A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series (9 page)

Ben had kept his haversack close, too, but somewhere along the march to Fredericksburg, he’d given it up, or lost it, Joe couldn’t recall which. And then the battle had erupted at South Mountain and they’d been spread so thin, the Yanks nipping at their heels. He tried to hang on to the memory and force his mind to grasp more details, but they spun away. “I can’t remember.”

“We’ll work on it together.”

It was Beth who lifted the flap of his haversack. She withdrew the Bible first and handed it to him. He ran his hand over the softness of the leather cover, worn, cracked by age, lightly caressed the pages, made buttery from wear. Inside the front cover, a list of births and deaths. The first births written in his mother’s flowing script, the deaths written in the same hand, the letters more loosely formed, and he knew his mother must have cried through each of those entries.

“A box.”

Joe accepted the slim wooden box Beth handed him. A smile crept up his cheeks as he opened the lid, knowing exactly what lay within. “My fishing hook! Ben always teased me about this, but he stopped when we didn’t have anything to eat but were able to catch fish.” The memory came easy. He tugged out a “housewife,” the sewing kit. Two buttons lay in the bottom. He’d never sewed them back on. Too tired. Not caring at that point. A handkerchief filled the corner next to the buttons, its initial, stitched in blue . . .

“A woman’s likeness.”

He held out his hand for the familiar item, his throat closing at the sight of Sue’s creamy complexion and slight smile.
He absorbed her expression and felt the fist of grief slam him hard.

Across Joe’s features marched a display of emotion. When his features pulled tight at the sight of the picture, Beth’s heart sank. When Joe closed his eyes and pressed the likeness to his chest, despair washed over her. She leaned back in the chair and balled her hands in her lap, wondering why she felt such disappointment. She understood his emotions at seeing the beautiful woman. His wife, no doubt. Deep down anger bubbled up. Why did it matter? He had someone to love. All that they had shared was nothing more than the product of his need and the strain they were under. Nothing more.

She felt bereft, just as she’d felt the day they’d buried little Leo. His mother’s muffled sobs had felt more like an accusation. She had tried to rescue the boy and failed. She could still hear his screams of terror as the fire raged. She’d plunged inside without thought for herself, turned back by the thick smoke, choking, unable to see Leo, confused by the roar of flames. She’d retreated until, right at the door, the beam had fallen and caught her leg. Only the quick response of a neighbor lifting the beam away had given her time to escape the collapse of the entire house.

Beth stroked the dark background of the quilt blocks, touched the darkness, and realized how it had seeped into her soul. A somber place, where comfort and joy drank from the same desultory source of fear and injustice. If there were light around her, she could not see it. Fear held her bound and gagged to the blackness.

“Sue died.”

Beth angled her face, catching Joe’s low words. So he had known love and loss too. She dared not explore the reason for relief and forced herself to focus on the man. And see his pinched features, and the hard way he swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

She touched the back of his hand, and his composure shattered into sobs that wrenched her heart. She pulled his hand into hers and held it firm as the tears came, streaming golden paths from the corners of his eyes to the meager pillow that held his head. Tears stung her own eyes as well as she witnessed Joe’s show of emotion. She pressed the handkerchief from the box into his hand, the fragile stitching of a blue “S”—evidence of the one it had once belonged to.

She wanted so much to cradle him close and take away all the bad. If only she could touch the spot that ached within him and mold it into something fresh and full of hope. Was that how her mother and father had felt about her? She squeezed her eyes shut, releasing the tears gathered there to course down her own cheeks. One led to another, until a steady stream flowed down to drip onto her skirt.

Joe’s face lay in profile to her, his sobs easing, the handkerchief put to good use. When he laid it aside, he met her gaze, searching for something she didn’t understand. “You must think me a fool . . .”

A final swipe of her apron across her cheek took care of the last of her tears. “Not at all. There is so much heartache.”

“It’s the one thing that crosses the lines without penalty.”

She inhaled, considering. “There is hope,” she wanted to say, but they were her mother’s words, not her own. “It’s time to rest. Now, while it’s quiet. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like me to leave the picture with you?”

“No. It was a long time ago . . .” He lifted the Bible, testing its weight, then tried to use the back of his hand to open the flap of the haversack. She brushed his feeble attempts away and eased the Bible within, followed by the wooden box.

“What about you? You lost anyone in the war?”

Beth stilled. “My brother joined up.”

“But he’s alive?”

“As far as we know.” She shifted her weight and tucked her weak leg beneath her stronger one. She had no heart for this conversation or the reminder that someone else lay at the mercy of Lee or the newly appointed McClellan.

“Sue was devastated when her husband was killed at Fort Sumter. She just lost heart after that. Mama done her best to—” He choked on the words.

She hated herself for having to ask. “Sue’s husband?”

He nodded. “My sister.”

His
sister
. She held up the quilt pieces, blocking her face from his view. She was encouraged by the idea that Sue had not been his wife. “My mother sewed this.”

“Right pretty. My mama loved to piece and sew. Sue had herself a stack of quilts at her marriage to Laurence.”

“What do you see when you look at this?” She peeked over the top.

“Look like suns. Could use us some sunshine.”

She knew he wasn’t referring to the weather. “There’s more . . .” She lowered her arms and pointed to the center square. “See how the colors lead to the brightest spot?”

“Hope in the midst of darkness.”

The way he said it held such reverent awe. “It’s what I saw, too.”

“Your mother knew you were going into trouble?”

“I wanted to be a nurse,” her laugh was without humor. It was more than that and she knew it. “Mama worried over me
because of something that happened some years back.” She had his attention and wondered if she could give voice to the event that had so changed the direction of her life. His own tragic story of his sister’s love and loss emboldened her, and the story of Leo slipped out with an ease underscored by the press of his good hand against hers when she stumbled over the part of the beam falling and trapping her.

She could recall again the smell of singed flesh, the unbelievable heat juxtaposed with the swell of the cool air that promised freedom from the jaws of the raging beast. She’d prepared herself to die there, never expecting the lifting of her body before she lost consciousness, every shallow gasp for air filling her lungs with the heat of the inferno.

“Reckon God was watching over you pretty good that night.”

She flinched and frowned. God? Had He been watching over Leo as well? Joe didn’t know about the lasting scars on her leg, thigh, and lower body. All he saw was that she was alive and whole.

“So your mama knew how guilty you felt and wanted you to know there was hope.”

His statement stole air from her lungs. Was that why she was living? Hope? His statement turned over and over in her mind and she still could not make sense of it. If life was hope, then she was better off dead.

“Beth?”

Her throat seized up and she slipped her hand out from under his. She avoided the searching eyes.

“Are you leaving?”

“Sleep well.”

“You, too,” he turned his head, eyes capturing hers as she stood to slide the haversack beneath the cot. “Could you . . . would you read to me? Tomorrow?”

What did tomorrow hold? During the moments she had sat next to Joe, the war outside had given way to a fresh battlefield. One they shared, and yet his last words left her feeling stale and old beyond her years.

“The Confederates surround us. They’re parked in the fields around us. Everywhere.” Joe had no way of knowing their dire straits, though he would understand the suffering of the soldiers and their mind-set. She softened, wanting . . . something that she didn’t understand. “If tomorrow allows, I will.”

His eyes hazed over, a spark of anger flashing. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s a fearful thing.” She picked up the lantern.

She emerged into the night, Mr. Nisewander’s cranky voice skittering through the eerie quiet.

“. . . dark cellar with creepy things. I’m staying right here.”

Beth lifted the chimney and blew out the lantern. Jim sure had his hands full. She heard the black’s voice, injected with a placating note. She paused in the yard and lifted her chin. Darkness blanketed the rolling hills. If the Yankees were there, there was no sign of them, but the soldiers who were brought to them talked of skirmishes, of the battle on top of South Mountain and the Yankees at their heels.

A volley of shots split the quiet of night. Beth’s heart slammed against her ribs. Lifting her skirts, she hurried up the porch step and into the house, where the only light flickered from deep in the parlor filled with groaning, reaching men. With certainty she knew there would be no room for her after tomorrow. She would lose her bed, her room, her privacy. She returned to the porch. Both Jim and Mr. Nisewander had heard the shots, the older man’s head cocked in such a way as to display his unrelenting attitude. Behind him, Jim just shook his head.

“Nothing more than a nervous guard with a heavy trigger finger,” the old man groused before turning and tottering toward the front door. He weaved among the men littering the floor and toward the steep staircase. “I’ll sleep sound as the dead.”

She winced at the baldness of the statement. Jim watched the man go.

“Does Emma need help?”

“No, ma’am. Most of the soldiers are sleeping well, except the one . . .” his head tilted toward the parlor room, where the men lay. “It doesn’t look like that one will be with us come morning.” He paused to stretch. “If’n you don’t need me, I think I’ll head down to the barn for the night.”

“You’d be safer in the cellar.”

“Yes, ma’am. Makes even a free man worry when there’s so many Graybacks around. Them,” he jerked his head toward the parlor, “I’ve no reason to fear since they’re too banged up to notice the color of my skin, but the awake ones make me worry.”

“Joe won’t hurt you, Jim. Not if he risked his life to save other blacks.”

“Then I’ll look after him as well as I do Mr. Nisewander, ma’am.”

Why did that bit of kindness twist her up so much? “Thank you, Jim.”

He shouldered by her. Nothing stood in the way of her sleep now except the litany of moans. With heavy heart she climbed the steps, afraid of the darkness. Even more afraid of the light.

September 17, 1862

The first crash of artillery broke the silence of the early dawn and agitated the wounded men. Emma’s dark eyes rolled with fright as her hand butterflied the hem of her fresh apron. Both Gerta and Emma looked exhausted and Beth doubted either had slept. She knew she had done little but yank the covers up in fear or push them off when she got too hot. A miserable night. Fear permeated everything; even the air seemed laden with a sickening sour smell. Maybe it was the scent of the unclean bodies mixed with blood.

Jim appeared, wide-eyed with concern over the barrage of bullets and shells that beat the air full of holes every second. “Didn’t take much to move Mister from the guest room to the cellar.”

The statement would have been humorous if it hadn’t so accurately defined the danger. Beth swallowed. More shells, in a deafening, consistent onslaught that vibrated the walls.

Gerta rushed inside carrying a bucket of water.

Jim darted forward. “Let me take that.”

“Get these men moved to the back room, Jim. They’re clean. We’re going to have an epidemic on our hands if more are brought in and they’re as dirty as these.” Her petite form
twisted to gaze over her shoulder at the writhing, moaning men before she faced Beth and Jim again. Her lips compressed into a tight, thin line. “We lost Shem in the night.”

The two shared a glance and Beth understood the silent message between them. She had seen the large earthen hole from her bedroom window. Jim must have worked on the grave throughout the night, yet he showed no signs of weariness.

Jim nodded at Gerta and splashed his bucket of water into the kettle over the fire. “More water?”

“That, too,” Gerta acknowledged, the high color on her cheeks giving away her level of stress.

Beth stepped into the parlor, noting the relative stillness of the men in the silver gray of dawn. Only an occasional moan punched the air. Then there was the still form in the corner, the bandage on his head bloody, the wood planking beneath him saturated in blood. Shem looked peaceful. A tremor vibrated deep down inside of Beth, a quivering that never completely left as she helped where she could throughout the morning.