turned to the men in his detachment and ordered groups to go in various directions. Finally he came to Mike. "There's bound to be chickens and eggs," he said. "You may find them in a henhouse, maybe in the bam. Take a look. Collect whatever you can."
Reluctantly, Mike trudged to the rear of the house. He saw no signs of a henhouse, but he heard a clucking coming from inside the closed doors of the bam, so he swung one of the big doors open and entered.
The dimness inside the bam was such a contrast to the bright sunhght that for a moment Mike couldn't see, and he squinted. But something brown and squawking practically ran over his feet and into an empty horse stall.
A fat hen! And where there was one there were bound to be others, along with the eggs they'd laid so far today. Mike, his eyes growing accustomed to the sparse light, followed the hen into the stall. When he bent down and made a grab for her, the hen loudly complained and tried to flap her wings in protest.
As he rose, he heard a young girl's voice tearfully protesting, "Janie! He's got Miz Toozie!"
Mike looked up to see the child clutching the skirt of an older girl. Then he saw the gun. The older girl gazed at Mike from behind the long barrel of a rifle aimed right at his face.
"Put down Miz Toozie," the older girl said, "and don't you dare reach for your gun."
"I haven't got a gun," Mike answered.
"You expect me to believe that? You're a soldier, aren't you?"
"I'm a drummer."
She opened the eye she'd been squinting as she aimed and studied Mike. "You're only a boy," she said with surprise.
"I'm old enough to have signed up with the Union Army!"
"I don't care how old you are," the girl said calmly, as she leveled the rifle again. "If you don't let go of Miz Toozie, I'm going to shoot you."
The girl was as tall as Mike, and he guessed she was probably only a couple of years older than he. Her brown hair was caught back into a braid, but her flower-patterned
40
dress had faded to the palest of blues, with patches sewn over spots where the fabric had worn through.
The thought that this family clearly couldn't afford to lose their chickens flashed through Mike's mind. But as he stared at the rifle, he instinctively gripped the hen more tightly. "Listen to me, Janie," he said. "Your mother gave us permission to take some of your supplies to feed our brigade."
"Miz Toozie is not a supply! She's my friend!" the little girl wailed, and burst into tears.
"Hush, Lettie," Janie murmured. But she kept the rifle steady as she said to Mike, "We've barely got enough put by to get us through the winter."
"We've barely got enough to get us through the day," he countered.
"That's not our fault."
"It's not ours, either. There's a long march ahead of us, and we have to be fed."
"But not with Miz Toozie."
As Mike's initial fear began to subside, his curiosity took over. She might threaten him with the rifle, but surely she wouldn't kill him, would she? "Your ma said that your father is fighting with the Union and your brother's with the Rebs. You wouldn't want either of them to go hungry."
For just an instant Janie's face twisted in pain. "That has nothing to do with you."
"Their companies have to forage for food the same way mine does." He began to parrot what he'd been told. "It takes a lot of food to feed an army. Men without food would be too weak to fight, and—"
"Stop it!" Janie shouted. She angrily slammed the butt of the rifle against the hard-packed floor of the bam. Mike ducked and winced, waiting for the blast.
But nothing happened, and Janie mumbled, "It wasn't loaded."
"You gave me a scare," Mike said, and he couldn't help grinning, mostly from the relief of not being shot.
''Please don't take Miz Toozie," Lettie begged. "She's been my pet forever and ever, and Ma promised she'd never be eaten."
Mike sighed. Lettie was so sweet and trusting, she reminded him of Peg, when she was little. "Have you got other hens?" he asked.
"Fluff-fluff
Reluctantly, Mike trudged to the rear of the house. He saw no signs of a henhouse, but he heard a clucking coming from inside the closed doors of the bam, so he swung one of the big doors open and entered.
The dimness inside the bam was such a contrast to the bright sunhght that for a moment Mike couldn't see, and he squinted. But something brown and squawking practically ran over his feet and into an empty horse stall.
A fat hen! And where there was one there were bound to be others, along with the eggs they'd laid so far today. Mike, his eyes growing accustomed to the sparse light, followed the hen into the stall. When he bent down and made a grab for her, the hen loudly complained and tried to flap her wings in protest.
As he rose, he heard a young girl's voice tearfully protesting, "Janie! He's got Miz Toozie!"
Mike looked up to see the child clutching the skirt of an older girl. Then he saw the gun. The older girl gazed at Mike from behind the long barrel of a rifle aimed right at his face.
"Put down Miz Toozie," the older girl said, "and don't you dare reach for your gun."
"I haven't got a gun," Mike answered.
"You expect me to believe that? You're a soldier, aren't you?"
"I'm a drummer."
She opened the eye she'd been squinting as she aimed and studied Mike. "You're only a boy," she said with surprise.
"I'm old enough to have signed up with the Union Army!"
"I don't care how old you are," the girl said calmly, as she leveled the rifle again. "If you don't let go of Miz Toozie, I'm going to shoot you."
The girl was as tall as Mike, and he guessed she was probably only a couple of years older than he. Her brown hair was caught back into a braid, but her flower-patterned
40
dress had faded to the palest of blues, with patches sewn over spots where the fabric had worn through.
The thought that this family clearly couldn't afford to lose their chickens flashed through Mike's mind. But as he stared at the rifle, he instinctively gripped the hen more tightly. "Listen to me, Janie," he said. "Your mother gave us permission to take some of your supplies to feed our brigade."
"Miz Toozie is not a supply! She's my friend!" the little girl wailed, and burst into tears.
"Hush, Lettie," Janie murmured. But she kept the rifle steady as she said to Mike, "We've barely got enough put by to get us through the winter."
"We've barely got enough to get us through the day," he countered.
"That's not our fault."
"It's not ours, either. There's a long march ahead of us, and we have to be fed."
"But not with Miz Toozie."
As Mike's initial fear began to subside, his curiosity took over. She might threaten him with the rifle, but surely she wouldn't kill him, would she? "Your ma said that your father is fighting with the Union and your brother's with the Rebs. You wouldn't want either of them to go hungry."
For just an instant Janie's face twisted in pain. "That has nothing to do with you."
"Their companies have to forage for food the same way mine does." He began to parrot what he'd been told. "It takes a lot of food to feed an army. Men without food would be too weak to fight, and—"
"Stop it!" Janie shouted. She angrily slammed the butt of the rifle against the hard-packed floor of the bam. Mike ducked and winced, waiting for the blast.
But nothing happened, and Janie mumbled, "It wasn't loaded."
"You gave me a scare," Mike said, and he couldn't help grinning, mostly from the relief of not being shot.
''Please don't take Miz Toozie," Lettie begged. "She's been my pet forever and ever, and Ma promised she'd never be eaten."
Mike sighed. Lettie was so sweet and trusting, she reminded him of Peg, when she was little. "Have you got other hens?" he asked.
"Fluff-fluff
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