Hold the line! For the love of God, hold it!”

Not for the first time, Joshua Wheeler wondered if he’d descended into hell. The sun blazing fierce enough to make his head ache even through a cap. The flash of fire from his own rifle as well as those to his right and left. Answering fire from across the forested, rock-strewn gully. The burn of gun smoke in his nostrils, and the screams of men above the continuous concussion of shots, both rifle and artillery, pounding through his chest.

Oh God, save us …

Fire, reload, fire again. Over and over.

God … if You do love us …

Cursing, frantic. “Hold—the—line!”

There was no holding. The return fire was too hot, the Rebels pressing hard, and those on both sides of Josh either falling back or—falling. A curse was on his own tongue as he reloaded just one more time—

Something struck him, but he barely felt it. Stared in shock at his shredded sleeve, the forearm dangling above the wrist. Tried to make his hand move, but—nothing.

The pitch of the cries around him changed to a warble, the distress of his fellow Union soldiers and the unholy glee of the Rebels alike fading as the ground rushed up to meet him….

Hell took on a different face when he awoke. Darkness wrapped him about with lingering heat. A low moan rumbled from his left, while a whimpering came from his right. And somewhere not far away, the rasp as of a saw and the unmistakable scream of a man in mortal agony.

Pretty sure that had been him, not long ago.

He tried to move—but fire lit through that left arm, coursing up and into his shoulder and the rest of his body. A yelp escaped his throat before he could stop it.

God … oh God …

His mama’s voice. “Don’t you be takin’ the name of our Lord in vain, now!”

His breath came ragged. “I didn’t mean to, Mama.”

A slow, deep voice rolled out of the dark. “I reckon I ain’t your mama, but can I get you anything, soldier?”

He startled at both the nearness and cadence. “I—water. Please.”

A hand behind his neck and tin cup brought to his lips. Trying not to whimper again, but then the blessed coolness of water on his lips, into his mouth.

Maybe this wasn’t hell after all.

As he gratefully took another gulp, approaching voices overlaid the moaning around him.

“Local boy, and we’re gonna have to go tell his family.”

“While you’re at it, see if they have room for some of our prisoners to convalesce. Perhaps those less likely to survive the train journey to Richmond. Our own boys need attention, here, and there are more yet on the field.” The cultured accent of a Virginia native paused, giving way to the brief sound of boots shifting on the floor. “Portius, can any of these men be made ready to transport soon?”

“Yes, sir,” came the voice of his attendant. Tennessee, if Josh didn’t miss his guess. “This one’s awake. Not sure for how long, though.”

His pulse stuttered. Wait. Was he then a prisoner? Or—

Josh swallowed. “Sir.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “Where am I, sir?”

“And who do I have the honor of being addressed by?”

His shoulder and arm were on fire again. “Sergeant Joshua Wheeler, First Ohio, Army of the Cumberland, sir.”

A huff answered him, which might have been a sardonic laugh or something else entirely. “Well, Sergeant, you are now in the company of the Army of Tennessee.” A definite short laugh, now. “Welcome to the Confederacy, son. You may consider yourself a prisoner at this time.”

September 21, Southern Tennessee

The guns were silent now, over on West Chickamauga Creek and across the mountains. But as quiet fell, sullen and smoky under the moonlight, Pearl MacFarlane’s tears would not cease.

She never knew a body could cry so many tears.

All three of her older brothers gone now. First Jeremiah at Shiloh, then Jefferson at Fishing Creek, and now Gideon—here. In the very hills they’d run as children.

Pearl drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and let her body sag against the porch post. Clem’s sniffling still carried across the yard, likely from around the corner and behind the woodpile out back. Pa had taken himself straight to bed. If Mama were still here—well, it would kill Mama all over again.

Instead, all three of them had gone ahead to greet Mama in heaven. Wouldn’t she be glad.

A fresh, hot stream poured down her cheeks at the thought.

Lucky.

Word was that the Confederacy had driven the Federals back this day through Rossville Gap and maybe even as far as Chattanooga. General Longstreet, all the way from Virginia, had swept in to help. But what good was victory if the blood of their finest lay spilled into the ground?

Never mind that her brothers had only cared about defending that ground and were only too glad to go into the fight.

All three lay in the very earth they’d fallen upon, if one counted Gideon’s being laid to rest today beside Mama. Pearl wished all three could be buried there, but they hadn’t the means to find and bring the other two home. With only her and Clem left of the MacFarlane clan, and Pa being nearly an invalid, they’d barely enough resources to scratch out a living, much less go trying to find family who were long since in the grave.

Pearl buried her face in a corner of the shawl—a beautiful Oriental weave of cream and tan and brown, presented to Mama from Pa as a courting gift years before. Mama’s scent was long gone, but Pearl inhaled anyway, out of habit.

No, she wouldn’t wish Mama back, not in the midst of such trouble.

A slight rumble broke the quiet from somewhere down the road, growing louder by the moment. Pearl stiffened. Why would a wagon be coming this late?

The rumble resolved into a rattle, and through scraggly brush lining the road, the shape of a pair of horses and wagon could be seen, the canvas cover a white blur in the dark. As the rig turned into their yard, Pearl patted the weight of the old flintlock pistol in her skirt pocket, then stepped out from under the shadow of the porch.

Two men sat on the wagon seat, one driving and the other cradling a rifle. Both tipped their hats to her as the wagon rolled to a stop below the porch. “Evenin’, miss,” the driver said.

She bobbed a nod, gaze straying to the man riding shotgun.

“Pearl,” said that one.

“Travis,” she replied, trying to keep her voice level.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has.” Her weary mind scrolled back through the months—years? Yes, nearly two—since she’d last seen her cousin. In this moment, however, she could not even summon gladness for it. Nothing but a faint surprise.

“I was most regretful to hear about your brothers,” he said, his voice still subdued.

She swallowed, then nodded again, harder this time. Neither man got down, but the driver fidgeted, scratching his beard and fiddling with the reins. “Miss,” he said finally, “reckon we got to impose upon your hospitality for a short time. There’s a couple of wounded Yankees in the back of the wagon what needs nursing care. We’ll be bringing more tomorrow.”

“We don’t have room. Or the wherewithal.”

“Well, we was thinking you’d be saying that. Captain has authorized us to help with victuals. You just need to give ’em floor space.”

For a moment the night tilted around Pearl, and a hot, heavy wave of nausea overtook her. Then she pulled a long, slow breath, and the world righted itself again.

Mostly.

“Why aren’t you asking me to come down and help with nursing, there?”

Travis shot her a glance from under his hat brim, visible even in the dark. “Didn’t figure you’d agree.”

She huffed a laugh. “You’d be right. And I will not open my home to the likes of these either.”

“You ain’t being given a choice,” Travis said. “Every house in the area is prevailed upon to host the wounded or prisoners. We have hundreds of wounded, Pearl. Maybe more like thousands.”

An ugly word came to her tongue, but she bit it back. Why were only men allowed to curse?

A heavy step and scrape heralded the open door behind her. “We’ll take them,” came Pa’s voice from over her shoulder, steady and mild.

“Pa,” she whispered, but his hand came down on her shoulder.

“Shh. Good Book tells us to be kind to our enemies.”

There’d be no arguing with him, but her throat burned. That kindness would be required directly of her hand, not of Pa’s, whose every step was a trial and had been for many a year.

But she’d not dare complain.