Lynda Trent - The Fire Within

As he was counting the bricks for the second time, Megan came into his line of vision. She put down the armload of firewood and straightened as if her back were tired. Then she knelt and put a log on the fire and unhooked an iron spoon to stir the beans she was cooking over the fire.

He didn’t call out to her, nor did she look in his direction. Caleb rarely had the opportunity to observe her without her knowledge. Megan untied her heavy outdoor shawl and hung it on a peg by the chimney and touched her smooth auburn hair to be sure none of it had strayed from its pins. In spite of the work she had been doing, her white blouse was still clean and her skirt not muddy. Megan was one of the neatest women he had ever seen. She was nothing like the stereotypical mountain women some of his fellow soldiers had laughed about around campfires.

Since coming to the cabin, Caleb had discovered other discrepancies in what he had been told. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that the Union soldiers, in order to justify the hardships and dangers they were placing these women in, had to lessen their humanness. He assumed the Confederate soldiers were doing the same thing. For most people, war was only possible if one could convince himself that the enemy was barbaric.

Megan left his range of view but soon returned with a piece of paper. Still not looking in his direction, she sat on the low stool by the fire and began to draw. As her bit of charcoal moved over the paper, she started to sing.

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