Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast Page A

men,” Jacob says.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I ask her.
    â€œBess Kinley.”
    â€œSit by the fire and warm yourself” I tell her. “No man will drive you from the fire.”
    I look at her, and something passes between us. I feel bigger than before, different.
    â€œShe’ll stay,” I tell them.
    â€œShe’ll stay tonight,” Ely agrees.
    I sit close to her. She doesn’t speak. I look at her face, and for once try to read the mystery of a woman who follows the army.
    Finally I say, sullenly: “Why don’t you get out of the camp? Why don’t you get out of here?”
    â€œWhere would I go?” she asks me.
    Kenton’s woman sobs softly; silence takes hold of us. Occasionally, someone puts a piece of wood on the fire.
    â€œI’m hungry,” she says.
    We give her some gruel, and she holds the wooden cup with both hands, drinking it slowly. Nobody speaks. Henry Lane is sleeping again. Green and Kenton crawl into their beds. Already they have lost interest.
    Edward comes in, blue with cold, shaking off the snow. He stands and looks at the girl.
    â€œShe’s Allen’s woman,” Jacob says. Thus our morality. Thus our years of prayer on the hard floors of hard wooden churches. She was mine without marriage, without the word of any man of God. Because I took her, she is mine.
    The girl turns and looks at me, her dark eyes biting into mine. I say nothing. Ely tells Edward what has happened.
    â€œThey’re hard, bitter men, the Virginians,” Edward says. “The girl’s a slut. Did she expect them to nurse her?”
    â€œShut up!” I cry.
    â€œI’m not holding for the Virginians, Allen.”
    â€œWhere’s Brone?” Ely asks Edward. “He should have been back already.”
    â€œI didn’t see him,” Edward says. “I thought he was back.”
    â€œI forgot,” I mutter. “The boy was sick with cold. I forgot and I had no thought for him.”
    Ely stands up and puts on his coat.
    â€œYe’re a fool to go out,” Jacob says.
    I crawl into my coat. I’m sick with weariness, but I know about Brone. Deep in my heart, I know.
    I followed Ely out. Jacob came behind me. None of us spoke. We walked across the hillside, away from the dugouts, and then down toward the Gulph Road. It was easy to find the path Brone had beaten in the snow, and follow it. When we came near the end, two low shapes shot away across the snow.
    â€œI should have brought my gun,” I said miserably. “You should have known to bring a gun, Ely.”
    We came to Brone. Jacob knelt down. “Wolves,” he said. “Wolves,” he repeated bitterly, his voice rising, “and the lad was too weak—too weak.”
    â€œHe was telling me tonight——”
    â€œHe didn’t know,” Ely said. “He was asleep.” We knelt around him, our breath making a cloud, as if from candles. I had to look. Ely tried to hold me away, but I had to look.
    â€œWe’ll bring him back,” Ely said.
    â€œThe women——”
    â€œWe’ll bring him back to the fire,” Ely said, and he looked at Jacob and me in a way that made us nod and bend to Brone.
    We come into the dugout and put the boy down.
    â€œBy the fire,” Ely says grimly. “Lay him by the fire.”
    The Jew stands up, his face full of the pain of the world. He bends his head, touches his head simply with his hand.
    The girl is crying, as with pain.
    We gather around Brone. Vandeer kneels down. He says:
    â€œGod—forgive us. Forgive us tonight.” He kneels down, and he prays. He prays with words that we haven’t heard for a long time. He prays, simply, gently, compassionately.

PART TWO
    THE WINTER
    V
    I T IS the time of the great hunger, in the middle weeks of January, seventeen seventy-eight. The hunger has been on us three days, and for those three days we have eaten