Hear the Wind Blow (10 page)

We rode in and out of cold showers, passing one deserted farm after another. General Sheridan had done his work well. Now and then we'd meet a solitary man or woman trudging grimly through the mud, head down, bundled in blankets like us, tired and hungry like us.

Other times it might be a family pulling a cart loaded with furniture, sometimes with the help of a gaunt horse or an ox, but usually just themselves. Small children with pale, hungry faces walked along beside the carts. Worndown mothers carried babies in their arms. Haggard fathers gave orders. Most had little to say but "Good day." Some didn't even say that much. I guessed they were too wrapped up in worries of their own to notice anyone else.

"Where do you suppose they're all going?" Rachel asked.

"I reckon they have family somewhere, like us."

"But most of them are heading away from Winchester." Rachel sounded worried. "Have you noticed that, Haswell?"

I'd heard Winchester had been in Yankee hands since fall. What with General Sheridan taking all he could for his own troops, it had been a bad winter for the people there. Since Rachel and I had no choice but to continue, we kept on walking against the stream of refugees.

A man walking along beside a cart full of children and furniture stopped to ask, "You children surely ain't heading for Winchester, are you?"

"Yes, sir, in fact we are. We have family there."

"The general's set hisself up in the best house in town. We got nothing there. No food. No shelter."

Another fellow spoke up. "Those that collaborate do right well, taking Yankees into their homes and getting food and drink in return."

"Ain't that the truth." The first man spit on the ground beside his wagon. "You think your kin would take in a Yankee?"

"No, sir, they would not." I was mortally offended he'd ask such a question. "My father died in Richmond and my brother's in Petersburg."

"Yankees burned our house and killed our mother," Rachel added, her face pinched white with fury.

Hearing this, the man's wife leaned out of the cart. She was holding a little baby to her breast. "We're heading toward Richmond," she told us. "You children want to come along? There's no telling what you'll find in Winchester."

"Thank you, ma'am, but my sister and I promised our mother we'd go to our grandmother."

"Well, God help you and bless you, children, and keep you safe." The woman drew back into the cart. I heard the baby crying as the cart went on its way.

Since neither of us could think of anything else to do, we rode on toward Winchester. If the truth be told, I felt a sight more heart heavy than I had when we'd left Grandma Colby's farm. I was weak from hunger and weary from worrying. The constant swaying motion of Ranger's walk threatened to put me to sleep. My eyes would close and then jerk open.

I guess my drowsiness dulled my attention, for all of a sudden a gaunt and raggedy man appeared from nowhere. I hoped to get past him without trouble, but he stood in the middle of the road, blocking our way and staring at me with those same burned-out eyes I'd seen before.

"That's a fine-looking horse you got there, boy." He was looking sharp at me, gauging my mettle, I reckoned.

"Yes, siree, mighty fine." The man stretched out a dirty hand, more bone than flesh, and stroked Ranger's neck. The horse's muscles twitched. The stranger reeked of filth and I could see lice crawling in his hair. His ragged clothes gave him the look of a scarecrow who'd been left out in the field too long.

"It's a shame to see a horse like him wasted on a puny boy and girl," he added.

I nudged Ranger, but the man tightened his grip on the bridle. "I've come a long way, boy," he said. "Walked the soles off my boots twice. What I could use now is a good horse. You and that there gal get down from the horse and won't nobody get hurt."

I pushed my jacket aside to reveal Papa's revolver sticking out of my trousers. "Leave us be."

The man hesitated. "Now, I call that a right unfriendly attitude." He grinned and reached into his pocket. "Why, I got a thousand Confederate dollars I'll give for the horse. Think what that would buy."

I pulled out the revolver and cocked it. "No, sir," I told him. "This horse isn't for sale. Now let go of him and let us pass."

The man studied my face. "You ain't got the stomach for killing, boy."

From behind me, Rachel spoke up. "Don't you dare take our horse. My brother has already killed three men who tried to steal him."

The man peered around me to see Rachel, and I brought the revolver's handle down on his head as hard as I could. Pain shot up my arm and I almost dropped my weapon. The man went down hard. I didn't wait to find out if I'd killed him. I kicked Ranger hard. Off he went at full gallop, leaving the man sprawled in the road.

While Rachel congratulated herself for coming up with a good lie at just the right moment, I thought about what the man had said. He'd been right. I had no more stomach for killing than Mama.

W
E REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS
of Winchester early in the evening. It was clear the fighting had been fierce since the last time I'd seen the town. Fine old houses lay in ruins. The tall maples lining the streets were scarred and scorched, some snapped off like matchsticks. Broken carts and carriages littered the roadsides. The smell of smoke and old fires lingered in the chilly air.

To the west, just over the mountains, the sun sank into a lake of crimson fire, making the whole scene a vision of hell. Here and there a person walked about the streets. Most moved furtively, looking about with every step they took.

I reckoned they were fearful of encountering Yankee soldiers. Feeling apprehensive myself, I followed their lead and kept alert for danger.

Just as I reached a corner, two Yankee soldiers came around it from the other direction. At the sight of Rachel and me, they stopped short. One pulled a revolver and told us to stay where we were.

I reined in Ranger. "Yes, sir," I said, doing my best to sound polite.

Rachel clung to me, too surprised to say a word, which I counted as a blessing. If she got sassy, there was no telling what might become of us.

"Where do you think you're going?" one of the men asked. "It's more than an hour past curfew for Rebels."

"Curfew?" I stared at the soldier as if I didn't know the meaning of the word.

"No Rebels are allowed in the street after five o'clock," the other said. "The church bell rang six twenty minutes ago."

"But we just got here, sir. We didn't know about the curfew. We never meant to break the law."

"We're going to our uncle's house," Rachel added. "He's an important lawyer, and you'll be sorry if you—"

"Forgive my sister," I said loudly. "She's just so tired and so hungry. We've ridden all day to get here and—"

"What's your uncle's name?" the soldier with the gun asked.

"Mr. Cornelius Colby. He lives on Bank Street."

The two bent their heads together and talked in voices too low for me to catch the words.

Rachel pinched my arm. "Why are you acting like a coward? Those Yankees have no right to—"

I turned and glared at her. "Hush! You want to get us thrown in jail?"

Rachel shrank back and shook her head.

The soldier with the gun waved us on. "Go straight to Mr. Colby's house. If I see you out past curfew again, I'll shoot you."

"Yes, sir." As I rode away, I heard them laughing. I figured they'd amused themselves by scaring us.

"Yankee devils!" Rachel called back at them, but if they heard her, they took no notice.

At last we came to Uncle Cornelius's street. The houses were in good shape, as if the battles had swept the other way and spared them. Rachel saw the lighted windows first.

"Thank the Lord," she whispered. "Uncle Cornelius is home."

"Wait under this tree, Rachel, till I make sure it's safe. For all we know, Yankees are occupying the house."

Rachel stuck out her lip, but she did as I said, just as she'd done the night before. "You come right back," she said. "Don't forget me."

Uncle Cornelius's house sat on a slight rise of ground, surrounded by a green lawn big enough for a cornfield. Even in the dim light of evening, I could see weeds flourishing, as well as wheel ruts and churned-up ground. The house itself was badly in need of paint but otherwise intact.

I crept to a window and peered in. There was Uncle Cornelius, a bit stouter than I recalled, sitting by the fire. Across the room from him, Grandma Colby perched on the sofa, flanked by Aunt Hester and Aunt Esther, all three a bit shabbier than usual but seeming to be healthy enough. Grandma Colby looked smaller, though, as if the war and its losses had shrunk her. Identical in plain gray dresses, the aunts sat up straight, their hair pulled back tightly from their narrow faces. All three women kept their heads down and busied themselves with their embroidery.

What drew my attention away from them was the guest. In the place of honor sat a Union officer, wearing a dandy blue uniform fastened with shiny gold buttons. His whiskers were neatly trimmed, and his belly shook with laughter at a story Uncle Cornelius was telling. In one hand he held a brandy glass and in the other a pipe. Uncle Cornelius had brandy and a pipe as well.

Grandma Colby and the aunts sipped tea from delicate porcelain cups. The aunts' faces were expressionless, but Grandma Colby wore her usual frown, which seemed to be directed at both Uncle Cornelius and the major. It was clear
she
hadn't invited a Yankee into the house.

I hurried back to Rachel. "They're entertaining an officer from the Union Army, but I believe it's safe to knock at the door."

"There's a
Yankee
in there?" Rachel stared at me as if I'd told her our uncle was entertaining the devil himself.

"I don't like it any better than you do. But I'm cold and tired and hungry, and I want some food in my belly and a warm place to sleep."

Rachel pouted while I tied Ranger to a hitching post by the side of the house, but she didn't say another word about the Yankee officer. Lord knew what she was thinking. Or planning. For safety's sake, I said, "Don't say a word about Captain Powell or this horse."

"I'm not a simpleton." Rachel followed me up the wide brick steps to the front door. "Do you think they've already eaten supper?" she whispered.

"Most likely, but maybe they have leftovers." It reassured me somewhat to hear her mention supper. Perhaps she was too hungry to risk insulting anyone.

On the door above my head, a fierce brass lion's head with a heavy ring in its mouth scowled down at me. It had frightened me when I was little, mainly because Avery told me it might come to life and eat me up. I was younger than Rachel at the time. Now I lifted the ring and let it fall with a thump. Things like door knockers no longer scared me.

No one came. I knocked louder. After the third try, Aunt Hester opened the door a crack and peered down at us. "You children go away," she said. "I'm sorry, truly I am, but we can't feed you. We have nothing to spare, my dears."

Before she could close the door, Rachel cried out, "Aunt Hester, it's Haswell and me. Surely you won't turn your own kin away!"

Aunt Hester paused, her face confused. From the parlor, Grandma Colby called, "Hester, we can't feed every beggar in town. Tell them to be on their way, or I'll come and do it for you!"

"But, Mother—"

Rachel didn't wait for our aunt to finish her sentence. Without another word, she pushed past the befuddled woman, and I followed her. The house was warm and so full of good smells, I almost swooned.

Rachel walked straight into the parlor and stopped in front of Grandma Colby. "Please don't send us away," she begged. "Mama told us to come to you. We went to your farm and you weren't there, so we came to Winchester, all because Mama said you'd take care of us." She gave Grandma Colby a pleading look. "If you don't want us, where are we to go?"

Everyone in the parlor stared at us. I suppose we were a sight. Unwashed, uncombed, dressed in rags, and most likely smelling more like pigs than roses. Mama and Papa would have been ashamed to claim us as theirs.

"It's Rachel and Haswell, Mother." Aunt Hester twisted and untwisted her pale hands, obviously fearing Grandma Colby's anger for letting urchins into the house. "Rebecca's children."

Grandma Colby beckoned us closer. Her sight was poor, but she'd never admit it. While everyone, including the major, watched, she studied Rachel and me. "Where is your mother?" she asked. "Rebecca is sadly remiss in domestic matters, but I've never known her to neglect her children."

Rachel burst into tears. "Mama's dead. She took fever after the Yankees came." She flung herself at Grandma Colby, plainly expecting to be comforted.

Grandma Colby's face wrinkled in distaste, and she pushed Rachel away. Holding the weeping girl at arm's length, she cried, "What do you mean, Rebecca's dead?"

I put my arms round Rachel and let her cry all over my jacket. "The Yankees burned our house to the ground," I told Grandma Colby. "Mama took fever. Before she died, she told us to come to you, so we did." I stared at her steadily while I spoke, keeping my voice firm and my eyes dry. I didn't once look at the Union officer, but I wanted him to hear every word.

Grandma Colby gasped and pressed a hand to her heart. "Rebecca ... dead? The house burned?" She turned to Uncle Cornelius. "Can it be true?"

Uncle Cornelius looked at me. "I've known Haswell to be a mischievous sort, but I've never known him to lie, Mother."

Grandma Colby clasped her hands tight and shut her eyes. "Oh, Rebecca, Rebecca, my poor dear Rebecca."

The aunts gathered round their mother and tried to comfort her, but she pushed their fluttering hands aside. "Leave me be, leave me be," she sobbed. "God in heaven, will there ever be an end to this misery?"

The Yankee cleared his throat. "The men were most likely renegades of some sort. Deserters. I regret to say the army cannot restrain such villains."

I turned to the man. "They were cavalrymen from Pennsylvania. They came to our house because they were looking for one of Mosby's men."