by Cathy Gohlke
Wooster sat next to me in the late afternoon, shoving down my throat hot broth that I could just as well have eaten myself, when we first heard McCain’s roar. “I foraged twenty miles east and west and never saw so much as a blue streak across that land!”
“I understand that the last courier said three days more. But you’ll want to speak with Col. Monroe, Maj. McCain. That’s all I know.” It was Chap. Goforth’s voice. “I believe he’s in his tent. He’s expecting a high-ranking visit shortly. I’ll show you the way.” We could hear the chaplain steer McCain away from our tent and blessed him for taking a quick hand.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Wooster whispered. “That Col. Monroe’ll send him our way, sure as we’re setting here.”
Memories of McCain jerking my arm high behind my back, cutting rope burns into my raw wrists, his threats—all of it swelled in my brain. I was more scared of McCain than of Union or Confederate armies, more scared of him than of dying on the run. I grabbed my boots. Wooster pulled on one while I tugged on the other.
Katie Frances burst into the tent to the delight of every man there. “Miss O’Leary! Nurse O’Leary!” they called, reaching for the hem of her skirts. She smiled at each one, promising to see to them in a moment, as she made her way across the tent floor to Wooster and me. She knelt down as I forced my arm into a woolen butternut jacket. Her green eyes stood wide.
“Col. Monroe is meeting with Maj. McCain now,” she whispered. “The major’s returned a ‘conquering hero’—foraged a bounty—though where he could have found it no one knows, or is asking.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The colonel’s sure to tell him about you. He’s been asking me every day if you’re strong enough for field duty, Robert, and why I’ve taken such an interest in the two of you. He thinks you’re deserters. They shoot deserters! Though why they’d do it when there’s such a need for soldiers, I don’t know.” Her forehead creased, and her eyes grew fearful.
She watched the tent flap one second and worried over us the next. “You must move to a different tent—bunk in with Wooster, or Andrew—and pretend you’re well. Lend a hand with the wounded; blend in. We’re expecting those Union troops before day’s end. And a Brigadier General Somebody-or-other is on his way to camp—passing through. They’re all in a tizzy. The confusion of it all is the only chance you’ll go unnoticed. But you can’t be seen together. They’ll call you out in no time! You really both must go now! They’ll be here, sure and certain, any moment!”
“I can make it to Wooster’s tent.” I pulled myself up. “I don’t know about tending wounded. I’m still shaky on my feet.”
“We’ll think of something. Now, go!”
Twelve
Daylight faded. The mud made walking slippery and hard, harder yet for Wooster on his crutch. The first lanterns sputtered aflame by the time we made the lane for Wooster’s tent, only the tent was gone.
“Get a move on, soldier!” a sergeant called to Wooster. “Find yourself a supply wagon, son, and hop aboard. The tents in this lane was flooded through. We’re moving these wounded into wagons. You can sleep on higher ground for a change.”
“Yes, sir!” Wooster saluted. “Come on, Robert, we’ll find us aplace.”
“They’re not gonna let me up there—with two good legs—not knowing I been sick.” It was all I could do to pant the words.
“Come on, before you fall down!” Wooster pulled my sleeve. “It ain’t like I can carry you!”
We slipped through the lines of unhitched wagons, two abreast, then down another three wagons, toward the rear of the train. Drivers, finished with the move, and orderlies just off duty stood to one end, arguing or boasting—it was hard to tell which. Wooster and I slid into the back of a wagon loaded to the gills.
“Ain’t this a wonder? This must be the stuff they foraged!” Wooster whispered gleefully. “Have some corn.” He tossed me a dried ear. “We’re gonna sleep in style, and we got the kitchen car to boot! McCain’ll never think to look back here.”
“Till we get the boot, you mean! You know that driver’s gonna check this wagon. They’ll drag us out and send us—!”
“They won’t put me off,” Wooster boasted.
“Thanks a lot!” I sputtered.
“Listen, you knucklehead, and you might learn something!” Wooster pulled a tarpaulin and three kegs from the inside wall of the wagon. “Climb back in there. I’ll get you food and water when I can. Just stay hid. When it’s dark or all clear, I’ll come get you.”
It was a tolerable plan, and put me in mind of Pa and Mr. Heath, of Joseph Henry and the false-bottom wagon we used at Laurelea to cart runaway slaves from one safe house to the next.
I was halfway under the tarpaulin when I stopped and turned to Wooster. “You could get past this mess with McCain on your own. Why are you doing this? Why do you care what becomes of me?”
Wooster scrunched his forehead, then said simply, “Like Chaplain said, we’re brothers.” And he dropped the tarpaulin in place.
The path was so simple for Wooster, so plain for Chap. Goforth. Their only puzzle was why I didn’t see my path clear too. Why didn’t I? I wedged tight behind the kegs, wondering. I’d prayed for that very thing—a clear path—back at William Henry’s grave, before I’d ever started this crazy, dangerous journey. But here I was hiding behind kegs in a Confederate hospital supply wagon, eighteen if a day, not fighting for the Union, and hadn’t even reached Emily, or Ma—who was “frail.” I feared to think what that meant. And I feared what Goforth meant about Slocum and the women? That gripped me.
It was hours before the blasts of wind and the chopping of wood for breakfast fires woke me. Even the stir of early morning camp lulled me; I was that tired. I heard Wooster chatting like a blue jay to the driver of our wagon. I shook my head in the dark. I’d not given Wooster enough credit. He was bold as brass. I’d not thanked him, either.
Sleep had bolstered me, and for the first time I felt truly hungry. I reached into the keg nearest my arm and pulled out an apple. Its sweet juice ran down my chin, the best thing I’d eaten in—I didn’t know when. I even swallowed the core.
I wished I could get out, stretch my legs, answer the call of nature. But I’d promised to wait for Wooster’s signal.
“Mind them supplies, boy, while I get some breakfast.” It was our sergeant. “No pilferin’, and don’t let nobody else sneak off with nothin’.”
“Yes, sir, Sgt. Pete!” Wooster sang out. Then I heard Wooster’s crutch bump backward, into the wagon. “Robert! Robert!” he whispered, “Come on out. They’re about to build the cook fires. You don’t want to be in here with the food then!” He lifted the tarpaulin and pulled the splintered kegs toward him. I climbed through, glad to sit upright.
“Thanks, Wooster.” I’d not forget to thank him again.
“That’s all right.” He grinned. “The wagon masters are off getting breakfast. See if you can make it ‘round the camp for a time. If you get too tired, we’ll have to find you a pallet in one of the tent wards.”
I nodded. “I’ll be back.”
The walk around camp did me good—real grass and little mud. The sun shone bright, and the wind had swept the land clean and a little drier.
I stayed shy of the officers’ tents, anyplace I might run into Col. Monroe or Maj. McCain.
My legs worked better the more I used them, but the wind nearly knocked me over. I looked down at my wrists, my hands. Except for their color, like sand at the bottom of the run, I barely recognized them. I wore my own clothes—the extra shirt and pants I’d taken to the Maynards. They nearly fell off me, I’d lightened so. I hitched my pants and tightened my suspenders. The smell of hot chicory and the sight of hardtack made my mouth water. It felt good to be hungry.
I didn’t catch sight of Katie Frances or Chap. Goforth. I hoped that McCain or Col. Monroe hadn’t given Katie Frances a bad time about Wooster or me, that she’d been able to sidestep his questions.
Once I caugh
t sight of McCain, pushing from wagon to wagon, searching, ordering a passel of privates to search. I thought of Wooster perched on our wagon seat and my blood ran cold. I watched from a distance as McCain’s men searched the supply wagon. Wooster was nowhere in sight.
I waited till the wagons were nearly reloaded with supplies, while men doused fires, formed ranks—every sort of commotion. Then I climbed into the back of the wagon. Wooster lay there, hunched beside my kegs, a little paler.
“Did you see McCain?” I whispered. He nodded.
“I hid while he searched our wagon. But I heard him, Robert. He’s looking for us. He’s put the word out. It’s one thing for you to hide a time. But there’s not many one-legged runts in the army, at least not in this wagon train.” His cornflower eyes widened. The crease between his brows tightened. “It won’t be long till he finds me, till somebody reports me. He’s calling me a deserter and you a spy.”
“What about our wagon sergeant? Did he talk to him?”
“I don’t know. Sam Pete—Sgt. Pete—is in charge of this whole line of supply wagons—not just ours. He wasn’t around when Maj. McCain came through.” Wooster shook his head. “But he’s bound to hear soon.”
“We’ll slip out after dark. We’ll slip out and set off on our own.”
Wooster looked doubtful. “You’re not strong enough, and I’m not fast enough. We won’t make it.”
“You’re right about that.” Our heads jerked up. Maj. McCain’s frame filled the wagon flap, blocking our daylight.
Thirteen
Drag those deserters out, soldier!” Maj. McCain shouted. “Show the vermin the light of day.” His eyes flashed in triumph as the private jerked us from our hiding place. “I figured you two would turn up sooner or later. You just made it easier than I expected.”
“I never deserted, and you know it, Sgt. McCain!” Wooster half cried as they thumped him to the ground, taking no mind of his stump. He struggled up on his one leg.
“It’s Maj. McCain, Private!” McCain barked.
“You’re the one who left us—disobeyed Col. Mitchell’s orders!”
McCain slapped Wooster hard across the mouth, sending him reeling to the ground again. “Arrest those two!” McCain ordered. A small crowd of men formed as we were hauled away, Wooster screaming his head off the whole time about McCain deserting his men, attempting murder of a civilian, about him disobeying Col. Mitchell’s orders.
“Shut up, Wooster!” I begged him. But there was no stopping him. Something had snapped in Wooster, and a dam broke. They dragged us off, hauled us to a guard wagon, then trussed us back to back.
It wasn’t enough for Maj. McCain. “Sergeant, tie those two to the back of the wagon. Sitting in a mud hole should take some of the starch out of their mouths.”
That’s when Katie Frances appeared in all her glory. “You can’t be serious, Major darlin’! You’ve a one-legged soldier, wounded at the battle of Gettysburg for all our sakes, and a patient barely pulled through the fever!” she fairly shouted.
“Fever?” The sergeant stood back.
“To be sure, he’s no longer quarantined. At least we don’t think he needs to be! But it would be murder, sure as you’re born, to leave these boys in the wind and mud.” She turned to McCain. “And that is not what you’re about, now, are you, Maj. McCain?” Katie blinked up at McCain, innocent as a new colt. But he wasn’t taken in. He ogled her up and down.
“Not that this is any of your affair, Miss Irish Tarter, but they should have thought of that sooner.” He’d done wrong to insult the flame-haired angel nurse Katie Frances O’Leary in front of the soldiers in camp. To a man they’d stand for her.
Katie Frances blushed with a vengeance but kept on. “Surely you’re not afraid of these boys, are you, Major darlin’?”
McCain stepped toward her. His eyes flashed just what he thought of Katie Frances.
“Leave them where they are, sergeant.” I couldn’t see Col. Monroe but heard his voice. “Keeping them under guard should be sufficient, Major.”
I breathed, glad for the first time to know the pushy doctor wouldn’t let Katie Frances out of his sight. McCain colored and his mouth tightened. Col. Monroe pressed. “These patients are under my jurisdiction, Major.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but they’re deserters. They deserve to be shot.” McCain refused to back down.
But so did Col. Monroe. “As I said, they are under my jurisdiction. There is a brigadier general passing the night in camp. You’re welcome to petition the general.” He turned to go, then looked back at Maj. McCain. “Execution seems an extravagance with our shortage of men.”
“I’ll see to it, Col. Monroe,” McCain fairly sneered.
I heard Katie Frances’s voice fading in the distance, “It’s a fine man you are, Col. Monroe, standing up for all that’s decent.”
I’d just drawn a breath when McCain pushed past the guard, leaned in the wagon, and hissed, “I’ll see you shot now or hanged. I should have drowned you at Fort Delaware, boy.” He grabbed Wooster by the shoulder. “One more word out of you, Gibbons, and you won’t live for a firing squad.” And then he was gone.
Neither Wooster nor I said anything for a long time. I could feel Wooster’s shoulders shudder behind me, but I had no comfort to offer. I didn’t see a way out of this mess, and nothing but trouble and death by the end of the day. I’d never see Emily again, or Ma or Pa, or Mr. Heath or the Henrys. I knew McCain would waste no time getting his petition to the general.
“What are you doing, Robert?” It was Wooster.
“I’m setting here, same as you.”
“I mean, are you praying? We both need to be praying. Now would be a good time for a way of escape.”
I couldn’t answer him. I wasn’t praying, hadn’t prayed regular for a long while. I’d pretty much forgotten about praying until the other night, until I’d seen Chap. Goforth and Katie Frances together and knew I wanted what they had. That was as much as God had heard from me since I sat in that cellar in Delaware City. How did God feel about me coming to Him only when I needed something desperate?
Hours passed. The sun traveled across the sky and sank beyond the wagons and tents. I tried to close my mind, to sleep, to pass the time without fear or pain, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Tents shot up on dryer ground, cooking fires started, sentries changed guard. Night came on. From our wagon we could see a dozen watchfires, blinking every time a man walked in front of one.
I strained my eyes, needing to keep sight of the flames, as if they held safety—lone lights in the dark. They put me in mind of Miz Howe’s song, the one that all the Union papers ran, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It had been so easy to sing, to rally around with everybody back home, back when President Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation. I thought of that line, “I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps.”
Only I couldn’t see God in this watchfire. None of this war’s watchfires belonged to me, nor one of those hundred circling camps—not North, not South. And I wondered, if I could not see God in them, if I could no longer see God in this war, like I’d thought I could, like I’d meant to, did that mean God could not see me?
We were out of the wind, but the cold and damp set deeper. Wooster and I shivered against each other, longing to sit by one of those fires.
We were nearly frozen when the guard stationed outside our wagon allowed a private to pass. “Sgt. Sam Pete sent these vittles over for you boys. Said to eat hardy.” He stopped short. How you’re gonna do that all trussed up, I don’t know.” He turned to the guard. “Don’t you reckon these hardened criminals could be untied long enough to eat something?”
The guard pulled back the wagon flap and peered in at us.We must have looked a pitiful couple of wretches—skinny, shivering, tied up. It wasn’t like either one of us could have run off “Oh, I don’t see what’s the harm. They may as well eat their last meal.”
“Last meal?” Woost
er’s voice sounded small.
“Shut up, Wilson!”The private with the pan of vittles looked ready to shoot the guard.
“Well, they ought to know!” the guard defended himself. “Maj. McCain’s seeing the general now for the execution order. He wants you boys shot at sunrise.” He shook his head. “I can’t see how you two could get in so much horse—”
“Just eat what Sgt. Pete sent. Nobody knows nothing yet.” The private with the vittles unknotted our ropes, dragged blankets from the front of the wagon, and tossed Wooster and me each one. “Don’t pay him any mind.” But the private’s misery spoke loud.
“Is it true? Is McCain—”
The private nodded. “He’s with the general now.” Then he shook his head. “It ain’t right. It can’t be right. You boys came to the hospital camp of your own accord. It’s not like you run off home, not like real deserters.” And then he backed out of the wagon.
Even then, Wooster remembered. “Thank Sgt. Pete for us, will you?”
The private caught Wooster’s eye and swallowed hard. “You bet I will.”
The fire outside our wagon gave enough light to find our plates. But we weren’t hungry, no matter that it was the best grub either of us had seen in weeks. Sam Pete must’ve given us the best of the foraging or that meant for officers. That would send McCain into a fit. Even that knowledge didn’t raise our hunger. The food grew cold and us with it.
I thought of what it would be like to face a firing squad. Would they blindfold us, or would we stare into the soldiers’ eyes? I thought of Wooster, standing there on his one leg, and how neither of us should be here. Then I thought of Pa and Ma, of Mr. Heath and the Henrys. I thought of Emily. They’d never know what became of me. I remembered my promise to Aunt Sassy to come home—before my birthday—long ago already. I wondered if they’d let me write a letter home, and who I should write it to.