"I Survived the Battle of Gettysburg, 1863" by Lauren Tarshis, Chapters 1–6

Thomas had come to bring the men more ammunition for their rifles.

He staggered across a field, coughing and gagging.

And through the blood and smoke was a terrifying sight: hundreds of rebel soldiers charging across the meadow, their rifles pointed right at him.

Thomas was just about to snare the squirrel when his little sister’s voice sang out.

But then there she was, with her crooked grin and twiggy legs, rushing toward him. His heart turned to mush.

That was Birdie: Give her a grimy little snake, and she’d see a butterfly.

They watched as the creature streaked away, disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

And two summers ago their cousin Clem had been sold away to a plantation down in Mississippi, where slaves were worked half to death.

Just thinking about Clem gave Thomas a searing pain, even worse than the lash of Mr. Knox’s whip.

Their dogs were vicious and as big as mules. Thomas could practically smell the stink of their hot breath, hear their snapping jaws, and feel their teeth ripping into his flesh.

Danger seemed to be everywhere—looming in the trees, glowing in the eyes of the night creatures peering from bushes.

Just up the bank was a fallen tree with some soft ground on one side and a leafy bush on the other—a perfect hiding spot.

“We see you there!” a man’s voice bellowed.

“Come out now,” another voice snarled. “Or we’ll shoot you.”

“They won’t hurt us, Birdie,” Thomas whispered, praying this was true, trying to keep his voice steady.

One of them was very tall, with a straggly beard. The other was skinny with a bushy brown mustache.

There was a rustling in the tree the men stood beside.

His face was smudged with dirt, and his tangled brown hair was matted with leaves.

He craned his neck so he could keep an eye on the soldiers.

Its sharp teeth almost clamped down on Thomas’s cheek.

They grabbed for the reins, dodging the horses’ flying hooves.

More soldiers!
“Corporal Green!” a voice boomed.

“It was the rebels, Captain Campbell,” the bloodied soldier—Corporal Green—rasped.

They were on horseback...cavalry, I think.

The bugle blared reveille, and Thomas sat up with a start.

The bugle blared reveille, and Thomas sat up with a start.

In her hands was a little doll Henry had made for her, a tattered sock stuffed with straw, with two cracked buttons as eyes.

From the way Birdie clutched it to her heart, you’d think it was made of gold.

A few early-rising soldiers stood groggily and shaved in front of mirrors hung from tree branches.

There were more than six hundred men here, Henry had explained, just one regiment of the huge Union army.

He woke up in the morning looking forward to the day—to helping the men with their chores, listening to their stories, and watching them practice their battle formations and shooting.

He really did remind Thomas of Clem, the way his voice rose up when he told stories about the children he taught in his Vermont schoolhouse, his patient way of listening when Thomas told him about his life with Mr. Knox, the feeling Thomas got when they were together, that he and Birdie were safe.

She nodded happily and scampered off toward the supply wagons, chattering hellos to every soldier she passed.

Thomas noticed that even the weariest men looked up and smiled when Birdie breezed by, their faces lighting up as though Birdie herself were a bright candle.

Henry turned to Thomas, his face serious.
“We’ve gotten our orders,” Henry said. “We’re to march out today.”