“There too,” I say. “But about the other thing. Leave the Major’s tent behind, along with Peony and all the supplies she can carry. You fellows take Andy and Olive and the wagon and go on with the others. I’ll stay with her until the baby comes, and then we’ll catch up with you.”

I startle at their response, which is a single, unified chorus of “No!”

“She may need my help,” Jasper adds.

“I’m not leaving you,” Jefferson says. “Never again.”

“Leah!” she calls from the wagon.

I hesitate, unsure whether to argue sense into these fool men or run to Mrs. Joyner’s aid.

“Go,” Jefferson says. “We’ll take care of things here.”

I run to the wagon.

I climb inside to find the children clinging to their mother. Olive holds her mother’s hand, as if in comfort, but her lower lip quivers when she sees me. Andy’s face is swollen, and wetness streaks his cheeks. “Is Ma going to die too?” he asks, his right hand clutching my locket.

“Please,” Mrs. Joyner says. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

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.”