The Cotillion Brigade
A Novel of the Civil War and the Most Famous Female Militia in American History
Author: Glen Craney
Publication Date: 15th March 2021
Publisher: Brigid's Fire Press
Page Length: 399 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
Georgia burns.
Sherman’s Yankees are closing in.
Will the women of LaGrange run or fight?
Based on the true story of the celebrated Nancy Hart Rifles, The Cotillion Brigade is an epic novel of the Civil War’s ravages on family and love, the resilient bonds of sisterhood in devastation, and the miracle of reconciliation between bitter enemies.
“Gone With The Wind meets A League Of Their Own.” -- John Jeter, The Plunder Room
1856. Sixteen-year-old Nannie Colquitt Hill makes her debut in the antebellum society of the Chattahoochee River plantations. A thousand miles north, a Wisconsin farm boy, Hugh LaGrange, joins an Abolitionist crusade to ban slavery in Bleeding Kansas.
Five years later, secession and war against the homefront hurl them toward a confrontation unrivaled in American history.
Excerpt
LaGrange, Georgia, April 1862
“Nannie, are you not feeling well?” asked Mary.
While the other women practiced their target shooting in Harris grove, Nancy sat several yards away on a log, rereading a letter from Brown. She wiped a tear and coughed back the swell of emotion.
“You’ve not shot yet. You’re always the first on the range.”
“What use is it?”
Mary leaned her musket against a tree and sat. “What has he written now?”
Nancy showed her the letter. “They transferred him from the Fourth to serve as commissary officer for cousin Alfred’s brigade.”
“A promotion! That is grand!”
“Brown is crestfallen. He will no longer fight aside Miles and Joe. Worse, he will now have to forage for onions and potatoes to feed others who win glory on the battlefield. All because he knows how to sign a requisition contract. It’s not fair.”
Mary took Nancy’s hands and pressed them to her bosom. “Brown will be the most popular man in the army. Come suppertime, they will bow and sing songs in his honor for having gathered such a feast.”
Nancy hesitated before revealing the more troublesome news. “Word of our militia has spread around the regiments in Virginia. The men tease Brown to no end that his wife outranks him. They are so cruel! They say I’ve shot a bull while he hasn’t even seen a Yankee.”
“I’m sure Brown takes it in stride.”
Nancy hung her head. “We’ve become a laughingstock. Even here in town, they cheer us to our faces, but I hear their snickers.”
“You must chase this darkness of the spirit. We all suffer it.”
Nancy looked toward Broad Street and the row of boxwoods in front of Mary’s columned home. Pack Beall planted them in December to celebrate the first Christmas for the Nancy Harts. Mary had begged her not to venture out that wet and chilly day, but Pack, the senior member of their troop, was visited with a premonition of death, and she resolved to leave something behind to grow in her memory. Pneumonia crept into her lungs that very night, and she passed three days later, their first casualty. On the day of her burial, the Nancies walked aside the hearse as the honor guard.
After Pack’s death, the joy faded from those early days when the Nancies rejoiced over the design of their uniforms and planned grand parades. Their hopes for a swift end to the war had been dashed, replaced by daily reports of deaths and bloody battles. After suffering devastating losses, the Confederate government passed a conscription act and took even more men from LaGrange for the armies. New Orleans remained under siege, and two weeks ago, near Corinth, Mississippi, at a wilderness church called Shiloh on the Tennessee River, 23,000 men were wounded or killed on both sides, including the gallant commander of their Western army, Albert Sidney Johnston. In Virginia, the Federals, led by a blowhard named McClellan, landed at Yorktown and now threatened to capture Richmond. The Fourth Georgia and the Army of Northern Virginia were the last obstacles in McClellan’s path. If Brown or her brothers fell in battle, they might end up in unmarked graves, never to see Troup County again.
Mary embraced her. “Darling, the others look to you for strength.”
Nancy watched Leila toe the twine marking the firing line and shoot at the scarecrow in the field below. Her musket ball didn’t land within ten feet. Nancy shook her head, despondent over their progress. “We’ve been coming out here twice a week for nearly a year. Caroline hits a beehive and sends us home with stings. Two window panes cracked. And the brush fire we ignited last September almost burned Henry Bottom’s barn to the blocks.”
“Yes, but—”
“Mary, it’s my fault.” Nancy turned to whisper her disappointment. “I raised their hopes, but I have offered them no means to improve.”
“You are too hard on yourself.”
She dropped her head into her hands. “What are we doing? Wasting time. With Peter gone, you have your hands full running his business. I must maintain Brown’s legal correspondence. Caroline feeds half the town.”
Mary tried to instill her with resolve. “You cannot abandon hope now. I doubted you from the start, I admit, but you’ve given those of us left here a reason to pull together.” She pointed to the women on the firing line. “This is not a burden for them. They live for these shooting practices. It provides them a respite and instills them with a sense of control and purpose. The college has closed, and the younger girls need our guidance. You cannot take this from them. Not when morale is so low.”
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Thanks so much for hosting me, Judith!
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