The Last April Page 3

  He struggled to remember if Pa had planted the crops already, or if there had been a late frost. Or was it last year that had the late frost? No, that could not be right. Last year he had been on the battlefield. But not this year either, since this year was this year. He had not gone to school, because he had not been home, because he had been in a prison.

  It had been so long since he had been home. And even when he was home he was not home, though he was not sure how that worked.

  Home. That was where he wanted to be, but nobody wanted him there. That was why he had gone off to war. At least that was how he remembered it, sort of. Signed up to escape a lack of wanting and needing him. He had to belong somewhere, so perhaps he belonged on the battlefield.

  “Mein Gott,” one of the women said. The older one. The angry one. “He has lost his mind.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and blinked. There was that harsh accent again. Almost made it sound as if he had regained his voice and just maybe had been talking all this time.

  That was unfortunate if true. He had no idea what he was blabbering about. His mind was every which way, and then some, which seemed like a lot of ways to….

  He licked his lip again and tasted that familiar cold tang of iron. Lips chapped and bleeding, but at least his blood was warm and flowing, not cool and sticky.

  “Make him stop,” said the younger woman, the one who looked like the angry one, only not so angry.

  But the younger woman had yelled and clawed at him. She had ripped his blanket away. Perhaps she was the angry one. No, that did not seem fair. The older woman looked angry always. The younger woman looked angry because of a sad situation. Now that was a clever thought, insightful on his part, he felt: angry because of sadness.

  “Mama, he’s fevered,” said the youngest of all, the one who kept a hand in her pocket like a man keeping a hand on his holster.

  Oh yes, she must have a gun. She must be ready to shoot. Why would she not just shoot? It would end the argument, and maybe he would be in a home better than any he could find on earth.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. You don’t know what you’re saying,” the youngest said to him.

  She said her name was Gretchen. That was right, Gretchen. He would hold onto that. Gretchen. And she had given him a name. Karl. Yes, Karl, a good German name, because she said he had to have a German ­­­mother.

  That sounded comforting. Karl thought he liked the idea of a German mother. He could have a good German mother who would make sausages. He would eat the sausages in the casing. A horse was dead beneath him on the battlefield. He saw sausage links rolling from its stomach. Not appetizing when the sausages steamed like that, still connected to a dying body.

  “Don’t shoot me,” he screamed.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” Gretchen said, but even she did not sound convinced.

  “Who gave you a gun?” Her mother backed away.

  “Papa did,” Gretchen said, “because he knew you wouldn’t use it.”

  “Give it to me, I will use it,” the oldest of all retorted. Tante Klegg; that was her name. A harsh name for a harsh woman. Karl decided he did not like Tante Klegg.

  “And that’s the other reason why Papa gave me the gun,” Gretchen shot back, “because he knew you would use it.”

  Gretchen’s logic did not make sense, but Karl liked it anyway. Her logic made the angry one, Tante Klegg, quiet.

  “Let me see it,” said Gretchen’s mother. He did not know her name.

  “I’m not going to reveal my weapon before I’m good and ready to use it, Mama,” Gretchen said.

  Karl felt a goofy grin spreading across his face.

  “What if we die because he shot the president?” Tante Klegg said.

  “He’s feverish and weak. I wouldn’t worry,” Gretchen said.

  “Hey now,” Karl said. That time, he knew he spoke, and he knew what he said while speaking. Perhaps the fever confusion was passing. “I can shoot an apple off a galloping horse!”

  “Oh?” Gretchen asked, her frustration forgotten, her eyes alight with curiosity and maybe even a challenge.

  “Gretchen, this is a stranger in your brother’s bed. Not a new shooting partner,” Tante Klegg said. “You forget yourself and your time. We are at war with this boy.”

  “No, we’re not,” Gretchen said, whipping out her revolver, finally.

  Karl scooted back in the bed. His entire body cringed. His face flushed with shame. A real soldier, a real man, would not have cringed, or cowered, or wished all this would just stop.

  Gretchen’s mother screamed and threw her hands to her mouth. She stared at Gretchen as if she were a stranger.

  Tante Klegg crossed her arms. The only hint to Karl of her alarm was that one of her eyebrows rose.

  Karl took another look at the revolver in Gretchen’s hand. She pointed it at the puncheon floor. It still had the safety set and the hammer unlocked. He looked at Tante Klegg, who watched him with a calculating expression. He had the eerie feeling she knew what he did, that Gretchen was just being dramatic.

  “We aren’t at war anymore,” Gretchen said.

  Karl heard the undercurrent charging Gretchen’s voice. She attempted to sound calm and in control, even though she knew she was neither.

  “Mr. Lincoln said, ‘old as well as new, north as well as south.’ He said that. He said it in Columbus, before the war, before he was even president.” Gretchen paused. “He said it, and he meant it, and Papa and Werner surely wouldn’t have gone to war if they didn’t believe it. We’re all in this together. Otherwise, we all have to be at war.”

  Gretchen talked in circles, which was about how the room was spinning.

  “Yes,” Tante Klegg said. “Look where that landed him. His pretty words landed him where it lands everyone.”

  Tante Klegg watched Karl with that calculating expression. Her dark eyes were unnerving. It took forever for her to blink.

  Karl wondered whether Germans believed in witches. He wondered whether he believed in witches. Perhaps Tante Klegg was a witch. He wondered if that belief had any effect on whether Tante Klegg could harm him with her powers.

  Tante Klegg’s expression hid behind guns in a frigid field trying to decide who would shoot first. He never did. He never shot first. It made no sense that he was alive, knowing he never shot first. It made no sense that he was in a strange bed, pestered by strange women who shouted about dead presidents.

  Karl shook his head. “Which one?” His voice warbled, but otherwise was clear.

  The women stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Well, he might have. No, he had. He could not remember his own name now, could he?

  “Which one what?” Gretchen said.

  Karl gulped, not believing Gretchen did not know what he was asking. A girl who talked in circles could think in circles, which was all Karl could do at the moment. And here he had thought they were so alike. Neither was keen on the war continuing, that much he knew.

  “Which president?” Karl asked. He wiped sweat from his brow before it stung his eyes. “Which president died?”

  Gretchen’s mother drew up to her full, if short, height. Her blue eyes sparked, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “The president has died. There is only one.”

  Karl hugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Davis or Lincoln, Lincoln or Davis? He was always hearing those names in the prison. Debates and chants and all sorts of nonsense, always rallying, though to what, he never knew. To death, perhaps, since that was how it ended for most in a war. What glory was death? Death was an escape from trudging through mud and gnawing on moldy, maggoty hardtack.

  Karl rubbed his forehead again. He did not understand why he could remember details like that, but not his name, his home, or his family. So he held onto the names he could remember. President Lincoln and President Davis. President Lincoln. President Davis. Lincoln. Davis. Union. Confederate. Dead. Alive.

  It took Karl a moment to realize everyone w
as staring at him, horrified. He had not been chanting in his head.

  “There is no such thing as a President Davis,” Tante Klegg said, her voice piercing him.

  Karl frowned.

  “Why are we watching over this fool?” Gretchen’s mother demanded, waving her hand at him. “He does not even know which president is worth mourning!”

  “I would guess he didn’t know the war ended this week. Or in our favor,” Gretchen said.

  Well, she was right about that. Karl had not known the war was over. He certainly had not known the Confederacy had lost. Other soldiers, the ones in the prison and on the trains, were no doubt disheartened by such news. He felt a weight lift his shoulders. He almost did not recognize what he felt was relief.

  “So President Davis died?” Karl asked, tentative.

  Tante Klegg threw her hands up to the ceiling and rolled her eyes.

  “President Lincoln died,” Gretchen’s mother said, “at the hand of one of your kind.”

  Karl did not care for Mr. Lincoln, but he did not think that made him against Mr. Lincoln, either. Even at Camp Chase, Karl had avoided the debates about how the war would end. Prisoners were unsure the Confederacy could win despite the encouragement from home.

  Karl could only remember thinking it was a shame he was missing it. Not the shooting and killing. There was something just beyond his reach. He knew he was missing something. He had an assignment to do.

  “He does not show remorse or any mourning!” Gretchen’s mother said.

  “That’s not a sign of guilt, Mama,” Gretchen was quick to say.

  “Perhaps,” Tante Klegg said, “but we have nothing to say he is not guilty. Except your belief that he is too ill to have done it.”

  Gretchen tucked her revolver in her pocket. Postures relaxed. “We’re wasting our time talking about this,” she said.

  “I am sorry to hear Mr. Lincoln passed on,” Karl said. He sounded as polite as a pastor. He might as well have said he was sorry to hear the neighbor’s dog had dug up the flowers. “But I don’t understand. Killed by one of my kind?” He rubbed his head, pausing when his fingers hit a thick bandage. “A prisoner?”

  “A Confederate!” Gretchen’s mother said, leaping forward with her hands out ready to strangle him. Tante Klegg grabbed one of her arms, throwing her off balance. They tripped and fell to the ground in a pile of shrieks and skirts.

  Karl stared at them, seeing more ankles than he ever had in his entire life. He felt his face bloom with embarrassment and he averted his gaze to the ceiling. “If you think I… if you believe I’m… well, what am I doing in your house?”

  Gretchen’s mother and aunt paused untangling their skirts to glare at her.

  “You’re not helping,” Gretchen said to Karl through gritted teeth. She cleared her throat. “If you’re guilty, then we’ve captured the murderer. We’re heroes. We stopped the war from continuing because we’ll have stopped the last spirit of hope for the rebels.”

  Karl’s stomach dropped. He was glad his stomach was empty; otherwise, he would have emptied it all over his pillow. Karl did not remember much before Camp Chase. He did know he had not wanted the war to continue. He had been almost glad they sent him to prison because it meant fewer bullets whizzing past his head. “How would killing Mr. Lincoln continue the war?”

  Gretchen’s mother took her arm to pull herself to standing. She slapped the dust from her skirts. “I do not care if he murdered the president. I want him out of my house.” She left in the same whirl of skirts that brought her there in the first place.

  Tante Klegg continued to watch Karl from where she sat on the floor. “He does not act like a soldier.”

  Karl wondered how she could know that, and why a part of him agreed.

  “So you will let me keep him?” Gretchen asked. She held out her hand to help her aunt.

  “This is Gregory Miller’s house, not mine.” Tante Klegg grunted as Gretchen hefted her from the floor.

  Karl figured that was Gretchen’s father.

  “And as he handed you the revolver, it seems you are responsible.” Tante Klegg moved to the doorway, her expression thoughtful as a clock chimed. “I am interested to know how you intend to explain him to Alina.”

  Had he the energy, Karl would have laughed at Gretchen’s stricken expression. Something about this “Alina” deflated Gretchen.

  These women were too secretive, too complicated. And they thought he had shot a president!

  Five

  Saturday, 15 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio

  That was just like Tante Klegg to offer hope and snatch it away with a well-placed cackle.

  Gretchen knew she should listen to her elders with a simpering smile. And she would, once she stopped wanting to shout her frustration at them.

  First, Gretchen needed to clean Karl’s wounds. Earlier, she only had enough time to wrap his head.

  Gretchen tucked auburn strands of hair into her braids before bending to carry a small basin of water. She had a cloth draped over her arm, and she made sure Werner’s door was open for propriety. Karl was asleep. His entire body shook from fever, but he did not wake when Gretchen wiped his brow.

  Gretchen wondered how she could have ever mistaken him for her brother. They both had dark hair that shone amber in sunlight. They both had piercing eyes that made one believe they saw exactly what one did not wish them to see. That was where the similarities stopped.

  It had been years since Gretchen had seen Werner. She remembered him walking from the farm, hand waving. His cheeks were full, his hair shining, his smile broad.

  Karl’s sunken cheeks, blood-matted hair, and raspy breathing sent a chill through Gretchen. She wondered what conditions her brother suffered.

  The more Gretchen dabbed at Karl’s forehead, the more pressure she felt building in her throat. She shook her head, determined not to cry. What did she, a fifteen-year-old girl, know about taking care of an ill soldier?

  Gretchen splashed her hand into the basin. She swished the cloth around before rubbing away the dirt on Karl’s chin. Water dripped onto her skirts, but she was already unkempt, sweaty, and frazzled. She doubted her mother would notice.

  Soon half of Karl’s face was clean. He might have been handsome once, before his illness and war experiences. His tanned skin hinted at walking in the sun for who knew how long. A peek under his collar showed him pale otherwise.

  Gretchen paused. The idea of harboring and caring for Karl had been exciting until the news of Mr. Lincoln’s death. Now Gretchen ran the risk of being his compatriot, his confederate. She did not want to be the young woman who nursed Mr. Lincoln’s killer back to life.

  At the same time, Gretchen did not think Karl could be the murderer. Tante Klegg was right. There was something… unsoldierly about Karl. Not that Gretchen knew a whole lot about soldiers. He looked frail, for one thing. And his fevered eyes gave him an innocence that made her question whether he ever had put a bullet through a body.

  Karl was observant, though. Gretchen saw how his focus darted around the room, as if he were cataloging everything in sight. Yet he lacked the sharp reflexes she expected from a kill-or-be-killed life.

  Rather than snatching the revolver from her hand, Karl shrank into Werner’s blanket. Karl avoided confrontation, instead of facing it like a murderer on the run.

  Gretchen frowned. It could be that acting frail and weak was part of Karl’s plan, only to shoot them all in their sleep. She twisted the cloth so the water did not drip all over Werner’s blanket.

  Karl would not attack her family. Not on her watch. Gretchen resolved to sleep outside Werner’s door for good measure. Karl would have to trip and face her revolver before reaching her aunt and mother.

  Gretchen unwrapped the bandage around Karl’s head and dabbed at his hairline. The cut was minor, thank goodness. She was about to clean his ears and neck when the sound of insistent knocking stopped her mid-swipe.

  Tante Klegg poked her head into the bedro
om. “Alina.”

  Gretchen jumped to her feet, dropping the bloodied cloth to the floor. She had already forgotten. “What do we do?”

  Tante Klegg nodded at Karl’s feet. “We carry him to the barn.” She grabbed his shoulders so Gretchen could wrap her arms around his thin torso. Tante Klegg took his feet, and they lifted him from the bed.

  “How will we sneak him past her?” Gretchen whispered.

  “Adelaide will take her to the creek.”

  Gretchen nodded. The creek was where Werner had proposed to Alina. She never protested whenever someone suggested taking a walk there.

  Gretchen hefted Karl a little higher, ignoring his fevered mumbling. She peeked out of the doorway and could hear nothing.

  Tante Klegg and Gretchen shuffled across the room and into the kitchen. They called it their kitchen, but it was also their main living space. Gretchen panted, her fingers slipping. She grimaced, wondering why she carried the heavy part.

  “Do not make faces at me. Be glad I help at all,” Tante Klegg said.

  Gretchen’s jaw jutted forward. She focused on navigating around the table. With each step, she feared Alina would burst into view.

  The log house was simple: two bedrooms off the kitchen and a tight stairwell up to the large attic. Gretchen avoided her parents’ bedroom, angling instead for the door to the back porch.

  By this point, Gretchen was in a full-body sweat. She made Tante Klegg pause so she could put Karl down. When she picked him up again, it was with his back facing hers. She looped her arms under his and stumbled down the porch steps.

  Gretchen knew it took forty-seven steps to reach the barn from the porch. She kept stepping on sharp twigs and shifting pebbles.

  “Keep your balance,” Tante Klegg said. “If we drop him and he makes a noise, Alina will notice.”

  The creek was far enough away that all Gretchen could see was Alina’s gray skirt flapping in the breeze.

  “I doubt she’ll hear a thing,” Gretchen said. She wriggled so Karl’s rump settled onto her lower back.

  By the time they settled Karl atop a pile of old straw in an empty horse stall, Gretchen could hardly breathe. Her braids were in shambles. She knew her sweat left large stains beneath her arms. And she had gotten more of Karl’s blood on her, though she did not know how.