Wilderness Run by Maria Hummel

Author:Maria Hummel
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466879836
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

January–December 1863

Chapter Twenty-four

When dark fell, Laurence found himself trying to sleep in a cramped, unstable tent with three other men. They were all drenched and hungry, but food and dry ground already seemed impossible to come by at Camp Convalescence. He and Woodard had arrived there that afternoon and then had had to stand in several long lines in the rain before they were allowed to enter the miserable campground, which was situated on an old plantation. All the majestic trees had been chopped down for firewood long ago, and the giant stumps glowed between tents as Laurence and Woodard sloshed down the muddy rows, searching for a place to sleep.

By dusk, they managed to team up with two New Hampshire men, who had commandeered a cast-off tent from a guard. After a grim hour of erecting the faulty apparatus in a downpour, there had been nothing to do but lie down in it. Laurence had drawn the shortest match and was stuck with the drafty position by the entrance. He heard his ribs creak as he huddled against the chilly earth, trying to remember the kind faces of the nurses at Mt. Pleasant and the rich soups he had tasted every day when he was there. The tent snapped and he burrowed deeper beneath his blanket, expecting a cold gust to follow.

Instead, he heard a small voice begging, “Make room, please.” Laurence sat up and opened the flap. Outside it stood a young man, shivering. He had the rickety, unraveling build of a wicker chair, one shoulder jutting higher than the other, and his face was charcoaled by the shadows of hunger. Laurence pushed back to make some room for him, jostling his neighbors, who were still faking sleep.

“Hold on, now. ’M afraid we’re full up,” said the burlier of the New Hampshire men in a voice that indicated he was fully awake. His knuckles pressed into Laurence’s spine.

“Keep on trying down the line. Sommun’ll let you in,” his partner added.

“I been trying,” the young man insisted. The words ghosted from his mouth in delicate clouds. “You’re the last tent.”

“We could make room,” Laurence said hopefully, although the hard-earned stability of their cast-off tent might truly be destroyed by another body.

“We ain’t got any room to make. Sorry,” said the first New Hampshire man.

“Sorry, son,” the other one echoed, contrite. Laurence glanced to Woodard for help, but his friend feigned sleep, his face damp and serene.

“But I’m a Vermonter. Please, in the name of being a Vermonter.” The boy would not give up. He crossed his arms over his chest and bent down to look inside the dim cavern. “There’s room,” he said eagerly. “I don’t take up much.”

“Let’s make room for him.” Laurence kicked Lyman Woodard, who shifted slightly but did not come to his defense. “He said he won’t take up much,” he added, as if the men could not hear the boy.

“In this democrissy, you air outvoted, sir, three to one.” The burly New Hampshire man sat up.

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