Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  Grady’s words landed with enough impact to leave behind bruises. How odd it seemed that he felt the same way I recalled feeling, back in ’sixty-five. Like a ghost in my own home, crawling with an ill, oily discomfort. Back then Sawyer spent the nights in the Suttonville churchyard, lying alongside the newly-turned earth over the graves of his family, whiskey bottle in hand, believing he belonged there with them rather than amongst the living. And Gus, who rode Admiral along the quiet streets all through the lonely nights of that awful summer, unable to sleep in the house he had once shared with his beloved wife; a house now empty and echoing, full of naught but memories that ripped at his heart.

  “I know just what you mean,” I said, and meant those words more than Grady knew. He couldn’t know the strangeness of realization rising like a sun inside me, piercing through an ancient-seeming darkness.

  Virgil no longer appeared to be paying attention to our words, instead watching the horizon with an expression I couldn’t quite read, dismal somehow, the kind Mama would have called a ‘mug lump.’ He murmured, “Spent my last penny on drink and gambling once I got home from the War. Lingered in Baxter Springs for a spell before…”

  Again Grady interrupted. “Before I found you, with the offer of a cash job.”

  Virgil’s expression lost its distant look, gaze sharpening as it returned to his old friend. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the resentment in his tone or if he was just poking fun at Grady as he said, “Grace has always shined its light on you, Ballard, since we was kids.”

  Grady’s easy smile again brought Ethan Davis to my mind. Ignoring Virgil’s irritable tone, he explained, “We signed on to drive some eight hundred head to Topeka that very day and we’ve been on the move, ever since. I figure someday I’ll feel able to settle in somewheres, but no time soon.”

  I said, “There’s plenty of time for that, I reckon,” and sensed Virgil’s sideways gaze flicker briefly to me.

  Then he looked back Grady’s way and muttered, “Yes. Plenty of time.”

  THE LANDSCAPE GREW rugged, the hills gradually steeper as we angled northwest. We drove the herd around the solitary fort on the border, where western Minnesota gave over to unclaimed wilderness, and then pressed on into Dakota Territory.

  “Statehood may be a long time in coming to these parts,” Quill said as we left Minnesota behind.

  September waned and the nights passed clear and cold. Malcolm and I continued to sleep beneath the wagon, tucked close for warmth beneath our two blankets, while Grady and Quill lay near the fire, wrapped in theirs; Virgil remained the night watch. When I woke before dawn on the third morning of our journey, each breath a foggy cloud about my mouth and nose, I was more than a little startled to observe that Cora had crawled from her cot in the wagon bed to lie near Malcolm.

  She was curled in a small knot on the far side of my brother, under both his blanket and her own woolen shawl, arms crossed over her narrow middle and legs drawn inward. Her nose and Malcolm’s was a mere two inches apart as they slept, his arm tucked around her waist. I felt a stitch in my gut at this evidence of his protectiveness of her, battling the sense that I should prevent this whole situation from continuing, but as I studied the little girl’s face in the gray dimness I found I hadn’t the heart to demand she return to her own sleeping place.

  Instead, I rolled to the other side, catching another half-hour of sleep. When I’d woken for the second time Cora was gone, leading me to wonder if she’d been an apparition I’d only imagined. But then, the very next night, Malcolm whispered in the darkness, “Boyd, Cora come to lay by us last night. She done said she was scairt.”

  “I saw,” I admitted.

  “I don’t mind,” Malcolm confessed, his tone questioning whether I did. When I didn’t reply, he whispered, “It’s all right, ain’t it?”

  Uncertainty tugged at me, but Cora was only a child, no threat to anyone; it hurt to think of her being scared or lonely, or even cold. I further considered how much Malcolm, who craved being snuggled and petted, hugged and loved on, missed Lorie’s tender affection. How he had never stopped missing our mama; Malcolm had been Mama’s baby, after all.

  All of these things were in my head as I finally relented, promising, “I won’t say nothing.”

  And ever since, Cora slept with us through the night hours, creeping back to her cot before anyone else woke; the only difference was that after my approval, she claimed the spot right between the boy and me. I didn’t know exactly what it was I felt with a child not my own curled to my side. Protective, to be sure, and yet somehow having her so near forced my consideration in other directions, to dark places. It was her vulnerability that troubled me most – the recognition of how powerless she would be in other circumstances. What if Grady hadn’t taken her under his care? When I’d been a solider I’d seen children left without means, without kin; thin, peaked children ailing and ill, dying in the starved-out towns in the land of my birth. There was nothing as helpless as a child, and children did not ask for birth; God knew they didn’t ask to be orphaned. A child could beg for grace, could pray for mercy, but no amount of praying could alter a regrettable circumstance or restore a parent to life.

  I felt I’d never truly understood the impact of such things until lying under the wagon with a little orphan girl’s elbow pressing against my ribs. Half-asleep, my mind stirred with disjointed images and shadowy nightmares; I drifted again through the terrible time I’d sat at Sawyer’s bedside with Lorie, before we knew if he would survive his wounds, admitting to Lorie my fear of being unable to protect a family of my own, and her quiet response, that love worth having was one part pain. And my own reply – that it was worth the pain, or we would never love. I remembered how Rebecca said her memories, the ache of missing her husband, Elijah, hurt as badly as holding both hands in a fire. I was ashamed of the damnable burning sting of jealousy I’d felt ever since I realized how much Rebecca had loved Cort and Nathaniel’s daddy.

  Exhausted, I wondered, Why is love so goddamn punishing? Who can bear it? Who is strong enough?

  No one. But we love, even still. Maybe we’s just…plain crazy.

  WE FORDED the wide James River over the course of an afternoon, with blessedly little trouble, and then followed an offshoot as it slanted westward; according to Grady, this tributary would lead the way to the larger Missouri, and eventually Royal Lawson’s homestead. By early October he said we were more than halfway to our destination, having left Minnesota far behind. Grady kept track of each day in his leather-bound notebook, spending a few minutes’ time at the fire each evening, recording the day’s events. A journal, the likes of which I’d never in my life considered keeping, a small thing which seemed to bring him a sense of peace at day’s end.

  The weather remained remarkably fair and fine as we plodded along day after day; we were fortunate to continue avoiding nightly frost and Grady was optimistic about the prospect of returning to St. Paul before winter. The earth and sky appeared grander than I’d ever beheld them, with nothing to block the view in any direction. The offshoot of the James River, a swift, deep blue, kept us company; while a pretty sight, the water was also bitter-cold, and so did not encourage frequent bathing.

  I was somewhat surprised to find I felt at ease, if not exactly content. The plains were beautiful in their own way, rolling with tall, yellow-brown grass that caught the wind, swaying as far as a man could see; clouds sailed along like sheep chased by a barking dog as I kept the remuda in line, day after day. Who could have guessed a boy from the Bledsoe holler, who’d never dreamed of living more than a few leagues from his childhood home, would someday ride the Territory plains over a thousand miles to the north and west, beholding sights unimagined in his youth. Thinking of Grady’s journal, I often narrated what I observed as I rode; I did not put these thoughts on paper but instead spoke them in my mind, as though Sawyer rode at my side or – damn my vivid imagination – as though Rebecca rode before me on the saddle.

  I ain’
t thinking so much on our days with the Second Corps, I’d tell Sawyer. There’s something about this open land that stretches out my thoughts, makes them thinner somehow. I don’t rightly know exactly how to explain it, old friend, but I think you’d understand. Remember the time we talked about how we wished we could turn from men to hawks? Late that December night in ’sixty-four? Neither of us cared a fig no more about pretending to be brave. We joked that we could fly home then, to our mama’s hearth fires, and there alight. No more War, no more death. Just grace. The grace of hawks.

  More often than I should have, I imagined brushing aside strands of Rebecca’s hair, tucking them behind her ear as I murmured, I wish you could see the way the clouds look just now, darlin’, with the sun coming through them an’ turning the whole prairie gold. I wish you was here with me so I could hear your voice an’ feel you sitting there in front of me. Oh God, how I wish it. Likely you don’t think much on me since I been gone but that’s for the best, I reckon.

  To my continued surprise I enjoyed the company and conversation of my Yankee companions, Grady and Quill especially, and even reticent Virgil, a great deal beyond what I figured myself capable. Grady reminded me more of Ethan the longer our acquaintance, with his easy nature and plentiful love of womenfolk – and constant, enthusiastic talk of his own exploits. Grady was kind to Malcolm and spoke with affection to Cora. Though on night watch and not near as loose-jawed, Virgil was companionable enough as the weeks wore by; he carried a tobacco pouch and was willing to share. I’d promised at least a dozen times that I would purchase a new pouch for him the moment we returned to St. Paul. Or any place with a decent dry-goods store or a hope of trade; Grady spoke of a fort staked out on the west side of the Missouri River, though it was not a place we intended to venture on our route to Royal Lawson’s homestead.

  “It’s nothing,” Virgil would say, of the tobacco.

  Malcolm was distracted from missing Lorie and Sawyer, finding in Cora a kindred soul. The little girl grew less wary each passing day but seemed to prefer letting Malcolm jabber rather than contributing to their conversations. I was pleased to notice her cheeks fill out and take on a little color; she appeared less like a spirit and more like a human child. I’d grown accustomed to her peculiar nature; her mismatched eyes still gave me an occasional start, especially as she tended to stare fixedly at things, including myself and Malcolm, but I found that I attempted to encourage a smile from her, and felt rewarded at earning one in return.

  We all looked out for the girl, but no one more than Malcolm. He and Cora rode by day on the wagon with Quill, and the old cook liked to tell me as we all sat about the evening’s fire what they’d discussed as the miles rolled past beneath the wheels. Quill was older than my daddy would have been, had he lived, closer to the age of a granddaddy, and though I would not have admitted it to anyone, I liked the way Quill sometimes referred to Grady, Virgil, and me as son. How it spurred feelings of belonging, of being part of a family rather than an orphan. Even as a grown man I found I still longed to be someone’s son, someone’s grandson; to know an older generation watched out for me, and shared my joys and struggles. It seemed to me a longing that would never fully cease; a deep internal pit in which rain or mud washed away any hope of solid earth.

  “Ballard said you left behind a woman you care for,” Quill commented at the fire one late night, keeping his gaze fixed on the flames. Near us, Grady lay snoring; as was my habit, I tended to linger awake long past everyone else in the vicinity. But I’d found in Quill a fellow troubled sleeper; many a night had we sat up, talking with the hushed voices common to the darkness.

  “Y’all gossip as much as old ladies,” I complained, though I wasn’t really angry that Quill knew this. Maybe it was a relief, not having to explain. I shifted, leaning back on one elbow, the fire warming my legs. I crossed my ankles with the fleeting thought that soon enough I would need new boots and turned up the collar of my jacket. Quill chuckled at my observation.

  “Well, there ain’t much else to do along the trail, if you’re lucky.”

  “Meanin’ we should be grateful for the lack of excitement,” I understood.

  Quill nodded, stirring at the embers with the end of a fire-hardened stick, one he kept and stowed in the wagon as we traveled. I’d watched menfolk prod at fires for the whole of my life; it seemed an urge common to men, to rearrange the blazing coals or the position of the kindling, trying so damn hard to feign control over anything in life. “I seen enough excitement to last me two lifetimes,” he acknowledged. “And then some. Enough to know I’d rather live without it. As I’d reckon you’d say of yourself.”

  “I reckon that’s true,” I agreed. Because it had never yet worked its way into our conversations, and because I wanted him to know, I felt now was as good a time as any to say, “Quill, I weren’t anywhere near the Gettysburg Campaign. I was in Tennessee during the summer of ’sixty-three.”

  I heard him draw a slow breath and didn’t dare look his way. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet and held no trace of anger or blame. “That never occurred to me, son. I got no hard feelings against you, even if you fought as a Reb. It ain’t your fault my boys was killed. They done their duty for our country and I will be proud of them to the day I die.” He sighed a second time, before murmuring, “Much as I’d like to blame someone, no good can come of hanging on to such hatred.”

  My shoulders lowered from an anxious hunch. I glanced his way to see his eyes on me, studying my face the way my own kin might have done, with compassion. As if Quill, in that moment, truly gave a damn about what I was feeling. Wrinkles misshaped his eyelids and lined the sides of his mouth as he remained somber. I sensed he was about to speak and heard myself blurt, “Were you ever in love?”

  My words took him by surprise – I watched his shaggy white eyebrows lift and his head cock to the side, an altogether new regard in his expression. He rubbed a thumb over his beard and looked to the heavens. He was so long silent I did not expect an answer, and was a mite startled when he said with quiet ardor, “I loved my second-cousin Eleanor when we were both fifteen. We were very much in love.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, already gathering that the end of this tale wasn’t a happy one.

  “In Harrisburg, where we was brought up,” he said, and there was a grate in his voice not present earlier. And then he uttered the sort of low, half-laugh that has far more to do with pain than humor. Abandoning his fire stick and cupping his knees with both hands, he whispered, “I ain’t been back that way in many dozens of years.”

  “What happened?” I asked, and then immediately upbraided myself. “It ain’t my concern, you ain’t got to tell me…”

  “It’s been over forty years since the day her pa took her from me,” Quill said as if I hadn’t spoken, staring much further than at our low-burning fire; there in the flames, he witnessed his past. “But to me it might as well be yesterday, no more than the blink of an eyelid. Funny you should ask such a question this night, young Carter, as I was thinking of her only this evening, for the first time in weeks. How odd. But then, life is often odd, ain’t it?” He paused to run a hand over his face. “Her pa made sure to keep us separated until long after Ellie was promised to another.”

  “Her daddy wouldn’t consider the two of you marrying?”

  “No. And not a word I spoke would convince him otherwise. Ellie and me talked of running away together but we were so young, with no notion of what that truly meant.” He snapped a kindling stick with an abrupt motion and then sat holding both halves, in utter stillness. He muttered, “Damnation.”

  My chest felt banded with iron as I figured, “She married this here other fella.”

  “She wrote to me of it. Letter came for me that next winter, envelope reading ‘Mrs. Benjamin Donnelly,’ but she signed it ‘Ellie.’ Your Ellie she wrote, even as the rest of the letter bid me a polite farewell. For the longest time I meant to burn up them words, but I never found the strength.”


  I found I couldn’t speak; Quill, too preoccupied with his own thoughts, remained quiet for a long time. My spine twitched when he finally said, “But everything worked out fine in the end, I’ll have you know. I married a good woman of my own two years later, my Minerva, and she and I were blessed with half a dozen young’uns. Minerva was a good wife to me, God rest her. We had a good life before the War, and I loved her dearly, I did. It weren’t her fault that somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t altogether forget Ellie. I’d never have dishonored Min by confessing to it and she never suspected, dear soul that she was. I figure it’s a fool notion to cling to the idea of another when there’s a flesh-and-blood woman right before you.”

  I felt a freshly-honed razor pass over my soul at his words.

  Silence surrounded us for another spell before he murmured, “But a heart’s a fool thing, that’s God’s truth. What would I have done if Ellie appeared at my doorstep during them years, looking for me? Would I have had the strength to turn her away?”

  Would you? I longed for an answer.

  In a low whisper, Quill concluded, “I’m glad I was never asked to make the choice. And I’ve never been brave enough to venture back where I might run across Ellie, not in all these years.”

  The stars resembled glittering stones scattered along the top side of a threadbare blanket; beneath their meager light I walked far away from both our camp and the herd, unable to sleep long after Quill settled in for the night. A recklessness overtook my sensibilities – few though those might be – and I let it, allowing my mind to flood with pictures of Rebecca, memories a better man than myself would have left well enough alone. Many paces distant from all signs of life, I knelt in the darkness and pressed both palms to my face, my thoughts flung back to Iowa, last July, when I’d only known Rebecca for a few days.