Chapter 1
Letter From the War Front
"Yonder comes another death wagon!"
A twelve year old girl with brown hair down to her sash paused on the corner of a brick street. Daisy Webb studied the street traffic and waited for her brother to catch up. A seven year old boy in knee pants stopped beside her. He whipped off his cap and held it over his heart.
"You think it might be for us, Daisy?" he asked.
"No, it couldn't be Pa." Daisy answered, putting her arm around his shoulder.
As the horse drawn wagon clattered past, they could see a pine coffin covered by a Rebel flag.
"Would Pa come home like that, Daisy?" asked the boy.
"No, Ezra," replied Daisy. "Only high-up officers get carried home. Pa's only a sergeant."
"What would happen if he...?"
"Aunt Paratine told me regular soldiers like Pa get buried where they fall. Let's follow the wagon and see if the body belongs to anyone we know."
"Not yet. I want to go see if we got a letter from Pa first."
Daisy and Ezra watched the wagon turn a corner and roll out of sight. Then both children hurried downtown, scurrying past ladies in wide hoops skirts.
Outside the Lexington post office, Daisy pulled Ezra to a stop. She studied a white paper tacked to the lamp post. She read aloud:
FUNERAL You and Your Family are Respectfully Invited to Attend the Funeral of General John Hunt Morgan At the Residence of his Family Hopemount in Gratz Park Lexington, Kentucky Tomorrow at Two O'Clock
"Remember the time," Daisy said. "Aunt Paratine will want to know."
"But the Morgans are Rebels," Ezra said. "We're Yankees. The Rebs are our emunies."
"Enemies. En-em-ies. I know, but General Morgan was Pa's boss and our neighbor," Daisy said. "Besides, the whole town will turn out. General Morgan was not just a Rebel hero. The Morgans are the richest people in town."
Daisy and Ezra held hands and followed a line into the post office building. As they waited, the children listened to the talk between men with beards and tall hats.
"President Lincoln is a lunatic setting Negroes free."
"You're the lunatic! Slavery is an evil sin."
Men argued about how the war between the North and the South and how it should be run. Women ripped open letters and cried, some for joy, some for sadness.
The postmaster asked, "Miss Daisy Webb?" then thrust an envelope through the small window.
"It's from Pa," she said. "Let's get out of here."
The children edged through the crowd and ran out into the sunshine. Golden leaves rustled under Daisy's black buttoned shoes as she flew down Main Street toward Gratz Park.
Near their house Daisy stopped, panting, to stare at a horse drawn wagon in front of their main gate. Daisy couldn't catch her breath to say anything. Angels in heaven, she was thinking, it looks for all the world like the death wagon.
A tall man in a black coat and black hat stepped down from the driver's seat. Daisy's breath stopped.
Little Ezra said, "You said Pa wouldn't be carried home."
Daisy took a few steps forward. "That's right."
"What if she didn't tell us?"
The man in black strode to their door and knocked. Aunt Paratine let him in.
"It's all right, honey. Aunt Paratine's smiling. She's just got company, that's all," Daisy said.
Daisy and Ezra watched the man return to the wagon and assist two ladies down from the wagon seat.
"Come over here," Daisy said. "We can read the letter on the porch."
"Who is that man? Why is he dressed so funny?" the boy asked.
"I don't know, but he shouldn't scare people half to death like that," Daisy said. "Stay out of sight or Aunty will holler for us to come in."
The girl opened a side gate, which squeaked on its wrought iron hinges. She sashayed through with ruffled petticoats swaying. Ezra closed the gate behind them, and they made their way up a brick side path to the wide white porch. Daisy sat on the side steps beside a rose trellis where one last white bloom clung to withering vines.
"What's it say?" Ezra asked before she could get the letter unfolded. "Is Pa coming home? Is he still in the fighting?"
"Hush up and wait a minute," Daisy sighed, her eyes searching the handwriting on the grey paper. "No, he can't come home--he's, well, he was fighting at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, but not now. His arm wound is getting better."
Suddenly, from an open window somewhere near the top of the rose vine, came a call, "Daiseee?"
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