The Storm Before Atlanta Read Free Page A

the war.” His nod included the rail yards, the mules, the wounded soldiers, and the rail platform filled with waiting troops.
    Jeremy shook his head, impatient. This wasn’t the war, not what he’d read about in the newspapers. It wasn’t the Drummer Boy of Shiloh’s war.
    “I want to join a regiment,” he said.
    “Sonny, I think you better go home to your ma and pa.” The man’s smile was kind, but he was talking to Jeremy like Jeremy was a little boy, which Jeremy was not.
    “I want to join up as a drummer boy,” said Jeremy.
    “Well, you could talk to them over there.” The man nodded across the rail yard. “There’s plenty of regiments boarding up for the West out there.”
    The South, the West—Jeremy had a feeling he was going to go all over the blamed U.S. of A. looking for this war and it would be over before he found it.
    “Why aren’t you in the war?” Jeremy asked. He knew that black men couldn’t join the regular regiments but that there were separate colored regiments. He’d read about them in the newspaper.
    “Been in it.” A cloud passed over the man’s face, and he started sweeping.
    “Oh.” Jeremy felt uncomfortable. “Well, I guess I’ll go over there and talk to the enrolling officers.”
    “Sure hope they don’t take you,” said the man, but softly, like he didn’t really mean for Jeremy to hear.
    Jeremy made his way through the chaos of wagons, ambulances, and shouting men to the platforms where thousands of soldiers were gathered, playing cards, singing, talking, waiting to be shipped out.
    An officer was coming down the platform. Jeremy could tell from his insignia that he was a lieutenant, and from New York State. Jeremy stepped into the lieutenant’s path and saluted.
    The lieutenant stopped, smiled, and returned the salute. “What regiment are you with, soldier?”
    “None, sir,” said Jeremy, still holding his salute. “But I’m from York State, sir! And I’ve come to join up.”
    “At ease, soldier. Can you play a drum?”
    “Yes, sir!” Jeremy replied, hardly able to believe his good luck. “I’ve been practicing for years. I can play reveille, fall in, tattoo.…”
    “We’re short a drummer boy in the 107th New York Volunteer Regiment,” said the lieutenant. “Come along with me. I’m Lieutenant Tuttle, by the way.”
    “Jeremy DeGroot, sir.” Jeremy hurried to keep up with Lieutenant Tuttle, who led Jeremy to a little office near the platform where the enrolling officer was.
    “We have a drummer boy here who wants to join the 107th,” said Lieutenant Tuttle.
    Jeremy thrilled at being called a drummer boy.
    The enrolling officer looked at Jeremy and took some papers from a stack. “Can you play the drums?”
    “Yes, sir!” Jeremy had never actually held a real drum in his hands, but he knew how to play one, he was sure.
    The enrolling officer pointed to his desk. “Drum me a reveille on that, lad.”
    Jeremy put his hands flat on the desk and closed hiseyes to hear the rhythm that pulsed through his blood. He beat the reveille on the desk with his hands. Then, to show them what he could do, he beat a tattoo, and a march time, and a double-quick march, and finally the long roll that called soldiers to battle.
    Then he opened his eyes and looked up at the men. Lieutenant Tuttle looked slightly impressed.
    “Not bad,” said the enrolling officer. “Good enough for you, lieutenant?”
    “He’ll do.”
    “Right. We just need your pa’s signature on this form, and you’re in.”
    Jeremy’s heart sank. “I don’t have no pa.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me when and where he died?” said the enrolling officer.
    Jeremy looked up at Lieutenant Tuttle for help. He had said they needed a drummer boy, after all.
    “If you’re under sixteen, you need your father’s permission to enlist,” said the enrolling officer. “President Lincoln says the U.S. Army does not need boys who disobey their parents. Did you get your