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children, so Mike scarcely knew him.
    But after the heartache of losing Da and living with Mr. Friedrich, Mike had once again found a father. Along had come Captain Joshua Taylor—strong, brave Captain Taylor —who with his wife Louisa had taken Mike to raise as a son.
    Mike sighed. Just when he had needed a father the most. Captain Taylor had gone off to defend the Union. If the war could be shortened by a quick defeat of the South, then maybe life would become peaceful and Mike would again know the joys and comforts of having a father. But until then . . .
    Mike drifted off to sleep, and in his dreams a man—at times Captain Taylor and at times Da—draped a comforting arm around Mike's shoulders.
    The brigade had been marching for a week under a July sun that burned hotter than a campfire, when orders were given to forage for the evening meal. With a foraging detachment led by Sergeant Gridley, Mike was instructed to head for a nearby group of farmhouses.
    "What will we do—request whatever they can spare?" Mike asked Sergeant Gridley.
    The sergeant's lip curled with amusement, "/'m the one who'll do the talking—not you, Mikey boy."
    One of the other soldiers, not too many years older than Mike, snickered. "We don't request. We take.''
    Mike looked the soldier in the eye. "You mean we steaV
    "Simmer down," the sergeant ordered Mike. "These are wartime conditions. We follow emergency rules."
    "I lived on a farm for a while," Mike said. "A farmer can't survive if we take away what he grows and sells."

    Sergeant Gridley stopped and faced Mike. "How about helping our soldiers to survive? You've seen the great number in our brigade. How do you propose feeding them on a long march? Even with the sutlers' wagons and the local merchants coming to sell foodstuffs, we can't provide enough to fill the bellies of thousands of hungry men."
    Mike felt his face redden, and he mumbled agreement. He couldn't imagine how much food it would take to feed an army, and it was true—the men had to have three meals a day to keep up their strength for the march.
    Sergeant Gridley motioned Mike to walk by his side, as he and the eight other soldiers with him climbed the slope leading to a trim white house with a large bam behind it. "During wartime, Mike, people can lose everything—their houses, their possessions, and even their families—but they manage to survive and rebuild their lives. Taking a small amount of food is little to ask of a patriotic farmer. You'll see.
    As they approached the house, a woman stepped out onto the porch. "We're Federal!" she called out. "We mean you no harm!"
    "Ma'am," the sergeant said, doffing his cap as he stood below the porch steps, his men behind him, "we're in need of food."
    "As are we," she said bitterly.
    "Will you call your husband, please, so I might speak with him?"
    The woman leaned against the porch railing, and her stiff-backed courage seemed to slip away as she sighed. "My husband's somewhere in eastern Missouri with General Lyon's forces," she said.
    "That's commendable, ma'am," Sergeant Gridley told her. "Is there another man around your property we might speak to?"
    "My son's gone from home, too," she answered softly—

    almost as though she were talking to herself, Mike thought. ''Ab was bound and determined to run off to join the Missouri State Guard under Sterling Price."
    "A Rebel sympathizer?" Mike blurted out, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
    "Ma'am," Sergeant Gridley said, "we'll respect the privacy of your house, but if you've got preserves put by, we'd appreciate it if you'd bring them out. In the meantime we're in need of potatoes or other vegetables from your root cellar. And if you've got chickens ..."
    The woman closed her eyes and waved a hand toward the bam. "Go ahead," she said. "Take what you need. Just remember that my two daughters and I will need something to live on until our cash crop of oats can be harvested."
    "Thank you, ma'am," the sergeant said. He quickly