Karl Bacon by An Eye for Glory: The Civil War Chronicles of a Citizen Soldier Page B

ago. I think they’re upstairs looking around.”
    Once John and I had our own cups of steaming coffee, weclimbed a narrow, twisting stairway to another kitchen, bigger and better equipped than the summer kitchen below. How the enticing aroma of a juicy roast beef or turkey, freshly baked bread and pies, or a pan full of sizzling bacon must have filled the entire house, reaching into every room, causing every empty stomach to growl in eager anticipation of the fine meal being prepared.
    A doorway led to the dining room. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in through three windows and reflected brightly off polished hardwood floors. Still-life paintings, sketches, water colors, and portraits adorned the walls, personal remembrances of past and present generations, like those seen in many a home, even mine.
    “I wonder if these were done by family members and who the people are in the portraits?” I said.
    “Can you make out any of the signatures?” John asked.
    “A few, but who knows who this family is?”
    John ran his hand lightly over the top of the large rectangular dining table that occupied the center of the room. “This furniture is of the finest quality, Michael.” Ten chairs stood in perfect order around the table, one at each end, four along each side.
    “Must be a large family,” I said.
    “And look at this hutch cabinet,” John continued. “It probably held the family’s heirloom china and silverware. They must have taken it with them. This is surely the biggest hutch I’ve ever seen, almost the length of the table. See that grain? It’s oak, like the table. The color and grain are so similar, maybe both pieces were made from the wood of a single tree.”
    I ran my hand over the smooth top of the table as John had. I tried to find the correct word to describe what I felt in the tips of my fingers. “It’s so … soft.”
    “That’s the wax. You see how deep it looks?” I nodded,seeing a dim reflection of myself in its depths. “That kind of finish can only be obtained through hours and hours of hand rubbing. I hope this family is able to enjoy these things for many years after we’ve gone.”
    The sound of someone playing a piano drew me away from the table and into the next room, the parlor. Several of our men, including Jim Adams, were taking their ease on the soft, plush furniture in this room that included four upholstered cushioned chairs and a long velvet-covered settee. One entire wall was covered with bookcases that seemed to hold every book ever printed. In the far wall was a pair of doors entirely made of panes of glass, like windows from floor to ceiling that opened to allow passage outside to a well-tended garden behind the house. But the room’s main attraction was the American cherry-wood grand piano that stood just inside the windowed doors.
    “Hello, Michael and John.” Charlie Merrill’s familiar eyes peered at us over the music brace atop the piano.
    “You play the piano as well, Charlie?” His talents continued to impress me.
    “Yes, and I find it much more interesting than the cornet. In my opinion the piano is the most perfect of instruments. But it’s rather difficult to march with a piano strapped to my back.” We all laughed heartily.
    “And Michael, this is an excellent piano,” Charlie added. “See this?” He pointed at an emblem above the keyboard. “William Knabe and Company, Baltimore, Maryland. She’s a finely built instrument about fifteen years old. Her tone can be full and rich or dainty and delicate, and the action of the keys is clean and crisp, not sluggish like some less costly pianos. And look at the cabinetry. It’s the best I’ve seen, first rate in every way.”
    “It is fine work,” said John.
    Charlie resumed his playing, softly and tenderly, as if savoringevery nuance of tone that he drew from the piano. The tune he played was sweetly lyrical but unfamiliar.
    “What are you playing?” I asked Charlie.
    “A Christmas carol. I heard