Hear the Wind Blow

  Rachel began to cry. Mama prayed to herself, keeping her voice low. The wind blew, and the sleet fell. The rock protected us from the worst of it, but we were mighty cold and wet. I wished I could build a fire, but I was scared the men would see it. We had no choice but to hunker down and stay put.

  It wasn't long till we heard the men calling for the captain. We were too far away to make out what else they said. They quieted down after a while. The silence was worse than the yelling, for it most likely meant they were planning vengeance. We'd sheltered a Ranger, and we were bound to pay a penalty for it. Worse yet, we'd killed a Union officer. If they found the captain's body, we were surely doomed.

  Half an hour or so passed. My toes were numb from the cold, and my fingers ached so bad I could barely hold the revolver. Every now and then I heard sounds from the house. Breaking glass, furniture splintering, loud laughter, swearing, even a few gunshots. Most likely the Yankees had found Papa's liquor.

  Time passed. No one came roaring outside, shouting to us murdering rebels to surrender. The Yankees stayed in the house, getting drunker and drunker. They sang bar-room songs, they cursed, they shouted insults at Hicks. But they didn't come searching for us.

  After a while, Rachel nudged me, waking me from a light sleep. "Look, Haswell, is that the sun coming up already?"

  I turned where she pointed, not to the east but to the north, where no sun ever rose. The devils had set fire to the house or the barn, maybe both. I heard more gunshots, more laughter.

  "But how can it be the sun?" Rachel went on. "It's still darkest night."

  Mama wept. Like me, she knew what that light in the sky meant.

  "It's our house," Rachel cried. "They're burning it!" She leapt to her feet and tried to climb up the muddy side of the gully. "My doll," she sobbed. "I left Sophia in her cradle."

  I grabbed my sister and pulled her back under the rock. She struggled and kicked and bit, all the while crying for her doll.

  "You want the Yankees to burn you up, too?" I hissed in her ear.

  "They wouldn't harm a girl!" Rachel cried.

  "Oh, yes, they would," I said. "We have to stay hidden." Rachel stopped struggling, but she kept on sobbing for Sophia.

  The night passed slowly. The fire died down. So did the noise. But I was scared to go see if the soldiers were gone. They could be sleeping or lying in wait for us to appear.

  So we stayed where we were, huddled as close to one another as we could get, and waited for dawn. I don't think any of us got any real sleep. I might have shut my eyes a few times, but the cold always woke me up. That and Mama's coughing.

  By the time the sky turned gray in the east, I ached like an old man. Shaking off my damp blanket, I got to my feet as quietly as I could. Mama was awake, her eyes fixed on me.

  "What are we going to do, Haswell?" she asked fearfully.

  Her question took me by surprise, for I was used to her telling me what to do, not me telling her. I thought a second. "Why, I suppose I should sneak closer and see what they've done."

  "You know the house is gone," Mama said slowly. "And the barn, too, most likely." There was no emotion in her voice. She spoke as dully as if she were telling me about a stranger's misfortune, not her own. "It's the Lord's way of punishing me for what I did. Killing is against His commandments."

  I opened my mouth to try once more to convince her she had done nothing to displease the Lord, but Rachel chose that moment to pop up from her blankets, her hair as frowzy as a rag doll's. "If you go up to the house, find Sophia and bring her to me. Even if she's all burned up. And food. Get us something to eat. I'm perishing of cold and hunger."

  I leaned down and whispered, "Stay close to Mama, Rachel, but don't pester her. She's not feeling well."

  I left the two of them huddled under the blankets and crept out of the gully as quietly as I could. The captain's horse swung his head toward me hopefully, but I had nothing for him.

  The storm had passed and the air was gray with a fog so dense it might have been a cloud sunk down to earth. At the edge of the trees, I looked in the direction of the house. Despite the fog, I should have been able to see something. I smelled smoke and burning but heard and saw nothing.

  Taking advantage of the fog, I crept across the yard, moving like a ghost myself. No sign of the Yankees or their horses. And no sign of the house except a few blackened timbers and charred wood. The chimney rose as straight and true as Grandpa Magruder had built it. The smell of smoke and burning hung heavy in the air. The stench stung tears from my eyes.

  The barn was gone, too, along with our cow. The only thing the Yankees had left behind was James Marshall.

  Even though he was dead already, they'd hanged him from the maple in the yard. He was a fearsome sight, stiff and swinging slowly in the morning wind. The rope creaked every time his body turned. I noticed they'd taken his greatcoat and his fine boots.

  It wouldn't do for Mama and Rachel to see such a cruel sight. I climbed up into the maple and slowly sawed the rope through with my hunting knife. James Marshall hit the icy ground and lay stiff and still.

  I climbed down and bent over him. From the look of his bloody shirt, he'd been shot more than once. Not in the back but in the front, which meant he'd been facing those Yankees when he took the bullets.

  A note pinned to his shirt said, "This is what happens to Mosby's Bushwhackers and them that shelter them." It was signed, "Capt. Powell's men."

  A flock of crows winged their way across the sky and settled in the maple's branches. They cawed and scolded and jostled one another. It was clear they meant to make a meal of James Marshall as soon as I turned my back.

  As gently as I could, I dragged his body to the spring-house and laid him out on the stone floor. All was still except for the stream that cooled our milk. It gurgled through its channel, but not one milk jug blocked its path. The Yankees hadn't missed a thing. They meant us to starve or freeze.

  "I'm sorry to see you in this state," I whispered to James Marshall. "I was certain you'd get away from those Yankees."

  I smoothed his dark hair and set stones on his eyelids to keep them closed. I should have used pennies, but I didn't have any. I said some prayers for James Marshall's soul, which I hoped was resting over Jordan in the shade of the trees. He was a good man and he'd died a good death. But I mourned him with all my soul.

  "Later on I'll do my best to bury you proper," I said, "but you're safe here for now."

  I rose slowly to my feet and wiped my eyes. Though I hated to do it, I left him there and closed the springhouse door tight. No crow, fox, or wild dog would get James Marshall.

  With that sad task taken care of, I went back to the remains of the house and climbed down into the root cellar. Lucky for us, the Yankees hadn't taken time to look or they would have stolen Mama's preserves, as well as the fruit and vegetables she kept there. I filled my pockets with apples and made my way back to the gully.

  Mama and Rachel greeted me as if I'd been gone a week or more. While we munched apples, I told them the house and barn were both burned to the ground.

  "What about my doll?" Rachel asked. "Did you find Sophia?"

  "The house is still smoldering, Rachel. It's not safe to go inside."

  Her face collapsed and she started crying. "I hate those Yankees; I wish you'd killed them all."

  "Now, Rachel," I began, but she cut me off.

  "Why couldn't you have let James Marshall go on by, like Mama told you? If he hadn't come along—"

  "Rachel, Rachel," Mama pulled her close. "Don't say such things. James Marshall was a fine young man. Suppose our Avery was sick and wounded? Would you want people to turn him away because they were scared of the Yankees?"

  Rachel clung to Mama and wept. It was clear that Mama barely had the strength to comfort the child, but she did her best. At least she was acting more like herself. It must have been the first time since she'd killed the captain that Mama hadn't spoken of her guilt. Maybe she was getting over it
.

  "Come on," I said. "Let's go back to the house. We can shelter in the root cellar, build a fire, dry ourselves out."

  Rachel let go of Mama and scrambled up the gully, her spirits already rising at the thought of a warm fire. I followed more slowly, helping Mama, who seemed to have lost her strength entirely. She leaned on me as if she were Grandma Colby's age, breathing hard and coughing deep in her chest. Her body felt warm, and her hand heated mine.

  By the time we reached the house, I was practically carrying Mama. She paused and looked at the ruins, still smoking in the cold damp air, and sighed. "When your papa comes home, he'll have a sight of work to do," was all she said.

  It seemed Mama was slipping away from us again. Surely her fever was affecting her mind. I'd had spells myself when I was sick, seeing things that weren't there, hearing voices in the dead of the night, crying out nonsense.

  Rachel tugged at Mama's hand. "But, Mama," she began, "Papa—"

  I squeezed Rachel's shoulder hard. "Shh," I whispered. "Let Mama think what she wants. She's not herself right now. Fever does that to a person."

  Rachel bit her lip and edged away from Mama and me. She looked frightened. I guessed she was too young to understand what was happening. "I'm going to look for my doll," she announced loudly.

  "Don't go in the house," I said. "That fire's still smoldering."

  Rachel turned and ran off toward the front of the house. I was inclined to go after her, but Mama grabbed my arm. "What did they do with James Marshall, Haswell?"

  "They left his body here. I put him in the springhouse."

  She nodded. "He'll be safe there till Burton comes home and we can bury him proper."

  Ignoring her remark, I eased Mama down the stone steps to the root cellar. The earth smelled cold and moldy, but I figured a fire would drive off the damp. If I could warm Mama, get some food into her, talk sense to her, she might recover her wits.

  I laid a blanket on the ground for Mama to lie on and piled the others on top of her. Just as I was getting a fire going, I saw Rachel at the top of the steps.

  "Haswell, Mama, look!" She held up her doll. "I found Sophia. She was lying in the yard. And she's not even hurt!"

  Rachel ran down the steps. "Those Yankees must have meant to kidnap her." She hugged the doll tight. "But she escaped."

  "Smart Sophia," I said.

  After Mama and Rachel settled down, I got a fire going to warm them. Then I went off to fetch the captain's horse. I had plans for that animal. As soon as she was strong enough, I meant to put Mama on his back and take her and Rachel to Grandma Colby's farm. It wasn't more than twenty miles down the Winchester Road, way too far for Mama to walk but easy enough for Rachel and me. We'd be safe with Mama's Mama. Old and cranky as she was, Grandma Colby would cure Mama.

  I was relieved to find the horse where I'd left him, still tied to the tree. Despite his Yankee breeding, he was a handsome chestnut with a black tail and mane, almost as splendid as James Marshall's horse, broad across the shoulders and strong-legged, built for riding hard.

  Cautiously I held an apple out. He nickered and rolled his eyes, showing the whites. At the same time he bared his big yellow teeth and pawed the ground with his front hoof. But he took the apple without biting me. I guessed he was too hungry to be particular about taking food from a Rebel.

  While he ate it, I talked to him, pitching my voice soft and low. "You've got good lines," I told him. "Nice mane and tail, too. A little brushing will shine your coat up real pretty."

  He nickered again, but he didn't look so mean. "Maybe you're just tired of being tied to a tree. Most likely you're used to better quarters."

  He watched me come closer. When I reached for the reins, he started pawing the ground again and looking skittish.

  "Don't fret yourself," I whispered. "The captain's gone, and I'm going to take good care of you. I've always wanted a horse like you."

  Though it took all my courage, I moved slowly nearer and untied the reins. "Stay," I said, "stay."

  The horse shivered, but he obeyed. Holding the reins firmly, I started walking back to the house. The horse followed without making a fuss. Despite his evil ways toward people, the captain had trained the animal well.

  One corner of the stable had survived the fire, so I tied the horse there and found hay for him. I also fetched him a pail of water, which meant going to the springhouse. James Marshall lay where I'd left him, as still as ever, his eyes shut, his face sunken, his skin bluish white. Most of the dead I'd seen looked peaceful, but not James Marshall. His face was twisted in pain and anger.

  A terrible sadness fell upon me, shutting out everything but the dead man. Somewhere folks—his father and his mother, his sweetheart, his sister—waited for him to come home, worried about him, missed him. They had no way of knowing they'd never see him again, never hear his voice.

  These thoughts put me in mind of Avery. What if he were dead and no one had told us yet? I shook my head. Surely I'd feel his passing. He'd come to me in a dream or send me a vision. If my brother had joined Papa across the River Jordan, I'd know.

  To keep from fretting, I took the water to the horse. "Since I have no idea what the captain named you, I'm calling you Ranger." I stroked his muzzle, pleased with the name, for I knew it was one the captain would despise. "Ranger," I repeated, "Ranger. Like one of Mosby's company. You think you can remember that, Ranger?"

  Ranger bent his head over the bucket and drank. I stayed with him a while, telling him about myself and my family and how he was now our horse. I was hoping he'd get used to my smell and the sound of my voice.

  After a time, I heard Rachel calling me. Her voice filled me with alarm, for it rang with urgency and fear. Leaving Ranger, I ran toward the house as fast as I could go.

  6

  "HASWELL!" RACHEL HURRIED to meet me. "Where have you been? Mama's gone down to the river to wash. I couldn't stop her!" She pulled at me, frantic with fear. "I said it's too cold, but she told me to leave her be, she had to wash the blood away."

  I ran toward the river, with Rachel leading the way. We found Mama up to her neck in the water. Her long hair floated on the surface, and her dress billowed around her. I plunged in and grabbed her hands, shocked breathless by icy-cold water.

  Mama looked at me as if I were a stranger. "Is the blood gone? Is it washed away?" she asked.

  "Come out of the water, Mama," I gasped. "You'll freeze to death."

  "But is the blood gone?"

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, it's gone."

  "Are you certain?" She peered at me. "The Lord won't allow me into heaven with blood on my hands. I broke a commandment. I killed a man."

  I kept pulling her toward shore. The current ran swift. I lost my footing a couple of times and fell, but I kept hold of Mama. Rachel stood on the bank, shivering and crying.

  "Sweet Jesus," Mama prayed, "forgive me. Please forgive me."

  Somehow I got her to the edge of the river. With Rachel pulling from above and me pushing from below, we got her up the muddy bank. Out of the water, the cold air hit me like a gust of wind from the North Pole.

  "Mama, Mama," Rachel wept.

  Mama pushed her aside and staggered on through the trees. Rachel ran beside her. "Mama, what's wrong? Be yourself, please, Mama, be yourself!"

  But Mama didn't so much as look at Rachel. She was too deep in prayer to notice where she was or what she was doing. Somehow, we steered her to the root cellar. The fire had died down with no one to tend it. I got it going again and turned to Rachel.

  "Get Mama out of those wet clothes and wrap her in a blanket. I'll fetch more wood."

  For once, Rachel did as I told her. By the time I came back with logs from the woodpile, Mama was sitting by the fire, draped in blankets but shivering. Her long brown hair waved over her shoulders like a young girl's, but the grief in her face was an old woman's.

  I stripped in a corner and wrapped up in my blanket. Rachel had hung Mama's clothing near the fire, and I
put mine beside them. I was still cold, but at least I was dry.

  Mama looked at me. "Haswell." She touched my cheek. "Why is it so easy to kill a man? In an instant he was gone."

  While I tried to think of an answer, she went on talking, more to herself than me. "I only meant to stop him. Not kill him."

  "Mama, it was the same as killing in war. The good Lord understands such acts."

  Rachel put her arms around Mama. "He was a wicked man, and he's in hell right now."

  "No," Mama whispered, "no, I didn't mean to send him there. I should have let him repent, I should have given him time to save his soul."

  "Please stop fretting, Mama," I begged. "You did what you had to, that's all."

  "But the trigger," Mama went on as if I hadn't spoken. "I just gave it a squeeze and it—" She broke off and began crying. "Oh, Haswell, I never dreamed I could kill a man."

  I don't know how long Rachel and I tried to comfort Mama. Nothing we said reached her. It was like speaking to a tree or a stone. Finally, she fell into a troubled sleep.

  Rachel found three good-sized potatoes and put them in the fire to bake. "I'll fetch a bucket of water from the springhouse," she said.

  "No." I jumped to my feet, stumbling over the blanket. "I'll get it."

  Rachel gave me a surprised look. "Fetching water is my chore."

  "James Marshall is there," I said.

  "I thought he was dead."

  "He is."

  Rachel's face crumpled. "I didn't want him to die. He made us so happy that night. Remember the singing? And Mama playing the organ?" Tears ran down her face, leaving streaks on her dirty cheeks. "I want to say good-bye to him, Haswell. And pray for him."

  "We can't leave Mama," I said.

  "You stay with her," Rachel said. "I'll go."

  "All by yourself?"

  "I'll take Sophia."

  I watched her run off toward the springhouse, lugging the doll. It was her wish. She was far too obstinate to listen to anything I might say about the dead and their terrible silence.