cellar tumbled and rocked.
“Tell me about your home.”
Beth flinched. “Home?”
Joe’s tongue flicked across his lips, and he nodded. “Do you live with your grandmother?”
“I do now.” Her throat closed over the words.
“Why did you leave home?”
She laughed, a humorless sound. “I wanted to be a nurse.”
Joe’s smile was fleeting, incongruous. Tasting the irony of what she said in light of the reality of the situation. “And your parents didn’t want you to?”
She considered the question. “They’d just lost Jedidiah to the war. I guess they worried they might lose me, too.” She understood that fear now, in the midst of such a fierce, confusing battle, where the dying gasps of the soldier punctuated every new blast.
“That’s why she gave you the quilt. So you could see beyond the hard times.”
“Are you a preacher?”
Joe shook his head. “No. Just seems like something a mother would think of.”
It was true. The quilt was her mother’s quiet way of reminding her of this truth, and the best gift her mother could give.
“My mother sewed all kinds of things,” Joe offered, his voice resigned, heavy with tension and dread.
The question perched on her tongue to be asked, but she swallowed it back, afraid to hear that his mother had been killed. It wouldn’t be fair that he had lost both sister and mother.
“Tell me about Sue.”
This time the smile lit his eyes. “My twin. She was always in trouble.” His lips clamped together and he turned his head away. “She’d just been married.”
Another crash quaked the ground. She caught her breath and held it as she huddled over Joe’s cot. She straightened and tried to keep the words flowing. “My mother and father own a farm north of here.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Two brothers. Jedidiah, I told you about. Thomas is married, much older than us because my mother lost children between his birth and Jedidiah’s.”
“That must be the worst, losing a child. My mother never quite recovered after Sue . . . It made Ben more determined to join the South and I—”
She watched his profile, his jaw working. His hand squeezed hers a little harder, an action she was sure he was not conscious of.
He stared ahead, eyes narrowed. “I followed him to keep him out of trouble.”
“You’re remembering things. That’s good.”
His brow knit. “Bits and pieces.” He released her hand and massaged his eyes, his chest shuddering as he inhaled. Shells hit in quick succession. Beth leaned toward her grandmother. Jim scooted along the ground, closer to them, as if his presence could protect them from harm. Joe’s fingers interlaced with hers and she pressed her forehead against their clasped hands, fighting tears. A scream rose in her throat.
Not again! God, not again!
Terror clawed as the dirt began tumbling down the walls, dust rising in a weak cloud that coated her mouth.
Joe’s hand cupped her cheek. The show of sympathy released her emotions, and sobs crawled up her throat. She lowered her face to her arms to muffle the sound. Joe stroked her hair, her arm, then clasped her hand again in a grip that revealed his level of distress.
The sound of the raging battle ebbed and flowed as the afternoon stretched into evening. Like prisoners they huddled, captured by the war outside and the death rattle of the dying soldier. And when quiet finally stilled the night, the breathing of the injured soldier on the floor stilled as well.
13
No one tried to stop Beth as she crawled from the cellar. She had to see for herself. Bullets still split the air, but the action came from the direction of Harper’s Ferry at the west end of town. She felt suffocated in the cellar. Afraid. The sudden need to see for herself rose up, growing so strong that she could no longer see the insanity of venturing out.
Smoke curled in a thick cloud to the west, against the red sunset. The same red as the triangles in the quilt. Shells screamed, farther
“Tell me about your home.”
Beth flinched. “Home?”
Joe’s tongue flicked across his lips, and he nodded. “Do you live with your grandmother?”
“I do now.” Her throat closed over the words.
“Why did you leave home?”
She laughed, a humorless sound. “I wanted to be a nurse.”
Joe’s smile was fleeting, incongruous. Tasting the irony of what she said in light of the reality of the situation. “And your parents didn’t want you to?”
She considered the question. “They’d just lost Jedidiah to the war. I guess they worried they might lose me, too.” She understood that fear now, in the midst of such a fierce, confusing battle, where the dying gasps of the soldier punctuated every new blast.
“That’s why she gave you the quilt. So you could see beyond the hard times.”
“Are you a preacher?”
Joe shook his head. “No. Just seems like something a mother would think of.”
It was true. The quilt was her mother’s quiet way of reminding her of this truth, and the best gift her mother could give.
“My mother sewed all kinds of things,” Joe offered, his voice resigned, heavy with tension and dread.
The question perched on her tongue to be asked, but she swallowed it back, afraid to hear that his mother had been killed. It wouldn’t be fair that he had lost both sister and mother.
“Tell me about Sue.”
This time the smile lit his eyes. “My twin. She was always in trouble.” His lips clamped together and he turned his head away. “She’d just been married.”
Another crash quaked the ground. She caught her breath and held it as she huddled over Joe’s cot. She straightened and tried to keep the words flowing. “My mother and father own a farm north of here.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Two brothers. Jedidiah, I told you about. Thomas is married, much older than us because my mother lost children between his birth and Jedidiah’s.”
“That must be the worst, losing a child. My mother never quite recovered after Sue . . . It made Ben more determined to join the South and I—”
She watched his profile, his jaw working. His hand squeezed hers a little harder, an action she was sure he was not conscious of.
He stared ahead, eyes narrowed. “I followed him to keep him out of trouble.”
“You’re remembering things. That’s good.”
His brow knit. “Bits and pieces.” He released her hand and massaged his eyes, his chest shuddering as he inhaled. Shells hit in quick succession. Beth leaned toward her grandmother. Jim scooted along the ground, closer to them, as if his presence could protect them from harm. Joe’s fingers interlaced with hers and she pressed her forehead against their clasped hands, fighting tears. A scream rose in her throat.
Not again! God, not again!
Terror clawed as the dirt began tumbling down the walls, dust rising in a weak cloud that coated her mouth.
Joe’s hand cupped her cheek. The show of sympathy released her emotions, and sobs crawled up her throat. She lowered her face to her arms to muffle the sound. Joe stroked her hair, her arm, then clasped her hand again in a grip that revealed his level of distress.
The sound of the raging battle ebbed and flowed as the afternoon stretched into evening. Like prisoners they huddled, captured by the war outside and the death rattle of the dying soldier. And when quiet finally stilled the night, the breathing of the injured soldier on the floor stilled as well.
13
No one tried to stop Beth as she crawled from the cellar. She had to see for herself. Bullets still split the air, but the action came from the direction of Harper’s Ferry at the west end of town. She felt suffocated in the cellar. Afraid. The sudden need to see for herself rose up, growing so strong that she could no longer see the insanity of venturing out.
Smoke curled in a thick cloud to the west, against the red sunset. The same red as the triangles in the quilt. Shells screamed, farther
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