The Girls of Gettysburg Read Online Free Page B

company’s best, in service to Virginia.”
    For a moment she stood stone still, so angry it was hard to breathe. She thought to fight him but knew she couldn’t, not like this, not with any hope of keeping her disguise. Instead she spat, a solid good spit, and aimed for Dylan’s boots.
    And she always hit her mark.
    She wasn’t one for tears; she’d give no one that satisfaction. Instead she aimed all her anger at him, just like she was aiming her rifle, making the shot deliberate and precise.
    â€œThis ain’t over,” she whispered.
    â€œCourse not, strawfoot. I’m a-counting on that,” Dylan whispered back, and winked.
    The men fell into formation, some without pants, some without shirts, all in disarray of some kind, spitting, grumbling, but each snapping to when his name was called.
    â€œJames Anachie Gordon.” Annie snapped to attention when
his
name was called.
    When roll call was finished, the men dispersed, and Annie turned on her heel. There again stood Dylan. He squared his shoulders and took a step forward.
    But Annie wasn’t moving, not this time.
    â€œBoys.” Gideon stepped up from behind and slapped his son. Seeing the Whitworth in Dylan’s hands, he glanced at Annie. “Do we have a problem here?”
    Gideon was watching her. Annie knew that complaining about the Whitworth would make her look like a tattletale, a weakling. And then they’d tease her, just like William and James had whenever she complained to Pap or Mama. Besides, living with James had given her plenty of practice on how to get even.
    â€œ
No, sir!
” she shouted.
    â€œDon’t call me sir.” Gideon smiled in approval. “I work for a living. Glad to see you two getting along this fine morning!” The younger soldier gave his pap a smile. He smoothed back his bright red hair. Annie relaxed her shoulder and stepped aside. But all the while, she kept her eye fixed on Dylan. With a grunt, Gideon continued, “We’ll be heading north in a short time, mark my word. Until then, we best be getting to the business of soldiering. Drill time, boys.”
    Tramp, tramp, tramp
. Drilling seemed an easy thing to do, putting one foot in front of the other. But more than once Annie tripped, turned left instead of right, turned right instead of left. And with each misstep she took, Dylan howled. She squared her shoulders, and she took to more drilling. The quartermaster had issued her an Enfield to replace her musket. “Try not to lose this one,” he chuckled. The Enfield was a mere spit of a gun compared to her Whitworth. And with every step, she wanted to spit all the more.
    Jasper with his big potato feet walked as if his boots had shrunk.
    â€œBetter to have no shoes,” Dylan chuckled.
    â€œThey’re drilling us hard,” Jasper whispered. “Your pop must be right. They’ll be moving us soon.”
    Tramp, tramp, tramp
.
    As the sun rose higher, so did the heat. The Enfield grew heavier with every step, and her knapsack dragged her shoulders like dead weight, pinching her neck. Ahead, somewhere in the dust, the captain barked orders, echoed by Gideon’s boom, and the column turned to the right, to the left, to the center. March! The hours—and the heat—rolled on.
    Tramp, tramp, tramp!
    When the bugle sounded the end of drill, Annie was bone weary, making a slow way back to her fire. There she found Gideon frying up vittles. From the smells of it, he’d put in a little bit of everything. Stronger still was the smell of coffee, strong enough to draw others of the Portsmouth Rifles about. There must have been a dozen chewing the fat about the fire.
    â€œPotaters and corn pone, can’t do better than that!” Gideon yodeled. Spying Annie, he raised a spoon in her direction. “You are a peculiar feller, James Anachie Gordon. Don’t seem to smile much. But you held your own today, and that deserves a