Page 7 of Christmas at Carnton

She whispered a prayer for them, and a chilling wind swept it upward.

On the way home, she recalled a similar afternoon months earlier when she and Andrew had passed a contingent of Federal soldiers. As she’d looked into the eyes of the blue-clad enemy, she’d known she was looking into the eyes of some woman’s husband, father, brother, or son. And as she’d contemplated many times before, she firmly believed that—given the chance—she could sit across the table from those women and together they could somehow chart a course to peace.

Peace that utterly eluded Generals Grant and Lee.

Why were men so drawn to war? It probably revealed far too much about her, but she couldn’t think of anyone or any political issue for which she would willingly sacrifice the lives of her children. Her own life? Perhaps. But those of her children? She couldn’t fathom.

Later that night, after a dinner of leftover beans and corn bread, she tucked Andrew into bed on the straw mattress next to hers, then donned her shawl to fetch more wood for the fire. The night air was crisp, but at least the wind had subsided.

She stared up into the night sky pricked with stars, the quarter moon shining especially bright, and she wondered how much longer the war would continue. She smoothed a hand over her belly, not too surprised when the child within gave a tiny kick. “Patience, my love,” she whispered. “Not quite yet.”

A moment passed and she looked down, realizing she was doing it again—twirling the wedding band that was no longer there. She stared in the moonlight at the empty place on the ring finger of her left hand, knowing she’d made the right choice. She and Andrew had to eat, after all. It had been almost a year since she’d sold it to the jeweler in town, but still she felt naked without it.

Discovering how little wood was left in the bin, she retrieved the ax, situated a log atop the old oak stump, and brought the ax down with practiced force—something she wouldn’t be able to do much longer. The log split clean down the middle. Since her parents had never had a son, she’d been forced to learn unusual skills for a woman. Skills that had proven helpful over the past two years since Warren had left. Not to say she hadn’t missed Warren. She had, terribly. But she hadn’t been quite so lost in certain ways as some of her friends had been.

She chopped wood until the bin was stocked for several more days, then, breath coming heavy, carried an armful into the house. The crackle of dry wood succumbing to flame filled the bedroom, and the warmth felt good on her skin.

She sighed and retrieved the newspaper, then settled into the chair by the fire to read. When she reached the editorial section, she felt herself tensing . . .

While the gentler sex is highly esteemed, it’s clear they’re best suited for hearth and home and utterly foolish to suggest that women should be involved in any way in the war effort. Their place is in rearing children and homemaking. And to insinuate that some females have managed to infiltrate the ranks of the army and are fighting alongside men even now is ludicrous. Not only would such women faint beneath the hardship of a soldier’s life, they would flee in utter terror at the earliest sign of battle.

Aletta read on, not realizing until she’d read to the end of the letter how hard she was gritting her teeth. She consciously tried to relax her jaw as she scanned the letter written to the editor a second time, struck by her reaction to it while fully realizing the dichotomy of her thoughts.

Not that she herself ever wished to be in battle, not after the sights Warren had described with such agonizing detail. But that a man—the letter was simply signed “A soldier who loves his country”—would think so little of a woman’s capacity as to limit her options to only “hearth and home.” Was he not aware that women filled most of the factory jobs now? By necessity, yes. Because the men were off fighting. But still, females were doing the work and doing it quite well, from her perspective. She herself had worked briefly in a munitions factory, until the Federals took command of the town and shut it down. She huffed.

Such arrogance. Short-sightedness.

She turned the page, eager to move her thoughts to another subject, when a leaflet slipped from between the pages of newsprint and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and read the ornately scripted banner across the top.

Christmas at Carnton

December 17–24

She scanned the printed handbill and softly read aloud, “A Christmas auction sponsored by the Women’s Relief Society in support of our Confederate soldiers. Experienced cooks needed.”

She lifted her gaze from the page, knowing precisely where she was going first thing in the morning.

“Are you questioning my order, Captain Winston?”

“No, sir, Colonel. I simply—” Jake read warning in the man’s eyes and knew better than to try to bluff. Not after they’d been to the gates of Hades and back together. Yet he had to try to convince the senior officer. “Permission to speak freely, Colonel.”

Seated behind his field desk, Stratton leaned back in his chair, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Lack of such has rarely stopped you before, Captain. But . . .” He gestured. “Permission granted. Speak your mind.”

Jake hesitated as a bitter morning wind billowed the sides of the canvas tent, bringing with it a cold that sank clear through skin and straight to bone. He could scarcely feel his toes as it was. But at least he still had boots, what was left of them anyway. Which was more than most of the other soldiers could claim. He chose his words carefully.

“With all due respect, Colonel, I believe I can still be an asset here.”

The colonel’s smile came slowly. “You can believe anything you want, Captain. That doesn’t change my order.” He gave a throaty laugh. “I can’t tell you how many soldiers would jump at a chance to get away from the front lines for a bit.” He shook his head and all humor drained from his expression. “It’s tough . . . what’s happened to you, Captain, I know. You’re one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known. And the best sharpshooter this side of the Mississippi.”

Jake stiffened, hearing a silent were— past tense—in the colonel’s statement.

“There’s no shame in what happened to you, Captain Winston. I’ve spoken to your commanding officer who was there at Chickamauga. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent what happened.”

Jake shook his head, seeing it all play out again in his mind’s eye, feeling the bullet rip through his flesh seconds before his head struck the boulder. “I must have missed something, sir. Movement on the ridge, perhaps. Or maybe if I’d taken position a little farther to the east—”

“You didn’t miss anything. One of their sharpshooters finally got the jump on you that morning, that’s all.”

“And killed three of our officers.”