Hear the Wind Blow (11 page)

"Oh, good God." The officer lowered his bushy eyebrows. "John Singleton Mosby is a grievous nuisance—a scourge, a devil." He paused and drew on his pipe, then leaned toward me. "Were their suspicions correct? Were you hiding one of that rogue's accursed Bushwhackers?"

"James Marshall came to us wounded and sick. We took him in, and Mama restored his health. Now, thanks to your men, both James Marshall and Mama are dead."

While I spoke, my heart pounded hard and my breath came and went, fast and shallow. I didn't know why a Union officer was in my uncle's house or why he seemed so friendly and familiar with him. I glanced at Uncle Cornelius, hoping he'd denounce the Yankees, but he just sat there, twirling his brandy glass and gazing at the amber liquid as if it held the answers to life's mysteries. In my uncle's eyes, I'd clearly gone too far.

"The soldiers simply followed orders," the officer said. "General Sheridan has mandated strong reprisals against those who shelter Bushwhackers."

He looked at Uncle Cornelius and took a long pull on his pipe. "It's unfortunate the children's mother died," he added in a pious voice, "but it wasn't Yankee soldiers who killed her. Perhaps she would have died of fever even if the men hadn't come to the house."

Rachel drew in her breath as if to speak. I squeezed her arm as gently as I could, knowing a pinch would result in a screech. She looked at me, and I shook my head. Fortunately, she remembered what I'd told her about Mama and Captain Powell and kept her mouth shut.

Taking advantage of the silence, Uncle Cornelius said, "Children, it seems I've neglected my manners. This is Major Thomas Dennison. He's with the Union Army. We are privileged to share our home with him."

The major rose to his feet. He was a tall, heavy-set man with a rosy complexion, showing none of the usual sickness and pallor of a typical soldier on either side. His wellpolished gold buttons twinkled in the firelight, and so did the gold fillings in his teeth.

As Uncle Cornelius introduced me, Major Dennison held out his hand. I kept my hands in my pockets. Damned if I'd shake the hand of my enemy.

A little silence fell, and the major's face reddened. "God Almighty, boy, have you no manners?" he asked.

"Manners have nothing to do with it," I said, keeping my eyes on his. Once again my heart was pounding, both harder and faster this time.

"Please excuse my nephew, Thomas," Uncle Cornelius said to the major. "He's come a long way, without much food or rest from the looks of him."

"Neither fatigue nor hunger is an excuse for rudeness," the major said. "Were he one of my soldiers, I'd have him flogged."

With that and a scowl for me, Major Dennison went to the sideboard and refilled his brandy glass. With his back turned to the room, he added, "I heard Southerners had the manners of aristocrats, but, like many other rumors, I find it to be false in most cases."

Uncle Cornelius beckoned to the aunts. "Perhaps you two could wash these children," he whispered. "Feed them. Put them to bed. Get them out of the major's sight."

"Yes," Grandma Colby said, "that's a fine idea. I'm going to retire myself. Rebecca's death is one grief too many." Gripping her cane, the old woman levered herself off the sofa and hobbled toward the stairs. Her back bent more than I recalled, and she walked more slowly. Gone were the days when she had the energy to chase me around the yard with a switch in her hand.

"Don't forget to bathe them," she told the aunts. To Rachel and me, she said. "I am truly sorry to hear of your mother's death. Despite her unfortunate marriage, I was very fond of Rebecca." Up the stairs she went, one slow step at a time, raising each foot as if her shoes were made of lead. We watched till she reached the top and headed down the hall to her room.

A
S SOON AS THE KITCHEN DOOR
swung shut behind us, the aunts turned to me. "Oh, Haswell, you should have taken Major Dennison's hand," Aunt Esther said.

Aunt Hester nodded. "Esther is right. We both understand how you feel, but we are greatly beholden to Major Dennison."

"Beholden to a Yankee?" I stared at the aunts. "I'd sooner be beholden to Lucifer himself!"

Both aunts gasped. "Haswell, what would your poor dear mother say if she could hear you speak so?" Aunt Hester asked.

At the sound of Mama's name, Rachel's eyes filled with tears. She pressed Sophie to her skinny little breast, a silent picture of the misery I was holding inside.

Aunt Esther reached out and patted Rachel's shoulder, as if she were befriending a stray dog that might bite. "Oh, now, Rachel," she whispered. "Please don't cry, darling."

Aunt Hester left Aunt Esther to comfort Rachel as best she could. Turning to me, she murmured, "Please don't be rude to the major, Haswell."

I studied my aunt's worried face. She and her twin were quiet, peaceable sorts, not given to anger or complaint. Had they been contentious, they could never have lived with Grandma Colby all these years. But it was more than my bad manners that bothered Aunt Hester.

"Why do you care what I say to a Yankee major?" I asked. "What's he doing here anyway?"

Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "The major's been quartered with us, Haswell."

"He
lives
here?"

The aunts nodded and glanced almost fearfully at the closed kitchen door. Behind it, we could hear the major laughing at something Uncle Cornelius had said. "You see," Aunt Hester went on, "Winchester's under martial law. Officers are quartered in houses all over town."

"Those homes that are still standing, that is," Aunt Esther put in softly.

"Yes," Aunt Hester agreed. "That's why we must be gracious to Major Dennison. If he takes our behavior amiss, he might brand us traitors and burn our house, too."

"Are you saying Uncle Cornelius is a collaborator?" I asked. "His own son died fighting in Lee's army. And Avery's still in the war, doing his best for the South. How can he—"

"Hush, Haswell!" Aunt Hester's voice was as sharp as a slap. "You heard what I told you."

Rachel looked at the aunts wearily, her eyes red, her dirty face streaked with tears. "I hate this war," she said in a small, dry voice.

Much as I once craved honor and glory, I was beginning to agree. Of course, I never would have admitted to it, not even under the most fearsome torture ever devised. But so far it seemed all the war had done was destroy everything I loved. Mama and Papa. The Valley itself. And for what? For what? So the major could sit in Uncle Cornelius's house polishing his gold buttons and stuffing his belly and scaring the poor aunts half silly?

"Now, why don't you go and wash, Haswell." Aunt Hester rose to her feet and began stirring something in a pot. "You and Rachel need some food in your bellies."

The smell of whatever was on the stove cheered Rachel. Wiping her eyes, she said, "We're truly on the verge of starvation."

Aunt Esther smiled at Aunt Hester. "That child always has had the most dramatic way of expressing herself. 'On the verge of starvation,' indeed."

"Indeed," Hester agreed.

The talk of starvation reminded me of Ranger, waiting patiently in the cold for his oats. "Excuse me a minute," I said to the aunts, "but my horse needs feed and shelter. Do you have room for him in the stable?"

"There's an extra stall and plenty of oats," Aunt Hester said. "The major keeps his horse there, too."

Ranger nickered when he saw me coming. I took his bridle and stroked his nose. "Sorry, sir, but I was detained inside by one of your kind, a Union major. Not that I hold it against you."

The stable was warm and smelled of fodder and the sweet sweat of horses. I breathed it in deep, recalling the smell of our stable and the sound of Papa talking gentle to the horses while they munched their oats. I pressed my face against Ranger's warm side and wept for Papa and Mama and James Marshall and our farm.

It was the first time I'd let myself cry. The grief came from so deep inside it hurt my belly and my chest and my throat. For a while it seemed I'd never stop. I guessed Rachel was lucky in some ways to be a girl. She could cry whenever she liked. But it didn't do for me to cry. I was almost a man.

When I'd finally used up my tears, I left Ranger eating his bucket of oats. In a nearby stall, a sorry-looking dapple gray watched me pass. Its condition didn't say much for the major's horsemanship.

"What were you doing out there so long?" Rachel asked me. "The aunts said I couldn't eat till you came back."

"Just taking care of Ranger." I washed my hands at the sink and dropped into a chair. I kept my head down so no one would see I'd been crying.

The aunts busied themselves filling plates with leftovers. From the look of the potatoes, ham, beets, and biscuits, the folks in this house weren't feeling the war pinch their bellies. I reckoned it paid to quarter a Yankee officer. But I myself wouldn't have done it. No, not for the best beef in the country.

While we said grace, Rachel stared at her food as if she feared it would vanish like magic. The second we said "Amen," I dug in, glad it was real and just as good as it looked. My sister followed my example.

"Now, now, children," Aunt Esther said. "There's no need to wolf your supper. You'll make yourselves sick."

"The poor things," Aunt Hester murmured. "They must truly be famished."

Aunt Esther reached out and patted our arms. "We're so sorry for your suffering," she said. "I know how much you miss your mother and father. But you'll be safe here. We'll provide for you, keep you warm and safe."

Aunt Hester nodded her head. "That's what families are for. To take care of each other."

Rachel stared at Aunt Hester, a forkful of ham halfway to her mouth. "Grandma Colby won't send us to an orphanage, will she?"

"An orphanage?" Aunt Hester sounded shocked. "Good gracious, child, whatever gave you such an idea?"

Rachel lowered her fork and gazed from one aunt to the other. "Grandma Colby didn't like Papa," she said in a low voice. "Maybe she doesn't like Haswell and me, either."

"You are both Rebecca's children," Aunt Esther spoke up. "That means you are blood kin. Colbys don't neglect family."

"Never have," Aunt Hester agreed. "Never will."

Aunt Esther leaned toward me. "Do you recall old Uncle John? Why, he hadn't any sense at all, but Father kept him till he died. He wandered all over and folks brought him home like a stray cow."

"Some people would have sent him to the poor farm," Aunt Hester added, "Uncle John was a nuisance—but he was family."

Rachel turned to me, her eyes wide. "Do you remember him, Haswell?"

A picture came to mind of a scary old man sitting in a rocking chair. He never said anything that made sense, though sometimes he spoke up loud and clear about Judgment Day. He'd scared me with talk of the world burning to a cinder and sinners being cast headlong into hell.

"He was old—the oldest man alive," I told Rachel. "Beard down to his toes almost. He died when you were a baby."

Rachel nodded, her eyes half closed, her head drooping over her empty plate. "I was a pretty baby," she said, half asleep already. "Mama said so. I was the girl she was hoping for. And Papa agreed."

She yawned, and I found myself yawning, too. My eyelids felt weighted, and I wasn't sure I could stay awake much longer.

Aunt Hester glanced at Aunt Esther. "I think it's time these poor children went to bed."

"Shouldn't we wash them first?" Aunt Hester asked.

"Oh, I think that can wait till morning. Just look at them. They can't keep their eyes open, either one."

Aunt Hester frowned at her sister. "You heard what Mother said."

"I guess we'd better do it, then." Aunt Esther smiled apologetically and helped her sister heat water on the stove. By the time the tub was full and the curtain drawn round it, Rachel was sound asleep and I was close to it.

Aunt Esther woke Rachel as gently as possible and gave her a good washing, hair and all. When she was done, I bathed in the same water, the way we always did. Though it mortified me, Aunt Hester insisted on scrubbing me. While she worked on me, I heard Rachel fussing about the way Aunt Esther combed out the tangles in her hair.

Just about the time Rachel stopped complaining, Aunt Esther thrust aside the curtain. "Haswell, what are you doing with this?" She held my revolver the way a person holds a dead rat by the tail.

Forgetting my modesty, I leapt to my feet, sloshing water everywhere, and grabbed my gun. Sitting back down, I said, "It's mine and I need it. Where did you find it?"

Alarmed by my bad manners, both aunts stepped away from me. "It fell out of your trousers when I was gathering your dirty clothes." Aunt Esther eyed the revolver uneasily. "It doesn't seem right for a boy to be carrying something like that. It's a lethal weapon."

"Why, it could kill somebody," Aunt Hester added.

I gripped the revolver tighter. "I need it."

The aunts looked at each other, all flustered. "Well, now, Haswell—" Aunt Esther began and then turned to her twin sister. "What should we do, Hester?"

Hester bit her lip. "Why, Esther, I just don't know. Corny wouldn't want the boy carrying a weapon."

"Don't tell Uncle Cornelius," I begged. "This gun belonged to Papa. He wanted me to have it." That wasn't literally true, but if Papa knew my circumstances, he would want me to have it.

The aunts considered, looking at me, looking at each other. Rachel appeared and got her piece in. "Papa would be angry if Uncle Cornelius took that gun from Has- well."

"Well," Aunt Esther said, "I guess there's no harm in your having a keepsake of your father's."

Aunt Hester nodded. "Just keep it out of sight, Haswell. And all these bullets, too." She held up a handful she'd removed from my other pocket.

"Yes, ma'am," I promised. "I'll hide it all away, and no one will be the wiser."

Aunt Hester handed me Rachel's damp towel, and Aunt Esther laid a nightshirt over the back of the chair. "You dry yourself," she said. "As soon as you're decent, we'll show you your bedroom."

The aunts withdrew and the curtain fell back into place. I dried quickly and slipped the nightshirt over my head. It was of more than ample size so I hid the revolver and its ammunition in a fold of cloth and joined Rachel and the aunts.