Up the Hill to Home. Jennifer Bort Yacovissi

advantage of his ability to part the throng in front. When they break through, the dust is so thick that it is difficult to see and even harder to breathe. The afternoon sun is relentless, and the humidity squeezes everything in its hot, wet grip. There are the troops, moving by in an unbroken column, dressed in their battle-worn wool uniforms; it is a wonder to Mary that they do not simply collapse like a row of dominoes, one rank behind the other. Were she to understand what the Confederates have just been through—hundreds of miles of marching in just a few days, with back-to-back battles and now the march to Washington, all in the same unflagging heat and humidity—she might be thoroughly amazed, before hardening back up and saying, “Good riddance.”

      She and Henry are not the only ones who have thought to bring refreshment to the troops. There are many people rushing along beside the column, handing in food and drink. With a practiced gait, Henry moves with the soldiers, offering the ladle, which is passed hand to hand and then back again for more. Mary struggles to catch up, gasping, her arms numb and, she can feel, vast growing welts where the pot has been swinging against her. Suddenly the pot is taken from her; she looks up into the face of a lanky, sad-eyed man who holds the cook pot while handing out tomatoes to his comrades, who bite eagerly into the fruit and suck in the juices, careful not to waste any on the ground. She cannot keep up with the soldiers, so Mrs. Slocum’s pot is handed through the ranks until it gets back to her. Even though the blond young man who gives it back has not gotten a tomato, he still touches his cap to her and says, “Thank you, ma’am. Very kindly of you.”

      She stands back with the pot at her feet, staring blankly as the column passes. With the excitement over, she fears that she is going to crumple where she stands. Her face is burning, but she isn’t even sweating anymore, which Christian told her once is a bad sign. Even if she is capable of walking, she knows that she will never be able to lift that pot again.

      Henry has fallen in beside her to watch the troops also. He looks over at her, picks up the cook pot in the same hand as the two empty buckets, takes her by the elbow, and guides her into the shade under a nearby tree. She sits down heavily, spots popping in her field of vision. There is a puddle of water left in the bottom of the buckets, brown with dust and already warm, but enough to wet Henry’s handkerchief and hold against her forehead. Henry stands in front of her to help block the glances of passersby and continues to scan the scene, giving her time to recover in private. She is not the only one overcome in the heat; many onlookers have retreated to the shade, and some have truly collapsed. “They’ll be engaging right soon now. Rebs would have been over the walls already if they’d been able to form up. No one there to stop them. Let’s hope the rest of the Sixth and the Nineteenth make it here by suppertime.” He pulls out his pocket watch to check the time and sighs. “We’ll know soon enough.” He looks down at Mary; the bright red splotches against unnaturally white pallor have evened out somewhat. Her eyes seem clear, and sweat beads have formed along her hairline. She nods up to him, and he takes her hand to help her up; she holds tight to his arm as they slowly walk home.

      In Washington City, the afternoon and evening are an agony of waiting and listening. Sound does not travel well in the heavy air, making the boom of occasional cannon fire even more ominous; the echoing reports of musket fire continue to thicken. The shifting sound tells the tale of air movement that is imperceptible on human skin.

      For the second night in a row, no one sleeps. The heat and humidity continues unabated, and Mary spends the night sitting up in the rocking chair. Though the sounds of gun and cannon fire slow in the twilight and finally stop in the full dark, they are replaced with what Mary now knows is the sound of troop movement. During the night, columns of men continue to march north up the Pike toward the front line. Henry has said that more troops would be arriving, and here they are. She finds the rhythmic sound comforting somehow, and she prays that these boys will be able to keep them all safe, and that they will be safe themselves. That young blond boy, so polite to her this morning: he deserves to have his turn to grow up into a man, to have a wife and a family.

      She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she is startled into consciousness by the sound of cannon fire. Dawn is peeking in the window, and the air is the faintest bit cooler. It is perhaps nearing six o’clock. She dresses quickly and steps past the girls, sleeping on a pallet on the floor, cooler than their bed, out onto the porch. Henry is already outside, drinking coffee, with his foot propped up on the railing. She can tell from his boots, dampened with dew, that he’s been out already. They nod to each other, and Mary realizes that she hasn’t heard more cannon fire since being jolted awake. She waits for an update.

      “It’s too bad for old Jube that he couldn’t form up yesterday. He’d have walked right in and had his feet up on the desk by now. But since the Sixth is here, I think he missed his chance.”

      Mary feels her heart flutter. “Is it over, then?”

      “Over? Naw. The Johnnies never give up easy. It’s just that it took ’til daylight for Early to see what he’s up against, but now that it is daylight, he can’t retreat.” Mary blinks at him, not following. “We’d go after him. He’d lose more men by running than by standing.” Henry scans the street, finishing his coffee. “No, it’s not over. It’s gonna be a long day.”

      The Millers and the Slocums spend most of it together. It calms Mary to be with folks who seem better prepared to deal with this; she feels as though she and the girls are under their protection, this battle-hardened old couple who as late as yesterday morning were arm’s-length neighbors. Throughout the morning, she and Mrs. Slocum—Ida Mae—constantly listen for the sounds of artillery fire, and wonder aloud to each other whether the relative calm is a good or bad sign.

      They are eager to hear from Henry when he makes it home for dinner, and wait in the shade of the back porch as he washes up and cools off at the pump. He is toweling off his face and hands before he finally speaks. “Say what you want about the Rebs, at least their generals are fighting men. Seems like ours are hoping to wait until everyone dies of old age and boredom. It makes a body wonder how we’ve held out this long.”

      Over dinner at the Slocum’s kitchen table, Henry describes how some of the well-to-do have come out in their carriages to picnic and watch the excitement. “Guess they’ve all forgotten Bull Run,” he snorts in disgust as he bites into a slab of bread and butter. Mary has not. The first time the war is this close to Washington, back when everyone thinks it’s going to be a quick and easy victory for the Union, people do the same thing: consider the battle a form of entertainment, and go out to watch. In the bloody rout that ensues, picnickers are trampled, and the carriages of senators and bankers clog the river bridges so that there is no clear path of retreat for the hopelessly unprepared Union boys.

      Henry leaves again right after dinner. Over the next several hours, the sound of gun and cannon fire pick up, but remain sporadic. It is perhaps four o’clock when he comes with the story about President Lincoln. Henry has been up near Fort Stevens himself, and says that the tall, gaunt figure in his signature hat and a long tan coat was unmistakable. “He was like a rube seeing the big city for the first time. He kept leaning over the wall gawking, and they kept yelling at him to get down. Bullets were flying everywhere, and here he was, just taking in the view. One of the men next to him was hit in the leg, and they still couldn’t get him to stay down. Whatever damn fool let him up there in the first place is a bigger idiot than the president.”

      As afternoon wears closer into evening—to Mary, the day seems without end—the gunfire thickens. Suddenly, there is a resounding boom of multiple cannons being fired at once. Distant though it is, Mary thinks she can feel it through the floorboards. Little Mary shrieks and claps her hands to her ears; both girls begin to wail. The gunfire is now thick and continuous. Mary gathers the girls to her, trying to comfort them, but she looks wide-eyed over their heads at Ida Mae, who is pale but calm. “There’s the root cellar, if it comes to that,” she says. “I think we can all fit.” Mary feels her mouth drop open. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

      “I wish Henry were here,” Mary whispers.

      “I know, dear. So do I.”

      The fire is continuous now, underscored by frequent cannon salvos. As Mary sits in Ida Mae’s rocking