Angel of the Battlefield (12 page)

Bedtime Stories

“Father,” Clara said. “Will you tell me a story tonight?”

Maisie and Felix sat in the dark back stairway, waiting to hear one of Captain Stephen Barton's war stories. Clara had sneaked them in the back door and hurried them through the kitchen and into this stairway. Then she ordered them to be absolutely quiet and stay put. On the way, Felix glimpsed a large sitting room with lots of big windows looking out over the farm. At a desk sat Clara's father, a tall man with perfectly straight posture and a gray beard.

“Of course,” they heard him say. His voice sounded weary and old. “Which story would you like tonight?”

“Tecumseh!” Clara said.

Her father laughed. “You've heard that one so many times, Clara. I don't want to bore you.”

“You? Bore me?” Clara said. “Never!”

“I think the war stories interest you, not their narrator.”

“No, no,” Clara insisted. “Both the stories and the narrator interest me.”

It was clear that this routine was a familiar one, and hearing it made Maisie miss her father. At night it had been his job to tell her and Felix bedtime stories. Even though they weren't war stories, they were good ones.

Maisie sighed and rested her head against Felix's knees. “War stories,” she muttered.

“Sssshhh,” Felix said softly.

There was the sound of someone walking around and then settling in a chair. Then the smell of pipe tobacco floated in the air.

“Our story begins in Indiana territory,” Captain Barton said.

“Can you speak louder, Father?” Clara said in a loud voice herself.

“I don't want to wake anyone,” he said.

“It's just . . . just that my ears are all cottony and—”

“Cottony ears?”

Felix stifled a laugh.

“Yes. Like there's cotton in them.”

“All right then, our story begins in Indiana territory,” Captain Barton said loudly.

He sighed and paused before he continued. “I was only twenty-one when I joined the recruits to fight the wars for the western frontiers. A boy, really. Just seven years older than you are now. We walked from Boston to Philadelphia and on to Michigan, which was the extreme western frontier and full of Indians. I served side by side with William Henry Harrison—”

“Old Tippecanoe himself!” Clara interrupted.

“Three years serving with him, Clara,” her father said. His voice grew more solemn. “I remember lying in the tangled marshes of Michigan, helpless, so far from home. Having to drink muddy water, to eat animals—even dogs—that had died from starvation just to stay alive myself.”

“I cannot imagine it,” Clara said, her voice solemn, too. “I cannot imagine what you endured. Or the horrible things you saw. Tomahawks swung right over your head!”

“When I remember a feathered arrow quivering or the sound of musket fire, it makes me shudder. But it is because of what I and others like me endured that our country is so great. From these wild and dangerous scenes of suffering, this country as we know it sprung up.”

“How you love this country,” Clara said proudly.

“I do, yes,” her father said, his voice cracking. “Now, I think the time has come for a certain young lady to go to bed.”

“But you haven't even told me about Tecumseh or the walk back home through the wilderness of Ohio and New York or how you fell in love with the Mohawk and Genesee valleys or—”

“The stories will still be here tomorrow,” her father said.

Clara gave an exaggerated yawn. “Time for bed,” she said.

Felix and Maisie listened to the sounds of Clara and her father saying good night. It made Felix homesick, and he thought about his own bed, with the blankets arranged in just the right order, from lightest to heaviest. His mother always put a lavender-scented softener sheet in the dryer, and everything carried a hint of that scent. When he breathed deeply here, he smelled wax and oil and smoke, all unfamiliar and not at all comforting.

“It was a good story,” Maisie admitted. “I guess.”

“The thing is,” Felix said, “it's all true. Tomahawks and eating dogs to survive and walking all the way to Michigan.”

“It's like we stepped into a movie or something, isn't it?” Maisie said.

Felix didn't like the hint of excitement in her voice. “Don't sound so thrilled,” he told her. “You know what's coming? The Civil War. And I have a feeling Clara Barton has something to do in it. That scroll we took from The Treasure Chest might be our clue.”

“What could she possibly have to do with the Civil War?” Maisie said. “She's fourteen, only two years older than us.”

“She won't be so young when the war happens,” Felix reminded Maisie.

“That's true.”

“We need to read that paper more carefully,” he said.

“When we get upstairs alone,” Maisie agreed.

Clara appeared at the bottom of the stairs and grinned up at them. “Wasn't that story marvelous?” she said proudly.

“You were right, Clara,” Felix said. “I could listen to your father all night.” He meant it, too.

Clara climbed the stairs to sit with them. “He was there at the slaying of Tecumseh, too,” she said.

“How many states are there these days, anyway?” Maisie asked.

“You don't
know
?”

“I know there's going to be fifty—” Maisie began.

Felix yanked on her arm to make her shut up.

Clara frowned. “There are twenty-five,” she said. “Arkansas was admitted in June.”

And then to Felix's delight and Maisie's annoyance, she rattled off their names. Maisie liked to be the smartest kid around, and Clara was making her feel like maybe this time she wasn't. She was tempted to prove to Clara that she knew a lot of stuff, too. Like: Remember the name
Hawaii
because it's going to be the fiftieth state. Or: If you go to California right now, you can find some gold before anyone else gets there.

“Wow,” Felix said. “I don't know if I could name all the states.” All he could think about were all the states she hadn't named.
What is going on in California and Colorado and the other twenty-five states?
he wondered.

Maisie yawned and pointed up the stairs. “I'm guessing the attic is this way?” she said, and started to climb the steep steps.

“Yes,” Clara said from behind her. “All the way up.”

Maisie got to the top and stepped immediately into a large, open room with slanted ceilings and exposed beams and rafters. Four twin beds lined one wall, each covered in a faded quilt like the one they'd eaten their picnic on earlier.

Suddenly Maisie felt exhausted. She lay on the bed closest to her, stretching her legs and looking up at the roughly hewn ceiling. The beams had slashes all across them, and Maisie realized she was seeing the actual ax marks left from cutting down trees. She sat up and reached her hand up and ran her fingers over them. When she did, a shiver crept up her back. Someone had chopped down this tree and built this house. She had never even thought about anyone doing such a thing before.

“Lucky that my cousins left and you can stay up here,” Clara said. She fanned the air with her hands. “A bit airless,” she said, and moved to the small windows above the beds to open them. “Like breathing through cotton.”

“Cottony? Like your ears?” Felix teased.

Clara turned pink. “What a silly thing to say! But I wanted you to be able to hear, and I couldn't think of one earthly reason that he should speak louder when everyone was asleep already.”

Cool air filled the room as soon as she opened all the windows, and Clara took a deep breath. “There,” she said. “Better.”

“Thanks, Clara,” Felix said. “For getting us food and letting us stay and everything.”

“Tomorrow we'll find your parents and make sure you get home safely,” she said.

“Oh,” Maisie said, “don't worry about that.”

Clara yawned. “Well,” she said. “Shall I bring you some buttermilk?”

“For what?” Maisie asked. To Maisie, buttermilk was the thing her mother put in pancakes and waffles.

“Why, to drink!” Clara said, exasperated.

“I don't think so,” Felix said cautiously. He'd had enough new things for one day.

“All right then,” Clara said. “Good night.”

They watched her as she walked across the room and then disappeared down the stairs.

They sat on their beds quietly until they were certain she was gone.

Then Maisie said, “Okay, give me that piece of paper.”

Felix blinked at her. “I don't have it. You have it.”

“No, I don't! I specifically remember you having it.”

They stared at each other. There was no point in saying anything more. The letter was missing. They sat quietly then—Felix worried, Maisie thrilled.

Felix woke to the strange sounds of a rooster crowing, cows mooing, and a horse neighing. The smells rising up from the kitchen, however, were completely familiar: bacon, eggs, and cornbread. His stomach growled. And his chest felt tight with worry about where the letter had disappeared to.

What if they couldn't get back without it?

Maisie was still asleep in the bed beside him, her face scrunched up, her hands clenched into tight fists. The sight of her broke his heart. He had noticed she slept that way ever since their parents announced their divorce.

The attic door creaked open, and Clara walked in carrying two plates.

“Oh good,” she said. “You're awake.” She looked down at Maisie and said in a lower voice, “At least one of you is awake.”

She handed a fork and a plate to Felix. Bacon, eggs, and cornbread.

He immediately started to eat. The bacon looked kind of weird, thicker and fattier than the Oscar Mayer they had at home. And the eggs looked weird, too, their yolks bigger and more yellow. But they weren't runny at all, and the taste was practically the same as the ones his mom made. Maybe even better.

Maisie groaned and rubbed her eyes. She stared at Felix hard, then at Clara harder. For a brief moment she looked confused, but then she broke into a huge grin.

“1836,” she said.

“Breakfast,” Clara said and held out the other plate and fork to Maisie.

“Thanks,” Maisie said. “Nothing like room service.”

“I should record these odd things you both say,” Clara said. “Room service,” she said, more to herself than to them, as if mulling over its meaning.

“In hotels,” Felix began to explain. But then he stopped, because for room service you needed a telephone and probably an elevator and all sorts of things that did not exist yet. “When they bring your dinner or breakfast to your room,” he said finally.

Clara brightened. “Hotels! Yes, I've heard about them. Father had a friend visiting us here who talked all about the Tremont Hotel in Boston,” she began. But then she shook her head. “No, you won't even believe it.”

“What?” Felix said.

“Well,” Clara said, “according to this friend of father's—and he's a reputable source, truly he is—the Tremont Hotel has indoor plumbing and running water! Can you even imagine?” Clara paused as if she was trying to imagine it. “I have heard the Astor House in New York City that opened this year rivals it,” she added.

Felix wondered if there were only two hotels in the whole country. Well, all twenty-five states of the country.

“I wish you hadn't said that,” Maisie said. “About indoor plumbing,” she added, squirming.

“Oh,” Clara said. “The chamber pot is beneath your bed.”

Maisie frowned. She'd never heard the word before, but she didn't have to think too hard to understand what it was. She reached under the bed and pulled out a bowl with a handle and a red-and-white floral pattern. No wonder Clara thought indoor plumbing was such a unique thing to offer.

“Well,” Maisie said, “are you two going to sit there and stare at me, or are you going to give me some privacy?”