“What does that mean?" Jane asked.

“I don't know," Shelley said, "except that we'd better hurry.”

Glancing nervously at the woods on either side of the field, they hitched up their long skirts and layers of petticoats and tried to make better speed. But it was useless. Before they'd gone a few yards, they heard men shouting.

“Over there," Jane gasped, pointing to their right.

“No, the other way," Shelley countered, gesturing toward the grove of trees to their left.

Suddenly the field was overrun by soldiers: Confederate to one side of them, tearing acrossthe field; Union to the other, firing from the woods. The bloodcurdling sound of rebel yells laced through the sharp cracks of gunfire and the screams of the women trying to flee for safety. But there was no escape. They were surrounded, trapped between two clashing armies. A Confederate soldier with a sword dashed past them and part of Jane's brain registered how tattered and sad, yet fanatic, he looked with his patched uniform, untrimmed beard, and flashing eyes. Jane felt her throat closing from the hot, acrid scent of gunpowder. She dropped her heavy pack — it was the tomatoes she'd grown to trade for flour for the winter.

“Here! This way," Shelley shouted above the noise. Dying men were screaming with pain. A boy no more than thirteen had carried the regimental flag onto the field and was now sprawled across it facedown. They stepped over him and ran toward the town. One of the women who'd been walking behind them had somehow gotten ahead of them and had fallen, too. Her straw hat with the sun-faded cloth cabbage roses was twisted around, concealing her face.

Shelley fell in a rut and almost went down on her knees, but Jane grabbed her by the arm and dragged her forward. They had to keep their eyes on the ground to stop from falling again.

Jane looked up just in time to prevent them from running right into a crowd of people wearing shorts and tank tops, and sitting on aluminum lawn chairs.