Late Afternoon September 28, 1863
Chattanooga
They fed him two spoonfuls of Eli’s soup about every ten minutes the first day and Joe kept it down. Now he was drinking whole cupfuls and could sit up.
“I’ve got that bucket here for you, Joe. If you’ve got to move your bowels, use the bucket because I’m not cleaning up after you anymore.”
Joe nodded draining the cup and handed it back to Eli. Eli looked around the room at the other men lying in cots. It was less crowded because three of the men died. Still, the air in the room smelled stale and foul.
“Where’s my uniform?” asked Joe, propping his back against the wall and clutching a blanket tightly around him.
“We wanted to burn it,” said Eli.
Joe looked aghast. “I won’t never find another to fit. They had to make that one special.”
Eli sighed. “That’s what Al said, so I made him wash it. It should be dry by now. I’ll have Al bring it by later.”
Joe was silent a moment staring at his knees. Finally he said, “I thought I was gonna die.”
“You were,” nodded Eli.
“Thanks for looking after me.” He looked up at Eli. “You saved my life.”
Eli sighed and shrugged. “You’re not through it yet, Joe.”
Joe shook his head. “I ain’t got the strength of a baby, but I feel a whole lot better. Fever’s gone and I can drink this here soup, nasty as it is. A few more days and I’ll be ok. I can feel it, and I owe it to you.”
Eli rubbed his nose and frowned. “Look, Joe, you pulled me off Horseshoe Ridge when I was shot and I pulled you through this sickness. I don’t owe you and you don’t owe me. That’s the way I like it, so don’t go doing anything for me because I don’t want you to. I don’t like owing people and I don’t like them feeling an obligation to me.”
Joe looked at him. “You’re one peculiar duck, you know that Eli? It’s like you got yourself a red hot nail in your liver that pains you something fierce but you won’t pull it out. It sure beats me why.”
Eli tensed. He didn’t want anyone poking around about him. “I’m a private man, Joe. No big mystery about it. Just leave it be and you’ll make us both happy.”
Joe shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I’m still telling you thanks. My mammy raised me so’s when someone helps me, that’s what I’m obliged to say. It’s proper manners, plain and simple.”
“Whatever your mammy says,” said Eli. Just then a thought struck him and he reached into a pocket to retrieve two letters.
“These came for you yesterday,” said Eli. “Sergeant Hayes asked me to bring them.”
Joe didn’t take them. “I’m plum tired, Eli,” he said, closing his eyes.
He suddenly looked exhausted, and Eli realized talking had worn him out.
“Could you read ‘em?” he said.
“No,” said Eli, frowning.
Joe opened his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because…” said Eli, dropping the letters into Joe’s lap and pausing. He kicked himself for not anticipating Joe might want him to read the letters. He could have asked Al to deliver them. He was such a fool.
“Because?” said Joe.
“Because I can’t read, Joe,” Eli spit out, vexed and looking away.
“You can’t?” said Joe, startled.
“Yes, I can’t read,” said Eli turning back to him. “Did the fever make you deaf? I can’t read. So what?”
Joe shrugged apologetically. “I didn’t mean nothing by it, Eli. It’s just, well, you talk like a educated man. Like you was raised in a family of property. So I just reckoned it’d be natural you’d know how to read. That’s all.”
“Well I don’t,” said Eli defensively.
Joe’s eyelids closed and Eli thought he might drift off when he said, “Do you want to?”
Eli wagged his head and said, exasperated, “Well of course I want to. I’ll bet that horses want to fly, but wanting it won’t make it happen, will it?”
“Well I’ll teach you,” said Joe sleepily.
Eli was about to tell Joe to mind is own business, thank you very much, but the words caught in his throat. He did want to read. It had always been his plan to learn once he escaped, but he never found the opportunity to study. It would mean the world to him to learn. Eli did not say anything but simply sat looking at his feet as though they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.
He lately thought it probably too late to learn to read. He did not know why he thought that, but now that he considered it, why not try? He was smart. If Big Joe McCarthy could read, the big dumb ox, why not him? The idea of Joe being his teacher made him uncomfortable, but to be honest the idea of anyone being his teacher made him uncomfortable. It might as well be Joe.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Teach me to read.”
He looked up at the sleeping Joe.