A few minutes later Major Darr stepped out to look over the captives. He didn’t even bother to try to conceal his amusement as he walked past Mary, shaking his head with a rueful grin.
He looked over Captain Lodge.
“Well Captain, it looks like we have our Hellion back. It’s just as well, things have been awful quiet without her and we’re starting to build up far too many unbroken dishes in the kitchen.”
*****
12th of June 1862
Wheeling, Virginia
Mary Jane Green shivered weakly in her bed, despite the mounds of blankets, one hand visible, picking feebly at the mattress as she mumbled in low terrified tones. Even though she was awake, or what passed for awake, her eyes were mostly unseeing as the Fever took its toll. Irish Mary looked down at her, the concern etched on her face. “She’ll not last the week if’n she don’t start fightin’ back you know.”
Bruna nodded with a soft frown. She’d seen it before, all too often over the last several weeks. Typhoid fever had torn through the area, killing so many young men. “She wouldn’t take the medicine. What is she talking about? Who is Scratch?”
“Ol’ Scratch is the Devil. She’s sayin’ she’s goin’ta have to marry the Devil. That he’s a-callin’ to her, and she’s sayin’ she doesn’t want to go.” She slowly and deliberately crossed herself.
Bruna shivered and muttered a Vaterunser under her breath before responding. “Tomorrow’s the full of the moon. That’s for weddings. And it’s a Tuesday. Weddings on Tuesdays are bad luck.”
Irish Mary grimaced. “She’s a headstrong lass, an’ there’s no mistakin’ that, but she doesn’t deserve this. Dying of Fever, well that’s bad enough, but she’s done nothin’ for Scamp hisself to take her to wife.”
Bruna glanced at the door and pulled a whisky bottle from her apron pocket. Whisky warded off the Fever, or so they said. There was no reason to take chances with it. She took a pull from the bottle and passed it to Irish Mary. “It’s very sad.”
“An orphan whose brothers have gone for Soldier. Sad it is.” Irish Mary swigged a mouthful of whisky herself. “It sure’n tis.”
*****
Jeremiah jolted awake at his desk. He’d fallen asleep reading troop dispositions again.
The pounding sounded again at his door, bringing him to his feet. He wearily pulled his suspenders up onto his shoulders before opening the door.
A large hand grabbed him by his shirtfront and dragged him into the corridor. He frantically fumbled for his revolver only to wince when he realized it was still in the belt and holster looped over the bedpost where he’d left it.
“C’mon lad, yer savin’ her.” The very drunk Irish woman dragged him down the hall with no more trouble than a nanny would have with a two-year-old.
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“My namesake, she is, and that’s enough, isn’t it?” She still wasn’t making sense, but something in her tone warned Jeremiah that she was quite willing to use violence to do whatever it was she wanted to be done.
A few moments later she opened the door to Miss Green’s room; it had passed for a cell, now a sick chamber. She dragged him to the bed, where Miss Green lay in a ghastly pallor, twitching and mumbling fearfully.