I Shall Be Near to You(71)

‘Ross! I’m so glad you’ve come! I thought I saw you dancing last night, but then I wasn’t sure …’ She smiles, but there is a new narrowness to her face.

‘Are you well?’ she asks, coming closer and touching my elbow.

‘Mostly.’ It is true, seeing as how I am still living. ‘And you?’ I ask.

‘Likewise. But how have you been?’ she asks, her voice dipping down low, searching my face.

There’s things I can’t tell anyone, so I say what’s easiest. ‘I’ve been fine,’ I say, and then I can’t stop myself from adding, ‘One of the boys from home, he ain’t come back with us, and another one passed on.’

‘Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Jennie says.

‘You’ve been visiting the hospital?’

‘I go every day. There’s so many—’ She shakes her head. ‘Were you thinking of coming?’

‘No, I don’t think I can now,’ I say. ‘I tried nursing some at Bull Run, but I—’

‘My husband says you were an excellent battlefield nurse.’ Jennie checks her kettle and then moves to add more kindling to the fire. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve got something that needs asking. Is Captain …?’

‘He’s gone to a meeting. Would you care to sit?’

I nod and we move to the folding wooden chairs by the table. I don’t know how else but to come right out with it.

‘You ever heard of a woman missing her time and not having a child on her?’ I ask.

Jennie’s hands fly to her mouth, making a little prayer-tent shape there in front of her lips. Finally she takes her hands away.

‘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.