Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9 JULY 2, 1863 THE ROUTE TO GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA They marched two by two along the dusty road, camping at night, and then setting out again before dawn. The days were scorching hot, and some men had collapsed on the side of the road, their faces beet red, their wool uniforms soaked in sweat. Birdie rode in the wagon with Les and Homer. But Thomas marched with Henry. Henry told stories as they walked, about his parents and the store they owned, how his town smelled like apples in the fall, about his

sweetheart, Mary. He had shown Thomas and Birdie a picture of Mary, a pretty and serious- looking girl with a thick brown braid. They were both teachers at a little school in their town. Henry had also shown them his most precious possession: a small book Mary had made for him. It had a tin cover, and was filled with paintings of their town in Vermont. In one of the pictures the trees and grass were covered with what looked like a thick white blanket. "That's snow," Henry had explained. "It comes from the sky, like tiny icy flowers. There's nothing more beautiful than the first snow in Vermont." Birdie had closed her eyes and smiled, as if she could see it all in her imagination. Thomas wished he could. But it seemed his mind had stopped making happy pictures when Clem was taken. "I told Mary all about you," Henry said now. "In my last letter."

"You wrote about me?" Thomas said, trying not to smile. Hearing that made him feel important. "One day you'll be able to write your own letters," Henry said. Thomas wondered if Henry was right. He hadn't learned how to read or write; teaching a slave to read was illegal all over the South. "Clem knew how to read," Thomas said. Henry always liked hearing about Clem. "How did he manage to learn?" Henry asked. "One winter, one of Mr. Knox's sons got sick," Thomas said. "So Mrs. Knox gave him lessons at home. Clem would sneak up to the house, and stand on a bucket outside the window so he could hear." "That's clever!" Henry said with a laugh. Thomas remembered how Clem would stay up late into the night. "He'd burn a candle so he could practice scratching letters into the dirt," he told Henry.

Some mornings Thomas woke up and the entire floor of their shack was covered with words, as though Clem had spelled out all of his dreams. "But then Mr. Knox caught him. He noticed that Clem wasn't in the fields when he was supposed to be, and he found him up at the house, his ear close to the window. He saw all the words written in the dirt." "What did he do?" Thomas glanced at Henry. He hadn't meant to tell this part. He tried never to think about it. "He whipped him." Thomas closed his eyes, trying to stop the flood of memories — the thwack of Mr. Knox's whip, Clem's shouts of pain, the sight of Clem's blood- soaked shirt. "Clem couldn't walk for two weeks." "For learning to read?" Henry said, his eyes blazing with anger and shock. "Yes, sir," Thomas said.

They marched quietly for a moment, and then Henry turned. He put his hand on Thomas's arm. "There are plenty of bad people in the world," he said. "Too many to count. But there are good people, too." "I know that," Thomas said, looking around at all of the men. He had found that out over these past two weeks. Henry seemed to have more to say, but two soldiers appeared on horseback with a message for Captain Campbell. Tens of thousands of troops were already in Gettysburg. The battle had begun. "This is it!" the captain bellowed. "To Gettysburg!" The men raised their rifles and cheered along, but their eyes looked uncertain. Their words seemed to disappear quickly into the air, like dust.

They'd just started marching again when Henry suddenly turned to Thomas. "I've been thinking," he said, "that when all this is over, you and Birdie should come live in Vermont. You could go to my school. Mary is a wonderful teacher. She'll have you both reading in no time." Him and Birdie in Vermont? With Henry? Going to school? "What do you think?" Thomas smiled, too stunned to speak at first. And then the soldier marching in front of them fell to the ground. He landed on his back, his eyes gazing blankly up at the sky. There was a mark on the man's forehead, like the wormhole in an apple, only bigger. Blood poured from the hole, making a puddle around his head. The man had been shot dead.