not true. These boys out here need all that they have and more. Take special care with some of them, they’re all but worn through.”
Dolly took that opportunity to dump the first sack of sweat-smelling, salt-crusted, dusty clothes, and RuthAnne fought the urge to both burst into tears and smile. The last time she’d washed men’s things was when Evan was alive; nearly two years had passed and yet it seemed like only yesterday. Emotions swirled, making her light-headed.
Dolly held out a cake of lye soap and a pitying look. “You don’t have much experience with labor, do you?”
RuthAnne bit her lip and smiled. It was an innocent enough question. It took more than a day with a person to get to know her true self.
“Don’t worry. I can hold my own.” With that, RuthAnne pulled up a sturdy, three-legged stool and set to work.
Chapter 13
The next morning’s “Reveille” came with a shock. RuthAnne found her fingers stiff, sore, chapped, and cracking beyond all recognition. At the foot of her bed, a jar of salve beckoned. A mysterious gift. She gratefully rubbed the viscous liquid over her skin, amazed at how her hands drank in the pungent ointment. When all was said and done, she could flex her fingers without much pain. Tucking the jar into her footlocker for future use, she said a silent prayer for her secret angel. Who had left it? Was it Dolly? Certainly not Mrs. Stevens. She couldn’t imagine anyone else finding his way into the busy laundresses’ quarters or the impropriety it could imply.
She found her pitcher and washbasin filled with fresh water and quickly washed her face. She dressed in a hand-me-down, loose-fitting dress, but she still opted for the light moccasin shoes over the ill-fitting button boots someone had thought to provide. Looking very much the part of disheveled washerwoman, RuthAnne followed the sounds of crying babies and shushing mothers out the door and into the bright August morning.
Her next few days were much of the same. The mountains of garments shrank with each sundown and grew with each sunrise. She and Dolly took to making a game of who could finish their workload first.
Abigail Stevens had a habit of searching for incriminating evidence of a soldier’s misdeeds among his dirty laundry and made a joke of carefully wrapping up the nosegays and hidden cards she found in their pockets.
“God has a special heart for fools and children.” Abigail wrapped up five spare aces she’d discovered hiding neatly in a certain private first class’ shirt pocket.
“You trying to help him face the truth and shame the devil?” Dolly asked sweetly. Abigail retorted with a comment that had RuthAnne studying a tear in the pocket of a pair of pants drying on her line.
Dolly rolled her eyes. “You’d think she’s being pious ’cept she’s probably extorting the poor fellow.”
While Dolly and Abigail exchanged heated words, RuthAnne excused herself and gathered up a basket of sewing notions. Finished with her day’s work, she set to mending and reattaching buttons or securing loose ones.
“You know, you could charge extra for that if you waited ’til your soldier asked for the mending. Darned waste of time to do it aforehand, if’n you ask me,” Abigail chided.
“Who’s to look after these boys, if not us? Aren’t they the ones seeing us safe from Indians?” RuthAnne said, head high.
“We’ll see.” Abigail’s eyes misted then hardened. RuthAnne ignored the obvious disapproval, her back to the women as she completed her mending in silence.
It didn’t take long for RuthAnne to fall into the rhythm of working again. An endless medley of plunge and scrub, rinse and wring, pin and starch, iron and mend. She relished each task, knowing that every day would bring her closer to getting back to Mara.
The days were long and hot, like a blast from an oven. The nights were longer still, sultry under a moonless sky. She thought
Dolly took that opportunity to dump the first sack of sweat-smelling, salt-crusted, dusty clothes, and RuthAnne fought the urge to both burst into tears and smile. The last time she’d washed men’s things was when Evan was alive; nearly two years had passed and yet it seemed like only yesterday. Emotions swirled, making her light-headed.
Dolly held out a cake of lye soap and a pitying look. “You don’t have much experience with labor, do you?”
RuthAnne bit her lip and smiled. It was an innocent enough question. It took more than a day with a person to get to know her true self.
“Don’t worry. I can hold my own.” With that, RuthAnne pulled up a sturdy, three-legged stool and set to work.
Chapter 13
The next morning’s “Reveille” came with a shock. RuthAnne found her fingers stiff, sore, chapped, and cracking beyond all recognition. At the foot of her bed, a jar of salve beckoned. A mysterious gift. She gratefully rubbed the viscous liquid over her skin, amazed at how her hands drank in the pungent ointment. When all was said and done, she could flex her fingers without much pain. Tucking the jar into her footlocker for future use, she said a silent prayer for her secret angel. Who had left it? Was it Dolly? Certainly not Mrs. Stevens. She couldn’t imagine anyone else finding his way into the busy laundresses’ quarters or the impropriety it could imply.
She found her pitcher and washbasin filled with fresh water and quickly washed her face. She dressed in a hand-me-down, loose-fitting dress, but she still opted for the light moccasin shoes over the ill-fitting button boots someone had thought to provide. Looking very much the part of disheveled washerwoman, RuthAnne followed the sounds of crying babies and shushing mothers out the door and into the bright August morning.
Her next few days were much of the same. The mountains of garments shrank with each sundown and grew with each sunrise. She and Dolly took to making a game of who could finish their workload first.
Abigail Stevens had a habit of searching for incriminating evidence of a soldier’s misdeeds among his dirty laundry and made a joke of carefully wrapping up the nosegays and hidden cards she found in their pockets.
“God has a special heart for fools and children.” Abigail wrapped up five spare aces she’d discovered hiding neatly in a certain private first class’ shirt pocket.
“You trying to help him face the truth and shame the devil?” Dolly asked sweetly. Abigail retorted with a comment that had RuthAnne studying a tear in the pocket of a pair of pants drying on her line.
Dolly rolled her eyes. “You’d think she’s being pious ’cept she’s probably extorting the poor fellow.”
While Dolly and Abigail exchanged heated words, RuthAnne excused herself and gathered up a basket of sewing notions. Finished with her day’s work, she set to mending and reattaching buttons or securing loose ones.
“You know, you could charge extra for that if you waited ’til your soldier asked for the mending. Darned waste of time to do it aforehand, if’n you ask me,” Abigail chided.
“Who’s to look after these boys, if not us? Aren’t they the ones seeing us safe from Indians?” RuthAnne said, head high.
“We’ll see.” Abigail’s eyes misted then hardened. RuthAnne ignored the obvious disapproval, her back to the women as she completed her mending in silence.
It didn’t take long for RuthAnne to fall into the rhythm of working again. An endless medley of plunge and scrub, rinse and wring, pin and starch, iron and mend. She relished each task, knowing that every day would bring her closer to getting back to Mara.
The days were long and hot, like a blast from an oven. The nights were longer still, sultry under a moonless sky. She thought
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