Olive is easily led to the back of the wagon, but Andy has to be peeled free. “Jefferson,” I call.

All five men come running.

“Keep the children busy,” I order. “Make sure they get something to eat and maybe put them to sleep in the tent.”

The Major hobbles forward. “Come here, soldier,” he says to Andy. He braces himself against the wagon and lifts the boy by the armpits. “Let’s teach your big sister to make quick bread. Your ma is going to need it.”

The other men linger, as if eager for something to do.

“Go away,” I say, and they slink reluctantly into the darkness.

Mrs. Joyner sags into the soaked feather bed with relief.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” I say, grabbing her hand. The wagon smells of blood and urine and sweat. “Then Jasper can come deliver the baby.”

She shakes her head. “It has to be you.”

“Me?”

“It was supposed to be Aunt Tildy. She was going to help me. . . . You’re the only other woman here.”

I open my mouth to argue, but a wave of pain takes her. Her eyes squeeze shut as her torso lifts from the bed. The last time I brought a baby into the world, she mooed, and I named her Gladiola, and she gave us milk a few years later. Surely this won’t be too different?

Mrs. Joyner collapses when the pain leaves her. “Promise me, Lee,” she whispers.

“Promise what?”

“Promise you’ll look after my children. Make sure they know how much their ma loved them.”

I lost my own mother less than eight months ago. Mrs. Joyner was already with child then. It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Mrs. Joyner.”

“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”

“All right,” I say. “Becky.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the preacher’s wife.”

“Mrs. Lowrey?”

“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”

“I didn’t know her very well,” I admit.

“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher’s offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”

I almost ask why, but I’m not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It’s not a contraction that’s taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.’ I know it’s God’s will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”

“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand again, because one of us is shaking and I’m not sure which.