Chapter 52

On April 15, the president had called for seventy-five thousand men to form a militia and serve for three months, and the states that hadn’t seceded before then did so at that point, refusing to send southern men against their brethren.

“That will make eleven states.”

“Yeah. You gonna join up, Mr. P?”

“No. I’m too old.” Tom was forty-one, and he was at the high end of the recruiting age. In addition, he had a family to look after.

“I’d volunteer, but Ma needs me.”

Tom rested a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

Bart puffed out his chest. “They shouldn’t have—”

“That’s enough, Bart.” Mrs. Hall had come out of the bedroom. She didn’t approve of war talk. Truth be told, neither did Tom. The only thing of good that had come out of the Mexican-American war had been his friendship with Guillermo Echevarría and his eventual meeting with Analeigh.

“Sorry, Ma. But they shouldn’t have,” he insisted under his breath. “You ready to go?”