When purple crocuses started poking up through the snow, I wrapped a wool scarf around my neck and ventured outdoors for the first time in weeks. At the bottom of Beacon Hill, on Boston Common, soldiers now drilled where cows used to graze. The soldiers’ shouts and the clatter of rifles were unsettling. I tried to keep the war out of my mind, but it seemed close here. Flags and bunting festooned every building, except those houses with black crepe streamers in the windows, where families had lost men. There were new shops devoted entirely to mourning garb. I was thankful that Samuel was well out of the way of a war that could have taken him from me forever.

     Newsboys on the street shouted headlines of stories about the latest battles in Virginia. “Longs...

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