A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  He felt hot, hotter than he’d ever been and he tried to lift his hand to push at the thick quilt covering his body. Even the air felt warm. He never knew what drew him to stare into the corner, but a woman sat there, her head bent over a letter, her expression intent.

  “What—”

  Her head snapped up and the paper glided to the floor as she stood. She knelt next to the cot, her lips curving in a smile that blew wonder into his mind and body. She was beautiful. He wanted to touch her but his body would not release him from the throbbing pain to let him raise his arm.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Did he? He fought for focus. She seemed familiar. Her voice was soft and gentle, a sound he wished he could carry with him always. Anything to clear his mind of shooting, the constant drone of cannonading and rifle, the awful screams of torment that seemed to surround him, suck him in to a level of pain and torture he didn’t want to experience. His dream. Of course. But if he’d dreamed it, then it wasn’t real. But why was his shoulder hurting just like in the dream? Why was he flat on his back?

  “No more.”

  Her eyebrows knitted in question and he knew what he said somehow hadn’t made sense to her, but it made sense to him. All of it. The war.

  “It would be good if you could drink something.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, her skirts fanning the air as she swept off toward another room. He had not the strength to turn his head and follow her path. He closed his eyes and waited for her to return, hoping she would reappear soon. He didn’t want to go back to sleep or fade into the darkness that held all those memories. Come back. Talk to me. Let me forget. Make me forget . . .

  Nothing made sense. In the haze of weariness, Beth understood a little of what was to come. Confederates had stopped throughout the day, appearing with apples in their hands from the Pipers’ orchard they’d tromped through they came scurrying across the hills and valleys of the farms. A skirmish broke out right in their front yard when a Union soldier was found hiding in the barn across the street.

  Beth saw everything from her window. She stood, transfixed by the authoritative yelling voices, the snap of fire, the cloud that rose over the three Confederate and the one Union soldier, obliterating the outcome. When the smoke cleared, the men headed toward Gerta’s dooryard and the Union man lay still on the dirt road. A lone man. Dying or dead. And no one cared except her.

  Her spine snapped straight, and she flung the package of quilt blocks onto her bed and streaked down the steps just as Gerta turned from the closed door.

  “Don’t let them in!”

  Gerta’s puzzled gaze skimmed over her.

  “They just shot a man . . .” she paused, knuckles white against the railing, choking on a surge of anger.

  “It’s too late for that, Bethie. They’ve all shot someone at some point. You should know that.”

  She darted forward and yanked open the yard door. The Confederates lounged on the steps, their faces turned toward her. “Get out of here! Get off our porch, you lousy, no good—” She lost her voice. The men rose and parted as she lunged forward, lifting her skirts to clear the steps. She darted across the lawn.

  Union blue flashed in the sunlight as she knelt beside the man’s unmoving form. She turned him over, gaped at the blood, uncaring that it soaked into her skirts and stained her fingers. She imagined seeing Jedidiah’s face, dreaded it, was relieved when it wasn’t, then horrified at the hole in the side of his head. Bile surged upward, burning her mouth. She released his head, stuffed a fist to her mouth and bit down hard to squelch the scream.

  The Confederates were there beside her, stone-faced. They said nothing. Did nothing. Beth rose to her feet, defeated. Nothing could be done for the man. It all balled together in her stomach—the deed, the senseless death, the gore, the innocence . . . Little Leo . . .

  She faced the Rebs armed with a choking rage. They fell back, the one in the center motioning the other two to follow him, and they walked away, toward the Pipers’ farmhouse.

  A soft hand on her sleeve made her flinch, and she jerked. “Joe needs tending,” Gerta’s voice was a firm whisper in her ear. “There will be more coming. More death and dying, Beth.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “What about them? What toll do you think it takes on them?”

  She shot a look at the departing men. “Nothing. They like it.”

  “That’s your rage talking.”

  Indignation rose. “They shot him. I watched it happen. Like he was a dog—”

  Gerta tugged on her arm. “Come on, Beth. I’ll have Jim come and bury him. Joe needs your attention.”

  Joe. A Confederate. He was no better than the three men vaulting the Pipers’ fence, disappearing among the apple trees.

  Gerta mounted the steps before her, the familiar warmth and the smell of bread and sauerkraut meeting her upon entering the house. She glanced beyond the kitchen into the narrow parlor where Joe lay, restless, whimpers coming from his throat. She didn’t want to go to him. Every ounce of desire to nurse was sapped from her. She collapsed into a chair, and cupped her head in her hands, and pressed her fingers against her temples where a dull ache had begun to form.

  “They’re shooting at each other, Beth, and there’s nothing you or I can do to stop it. One side will win, the other will lose, but thousands upon thousands of women and men and children will forever have their lives changed because, North or South, they lost someone they loved.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t doubt that you do, but I think it’s easy to forget. To take sides because we don’t like what we’re seeing. These men are trained to do what they’re doing. They don’t have to like it—it’s expected of them.” Gerta touched the back of Beth’s hand. Beth lifted her face and accepted the touch, closing her eyes against the burn of tears.

  “I don’t know if . . .”

  “It’s going to be worse, if I don’t miss my guess. The Confederates hold the town. People are leaving. Things will be destroyed, lives, homes . . .” Gerta’s expression pinched into the saddest expression Beth had ever witnessed on her face. What she saw there, in the face of the grandmother she so loved, tugged at a level where Beth rarely let her emotions go. It hurt too much to see the agony. Her anger churned into the need to run.

  “I can’t bear to watch this . . . carnage.”

  “It’s not the watching you’re being asked to do, it’s the helping. The healing. That’s what a nurse is all about.”

  Beth stole a glance at Joe. Beyond the gray uniform he wore when he arrived, he was a man. No more and no less. She must not lose sight of that fact.

  In her school days, there’d been a boy much like the Confederates. He’d been unconcerned with others, taunting, spending more time hating others than he did learning. Being much older, Beth had kept her distance from him. Jedidiah had fallen prey to the boy’s pranks, until his friend had rescued her brother. Not with his fists, for gentle Leo never fought anyone, but with his words. A boy wise beyond his seven years. Within the week, Leo would be dead in a fire and everyone would forget him. Except her. Her injury was the memory she held of him.

  “If you want to leave, you can take the wagon. I fear that if the horse stays the Rebs will come for her.”

  “Wouldn’t they have taken her by now?”

  Gerta shrugged. “Perhaps not. I have been feeding them, you know.”

  “If our boys fight through, we could be in trouble for having helped the Rebs.”

  Her grandmother rose from the table. It took a full thirty seconds for her to straighten completely, yet she never once glanced in Beth’s direction. “When did your faith stop and the worry take over, Bethie?”

  6

  Ben’s laugh rang deep and loud in the close confines. Joe stared, trying to understand the reason for his brother’s good humor. He scratched his chest, miserable, hungry, and ducked out of the corncrib that provided precarious shelter to stretch his legs. He wander
ed among the campfires lighting the night like a band of fireflies blazing their color all at once.

  “We’ll be moving soon,” said one of the men, hovering near the fire, hands outstretched to catch the warmth in the cold night.

  Joe couldn’t hear his companions’ reply, but he heard their raucous laughter when a soldier stood up and blazed a trail to the edge of camp. Effects of eating green corn, or bad rations. He’d seen the reaction a million times. His own stomach gurgled with the need for food, but he resisted eating just anything despite his hunger, knowing the ill effects often suffered.

  He wound his way back toward the corncrib at the edge of the meadow, passing the tent of General Daniel Hill, and listened hard for whispers of what might be in store for them. His feet started to burn in the damp coolness of the meadow grass, and he stumbled toward the shelter. Ben was gone, four other soldiers crowding in, drawn by the idea of a roof and some corn left over from a previous harvest. He unrolled his ragged blanket and folded into it, careful to put his weight on it lest another take it from him in the night.

  Ben came in much later and squatted next to him. In the darkness, he could see his brother’s smile and wondered vaguely what it was that had Ben so amused. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched his brother settle down for the night. Saw him drag Joe’s haversack closer. He fingered something long and slender, smiled, then slipped it into the sack. “Things are gonna get better real soon, Brother. Real soon.”

  Above Beth’s head, the floor creaked. Gerta couldn’t sleep either. An eerie quiet stretched over the house and the countryside. Beth stroked the length of the two quilt blocks she held side by side on her lap. She’d dared to light a lantern after putting a blanket over the window that looked onto the porch from the kitchen. She rocked next to where Joe lay, keeping the wick low as she worked the needle.

  She wondered if Gerta’s restlessness stemmed from the new wounded man out in the springhouse, fear of what was coming, or a general restlessness. As she pulled the needle through the material, she let her mind wander from the task at hand to the mental image of her mother doing the same thing. Quilt after quilt produced beneath her mother’s steady hand. Beth smiled at her impatience with the task. She’d had no desire to sit and sew, especially when the task was pushed on her because it helped “rest” her leg. None of her mother’s knack for putting together colors and following patterns flowed in her blood. Yet here she sat, doing the despised task, the thread an invisible tie to home.

  Beth stabbed the needle into the block and lowered it to her lap. At least Joe slept soundly, despite the faint heat of fever chapping his lips. She rose to apply more salve to relieve the dryness and wondered if she should check on the other man. He’d been dragged there by Rebs late in the day, his complexion wan, lips a pale slash against even paler skin. A crease running along the side of his cheek and skull had left him addled. His condition appeared worsened by the filth of his uniform, the hollows of his cheeks, and the bites from the bugs that seemed to plague every one of the Rebs she’d seen.

  She’d spent the evening going through the same process with his clothes as she had with Joe’s, burning everything, her grandmother using Grandpa Bumgartner’s old shirts and long underwear to clothe the men, a practice that would rob Gerta of every spare set of clothing she’d saved. Beth said nothing on the matter.

  Joe moved his head, his open eyes staring dully at her. His tongue darted out to lick his lips.

  “I just put some—”

  Too late. Joe winced and pulled a face as the bitter taste of the balm on his lips permeated his mouth.

  Beth couldn’t help the laugh that squeezed out. Joe’s mouth opened and his lips curved, as if he wanted to smile but it required more effort than he could muster. She smoothed her fingertips over his forehead. Still too warm, but not raging. Not yet, anyway.

  “How do you feel?” His chest heaved on an inhale. She placed a hand on his arm to calm him. “We’re taking care of you. You’re safe.”

  His hand worked its way up and pushed at the quilt that covered his chest. She helped him peel back the layer and saw the rash of bug bites along his upper chest and shoulders. He rubbed his palm along the red spots until she stopped the motion. “My grandmother says it is best for you not to scratch. Let me get some cornstarch.” She collected the items she needed and returned, spreading out the crock of salve, the container of cornstarch, and a mug full of fresh water.

  She smiled down at Joe and held out the cup of water. “Can you sit up?”

  His hands were on top of the thin blanket now. He pressed them into the sides of the mattress to gain leverage, but a jolt of pain slashed his expression and drew a moan from his lips.

  She splayed a hand on his chest and pressed. He relaxed back with another moan that vibrated through her. She lifted his head, able to feel his efforts as she held the cup to his lips and he drank, sipping at first, then taking long gulps that revealed the depth of his thirst.

  When she lowered his head, he snatched a quick breath and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Good.”

  “I’ll get some more.” She refilled the mug three times before he seemed satisfied. As he drank, questions begged to be asked, but he seemed so weak. Each cup of water took more of an effort for him to lift his head to drink.

  He closed his eyes as she began applying cornstarch to the visible bites. Her grandmother would have no qualms about applying it to all areas, but Beth’s sense of propriety could allow her to go no further with her ministrations.

  She worked the powder along his neck, the bristles of his beard grating against her fingertips. His mouth worked and she waited for him to speak, but his eyes remained closed. Taking a clean cloth from the pile, she dipped it in cool water and sponged his forehead and cheeks. At least he had grown calmer, his mind more aware.

  Finished, she put the lid on the salve and picked up the quilt pieces. Joe’s eyes opened as she took her seat, the quilt block in her hands. His eyes were tawny, a clear hazel that held more golden brown than green. Beautiful eyes. She wondered what he looked like healthy and whole, with meat on his bones and laughter on his lips. Shallow lines ran parallel to each other along his forehead. His golden brown hair, cut close to his scalp by her grandmother, was beginning to grow back in. Confederate or not, he was a handsome man. She wondered if Jedidiah had ever held the hand of a Southern woman after she’d nursed his wounds.

  Joe’s lips, thick with salve, curved upward. “Pretty.” Her gaze flashed to his as heat rolled upward from her neck and stained her cheeks. His eyes dipped to the quilt blocks and horror swept over her. The quilt colors. That was what he’d been referring to!

  The blush burned hotter as she held up the squares for him to see and for her to hide behind. “It is a beautiful color scheme. My mother puts together some of the prettiest colors. She loves to use old scraps of clothing that mean something to her.” She was babbling, trying to cover the embarrassment of thinking, even for one second, that a man might think her pretty or go so far as to give her a compliment. Surely any compliment would fade once he saw the awkwardness of her steps.

  “You. You’re pretty.”

  Her hands fell to her lap, the soft drawl of his words captivating her. She swallowed hard, searching his face. “I . . .”

  “Thank you for helping me.”

  “I try to help where I can.” She shifted beneath his gaze and forced a smile. “Where are you from?”

  “Carolina. North Caro . . .” The last syllable gave out on a sigh.

  “Your family?”

  He angled his face away. “Ben. My brother.”

  Such distress weighted those words that she feared to ask him anything else. With all her being she wished she knew what had happened to his brother. She placed her hand on his arm. “You need to sleep . . .” She paused at the feel of his name on her tongue, wondering how it would sound out loud. “Joe, you need sleep.”

  His face contorted. “Too many memories. I dream about it. T
he war.”

  Beneath her hand, she could feel the bunching of his muscles, the agitation building in him. She touched his arm. “We’ll talk later. You can tell me all about Ben. I’ll write a letter home for you.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “I’ll stay,” she said. Her heart twisted at the simple promise that kept her at his side, as if it should mean more than a nurse offering comfort to a wounded man.

  She didn’t know if it was her voice or his exhaustion, but his chest heaved upward once, twice, his eyes closed, lashes a dark lightness against the frail skin beneath his eyes. She continued to stroke his arm and saw the tension ease from his jaw and lips before his breathing became steady and even.

  Leaning back in the rocking chair, she considered the man before her and his frequent mention of Ben. Joe’s brother meant a great deal to him, just as Jedidiah meant so much to her. She eyed the beaten-up haversack in the corner, tempted to rifle through it for some indication of who the man in front of her was. Instead, she picked up her quilt blocks, slid the needle from its place, and continued on the seam. Only when she was finished did she spread them flat on her lap, the pattern laid out in her mind, along with the colors. A black background that fit the mood of the night. She touched the outermost triangle, a dark red, like the blood sure to be shed in the coming days, like that she had already witnessed. Gerta’s challenge haunted her. She wanted so much to run and hide, to be far from what was to come, but she couldn’t leave her grandmother here alone.

  But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

  7

  September 16, 1862

  Shells sang through the air, an orchestra of bass notes that rocked the house and made the floor shudder. Beth bolted upright. Breaking glass added to the commotion. Joe moaned and his eyes snapped open, filled with a resigned terror. She clasped his hand and held it as she ducked her head. She stuffed her free hand against her mouth to stifle the terrified screams that threatened. Only when things quieted did she dare raise her head. Joe lay quiet and tense, eyes shut tight, lips moving. She squeezed his hand.