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peevish little girl again but, even through the stage makeup, I could see, along with fear and selfishness, was compassion.
    "No you are not going out there." I snapped back. "This is army business and no concern of ours." I had been of half a mind to go try and stop the wailing myself, and not for the good of our theatrical evening. Hearing myself utter those words: "this is army business and no concern..." decided me. I cannot tell you how many times over the eighteen years I've been married I have heard Joseph say exactly those words. Each time I tried to right some small wrong, help some needful person, or even, God forbid, ask Joseph where he'd been when he came in at two or three or four o'clock in the morning, he said: "it's army business and no concern of yours."
    Of all the phrases in language and literature, hearing myself parrot that one upset me nearly as much as anything that had happened heretofore.
    "We'll both go," I said.
    Most everybody had already gone to the mess hall or was shut up in their quarters getting ready to go on stage. Still I told Tilly to hush. Luanne had been set to watching Mrs. Caulley's three children, and I don't know which of the four shrieked the loudest at not being allowed to watch the entertainment. I was afraid the sound of our voices would start the weeping and pleading all over again.
    Tilly promised to be "quiet as a mouse," as she has since she was three, but I took it as a sign she'd matured when she refrained from making those tiny squeaky mouse sounds as she walked.
    "We've got to hurry," I warned. "Major Tanner is making his curtain speech at eight, and Joel Lane is singing 'Take Me Home' right after," I said quickly. Calling of Private Lane to mind was oddly prophetic-pathetic-as you shall see if I ever finish this letter-become-tome.
    The mention of Joel's singing stopped her planned argument, as I knew it would. In this topsy-turvy place where our enemy prisoners are here for more sanguine reasons than the prisoners of our beloved Union, this story I'm about to tell isn't as peculiar as it might seem.
    Both Tilly and I had taken notice of Private Lane, a prisoner, a Johnny Reb and a secessionist, when he was set to hauling crushed shell to refurbish the walkway across the parade ground. Given that litany of his crimes against society, I was yet to find out the worst.
    Private Lane is imminently noticeable. Six foot or taller with black hair, blue eyes and a smile with no teeth knocked or rotted out of it. Handsome as he is, it's his voice that docs the damage. Training or natural talent has turned his native drawl into a weapon I expect few women could resist without effort. I know this because Tilly, being no better than she should, spoke to him.
    That might well have been the end of it, but fate chose to make Private Lane a part of our lives. Not two days later, the prisoners, along with the engineers and laborers brought in from New York, were put to hauling eight-inch Columbiads-fearsome cannons-to the third tier. Raising and placing these great guns is something to see. Tilly and I and a couple of the other ladies decided to brave the heat of the day to watch the process.
    Because manpower and life are the only things held cheap here, the men were lifting with block and tackle, using ropes, pulleys and the strength of their backs. The heat had melted the rules, and the officer in charge allowed the prisoners to work with their shirts off. As they began lifting the cannon, easily as long as two men put end-to-end and weighing lord knows how much, the confederate soldiers started singing.
    I suppose it was a song they'd grown up knowing, a working song used by field slaves. The Negroes on the other lines picked it up, and as they hauled, they sang. A clear tenor rose, singing counterpoint: Private Joel Lane, muscles bunched, half naked, voice soaring.
    Well, Miss Tilly's breath sucked in so audibly I thought she'd stepped on a nail or a scorpion till I saw where she