Free March Toward the Thunder by Joseph Bruchac

never be a walking stick now. He didn’t know what sort of tree it had come from. Trees were different here. But the stick had split clean down the middle along the grain, almost like ash wood.
    You could make baskets from this , Louis thought, bending one of the pieces in his hand. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. No time for basket-making now or for thinking of my mother’s voice calling me to come to the fire for supper.
    There was moisture in his eyes. He bent over to wipe them out. When he lifted his head again he saw Merry peering over at him. The tender expression on the little man’s face made Louis think again of his mother.
    How many times have I seen that same look of concern on M’mere’s face?
    A gentle, caring expression far out of place for where they were now.
    â€œYou all right, Louis?” Merry asked.
    â€œSweat,” Louis said, wiping his cheeks again. “Hot today.”
    Merry nodded, but kept looking at him.
    â€œDo you have a sweetheart?” Merry asked.
    As soon as Merry asked that unexpected question the image of a certain girl came into Louis’s mind. And even though he’d never thought of her as his sweetheart before, he almost said her name out loud. Azonis. But he didn’t.
    â€œHere,” Louis said, holding up half of the stick and then tossing it over. “Try doing some fishing of your own.”
    Merry caught the stick and pulled off his hat. Merry’s hair was chestnut brown and thick with curls. Its ends were as uneven as if it had been chopped off quick with scissors. Far different from Louis’s own straight black hair, neatly cut at the nape of his neck.
    â€œYou need a better barber,” Louis said, trying to make a joke.
    â€œPardon?” Merry said. “What did you say?”
    â€œNothing.” Louis shook his head. “The Sixty-third isn’t far from here. Maybe you’ll see that brother of yours.”
    Merry’s eyes lit up. “You really think so? I just long to see him, to . . . take him by the hand. That would be so wonderful.”
    â€œMight be,” Louis replied. “There’s always a chance.”

CHAPTER TEN
    ACROSS THE PO

Monday, May 9, 1864
    â€œLee’s army now occupies a semicircular line three miles in length along this ridge here between the Po River and the Nye.”
    The lieutenant from the 155th knelt to draw with a stick on the earth. Louis wasn’t quite sure of the man’s name.
    The lieutenant’s words, of course, were not for common soldiers like him. They were directed at the officers and noncoms gathered in a tight circle to hear the order of battle. That they’d chosen to do this only fifty feet from Louis’s position in the trench, though, meant that he was able to hear every word.
    It helped that it was so quiet right now. There was just the occasional pop of a rifle now and then. With your eyes shut, you might forget for a moment where you were and imagine it to be a firecracker going off. Louis closed his eyes and listened. No firecrackers. But a mockingbird was singing from somewhere down in the brush that lay just beyond their trenches.
    That bird , Louis thought, will likely be glad once we’ve passed through. It’s calm enough now. But the air feels like it does just before a big storm breaks .
    â€œThe prisoners we’ve taken”—the young lieutenant dug his stick into the soft ground—“have told us that there are numerous weaknesses in that line. Especially this salient, here, near the center. Second Corps will advance to this side, occupy this small hill. Then we shall be able to enfilade the enemy’s right.”
    He looked up from his rough map to smile enthusiastically at the intent circle of faces around him.
    Louis scratched his stomach.
    Louse or a flea this time? Could be either or both. Seems as if those two different sorts of critters have formed armies of their own along