The Last Full Measure

by Ann Rinaldi

  Had I really seen something in him, some kindness directed toward me to give me hope, then? Would I see it again? Or was it a flame, briefly ignited and now gone out?

  "Now, I'm going to take you over to the church. I'm sure they're both all right. But you must be brave. Promise me."

  I promised. And we went to the church together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE COULD SEE, before we got to the church, that the belfry was destroyed and that there was considerable damage to the roof. I drew in a deep breath, seeing it, but that was all. Then, as we got to the side door, there were all kinds of people about.

  Civilian men were dragging away fallen pieces of the roof to make way for the military carrying in litters of wounded soldiers.

  And women, most of whom we knew, were carrying in stacks of linen, blankets, and bandages, pitchers of water and basins.

  David and I just stood there, open-mouthed at the spectacle. We saw Emily Broadhead. She had on a bloodstained apron. Her hair was bound with a white kerchief.

  "Is anybody dead inside?" David asked.

  "Not yet," she answered. "The doctors aren't allowing it."

  Doctors. "Is my pa in there?" I appealed.

  "No, honey. Not here. But far's I know there are plenty of other makeshift hospitals being set up in town. He might be in one of those. Now I've got to run home a minute." And she was gone.

  We were about to enter the side door she'd just come out of when it seemed filled of a sudden. Because the person who stood there filled my eyes.

  Jennie Wade was standing there.

  She wore an apron, but there was no blood on it so I calculated she'd just brought some supplies.

  She just waited there for what seemed like the length that a full moon hung around, staring at David. She said nothing.

  "Hello, Jennie," David said.

  Her eyes sought his. It was as if I did not exist. And I thought, Why don't you say something, Jennie? And then I thought, Why don't I say something to her? We'd been friends for years. Killing was going on all around us. Men were bleeding inside, crying. Houses all around us were being shelled. And here we were, two old friends, and we couldn't even say hey to each other.

  She just nodded at David and ran out of the doorway right past us, as if a Confederate were chasing her with a bayonet.

  David said nothing. We went inside.

  All was organized confusion. Some men were on the floor. Still others in the main vestry. There was an amputating bench in an anteroom that opened off the main hall, and we heard yells of pain coming from within. Doctors were operating right there, with local women serving as nurses.

  People were rushing around answering the call of the wounded, bending over them, giving them water and tending their wounds, listening to their words, comforting them.

  This, I thought, must be what the first room of hell looks like, where they decide which room you go to next.

  Looking around we saw no Marvelous, no Mary. David led me upstairs to the auditorium. Here most of the wounded were laid out, from one end of the room to the other, a few on cots, most on blankets on the floor, a few lucky ones on mattresses.

  It took us both a few brain-frying seconds to adjust our eyes to the scene. All these men, wounded just this morning. And the woman downstairs had told us there were more hospitals in town.

  And then, oh glorious then, I sighted across the wide expanse of pews Marvelous and her mother.

  They were doing the same thing as the other women. They were aiding the wounded soldiers.

  I tugged David's sleeve and he looked down at me and nodded, for he'd seen them, too.

  "Can I go to them?" I asked.

  "Yes, but just to say hello. And ask where they're staying tonight. They can sleep in our cellar, if they still need to hide. I'm going to make sure Joel and Brandon aren't here."

  I quickly made my way around and through the people, stepping over wounded, even stopping once to give a young man some water. Looking back once, I saw David wandering around, searching, offering help to some of the soldiers as he inspected the faces.

  When I caught up with Marvelous and her mother, Marvelous screamed briefly, then covered her mouth, remembering where she was. We hugged, we cried.

  "We were so lucky," she told me. "The wounded started coming in before the belfry got hit. And me and Mama came down, right off, to help. So we weren't up there when the shell came. Else we'd be dead."

  I hugged her again, tears streaming down my face.

  "The angels were with us," her mama said.

  I invited them to our house, to hide in our cellar. "No, we stay right here," her mama insisted. "We stay with the wounded."

  "But suppose the Reb soldiers come and take you?" I asked.

  Another woman standing nearby, who introduced herself as Mrs. Jacobs, interrupted our conversation. "I'd like to see that happen," she said vehemently. "I'd like to see a Reb soldier walk through that door and take these two wonderful people with him and walk out alive to tell the tale! They have nothing to worry about. They are part of us."

  I thanked her, then I saw David signaling to me from across the auditorium. "I must go," I told them sadly. "Send word if you need us."

  And I ran toward David with tears still streaming down my face.

  ***

  WE WENT BACK downstairs and he made a tour of the wounded there, too, lest any be Brandon or Joel. None was. We headed home and in the street men in gray uniforms with bayonets fastened to their rifles were chasing retreating men in blue, who turned to face them down. I was dumbfounded as I saw a Yankee spear the shirt front of a Reb, then saw the Confederate's blood spurt out and spread all over both of them.

  "How will we get home?" I asked David tearfully.

  He took my arm and we turned from the street. "We'll get there. Come on—you shouldn't see this." And soon we were skirting through alleys, around the backs of houses, ducking through fences and behind outhouses and sheds and copses of trees.

  David is a cripple in the true sense of the word. The army turned him down for a cripple, because he drags his leg. But after you know him awhile, you do not even take heed of it. And if he wants, he can drag that leg so fast, he can almost run.

  So now we almost ran. My skirt caught on a fence and ripped as David lifted me over it. A shell burst overhead. We heard a command issued from out on the street.

  "I said shoot, damn it!" Then a shot, a yell, and silence. And someone died.

  Finally we came to the fence that encircled our property. David took a quick look around, crouched down, and said we should make an almost-run for the back door. We made it inside, an accomplishment of the highest order.

  In all the confusion, in all the distraction of the carnage in the streets, in all our attempts to just survive, I had forgotten to tell him the one thing I wanted to tell him on the way home.

  David, you should know, Josie is positively smitten with you.

  Then we were through the back door and into the kitchen. It was full of people. Soldiers. All ours. Josie was serving hot coffee. Mama was slicing fresh bread. There were dishes of butter and cheese on the table and a side of ham.

  One of the younger officers was eyeing Josie flirtatiously.

  And immediately I saw, to my satisfaction, that David, my stone-hearted brother David, was jealous!

  There was Josie, pouring some coffee for a young officer, who was nothing if not handsome, and he standing over her so close that if he were any closer he'd be in the pot, his eyes going over Josie salaciously. Well, David stepped forward, put his hand on Josie's shoulder possessively, and gave her a peck on the cheek! "Got some for me, Josie?" he said.

  Immediately, the young officer took his cup of coffee and moved away.

  Josie blushed and handed David a cup of coffee. I thought I'd faint when he winked at her, then moved toward Mama to report about Marvelous and Mary. I was reaching for a piece of buttered bread when another young lieutenant asked if I lived here.
/>   "Yes, sir."

  "Name's Lieutenant Stover. I'd like to give you this." And from behind him he drew a sword with an elegant hilt. "I took it just this morning from a Confederate officer I captured. Don't want to lose it. Can I leave it here with you, miss? Will you keep it for me?"

  "Of course I will. I'd be honored to. My name is Tacy," I said.

  He nodded respectfully. "If," he said shyly, and then he faltered and had to start again, "if I don't come back for it, means I've fallen in battle. If that happens, I leave it to you."

  Our eyes met. His were deep and brown and sad. Then he nodded, asking me to seal the agreement. And I nodded back, sealing it.

  Satisfied, he compressed his lips and handed the sword over.

  It was heavy and I handled it respectfully, nodding again.

  He turned away. "Got to get back to battle," he said. "Our men out there need me."

  Then he was gone.

  The other officers took their leave shortly after, thanking Mama for the food, all saying the same thing—they had to get back to the battle, the men out there needed them.

  David left, too, telling Mama he was going to look for Pa, that the officers had told him where many of the makeshift hospitals were. There were at least ten others in town, he said.

  "Be careful on the streets, David," Mama begged.

  He kissed her. "Not going on the streets," he said.

  I knew he was also going to look for Joel and Brandon. "Don't worry about him, Mama," I told her. "He knows his way around these streets and alleys like a ferret."

  ***

  I STAYED AWAY from the windows the rest of that afternoon as I knew David wanted me to, and I helped Mama and Josie clean up the kitchen. All the while the sounds of fighting came to us from the street outside. Horrendous sounds.

  Mama was beginning to look a little weary around the edges, so I suggested she go upstairs and take a nap.

  "With this going on?" she asked. "I'll not go upstairs, I'll tell you that. Who knows but a shell will hit the roof."

  "I'm sorry—it was a bad suggestion," I said. "Here, why don't you sit in this chair." It was Pa's, his most comfortable one. I pushed it close to a wall and picked up his favorite comforter. "I'll wrap this around you, Mama. You don't have to sleep. Just wrap it around you and sit, like Pa used to do."

  I raised a corner of it to my face. "It even smells of Pa," I tempted her. "Of his pipe tobacco and such."

  Her eyes twinkled in spite of herself. "You're a little devil, Tacy," she scolded. But she crossed the room, took the comforter from me, and settled down in the chair. I wrapped it around her and in two minutes her eyes were closed. Despite all the noise from outside, she soon was asleep.

  Within half an hour there was a knock on the back door. Josie and I looked at each other. Not wanting more knocking to wake Mama, I crept to the door, pushed aside the checkered curtain, and peered out.

  It was a Yankee soldier, apparently not wounded but definitely the worse for wear. I opened the door a crack. "Can I help you?" I asked.

  He wore at least two days' worth of beard, and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looked considerably older than David. I would not put the word disreputable to him, but his clothes were long past shabby. Still, some men carried that air of shabbiness, even in good clothes. I suspected he was one of them. But he was one of ours, so I listened to him.

  "I'm looking for my pa," he said.

  "The officers are all gone. They left."

  "No, miss, you don't understand. I live hereabouts. At least I used to once, long time past. I went home to find my pa. People said he came over here to hide."

  Something clicked inside my head, where things click when your brain finally decides to stop being stupid. "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Michael Cameron. Haven't seen my pa in ten years."

  I opened the door and let him in. "He's down in the cellar," I said.

  I warned him to be quiet under pain of banishment, that my mama was sleeping, and he obeyed. I led him downstairs to the cellar.

  We found Mr. Cameron fast asleep on some straw in a corner, covered by a blanket, his empty dish from lunch and his drained-dry coffee cup next to him.

  Michael Cameron just stood there, leaning on his rifle, staring at his father in silence. "Damn, he got old," he whispered.

  "People do," I returned in my own whisper.

  He nodded his head. He ran a hand over his face. He continued to stare.

  "Don't you want to wake him and say hello?" I asked.

  He didn't answer right off. When he did, he just shook his head no.

  I could not believe it. I continued to look fixedly at the man as if he were demented. You haven't seen your father in ten years and you go through the trouble to stop by and don't even want to wake him and say hello?

  But I said nothing. What could I say? And I thought my family was confused!

  "You want, you can come back later," I told him in the same whispery voice.

  "No, I gotta catch up with my unit. Tell me, you got any pencil and paper?"

  "Sure." Quiet as I could be, I rummaged about. We had everything down here in the cellar, although I don't know why I accommodated him. I found paper and pencil and he held it against a box and wrote a quick note, then folded it in half and leaned over his father and tucked it in the lapel of his jacket.

  Then he took one long last look and we went upstairs while Mr. Cameron went right on sleeping.

  I offered Michael some leftover coffee. No, he said. Some bread and butter and ham? No. Some water, then? No. He was antsy; he had to go. He thanked me, and before I knew what was happening, he was gone out the back door.

  I minded what he was about after he left.

  He was afraid his father might wake while he was still here. And he would have to meet him. He wanted to be gone.

  After he left, I thought about my own pa and wondered if I'd ever see him again.

  I wondered how Michael Cameron could stand over his father and not want to wake him, to hug him. Whatever could have happened between them that, with his father so old and with such an awful war going on right outside our door, a war in which Michael might be shot to death just going down the street, he couldn't have woke his pa and hugged him?

  I decided I knew nothing at all anymore. Nothing.

  I threw myself down on the settle and cried into the pillows so Mama would not hear me. I stayed like that, face in the pillows, until David came home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOMEONE WAS SHAKING my shoulder, waking me.

  "Tacy, Tacy, wake up. We have to eat supper."

  Supper? Isn't it too late? What time is it? I opened my eyes, expecting to see darkness, surprised to see light, but not surprised to hear the gunfire outside.

  Mama was leaning over me. I smelled the supper, meat and onions. David stood behind her. He looked disheveled, and he was frowning.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Nothing." I rubbed my eyes, trying to bring my senses forward. "I fell asleep."

  "Josie said you fell asleep crying. What happened?" he asked again. "Who was that man who was here?"

  There was nothing for it. I had to tell him. "Michael Cameron. Mr. Cameron's son."

  Both his and Mama's eyes widened as we sat down at the table.

  "You don't say." David rubbed his hands and reached for the wine bottle. "So he finally came to see his father. Well, what did Mr. Cameron have to say? Josie?" He looked up at her as she set a bowl of mashed potatoes down in front of him. "You brought him down his supper. Was he happy?"

  Josie shook her head. "Didn't say a word, Mr. David. Not a word. Yes, I brought him down his supper, but he was still sleeping. Never saw a man sleep so much in all my born days."

  David frowned. "He's all right, isn't he?"

  She went back into the kitchen to fetch a bowl of beans. "He isn't dead, if that's what you mean." Josie was plainspoken. She wasted no words, and quite frankly it was refresh
ing. "I'll have another try at bringing him some supper soon."

  She came back with the bowl of beans in one hand and a platter of meat in the other. As David stood to carve the meat, she took a moment to give me a meaningful look, and I met her eyes and blushed.

  I knew what it was for. If you're going to tell him what happened, don't do it till after supper. I don't want this excellent meal I cooked ruined. 'Cause I know your brother, and if you tell him, there'll be all kinds of hell to pay.

  That's what the look said. Josie knew all about what had transpired between me and Michael Cameron. She'd heard it all, hadn't she?

  Then she went back into the kitchen to get the gravy and bread. And we ate.

  As we ate, David told Mama that he was unable to locate Pa, that other doctors had told him Pa was working in a field hospital and told them that he'd never seen so many wounded.

  "Some good news, though," he told us. "I ran into Mrs. Burns, coming home. She was returning from the courthouse. Come back from seeing her father. He was being treated there."

  Mama's hand flew to her mouth. "He fought, then? He was wounded?"

  David smiled. "With the One Hundred and Fiftieth Pennsylvania Volunteers. She said they called him 'Daddy' but he didn't care. He grabbed a musket off a wounded man and went at it. He shot a Confederate officer off his horse and they cheered him. He got hit with a bullet on his belt buckle and the shot doubled him over. Then he got hit on his ankle and a Confederate doctor treated him."

  We listened, fascinated, and I was glad for Nancy. Maybe now her grandpa wouldn't be laughed at anymore.

  There was chocolate cake for dessert. We lingered, in spite of the gunfire outside, over coffee and cake. I saw Mama tremble several times, saw David frown as if to say, What's this? Is it finally getting the best of you, Mama? Should I have sent you away to your sister's in Philadelphia?

  After dessert, as we stood, trying to determine if it was safe enough to spend the evening in the parlor or if we must go to the cellar, I told David I had to speak with him.

  He understood the look on my face and nodded silently. We went into Pa's study.