Leah returned to the wagon and found her father sleeping fitfully on the cot she had made up for him. After watching him for a few minutes, her heart heavy, she heard Ezra’s distinctive whistle and looked up to see him coming from the small creek that ran behind their camp.
Ezra had been washing clothes. He nodded to her and began to hang the wet clothes on the ropes he’d hung between two saplings. “He’s been kind of restless, Leah. He’s had a fever too, I think.”
Leah watched him hang up her father’s favorite linsey-woolsey white shirt and add to it several garments of his own. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “I’ll do the washing.”
“Aw, it weren’t no trouble.” Ezra shrugged. “I never did mind washing.”
“You’re different from most men.” She smiled. “I think Jeff would wear a shirt till it turned stiff as a board with sweat and dirt before he would wash it.”
The mention of Jeff brought a quick frown to her face, and she covered it hurriedly by saying, “They’re talking all up and down the line about the battle that’s coming. Everybody thinks it’s going to be a bad one.”
“I don’t think there are any good ones, are there?”
“No, not really. But you know what I mean, Ezra.” She moved over to where the food was stored in a sturdy pine box, lifted the top, and began to take out yeast starter, flour, lard, salt, and a pinch of her precious sugar. “I think I’ll make some biscuits. Will you set up my Dutch oven?”
Ezra had finished hanging up the clothes. “Sure I will,” he said. “Nothing like hot biscuits. I wish we had some sorghum from that mill Mr. Silas had down in Richmond. That was good, wasn’t it?”
Leah nodded. “I worry about Uncle Silas sometimes, but the last letter we got said he was doing fine.”
Soon the smell of stew cooking was in the air. Biscuits were browning in the Dutch oven, and the sky was beginning to darken. Leah added a scant measure of fresh ground coffee to the morning’s grounds, poured in fresh spring water, and set the pot to boil by the side of the cooking fire.
From far away a soldier with a fine tenor voice began singing. She sat listening, and Ezra, who had been adding wood to the fire, stopped to listen also as the plaintive words hovered over the sprawling camp.
“Just before the battle, Mother,
I am thinking most of you,
While upon the field we’re watching
With the enemy in view.
Comrades brave are round me lying,
Filled with thoughts of home and God;
For well they know that on the morrow
Some will sleep beneath the sod.”
As the young soldier’s voice faltered, other voices joined in on the chorus:
“Farewell, Mother, you may never
Press me to your heart again;
But O, you’ll not forget me, Mother,
If I’m numbered with the slain.”
The night was quiet, and the voices clear as bells. The words carried over the fields, and no one could tell where the Union voices ended and the Confederate voices began.
“Oh, I long to see you, Mother,
And the loving ones at home,
But I’ll never leave our banner
Till in honor I can come.
Tell the traitors all around you
That their cruel words, we know,
In every battle kill our soldiers
By the help they give the foe.”
When the last notes died away, Leah gave a slight shudder. “I don’t like that song,” she said. “It’s too sad. I wish he hadn’t started it.”
Ezra looked down to his right along the line and nodded. “General Mac over there, I guess he’s doing some heavy thinking. He can’t afford to let the Rebs whup us this time.”
General McClellan stood before his officers and examined them carefully. All day he’d been getting little information, and now as dark blanketed the field he said irritably, “I have no idea where Jackson is.”
General Hooker, standing across the table, asserted, “He’s right across that creek, General. I’d bet my right eye on it.”
Hooker was a big, fine-looking soldier called “Fighting Joe Hooker.” He had little respect for McClellan as a fighting general, believing that he himself would do a better job.
McClellan moved nervously. He was a small, dapper man, who wore his uniform proudly. He had been president of a railroad before the war, and his soldiers adored him. They called him “Little Mac,” and no matter how many times he lost, they never lost faith in him.
McClellan looked down at the map in front of him and ran his finger along a twisting, winding line. “Antietam Creek,” he said. “All we have to do is get across, and we’ll have them.”
“Might be harder than you think, General,” another officer said. “The Rebs have had plenty of time to get in place over there.”
McClellan nodded. “They’re a big force.” He turned to Hooker. “I want you to lead the attack against the Confederate left in the morning.”
“Yes, General. You can count on me. My boys are ready for a fight.”
McClellan turned to look out the door of the tent. There was a nervousness in his mannerisms that the officers didn’t like. He showed none of the confidence that he usually manifested.
After the officers had left the tent, Hooker said to his second in command, “McClellan’s good at training troops, but he’s worthless as a fighting general.”
While the Union generals talked, across the creek the Confederates were digging in. Tom Majors grabbed a shovel and was helping the members of the squad. He made the dirt fly for a while, then looked up and said, “I reckon they’ll be coming at us with everything they’ve got, Curly.”
Curly Henson, sweat running down his face, stopped working on the long defensive trench and nodded. “I wish that creek was as big as the Mississippi River!” he muttered. “And I wish all them Yankees were right in the pit.”
Jed Hawkins, who had stripped off his shirt to do his part of the work, laughed. “Don’t wish that. Stonewall would send us right into the pit after them! There ain’t nothing that man won’t do!”
All up and down the line, members of the Stonewall Brigade were throwing up whatever protection they could. They knew that there would be no time to put up a defense in the morning.
“Where’s Jeff?” Tom asked suddenly. “I haven’t seen him nearly all day.”
Charlie Bowers was too small to do much work. He was helping Sergeant Henry Mapes drag some brush to put in front of a hole. “Jeff’s pretty bad sick, Tom,” he said. “I think he’s lying down back in the shade.”
Tom straightened suddenly. “He hasn’t felt good since he got back. I’ll go check on him.”
Leaving his team digging ditches and dragging fence posts into position, Tom made his way to the big firs that lifted their heads farther back from the creek. He found his father squatting beside Jeff, who was sitting with his back to one of the huge trees.
Tom saw at once that Jeff’s face was pale and knew that he was very ill. “What’s the matter, Jeff?” he asked. “Got a stomachache?”
Jeff’s opened his eyes with an effort. “I wish it was just a stomachache,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought it was myself at first.”
Tom looked at his father and saw that he was worried. “A lot of us got stomachaches from all those green apples we’ve been eating.”
“It’s more than that, Tom,” Captain Majors said, then spoke to Jeff. “I wish I could send you back, son. You don’t need to be anywhere near this fight.”
Jeff shook his head, his lips a thin white line. “Don’t worry about me, Captain. I’ll be all right.”
Captain Majors hesitated and then said, “Tom, you stay here with him. I’ve got to go have a meeting with the staff officers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nelson Majors hurried to General Lee’s headquarters. It was no more than a tent hastily thrown up, but a large group of officers was gathered.
General Lee moved about carefully, holding his hands away from his body. They were still sore from the fall he’d taken. To his left, Stonewall Jackson, with his cap pulled down over his eyes, watched every move Lee made; and to the right, the big, burly Longstreet did the same.
Lee had been speaking, but his eyes caught Majors as he came hurrying up. “Ah, glad to have you with us, Captain. We’ll be needing all the engineers we can get. We need to throw up more reinforcements if possible.”
Stonewall said, “General, why don’t we just charge across that creek? They won’t be expecting us. We can catch them off guard.”
Lee smiled faintly. It was so much like Stonewall Jackson. They were here against a force twice as big as their own, and he wanted to charge!
“I hardly think that’s the answer, General Jackson. We’ll take the defensive ground this time. Perhaps we’ll be able to mount a charge later on.” He stepped forward and with the toe of his boot drew a crooked line. “This is the creek, gentlemen. We’ll mount our defense like this. General Jackson, you will take the left. General Hill, you’ll take the center, and General Longstreet the right.” He marked each spot on the ground with his toe and stood staring at it.
“Who do you think will be coming at us, sir?” Longstreet asked.
“Our scouts inform me that Hooker will be coming to our left. That will be for you, General Jackson. General Sumner will be coming at the middle, and Burnside will be coming to take us on the right.” He marked these positions with his toe, then looked up. “The Army of North Virginia will have to fight well in the morning.”
By the time night fell over the two armies, Jeff found himself so ill he couldn’t even sit up. He was lying off to the side, Tom sitting beside him, and was barely aware as the men cooked their evening meal. They had obtained some beef for the first time since the march started. But the smell of it only made Jeff sicker.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he muttered. His lips were dry, and his skin felt hot enough to crack.
“You’ll be all right. As soon as the battle’s over, we’ll get you out of here,” Tom said. In truth, he was worried about his younger brother. Dysentery and a host of other deadly ailments had killed men just as surely as if they’d been hit in the middle with a musket ball.
Tom moved over to sit beside Henry Mapes and said quietly, “I wish Jeff were back in Richmond. We’ve lost about as many to sickness like this as to men getting shot.”
The sergeant turned his dark eyes on Jeff and shook his head. “It’s a bad time for it, Tom. We’d better move him back tonight. Those blue-bellies might come earlier than we think.”
“I’ll take him back after the men eat.”
Jeff was vaguely aware of what was going on. He had fallen into a fitful sleep, and then he heard a voice that he knew belonged to Jed Hawkins. He was singing a song called “Tenting Tonight,” which was a favorite in his company. It had always been one of Jeff’s favorites. He lay half conscious as the words drifted across his mind.
“We’re tenting tonight on the old camp ground,
Give us a song to cheer our weary hearts.
A song of home, and friends we love so dear.
Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease,
Many are the hearts looking for the right
To see the dawn of peace.
“Tenting tonight, tenting tonight
Tenting on the old camp ground
Dying on the old camp ground.”
Finally the voice grew muted. Then Jeff felt hands on him and heard Tom’s voice.
“Come on, Jeff. We have to move you back out of this a little bit. We wouldn’t want you to get caught in the battle in the morning.”
Jeff was vaguely aware of struggling to his feet, and as he staggered from the field, he was lost in a fiery fever that seemed to scorch his very spirit.