‘I don’t want trouble. You can just let me pass on by,’ I say, the words so calm and slow even though I am thinking whether I can get to my rifle before he shoots his.
‘What makes you think I can trust a Federal?’ the boy asks, and cocks his gun.
‘I ain’t done one thing to you,’ I say. ‘I only thought you were my—’
There is a flash of fire off to my left and a blast. I throw myself to the ground as that boy drops right where he was standing.
‘Rosetta?’ Jeremiah yells, scrabbling through the grass. He hunkers at my side, talking so fast, saying, ‘You all right? You hurt?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Where is he? What happened?’
‘I was afraid—I shot him,’ Jeremiah says, and shakes his head. ‘I shot him.’
Jeremiah wrenches me to sitting, searching my face. Then he is gone, taking his rifle to where that boy has fallen, where there’s awful strangling sounds and then a rammer scraping and I crawl after, my legs too shaky for standing.
‘No, Jeremiah! You can’t—’
‘Rosetta—don’t—’ is all Jeremiah says. And then he fires again, right into that boy.
Will comes running, calling, ‘What was that?’ and I am waiting for the flash and bang of other guns firing.
I don’t know why I tell Will, ‘A Rebel sharpshooter,’ when that boy was no such thing, when now I see the shoes he was taking off the Union dead, when that pair of shoes is all he died for.
I AM LYING curled on my side, Jeremiah’s warmth at my back like always. I almost forget until I open my eyes and in the first light of morning, see the knees of my pants, rust-brown and stiff with blood.
I scramble to sit, my mouth watering as my stomach turns. Jeremiah is already awake, clutching his knees, staring at the ground. The blank look on his face makes me swallow back the sick.
We are the first ones stirring so I touch his shoulder.
‘I never meant for you to have to do a thing like that. Not on my account,’ I say, taking Jeremiah’s hand and tracing the Winter trees of veins there, imagining I can feel the blood flowing strong.
A strange flat voice comes out of Jeremiah when he says, ‘This ain’t a good place,’ and after that I put what he’s done down with all the other things I won’t ever say another word about.
CHAPTER
22
BULL RUN: AUGUST 30, 1862
When I wake again, it ain’t because I’m rested. It’s because the sun is full up and Jeremiah’s hand is shaking my shoulder.
‘What?’ I say, and then I see Captain standing stiff before us. I bolt upright.
‘Your efforts last night have not gone unnoticed. I want to express the gratitude of the Union Army for your assistance above and beyond your duty.’
Captain’s gaze is piercing. Jeremiah nudges me.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ I say. ‘But there wasn’t much we could—’
‘Your efforts have not been in vain,’ he says, turning to go. ‘This Army is proud to have soldiers like you.’
As soon as Captain leaves, Sully starts whispering to Jeremiah with so much excitement he might as well be yelling.
‘Before Captain decided to get all lovey with Ross here, he told me they’ve got reports those Rebs are retreating! Maybe they’re licked already!’
Jeremiah looks out toward the field, past where Will is kneeling, his hands clasped.
‘What I hear out on that field,’ Jeremiah says, ‘don’t know how we could be winning.’
‘Must be mostly Rebs dying out there,’ Sully says.
It ain’t worth stirring myself to tell him any different and risk bringing up feelings no one else needs now. Especially when Jeremiah’s face has already got a look I can’t stand, something bleak that weren’t ever there before.
It ain’t long before Sergeant comes, saying, ‘Two Regiments in the Brigade are staying in reserve to guard the stone house, but our Regiment has been ordered forward. We’re to relieve Kearny’s men, who have been stretched thin holding the Army’s right flank.’
My Mama lays baby’s breath and yarrow at my brothers’ graves to mark each year, and cries over every letter her sister sends, and now I am marching into battle. Why ain’t I said a proper good-bye to her and Papa?
Let us live let us live let us live. The words swell up in my heart until Jeremiah says the first thing to me since we woke.
‘Don’t you think about last night. It ain’t our time yet,’ and he rests a hand on my shoulder.
OUR BUGLES SOUND and voices roar as we march past the stone house and up a steep hill. Our blue Company flag waves ahead of the officers on their horses and the drums roll and my feet move without me even willing them. The air around us is tight like before lightning, and I think of Mama’s pregnant belly stretched taut.