Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast

Jacob demands.
    I force the door shut. She lifts her head, and we see a woman, wrapped in a blanket, barefooted, her feet blue and broken open from the cold.
    â€œJesus Christ,” Green whispers.
    She lets fall the blanket; she’s half-naked, wearing only an old pair of men’s breeches under the blanket. Blue with cold, thin, her breasts the small breasts of a girl, her face sunken, long black hair, curious thin features that might have been lovely once. I stare at her the way we are all staring. Henry Lane wakes and stumbles out of his bunk. He moves toward her, a haggard, bearded, sleep-ridden figure, and she shrinks back against me. I’ pick up the blanket and cover her shoulders. She gropes toward the fire and crouches next to it.
    â€œWho are you, lass?” Ely asks her.
    â€œLeave me alone,” she says. “God’s sake—leave me alone.”
    Kenton’s woman says: “I’ll tell ye who. She’s a fair whore of a Virginian brigade. Her name’s Bess Kinley.”
    â€œLeave me alone—”
    Jacob gets up. He goes to her directly and takes hold of her blanket. “Get out,” he says hoarsely.
    Vandeer joins him. “Get out—there’s enough of rotten women in here. You’ll make blood flow between us and the Virginians. Get out.”
    â€œLeave her alone,” I tell them. I force myself in front of Jacob.
    â€œBoy—get away. The woman’s no good!”
    â€œShe’ll stay,” I tell Jacob. “Her feet are bleeding. Let her stay and warm by the fire.”
    Jacob grips my shoulder, raises his hand to strike. Ely’s sharp voice stops him. He stands there, watching the girl.
    â€œThey’re drunk,” she says. “They’d kill me. Look at this.” She opens the blanket.
    Kenton cries: “They’re drunk—drunk. That swine Quiller swore there was no rum, but the Virginian brigades are drunk!” Quiller is the commissary.
    â€œLead her out,” Vandeer says tonelessly.
    Green’s woman says: “You stay there, honey. Let them try to put me out! A man wouldn’t put out a dog on a night like this!”
    The door opens, and a man stoops through. He wears the long grey hunting shirt of a Virginian. He’s bareheaded, panting. There are others behind him. Some of them carry their long rifles. They hold the door open and the cold eats into the room.
    â€œClose the door,” Ely tells him.
    â€œI’ll have her—she’s our woman.”
    â€œShe’s a Virginian woman!” someone behind him yells.
    â€œClose the door.”
    â€œYou can go to hell!” I say. “You can get to hell out of here!”
    He starts across the room, and I fling myself on him, bearing him back. His fist crashes into my face, and then I hear Jacob’s roar as he beats the Virginian through the low door. Ely follows with Kenton and Vandeer. I get up and stumble after them, Lane and Green with me. I catch one glimpse of the Jew, sitting by the fire like a figure out of time.
    Outside, there is a mad tangle of figures. I direct all my hate and resentment into the fight. Voices break the night’s quiet, and the Pennsylvania men pour from their dugouts. Muskets are clubbed—knives.
    The cry goes up: “Virginians!”
    There aren’t many of the Virginians—a dozen perhaps. They’re beaten back. They’re overwhelmed by numbers. We stand panting—warm even in the cold.
    â€œDrunk,” a Pennsylvania man says.
    â€œWe’re rationed on rum—and those damned Virginians drink.”
    We go back to the dugout, grumbling, but feeling that the fight has kept us from madness. We crowd in, close the door; body heat and heat of the fire. The Jew stares at us, as if we were things beyond his understanding.
    â€œYe’re Pennsylvania men?” the girl says. “You’ll let me stay tonight?”
    â€œWe’re no Pennsylvania