A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  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.

  11

  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.

  Shells and gunfire exploded. Screams punched the air from both the injured brought to them and those outside. Another shell beat at their house, hitting close enough to rock the floor. Emma screamed, and the men joined her chorus, some trying to rise, others only groaning their terror. Beth covered her ears and shrank back against the wall, feeling it shudder. Smoke and dust rose in a cloud.

  “Get into the cellar,” Gerta yelled at her.

  Beth and Emma exchanged glances, each knowing the other could not abandon the elderly woman.

  Beth spoke first. “You can’t do this yourself.”

  Gerta’s blue eyes held hers. “You’re not afraid?”

  She was terrified, expecting any minute to be her last. But her vulnerability didn’t match that of the men in their care. “I’m staying.”

  “Check on Jim. He’s digging another hole.”

  There was no time to think, only to act. Another shell screamed and landed, piercing her ears until she couldn’t hear her feet on the wooden planks of the porch as she hurried down the step. No time to consider the danger that being outdoors posed. The black man worked fast, muscles straining as he plunged the shovel deep into the earth, stomped it down deep with his big feet, and pulled a shovelful of the rich soil from the ground. As soon as he saw her coming, he motioned her away.

  “Don’t need nothing. Get on inside.” He stilled, eyes flicking down the road. “ ’Nother wagon coming.”

  It meant more wounded. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the sounds raged on. Beth kept moving, indicating places to put more men, afraid being still would awaken her to what movement muffled. A Confederate surgeon’s assistant arrived and began sorting the men based on the severity of their wounds. He commandeered the dining table and set up a makeshift operating table in the open air.

  A woman ran down the street, hair flying behind her, under each arm a sack leaking grain as she ran. Two little boys yanked the hand of an even smaller girl trailing behind them, her legs stretching to meet the pace, their faces showing their panic.

  The urge to join them tempted Beth. She couldn’t think about it or she would do it. She was needed. Jim loomed in front of her. “Get on with ya, Missy. Send Emma on out to help.”

  She swallowed. Dust floated through the air like a fog and settled a dry layer in her throat. She coughed and lunged for the house just as another wagon stopped. Stretcher bearers passed her en route to the house, droplets of blood marking their grim paths. She lifted her skirts to free her feet.

  A maelstrom of activity greeted her. More groaning, one man screaming at the top of his lungs. Confederate men nodded to her as they passed. One planted himself right in front of her.

  “Best place for you, ma’am, is far away from here.” His drawl was pronounced, covering each word with warm syrup. His eyes were kind, his countenance gim.

  “I live here. I want to help.”

  “The South?”

  “Side makes no difference. They are all men needing someone.”

  The man stared at her with a bittersweet expression that seemed out of place. “Then we welcome your bravery and thank you for your sacrifice.”

  “I make it for the Union as well.”

  The man nodded. “I understand.”

  She scrambled inside in time to see Gerta dipping out more hot water. “Bandages. Anything you can find. Blankets, linens, dresses . . .”

  She ran up the steps and pulled down her skirts and snapped the folds out of her best nightgowns, forcing herself not to think. Emma stopped at the doorway with an armful of men’s clothes. Beth’s grandfather’s, probably stored in the attic.

  “I’m leaving these here. There’s more. She wants them ripped up too.”

  A shell boomed and the side of the house rocked. Emma threw the clothes into the air and immediately broke into tears.

  “Make it stop. God, make it stop!”

  Beth knelt in front of the woman, her own tears breaking the surface. Another hit and the window shattered, shards tinkling over the spot she’d just vacated. Smoke billowed into the room.

  “Fire. There’s fire!” Emma surged to her feet. Beth grabbed her hand and held it firm, but Emma yanked free and bolted out of the room.

  Air leached from Joe’s throat as he pushed himself upright. At least the old man’s ranting about Rebels and “seceshers” had died down with the last blast. The words had rained down on him most of the morning, rising in their vileness when the blasting was at its worst, lessening as the battle seemed to fade and the man’s voice cracked with the strain.

  He’d been quiet for too long now and Joe determined to make sure he wasn’t harmed. It was semidark, the low light of the flickering candle Jim had lit unable to reach the width and depth of the cellar. Joe squinted, careful not to stare directly into the flame, but beyond it toward the last place he’d heard the sound of the man’s voice. The man was there, slumped in a chair. Joe debated going to him, but his ears still burned with the hateful words against the South that mirrored his hatred for the North. But the man was still, too still.

  Joe struggled to a sitting position. He’d not seen Beth all morning and he wondered, even hoped, that she had
left for shelter far away from the frenetic chaos of war. He heard enough tramping around above his head to know many more occupied the house than had the previous day. The fury of the battle was only slightly muffled by the cellar. He felt trapped in the hole, afraid to be in the thick of the battle but equally afraid to flee and brand himself a coward. A continuous rattle of gunfire and screams rocked and shook the house. Pebbles of dirt and dust filled the room until his lungs felt clogged with the debris. Men moaned and screamed above him. Joe used his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his brow.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tight with anxiety. Any minute, and the house could crash down around him. He forced his mind to other things. He inhaled slowly, feeling like his mind would splinter in a thousand different directions.

  The creak of the cellar doors hailed someone’s arrival. Two men, a stretcher between them, surged down the steps and laid a man on the floor. They left and returned with another. The fetid stench of unwashed bodies permeated the air. The old man remained miraculously quiet.

  Three men in total were delivered to the cellar, and on the heels of the stretcher bearers’ exit, Beth, a black woman at her side, came down the cellar steps. She appeared to be cradling the black woman, whose cries were audible, if not hysterical.

  Joe lay his head down and swallowed, lips working. It had been a long time since he’d uttered a prayer. There was blackness in his soul. He knew it. After Sue died, there had been no merciful God. His mother’s death, his father’s mental decline, the destruction of all he’d known by the Union had congealed, then hardened into hatred. He had never understood God’s hand in taking Sue, but he’d seen enough death and suffering since joining the Army of Northern Virginia to know God was Someone to whom a dying man must make his peace. His mother had pressed the Bible into his hands, as a memory of home and a symbol of her faith. Her death had been the propulsion for him and Ben to join the army and spend the rage they harbored against the enemy.

  And now Ben was gone, too.

  He tried to remember home and wrap himself in the anger he’d felt before joining, but there was no anger left. He swung his legs to the floor and pulled himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain and numbness of his shoulder. The numbness scared him the most. It marked him as useless. Shells rattled in a constant barrage now. The boom of cannons gave him strength as he lunged for his haversack. His shoulder muscles contracted tight and hard. His weakened limbs almost gave way as he tried to straighten. He panted from exhaustion and dragged the haversack to within arm’s reach of the cot. His knees gave way and he slammed onto the thin mattress. The jolt thrust fresh pain through his body and beaded sweat on his forehead, which trickled down into his eyebrows and burned his cracked lips.