Drummer Boy of Shiloh.”
“Leave him alone!” said No-Joke. “Who’s brought a mess kettle?”
“Nobody. You don’t bring a mess kettle into battle,” said Dave. “We got cooked rations.”
“Little Drummer Boy’s got a canteen. Hand it over and we’ll blow it up,” said Lars.
“I told you to stop calling him that!” No-Joke said.
“I told you to stop calling him that!” Lars mimicked, copying No-Joke’s hoarse, raspy voice, which always sounded as if his throat was doing the talking and his mouth was just trying to keep up.
Hurriedly Jeremy pulled his canteen strap up over his head. He didn’t want to see his messmates fight, least of all over Lars teasing him, which was an embarrassing thing to have discussed. He watched with interest as Nicholas swigged down the last of the water and then stuffed a charge of gunpowder into the opening.
“Jeremy!”
Jeremy turned to see Dulcie. “What are you doing here? It ain’t safe!”
“Dr. Flood wants you to sharpen these.” She was carrying a wooden instrument case and a whetstone. “He says I don’t have enough elbow grease.”
“Sharpen them?” Jeremy repeated.
Dulcie sat down on the edge of the trench and flipped the instrument case open. It was lined with red velvet, and an assortment of saws and long, wicked-looking knives laywithin, pressed into neat compartments made for them. They reminded him of the tools used in the Northwoods at hog-killing and deer-hunting time.
“He says he needs ’em ready for the battle, so if you could do it double-quick he would be much obliged.”
“All right,” said Jeremy, still staring at the instruments. The steel blades were stained black in spots.
“He says that the sharper they are, the easier it will be for the soldiers, if you know what he means.”
BLAM! A sudden explosion made Jeremy jump, and when his ears cleared again he heard his messmates exclaiming over the remains of his canteen, and Dulcie was saying “… to sharpen a saw blade?”
“What?” said Jeremy.
“He said to ask you do you know how to sharpen a saw blade?”
“Oh. Of course.”
Dulcie left. Jeremy coughed as the smoke from his exploded canteen drifted into his mouth. He turned around. His canteen was in two blackened halves, and his messmates were building a fire on the edge of the trench and digging out ingredients—hardtack, raw bacon, cooked beef, more hardtack.
“Was you gonna eat that bacon raw? Why’d you bring raw bacon?”
“Thought we might have time to cook up. Nothin’ wrong with eatin’ bacon raw if you got the stomach for it.”
“Is too. It’ll kill you.”
“Is not. I read it in the surgeon’s book. Said it’s good for you.”
“Don’t you remember Eary? He died in Virginia of raw bacon.”
“I thought it was a putrid fever.”
“Nope, raw bacon. What you wanna make, skillygally? Slumgullion?”
“Anybody got any of them desecrated vegetables?”
“
Desiccated
vegetables, Dave.” That was No-Joke, of course.
“We don’t need all that hardtack. Use mine, it’s got more worms in.”
“Mine got so many worms there ain’t no hardtack, just pressed worms.”
“Desecrated worms.”
“I need something to break up this hardtack with—gimme some more gunpowder.”
Jack reached across Jeremy and grabbed one of the surgeon’s stained knives out of the case and started hacking away at the hardtack with it. Jeremy sat back and watched the construction of the meal. First the bacon was cooked in the canteen halves, and when there was a good lot of hot grease there, the hardtack bits and beef were thrown in and fried, pressed together into a thick cake, and then divided up among the messmates.
The result was … edible. Largely. At least there was plenty of grease to make it stick to the ribs. Jeremy ate hisslowly, because he’d learned that was the best way to stave off a raging stomachache. He tried not to think about things like soft bread and hot beef stew. This was
“Leave him alone!” said No-Joke. “Who’s brought a mess kettle?”
“Nobody. You don’t bring a mess kettle into battle,” said Dave. “We got cooked rations.”
“Little Drummer Boy’s got a canteen. Hand it over and we’ll blow it up,” said Lars.
“I told you to stop calling him that!” No-Joke said.
“I told you to stop calling him that!” Lars mimicked, copying No-Joke’s hoarse, raspy voice, which always sounded as if his throat was doing the talking and his mouth was just trying to keep up.
Hurriedly Jeremy pulled his canteen strap up over his head. He didn’t want to see his messmates fight, least of all over Lars teasing him, which was an embarrassing thing to have discussed. He watched with interest as Nicholas swigged down the last of the water and then stuffed a charge of gunpowder into the opening.
“Jeremy!”
Jeremy turned to see Dulcie. “What are you doing here? It ain’t safe!”
“Dr. Flood wants you to sharpen these.” She was carrying a wooden instrument case and a whetstone. “He says I don’t have enough elbow grease.”
“Sharpen them?” Jeremy repeated.
Dulcie sat down on the edge of the trench and flipped the instrument case open. It was lined with red velvet, and an assortment of saws and long, wicked-looking knives laywithin, pressed into neat compartments made for them. They reminded him of the tools used in the Northwoods at hog-killing and deer-hunting time.
“He says he needs ’em ready for the battle, so if you could do it double-quick he would be much obliged.”
“All right,” said Jeremy, still staring at the instruments. The steel blades were stained black in spots.
“He says that the sharper they are, the easier it will be for the soldiers, if you know what he means.”
BLAM! A sudden explosion made Jeremy jump, and when his ears cleared again he heard his messmates exclaiming over the remains of his canteen, and Dulcie was saying “… to sharpen a saw blade?”
“What?” said Jeremy.
“He said to ask you do you know how to sharpen a saw blade?”
“Oh. Of course.”
Dulcie left. Jeremy coughed as the smoke from his exploded canteen drifted into his mouth. He turned around. His canteen was in two blackened halves, and his messmates were building a fire on the edge of the trench and digging out ingredients—hardtack, raw bacon, cooked beef, more hardtack.
“Was you gonna eat that bacon raw? Why’d you bring raw bacon?”
“Thought we might have time to cook up. Nothin’ wrong with eatin’ bacon raw if you got the stomach for it.”
“Is too. It’ll kill you.”
“Is not. I read it in the surgeon’s book. Said it’s good for you.”
“Don’t you remember Eary? He died in Virginia of raw bacon.”
“I thought it was a putrid fever.”
“Nope, raw bacon. What you wanna make, skillygally? Slumgullion?”
“Anybody got any of them desecrated vegetables?”
“
Desiccated
vegetables, Dave.” That was No-Joke, of course.
“We don’t need all that hardtack. Use mine, it’s got more worms in.”
“Mine got so many worms there ain’t no hardtack, just pressed worms.”
“Desecrated worms.”
“I need something to break up this hardtack with—gimme some more gunpowder.”
Jack reached across Jeremy and grabbed one of the surgeon’s stained knives out of the case and started hacking away at the hardtack with it. Jeremy sat back and watched the construction of the meal. First the bacon was cooked in the canteen halves, and when there was a good lot of hot grease there, the hardtack bits and beef were thrown in and fried, pressed together into a thick cake, and then divided up among the messmates.
The result was … edible. Largely. At least there was plenty of grease to make it stick to the ribs. Jeremy ate hisslowly, because he’d learned that was the best way to stave off a raging stomachache. He tried not to think about things like soft bread and hot beef stew. This was
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