At the sound of Mama's name, Rachel's eyes filled with tears. She pressed Sophie to her skinny little breast, a silent picture of the misery I was holding inside.
Aunt Esther reached out and patted Rachel's shoulder, as if she were befriending a stray dog that might bite. "Oh, now, Rachel," she whispered. "Please don't cry, darling."
Aunt Hester left Aunt Esther to comfort Rachel as best she could. Turning to me, she murmured, "Please don't be rude to the major, Haswell."
I studied my aunt's worried face. She and her twin were quiet, peaceable sorts, not given to anger or complaint. Had they been contentious, they could never have lived with Grandma Colby all these years. But it was more than my bad manners that bothered Aunt Hester.
"Why do you care what I say to a Yankee major?" I asked. "What's he doing here anyway?"
Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "The major's been quartered with us, Haswell."
"He lives here?"
The aunts nodded and glanced almost fearfully at the closed kitchen door. Behind it, we could hear the major laughing at something Uncle Cornelius had said. "You see," Aunt Hester went on, "Winchester's under martial law. Officers are quartered in houses all over town."
"Those homes that are still standing, that is," Aunt Esther put in softly.
"Yes," Aunt Hester agreed. "That's why we must be gracious to Major Dennison. If he takes our behavior amiss, he might brand us traitors and burn our house, too."
"Are you saying Uncle Cornelius is a collaborator?" I asked. "His own son died fighting in Lee's army. And Avery's still in the war, doing his best for the South. How can he—"
"Hush, Haswell!" Aunt Hester's voice was as sharp as a slap. "You heard what I told you."
Rachel looked at the aunts wearily, her eyes red, her dirty face streaked with tears. "I hate this war," she said in a small, dry voice.
Much as I once craved honor and glory, I was beginning to agree. Of course, I never would have admitted to it, not even under the most fearsome torture ever devised. But so far it seemed all the war had done was destroy everything I loved. Mama and Papa. The Valley itself. And for what? For what? So the major could sit in Uncle Cornelius's house polishing his gold buttons and stuffing his belly and scaring the poor aunts half silly?
"Now, why don't you go and wash, Haswell." Aunt Hester rose to her feet and began stirring something in a pot. "You and Rachel need some food in your bellies."
The smell of whatever was on the stove cheered Rachel. Wiping her eyes, she said, "We're truly on the verge of starvation."
Aunt Esther smiled at Aunt Hester. "That child always has had the most dramatic way of expressing herself. 'On the verge of starvation,' indeed."
"Indeed," Hester agreed.
The talk of starvation reminded me of Ranger, waiting patiently in the cold for his oats. "Excuse me a minute," I said to the aunts, "but my horse needs feed and shelter. Do you have room for him in the stable?"
"There's an extra stall and plenty of oats," Aunt Hester said. "The major keeps his horse there, too."
Ranger nickered when he saw me coming. I took his bridle and stroked his nose. "Sorry, sir, but I was detained inside by one of your kind, a Union major. Not that I hold it against you."
The stable was warm and smelled of fodder and the sweet sweat of horses. I breathed it in deep, recalling the smell of our stable and the sound of Papa talking gentle to the horses while they munched their oats. I pressed my face against Ranger's warm side and wept for Papa and Mama and James Marshall and our farm.
It was the first time I'd let myself cry. The grief came from so deep inside it hurt my belly and my chest and my throat. For a while it seemed I'd never stop. I guessed Rachel was lucky in some ways to be a girl. She could cry whenever she liked. But it didn't do for me to cry. I was almost a man.
When I'd finally used up my tears, I left Ranger eating his bucket of oats. In a nearby stall, a sorry-looking dapple gray watched me pass. Its condition didn't say much for the major's horsemanship.
"What were you doing out there so long?" Rachel asked me. "The aunts said I couldn't eat till you came back."
"Just taking care of Ranger." I washed my hands at the sink and dropped into a chair. I kept my head down so no one would see I'd been crying.
The aunts busied themselves filling plates with leftovers. From the look of the potatoes, ham, beets, and biscuits, the folks in this house weren't feeling the war pinch their bellies. I reckoned it paid to quarter a Yankee officer. But I myself wouldn't have done it. No, not for the best beef in the country.
While we said grace, Rachel stared at her food as if she feared it would vanish like magic. The second we said "Amen," I dug in, glad it was real and just as good as it looked. My sister followed my example.
"Now, now, children," Aunt Esther said. "There's no need to wolf your supper. You'll make yourselves sick."
"The poor things," Aunt Hester murmured. "They must truly be famished."
Aunt Esther reached out and patted our arms. "We're so sorry for your suffering," she said. "I know how much you miss your mother and father. But you'll be safe here. We'll provide for you, keep you warm and safe."
Aunt Hester nodded her head. "That's what families are for. To take care of each other."
Rachel stared at Aunt Hester, a forkful of ham halfway to her mouth. "Grandma Colby won't send us to an orphanage, will she?"
"An orphanage?" Aunt Hester sounded shocked. "Good gracious, child, whatever gave you such an idea?"
Rachel lowered her fork and gazed from one aunt to the other. "Grandma Colby didn't like Papa," she said in a low voice. "Maybe she doesn't like Haswell and me, either."
"You are both Rebecca's children," Aunt Esther spoke up. "That means you are blood kin. Colbys don't neglect family."
"Never have," Aunt Hester agreed. "Never will."
Aunt Esther leaned toward me. "Do you recall old Uncle John? Why, he hadn't any sense at all, but Father kept him till he died. He wandered all over and folks brought him home like a stray cow."
"Some people would have sent him to the poor farm," Aunt Hester added, "Uncle John was a nuisance—but he was family."
Rachel turned to me, her eyes wide. "Do you remember him, Haswell?"
A picture came to mind of a scary old man sitting in a rocking chair. He never said anything that made sense, though sometimes he spoke up loud and clear about Judgment Day. He'd scared me with talk of the world burning to a cinder and sinners being cast headlong into hell.
"He was old—the oldest man alive," I told Rachel. "Beard down to his toes almost. He died when you were a baby."
Rachel nodded, her eyes half closed, her head drooping over her empty plate. "I was a pretty baby," she said, half asleep already. "Mama said so. I was the girl she was hoping for. And Papa agreed."
She yawned, and I found myself yawning, too. My eyelids felt weighted, and I wasn't sure I could stay awake much longer.
Aunt Hester glanced at Aunt Esther. "I think it's time these poor children went to bed."
"Shouldn't we wash them first?" Aunt Hester asked.
"Oh, I think that can wait till morning. Just look at them. They can't keep their eyes open, either one."
Aunt Hester frowned at her sister. "You heard what Mother said."
"I guess we'd better do it, then." Aunt Esther smiled apologetically and helped her sister heat water on the stove. By the time the tub was full and the curtain drawn round it, Rachel was sound asleep and I was close to it.
Aunt Esther woke Rachel as gently as possible and gave her a good washing, hair and all. When she was done, I bathed in the same water, the way we always did. Though it mortified me, Aunt Hester insisted on scrubbing me. While she worked on me, I heard Rachel fussing about the way Aunt Esther combed out the tangles in her hair.
Just about the time Rachel stopped complaining, Aunt Esther thrust aside the curtain. "Haswell, what are you doing with this?" She held my revolver the way a person holds a dead rat by the
tail.
Forgetting my modesty, I leapt to my feet, sloshing water everywhere, and grabbed my gun. Sitting back down, I said, "It's mine and I need it. Where did you find it?"
Alarmed by my bad manners, both aunts stepped away from me. "It fell out of your trousers when I was gathering your dirty clothes." Aunt Esther eyed the revolver uneasily. "It doesn't seem right for a boy to be carrying something like that. It's a lethal weapon."
"Why, it could kill somebody," Aunt Hester added.
I gripped the revolver tighter. "I need it."
The aunts looked at each other, all flustered. "Well, now, Haswell—" Aunt Esther began and then turned to her twin sister. "What should we do, Hester?"
Hester bit her lip. "Why, Esther, I just don't know. Corny wouldn't want the boy carrying a weapon."
"Don't tell Uncle Cornelius," I begged. "This gun belonged to Papa. He wanted me to have it." That wasn't literally true, but if Papa knew my circumstances, he would want me to have it.
The aunts considered, looking at me, looking at each other. Rachel appeared and got her piece in. "Papa would be angry if Uncle Cornelius took that gun from Has- well."
"Well," Aunt Esther said, "I guess there's no harm in your having a keepsake of your father's."
Aunt Hester nodded. "Just keep it out of sight, Haswell. And all these bullets, too." She held up a handful she'd removed from my other pocket.
"Yes, ma'am," I promised. "I'll hide it all away, and no one will be the wiser."
Aunt Hester handed me Rachel's damp towel, and Aunt Esther laid a nightshirt over the back of the chair. "You dry yourself," she said. "As soon as you're decent, we'll show you your bedroom."
The aunts withdrew and the curtain fell back into place. I dried quickly and slipped the nightshirt over my head. It was of more than ample size so I hid the revolver and its ammunition in a fold of cloth and joined Rachel and the aunts.
"Don't you two look beautiful!" Aunt Hester said, smiling at the two of us decked out in borrowed nightclothes. Rachel's flannel gown trailed behind her, both longer and bigger than mine.
"All clean and fresh and ready to be tucked into bed." Aunt Hester smiled broadly and gave us each a small kiss.
"Come this way." Aunt Esther led us to the back stairs, the ones usually reserved for servants. "We don't want to disturb Corny and the major."
"Or Mother," Aunt Hester added. "She sleeps so light. The slightest noise wakes her. A mouse creeping across the floor. A creaking step. A cough, a snore."
The aunts took Rachel to a small guest room. Before she left me, Rachel handed me James Marshall's letter. "It fell out of your trousers, too. Good thing I saw it, or it would be burned up in the fire by now."
"What's that?" Aunt Hester asked.
"A letter I promised to mail."
Aunt Esther held out her hand. "I'll see to it, Haswell," she said, "though I can't guarantee the postman will be able to decipher the writing. The ink's faded and the envelope is filthy."
I held on to the letter. "No, thank you, Aunt. I have to write something to go along with it."
"James Marshall wrote it," Rachel put in. "It's for his father, but Haswell wants to say how James Marshall was killed by the Yankees."
Aunt Esther turned to Aunt Hester. "Why, sister, that seems the proper thing to do."
Aunt Hester agreed, and the two of them showed me to my cousin John's old room. The first thing I did when they left was hide the revolver and the bullets, as well as James Marshall's letter, under the mattress. Then I crawled into the big soft bed.
Tired as I was, being in John's room saddened me. The news of his death at Gettysburg had brought on Aunt Caroline's death, Mama had said, for she'd died the very next month, still in mourning for her only child.
I reckoned Uncle Cornelius was in mourning himself, which made it all the harder to understand his getting so chummy with a Yankee officer. But then I recalled Papa's saying Uncle Cornelius treasured his comfort above all else. He loved good food and fine wine. He smoked the best cigars and enjoyed card games and horse racing. Much as it disgusted me, it seemed my uncle was willing to consort with the enemy if it meant living the good life he was accustomed to.
The wind tugged at a loose shutter, bang, bang, banging it against the side of the house. It was a haunting, knocking sound. I shivered under the warm covers, for it occurred to me John was buried somewhere out there in the dark and cold. Suppose the wind was his spirit at the window, knocking to come in and lie in the bed where I now lay?
To drive my fearsome thoughts away, I forced myself to think about John's summer visits. He and Avery used to swim across the river down at the farm, racing each other. John always won. He was three years older than Avery, and that was definitely to his advantage. He'd stand on the bank and crow like a rooster. Avery would holler, "Just wait till next time. I'll beat you yet!" And then they'd wrestle and fool around.
I was little at the time, too puny to swim across the river, but I used to imagine myself getting bigger and beating John. Then I'd have my chance to crow.
Now those days seemed like a hundred years ago.
12
THE NEXT DAY I WOKE thinking I was at home in my own bed looking at the tiny blue pineapples on my wallpaper. A second later I remembered. I was in Uncle Cornelius's house in a room papered just like mine. Mama and Aunt Caroline had chosen that pattern together, Mama had told me. I shut my eyes against the sunlight streaming through the window. It seemed I saw reminders of Mama everywhere I looked.
I didn't have long to lie there. Rachel came bounding into the room and jumped on my bed. "It's time to wake up, Haswell!" she cried. "Don't you smell hoecakes cooking? And grits? Coffee, too."
She looked lost in a dress obviously owned by a bigger person, but her face was clean and her hair was neatly braided. Mama would have been pleased to see the color in her cheeks.
I sat up and sniffed. Though it hardly seemed possible, I smelled what my sister smelled. My stomach woke up with a growl that made Rachel giggle.
When her stomach answered mine, she laughed harder. "Our bellies are talking to each other, Haswell!"
"And I know what they're saying." I reached for a pair of trousers Aunt Esther had laid out the night before. They'd belonged to John and were a bit long in the leg and wide in the seat, but at least they were in one piece.
Rachel grinned. "They're saying, 'Let's go eat!'"
Pulling up the suspenders, I ran down the hall after her, both of us laughing and shouting about who'd eat the most. Ahead of us a door opened and a voice bellowed, "Good God! You are totally unschooled in proper behavior!"
The major stepped into the hall and blocked our way. "Some people enjoy a few extra hours of sleep in the morning! They don't expect their slumber to be disturbed by a pair of rude children caterwauling outside the door."
Rachel and I looked as surly as we dared. Before either of us could think of an appropriate answer, the aunts came bustling up the steps and down the hall toward us.
"Oh, Major Dennison..." Aunt Esther began.
"...we're so sorry you were disturbed," Aunt Hester continued.
"The children meant no harm," said Aunt Esther.
"They're just high-spirited," Aunt Hester agreed.
Aunt Esther nodded. "Like colts in the spring, frisking their little selves in the pasture."
"Well, let them frisk their little selves in somebody else's pasture," the major snapped. "Never have liked children. Perhaps I can find rooms more to my liking elsewhere."
"Oh, major, I do assure you it will not be necessary to move," Aunt Hester said, her face anxious.
"Haswell and Rachel won't awaken you again," Aunt Esther added, equally anxious.
"Isn't that true?" Aunt Hester asked us, skewering our consciences with a pleading look.
Though I'm sure Rachel wanted to disturb the major even more than I did, we nodded our heads solemnly. "Yes, ma'am," we chorused.
"I advise you to keep your word." With t
hat, Major Dennison withdrew to his room and shut the door.
As we followed the aunts downstairs to the kitchen, Aunt Esther begged us to avoid annoying the major. "I told you last night what will happen if the major leaves."
"Why, we'd starve to death before spring," Aunt Hester put in. "And this house would end up as quarters for the infantry. You can imagine how they'd treat it. And us."
With that, Aunt Hester placed a steaming plate of hoecakes right under my nose. "Eat all you want, Haswell. You need to put some flesh on those big bones of yours."
"Yes, indeed." Aunt Esther thumped a pitcher down. "And pour some of this good molasses on them."
I gave in to the weakness of the flesh and heaped hoe-cakes on my plate, just about drowning them in molasses. Shamed as I am to admit it, I enjoyed my second helping just as much as I'd enjoyed my first. Which proves Isaiah to be one of the wisest of the prophets, for didn't he say, "Everyone is a hypocrite and an evil doer"?
After I'd eaten, I went out to the stable to feed Ranger. When he saw me coming, he raised his head and nickered sweetly, which made me feel good all over. An animal's greeting is something to value. Not one of them is a hypocrite—except perhaps for cats who only act friendly when they're hungry.
I sat down in the stall and watched Ranger eat, loving the sound he made chomping on his oats. When he'd finished, I began currying him. His coat had been sadly neglected. By the time I was done, he looked like a different animal, shiny and sleek, a handsome beast with the lines of a Thoroughbred.
I was so absorbed in admiring Ranger, I didn't hear the major until he coughed. I whirled around to see him leaning on the gate of the stall, studying Ranger as if he'd never seen a horse before.
"Where did you get that fine animal?" he asked me.
I thought fast. "Papa gave him to me on my thirteenth birthday," I said, borrowing James Marshall's story about his horse. I knew he wouldn't mind.
"Is that right?" Major Dennison kept on studying Ranger. "I have the oddest feeling I've seen him somewhere."