Hear the Wind Blow

"Mexico." A fat man in a ragged frock spat in the dust. "Nah, them boys is heading for the hills. They'll join up with Mosby and keep fighting."

  "You two are crazy as loons," a dignified man spoke up. "Grant's pardoned Lee. He ain't hanging anybody. Why, he's even allowing soldiers to keep their guns and horses. You think any of them men got the spirit to keep fighting?" He pointed to the road behind me.

  I turned and saw the prisoners shuffling toward us. They looked used up, spent, like walking dead men.

  The crowd parted to let them through, calling out words of comfort, offering water, reaching out to shake their hands. "Poor boys," a woman whispered to her friend. The other woman wiped her tears away with her apron. "At least they're alive, they're going home," she said.

  As the prisoners passed me, I slid off Ranger's back and grabbed one by the arm. "Do you know Avery Magruder? Have you seen him?"

  He shook his head and pulled away. But I kept at it, stopping as many of them as I could and asking about Avery. Some didn't say anything. They mumbled and walked on past as if I weren't there at all. A few expressed interest in my horse. One or two offered to buy him. No one threatened to kill me or tried to take Ranger by force. I don't believe they had the energy. Like me, they just wanted to go home.

  When I'd just about given up hope of finding my brother, a red-headed man stopped. He was as battle-worn as the others, but his eyes were kind. "Avery Magruder," he said. "Are you kin to him?"

  "I'm his brother, Haswell." My heart beat so fast I almost choked on my words. "Avery was at Petersburg during the siege."

  The soldier nodded his head. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I fought along side of him at Farmville."

  "Where is he now?" I grabbed hold of the man so tight he tottered and almost fell.

  "Why, I can't say, Haswell. We were separated during the retreat, and I haven't seen him since. If Avery was wounded, he'd be in the hospital tents." The man pointed back the way he'd come. "In the Yankee camp. They've got their hands full, those doctors. Must be thousands of wounded, both Yankee and Confederate."

  I thanked him kindly and shook the hand he held out.

  "Avery was a good soldier," he said. "A good man. I hope you find him." Giving my hand a last squeeze, he turned and went on his way.

  I watched him for a moment. He'd called Avery a good man. Not a boy. A man. A little shiver ran over my skin. Just a year ago Avery had been a boy like me. How had he become a man so fast?

  The hospital camp was just over the hill. It was almost dark, so the tents were lit with lanterns. The canvas sides glowed orange like harvest moons. Here and there campfires flickered.

  I led Ranger into the woods and tied him to a tree, well out of sight of the road. "Stay right here, fellow. Don't let anybody steal you away." I pressed my face against his. "I'll be back soon."

  I left him munching weeds and ventured down into the camp. Men were cooking supper, but the smell of food didn't cover the stench of death. The evening air was full of it. Outside one tent was a hideous sight—amputated arms and legs piled in heaps higher than my head. I turned my face away, sickened by the sight.

  From one of the tents, I heard a man scream, "Don't cut it off! Oh, God, let me keep my leg. Don't let them take it."

  At the same time, two soldiers carried a dead man past me and laid him in a row of corpses waiting for burial, lines and lines of them. I hurried past the bodies, fearful of seeing Avery amongst them.

  Near a hospital tent, a doctor stood in the shadows, smoking a cigar and studying the stars. His apron was dark with blood, and so were the sleeves of his shirt. In truth he looked more like a butcher than a surgeon.

  I touched his arm. "Pardon me, sir," I whispered, "I've come in search of my brother. Someone told me he might be here among the wounded."

  The doctor glared down at me as if I'd interrupted an important thought. "Southerner?"

  "Yes, sir. His name's Avery Magruder, sir. He's sixteen years old. Tall. Blond hair. Have you seen him?"

  "Look here," he said. "We've got hundreds of casualties, ours and yours both. Do you actually think I know their names?"

  I grabbed his arm to keep him from walking away. "How am I to find him? Or even know if he's here?"

  The doctor flung me off impatiently. "You could start by going from tent to tent. If you don't see him among the wounded, look for him among the dead. Many a man lost his life today. More will join them tomorrow."

  So saying, the doctor extinguished his cigar and disappeared into a tent.

  Since I could think of nothing else to do, I followed his advice and followed him. In the dim light the wounded lay on pallets of straw, crowded as close to one another as kernels on a corncob. The air stank of human filth and blood and rotting wounds. The men tossed and turned and begged for water. They cursed their pain, cursed the war, cursed their officers. Some prayed to Jesus. Others called for their mothers, their wives, their sweethearts. I truly felt I was in hell, listening to the cries of the damned.

  Though it put me close to retching, I walked among the men, studying their faces. Their bandages were bloodstained, their bodies little more than skeletons. Fearing I might not recognize Avery, I forced myself to walk slower, to stare at the men even more intently.

  Most took no notice of me. I was simply another stranger passing among them. Once in a while, a man would ask me what the devil I was looking at, and I'd tell him I was searching for Avery Magruder. He'd shake his head and wish me luck. Or curse me.

  There were eight tents in all. It was in the seventh that I found Avery.

  21

  AT FIRST I WASN'T CERTAIN the soldier was actually my brother or a pale and sickly copy of the Avery I remembered. His head was wrapped in a bloody bandage, he'd grown a shaggy beard, and his skin was gray with dirt. But worst of all was the expression on his face. Dull. Blank. Vacant. Like a deserted building with dark windows, emptied out and hollow.

  It would have broken Mama's heart to see him, her firstborn son, the joy of her heart, looking so different from the boy she'd raised.

  I leaned closer, staring hard at Avery, trying to see his chest rise and fall. From his appearance, it was hard to tell if he were alive or dead.

  I reached out fearfully and touched his shoulder. "Avery," I whispered, "it's me, Haswell. I've come to fetch you home."

  To my relief he opened his eyes and stared at my face as if he were struggling to recollect me. Maybe he'd seen me before, maybe he hadn't. He didn't seem altogether certain of anything.

  "I'm your brother, Avery," I tried again. "Haswell Magruder."

  He nodded, but his eyes were still vacant. "Haswell," he repeated. "Haswell Magruder, my brother."

  I took hold of his hands and squeezed hard. "Please, Avery, try and remember. I've come such a long way to find you."

  Avery's eyes settled on my face. He held my hands so tight, I thought my bones would splinter like matchsticks. "It is you," he said hoarsely. "It truly is. Lord, I thought I was dreaming."

  He reached up and pulled me to him. My head rested on his chest. I could smell days of sweat mixed with the odor of gunpowder and stale blood. It seemed he'd never let me go.

  Not that I cared. I didn't want to let him go, either. I'd been searching for him so long and I was tired, so tired. Weary to my very soul.

  At last Avery let me go but he held on to my hands. I straightened up so I could see his face.

  "What are you doing here, Haswell?" he asked. "Mama would never allow you to come so far. Surely you haven't run away to join the army. The war's just about over."

  I looked down at our clasped hands. Strange to say, mine were almost as big as his now. When had that happened? I guessed I'd been too busy to notice I'd grown.

  "What is it, Haswell?" Avery's voice shook with fear. "For God's sake, what's happened? Tell me."

  Mute, I shook my head. As long as Avery didn't know otherwise, Mama was still alive, at least in his mind. It was like killing her all over again to say she was dead.
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  "I came to get you because, because..."I turned my head away. "Oh, Avery, don't make me say it."

  "She's dead," he whispered. "Mama's dead."

  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "She died of fever. In February." I didn't want to tell him about the Yankees and what they'd done. Or what she'd done to the captain. Not yet.

  Avery hid his face in his hands. Without looking at me, he said, "Rachel, is she ... is she gone, too?"

  "Oh, no, Rachel's as right as rain," I said, relieved to have some good news. "I left her at Uncle Cornelius's house, along with Grandma Colby and the aunts. I reckon she's fuming mad at me for leaving her there."

  He lowered his hands and stared at me. "Who's tending the farm?"

  "There's no farm to tend," I admitted. "The Yankees burned everything, even the house. They took all the livestock, too. We've got nothing left, Avery. I don't know what we're going to do." My voice broke, and I blinked hard to keep from crying. Hard as it was, I had to be a man now like Avery.

  Avery surprised me with a string of curse words. Against the war, against himself, against the whole world and all the fools in it. He'd never been the sort of boy who swore. Papa would never have tolerated such language. Nor Mama, either.

  "All that's kept me alive is the thought of seeing Mama again," Avery went on. "I meant to tell her she was right. I should have stayed home. If I had, she'd be alive right now."

  I winced for he seemed to be saying if he'd been home, things would have been different. And who knows? He could be right. "But you weren't there," I said. "And neither was Papa. It was just Rachel and me. We did our best, but Mama was sick and we couldn't make her better."

  "I'm certain you did all you could, Haswell," he said. "I'm not blaming you. I only meant that..."Hetouched the bandage swathing his head and frowned. "A damnable Yankee cavalryman almost split my skull open with his saber. Sometimes my head aches so fierce I can't think straight." His voice was low and I had to lean close to his mouth to hear him.

  Avery took my hand in his and lay back. "Let me sleep a while, Haswell. Let me rest." He closed his eyes and dropped into sleep as fast as a stone disappears when it's dropped into a pond. For the first time tonight he looked almost like himself. But maybe it was just because his eyes were shut and I couldn't see the darkness in them.

  I sat beside my brother, watching and worrying, holding his hand tight. All around me, soldiers sighed and moaned. A few rows away a man kept crying out, "Oh, God, take me, let me die. I can't bear it no more." Others wept. One sang hymns in a broken voice, forgetting the words, straying from the tune, then starting all over only to falter in the same places again and again.

  Around dawn two orderlies in bloody aprons came in and took stock of things. They gave water to those who wanted it and took away the bodies of those who'd died in the night.

  When they came to Avery's cot, he stirred and opened his eyes. "Water," he whispered.

  I watched him sip a few mouthfuls from a tin ladle and then lie back. Before he closed his eyes, he saw me and blinked.

  "Haswell," he murmured. "You're still here." He made an effort to smile, but it was more of a grimace than anything else. "You've grown some."

  I nodded. "Are you well enough to travel?"

  Avery made an effort to sit up. "You mean go home?"

  "What's left of it."

  Judging by the look on his face, I reckoned he'd forgotten what I'd told him last night. He bent over and clutched the sides of his head, but he didn't say a thing. Just rocked back and forth like a man in the grip of a misery too bad for words.

  I touched his shoulder, and he grabbed my hand and squeezed hard. He still said nothing. I didn't say anything, either, for I was in the grip of the same misery.

  After a while Avery released my hand and shoved the blankets aside. He fumbled for a faded jacket and a pair of ragged trousers. The effort of dressing seemed to exhaust him. He sat on the edge of the cot, breathing hard, his face dripping with perspiration.

  "Are you sure you can travel?" I asked. "You look poorly, Avery."

  "I am poorly, Haswell, and have been for a long while, even before I was struck on the head."

  My heart slowed in dread. "Should we stay here till you feel stronger?"

  Avery shook his head. With great effort, he rose to his feet and stood there, as wobbly as a baby learning to walk. He put out a skinny hand and leaned on my shoulder. "I want to go home," he whispered and took a small faltering step. "Or die trying."

  "Your boots," I said. "Where are they?"

  Avery gave me a puzzled look. "Boots? I haven't had boots for months. I don't know what happened to them. They wore out, I reckon."

  Barefoot and gaunt, he shuffled beside me, leaning hard on my shoulder with his right hand, more like an old man than my big brother. I wished I'd brought Ranger into camp so Avery wouldn't have to walk so far. But most likely someone would have stolen him. And then we would've had to walk all the way to Winchester.

  Outside the tent a Yankee sentry stepped into our path. "Where are you going?" His voice was tired, his face lined. From the look of him, he didn't care what Avery answered.

  "Home to my farm." Avery's voice was as weary as the sentry's.

  The two men looked each other over, their faces expressionless. "Go on, then," the sentry said, jerking his thumb toward the road. "The war's over, at least in Virginia."

  We did as the sentry said, Avery and I. He walked slowly, still leaning on me, breathing hard. I could feel him trembling with the effort. The morning was gray and cold—typical April weather. Mist rose from the fields, and the air smelled of damp earth. When we drew near the place I'd hidden Ranger, I told Avery to sit on the ground and rest a minute. He sank down slowly and looked up at me. His eyes seemed unnaturally blue in his dirty face. "Don't be gone too long," he murmured.

  I made my way into the woods, brushing aside branches and the cobwebs strung between them. All the time my heart was heavy with fear Ranger would be gone. Stolen. Run away. Lost.

  But for once my fears were wasted. Ranger stood where I'd left him, quietly cropping weeds. He raised his head when he heard me and pawed the ground. I thanked the Lord for keeping Ranger safe and hugged the horse tight.

  A few minutes later I called to Avery, who seemed to be asleep in the grass. He sat up with effort and stared at me. "Where the devil did you get that horse, Haswell?"

  "It's a long story," I said. "But he's a fine animal, isn't he? I call him Ranger, after Mosby's men."

  With a boost from me, Avery tried to climb on Ranger's back. It was a real struggle for both of us. Avery was weak but taller than I was, and he seemed to have lost his coordination. His legs flopped, he slid this way and that, landing on the grass more than once. Ranger bore it well. Maybe he thought it was a new game.

  When Avery was finally in place, too exhausted to say a word, I led the horse down the road at a slow pace. I didn't want Avery to fall off. We'd used up a lot of our strength getting him in the saddle.

  Sometime in the afternoon, we saw two soldiers ahead, Confederates making their way home like us. When they stopped to rest, we caught up with them. One was named Sykes, a stretched-out, reedy fellow with a deathly pale face. The other's name was Phillips. He was as short and stout as his friend was tall and thin. They made an odd pair, limping along together.

  Phillips eyed Ranger. "That's a mighty fine horse," he said.

  "Yes, indeed he is," Sykes agreed. "You're fortunate to have him."

  It always made me uneasy when people overly admired my horse. I drew closer to him and rested my hand lightly on his neck.

  "Don't worry, son," Sykes said. "We don't aim to steal him. We're just two old soldiers hoping to get home afore we die."

  "Keep us company for a while," Phillips suggested.

  Soon the pair was telling Avery about their battles. "We fought at Cold Harbor," Sykes said.

  Avery shuddered. "That's one I'm glad to have missed."

  "Wish we'd
missed it, too," said Phillips.

  "Before that, we was at the Wilderness and Spotsylvania," Sykes told us. "Thought we'd seen bad fighting there, but Cold Harbor—" He broke off and coughed, a loose nasty sound that called Otis Hicks to mind.

  "They just kept on coming," Phillips went on, "those crazy Feds, and we just kept shooting them. Waves and waves of them. The North must have a powerful lot of men to throw them away like that."

  "Petersburg wasn't any picnic," Avery put in. "Nor was what came after."

  "I hear you ate rats, bats, crows," Phillips said.

  "You'd be surprised at what a person will eat when he's starving," Avery said.

  "You heard Lee's orders?" Sykes asked.

  "He surrendered," Avery said. "I know that much."

  Sykes nodded. "He dismissed the army yesterday and told us to go to our homes and resume our occupations. He said we're to obey the law and become as good citizens as we were soldiers."

  "From what I see," Phillips muttered, "there ain't no homes to return to, let alone occupations." For emphasis, he waved his arm at the burned farmhouse and unplanted fields to our left.

  "I was told I was a good soldier for killing so many of the enemy." Sykes laughed. If a dead man could laugh he'd make the same sound. "You think Lee means I should go on shooting Yankees?"

  "Fool." Phillips laughed and clapped his friend on the back, causing Sykes to start coughing again. "Ain't it great? With all he's been through, he ain't lost his sense of humor."

  We walked on, conversing about the war. I was glad to see Avery sitting up straighter and taking notice, even talking a bit more than before.

  By nightfall the four of us were fast friends. We built a campfire in the ruins of an old stone house and shared what little food we had. Dry cornbread, water, and a little chicory to make coffee. As usual, my belly felt emptier after I ate than before.

  When the night turned chilly, we rolled up in our ratty old blankets. The men's talk turned to their homes, to wives and sweethearts and little children. Phillips was a married man, and he missed his wife and babies. Sykes had a pretty girl waiting for him down in Roanoke. Avery admitted he'd had his eye on a girl back home named Mary Alice Love, which was news to me, but he'd never had chance to do much courting. Just as he was working up the courage to kiss her, Papa had died, and he had run off to join the army.