to try, and very much willing to tell the tale of the might-or-might-not marriage to others, but had not had any luck.

The word had certainly gone far enough. Colonel John Hunt Morgan had his telegraph man commandeer a Union telegraph line long enough to send an amused message of "possible congratulations" to the "maybe couple." Even Mary had smiled over that.

Fearing that the ceremony had been a sham, Jeremiah and Mary had treated themselves as betrothed, for lack of a better choice. With Jeremiah's long absences on patrols and raids, they simply seemed to be resigned to wait for an answer.

What short furloughs he had were spent in Wheeling and as near to Mary's side as possible and there certainly seemed to be no objection to that from Mary. While they seemed determined to maintain propriety, Irish Mary and Bruna both suspected that there had been more than a few stolen kisses.

The war, however, seemed hell-bent on interference, as war is wont to be. Jeremiah Lodge, the Captain, was detailed to commands that seemed to take him farther and farther afield.

He'd begun to write letters to Mary, letters that she impatiently waited for and read eagerly. She'd had some trouble writing back as her learning was that of a hill country girl, but she wrote back anyway. Her letters often took much longer to reach him as he always seemed to be on the move.

*****

9th of June 1863

Fleetwood Hill

Brandy Station

Culpeper County, Virginia

Jeremiah stared at the grand pageantry poised across the field, took another hasty bite of hardtack, then looked at Sergeant MacKay and at the scratch band of horsemen he'd been given to secure this bare track of path. "This is complete madness."

"Tis certain that, Captain." The Sergeant loosened one of the revolvers in his saddle holster. "Truly a wonder, Sir. It's certain na' war, but it is a wonder."

Jeremiah had just finished tying up his remaining hardtack in the blue checked gingham cloth and securing it to his saddle when a harried-looking Lieutenant rode up. "Captain? Colonel Kilpatrick is preparing to advance to take the hill. He is gathering officers to relay his orders. Your presence is requested if you can spare yourself."

Sergeant McKay nodded gravely at the Captain. "God be with you, Sir. Take care with yourself. We'll hold the road."

As they rode along the rear of the line of the cavalry, Jeremiah felt the excitement and tension crackling through the air, it was the same feeling as electricity building before a lightning storm broke over the mountains.

"Captain Lodge!"

Jeremiah looked to see where the call had come from and saw the grinning face of a Captain of the 1st New Jersey Cavalry. He couldn't remember the man's name, but he remembered the bottle of whisky they'd shared. The man continued. "You're going to miss it if you keep on that road. This is the real thing. Not tearing up some tracks, or chasing guerrillas for once. Unless you Illinois boys don't go in for this type of sport."

With the unspoken challenge hanging in the air and the Jerseymen troopers watching expectantly, Jeremiah looked at the Lieutenant. "Colonel Kilpatrick said I should come 'if I can spare myself'?"

"Yes, sir."

"His full staff is ready to hand to relay orders?"

"Yes, Sir." There was a crawling note under the Lieutenant's voice, an eager and hopeful sound.

"I believe I may have another duty to attend here." He turned his horse and pushed it into line with the troopers who nodded respectfully and made space. The Lieutenant pushed up beside him silently, smiling maniacally.

Hargrove, he remembered; the New York Captain's name was Hargrove. "Captain Hargrove, do you know of a French General of Hussars named 'Lasalle'?" He raised his voice enough to carry across the Jerseymen Cavalry.

Hargrove chuckled and answered in kind. "I believe I do, Jeremiah, I believe I do."

"You remember what he said? 'Tout hussard qui n'est pas mort à trente ans est un Jean-Foutre.' Any hussar who isn't dead by the age of thirty is a lazy bastard!"

Laughter and cheers answered from the troopers.

A shimmer of silver passed down the line as bugles sounded and the order to draw sabers was passed.

The order to charge was more felt than heard, a flash of chain lighting and madness that ripped along the Federal line in an instant.

There was a dreadful pause, a moment of death and silence, before the mass of troopers exploded outward across the field in a solid glorious line of blues and silver, flags snapping. The huzzahs of the Union cavalry sounded a chant that built-in tempo and volume, heard even over the thunder of hooves.

An answering flash of sabers from the Rebel line sparked and spread until it was a full crest of silver. The grey and butternut line seemed to take a breath then jump and surge forward all at once. A high pitched yell, like a fox hunters "halloo," built and called in answer to the low Union paean.

The two lines collided in a confusing torrent of horses and men; screams, shots and the clash of steel drowning out all sanity and strategies.

Jeremiah drove his sword into the shoulder of a wild-eyed rebel in a pristine grey uniform and bright yellow kepi. A stumble of the horse had saved the man from Jeremiah's thrust at his heart. In an instant they were past each other and Jeremiah was laying about himself with his saber as he was surrounded by a wall of gray and butternut uniforms. A revolver muzzle was thrust against his breast, but he twisted aside just as it fired; the bullet must have gone into one of the rebel soldiers around him. There was simply nowhere else for it to go.

The fray was an endless eternal flood of blood, steel and gunfire as Jeremiah frantically parried sabers, slashed at revolvers and thrust into bodies.

With no warning at all, he was suddenly clear of the press of men and horses with no target near to hand as blue and grey riders shattered away from each other. Pulling the .44 Army Colt with his left hand, he thumbed the hammer back and fired once after the retreating backs of the Confederates.

"You're a mad man Jeremiah Lodge!" Jeremiah spun in his saddle to see Captain Hargrove laughing and waving him frantically back to the reconsolidating Union line.

As he trotted back to the front of the line, the grinning New Jersey Captain pointed to him. "Be careful with that one, boys, he thinks he can take on all Jeb's men by himself."

"So what's the next..." Jeremiah froze as the preparatory bugle call for the charge sounded up and down the Federal line. "Again?"

*****

A mix of acrid powder smoke and the iron smell of blood hung over the battlefield as Sergeant McKay watched the last of the flood omen and horses surge past his position. Blown and wounded horses, carrying exhausted and wounded men, poured down the small track as the Union forces pulled back. The battle had lasted for hours, charges and counter-charges sweeping back and forth across the ridge, the shock of the Confederate cavalry was palpable in the atmosphere; the Federal cavalry, for the first time, had met them charge for charge as equals on the battlefield.

McKay had detailed a couple of his men to catch the reigns of riderless horses that were caught up in the mass. His men would be a part of the screen for the withdrawal, though it didn't look like there would be much screening to do. The Rebels seemed uninterested in any real pursuit along this line, and McKay, with the senses of a veteran cavalryman, sensed that harassment would be halfhearted at best, at least for a while.

One of the troopers moving down the road leading a roan caught his eye and he reached over and grabbed the reigns of the blood-drenched horse and pulled it closer, looking at the blue checked gingham wrapped rations tied off to the saddle and shook his head sadly. "Aw, Captain Lodge. I warned ya to be careful in this great bloody brawl."

*****

3rd of September 1863

Wheeling, West Virginia

"She's gone?" Irish Mary looked over the empty room sadly and shook her head. "Was nae door nor lock that held her here."

Bruna combed through the room. "She has taken his letters and everything."

"She'll nae be comin' back, then." Irish Mary picked carefully closed the empty desk drawer she had checked. "She's nae right in the head, you know?"

"It was the shock."

"Aye, 'twas the shock. She waited for near a week."

Mary hadn't cried or wailed after they had received the casualty list with Jeremiah's name on it. She'd just sat at the desk, hollow-eyed, staring blankly at an unwritten letter, a nearly blank sheet of paper she'd been at when they got the awful news. The only thing on the page was "My Dearest Jeremiah," written in the most careful and beautiful script a hill country girl could manage.

That page was the only thing left in the room.

*****

24th of October 1864

Mosby's Confederacy, Virginia

She couldn't even remember the number of raids she had scouted for, or the number of skirmishes she'd been in.

Mary had heard that Colonel Mosby was in desperate need of scouts who could ferret out information on Union positions, scouts daring enough to risk execution by Federal troopers if they were caught.

Despite the initial worries of the men, who worried that women were too soft for war, she had never had a problem pulling a trigger. The men in blue all had one failing, a failing that made it all too easy to shoot.

They weren't her Jeremiah. And they were alive and her Jeremiah was dead. That was all the rational she needed.

If her companions could have seen inside her, they would have been chilled to realize that she could just as easily pull the trigger on them. They weren't her Jeremiah either, so they were nothing at all to her.

Some of the Confederate Partisans talked about being able to hate, and how it made fighting easier. But Mary felt nothing, just that howling darkness inside, one that seemed to make the world flat and meaningless. She'd hoped to find a cause, hoped to find some meaning when she sought out Colonel Mosby, but she found nothing. She scouted and fought because that was what she could do in an eternal war with nothing else to live for.

Mary only admitted to herself that she was simply waiting for a Union bullet to find its mark and send her on to her Jeremiah. Or perhaps the bullet would send her to the Devil's side. She was beginning to think even that was preferable to this pointless world with its endless, meaningless war.

Colonel Mosby himself had called her to his headquarters to tell her of the price on her head. The Yankees had no name, just words like "spy" and "Hellion." The description had her as dark-haired, or occasionally blonde and she was variously described as tall or short. The most popular name on the flyers sent out by the Federals was "The She-Devil," which made her laugh darkly. Maybe she would be the Devil's bride after all. A widow, after all, can remarry.

Colonel Mosby had pushed the flyer over to across the desk. "Miss Green, be aware that you will almost certainly be hanged as a spy if you're caught, and there's nothing I can do about that. It is well within the conventions of war. Under normal circumstances, even the Yankees would pardon a woman for spying, but in your case, I doubt that applies. Custer is outside the bounds already, hanging my men, as he has already done; that is why I have had to issue the orders I have. He appears to have a special hatred for you."

"I shot his aide in battle, I didn't execute him or kill him while he was a prisoner. I didn't kill him in his sleep." Mary said it stonily and Mosby eyed her for a moment.

"That may well be true, but you are not a uniformed soldier, and that alone would be justification for him to order your execution. I am considering discharging you from my service for your own safety."

"I would simply join up with one of the other guerrilla bands. Colonel."

He looked at her tiredly. "The 43rd Virginia Cavalry is a recognized regular Partisan Ranger unit, under the laws of war. We are not guerillas." He paused. "I know what you would do, so I will not discharge you for the time being, but I may change that at any time."

Collecting her horse, Mary left the encampment. The few sparse flakes of snow that were falling had begun to grow larger and more numerous, sparks of cold on her face and cheeks as they melted.

She was certain that the Colonel was planning to relieve her from service as soon as he could do so with a clear conscience. He very much considered himself a gentleman and she'd always felt he was uncomfortable with women directly participating in war. He seemed, like many men, to feel that women should be making bandages or peeing into pots to make gunpowder, rather than dealing more direct blows for the Cause. Whatever that was, she reflected. If anything, she had learned from her long talks with Jeremiah that the war was far more complicated than she had ever believed.

Mary rode on through the whirls and eddies of snow, the early winter storm. She doubted it would be a bad one, but she also knew it was impossible to be certain of the weather in the Shenandoah. The hour-long ride down the trails and tracks turned into three hours and took her through the abrupt darkening of the western sky. Night fell suddenly in the valleys of the Shenandoah. There was enough dull moonglow pushing through the winter clouds to fall with the snow to make her way, but if she didn't reach camp before moonset, she'd have to huddle down wherever she was rather than risk a fall into a draw.

Just as she passed the twisted oak at the edge of the camp, she heard the oddly muffled shots and shouts of battle in the snow. A Yankee patrol must have stumbled across the encampment.

It had to have been an accident since even the Yankees weren't damn fools enough to attack with mere minutes of moonlight left. The sounds were more of marked confusion than anything coherent, Mary had been in enough clashes to know the difference. She pulled her Colt Navy from the saddle holster. She thumbed the hammer back before resting it across the pommel, as she moved cautiously in on the camp.

A burst of gunfire focused her just in time to see a figure racing through the darkness and snow and she steadied the big revolver on it.

The swirling snowflakes made it all but impossible to see her target, a looming shadow, barely visible except as a pattern in the blindness. But that pattern had the unmistakable shape of a Union Cavalryman. A glimpse of dark blue through the snow confirmed her suspicion.

Her Colt revolver boomed, and the shadow seemed to fall apart. The larger part raced past her, resolving into a galloping horse, the smaller part falling to the road, still and quiet.

Two more figures, obviously in pursuit of the first drew up slowly and cautiously, one finally calling out in a hoarse whisper. "Show yourself."

Recognizing the voice, she answered, "Don't be a fool Martin, It's me."

He lowered his revolver to his side. "I think he's the only one we got. Four of 'em ran right through the middle of camp, dispatch or something. Must have gotten lost." He dropped off to check the body. "This one's alive."

He didn't sound too happy about it and Mary knew why. Colonel Mosby had ordered them to hang one prisoner out of the next batch of Union soldiers they took in retaliation for Custer's "illegal contravention of the laws of war." Custer had ordered some of Mosby's men hanged as guerrillas, even when they were clearly captured in uniform. Or at least as much uniform as most Confederate soldiers still had. Still, killing a man in battle was one thing, and hanging a prisoner, no matter how much you supported the Cause, was another entirely. It was a murder of sorts, rather than war, and the Rangers were very disconcerted by the orders.

The other figure, Martin's brother Joseph, helped him move the prisoner back to the camp while Mary went on ahead to warn the guards so there would be none of the unfortunate confusion of the type that often has soldiers shooting their own.

She knew Captain Barrow would have mixed feelings about her return. He was practical enough to understand her value, but, more than the others, he was astute enough to sense that she was no more on the Confederate side than the early winter storm was.

After hobbling her horse, she began to fold down the small shelter set off to one side past the Captain's. She usually stayed in sympathetic farmer's houses, as did they all. When she had to stay in camp, the location of her shelter had become customary after a drunken Ranger had "accidentally" tried to enter her tent. He had been beaten quite bloody, and quite senseless, with a spare horseshoe.

Captain Barrow, Martin, Joseph, and the others were quietly arguing how to have prisoners draw lots for hanging when there was only one prisoner.

She paused, something drawing her to where the prisoner sat slumped against a tree on the edge of the overwatch, the drop off that gave the Partisans a clear view down the draw and into the valley below.

The guard, a boy of sixteen whose name she couldn't remember, was trying to look fierce and military as he both watched the prisoner and the draw for approaching Union forces.

The Union trooper, wounded in the side of his chest, raised his head at her approach and she felt her heart stop.

He'd aged and his face was scarred and a long furrow ran across the left side of his head, the very top of his left ear clipped neatly off as well.

Behind her, she could hear, as if at the bottom of a well, the argument about drawing lots come to an end and the men getting up to execute their unpleasant duty. They were in a hurry, of course. The three escaped Union troopers might be coming back with a real patrol.