Chapter 79
Hattie
The sun hasn't dared rise yet, but the eastern sky begins to erupt in shades of pink and orange. The porch boards creak beneath me as I shift my weight, stiff from where I sit, half-leaning, half-upright, against the rail. My dress is bunched under me, my arms crossed over my chest, the warmth of the last soldier I tended lingering. Someone moans nearby. Another man coughs. Beyond that sits the silence, thick and awful, the kind that only follows cannon fire and screams.
Half sleeping, half watching for any sign of Charlie, Eric, or a familiar face in the fog, I blink hard, trying to keep my eyes open, but sleep pulls at me like the tide. My hands are stained with blood, some dried, some fresh, and I’ve long since stopped noticing the iron smell of it. Now, the air is beginning to reek of decomposing bodies.
I’ve been awake for… I don’t even know how long. Since I first heard the thunder of the cannons yesterday at dawn.
It’s Sunday morning now, that much I know. But I can’t bear to sit with what that means. If it’s morning, then the battle is over. And if the battle is over, then Eric is already gone.
My head droops forward. Just for a minute, I tell myself. Just long enough to rest my eyes—
“Hattie. Hattie! Wake up—please—wake up!”
Hands shake me, gently at first, then more urgently. I jolt, eyes flying open to find a figure crouched in front of me, gripping my shoulders. It’s a boy wearing a rough coat, pants torn at the knees, face shadowed by the brim of a tricorn hat.
Disoriented, I scramble backward on the porch, hands ready to shove him away until I catch a glimpse of the eyes. They’re worried and familiar.
“Charlie?” The word is a croak.
She pulls off the hat.
It is Charlie!
I lunge forward and throw my arms around her, clutching her tight. Her rifle bumps my shoulder, and she stumbles slightly beneath the force of my hug, but she doesn’t let go, and neither do I.
“You’re alive,” I whisper, not even realizing the tears had started until one splashes onto her cheek. “Oh, Charlie, you’re alive.”
“I made it back,” she says, voice trembling against my ear. “I’m all right, Hattie.”
I pull away just enough to look at her. There’s a smear of soot across her forehead, a tear in her coat, and a line of dried blood under her chin, but she’s standing, breathing, speaking. She’s whole.
“You absolutely terrified us!”
“I know,” she says, weakly.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?”
“You inspired me,” she explains.
“I what?”
“The day we met,” she says, stepping back. “You showed up in men’s trousers. You speak of how different women’s lives are in the future. I wanted to be brave like that. Like you. I wanted to help change this country for the better. To make a contribution to the women of the future.”
Emotion rises sharp and sudden in my chest. I swallow hard and reach for her again. “Thank you for your service, Private Monroe,” I say, the words catching on the lump in my throat.
Inside the house, Mrs. Monroe yells, “Charlie?”
Seconds later, she bursts through the door and freezes at the sight of Charlie, dressed in men’s clothes, her hair tucked haphazardly under her cap. Then she throws her arms around her daughter and sobs.
Everyone’s awake by now, those who aren’t wounded beyond sense, anyway. A few heads lift. Someone calls out in a broken voice, “She’s back!” And a ripple of relief spreads through the crowd gathered on the porch and lawn. It seems everyone was keeping an eye out for Charlie.
Mr. Monroe comes outside next. He looks at Charlie, looks at the sky, and falls to his knees to pray. I have no doubt he is thanking God for bringing his Charlotte home.
While all the children scold Charlie and kiss her cheeks. I can’t help but laugh from a place of relief, stepping back to let them have her.
My hands are still stained, my sleeves are crusted, my head spins, and I think I might pass out, but Charlie is home, and right now that is something to be joyful about.
By mid-morning, the Monroes’ yard is a field hospital in all but name. Blankets are laid out on the grass. Buckets of water are rushed back and forth. Loaves of bread disappear almost as fast as they’re sliced. Mrs. Monroe and the children pass out food and try to make the soldiers comfortable.
Charlie and I move among the wounded, changing bandages, and offering water. Neither of us say much; we just work. She asked if John had returned yet as soon as everyone let go of her, but no one had the heart to answer aloud. Everyone simply shook their heads.
I want to ask her about the battle, ask her if she saw Eric, but I don’t dare. If she saw him, she would tell me.
I know Eric isn’t coming home.
I tie a fresh bandage around a young soldier’s arm. He thanks me, eyes tired and hollow. I stand and wipe my hands on my apron then turn to see three horses kicking up dust on the road.
My heart stops.
The rider and wagon come into view, and for one terrible moment I can’t breathe. Then I recognize them—Colin, Levi, and—
Eric.
I run.
I forget everything. I forget the wounded, the blood on my hands and face, the ache in my spine. I lift my skirt and run. Eric sees me and kicks his horse faster, swinging off the saddle before the animal has even stopped. We meet halfway between the yard and the road.
He catches me in his arms and lifts me off the ground. I throw my arms around his neck, and bury my face in his shoulder. I don’t care who sees. I don’t care what they think. I feel so light.
He’s alive.
He smells like gunpowder, horses, leather, and smoke. His hair is damp with sweat. There’s worry in his eyes, and his coat is torn, but he holds me so tightly, and I never want him to let go.
“I thought—” I start.
“I know,” he says. His voice is hoarse.
“I didn’t know if—”
“I’m here.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You’re safe. I’m safe.”
“John?” I ask, dread rising up my throat.
His eyes darken. “Please,” he says, his voice rough, “let us just have this brief moment.”
I nod and hold him.
Colin and Levi drive a covered wagon, both looking weary. Charlie rushes to meet them, and Colin startles, staring at her in disbelief. Then he jumps down and grabs her in a bear hug. Levi hops off the wagon, ruffles her hair, and mutters something I can’t hear, but the smile on his face says everything.
Eric finally lets me go but doesn’t release my hand. His fingers are rough and warm against mine. “You’ve been helping the wounded all night?” he asks, glancing around at the rows of injured men.
I nod. “They kept coming. Some on foot. Some carried. A few… didn’t make it.”
He squeezes my hand tighter.
“I found a British soldier in the woods yesterday while I was looking for Charlie,” I tell him, my voice low. “A young boy… Martin…. I brought him here.”
Eric raises his eyebrows, “You saved his life?”
“I just couldn’t let him die alone.”