these questions when we were out in the chilly August morning, mounting our horses. He'd managed to secure a horse for me, and for that I was grateful. But he was a man of few words, and, as promised, I asked no questions.
"We're going to Camp White Oak, where Quantrill is holed up," he explained briefly. "Quantrill is brewing a plan in retribution for so many kin of his men being killed in the prison collapse. Sue Mundy is on another spying mission for him. And we all know she wasn't treated as a prisoner, anyway.
"They're going to vote this morning on Quantrill's next attack," he told me quietly. "After you leave. And depending on what you say. No, you cannot know what it is. Or when. Just tell the truth as I've taught you to tell it. No embellishments. No pretty words. Spare the words, instead. Tell everything you saw, everything everyone said to the Yankees and they to our kin. Be polite and respectful. Then I'll take you back to the hospital and you will never, in all your born days, speak of this morning again. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Seth."
"Good girl. Now silence. We don't have far to go."
About a mile from the camp we stopped so he could put a blindfold on me. "For your own safety," he explained. "Now, if asked, you can honestly say you don't know how to get to this camp."
He led my horse by the reins and I held on to the pommel tightly. Soon, very soon, I heard low talking. Then we stopped again and the talking stopped, too, and he removed the blindfold and gave me back the reins.
At first I was blinded by the morning sun coming through the trees. I heard, rather than saw, the men who knew me saying their greeting.
"Hey there, Juliet, how you doin', kid?"
"See your head is still bandaged up. Does it hurt?"
"You kin put all the boys' clothes on her you want, Seth, she still looks mighty fetchin'."
Low laughter. But respectful.
They all wore the gray Quantrill shirts with the red stitching. Some were cleaning guns, others brushing down horses. Some were eating and some huddled around a campfire sipping coffee.
"Get her some coffee," one of them said. "Where're your manners, boys? We have a lady present. Treat her like one."
It was Quantrill. He'd been leaning against an oak tree smoking a cheroot and talking with Bill Anderson in low tones, and now he came over and looked up at me for a full minute. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"I'm middling well, sir."
He nodded. "You of a mind to tell us a story?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded. "Get her down, Seth. Bring her over to that tree. Bill, get a blanket and spread it on the grass. Ground's cold. Somebody got coffee and vittles for Juliet Bradshaw?"
Of a sudden the camp came alive. Everyone went to do his bidding. Seth lifted me off my horse and someone led him away for food and water. Seth carried me over to the tree and set me down on the blanket next to Quantrill. For a while it was just me and Quantrill and Seth, eating and drinking the heavenly coffee in the sun-washed morning with the pleasant murmur of the men's talk around us. And the horses munching grass and the fire crackling.
Then, as if given a signal, everything changed. "All right," Quantrill said. "Listen up."
They gathered around with their guns in hand, like children about to hear a bedtime story. The looks on their faces had changed. Now they were weary, bitter, and sad.
"You can ask about your kin as we go along," Quantrill told them. "But I want no cussing. And anybody frightens this here little girl will answer to me. Got it?"
They nodded yes.
And so I began my story, from the first day we got to the three-story brick building at 1409 Grand Avenue. I wished I could speak like Martha, with a storytelling voice that would make them feel as if everything would be all right, but I knew I couldn't do that. Because I knew, and they knew, and likely now even Martha knew that we couldn't count on anything being all right again. Ever.
I told them about the food. The sleeping arrangements. The lack
"We're going to Camp White Oak, where Quantrill is holed up," he explained briefly. "Quantrill is brewing a plan in retribution for so many kin of his men being killed in the prison collapse. Sue Mundy is on another spying mission for him. And we all know she wasn't treated as a prisoner, anyway.
"They're going to vote this morning on Quantrill's next attack," he told me quietly. "After you leave. And depending on what you say. No, you cannot know what it is. Or when. Just tell the truth as I've taught you to tell it. No embellishments. No pretty words. Spare the words, instead. Tell everything you saw, everything everyone said to the Yankees and they to our kin. Be polite and respectful. Then I'll take you back to the hospital and you will never, in all your born days, speak of this morning again. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Seth."
"Good girl. Now silence. We don't have far to go."
About a mile from the camp we stopped so he could put a blindfold on me. "For your own safety," he explained. "Now, if asked, you can honestly say you don't know how to get to this camp."
He led my horse by the reins and I held on to the pommel tightly. Soon, very soon, I heard low talking. Then we stopped again and the talking stopped, too, and he removed the blindfold and gave me back the reins.
At first I was blinded by the morning sun coming through the trees. I heard, rather than saw, the men who knew me saying their greeting.
"Hey there, Juliet, how you doin', kid?"
"See your head is still bandaged up. Does it hurt?"
"You kin put all the boys' clothes on her you want, Seth, she still looks mighty fetchin'."
Low laughter. But respectful.
They all wore the gray Quantrill shirts with the red stitching. Some were cleaning guns, others brushing down horses. Some were eating and some huddled around a campfire sipping coffee.
"Get her some coffee," one of them said. "Where're your manners, boys? We have a lady present. Treat her like one."
It was Quantrill. He'd been leaning against an oak tree smoking a cheroot and talking with Bill Anderson in low tones, and now he came over and looked up at me for a full minute. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"I'm middling well, sir."
He nodded. "You of a mind to tell us a story?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded. "Get her down, Seth. Bring her over to that tree. Bill, get a blanket and spread it on the grass. Ground's cold. Somebody got coffee and vittles for Juliet Bradshaw?"
Of a sudden the camp came alive. Everyone went to do his bidding. Seth lifted me off my horse and someone led him away for food and water. Seth carried me over to the tree and set me down on the blanket next to Quantrill. For a while it was just me and Quantrill and Seth, eating and drinking the heavenly coffee in the sun-washed morning with the pleasant murmur of the men's talk around us. And the horses munching grass and the fire crackling.
Then, as if given a signal, everything changed. "All right," Quantrill said. "Listen up."
They gathered around with their guns in hand, like children about to hear a bedtime story. The looks on their faces had changed. Now they were weary, bitter, and sad.
"You can ask about your kin as we go along," Quantrill told them. "But I want no cussing. And anybody frightens this here little girl will answer to me. Got it?"
They nodded yes.
And so I began my story, from the first day we got to the three-story brick building at 1409 Grand Avenue. I wished I could speak like Martha, with a storytelling voice that would make them feel as if everything would be all right, but I knew I couldn't do that. Because I knew, and they knew, and likely now even Martha knew that we couldn't count on anything being all right again. Ever.
I told them about the food. The sleeping arrangements. The lack
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