Square was only one of many hospitals in Washington. The South had their hospitals too. All of them with room after room of shattered men.
She shivered as she continued to stare at the soldiers in their beds. Miss Sharon watched her carefully. Then she spoke quietly, “You will be all right, my dear. You will get used to it.”
Lyndel didn’t take her eyes from the men as rain whipped the building and thunder made the walls shake.
“I have come to the war,” she whispered.
Miss Sharon stared at her and finally nodded, the lamplight gleaming on her face and hands. “Yes. You have come to the war.”
8
August 28, 1862
Dear Lyndel,
We are camped in a field of clover thick with grasshoppers—why, one has just hopped onto this page I’m writing on. Somewhere out there is the town of New Baltimore. Everyone is dead asleep. We marched all the way from Sulphur Springs yesterday.
Corinth and I are in the same company now as I was transferred to his because they needed another noncommissioned officer. He foraged a couple of chickens and a knapsack full of green corn and we roasted it all and ate it before turning in about 11:30. Corinth is getting pretty good at this soldier game though I still can’t teach him to call me corporal. Not that I care but the captain does. In any case, the men love him. Not just for his foraging skills. He has a good word for everyone and a slap onthe back for each of his comrades in arms. And you were right about the girls. Every time we march through a town he seems to get the most flowers and the most smiles. Once a gal even kissed him. He’s quite the boy.
I decided to get up early and write you this note. My pocket watch says it is 3:30. I expect we will be marching the entire day and I won’t get another chance. I know you told me months ago they would not permit you to receive my letters on account of my being shunned but who else can I talk to about the things that swirl about in my head? And I have a wallet full of three-cent stamps—what am I supposed to do with them if I can’t write my mother or father or you? I intend to send letters to Lyndel Keim until I run out of those stamps, which may not be long because I keep selling them to other soldiers who can’t get their hands on any. Where my mail winds up is in the Lord’s hands. Perhaps the postmaster in Elizabethtown will slip one in your pocket regardless of the rules and maybe you will read it anyway.
I was reading Psalm 91 just before I fell asleep last night. Here is what I think God is saying to—
“What are you doing, Nathaniel?” a voice suddenly whispered.
Nathaniel glanced over at his brother. “Catching up on my mail,” he whispered back.
Corinth was propped up on one elbow. “It’s not even four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“And it’s pitch dark.”
“My eyes are used to it. I can see fine. It’s not a long letter.”
“Who can you write to? We’re shunned.”
“I hope they’ll get my note anyway.”
“You’re writing Lyndel, aren’t you?”
“So what if I am?”
Corinth flopped back onto his makeshift pillow. “You have it so bad. A horse must have kicked you in the head. It’s been more than a year since you’ve seen her. How can you even remember what she looks like?”
“Her hair is red and her eyes are blue.”
“Naomi Miller has black hair and green eyes but I hardly think of her anymore. It’s so long ago.”
“Naomi Miller never held your hand.”
“Is that all? Lyndel Keim only held your hand?”
“And put her head on my shoulder.”
The ring of the bugle cut through the silent dark.
“That’s it,” said Nathaniel. “Up early to march circles around Stonewall Jackson.”
“Or maybe he’s marching circles around us.”
Nathaniel grinned. “Maybe.”
“Corporal!”
Nathaniel jumped up. “Right here, Sergeant.”
“Shake the platoon out. We’ll get an hour’s march out of the morning before we have
She shivered as she continued to stare at the soldiers in their beds. Miss Sharon watched her carefully. Then she spoke quietly, “You will be all right, my dear. You will get used to it.”
Lyndel didn’t take her eyes from the men as rain whipped the building and thunder made the walls shake.
“I have come to the war,” she whispered.
Miss Sharon stared at her and finally nodded, the lamplight gleaming on her face and hands. “Yes. You have come to the war.”
8
August 28, 1862
Dear Lyndel,
We are camped in a field of clover thick with grasshoppers—why, one has just hopped onto this page I’m writing on. Somewhere out there is the town of New Baltimore. Everyone is dead asleep. We marched all the way from Sulphur Springs yesterday.
Corinth and I are in the same company now as I was transferred to his because they needed another noncommissioned officer. He foraged a couple of chickens and a knapsack full of green corn and we roasted it all and ate it before turning in about 11:30. Corinth is getting pretty good at this soldier game though I still can’t teach him to call me corporal. Not that I care but the captain does. In any case, the men love him. Not just for his foraging skills. He has a good word for everyone and a slap onthe back for each of his comrades in arms. And you were right about the girls. Every time we march through a town he seems to get the most flowers and the most smiles. Once a gal even kissed him. He’s quite the boy.
I decided to get up early and write you this note. My pocket watch says it is 3:30. I expect we will be marching the entire day and I won’t get another chance. I know you told me months ago they would not permit you to receive my letters on account of my being shunned but who else can I talk to about the things that swirl about in my head? And I have a wallet full of three-cent stamps—what am I supposed to do with them if I can’t write my mother or father or you? I intend to send letters to Lyndel Keim until I run out of those stamps, which may not be long because I keep selling them to other soldiers who can’t get their hands on any. Where my mail winds up is in the Lord’s hands. Perhaps the postmaster in Elizabethtown will slip one in your pocket regardless of the rules and maybe you will read it anyway.
I was reading Psalm 91 just before I fell asleep last night. Here is what I think God is saying to—
“What are you doing, Nathaniel?” a voice suddenly whispered.
Nathaniel glanced over at his brother. “Catching up on my mail,” he whispered back.
Corinth was propped up on one elbow. “It’s not even four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“And it’s pitch dark.”
“My eyes are used to it. I can see fine. It’s not a long letter.”
“Who can you write to? We’re shunned.”
“I hope they’ll get my note anyway.”
“You’re writing Lyndel, aren’t you?”
“So what if I am?”
Corinth flopped back onto his makeshift pillow. “You have it so bad. A horse must have kicked you in the head. It’s been more than a year since you’ve seen her. How can you even remember what she looks like?”
“Her hair is red and her eyes are blue.”
“Naomi Miller has black hair and green eyes but I hardly think of her anymore. It’s so long ago.”
“Naomi Miller never held your hand.”
“Is that all? Lyndel Keim only held your hand?”
“And put her head on my shoulder.”
The ring of the bugle cut through the silent dark.
“That’s it,” said Nathaniel. “Up early to march circles around Stonewall Jackson.”
“Or maybe he’s marching circles around us.”
Nathaniel grinned. “Maybe.”
“Corporal!”
Nathaniel jumped up. “Right here, Sergeant.”
“Shake the platoon out. We’ll get an hour’s march out of the morning before we have
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