I Shall Be Near to You(17)

Someone knocks into me. It is only a little boy, skipping past, holding on to his mama’s hand, but as I turn, I catch sight of a poster on the wall. RECRUITS WANTED! PRESERVE THE UNION! it says so big even blind old Miss Weiss couldn’t help but see. 97TH NY VOLUNTEERS! GET YOUR BOUNTY! $152! WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 19 AT THE COURTHOUSE IN THE TOWN OF HERKIMER.

I am three days late. Jeremiah is gone already, probably on a train bound to New York City or maybe even Washington, D.C. I will have to go home alone, walking back all the way I’ve come. I will have to listen to people whisper about my hair and where I’ve gone to for the rest of my days. I will have to face Eli again. I almost die of shame right there.

I can’t make myself turn for home, not yet, so I start down the street, only my way is blocked.

‘I want to show Dada at supper!’ the little boy yells, hopping up and down.

‘Dada’s in Utica, remember I told you?’ his mama says as he drags on her arm. ‘He’s a soldier for the Army now, and soldiers can’t come home for supper.’

I don’t hear anything else the little boy says because I am turning back to that enlistment poster to see what I missed before, the words NOW ENCAMPED AT UTICA stamped in smaller letters at the bottom.

There is still hope for it; maybe Jeremiah is there with those men in Utica. I pull out Jeremiah’s map, trace the route. Utica is fifteen miles more on the Mohawk River, the Erie Canal going right through it, same as in Herkimer. The canal is mostly drained for Winter and all iced over, but if I follow the tow path I can’t help but get there. If I just keep walking, I will find what I am looking for.


‘ARE YOU THINKING about joining up?’

I jump out of my skin and almost fall off the boulder I’m sitting on. There, standing on the road behind me, is a girl maybe my age, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a book in her hands.

‘Me?’ I say before I remember myself and what it is I am supposed to do. After four hours’ walking, my food gone and the water in my canteen so cold that drinking it sets my teeth on edge, I’ve been resting, watching the field beyond where a small herd of men marches in columns and rows, waiting ’til something tells me the time is right. ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ I say, and tip my hat.

‘Good afternoon,’ she says, her voice light and quiet. She is a willowy thing, her skin pale, her eyes hazel and her auburn hair swept up in twists too fancy for living in the white tents set back from the road a piece. Even in her shawl and plain brown wool, she can’t hide being other than a town girl.

‘You guessed right,’ I say, working to keep my voice low. ‘I’m after enlisting.’

‘Oh, then you should speak to my husband, Captain Chalmers. I can take you to him,’ she says.

‘No need to trouble yourself. You can just point the way.’

‘It’d be nice to walk,’ she says. ‘It’ll keep me warm. Come with me.’

Mrs. Chalmers sweeps in front of me, down the packed-mud path leading away from the road, her skirt skimming the ground. I don’t like having one more person witnessing me getting myself enlisted, especially not a woman who will see the detail of a thing more than any man.

Outside the biggest tent, where the Stars and Stripes flag is flying with a small blue banner underneath it, Mrs. Chalmers says, ‘Why don’t you wait here,’ and ducks to go in.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to her husband, but it’s easier than figuring what I’m going to tell mine. I pull my cap down low and run my hands down my front, checking all my buttons. And then I try and see inside that tent, listening hard to hear Mrs. Chalmers say, ‘There’s a young man outside who wants to enlist,’ but it don’t ease the feeling that I’ve got bees buzzing inside me. Isaac Lewis got sent home for having bad eyes, and if a doctor’s exam don’t smash my plan all to bits I don’t know what would.

When Mrs. Chalmers comes back, there is a man following behind her, older than I thought her husband would be and her so young. He looks at me long enough I count the seven buttons on his blue coat.

‘My wife says you’d like to enlist?’

‘That’s right.’ I stand taller. ‘I’m hoping you’ve still got some numbers to fill.’

‘What’s your name?’ Captain Chalmers says, passing the black-bound ledger in his hand to his wife.

‘Ross,’ I say, ‘Ross Stone.’ It ain’t what I planned, but there it is. I aimed to be Ross Wakefield, Jeremiah Wakefield’s cousin, but my head has gone soft. ‘I’ve got a cousin, I think joined up a few days ago in Herkimer. Jeremiah Wakefield?’

Captain Chalmers looks at his wife. She nods and says, ‘That’s right,’ and then his smile cracks his beard open like a nut. ‘Family affair?’ he says.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What county you born in?’ he asks.

‘Montgomery,’ I tell him, and watch Mrs. Chalmers write it in the ledger.

‘Age?’ the man says.

‘Eighteen,’ I say.

‘Occupation?’

‘Farmer.’

‘Height?’

‘Five foot two,’ I say, standing straighter so maybe it will be true. He looks up for a second like he’s got rulers for eyes.

‘Health?’ he says, still measuring.