‘You think you’re with child?’ she whispers.
‘Not really. Just ain’t had my time since before we went marching,’ I say, thinking how my belly don’t feel any different when I lay my hands across it, how if anything, it is smaller.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I could ask one of the ladies, or maybe the surgeon—’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want no one else knowing. And it can’t look right, you asking a thing like that.’
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘This ain’t what I planned.’
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘You have to keep safe,’ she says. ‘In case. Have you thought about going home?’
‘I don’t want to go home,’ I say, my voice edging above the whisper we been keeping ourselves to. ‘Not without Jeremiah. A baby needs a father.’
I look at her hard to see if telling is crossing her mind, but there’s not a thing except worry in her eyes.
‘Of course,’ she says, and it is honey to hear her agree with me.
There is a long silence. I can’t think of a thing to say.
‘Oh! That reminds me!’ Jennie jumps up from her seat and goes to a large chest that must be serving as Captain’s desk. She takes a canvas bag from inside and rummages about. ‘Here it is!’ she finally says, holding up an envelope. ‘I’ve been holding on to this for safekeeping. It was waiting here when I got back from Virginia.’
She holds the letter out to me, and I know it is from Papa before I even see his writing on the front, just from the way he’s folded the paper so neat and square.
I slide it right into my pocket, trying not to think on what Papa might have written. When I am done she is peering at me.
‘You really think you’re expecting? Do you feel like you are?’
‘I don’t feel much different,’ I say. ‘Except on the march, I couldn’t keep a thing down.’
It don’t matter that she don’t have answers and she can’t help me, that her only advice is going home. It just feels good to tell my worries to her and put those thoughts with someone else for a bit.
I STOP NEAR the parade ground where I can be alone and take Papa’s letter out, peel it open carefully, unfold it slowly. I let my eyes relax, let the sparse words blur for just a moment. Then I steady myself to see what Papa has written.
August 3, 1862
Dear Rosetta,
We are always Glad of Word from you—there is almost no News otherwise, with you Gone so Far.
As you must know, it has been Busy here with haying. The Wheat is good this year, and what Potatoes the gophers haven’t got. That spotted calf you asked after is weaned and sold to Nilsson as we cannot take on more now.
We Hope to see you before Too Long. Your Mother says to tell you Come Home and we’ll not speak of it again.
We Pray for you,
Your Father, Charles Edwards
I crumple that letter, stuff it in my pocket. It don’t go so hard this time, feeling their shame, but even if she was right, Mama never did know the words to make me do what she wanted.
EVEN FEELING SICK as they do, the boys still spend the morning passing rumors we might be leaving any day, telling each other they can’t wait to be marching on those Rebels. I’m thinking on my own worries, about how it don’t seem right, Jennie Chalmers knowing something Jeremiah don’t, when Will sits himself down beside me.
‘I wanted to thank you for what you did last night,’ he says.
‘It ain’t nothing,’ I shrug. ‘Anybody would’ve done the same.’
‘That isn’t so,’ he says, and then he leaves me to wonder if I were a noble wife like Jeremiah said, if I ought to talk to him before we get to marching again.
I WAIT ’TIL night, ’til we are lying under our tent, Jeremiah’s body curled around mine, his arm over my shoulder, his hand in mine.
‘I’ve got to talk to you.’ It comes out quiet.
Jeremiah’s body goes still as a deer listening to the wind.
‘Okay,’ he says, and turns so he’s flat on his back. I can just make out his face. It looks blank so I know I ain’t kept my voice calm.
Under my hand his heart beats faster as he waits for me to talk. Everybody is sleeping in their tents and someone’s snoring mixes in with the frogs and the lonely screech of an owl hunting. I reach across and pull him close, sliding my hand down his side, bumping along his ribs. He’s dropped weight from marching with no rations.
‘What’s this about?’ he asks, his fingers closing on my hand. ‘You’ve got a seriousness to you I ain’t—’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My Mama has announced a thing like this more than once, but there ain’t a way for me to say it all warm with love. There ain’t nothing but fear gripping my belly.
‘It ain’t nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s just I’ve been thinking if there’ll be more fighting for us to do.’
‘Seems likely.’
‘You think we can stand it?’
‘Ain’t got a choice, unless you’re wanting to go on home.’