Hear the Wind Blow (15 page)

I checked the road behind me. No one was coming. Up ahead I heard nothing except birds singing in the woods. Ranger and I might have been the last survivors of the war.

I saw a stream flowing out of the woods and followed it into the trees. When I was sure we were out of sight of passersby on the road, I slipped from the saddle, as worn and weary as I'd ever been. Ranger nuzzled me, and I reached into the saddlebags for his oats. While he ate his breakfast, I ate mine—half a biscuit and a piece of ham. Though it didn't fill my belly, I didn't dare eat more. My food had to last as long as possible. We both drank deeply from the stream. No danger of using up the water.

By then the sun was already high in the sky and the day showed signs of being warm and fair. I bedded down in my blankets and fell asleep at once, one hand gripping the revolver, just in case.

We passed several days like that, traveling by night and sleeping by day. When I was little I was scared of the dark. I'd lie awake long after everyone was asleep, listening to the stairs creak, sure the bogeyman Grandma Colby told me about was coming to get me on account of all the bad things I'd done. No matter how hard a paddling I got, I'd wet the bed rather than face the outhouse in the nighttime. Going there was bad enough in daylight, when I could see the spiders and their webs. And there was always the chance a monster of some sort lived down in the pit, waiting to grab me.

Now, of course, I knew Grandma Colby made up the bogeyman to scare me into behaving. And I knew the only thing in the outhouse pit was what we put there ourselves. But still, when I rode along those dark roads with no company but Ranger, my imagination turned every sound into danger. Rustling noises meant Yankees were nearby. A twig snapping meant a half-crazy deserter was sneaking up to kill me and steal Ranger. The wind sighing through the trees was the whisper of dead soldiers longing to come back and finish their lives. The hoot of an owl reminded me of Grandma Colby's belief that the owl was death's messenger: he called to warn you your time on earth was nearly up. So far I reckoned the owl had been calling someone else, not me. But sooner or later my turn would come.

I swear I shivered and shook the whole night long. There were times I actually wished I'd brought Rachel with me. Her chattering would've been easier to listen to than those noises in the dark. Nothing cheered me more than the gray dawn slowly lighting the world, bringing back its colors and shapes.

As soon as the sun was fully up, I'd lead Ranger off the road and deep into the woods. We'd eat a little of what we had and bed down to sleep. Sometimes I saw parties of soldiers on the road. I reckoned they were Sheridan's men, heading for Petersburg. Their uniforms were too good to be Confederates. One night I passed so close to a Yankee camp I heard their voices round the fire. I paused to listen, for I hadn't had human company for a long while.

A soldier was singing "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground" while another played along on the harmonica. Someone plinked a banjo. It was enough to make you cry to hear the sad words of the song come floating through the darkness.

Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease;
Many are the hearts looking for the right
To see the dawn of peace.
Dying tonight,
Dying tonight,
Dying on the old camp ground.

For once I wasn't ashamed to give in to my sorrow. All alone on the road, I mourned Mama and Papa and James Marshall and my home. My heart was weary, I wished the war were over, I wished no one would die tonight or any other night.

There was silence for a few moments and then a soldier shouted, "Why, boys, let's not put on more agony than we already have." He must have had a concertina for he commenced to play and sing a lively song about the Cumberland Gap.

As the Yankees' voices rose, I rode away into the night. Truthfully, I would have liked to walk into the firelight and sit down amongst those soldiers and feel the warmth of their bodies. At that moment I was so lonesome I didn't care which side they were on.

A
FTER A WEEK OR SO
of nocturnal traveling, I figured Ranger and I were beyond Yankee-held towns. So one morning we just kept going.

In the daylight I got a better picture of the land. I passed fields and houses and barns, burned or shot to pieces by cannonballs. Most of the farms were deserted, but once in a while I saw families living in the ruins of their houses. They were as ragged as I was. Children watched me pass, their eyes full of fear and worry. No one raised a hand in greeting. Even the dogs cowered and ran at the sight of me. They were too beaten down to bark.

It was strange to see trees showing the first faint greens and pinks of spring. It seemed everything should be as dead as the salt-sown fields of Carthage after the Punic Wars. Papa had told me the Romans wanted Carthage obliterated, never to thrive again, never to be a threat to the Empire, so they'd done what they could to kill everything, even the land itself. I hoped the Yankees weren't hoping to destroy us completely and utterly and for all eternity.

It cheered me to see dandelions blooming in the weeds. Overhead, birds sang as if nothing had changed. I guessed in their world nothing had. Spring had come. It was time to build nests and find mates and raise families. Just like always.

Days passed, one pretty much the same as another, except sometimes it rained and sometimes it didn't. The biscuits got damp, and I had to pick out the weevils before I ate. I must confess I was too tired to bother sometimes. Papa told Mama once that the weevils she found in the flour were most likely good for us. He'd studied about tribes in faraway places that ate all sorts of insects and grubs and such. Though Mama scoffed at the very notion, Papa must have been right because I didn't throw up my food. But I didn't develop a fondness for it. And I certainly didn't grow fat on it.

Worse yet, I wasn't always sure where I was. The countryside looked different from the way I remembered it on trips with my father. Some towns were burned and deserted. Familiar landmarks—a church on a hilltop or an old mill, were in ruins, almost unrecognizable. Signposts were missing or turned the wrong way.

One day I followed a trail across open ground and found myself in a soldiers' burial ground. It was almost dusk. Wooden grave markers leaned this way and that, as weather-worn as if they were centuries old. Suddenly, Ranger stumbled on something. I looked down and saw a skull leering up at me. A glance around showed me more skulls and bones. It seemed the soldiers had been buried hastily in shallow graves. The rain and snow had washed the earth away, and there they were, hundreds of skeletons rising from their graves. Some still wore the remains of their uniforms.

Ranger shied and pawed the earth. He didn't like the place any more than I did. As I urged him on, I heard someone laugh. Ranger froze and so did I. A skeletal figure loomed up from the evening mist rolling across the field. I knew who it was. Death. The owl had finally called my name.

"Hey, boy, don't be afeared!" the figure called. "They's dead men all over, but they can't hurt you or each other no more. All killed in the fighting last fall. Dead as dead can be. Whether they likes it or not."

Still frozen, I watched the man come closer. He had two dead muskrats in one hand and a trap in the other. His wild gray beard hung down to his waist. His slouch hat hid much of his face. The clothes he wore were held together with patches.

"I don't aim to hurt you, boy." He held up the muskrats. "Thought you might be hungry."

My stomach rumbled at the thought of muskrat stew.

The old man laughed again. "I thought so! The belly don't lie, now, do it?"

When he took hold of Ranger's reins, I reached for my pistol. Finding my voice at last, I said, "Let my horse go!"

The old man did as I asked. "Pardon me, boy. I was just a-trying to lead you home. Thought you might share supper with me and my wife. We got us a cabin up the hill."

My head warred with my stomach. I wanted food so bad. A warm place. People to talk to. But what if the old man aimed to rob me? Or kill me?

"I mean you no harm," the old man insisted. "I'm Isaac Caples. Why, if you lived in these parts, you'd most likely be kin to me."

"I'm Haswell Colby Magruder and I'm a long way from home and I'm no kin of yours." But I didn't pull the trigger and I didn't ride away. It was almost full dark and the wind had begun to blow colder. And I had no idea where I was.

"Where you from and where you bound?" Mr. Caples asked.

"I'm from Winchester," I said, "heading for Petersburg."

He shook his head. "You've gone a sight too far south. Come along home with me and fill your belly. Get yourself some sleep. Tomorrow I'll point you in the right direction."

Too tired and hungry to do anything else, I followed Mr. Caples across the burial ground. Behind me, I heard the dead men's bones whispering in the wind, begging us to take them back to firelight and muskrat stew and soft, warm beds.

I saw the light shining through the trees before I saw the cabin. An old woman holding a lantern stood in the doorway. Her hair was white and pulled into a tight knot on the back of her head.

"Isaac," she called. "Who's that with you?"

As we stepped into the light of the old woman's lantern, Mr. Caples said, "This here's Mr. Haswell Colby Magruder. He's not from these parts, so he's no kin of ours, but he's heading for Petersburg."

"Why's he want to go there?" the old woman asked. "There's no food in Petersburg."

"I never did ask the boy why he's going there." Mr. Caples turned to me. "Why do you want to go to Petersburg? They been under a siege since last summer."

"My brother Avery's there with the army, and I aim to find him and bring him home."

"Yankee or Confederate army?" Mr. Caples asked.

"Why, Confederate!"

"Now, now, don't get all riled up," Mr. Caples said. "I was just asking."

The old woman came to my side. "I'm Mrs. Annie Caples. My husband never did have no manners. You come inside and rest yourself while I cook up them muskrats. Isaac will tend to your horse."

Her voice was soft and kind. I slid off Ranger and let Mr. Caples lead him around back. Once inside the cabin, I lay down by the fire and fell fast asleep.

It must have been the smell of muskrat stew that finally woke me. Mrs. Caples had fixed a big bowl for me, along with a chunk of bread and a mug of apple cider. It was the best meal I'd eaten in a long time. It was also the first time my belly had been full since I'd left Winchester.

While I ate, the Capleses told me stories about the war. Two of their sons had died in the terrible fighting at Cold Harbor. Another son had died of typhus in Richmond. His widow lived nearby, and she was so out of her head with grief she could scarcely care for her five children. Nobody had enough to eat. Like everyone else, they were weary of the war.

"We saw our sons off to war in 1861," Mr. Caples said. "All three rode with Jubal Early. Lord Almighty, we were so proud of those boys. They looked grand in their uniforms, clean and scrubbed and rosy-faced."

Mrs. Caples blew her nose. "How I wish I'd kept them home," she said. "But we all thought they'd run the Yankees out of Virginia and be home for Christmas. We had no idea what lay ahead."

"Nor did they," Mr. Caples said. "Nor did they, poor boys."

"Thomas and James came home that first winter." Mrs. Caples sighed and blew her nose again. "We hardly knew them. Their fine uniforms were in rags, their faces thin, their eyes full of shadows."

"Annie here tried to keep them from going back, but they went anyway. Stubborn as mules, them boys. From the time they were babes they done what they wanted."

Mrs. Caples reached out and grasped Mr. Caples's hand, "Never saw any of our boys again. All three gone."

The cabin grew silent. Sparks shot up the chimney. The candle flame leaned to the side. Wax ran down and puddled on the table.

"They didn't ride back to Jubal Early the way they done the first time," Mr. Caples said. "They didn't look like heroes no more. I reckon it's hard to think noble thoughts when men are screaming and dying all around you."

Long after I lay down on my pallet by the fire I thought about what Mr. Caples had said. I guessed he was wiser than I'd thought at first. And a deal more trustworthy.

***

The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Caples fed me fried bread and apple cider. After I ate all I could, they gave me a new supply of provisions for myself and Ranger. Mr. Caples drew me a map showing me the best way to Petersburg and told me where to watch for Yankee soldiers.

"You be careful now, young Haswell," Mr. Caples said. "You've still got at least a week's journey ahead of you."

"Yes, sir," I said. "And thank you for all you've done for me. I'm sorry I mistook you for a villain."

Mr. Caples laughed. "Well, now, I reckon some folks have called me a villain, but they was no-'count Yankees." He slapped Ranger on his hindquarters. "Be on your way now. Come back and visit some day. I reckon we'll be here till we get called up yonder to see our boys."

Although I knew full well I had to leave, I would have enjoyed staying with the Capleses a while longer. They put me in mind of my Magruder grandparents, warm and welcoming and kind.

N
OT LONG AFTER I LEFT
the Capleses' cabin, rain began to fall. It came down hard and steady, as if it never meant to quit. The road dissolved into thick red mud, channeled with streams and puddles of water. The mud sucked at Ranger's hooves, making every step difficult. He plodded along as if he were pulling a plow.

Soon my head began to ache, then my chest, my arms, my legs. I got so light-headed I could scarcely sit up straight. I shook with cold and burned with heat. More than anything, I wanted to throw myself down in the weeds and lie there till I died. But sick as I knew myself to be, I kept going, watching for a house with lights in the window. If I were lucky, I'd find someone to help me like Mama helped James Marshall.