Angel of the Battlefield

by Ann Hood

  By the time they finished eating, the sky was turning a deep lavender. In the distance, the cows were making their way slowly over the hills toward home. Crickets began to sing, and an unfamiliar sense of serenity filled the evening air.

  “Look!” Felix said.

  Maisie followed where his finger pointed. The field was actually glowing with hundreds of flickering lights.

  “Whoa!” cried Maisie. “We never see those anywhere besides Central Park.”

  “Fireflies?” Clara wondered softly.

  “They’re beautiful,” Maisie said, her voice filled with wonder.

  The three of them sat in silence, watching as the field grew thick with fireflies, their lights flickering like the twinkly white lights the Robbins family always put on their Christmas tree. Despite the vegetables being “boiled to death,” as their father would say, the cornbread’s texture was as grainy as sand, and the tough, gamey lamb that made her want to throw up, Maisie decided it would still be better here than back in Newport.

  Bedtime Stories

  “Father,” Clara said. “Will you tell me a story tonight?”

  Maisie and Felix sat in the dark back stairway, waiting to hear one of Captain Stephen Barton’s war stories. Clara had sneaked them in the back door and hurried them through the kitchen and into this stairway. Then she ordered them to be absolutely quiet and stay put. On the way, Felix glimpsed a large sitting room with lots of big windows looking out over the farm. At a desk sat Clara’s father, a tall man with perfectly straight posture and a gray beard.

  “Of course,” they heard him say. His voice sounded weary and old. “Which story would you like tonight?”

  “Tecumseh!” Clara said.

  Her father laughed. “You’ve heard that one so many times, Clara. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “You? Bore me?” Clara said. “Never!”

  “I think the war stories interest you, not their narrator.”

  “No, no,” Clara insisted. “Both the stories and the narrator interest me.”

  It was clear that this routine was a familiar one, and hearing it made Maisie miss her father. At night it had been his job to tell her and Felix bedtime stories. Even though they weren’t war stories, they were good ones.

  Maisie sighed and rested her head against Felix’s knees. “War stories,” she muttered.

  “Sssshhh,” Felix said softly.

  There was the sound of someone walking around and then settling in a chair. Then the smell of pipe tobacco floated in the air.

  “Our story begins in Indiana territory,” Captain Barton said.

  “Can you speak louder, Father?” Clara said in a loud voice herself.

  “I don’t want to wake anyone,” he said.

  “It’s just . . . just that my ears are all cottony and—”

  “Cottony ears?”

  Felix stifled a laugh.

  “Yes. Like there’s cotton in them.”

  “All right then, our story begins in Indiana territory,” Captain Barton said loudly.

  He sighed and paused before he continued. “I was only twenty-one when I joined the recruits to fight the wars for the western frontiers. A boy, really. Just seven years older than you are now. We walked from Boston to Philadelphia and on to Michigan, which was the extreme western frontier and full of Indians. I served side by side with William Henry Harrison—”

  “Old Tippecanoe himself!” Clara interrupted.

  “Three years serving with him, Clara,” her father said. His voice grew more solemn. “I remember lying in the tangled marshes of Michigan, helpless, so far from home. Having to drink muddy water, to eat animals—even dogs—that had died from starvation just to stay alive myself.”

  “I cannot imagine it,” Clara said, her voice solemn, too. “I cannot imagine what you endured. Or the horrible things you saw. Tomahawks swung right over your head!”

  “When I remember a feathered arrow quivering or the sound of musket fire, it makes me shudder. But it is because of what I and others like me endured that our country is so great. From these wild and dangerous scenes of suffering, this country as we know it sprung up.”

  “How you love this country,” Clara said proudly.

  “I do, yes,” her father said, his voice cracking. “Now, I think the time has come for a certain young lady to go to bed.”

  “But you haven’t even told me about Tecumseh or the walk back home through the wilderness of Ohio and New York or how you fell in love with the Mohawk and Genesee valleys or—”

  “The stories will still be here tomorrow,” her father said.

  Clara gave an exaggerated yawn. “Time for bed,” she said.

  Felix and Maisie listened to the sounds of Clara and her father saying good night. It made Felix homesick, and he thought about his own bed, with the blankets arranged in just the right order, from lightest to heaviest. His mother always put a lavender-scented softener sheet in the dryer, and everything carried a hint of that scent. When he breathed deeply here, he smelled wax and oil and smoke, all unfamiliar and not at all comforting.

  “It was a good story,” Maisie admitted. “I guess.”

  “The thing is,” Felix said, “it’s all true. Tomahawks and eating dogs to survive and walking all the way to Michigan.”

  “It’s like we stepped into a movie or something, isn’t it?” Maisie said.

  Felix didn’t like the hint of excitement in her voice. “Don’t sound so thrilled,” he told her. “You know what’s coming? The Civil War. And I have a feeling Clara Barton has something to do in it. That scroll we took from The Treasure Chest might be our clue.”

  “What could she possibly have to do with the Civil War?” Maisie said. “She’s fourteen, only two years older than us.”

  “She won’t be so young when the war happens,” Felix reminded Maisie.

  “That’s true.”

  “We need to read that paper more carefully,” he said.

  “When we get upstairs alone,” Maisie agreed.

  Clara appeared at the bottom of the stairs and grinned up at them. “Wasn’t that story marvelous?” she said proudly.

  “You were right, Clara,” Felix said. “I could listen to your father all night.” He meant it, too.

  Clara climbed the stairs to sit with them. “He was there at the slaying of Tecumseh, too,” she said.

  “How many states are there these days, anyway?” Maisie asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I know there’s going to be fifty—” Maisie began.

  Felix yanked on her arm to make her shut up.

  Clara frowned. “There are twenty-five,” she said. “Arkansas was admitted in June.”

  And then to Felix’s delight and Maisie’s annoyance, she rattled off their names. Maisie liked to be the smartest kid around, and Clara was making her feel like maybe this time she wasn’t. She was tempted to prove to Clara that she knew a lot of stuff, too. Like: Remember the name Hawaii because it’s going to be the fiftieth state. Or: If you go to California right now, you can find some gold before anyone else gets there.

  “Wow,” Felix said. “I don’t know if I could name all the states.” All he could think about were all the states she hadn’t named. What is going on in California and Colorado and the other twenty-five states? he wondered.

  Maisie yawned and pointed up the stairs. “I’m guessing the attic is this way?” she said, and started to climb the steep steps.

  “Yes,” Clara said from behind her. “All the way up.”

  Maisie got to the top and stepped immediately into a large, open room with slanted ceilings and exposed beams and rafters. Four twin beds lined one wall, each covered in a faded quilt like the one they’d eaten their picnic on earlier.

  Suddenly M
aisie felt exhausted. She lay on the bed closest to her, stretching her legs and looking up at the roughly hewn ceiling. The beams had slashes all across them, and Maisie realized she was seeing the actual ax marks left from cutting down trees. She sat up and reached her hand up and ran her fingers over them. When she did, a shiver crept up her back. Someone had chopped down this tree and built this house. She had never even thought about anyone doing such a thing before.

  “Lucky that my cousins left and you can stay up here,” Clara said. She fanned the air with her hands. “A bit airless,” she said, and moved to the small windows above the beds to open them. “Like breathing through cotton.”

  “Cottony? Like your ears?” Felix teased.

  Clara turned pink. “What a silly thing to say! But I wanted you to be able to hear, and I couldn’t think of one earthly reason that he should speak louder when everyone was asleep already.”

  Cool air filled the room as soon as she opened all the windows, and Clara took a deep breath. “There,” she said. “Better.”

  “Thanks, Clara,” Felix said. “For getting us food and letting us stay and everything.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll find your parents and make sure you get home safely,” she said.

  “Oh,” Maisie said, “don’t worry about that.”

  Clara yawned. “Well,” she said. “Shall I bring you some buttermilk?”

  “For what?” Maisie asked. To Maisie, buttermilk was the thing her mother put in pancakes and waffles.

  “Why, to drink!” Clara said, exasperated.

  “I don’t think so,” Felix said cautiously. He’d had enough new things for one day.

  “All right then,” Clara said. “Good night.”

  They watched her as she walked across the room and then disappeared down the stairs.

  They sat on their beds quietly until they were certain she was gone.

  Then Maisie said, “Okay, give me that piece of paper.”

  Felix blinked at her. “I don’t have it. You have it.”

  “No, I don’t! I specifically remember you having it.”

  They stared at each other. There was no point in saying anything more. The letter was missing. They sat quietly then—Felix worried, Maisie thrilled.

  Felix woke to the strange sounds of a rooster crowing, cows mooing, and a horse neighing. The smells rising up from the kitchen, however, were completely familiar: bacon, eggs, and cornbread. His stomach growled. And his chest felt tight with worry about where the letter had disappeared to.

  What if they couldn’t get back without it?

  Maisie was still asleep in the bed beside him, her face scrunched up, her hands clenched into tight fists. The sight of her broke his heart. He had noticed she slept that way ever since their parents announced their divorce.

  The attic door creaked open, and Clara walked in carrying two plates.

  “Oh good,” she said. “You’re awake.” She looked down at Maisie and said in a lower voice, “At least one of you is awake.”

  She handed a fork and a plate to Felix. Bacon, eggs, and cornbread.

  He immediately started to eat. The bacon looked kind of weird, thicker and fattier than the Oscar Mayer they had at home. And the eggs looked weird, too, their yolks bigger and more yellow. But they weren’t runny at all, and the taste was practically the same as the ones his mom made. Maybe even better.

  Maisie groaned and rubbed her eyes. She stared at Felix hard, then at Clara harder. For a brief moment she looked confused, but then she broke into a huge grin.

  “1836,” she said.

  “Breakfast,” Clara said and held out the other plate and fork to Maisie.

  “Thanks,” Maisie said. “Nothing like room service.”

  “I should record these odd things you both say,” Clara said. “Room service,” she said, more to herself than to them, as if mulling over its meaning.

  “In hotels,” Felix began to explain. But then he stopped, because for room service you needed a telephone and probably an elevator and all sorts of things that did not exist yet. “When they bring your dinner or breakfast to your room,” he said finally.

  Clara brightened. “Hotels! Yes, I’ve heard about them. Father had a friend visiting us here who talked all about the Tremont Hotel in Boston,” she began. But then she shook her head. “No, you won’t even believe it.”

  “What?” Felix said.

  “Well,” Clara said, “according to this friend of father’s—and he’s a reputable source, truly he is—the Tremont Hotel has indoor plumbing and running water! Can you even imagine?” Clara paused as if she was trying to imagine it. “I have heard the Astor House in New York City that opened this year rivals it,” she added.

  Felix wondered if there were only two hotels in the whole country. Well, all twenty-five states of the country.

  “I wish you hadn’t said that,” Maisie said. “About indoor plumbing,” she added, squirming.

  “Oh,” Clara said. “The chamber pot is beneath your bed.”

  Maisie frowned. She’d never heard the word before, but she didn’t have to think too hard to understand what it was. She reached under the bed and pulled out a bowl with a handle and a red-and-white floral pattern. No wonder Clara thought indoor plumbing was such a unique thing to offer.

  “Well,” Maisie said, “are you two going to sit there and stare at me, or are you going to give me some privacy?”

  “I vote for privacy,” Felix said quickly. “I think I have to go to the barn and look for that thing we lost.”

  He and Clara headed for the stairs.

  Behind him he heard Maisie groan. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said. “A chamber pot?”

  “Let’s see,” Felix said as he stood in the barn, trying to get his bearings. “I landed here, I think.”

  Clara watched him carefully. “Landed?” she said quietly.

  “Uh . . .” He tried to think of an explanation, but instead he just shrugged. “Landed,” he said.

  Clara’s gaze swept upward, then down to the spot where indeed Felix had landed, and where he now was on his hands and knees searching.

  “But how could you have even gotten up there?” she asked him.

  Felix stopped searching long enough to say, “It’s complicated.”

  “I can understand complicated things,” Clara said.

  “I know you can, Clara,” Felix said. The paper didn’t seem to be here. He sighed and sat cross-legged on the hay-strewn barn floor. “But I can’t even begin to explain it myself.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest and waited.

  “Maisie and I live in—”

  “Rhode Island,” she said. “I know that.”

  “We live in our great-great-grandfather’s house.

  Well, sort of.”

  “Either you live there or you don’t,” Clara said, exasperated.

  Felix took a deep breath and tried again. “We didn’t want to come here exactly. It just sort of happened.” He added to himself, “And that paper has something to do with it.”

  “You simply are talking nonsense!” Clara said. “Surely there is an explanation for how you came to be in my barn—”

  From the doorway, Maisie’s voice interrupted. “Did you find it?”

  Felix was never so happy to have Maisie arrive and rescue him, something she’d done from time to time their entire lives. “It’s not here,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s go and look in the field where we played baseball.”

  Maisie took off immediately, and Felix rushed to follow her. If they found that paper from The Treasure Chest, and he and Maisie each held on to it, Felix thought they would end up back at home, which is exactly where he wanted to be right now. He wondered if their mother had called the police. Had she called their
father in Qatar? She must have been crying like crazy, certain they had run away or been abducted.

  No matter what Maisie wanted or said or did, Felix intended to go home as soon as possible. And that paper was the way back. He hoped.

  From the field, Maisie waved something in the air and shouted.

  “I’ve got it!”

  Relief filled Felix. Even if home was just that crummy apartment far from Bethune Street, he wanted to get there as soon as possible. He broke into a run. Clara had reached him and met him stride for stride.

  “What’s this piece of paper that’s so important?” she asked him.

  Felix realized it didn’t matter what he told her. As soon as he reached Maisie, he would grab the paper and the two of them would be gone.

  “Just something we need back home,” he said, hoping that would satisfy her.

  He sprinted ahead of her.

  The sun was bright and hot, and the farm smells filled his nose. Behind Maisie, three horses stood eating grass, their coats shiny in the sunlight.

  “You must have dropped it when you were running,” Maisie said when he reached her.

  Felix paused only long enough to take a quick look around. Good-bye, 1836, he thought. Clara was right behind him. Good-bye, Clara Barton.

  He knew that if he explained to Maisie what he was about to do she would try to talk him out of it. Well, she would forgive him eventually.

  “So what is this piece of paper that has caused so much trouble?” Clara said.

  Maisie looked right at Felix. He looked back at her. Then he grabbed one end of the paper, just like he had back in The Treasure Chest.

  “Good-bye, Clara!” he shouted. “Good luck!”

  Felix closed his eyes and waited.

  How Peculiar

  “What are you doing?” Maisie said after an eternal moment.

  Felix opened his eyes. His heart sank when he took in those rolling hills, the pond, the barn, the three houses, and Maisie and Clara staring at him. The paper was still in his hands, and Maisie still held one corner of it. But they had gone absolutely nowhere. How was this possible? He was certain he’d figured out how to get home.