Free Sisters of Shiloh by Kathy Hepinstall

from?” he asked.
    “Shiloh.”
    “Shiloh the battle?”
    “No, Shiloh, near Fredericksburg.”
    “We used to have an aunt who lived in Fredericksburg. She had a pet hen. It would eat salamanders out of her hand. Now come on out. You’re about to miss supper.”
     
    Campfires were blazing, sputtering, and crackling, the flames just as yellow as in peacetime. Some soldiers cooked meat on bayonets. Arden had tasted that meat. He had sat among men like these, heard this music, smelled this smoke. Libby had to force herself from imagining him watching her as she went by. Those eyes would have known her. She forced her shoulders straight and walked in a measured step. Josephine looked around as though absorbing every detail, and Libby wished a little more for Josephine’s curiosity, a genderless trait that would raise no suspicions.
    Wesley led them to a campfire where three men sat on ammunition boxes and ate soup out of tin cups. Wesley made the introductions.
    Floyd had snow-white hair and an expressive brow. He seemed too old to fight, but his handshake was firm. Lewis was small and hard-eyed. He was Wesley’s brother, it turned out, but didn’t have his light skin or easy laugh. Matthew was the most striking of the three. Instead of a shell jacket, he wore a buckskin shirt. One side of his hat was pinned up, and a red feather was stuck in the fold. He took off his hat and revealed a head of blond hair, cut shingle-style.
    Libby tried to imitate their gestures as she shook each man’s hand. Any second, she feared, one would stare at her closely and say:
You do not belong here.
But no one said these things. They believed that the Southern cause was true, that Stonewall Jackson was God, and that all soldiers were men.
    “Floyd’s our ancient drummer boy,” Wesley said. “He showed up after the Battle of Kernstown, looking for his son.”
    “His name was Robert,” the old man said. “I found him dead in a patch of morning glory. You know, most dead bodies just look dead. But Robert was different. His face looked like marble. So handsome. Not as handsome as Matthew’s, but his borders on pretty. No offense, Matthew.”
    Wesley said, “You know, Floyd, maybe when they shoot you, you’ll be handsome for once.”
    “And maybe when they shoot you, you won’t be a smart-ass. Now shut your mouth, vermin. What was I just saying? Oh, yes. I never thought my boy was much for looks, but any woman in the world would have fallen in love with him right then and there. Some sweet girl was waiting for him at home, all set to marry him after the war, but the fact that you love someone don’t affect fate one bit. I wanted to fight in Robert’s place. But they said I was too old, even for this desperate army, and they made me the drummer boy.”
    “The drummer dinosaur,” Wesley said.
    Floyd gave him a sideways look of contempt. “I might be old, but I can pound out the orders. The call to dress parade, forward march, attack—they each have their distinct cadence, and I am faithful to it.”
    “What happened to the old drummer boy?” Josephine asked. “Was he killed?”
    Wesley shook his head. “Naw. His mother showed up and told us he wasn’t but eight years old, and dragged him away by the ear. I swear that boy looked twelve.” Wesley gestured to Floyd. “So now we’ve got the oldest drummer boy in the Southern army. God, does he make a racket!”
    “I play the drum better than you play that horrible guitar. I could make a better sound with a chalkboard and the fang of a rattlesnake.”
    The sullen man, Lewis, finished his soup with a definitive gulp, set his tin cup down next to his feet, and began to scratch his face with the side of his spoon. The metal rasped against his whiskers as his eyes traveled from Josephine to Libby. He pressed the spoon harder, and a patch of skin on his cheek began to flush in the firelight.
    “So, boys,” Lewis said, “you ready to fight?”
    “I’m ready,” Libby