“Lots.  There’s a couple that hardly even speak English.  And some that were never on a horse or shot a gun before, but that’s a whole other thing.  So you know what all those soldiers can’t do?”

“No, what?”

“Send letters home.  But they could if someone wrote letters for them.  I could do that.  Mrs. Hutchinson said I could.  So could Ada.”

“You went to the top again.”

“Do you know what else they need?”

“I guess I don’t at all,” Charlotte said.  She was trying hard not to laugh.

“They’ve got terrible boots that are mostly too big and don’t have a right and a left so their socks rub and get holes all the time and their feet hurt.”

“They need socks?”

“Ma used to knit us socks.”

“I can knit socks,” Ada said firmly.  “And write letters.  And whatever else needs doing.”

“If you can knit socks, so can I.”

“It wouldn’t be a lot of money,” Brewster said.  “I don’t think the soldiers can afford to pay much.  But it’d be some for the letters.  And the socks would be more credit at the store.”

“I can brush the horses,” Jeremy said.

“They’re our horses.  We’re supposed to brush our own horses.  Anyway, that’s what I have for now.”

“I believe the problem of earning our keep has just been solved,” Charlotte said.  “Brewster, thank you.”

<>

Their days fell into a rhythm.  They continued to post their writing along with Jeremy’s collections of words and Grace’s drawings.  Without even meaning to, Brewster turned his journal into his own numbers book, recording how much they spent, how many credits they had at the general store, the dimensions of the rooms they lived in, how much firewood they used in a day.  Charlotte just stared at him.

Charlotte baked three mornings a week at the huge cast iron cookstove in the mess hall and began to know the soldiers, discovering which of them were homesick or lovelorn and which were glad to be so far from home.  She was thankful that, although many were her age, none of them questioned her presence or appearance or anything else about her.  Since there was no assigned cook, the soldiers took turns in the kitchen, which went a great way toward explaining the quality of their meals.  She noted how different it was for the officers, who had their own cook and dining room.  Poor Mrs. Bixby, Charlotte thought.  Heaven forbid that she would ever have to prepare a meal with her own tender hands, or knit a sock.