Free Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg by Laurie Calkhoven

Meade,” he said again.
    â€œThe Rebs have the town,” I said. “The Union retreated.”
    â€œThere has to be a way to get across the lines,” he said.
    â€œI don’t know,” I told him. “I don’t know how.”
    He wouldn’t take no for an answer. “After dark,” he said. “Help me. Or go in my place.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    A Risky Plan
    Wednesday evening, July 1, 1863
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    G o in his place? The words were still hanging in the air when I heard Mother call out to me.
    â€œWill, I need that water,” she said.
    I jumped, hitting my head on the doorway of the carriage house. “Coming!” I said. I turned back to the soldier. “I’ll come back,” I told him. “I’ll try to bring you some food.”
    â€œI don’t need food,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I need to get to General Meade!”
    With each step back to the house, I expected to be shot. I set down the bucket in the kitchen with shaking hands. Mother cupped my chin and looked into my eyes. I gave my head a small shake so she would know not to ask.
    â€œWill,” she said brightly, “why don’t you take down the names and addresses of these men so we can let their families know that they are alive and well, even though they are prisoners.”
    It was a Southern lady who had written to us of Jacob. His captain only knew that he was missing. I was grateful to do the same service for other Union men.
    I wasn’t grateful to be entertaining Rebels. These fellows weren’t anything like Abel. They were in high spirits over the day’s victory and seemed to take delight in taunting us.
    â€œHow do you like this way of our coming back into the Union?” one of them asked Mother.
    â€œI’d rather your return was peaceful,” she answered calmly.
    â€œYour Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t let us leave the Union in peace,” he said. “So we’ve come back in war. It was the North that started this struggle, not the South.”
    One of the Union men, Adam Schurz from Wisconsin, began to argue about who had really started the war, but I couldn’t listen. How would I get the soldier in the carriage house across enemy lines?
    I turned the problem over and over in my mind. I did not see how I could do it, but what if the communications he spoke of would turn this battle? What if they meant the difference between a Union defeat and a Union victory?
    His words echoed in my mind. “Help me. Or go in my place.”
    I could almost see it. I’d sneak past the Confederate guards, creeping from doorway to doorway and slithering in the grass. As soon as I reached Union lines, I’d let them know how important my mission was.
    But the day’s events wove their way into my imaginings. Instead of hearing the thanks of a grateful General Meade, I heard the loud report of a sharpshooter’s rifle.
    I screamed while a Rebel soldier yelled, “Got’em!”
    Mother put a bowl of steaming potatoes into my hands, drawing me out of my nightmarish fantasy. I couldn’t go in the Union soldier’s place. Nor did I want to.
    I set the potatoes on the table, next to a plate of sliced ham. If it was possible to get across the Confederate lines, wouldn’t the soldier in the carriage house already be on his way? How would I do it, if he couldn’t?
    The Rebel in charge was still trying to belittle the prisoners at our supper table. “We’ve taken Baltimore and Harrisburg,” he said. “Washington is next. The war will end any day now.”
    I swallowed hard. Was the South really going to win the war?
    â€œYou’re spinning tales,” one of the Union men answered. “Robert E. Lee’s entire army is right here,” he said. “The South doesn’t have enough men to take all those cities.”
    That started another debate. I hoped that Union man was right. Even so, I