I NEVER HAD so much of nothing to do before in my whole life. No cows needing milking. No chickens needing scraps. No troughs to fill. No garden hungry for manure or fences for mending or laundry for scrubbing. There is just mustering for drill, or roll, or inspections, all of which mean getting up before the sun even though it seems to me there ain’t a thing to be done in our Company that needs such early rising.
The next morning, I’ve already taken care of my necessaries and found five things to do before most of the boys are even stirring. Being first up, I start a fire, getting water from the jug at the end of our row, and putting it on for the coffee Sergeant rations out to us. Jeremiah must smell the idea of coffee ’cause no sooner do I get that water on, he crawls out of the tent, carrying a sack of cornmeal and sowbelly from his pack. He tosses the provisions at me like I am nothing but a farm dog waiting for a bone and disappears into the trees without even a kind word.
He just ain’t used to the idea of me being a soldier yet. Or else he is sore he can’t boss me around like maybe he thought. I buck up and with the few things I’ve got I figure on making biscuits. I ain’t got milk or butter, but water and sowbelly grease might do and anybody who sees fit to complain don’t have to eat none.
When Jeremiah gets back, I pretend he ain’t been rude. I give him sowbelly in a tin cup, a biscuit, and tell him, ‘I don’t aim to cook for everyone. It ain’t smart.’
‘How ain’t it smart?’ he says, wiping grease from his tin cup with his biscuit.
‘I can think of one reason bigger than a hog before slaughter. Ain’t you been telling me things I can’t do all the time?’
‘When it comes to cooking there ain’t a soul better equipped,’ he says. ‘You’re the only one with any kind of experience. Except maybe for Mrs. Chalmers.’
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ I say, my spoon clattering. ‘Won’t someone think something?’
‘Lots of soldiers cooking over fires from what I see,’ Jeremiah shrugs. ‘Might as well use the one skill you got while you can.’
The only thing that keeps me from snatching that tin cup away from Jeremiah is Towhead Boy from Sully’s new tent coming to stand by me, his narrow shoulders even with mine. That boy is careful around the rest of us. I ain’t sure I like him pairing up with Sully who can’t keep his mouth shut, especially if he’s mad, but there’s no choice in it.
While I’m turning the sowbelly over in its pan, I raise my brows at Jeremiah but he don’t pay me any mind.
‘Smells good,’ the boy says.
‘Mmm-hmmm,’ is all I’ve got for him.
‘I have some sowbelly needs fixing,’ he says, holding out a dark-stained haversack.
‘Sowbelly ain’t tricky,’ I tell him because it’s more than I want, all this cooking. ‘You can use the fire and pan if you want.’
‘I’d be pleased to share it,’ he says, still holding that greasy bag out to me.
I can’t help thinking of my Mama then, all the times she forced me into the kitchen, setting me to work scooping flesh out of roasted pumpkins or rolling out pie crust or chopping tomatoes for canning or shelling dried beans for Winter. Maybe she would smile to see me working over a fire, at how her teaching finally took some.
‘You ain’t here with any people of your own?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says quiet. ‘I came alone.’
‘Put it in there with the rest.’
He does as he is told. Jeremiah watches, but I pretend not to see him.
‘Good. Now just push it around a bit so it don’t stick to the pan. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Thank you. You’re kind to show me,’ he says so nice I feel bad for not being more friendly. ‘My name’s Will.’
‘Ross. You want a biscuit? They ain’t very good, but it’s something to fill your belly.’
‘Things taste better when you share them,’ he smiles.
‘Well, in that case,’ Jeremiah calls real loud from where he is sitting in a small patch of sun, ‘maybe if you can get Sully to stop sulking and come on over, between the two of you, our food will get to tasting like home-cooked!’
It gets my dander up, to hear him judge my cooking and all the other boys laugh. All the boys except Will.
‘You want to come try? You think you can do better?’ I ask, fighting to keep my hand from going to my hip as I stare over at Jeremiah.
‘No, Ma’am!’ Jeremiah says with a smirk I want to slap off his face. ‘But I think maybe we could improve our chances of getting a decent meal, if what he says is true.’
Sully swaggers into our camp from where he’s been sitting across the way at Will’s tent, saying, ‘I ain’t been sulking. I was only making room—I can see when I ain’t wanted.’
As he passes me, he shoves my shoulder. ‘Looks like you’re doing the sulking now,’ he says.
And that is how Will and Sully along with him come to be at our fire most mornings.
CHAPTER
10
UTICA, NEW YORK: MARCH 1862