A Basket Brigade Christmas Read Free

that Lucy’s heart broke a dozen times, humbled by the men’s gratitude and once again amazed that they could put on such a brave face. Bandaged or missing limbs and faces either too pale or blazing with fever evidenced their suffering. Some eyes glittered with unspilled tears and yet, almost to a man, the soldiers had nothing but good words for the ladies.
    Lucy had emptied her basket and was waiting for Mrs. Tompkins when the young man nearest her said quietly, “Please tell whoever made the pound cake that she gave a boy from New York a taste of home.” His voice wavered as he choked out the words, “Tell her that Private Joe Donlin blesses her for it.”
    “I’ll make sure she hears of it,” Lucy said, wondering which of the two dozen pound cakes he’d tasted. Of course, it didn’t matter. She’d tell all the bakers about Private Donlin.
    “Beware of that one,” a soldier across the way called out. “Next thing you know, he’ll be writing love letters, just to get more pound cake.”
    “Or a pair of socks,” someone hollered.
    “If it’s socks you want, you’d better write a poem.”
    “A poem? I’d write an entire ode if it’d earn me a blanket without holes.”
    “An ode to holes? Why’d you write an ode to holes?”
    Private Donlin looked up at Lucy with a grin. “Don’t mind Lyle. He doesn’t hear very well these days. Artillery gunner. Too many shells exploded with too little cotton in his ears.”
    Good-natured banter continued until a blast of the train whistle signaled departure. Mrs. Tompkins joined Lucy, and with a wave and a “God bless you,” the two of them descended to the platform. Empty baskets in hand, they waved to the men until the train was out of sight.
    “That was quite the group,” Lucy said as she and Mrs. Tompkins hurried toward the depot.
    “Indeed,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “I hope Lyle regains his hearing.”
    Lucy agreed. “All that nonsense about writing love letters just to get a pair of socks.” She looked over at Mrs. Tompkins. “Surely they’ll get fresh socks and new blankets when they reach the hospital—won’t they?”
    “One can only hope.”
    Inside the depot, the ladies were preparing to leave, gathering up the empty baskets to be taken home, refilled, and brought back on the morrow. Lucy stood by the door and called them to order. “I’ve a message to pass on to the pound cake bakers.” She told them about Private Donlin of New York.
    “One of the boys on my car said he hadn’t had yeast bread for weeks. He showed me a piece of hard tack.” The speaker shuddered. “I can’t believe we expect them to fight when that’s what they’re eating.”
    “I know,” another woman said. “If only there were a way, we’d want them all to have steak or roast beef every night.”
    “And pound cake,” someone called out.
    Lucy was about to mention socks and blankets when Jimmy Kincaid trotted into the depot. He hurried to Lucy’s side. “Ma asked me to see if you’d stop back in once the Brigade work is finished.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “She’s in a tizzy about the Ladies Aid meetings.”
    The Ladies Aid.
Of course. As chairwoman of the group, Mrs. Kincaid hosted weekly meetings in her home. A woman in mourning could not host social events. Lucy nodded at Jimmy. “All right. Let’s go.”
    “I’ve got to stop at the mercantile, too,” he said. “We’re out of sugar. Seems like at least a thousand people have called. And they stay and stay. We ran out of biscuits a while ago.” Jimmy looked over at Lucy. “Your Mrs. Jefferson rescued that. Came to the back door with a plate of her Scotch cakes, and when Cook started to cry ’cause she was so relieved, Mrs. Jefferson said she’d rustle up more. Seems like she’s delivered more every hour since. And folks just keep coming. And now we’re out of sugar and Cook’s in a panic about it.” Jimmy grunted his disapproval. “As if it’s the worst thing in the world