Angel of the Battlefield (13 page)

“I vote for privacy,” Felix said quickly. “I think I have to go to the barn and look for that thing we lost.”

He and Clara headed for the stairs.

Behind him he heard Maisie groan. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said. “A chamber pot?”

“Let's see,” Felix said as he stood in the barn, trying to get his bearings. “I landed here, I think.”

Clara watched him carefully. “Landed?” she said quietly.

“Uh . . .” He tried to think of an explanation, but instead he just shrugged. “Landed,” he said.

Clara's gaze swept upward, then down to the spot where indeed Felix had landed, and where he now was on his hands and knees searching.

“But how could you have even gotten up there?” she asked him.

Felix stopped searching long enough to say, “It's complicated.”

“I can understand complicated things,” Clara said.

“I know you can, Clara,” Felix said. The paper didn't seem to be here. He sighed and sat cross-legged on the hay-strewn barn floor. “But I can't even begin to explain it myself.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and waited.

“Maisie and I live in—”

“Rhode Island,” she said. “I know that.”

“We live in our great-great-grandfather's house.
Well, sort of.”

“Either you live there or you don't,” Clara said, exasperated.

Felix took a deep breath and tried again. “We didn't want to come here exactly. It just sort of happened.” He added to himself, “And that paper has something to do with it.”

“You simply are talking nonsense!” Clara said. “Surely there is an explanation for how you came to be in my barn—”

From the doorway, Maisie's voice interrupted. “Did you find it?”

Felix was never so happy to have Maisie arrive and rescue him, something she'd done from time to time their entire lives. “It's not here,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let's go and look in the field where we played baseball.”

Maisie took off immediately, and Felix rushed to follow her. If they found that paper from The Treasure Chest, and he and Maisie each held on to it, Felix thought they would end up back at home, which is exactly where he wanted to be right now. He wondered if their mother had called the police. Had she called their father in Qatar? She must have been crying like crazy, certain they had run away or been abducted.

No matter what Maisie wanted or said or did, Felix intended to go home as soon as possible. And that paper was the way back. He hoped.

From the field, Maisie waved something in the air and shouted.

“I've got it!”

Relief filled Felix. Even if home was just that crummy apartment far from Bethune Street, he wanted to get there as soon as possible. He broke into a run. Clara had reached him and met him stride for stride.

“What's this piece of paper that's so important?” she asked him.

Felix realized it didn't matter what he told her. As soon as he reached Maisie, he would grab the paper and the two of them would be gone.

“Just something we need back home,” he said, hoping that would satisfy her.

He sprinted ahead of her.

The sun was bright and hot, and the farm smells filled his nose. Behind Maisie, three horses stood eating grass, their coats shiny in the sunlight.

“You must have dropped it when you were running,” Maisie said when he reached her.

Felix paused only long enough to take a quick look around.
Good-bye, 1836,
he thought. Clara was right behind him.
Good-bye, Clara Barton.

He knew that if he explained to Maisie what he was about to do she would try to talk him out of it. Well, she would forgive him eventually.

“So what is this piece of paper that has caused so much trouble?” Clara said.

Maisie looked right at Felix. He looked back at her. Then he grabbed one end of the paper, just like he had back in The Treasure Chest.

“Good-bye, Clara!” he shouted. “Good luck!”

Felix closed his eyes and waited.

How Peculiar

“What are you doing?” Maisie said after an eternal moment.

Felix opened his eyes. His heart sank when he took in those rolling hills, the pond, the barn, the three houses, and Maisie and Clara staring at him. The paper was still in his hands, and Maisie still held one corner of it. But they had gone absolutely nowhere. How was this possible? He was certain he'd figured out how to get home.

“I thought . . . ,” Felix began.

“You tried to get back, didn't you?” Maisie said. “Without even discussing it with me?”

Clara looked bewildered. “But how could you go home from here?” she asked. “Did you intend on stealing one of our horses?”

As if he understood, the black horse lifted his head and neighed.
“No, no,” Felix said. “Nothing like that, Clara.”

He took his sister's arm and pulled her away from Clara to talk in private.

“You said we would stay one night and then go back home.”

“You tried to trick me,” Maisie said.

“Because I knew you were going to keep stalling and stalling, and we'd never leave here,” Felix said.

“I think somehow we came here to meet her,” Maisie said thoughtfully. “I don't know why yet, but I don't want to leave before we figure it out.”

“See?” Felix said. “You're stalling already.”

“I'm not, really. Think about it. Why did we land
here
of all places? Why did Clara Barton find us in that barn? There must be a reason, Felix.”

“Mom has probably called the police by now,” he said. “She's probably worried sick.”

“I'll make a deal with you—” Maisie began.

“No!” Felix said, louder than he intended.

From across the meadow, Clara looked over at them.

Lowering his voice, he said, “No more deals.” He realized that Maisie had let go of her corner of the paper. He pulled it close to his chest.

“You go then,” Maisie said. “Leave me here, and you go back.”

“Without you?” Felix said.

“Please, Felix,” she said, “just one more day. We'll figure out why we came here, and then we'll go back. I promise.”

Despite his better judgment, Felix nodded.

“Thank you,” Maisie said and gave him a big hug.

What Maisie didn't tell her brother was that she had thought the same thing he had: If they both held on to the paper at the same time, they would go back home. That was how they got here in the first place. Surely the same thing worked in reverse? But she and Felix had both grasped the paper and nothing had happened. They were still here on Clara Barton's farm in 1836. So how exactly were they going to get home?

“I will bring back our dinner,” Clara said, getting them settled in the same place where they'd eaten the day before.

In 1836,
dinner
meant
lunch
. In the evening, you ate
supper
. Felix had figured that out yesterday, but it still sounded odd to him.

“Thanks, Clara,” he said.

As soon as she left, Felix looked at Maisie and said firmly, “We need a plan.”

Maisie surprised him by agreeing. “Let's look at the paper,” she said. “I bet that's the key.”

Maisie sat cross-legged on the grass, the paper open on her lap. “Dorence Atwater,” she said finally, looking up at Felix. “Does that name ring a bell?

He shook his head.

“Do you know where Andersonville is?”

“Near here?” he guessed.

Maisie chewed her bottom lip and kept reading.

Impatient, Felix asked her, “Who is this Dorence Atwater? What does he have to do with Clara Barton? Or us for that matter?”

She didn't answer him.

“Maisie! Give me the letter and let me figure it out.”

Slowly, Maisie lifted her head again and looked right into Felix's eyes. “It's just terrible,” she managed to say.

“What? What is it?”

His sister handed the letter to Felix. “See for yourself,” she said.

Felix read. The letter, written by Dorence Atwater, was addressed directly to Clara Barton!

Back in The Treasure Chest, they didn't have the time to make out the fancy writing.

“Maisie,” Felix said, “I think this letter is for Clara. It says he copied this list of the dead Civil War soldiers in Andersonville, Georgia. And that he managed to get it out without being discovered by the Andersonville officials.”

He continued to read some more, then told Maisie, “He took it with him through the enemy lines when he was released from there as a prisoner of war. Having been afraid that the names of the dead would never get to their families, it was his intention to publish it.”

Now it was Felix's turn to look up from the letter.

“Maisie, this says that there are thirteen thousand names on this list,” he said quietly.

Maisie gasped.

“And it's dated 1864,” Felix said.

“That's thirty years from now,” Maisie said.

“Andersonville was a prisoner of war camp during the Civil War,” Felix said, pointing to the letter. He read from it, “‘People are dying all around me. I can do nothing to save them, but I can let their families know exactly where they are buried—where to put flowers and pray.'”

“So this Atwater guy went to Clara Barton with this list he snuck out of the camp and asked her to help him notify their families?”

“I think so,” Felix said.

“That's an awful lot of people,” Maisie added.

The enormity of this settled around them as thick and heavy as the August humidity.

Clara came skipping toward them with the basket of food and the quilt. Watching her, a strange feeling came over both Maisie and Felix. Here was a young girl, young like they were. Yet in their hands they held a letter that told them that somehow she would be brought into the horrors of the Civil War. To what extent, they couldn't even guess. But the idea was overwhelming. Why did Dorence Atwater approach Clara Barton for help? Had she done something else during the war that made him believe she was the person to assist him? They couldn't help but think of their own futures. What paths would they travel in the next three decades? What mark would they make?

“Why do you two look so solemn?” Clara asked.

Unable to speak, Felix shrugged and carefully rolled up the letter. He wondered what would happen if he threw the thing away. Maybe that would save Clara from whatever horrors of war she might encounter. He wanted her to always be a shy and generous tomboy, pitching a ball on a late summer afternoon.

Maisie looked at Clara now as if she were seeing her for the first time.

“Clara,” Maisie said, “I believe you are the type of person who would help anyone who came to your door for a favor, no matter how daunting or enormous that favor was.”

“I think so,” Clara said, after considering the question.

“Do you think that's your fate? To help others?” Maisie asked.

Felix looked at his sister in admiration. She was trying to piece together both the young Clara and the woman she would become.

“I do believe I would like to do that, yes. Nursing my brother these past few years brought me great satisfaction. My parents worry, though, that my shyness will prevent me from doing anything of much importance.”

Impulsively, Maisie reached out to Clara, grabbing her hand. “Oh no, Clara!” she said emphatically. “I don't know exactly how or why, but I believe you will do something important. Maybe even many important things that will help thousands of people.”

Clara squeezed Maisie's hand. “You are so peculiar that I almost believe you,” she said, studying Maisie's face carefully.

“Yesterday you told us that you wanted to be a nurse,” Felix said. “Like your aunt.”

“My great-aunt, actually,” Clara said. She began to unpack the basket, placing plates with slices of cold ham and thick-cut bread and cheese on the quilt. “She's a midwife in Maine, but it's so rural there that she does all kinds of medical work. She delivers babies and heals wounds and saves lives every day.”

As Felix took this information in, he tried to imagine the connection between Clara's passion for healing and tending the sick and what lay ahead for her.

“Your great-aunt inspires you,” Maisie surprised him by saying.

“She's a gift, I think. She's accomplished so many things, impacted so many lives, and is still alive to share those stories with me.” Clara cut a piece of ham and took a bite. “Do you have someone like that in your life?”

Maisie thought of Great-Aunt Maisie, sitting in the nursing home. Every time they had visited, she'd tried to hug Maisie, but Maisie shrugged out of it. Her cloudy-blue eyes had struggled to make contact with Maisie's, and Maisie always looked away. When they'd visited just the other day, Great-Aunt Maisie had even tried to talk to Maisie about Elm Medona, and Maisie had dismissed her like she always did. But thinking back on it now, it seemed that Great-Aunt Maisie had actually been trying to tell Maisie and Felix something.

“We have a great-aunt, too,” Felix was saying. “She's old and sick, but when she was younger, she led a very interesting life, I think.”

“Does she prefer not to talk about it?”

“No,” Maisie said, “we prefer not to listen.”

Clara's face changed. “Not listen?”

“Sitting here,” Maisie said, “I'm thinking about her in her wheelchair, trying to talk to us, and I feel just awful.”

“Well,” Clara said, “it isn't too late, is it? When you get home you shall go directly to Great-Aunt—”

“Maisie,” Maisie said. “I'm named for her.”

“Great-Aunt Maisie,” Clara said softly, clearly touched by this. “You will go to her and hear all the wonderful things she has to tell you.”

“The last time we saw her,” Felix said, “I had the strangest feeling that she wanted to tell us something important about Elm Medona.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Maisie said.

“What is Elm Medona?” asked Clara.

“Elm Medona,” Felix said, “is the name of the house we live in. It's actually Great-Aunt Maisie's house.”

“Oh! She lives with you!”

“No,” Maisie said, “she lives in a hospital that takes care of her.”

“Do you know that kind of tree, Clara?” Felix asked. “Elm Medona?”

Clara shook her head. “They don't grow here in Oxford.”

Maisie slathered a piece of bread with butter and began to eat it. Felix could tell that her mind was working, trying to figure out all of these mysteries. Elm Medona and Dorence Atwater and, most of all, Clara Barton.

“Clara,” Felix said.

She looked up and smiled her shy smile at him.

“We have something that we think belongs to you.”

His eyes met Maisie's, and she nodded.

“Remember that paper we lost?”

“The one you found in the field?” Clara said. “I remember.”

“Well . . .” He hesitated. How much should he say? What did he know, really? The letter would speak for itself. But what would Clara make of it when the Civil War was still years and years away? What would she make of the date almost three decades from now?

“What about the letter?” Clara said. “Is it a letter for me?”

“Yes,” Maisie said firmly. “It is.”

She reached over and took it from the place where Felix had laid it down, holding it out for Clara.

With a small but quizzical smile, Clara took it.

“How peculiar,” she said.

That was the last thing Maisie and Felix heard Clara Barton say.

As soon as she said it, the air changed. A warm wind whipped around them. It smelled of everything good: cinnamon and Christmas trees and salty ocean air; fresh lemons and hot chocolate and a flower garden. It smelled like home.

Maisie gripped Felix's hand and held on tightly as they lifted and rolled.

“Clara!” Felix called. “Thank you!” But he wasn't at all certain that she heard him.