I Shall Be Near to You: A Novel

Jimmy and Henry are two lumps under their blankets. I wriggle out from under Jeremiah’s arm and our covers, bending to keep from touching the roof of our tent. I want to stay under the scratchy wool, in the heat coming off Jeremiah, but there ain’t any other way to get my business done.

 

My breath comes in puffs and my teeth are chattering before I even find the tent flap in the mostly dark, trying to stay quiet so I don’t wake the boys. The ties on that flap ain’t easy to undo, but before long I am out in the morning frost, sucking in the clean air. It don’t matter it’s cold; after a night under mildewy canvas anything fresh is a blessing. Down the wide aisle between our row of tents and the next, it looks like these boys have been living here for weeks with the lanterns and crates and knapsacks left lying about. In the dim light there ain’t another soul stirring, but the snoring and coughing of men sleeping comes through the tent walls and I hope Jeremiah has the sense to pull our blankets apart when he gets up.

 

The camp has got one big long latrine trough dug off a ways, but that don’t stop the bitter smell of piss from reaching all the way to the tents. There is burlap strung up to make a wall shading the trough from sight, but I can’t be using that, and anyhow it is more foul than even the old school privy. Heading away from the main camp, I weave through the trees and down into the woods. The ground crunches beneath my feet until I find cover enough for my private business.

 

When I get back near our row of tents, there is a man still keeping farm time, dragging a wet comb through his thinning hair before getting to the day’s work. He is wearing the homespun clothes and leather skin of a farmer. He don’t say a thing, just looks and nods at me. I don’t trust my voice to ask his name, so I nod back. There’s other boys stirring now too. The wiry foul-mouthed millworker pushes out of his tent right in front of me, rubbing his hands across the stubble on his face. He says, ‘Cold as a witch’s tit, ain’t it?’

 

All the times the boys used words like that around me, they sucked their lips in and made like my ears might bleed, and for a second, I don’t think he’s talking to me. Then I see there ain’t no one else close.

 

I make my voice go low. ‘Sure is.’

 

‘Anybody around here got a fire going?’ he asks.

 

I shake my head, ‘Not that I’ve seen.’

 

‘Goddamn it!’ Foul Mouth says to my back as I hurry off. ‘Fucking useless!’

 

Farther down the aisle, in front of the tent Sully moved himself to, a narrow-faced, towhead boy looking younger even than Jimmy sits cross-legged on the ground, his lips moving as he reads the Bible cracked open on his knees. I think about asking after Sully, but the boy don’t look up so I keep on past and slip back into our tent. Jeremiah stirs under the blankets but I don’t try waking him. Both O’Malleys look dead to the world. I sit myself down, tired already from worrying on getting caught and pretending for even an hour alone. But there ain’t no other way.

 

The blast of a bugle comes blaring. Jeremiah jumps out of the blankets, his hair every which way, and looks around like he’s lost something. He sees me and a hint of a smile lights and then fades. He rakes his hair with his fingers and it is good he has got all his clothes on so he can pop right up and go. Grumbling voices gather outside and Sergeant yells, ‘It’s reveille! Get moving to the parade ground!’

 

‘Let’s go,’ Jeremiah says.

 

‘I ain’t keeping you,’ I say, and haul our blankets apart. Jeremiah takes one look at the O’Malleys still sleeping and starts in on them, pulling at their feet. ‘Hey! Henry! Jimmy! Wake up!’

 

Henry kicks out and says, ‘Leave me be!’ and I get to wondering how he ever got to any farm chores, but everybody knows the O’Malley farm don’t prosper and maybe their Pa being gone ain’t the only reason.

 

Jeremiah practically drags those boys out of their blankets and into the sun, Henry grumbling and complaining the whole time while Jimmy trails after us, keeping out of the fray like always.

 

We line up on the parade ground, me taking Sully’s old spot beside Jeremiah, Sully off in the back row somewhere, Jimmy still sucking himself back. Leatherskin and wiry Foul Mouth and stocky Black Eye are in the row ahead of us. And then there is Captain Chalmers at the front with his wife looking small beside him, that black ledger back in her hands. She marks things in that book while Captain calls roll.

 

‘Levi Blalock!’

 

‘Yes, Sir!’ a short and squat boy not much older than Jeremiah answers.

 

‘Ambrose Clark!’ Captain says loud.

 

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