War (4 page)

“He’s out of control,” Jake said. “Ow.”

“Try not to talk. Corporal not bad. Heartbroken, is why he like this.”

Bizarre accent.
Jake couldn’t place it.

“What did you say?” Jake asked.

“Corporal lo-o-o-ove the Widow Stoughton. Courted her. Bring her to here. Is big mistake. Introduce her to the colonel. Colonel wife dead, he need lady friend. Widow Stoughton husband dead, she need man friend. They fall in love. Corporal heart,
ccchhhhh.
Broke. He never happy after that. Still love her.”

Jake exhaled. “Okay, can I take a time-out — I mean, from acting?”

Orvis cocked his head.

“There’s a big difference between the two actors,” Jake continued. “The one playing Mrs. Stoughton? She’s full of sadness and emotions and all. I can
feel
it. But the Rademacher guy? I mean, I’m not an actor, but even I know you can
act
violent without
being
violent. Isn’t there a rule against that, anyway? In SAG or whatever?”

“Sag?”

“The screen actors’ union? Isn’t it —
oh, come on!
Don’t you guys ever let up? Even for a
stab wound
?”

“Cut is not serious. Orvis taking good care of it!” He moved closer to Jake, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I say something personal? You no talk like others.”

“No? I’m trying!”

“You Rebel?”

“Huh?”

“Hey, Orvis!” yelled one of the other men. “Are you in?”

“Ja!” Orvis looked anxiously over his shoulder at the men, who were settling into their card game again. Then, with a wink at Jake, he whispered, “Go. Take uniform from pile. But remember — after war, Orvis go to side that wins. All work is good, no?
Even pick cotton
.”

With that, he limped back to the game.

What was that all about?

No time to wonder.

The uniform pile —
that
was where the attic uniform might be.

Jake quickly rummaged through.

Too new … too ripped-up … too small
…

No luck.

Dejectedly, Jake picked out a uniform roughly his own size. It was itchy and smelled of horse and smoke, but it fit. He slipped on a pair of stiff, clumsy boots. Carefully, he transferred his watch, money, and steno notebook into the pants pockets.

“BRANFORD!” Sergeant Edmonds’s voice boomed from outside the cabin.

Jake ran out. “Yes, sir!”

The cut on his cheek stung. He held the bandage tightly against it.

Edmonds was standing by a nearby tent, talking to a group of soldiers. “Jacob Branford, the colonel may have accepted you, but I have my doubts. It seems these other gentlemen, are all from Hobson’s Corner. But not a one of them recognizes you.”

“Well —I —I — ”
It’s acting, Jake. Act!
“My family’s new in town, sir. And people don’t know us too well. I’d be happy to show you where I live if — ”

“Fine. Good idea. Colonel Weymouth wants me to send a party into the village for supplies, anyway,” Edmonds said. “I strongly suggest you join these men and direct them to your house.”

That was easy. Too easy.

Jake swallowed hard.

They were agreeing to take him home. But once they were there, the audition would be over.

No.

Wait. I was just getting the hang of this.

I haven’t had a chance. I was just warming up. They think I’m terrible. But I can be better.

Now what? “Bye-bye, don’t call us, we’ll call you”?

Jake looked at Edmonds’s eyes for a sign. A wink or a glimmer of kindness — anything.

But all he saw was fatigue and hostility.

Tell me!

Am I in or out?

Didn’t these guys know how this felt? They were
actors,
for god’s sake, they should have some sympathy.

It was only a movie. But he knew it was the closest he would ever get to the real thing. To a real war.

He’d had a taste. And he wasn’t going to give up easily.

Show them. In the time you have left, be great.

Jake saluted crisply. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Edmonds! I’ll lead the way!”

Edmonds turned away. “The men leave tomorrow. At dawn.”

“Tomorrow?” Jake shot back. “I have to stay here
overnight?”

“Is that a problem?” Edmonds said. “Do you need someone to tell you a bedtime story?”

Stifle it, Jake. This is good. They’re giving you more time!

“No, sir!” Jake snapped. “Dawn tomorrow!”

Edmonds walked away. The other soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, hands resting on their weapons.

“We are your tent mates,” said a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose. “I’m Schroeder, and this here’s Platt.”

Next to him, a scraggly bearded man cackled. “You’re welcome to try to escape. I wish you would.”

“Platt is a sharpshooter,” Schroeder explained. “He will wait until you reach the bottom of the hill. He will let you climb to the top. And just as you’re about to disappear, just as you think you’ve made it, he’ll turn his back, hold up a mirror, and shoot.”

BLAM!

With the slightest glance to the left, Platt took a shot.

Clear across the camp, the can on the tree stump exploded into shards.

“And you, my friend, will be a dead man.”

Did you make contact?

Yes. But he slipped away.

What happened?

He said he needed to teach a lesson.

A
lesson
?

“O
HHHHHHH …”

The rising sun hurt Jake’s eyes, even through the thick canvas of his tent. He hadn’t slept all night.

For one thing, his cheek hurt. The congealed blood on the bandage made it stick to his skin.

What’s more, the tent smelled ten times worse than the Hobson’s Corner Regional Middle School gym locker room. And he was fairly certain his bedding had fleas.

He stood up from his hay mattress, scratching like crazy. His two other tent mates were silently putting on their uniforms. Schroeder spat loudly on the floor. Platt picked nits from his hair.

“Guys, is there any bug spray?” Jake blurted out.

Schroeder ignored the question. “Who’s Kozaar?” he asked.

“Kozaar?” Jake repeated.

“And Byron,” Platt said. “You said the names in your sleep. Colonel Caleb Byron of the Confederates, mebbe? Does he unnerstand your secret code?”

“He’s my brother!” The fleas were killing Jake. He pulled on his uniform. Raced outside. Breathed in some fresh air. Scratched.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Schroeder’s. “If you’re planning on going, better do it now. You got Platt all excited.”

Jake spun around. Platt was lifting his musket.

“Look, I need a new bandage,” Jake said. “And I think I have fleas. So — ”

Schroeder grabbed him by the collar and began to drag him.

Another soldier was walking by, toting two buckets of water. Schroeder grabbed one of the buckets, set it on a rock pile, and shoved Jake’s face into it.

Jake struggled for breath. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Then up.

“GAHHHHH!” Jake coughed and spat, gulping in air.

Around him, a group had gathered. They were guffawing. Pointing.

The bandage was floating in the water, now pink-red.

Take the pain.

Deal with it.

“Shall we work on those fleas?” Schroeder asked.

“No thanks!” Jake blurted out.

Schroeder pushed him roughly through the gawkers. “Then let’s go.”

They headed toward the ridge. Soon six of the men fell into lines on either side of him.

Jake felt the butt of a musket in his back.

Platt. Pulling up the rear.

Jake stumbled forward, sandwiched among the eight men. Edmonds’s men.

Like a prisoner.

He rubbed his cheek.

Sore. But not too bloody. The water seemed to have done it some good.

At the base of the ridge, they followed a narrow trail that led upward through the scrub brush.

Jake eyed the top, trying to spot where he’d come over the day before.

There.

He looked for the hut. No luck. The forest was too dense.

“Move!” Platt ordered.

Jake felt the musket in his back again. Harder.

SMMMMMACK!

One of the men swatted Platt’s weapon away with his own musket. “The boy can move on his own.”

The stranger’s hair was reddish-brown, like Jake’s. His face was intelligent and strong. Of all the men, he was the only one who looked as if he’d shaved or brushed his teeth during the last week.

And the only one with a hint of kindness in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Jake said softly. “I’m Jake Branford.”

“Jedidiah Samuelson,” the man replied. “Way I see it, you’re our guest, not our prisoner. So far.”

They were trudging over the crest now. Into the woods.

“All right, Hobson’s Corner lad,” Schroeder said. “You lead us.”

Oh, great.

Just fantastic.

You stay out of the stupid woods your whole life. And now that you have to find your home, now what?

He looked around for some familiar road. Some sign.

Nada.

Just a few barely worn paths.

Eeny, meeny, miney, mo.

“Okay, follow me,” he said, heading for the path to his right.

Platt ran around to the front of him. He was grinning. “Reckon you don’t know your north from your south.”

Samuelson nudged him gently to the left.

“I meant,
that
way,” Jake said.

The men formed around him again. And they began a long, silent march.

Maybe it was the itching, or the pain in his cheek, or the ill-fitting boots, but by the time the houses came in sight, Jake was cranky and exhausted.

The trip had seemed long. Too long.

They’re actors. They don’t know the woods, either.

We probably went clear up to Delaware and back.

But he was home.

Finally.

And Byron and his parents would find out everything.

If they didn’t know already.

If Kozaar hadn’t already contacted them.

Quiet.

The village was too quiet.

No car noise. No lawn mowers. No nothing.

Which made no sense. They were approaching School Street, near the big playground —

Dirt.

The road was unpaved.

Jake looked around, bewildered.

They’d reached a village, all right.

But it wasn’t Hobson’s Corner.

No streetlights. No playground. No water tower in the distance, or Kmart down the road, or World War II statue at the corner of School and Main, which would be right there —

His thoughts suddenly stopped.

He tried to say something, but no words came out.

At the nearest corner to the left, where the dirt road intersected a cobblestone street, a granite post was carved with the names
SCHOOL ST.
and
MAIN ST.

Exactly where it should be.

Just up Main Street was a medium-size clapboard house.

The museum. The Overmyer Memorial Museum. Left to Hobson’s Corner by one of its founding families.

But it was different.

Smaller. Missing the porch and the addition on the back.

Not to mention the brass sign on the front lawn. And the dogwood trees. And the ramp leading to the front door.

And in the first-floor window, where the front office should have been, Jake could see …
furniture.
No file cabinets. No computer terminals.

“They’re supposed to be here still,” muttered one of the soldiers, a worried-looking man with flaming red hair and freckles. He began running toward the house. “Mama? Papa?”

“Where are you going?” Schroeder thundered.

“My house!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

“Overmyer, get back here!”

Is he —?

Did they—?

Reestablish contact immediately!

R
IDICULOUS.

IMPOSSIBLE.

But they were walking down a street called Main. With a curve just like the one in Hobson’s Corner. And cobblestones, like the ones that peeked through the worn-out blacktop back home.

But the blacktop was gone. The sidewalks were made of brick, not cement.

And the buildings were different.

Smith’s Eatery.
A blacksmith shop.

The Pottery Shack.
Now Central Apothecary.

Ben’s Hardware.
Hobson’s Corner Dry Goods.

And just above Main Street, before it angled out of sight, were three brick houses. The ones Mom always dreamed of living in.

They were different, too.

Unpainted. Unlandscaped.

But the same.

The same as

The book.

That was it. The book in the attic.
Nineteenth-century Hobson’s Corner: A Photo History.

Jake glanced back at the shops on Main Street. Squinted. Tried to frame the image. To imagine it in black-and-white. With specks of dust. Scratches.

Yes.

That was it.

The shape of the buildings. The texture of the street.

Just like the photos.

Main Street, Hobson’s Corner, in the 1860s.

But how?

How can I be here?

How can I be in

The

The

He rewound the last twenty-four hours in his mind. Back to the bike trip through the woods in the rain.

To the hut.

And the

Lightning.

I was hit by lightning.

My brain was scrambled. I’m imagining this.

Or worse.

Maybe I’m not here at all.

Maybe I’m

I’m

No.

Don’t even think of it.

Was this what it felt like to be dead?

He didn’t feel dead at all.

Just the opposite.

He felt reborn.

Alive.

Totally alive.

As if he were finally, for the first time in his life, home.

Okay. Okay. Calm down, Jake. Think.