‘You shouldn’t go,’ he says. ‘It’s what I’ve decided.’
‘It’s what you’ve decided? You want to be the kind of man that bosses his wife? You want me to always be asking your permission for everything I do?’
‘Why can’t you do what I say, one time? Just once!’
‘Maybe when you stop asking me to go against what’s in my heart. Maybe when you stop treating me like I can’t do the things I want!’
‘When have I ever—? Ain’t you here? You think any other man would let his wife—?’ He shoves both canteens at me. Then he stands up and stalks his way through the trees. I sling the canteens across my chest and then my rifle, watching his back, the slouch of his shoulders showing a tiredness he didn’t use to have even though his steps are quick and angry. A sorry feeling drips through me slow. But I ain’t asking for anything more than what Jeremiah might.
‘Anybody want to come with me, give water to those boys out there?’ I ask when I get up amid the boys, acting like there ain’t a thing wrong between me and Jeremiah. He don’t even look at me, his face closed off.
Jimmy opens his mouth to talk, but Henry pinches his elbow and says, ‘We ain’t rested yet,’ and that closes Jimmy’s mouth right up.
Sully says, ‘That ain’t the kind of action I want.’
Will stands up and slings his rifle across his back. ‘I’ll go,’ he says, and I can’t help but wonder why. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t know what there is to say. To him or Jeremiah.
‘Look who ain’t no parlor soldier,’ Sully says, but Will don’t pay him any mind.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
‘You got water?’ I ask, and Will nods.
‘We’ll be back,’ I say, mostly for Jeremiah, daring him to put a hand out to stop me. He stands, and I get ready.
‘I’m coming,’ he says. ‘But I ain’t doing no nursing.’
THE THREE OF us make our way through the trees along the creek. There ain’t no animal sounds, no crickets, no owls. We are silent too, the three of us walking single file, Jeremiah in back and Will in front. There is just our boots squishing in the mud, the trickling water, the moans and cries of the wounded floating over everything.
The weight of it all drags me forward, keeps me from turning back.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Jeremiah says, nodding to the small fires off in the distance, Rebel campfires. Hiding in the gloom there are soldiers living and dying, maybe sharpshooters waiting to pick us off.
‘Be quick about it, Ross. That shooting ain’t far off.’
‘You ain’t got to worry. We won’t be long,’ I say, and that’s the most tenderness I can muster. I open my mouth but no words come that might make things right with Jeremiah. Not when he is always acting like he don’t trust me to do this, like he don’t think I can.
I catch up to Will and for a minute I am glad I ain’t added the truth of what’s passed between me and Will to Jeremiah’s tally against me. Will’s face is shadowed as he parts the tall grass, but his steps beside me don’t falter. The silence between us feels like a sheet of window glass and it ain’t something I know how to break. And I’m too tired to fix it if I do.
We pass swollen bellies of horses sprawling out, looking big and pregnant when they ain’t. The moans and cries of the wounded get louder, telling us where to go, worse than any crying my Mama ever did losing her babies, worse than any of the mamas who struggled to birth these men lying out on this field. My heart breaks just to hear it, and I give myself over to the soldiers splayed out before me. Nothing in that hospital made me hard enough to see the boys lying on that field, boys long past saving. I can’t help thinking about it being Jeremiah lying there, about a wife waiting at home, like Mrs. Waite carrying her soldier’s baby, or Jennie Chalmers. It makes me want to do what little I can.
We pick our way around those boys. There ain’t a thing to be scared of with a body, it’s the ones still living to be worried about. Near a young boy, my foot slides in something. I fall to my knees and it is all I can do not to lose my whole stomach, sickness rippling through me to see the curdled blood I am kneeling in. That Bible story about how Abel’s blood soaked into the ground ain’t right.
Will reaches down to help me; his hand is cool and moist, and I am surprised by his grip. He peers at me.
‘I won’t tell anyone, if you’ll do the same,’ Will says.
‘I ain’t breathing a word about it. We can still go on being friends,’ I tell him. ‘To my way of thinking, you ain’t any different now than you ever was.’
Will gives me something like a smile and then he hauls me up out of the wet.
I turn to Jeremiah, just the dark shape of him, holding his rifle ready. I don’t know why I’ve always got to push so hard. I raise my hand to show him I ain’t hurt, hoping it is enough.