Hear the Wind Blow (2 page)

Once Mama was through with him, James Marshall lay back and closed his eyes.

"Sit by him, Haswell," Mama said. "Give him a sip of whiskey if he wakes. I'll go down and fix something to fortify him."

Rachel stood close beside me, her breath warm on my neck. "You think he'll die?" she whispered.

"I hope not."

She studied James Marshall for a while. "He's real sick. Most likely he
will
die."

"Maybe you should go down and help Mama," I said.

"Remember when our cat Sadie died and we buried her in the orchard? Maybe we'll have to bury James Marshall, too. I can say the prayers, and you and Mama can sing the hymns."

"I sure hope he can't hear the things you're saying."

Rachel went to the window and peered out at the snow. "His tracks are all covered up already."

"Good."

Rachel breathed a big foggy patch on the glass and drew a picture of a cat with her finger. "Remember how sweet and pretty Sadie was?"

"Go on downstairs, Rachel."

She stuck out her tongue at me and turned back to the window. "I guess Sadie's nothing but bones by now," she said. "Dead and gone. You think she's waiting up in heaven, Haswell?"

"Hush up, Rachel," I hissed at her. "What kind of talk is that? Cats don't go to heaven."

Before Rachel could come up with a sassy answer, James Marshall groaned and opened his eyes. They were all sparkly bright, burning with fever like blue fire. "Where am I?"

He was trying to sit up, so I eased him back on the pillow and gave him a sip of whiskey. "It's all right," I said. "You're safe in our house. Mama took pity on you. She's downstairs now, fixing a concoction for you."

"It'll taste horrid," Rachel put in. "But it will make you better, so maybe you won't die after all."

James Marshall stared at Rachel as if she were a creature of ill omen. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rachel Magruder," she said. "I'm seven years old and I'm the best speller in my school. I can count to one hundred and I know my times tables up to the fives. I can read long books, too. The Bible, for instance. And I—"

I put my hand over her mouth. "Hush, Rachel. James Marshall doesn't want to hear your entire life story."

Rachel pulled away. "Don't you do that again, Haswell, or I'm telling Mama." She turned back to James Marshall. "My brother is the rudest boy in the whole state of Virginia. And he has smelly hands."

"Why don't you go see if Mama needs you?" I asked her.

"Why don't you?" Rachel said in the snippy voice she loved to use on me.

"Well, aren't you the pert little miss," James Marshall observed.

If I hadn't been taught to be polite, I might have called Rachel something worse than pert. As it was, I just scowled at her. She had been a contrary child since the day she was born. Did and said what she pleased, and the devil take those who didn't like it. Papa said she was the spitting image of Grandma Colby, Mama's mama. He didn't intend it as a compliment.

Rachel smiled at James Marshall. "Want to see something?"

Before he could say yes or no, Rachel opened her hand and showed him the bullet, still slimy with blood. "Mama dug this out of your side. Did it hurt going in?"

James Marshall nodded. "It most certainly did."

Just as I was about to lose my control and say something rude to Rachel, Mama came upstairs carrying a steaming cup of foul-smelling liquid. I don't know what went into it—herbs and such, I reckon. She gathered the makings in the summer and hung bunches of weeds in the attic to dry. In the fall she brewed it in a kettle, poured it into bottles, and called it medicine. Poison, more likely. At least that's how it tasted.

Mama sat down on the bed. "Did these children wake you, son?"

James Marshall shook his head. "I'm in some pain, ma'am."

Mama held the cup toward him. "Drink this. It will help with the fever. And the pain."

Rachel wrinkled her nose. "Poor James Marshall," she said without a trace of pity. "If you hold your nose while you drink it, you won't smell it."

James Marshall ignored Rachel and did his best to choke down Mama's remedy. I could tell by his face it tasted just as bad as usual. When he handed Mama the empty cup, Rachel gave him a long, admiring look.

"I never have managed to swallow more than one mouthful of that concoction," she admitted. "Usually I just spit it out."

James Marshall coughed and closed his eyes. Mama smoothed his covers and studied his face. "What a handsome young man." She sighed long and heavy. "Most likely his mother is worried sick about him at this very moment."

The wind thumped the windows as she spoke, shaking the glass as if it meant to break into the room. I knew Mama was thinking about Avery again. We needed him so badly, it made me hate him sometimes. Why had he left me to take care of everything, and me just thirteen years old? When he came home, I'd tell him a thing or two.

"Can you take Rachel to the kitchen and feed her some of that stew?" Mama asked me. "I want to sit here a spell and watch this poor young man."

Rachel fussed a bit, but she followed me downstairs and seated herself at the table. I ladled possum stew into two bowls and sat down opposite her. I'd caught the varmint myself in one of Papa's traps, and I was mighty pleased with the way Mama had cooked him up.

Except for the wind howling around the house, the room was quiet. And warm from the fire in the woodstove. I was glad I'd collected a good pile of logs before the storm commenced.

After a while Rachel put down her spoon and leaned toward me, her face scrunched in worry. "Do you think the Yankees are searching for him?"

"I hope not."

Rachel turned to the window. Dark was falling fast and we could see our reflections in the glass, Rachel in her pigtails and me with my hair hanging in my eyes. Behind us, the kitchen looked snug and safe, yellow with lamplight.

"They could be out there in the dark right now," Rachel whispered, "watching us."

As she spoke, the wind hit the house hard, driving cold air through every crack. Rachel and I both shivered, partly from the draft and partly from fear. Suddenly, the kitchen didn't seem so safe after all.

"Those Federals won't go anywhere in this snow," I told her. "They're huddled around their campfires somewhere faraway, waiting for spring to recommence fighting."

"I've heard tell the Yankees are demons from hell," Rachel said. "Maybe they can follow a man by his smell, like the devil can."

Even though Rachel was merely a child, she was beginning to scare the beejeebers out of me. Hadn't I heard older folks say the same thing about the Yankees? I scraped the last bit of gravy out of my bowl and got to my feet. "Let's take Mama some stew and then go to bed," I said. "We'll be warm and snug under the blankets."

For once Rachel agreed with me. I carried the bowl of stew upstairs, and she followed with a chunk of bread. Mama was sitting in the rocker beside the bed. Even though James Marshall had swallowed every drop of her remedy, he still looked mighty sick to me.

"We brought you something to eat," Rachel told Mama.

Mama smiled at us. "Set it down on the bureau," she said. "I'll eat it later."

Rachel drew closer to Mama. "Is he getting any better?" she whispered.

Mama sighed. "He's no worse, thank the Lord."

"Is he fixing to die?" Rachel asked.

Mama hushed her. "Go on to bed, child."

We did as Mama said. Long after Rachel fell asleep, I lay awake, listening to the wind, thinking what a scary sound it made. Like the souls of the dead out there in the cold and the dark, wailing to be in their beds again, warm and snug. I pictured Avery sleeping in a tent somewhere, huddled under his blankets. And men like James Marshall alone and wandering the night like lost souls themselves. And officers in snug shelters, planning battles and dreaming of glory.

I fell asleep thinking I might ride away with James Marshall when he recovered. I'd find Avery and bring him home and make him do his share to protect Mama and Rachel. We needed him a sight more than General Robert E. Lee did.

I
WOKE TO A COLD
, gray dawn and went down the hall to check on James Marshall. Mama was asleep in the chair beside the bed, looking weary even in repose, but James Marshall was awake. He raised his hand to signify he saw me, and I crept close to him.

"How are you feeling?" I whispered.

"Poorly," he murmured, "but better than yesterday."

Even though we'd kept our voices low, Mama's eyes opened. She always did sleep as light as a cat. Leaning toward James Marshall, she laid a hand on his forehead. "Still feverish," she said, "but not near as hot as last night. My remedy must be helping."

James Marshall smiled. "I surely hope so, ma'am, for that is without a doubt the worst concoction I ever swallowed."

Mama's face brightened. "Only a man who's recovering complains about the taste of things." She turned to me. "Go on and get the stove fired up for cooking, Haswell."

"And see to my horse, please," James Marshall added.

I glanced at Mama and she nodded. "Tend to the horse first. And see to Clarissa."

When I opened the kitchen door, the wind hit me hard. The snow had stopped, but it lay mighty deep, especially the drifts against the side of the barn. It was hard work crossing the yard. The horse was on his feet, looking better. I fed him some oats leftover from our own horses and draped a blanket over his back. While he ate, I stroked his neck and whispered to him, for he'd been ridden hard and needed some extra comforting. He was a good horse, a black gelding with fine legs and a handsome face. Intelligent, I thought. And loyal. Not the sort of horse we'd ever owned. We were farmers, and our horses had to work the fields and pull wagons.

After I fed Clarissa, I walked back to the house, thinking about James Marshall and his family. It could be they were wealthy, owning a fine horse like that. Or it could be he stole the horse from the Yankees.

While I was feeding the fire in the kitchen, Rachel came downstairs. "James Marshall's feeling better, Mama claims, though he doesn't look real good to me. Most ashyfaced man I ever did see."

Without expecting an answer, she went to the window and peered out. "Just look at all that snow, Haswell. It's the most I've seen in my whole entire life. If James Marshall hadn't come to our house, both him and his horse would be dead and buried in it."

"You are positively the most morbidminded child in the state of Virginia," I said.

"What's that mean?" Rachel looked offended that I knew a word she didn't.

"Morbid? It means you're always thinking gloomy thoughts about death and dying."

Rachel smiled. "Morbid," she repeated, "
moooor-bid.
It has the saddest sound. Don't you just love words that sound like what they mean?"

I poked the fire. "I've never thought about that."

Rachel stuck out her tongue, her usual response, and picked up her doll. "Oh, Sophia," she crooned, "did you know you have a
moooor-bid
mama?"

Our mama came down then and told me to go up and sit with James Marshall a spell while she fixed breakfast. Rachel started to follow me, but Mama told her to stay and give her a hand with the oatmeal. Silently I thanked the Lord for small favors.

James Marshall was awake. He had the sharpest blue eyes I ever saw, but they weren't burning bright with fever this morning. "Did you see to my horse?" he asked.

"I did, and he's looking a sight better than you."

James Marshall smiled. "I'm glad to hear that."

"He's a mighty fine horse," I said.

"He is indeed. I call him Warrior. I've had him since I was about your age. He was my thirteenth-birthday present."

"That was a grand gift." I spoke with some envy. My thirteenth birthday had come and gone without much notice, like most of the ones before it.

"Papa has a horse farm south of here, not far from Harrisonburg. He breeds horses. Or he did before the war. Most of his herd was taken by the army, both North and South."

James Marshall lay back on his pillow and gazed at the ceiling. "As soon as I'm strong enough, I'll be on my way. I don't want to bring the Yankees here."

"Were they following you?"

"I think I lost them. We all scattered after the raid. That bullet slowed me down, but I had good cover in the woods. They didn't see which way I went. Probably thought I was dead." He paused a moment, as if he were contemplating his close call with eternity. "Is your father in the fighting?"

"Papa served under General Stonewall Jackson himself till Chancellorsville." I tugged at a feather poking out of the quilt, suddenly conscious of the voices in the wind howling outside in the cold. Somehow it seemed shameful to tell James Marshall that Papa had died from dysentery. I was tempted to lie and say he'd been killed in battle, a hero. So I shifted the subject somewhat.

"Papa was one of the guards who took Stonewall to Guinea Station after he lost his arm. He was there when Stonewall died."

"That was a great loss," James Marshall said softly. "The South never had a finer general than Stonewall Jackson."

"Did you hear what Stonewall said before he died?" I asked.

James Marshall nodded. "His last words were, 'Let us cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees.' People say he looked as if he really saw the river and the trees instead of the bedroom wall."

"Papa said it was the River Jordan he saw. Is that what you think?"

"Most certainly. All of us will cross it one day and rest in the shade." James Marshall looked out the window at the bare trees shivering in the wind. He turned back to me, his blue eyes searching my face. "Will you do something for me, Haswell?"

"Of course." Though I didn't feel comfortable saying it, I'd do anything he asked me.

"There's a letter in my pocket." He pointed to his greatcoat, which Mama had hung on the back of a chair. "It's addressed to my father. If I die of this wound, promise you'll see he receives it."

"You won't die," I said, "but I'll promise anyway."

"Go and get it," he said. "Keep it safe."