Hear the Wind Blow (17 page)

He gave me a sly look to see how I felt about swearing. A boy his age, I might have been shocked once but not anymore. When times got this hard, it didn't seem the Lord would mind us cursing every now and then.

"If the Yankees win, does it mean God is on their side?" Henry asked.

"Our preacher said we'd win because God was on
our
side," I said.

"He can't be on both sides." Henry frowned. "Can He?"

"I don't think so."

"But He's God, so's I reckon He could be." Henry sounded puzzled. "He can do anything he pleases."

I thought of Zeus, sitting up there on Mount Olympus watching the Greeks and the Trojans killing each other on the bloody plains of Ilium. He had his favorites. Achilles, for instance. But he let him die. And Hector—who, as Papa said, was a far better man than Achilles.

"Sometimes I think we can't know God's mind any more than Job could. Not you and me. Not preachers, either." I studied Henry's freckled face. "God is God, and only He knows the whys and wherefores of things here on earth."

"That's why I don't plan to go to church no more," Henry said. "Though Polly will probably drag me there as long as she's able. But one day I'll be too big for her to handle, and I'll go off on my own."

He looked at me hard. "How about you, Haswell? You plan to listen to preachers anymore?"

"I don't know about church and preachers and all that," I said slowly. "But I aim to keep on praying."

"Huh," Henry said. "I prayed hard for Mama, and look what happened. She died anyway. The preacher said it was God's will. That's when I quit listening to preachers."

Henry's talk was starting to worry me. I'd read my Bible all my life, and I'd said my prayers and I'd gone to church every Sunday till our preacher went off to join the army. I didn't understand the Lord, but I wasn't about to give up on Him.

"You're hardly more than a child, Henry. It's not right for you to be so—"

"I ain't no child," Henry said.

"Then what are you? I don't see a beard or any other sign of manhood."

To my surprise, Henry's eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't rightly know what I am," he said. "I ain't a child, I ain't a man. I'm just me, and I seen what I seen and I know what I know."

He jumped up from the table and went to the window, looking for his sister, I guessed. Also hiding his tears. "Here comes Polly," he said, "running like the devil hisself was chasing her."

Polly burst into the cabin. Her hair was working its way out of her braids, one curly red strand after another, and her cheeks were flushed pink. She looked like she'd run all the way from the widow's house.

"Richmond's surrendered!" she cried. "And Petersburg, too. There's Yankees everywhere."

Speechless, I stared at Polly. Richmond? It couldn't be. Not the capital of the Confederacy. And if Petersburg had fallen, how was I to find Avery? What if he'd been wounded in the fighting? Or killed?

While I stood there as mute as a fool, Henry ran to Polly's side and grabbed her shoulders as if he meant to shake her. "Where in tarnation did you hear that? It's a lie, a damnable, outrageous lie!"

Polly pulled away from him. "It's true, Henry, I swear to God. A Confederate officer came by the widow's house and told us."

"He's a liar," Henry said.

"No, he was a messenger, sending news for us to be ready for battle. He says it's bound to come this way." Polly began to cry then. "What shall we do?"

Polly's news shouldn't have shocked me. Any fool could tell the war wasn't going well for us. It was like the night Grandpa Colby died. He'd been sick so long everybody knew he'd die. But when he actually stopped breathing, we were all as shocked as if he'd been killed by lightning. That was how I felt now. Dumbstruck and heartsick and scared.

"Why does he think the fighting will come this away?" Henry asked.

"He didn't say." Polly wrung her long, thin hands together. "But if it does come, this cabin ain't safe. We can't stay here."

"We'll go to Widow Ransom's house," Henry said. "She likes you, Polly. She'll take us in. She's been wanting to ever since Pa left."

"Yes, but I was hoping to stay on our own, not be obligated to anyone." Polly held up her chin. It shook in spite of her effort to look brave. "But I can't think of nothing else to do."

I got to my feet, cursing the weakness that lingered in my legs. "Polly, I can't stay here. I have to find Avery. What if he gets killed in the fighting?"

"No, Haswell!" she cried. "Don't go. Not with the soldiers heading this way." She gave me a shake, as if I were Henry's age. "Look at you, still ailing. Why, your fever will come right back. And then where will you be?"

I tried to pull loose, but Polly was a sight stronger than she looked.

"Please stay here," Polly begged. "Please, Haswell."

I felt both perplexed and confused, standing so close to Polly and feeling her hands holding fast to my arms. Her eyes were level with mine, greeny gray and sadder than ever. Her red hair hung in wispy curls around her face. I found myself stammering when I told her, all right, I'd stay, but just a little longer.

Polly sighed and released me. Her face was almost as red as her hair. "I reckon I better cook supper. It's getting dark."

She turned away and took three eggs and a loafofbread from the basket she'd brought from the widow's house.

Henry sighed. "I'm powerful weary of scrambled eggs, Polly. Can you fry them this time?"

Polly glanced at me. "If it's all right with Haswell."

"It's fine," I said. "I'll eat anything you care to cook and be grateful for it."

Polly blushed again.

"I'm going to see to Ranger," I said.

Outside the evening was cool and the stars hung bright and sharp in the sky. A long way off, an owl hooted, too far away to be calling my name. The peepers kept up their endless chirping down in the marshy places. I looked up at the moon and wished the night were as ordinary as it seemed.

But somewhere under that very same moon soldiers huddled by fires, waiting for morning, Avery among them. Maybe he was looking at the moon, too, thinking of Mama and Rachel and me gathered round the table, eating supper. Poor Avery. There was so much he didn't know.

And I was the one who would have to tell him.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
we were sitting at the table eating our grits when, suddenly, Henry raised his head. "Do you hear thunder?"

I laid down my spoon and listened. "It's gunfire and cannons," I said.

Polly leapt up, her face so white her freckles popped out. "Is it heading this way?"

Henry and I ran outside. Far across the rolling hills and fields, we saw smoke pluming like gray clouds against the blue sky. The gunfire was getting louder.

"They're in the woods over on the other side of Cooper's farm," Henry said. "I wager they'll be coming right across his fields toward us."

We hurried back to the cabin. Polly was waiting on the porch, her apron scrunched in her hands. "Are they coming?" she called.

"I believe so!" I shouted.

I'd no sooner spoken than a dozen or so Confederate soldiers came dashing out of the woods, putting their feet to it as hard as they could. They weren't more than a half mile away and heading straight toward the cabin. Union soldiers burst out of the woods in pursuit, dozens of them—maybe hundreds—coming from everywhere.

"Go to the widow's house! Run!" I yelled at Polly. "I'll get Ranger."

"Set the hounds loose, Henry!" Polly shouted.

While Henry opened the pen's gate, I ran into the cabin and grabbed my revolver. Then, fumble-fingered with fear, I saddled Ranger. I swear I could almost see Death coming, a tall, gaunt figure dressed in black rags. His head blotted out the sun. His scythe flashed like lightning, cutting down soldiers like wheat at harvest time.

I leapt onto Ranger's back. The hounds scattered around me, streaking toward the woods as fast as they could go, their bellies grazing the grass. It was clear they wanted none of the war.

By the time I was clear of the stableyard, the field behind me had become a battle scene. Men were shooting, screaming, falling. The Confederates couldn't hold. Some tried. They were outnumbered, but they kept on shooting. Others dropped their guns and ran.

With gunfire ringing out, I galloped after Henry and Polly. They were running uphill toward the widow's fine old stone house. Polly was carrying the musket.

I slowed down beside them. "You go on to the house," I said. "I'm going to hole up in the barn with Ranger."

Polly and Henry didn't answer, but they swerved away from the house and followed me. Their contrariness riled me somewhat, for I was thinking of their safety, but the barn was solid stone, too, almost as big as the house and just as solid. It was cool and dark inside, smelling of hay and horses, though those things were long gone.

Ranger resisted me. He pawed the ground, he whinnied, he reared up as if he meant to fight his way out of the barn. Finally, I got him into a stall and bolted the door. He kicked and carried on, acting even more ugly than he had for Captain Dennison in Winchester.

Henry gazed at the horse in awe. "He wants to go to war," he said. "That's what they trained him for."

"He's not going anywhere," I said. "And neither are you," I added, for it occurred to me Henry would like nothing more than to ride Ranger into battle.

Polly grabbed Henry's arm and held it tight. "They're getting closer, Haswell. What will we do if they come in here?"

"Shoot them if they're Yankees," Henry said. "Ain't that right, Haswell?"

"Only if we have to." The thought of shooting a man made my stomach quiver.

"Oh, Lord, preserve us!" Polly cried as the loudest noise I'd ever heard boomed over our heads. A shell had struck the barn high up and made a hole in the wall big enough to see the sky.

Two more shells broke holes in the wall. Chunks of stone and rubble came rattling down all around us, striking our shoulders and backs and heads. Dust rose and we choked and coughed. Ranger stamped his feet and whinnied.

The sounds of the battle grew louder. Soon I could make out shouts, screams, horses whinnying.

Henry scrambled up the ladder to the loft. "We can watch through the hole the shell made."

I followed him, but Polly stayed below. She had a good grip on the musket to prove she was ready to do whatever she had to.

Outside, Confederate soldiers came running across the field, mostly unarmed, stumbling, shoving one another aside. I watched them go by, my heart sinking fast at the sight of our army in full retreat.

Henry gripped my arm hard. "They're running," he whispered. "They're running, Haswell. Why ain't they shooting those sons of guns?"

"Look at them." I pointed to ranks of Union soldiers charging out of the woods in all directions. "How can we fight that many Yankees?"

Henry pressed his head against the barn's wall. His shoulders shook and I knew he was crying, but I didn't shame him by saying so. Besides, I was so worried Avery was among those fleeing soldiers I couldn't think about anything else. Lord, Lord, I prayed, don't let them kill Avery. Please, Lord, keep him safe, spread your shield over him.

Another wave of Confederates came into sight, still firing. They'd turn and shoot, run, shoot again, run some more. Officers on horseback moved in and out among the men, urging them to stand and fight.

It occurred to me the barn wasn't as safe as I'd thought. What if the fleeing soldiers ran inside to escape the Yankees? Why, Polly and Henry and I would die with them.

The Confederates dashed into the widow's yard. Near the barn, they formed a ragged line and returned the Yankees' fire. The air filled with smoke and dust. I couldn't see who was who. Rifles blazed, men screamed and fell. A minié ball whistled over my head and struck the wall behind me.

On the grass below my vantage point, a man took a shot in the head. He tumbled off his horse, spraying blood as he fell. The horse screamed and went down, shot, too. In his stall, Ranger answered the dying horse with a loud whinny.

It was hard to believe any soldier, North or South, would live to see the sun set. Yet they kept on shooting and yelling as if they aimed to kill everyone but themselves. Bullets whined past the barn. Some hit the stone walls, some hit trees, but none hit Henry or me. All I could think was, "Make it stop, dear Jesus in heaven, make it stop."

But it didn't stop, and it wouldn't stop till it was done.

Suddenly, I heard Polly call my name. I crawled to the edge of the loft and peered down at her. "A soldier," she said. "He's wounded."

I looked where she pointed.

A soldier had staggered into the barn. He was covered with dirt and blood. I couldn't tell if he was a Yankee or a Confederate. But he was dying, I was sure of it.

He stood by the door, unarmed and bleeding badly. "Please?" he whispered to Polly and held out one arm to her. "Please?"

Before any of us could speak or move, the soldier collapsed and fell to the floor.

Henry and I scrambled down the ladder.

"Is he dead?" Henry asked me.

"I don't know."

Polly knelt by the soldier. His eyelids fluttered and he looked up at her. "Don't let me die, not now, not after all I been through."

She took his hand and held tight. "You're safe here," she whispered.

The soldier seized Polly and pressed his face to her breast. "Please, dear Lord," he prayed, "let me see my mother's face just once more. My home. My..."

He began to shiver and then to shake, but his grip on Polly never loosened. Blood ran from his mouth. He struggled hard to breathe, held Polly so tight I thought her dress would rip.

"Mother," he groaned. "Mother."

I heard the death rattle begin. He shook harder. His heels drummed against the floor. His body stiffened. Still holding Polly, he died.

"Oh, Haswell." Polly looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. "The poor young man. Oh, the poor, poor, young man." She held him, her own dress soaked through with his blood, and cried as if she'd never stop.

The blood on her dress and her tears brought Mama to mind. Surely Polly wouldn't go crazy, too. She hadn't killed the soldier. She'd comforted him at his dying, which was a good thing to do.