Chapter 44

Corporal Westy

The Reunion won’t begin until Sunday, but we already see men who must be veterans. They talk proud, back-slap, and seem powerful glad to be together. I don’t see Grandpa, but I reckon he’s there somewhere. I hope his haints don’t weigh him down.

At the railroad depot, we watch men unload supplies. Stacks of mattresses, mountains of blankets, and a pile of lanterns that, when lit, ought to light the whole state of Pennsylvania. Men heap them on wagons for army mules to haul to the Camp.

Mr. Redmond, Chance, and I go to the Camp, where more tents than I can count line narrow streets, stretching for miles. At one end, a tent called the Great Tent is big enough to put our house inside and have room left over for Mr. Pender’s store. No wonder I can’t find Grandpa.

Mr. Redmond says Chance and I won’t be allowed in the Camp once the Reunion commences, but for now, no one stops us.

We hear news of General Chamberlain, whose name Mr. Redmond speaks with respect usually held for the dead. The old commander feels poorly and might not make it to the Reunion.

While Mr. Redmond follows the trail of the rumor, I slip away to the West Virginia section of the Camp, and look hither and yon for Grandpa. Chance traipses after me.

An old man sits on a low stool outside a tent, chewing a toothpick. He wears a Confederate jacket with buttonholes that don’t have a dewdrop’s chance of meeting up with its buttons. Patched and faded, it smells of sweat and mothballs.

“Pardon me,” Chance says. “Are you from West Virginia?”

“From Clarksburg, same as Stonewall Jackson.” He rises from his stool as he speaks the revered name.

“Did you fight with General Jackson?” I ask.

“With ‘im and fer ‘im. Corporal Weston Hargrove at your service.”

Chance begins introductions, but as soon as the weathered soldier hears my name, his words trample all over the rest of it.

“Virginia, is it? Why, you and I oughta partner up, Little Lady. Represent m’ home state.” He grins with half his mouth while the other half grips the toothpick.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Shucks, Little Lady. Name’s Weston Hargrove, but I been nothin’ but Westy since I was a pup. Ya catch my meanin’? I’m Westy and you’re Virginia. West and Virginia. Twixt the two of us, we’s the whole state.” He slaps his knee and laughs so hard, he nearly loses his toothpick.

I like Corporal Westy right off, so I don’t mention that my name is already a whole state. “Were you truly one of the Stonewall Brigade?” I ask.

“From m’ first day o’ service to m’ last.”

“My grandpa fought with Stonewall, too.”

“Do tell. What’s Grandpa’s name?”

“Stewart Kent.”

Westy rubs his chin and looks skyward. The toothpick flicks from one side of his mouth to the other. “Stewart, Stewart. Jeb Stuart commanded the brigade fer a week or two after Stonewall fell, but General Lee had bigger bugs fer him ta stomp. We had us a whole string’a commanders, but the Yankees shot ever’ one of ‘em. Some went home wounded, and some weren’t that lucky.”

“Grandpa wasn’t a commander,” I try to say.

It’s too late. Corporal Westy takes off on a ramble like one of Grandpa’s cemetery stories. His words draw another veteran, who adds his own seasonings to the tale.

Chance and I head back to town, the question of Grandpa unanswered.

We stop at the Ice Cream Parlor for root beer.

“Can you imagine how many veterans that Camp will hold?” Chance says, as cold foam-capped glasses are set before us.

“Do you reckon it’s more than the cemetery holds?” I say.

“There are a lot of graves, aren’t there?”

I nod. “Each stone marks a life that ended. A life like my Great-Uncle Fred’s. And those are just from one side.”

“And that’s only one cemetery,” Chance says. “Men have fought wars since the beginning of time. And filled more graves than we’ll ever know.” He wipes root beer foam from his lip. “Last year, my family visited a cemetery across the Potomac from Washington. We saw Civil War graves there, too.”

“Arlington,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “Have you been there?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it. It’s on land that belonged to General Lee. Before the Yankees took it from him.”

“But it belonged to Washington’s grandson first.”

“George Washington Parke Custis, Martha’s grandson.”

Chance’s eyes give me a long look, and his lips turn up in a smile. “You must make your history teacher proud.”

I feel my face redden.

“Do you like your root beer?” he asks.

I nod. “This is the first root beer I’ve tasted. Reminds me a bit of sassafras tea.”

“Next time, we’ll get root beer floats. Root beer with ice cream.”

I smile. Root beer floats or not, I’m right glad he plans a next time.