“I said in the email it was going to be hot, and to drink lots of water.”
“Coffee has water in it.”
“Coffee is a diuretic. It dehydrates you.”
He handed Frank a bottle of water from the pavilion cooler and Frank downed it. “Thanks for not leaving me on the field of battle. Johnny Reb would have made off with my shoes, rifle, and the rest of my coffee.”
“You should thank Ollie,” Sergeant Tom said. “It was his canteen that brought you back to the land of the living.”
Frank gave a tired salute. “Private Prichard: I hereby award you a Medal of Honor for keeping me alive long enough to see my daughter graduate high school.”
“No problem.”
Frank shifted on the bench and winced. “Feels like I got a splinter in my butt.”
“Your pants ripped when you fell,” Joe said.
Oliver was glad to be out of the heat, but kind of sad drill had been cut short by an hour. To be completely honest, he was also kind of uncomfortable. For all the Saturday mornings he’d spent with these grown men, he didn’t really know them well enough to be relaxed sitting around waiting for his mom.
“I have a question about the regiment,” Oliver said. If he was going to have an awkward morning, he might as well get some use out of the situation. “Did you have to live around here to enlist in the 104th? Or was it open to anybody?”
“Mostly regiments were made up of men from the local area,” Sergeant Tom said. “But they’d take someone from another town, if that’s what you mean.”
“So a kid from around here could go down to the city and enlist there?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Huh.” Oliver picked at the plastic ring on his bottle. “Why would somebody do that?”
Sergeant Tom shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t sure if they wanted to fight when the local regiment was mustered into service. Could’ve changed their mind and then joined up with another regiment when they mustered.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
“Why the interest?” asked Frank.
“Just something for this school project,” Oliver said. He knew it shouldn’t really matter, but for some reason it did—like he was up on his mountain of facts, and found a rock that had no business being there, but was. He had to make sense of it.
“Hi.”
Oliver turned his head.
Ella Berry.
Standing at the other end of the pavilion.
—CHAPTER FIFTEEN—
B-ROLL
Despite the ridiculous humidity, Ella’s hair looked less messy. She also wore jean shorts and a tank top that wasn’t exactly dirty. It actually fit, too.
“Uh, hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I’m here to watch you drill.”
That warm feeling was back in his chest. Or maybe it was the slaughtering humidity. “I thought you were grounded.”
“I told my mom it was for school and she caved.” Ella looked around. “Where’s everyone else?”
“That’s a good question, young lady,” Sergeant Tom said.
“They retreated to air-conditioning like sensible soldiers,” Frank said between swigs.
“Everyone,” Oliver said, “this is Ella.”
“A gentleman never sits when a lady is present,” Sergeant Tom said, nudging Oliver to stand. “Walking wounded excluded, of course,” he added with a nod at Frank.
He offered her a water and she took a giant Ella gulp.
“So how do you two know each other?” Sergeant Tom asked.
“We’re doing a social studies project together,” Oliver said.
“It’s about this Union private named Raymond Stone who was from around here,” Ella said. “We’re making a documentary about his war experience based on the letters he wrote home. I was hoping to get some B-roll footage of you guys drilling.”
“We had to stop early because of the heat,” Oliver said.
“Just like the actual Battle of Gettysburg,” Ella said. “Did you know that on the third day it got up to eighty-seven degrees? Lots of soldiers fainted from heat exhaustion.”
Oliver smiled. She’d been reading up on the battle.
Cool.
“We’ll be here again next week,” Sergeant Tom said. “You’re welcome to come back.”
She looked at her phone and then at Oliver. “My mom won’t be back for a little. I could get some footage now of just you doing some stuff. We could overlay the letters on the footage as you read them out loud, like in those Ken Burns movies.”
“You’ve been watching Ken Burns?” Oliver asked.
“A little.”
He grinned. Very cool. “Yeah. Okay. How about over there, in the shade under those trees.”
“Ever thought about reenacting?” Sergeant Tom asked. “We could use a nurse with your passion. Last one in this regiment was Frank’s daughter, but she spent the whole time texting.”
Ella drained the rest of her water and threw the bottle in the giant trash barrel. Swish. “If I ever reenacted, I think I’d be one of those girls who dressed up as a guy to enlist—you know?”
Frank let out a booming laugh. Oliver grabbed the older rifle Sergeant Tom let him borrow for drill and led the way.
“They’re nice,” Ella said.
“Yeah.”
“Did that guy really faint?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty tough, though. He runs a construction company.”
“It’s really interesting,” she said. “All these people with regular lives who secretly love the Civil War. I never thought about it before. They’re like secret magicians: No one knows what they know or what they can do.”
“Like you and your card trick,” Oliver said.
“Yeah, I guess so.” She looked around the grove. “Sit against this tree, like you’re in camp writing a letter. I brought some stuff.”
“Okay.”
She pulled an inkwell pen from her backpack—black with an ornate gold tip. “Took this from my dad’s office. It was a gift from his business partner or something.”
“Won’t he be upset?”
“Who cares?” Clearly she didn’t. “And I made this last night. What do you think?”
She held up a piece of legit parchment paper. “You made this?” Oliver asked.
“I stained it with tea and then crumpled it up. Used up pretty much all the teabags we had.”
“It looks exactly like the paper Stone wrote on.” The letters were lame, but this was pretty cool. Oliver set his rifle against the tree and took off his cap.
“What’s that little triangle on your shirt mean?” she asked.
“Unit ID.” Oliver ran his finger over the white badge his mom had sewn on. It was one of the coolest parts of his uniform. “The triangle means I’m part of the Union Army’s Fourth Corps, and the white means the Second Division. General Hooker made it standard when he got command of the army in 1863. It’s one of the few not-embarrassing things he did while in charge.”
“Cool.” Ella took out a small tripod from her backpack and snapped her iPhone to some contraption on the top. “Okay. Let’s do a couple from the front. Just act normal; pretend you’re writing home.”
Oliver obeyed.
Ella flipped the tripod around and showed him the footage when she was done. “You like it?”
“I look kinda wimpy, to be honest.”
“Really? I think you look like a lot of soldiers probably did. Young and sweaty.”
Better than wimpy. “Thanks.”
“Plus it will look better once we put an older filter over the footage.” She set the camera behind him. “Okay. Same thing again.”
They filmed a bunch more writing shots from different positions and got some cool ones of Oliver marching and fake firing the rif
le. Eventually Ella’s iPhone ran out of space, which was fine because her mom’s giant white Escalade pulled into the parking lot five minutes later.
“You need a ride home?” Ella asked as she packed up.
“Uh, no—it’s okay. My mom is probably almost here.”
“Almost can be a long time in my experience. Why don’t you call her to make sure.”
Oliver’s mom picked up on the second ring. “Ollie—everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Um, drill ended early because of the heat. How close are you?”
“Give me about twenty minutes. The checkout line looks really long.”
“Uh, well, Ella’s mom is here; Ella came to get some footage for the documentary. I’ll get a ride with her.”
“Oh—great. Perfect.”
He hung up. “Still okay if I go with you?”
“Yup.”
They were halfway to the Escalade when Ella started in about her mom.
“Don’t forget what I said about her—the phone and stupid stuff she’ll talk about.”
“Right.” What Oliver was really wondering was how Ella’s mom felt about wool trouser butt sweat on her leather seats, because there was for sure going to be some of that happening up in this Escalade. “Thanks for the ride home.”
“Friends don’t let friends sit around in wool pants sweating to death waiting for their moms,” Ella said. She put her fist out toward him. “Pound it.”
Oliver stared at her outstretched fist. “What?”
“Make a fist.” Ella knocked her knuckles against his. “That’s called pounding it.”
“I’ve seen people do that. I always thought it would hurt.”
“Now you know it doesn’t.”
—CHAPTER SIXTEEN—
THE MOM
“That’s the offer, Carla,” said Ella’s mom. Her voice stabbed the air in sharp thrusts like a bayonet. “My client is ready to move forward on two other homes and that’s not a threat. It’s the truth.”
She smiled and waved to Ella and Oliver through the rearview mirror—one of those finger-flexing waves with a lot of energy behind it. She did not stop talking.
“You’re not listening to me—my client won’t budge. They know exactly what you and I know: that they could get another thousand square feet in Solebury for ten percent less than this offer.”
She mouthed “I’m sorry” into the mirror.
“She’s not,” Ella said toward her window. Or at least that’s what Oliver thought she said. The Escalade was giant; Ella was like ten feet away.
“Well, that’s up to you. . . . All right. I’ll tell them, but don’t be surprised if the next time you call me I’m at escrow. . . . Uh-huh. Bu-bye.” She pushed a button on her earpiece and fluffed her lion mane of golden hair. “Sorry about that. I’ve been trying to close this deal for a week.”
“Uh, it’s okay,” Oliver said. He thought he should say something, since the lady was giving him a ride home. Like usual, Ella clearly had no plans to participate in the conversation.
“The weekend is my busiest time,” Ella’s mom said as she turned the white leather wheel with one hand. Oliver saw her glance at the phone in her other hand, and wondered if she knew you’re not supposed to text and drive. “Did Ella tell you I sell houses?”
Ella snorted.
“Yeah,” Oliver said.
“It’s my life.” Mrs. Berry sighed. “Lots of weekend hours, but I do love it.”
“My mom works at Home Depot. She helps people pick out the right type of paint for whatever their project is. And she operates the machine that puts in the color dye and shakes it around.”
“That’s . . . interesting,” Mrs. Berry said. “I’ll have to say hello to her the next time I’m there. I’ve been wanting to redo our great room ever since Ella’s father brought in that ridiculous fourteen-foot Christmas tree last year. I told him it would scrape the walls and of course, I was right.”
Ella stared at Oliver deadpan: See?
“My dad sells meat.” Oliver really needed to find better transitions between his stream of consciousness and the ongoing conversation.
“Ah-ha. I see. At the grocery store?”
“No, like between slaughterhouses and suppliers. My G-Pop owned a meat processing plant and my dad and uncles grew up working there. Then the plant shut down and my dad went into the meat-selling business. He basically sells cuts of meat like a stock trader sells stocks. I don’t really understand it all, but that’s the analogy he gives.”
“I see.” Mrs. Berry adjusted the rearview mirror. “Charlie would find that interesting—Ella’s older sister. She just finished her second year at Wharton and is thinking about corporate finance.”
Oliver heard a slight bang as Ella rested her head against the window. It was like the entire conversation was pushing her further away.
“Ella can make a card disappear into thin air.” For some reason declaring that made him feel better—like he was pulling her back.
“Ella can . . . I’m sorry—what?”
“She can make a card vanish and then bring it back again.” Oliver saw Ella’s reflection smiling a little in the window, and he knew he’d been right to say something. “If this was colonial times, they’d probably think she was a witch and burn her alive. It’s that good.”
“Ah . . . I’ll have to see that. Ella, sweetie, I didn’t know you did card tricks.”
Silence.
Mrs. Berry smiled really widely and turned up the radio.
Oliver’s phone buzzed and he slid it out of his wool trousers.
A text from Ella: Thanks.
Pound it.
LOL. You don’t usually text it. You just do it.
OK.
Oliver reached over the aisle with his fist.
Ella pounded it.
What’s Wharton? he asked.
Who cares?
They exchanged crooked smiles.
When I get out, don’t look at the seat, Oliver typed.
???
I think I’m sweating through the leather.
Haha. You ARE wearing wool pants.
Trousers.
You ARE wearing wool trousers.
Ella’s mom turned into Oliver’s driveway and pulled up behind the crappy family van.
“Thanks again for the ride,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Oliver.”
“See ya,” Ella said.
Oliver opened the door and slid out. He couldn’t stand to look back at the leather seat to check for the butt sweat that was definitely there.
At the front door his phone buzzed again.
Ella: No trouser sweat.
Really?
:)
—CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—
SOME GUY
“I thought she wasn’t supposed to play on Sundays,” Oliver said at breakfast the next morning. Addie had been at it since seven, stopping only to shovel down pancakes before racing back. “You said God rested on Sundays and so should our eardrums.”
Oliver’s dad washed a skillet while his mom drank coffee and flipped through a cooking magazine.
“When did I say that?” his dad asked.
“On the way home from her last recital.”
“I thought you were asleep,” Oliver’s mom said.
“I wasn’t.”
“Then you were eavesdropping.”
“It’s only eavesdropping if I was listening in secret.” Oliver forked in a last bite of his dad’s Sunday pancakes and washed it down with OJ. “I was just listening.”
“Then listen up,” his mom said. “I’ll have Addie run some errands with your dad if you weed the front bed.”
Oliver rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll just put my headphones on.”
; In the basement Oliver dove back into the Time-Life Civil War hardback he’d been reading on the Battle of Gettysburg. The headphones drowned out enough of Addie’s banging that he could focus on the super-detailed battle map with a billion captions. This was where the gold was—not the boring letters of Private Nobody.
Oliver stared at the 104th Regimental flag hanging on the wall—the regiment Stone should have enlisted with. The detail itched worse. He thought about Stone’s letters, and about Mr. Daniels saying that interesting things are sometimes found in horribly boring places.
And then he grabbed his book bag and raced up the steps to flag down his dad as he pulled out of the driveway.
“Sure it’s open on a Sunday?” Oliver’s dad asked as they slowed at the historical society.
“The guy who runs it said he hangs out here on the weekends.”
“I’m not sure about leaving you here by yourself.”
“He’s not a creeper, Dad. He’s just old.” Oliver got out of the van and tried the knob on the historical society’s front door. It was open. “See you an in hour,” he called.
Oliver walked inside and saw Mr. Daniels, asleep in his chair. Instead of waking him, he went to the research room and set up shop at one of the computer stations. It was kind of nice to have the place to himself. It was nice not to have Hal there, being super weird. Or Ella, being super excited. He could finally get something real done, working alone.
Oliver opened a Word doc and got started.
Why did Stone join the 68th?
Theory #1: Stone didn’t know if he wanted to fight or not when the 104th mustered into service. Later he decided to fight, and found a regiment that was forming—the 68th in Philly.
Theory #2: Stone was so ready to fight that he couldn’t wait for his local town to form a regiment. He went to Philly and joined the 68th.
How to prove:
Look up the muster dates of both regiments to see which one was first
Find a letter where Stone talks about it.
Oliver’s logic was pretty simple: The regiment that mustered into service first, plus the amount of time between each regiment’s muster date, would tell the story.
The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody Page 6