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accent, dragging out syllables and dropping the ends of words. He was of middle size and of middling age, maybe in his thirties, it was hard to tell. He was stocky, with large, strong hands, a heavy beard and moustache that twirled up like half moons at its two waxy ends, and a thatch of black hair salted with gray. His left pinky was bent over like a gnarled apple tree branch.
    “I saw your notice of rooms to let, Mrs. Hutton, and, well, here I am,” he said. Aunt Salome fanned herself with a napkin and simpered.
    Mr. Webster smiled at me. “What is your name, young Miss?” he asked. His iron-gray eyes looked straight into mine, as though he could see into my brain. But his manner was so gentle, and his voice so musical, I was not uncomfortable. I forgot for an instant that he was likely a Rebel.
    “I’m Madeline Eve Bradford,” I said softly.
    “Her father wears Union blue,” Salome said, as though describing a disease. “She’s here for, well, for the duration of our little conflict,” she added.
    Little conflict? It was a darn war! And just wait, I’m going to find a way to be part of it.
    “Will you be taking all your meals with us, sir?” My aunt sighed. “Some don’t pay for their board,” she said, with a sideways glance to me, “so your fine greenbacks, sir, are as welcome as the sun.”
    My face reddened at this humiliation.
    “Nellie!” she shouted. “Go find another chicken for supper, and don’t be making of pet of it this time.”
    I winced.
    “Yes, missus,” Nellie answered from behind the door.
    “Well, then, well, Mr. Webster,” asked Aunt Salome sweetly, “Is cotton your trade?”
    “Brilliant as well as handsome you are, madam,” Webster answered, bowing his head. “King Cotton is my master, and I am its humble slave, no matter what the outcome of your ‘little war.’”
    By then, Jake Whitestone had seated himself at the table, looking mussed and gray faced, with dark circles under his eyes, tousled and weary like he’d been out all night. Where had he been, and why did I care? I’d be gone.
    Before I left the room, I pushed my uneaten breakfast plate under Jake Whitestone’s nose. He reached for my arm.
    “Miss Bradford, I have to talk to you. May we be excused, Mrs. Hutton?”
    “Well, I never,” Aunt Salome huffed.
    I followed Jake Whitestone into the kitchen.
    The words rushed out of him in a whisper.
    “Your father’s regiment will march to Centreville, Virginia, Miss Bradford. General Burnside has it that the Rebels are on the move, and our troops are to face them front-on. If all this information is right, they’ll meet up with General McDowell and save Washington City from an invasion. It will end it.”
    “How do you know this?” I asked.
    “I overheard . . . things.”
    “Madeline?” My aunt called out. “Did a regiment snatch you up, or are you loitering?”
    “Good day, Mr. Whitestone.”
    Before he could speak, I was gone.
    Almost, almost . As I was getting some things from the alleyway, holding a candle and rummaging through a waste bin, actually, I noticed a rolled-up newspaper just by the door. I scanned it quickly as I waited for the house to be dead dark, for them all to be asleep.
Special from the New York Tribune
Dear Readers,
Our soldiers under General Irvin McDowell are on the move to meet the Rebel General Beauregard’s Confederate Army at a location that must remain unknown. For now.
    Both sides are green and untried, boys and men who, like the sunshine patriots of our great Revolution, have heard a bell tolling, summoning them to war. Your reporter is on the move as well. In a great hurry, I might add. I aim to find the battle, and see it for myself.
I telegraph in haste.
PAN
    It was beginning! Whoever the writer was, I envied his freedom to move about as no proper woman could. No woman , that is.

Six
     
    When the faint light of dawn shimmered at the edge of blackness, I grabbed up my things and ran through the alley. In an