Hear the Wind Blow

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Hear the Wind Blow

  Mary Downing Hahn

  * * *

  Clarion Books

  NEW YORK

  * * *

  Clarion Books

  a Houghton Mifflin Company imprint

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003

  Copyright © 2003 by Mary Downing Hahn

  The text was set in 11.5-point New Century Schoolbook.

  Book design by Carol Goldenberg.

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this

  book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003.

  www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hahn, Mary Downing.

  Hear the wind blow / by Mary Downing Hahn.

  p. cm.

  Summary: With their mother dead and their home burned,

  a thirteen-year-old boy and his little sister set out across Virginia

  in search of relatives during the final days of the Civil War.

  ISBN 0-618-18190-3 (alk. paper)

  1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Juvenile fiction.

  [1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. 2. Brothers

  and sisters—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Shenandoah River Valley

  (Va. and W. Va.)—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1256 He 2003

  [Fic]—dc21

  2002015977

  QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  FOR JEFF MOSS,

  with thanks

  1

  THE DAY THE SOLDIER rode up our lane, I was heading for the barn to milk the cow. It was late in the afternoon, almost dark, and just beginning to snow. The flakes spun idly, blowing this way and that, as if they were unsure where to settle.

  I stopped and watched the soldier come closer. He sat crooked in the saddle, his head down, his body swaying in rhythm with the horse's slow steps. The snow sparkled like little gems on his shoulders and his hair.

  Though both horse and rider looked too near death to be dangerous, I eyed the man uneasily. Folks here in the Shenandoah Valley had suffered many encounters with soldiers. Didn't matter if the armies were Confederate or Yankee. They both helped themselves to our food and our livestock. The only difference was the Confederates usually apologized for taking them. Unfortunately, words didn't ease our hunger.

  What made the soldier especially menacing was the fact I was the only male standing between him and Mama and Rachel. Last year Papa had died in Richmond of dysentery. Not two months after Papa's body was sent home, my brother, Avery, rode off to join the army. Mama had begged him not to go, but he wanted to fight for the South, like Papa.

  At the time, I was all for his going; I would have gone myself, but Mama clung to me with all her strength. Before Avery rode off on our one and only horse, he told me I was in charge of the farm till he returned.

  The very last thing he said was, "You take good care of Mama and Rachel."

  And that's just what I was trying to do. Protect Mama and Rachel from soldiers roaming the Valley like starving bears, looking to survive no matter what it might cost another person.

  Even though my knees were trembly with fear, I stood and faced the soldier. "What do you want? Why don't you say something?"

  He raised his head slowly and looked at me. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, his face deathly white under a layer of grime. Despite his beard and long hair, I could see he wasn't much older than Avery—eighteen, nineteen. Surely not over twenty.

  My fear eased a bit, and I loosened my death grip on the milk bucket. "What do you want?" I asked again.

  "Food," he croaked in a low voice. "And shelter ... Please."

  As quiet as he spoke, there was no mistaking his accent. He came from somewhere nearby. I dropped the milk bucket with a clang and ran to his side just in time to prevent him from sliding off the horse.

  "Mama," I hollered toward the house. "Mama!"

  The back door opened and my mother looked out, her thin face drawn tight with worry. My little sister, Rachel, peeked out from behind Mama's skirt. "Haswell," Mama called to me, "who's that with you?"

  "Name's James Marshall," the man muttered. "Got shot a day or so ago. Lost a lot of blood."

  I turned to Mama. "His name's James Marshall. He's wounded."

  "Tell him to be on his way," Mama said. "We can't help him."

  I was almost too shocked to speak. "But, Mama, he's hurt, he's—"

  "You heard me, Haswell. I'm sorry, but he can't stay here." With that, Mama slammed the door. A second later Rachel's face appeared at the window, her nose pressed white against the glass.

  I turned back to James Marshall. "Wait here. I'll talk to Mama. She has a kind heart, she'll—"

  James Marshall sighed. "Can't blame her. I'll try somewhere else." He made as if to ride on, but the horse looked as near collapse as he did.

  I grabbed the reins from him and glanced at the house. Rachel was gone from the window. There was no sign of Mama. The snow was falling thick now; it lay between us and the house like a heavy white curtain. Hoping not to be seen, I led the horse around to the back of the barn. It was cold and damp inside. What was left of the hay had a moldy smell. But it was better than being outside in the wind and cold.

  I touched James Marshall's hand. "Lie down in the straw, and I'll fetch you some blankets."

  He stared at me, his eyes glassier than before, and slid off the horse. I swear he was asleep before he hit the ground. The horse lay down beside him, its eyes closed, its breath steaming in the cold air. It was so skinny I could have counted its ribs. They were a pitiful pair.

  I ran for a pile of old saddle blankets and covered James Marshall as best I could. Up close, he was a sad sight. His face was hollowed out with hunger and weariness, his beard and hair unkempt, his skin gray with dirt. Somehow I had to get food and drink to him and see to his wounds. If I didn't, he'd either freeze to death or die of an infection.

  I milked the cow as fast as I could. She twitched her tail in my face and stamped her feet to show she wasn't used to such rough treatment. I rested my head against her warm flank and smelled the sweet milk filling the pail. Once, we'd had a whole herd of cows, but that was before the Yankee devil Sheridan and his men came to the Valley. Fortunately, I'd had enough sense to hide Clarissa and a few chickens in the gully behind our house. Otherwise, we'd have died of starvation before now.

  "Poor old Clarissa," I told the cow, "you must be mighty lonesome."

  She turned her head and looked at me with her sad brown eyes. Then she mooed, almost as if she'd understood what I'd said.

  By the time I made my way to the house, the snow was even heavier and the sky was solid white. The wind blew across the yard. It looked like winter was throwing a February blizzard at us, a last insult after the bad weather we'd already been dealt. I was glad James Marshall wasn't still plodding along on his horse. He'd be a dead man by now, frozen stiff in the saddle.

  Mama watched me set the milk on a shelf in the pantry. "Do you understand why I couldn't let that man stay here?" she asked.

  "I guess you're scared the Yankees will burn the house down if they find out." I fidgeted with the milk pail to keep from looking her in the eye. Mama always knew when I was hiding something from her.

  "That's exactly what happened to some folks down Haymarket way. They took in one of Mosby's men, and when the Yankees found out, they burned everything they couldn't steal. There's no one in the Valley they hate more than Mosby."

>   Mama turned away and went to the window. "Still, I can't help feeling bad about it," she said softly. "He was a young man and sorely wounded from the look of him. I reckon he'll die in this storm." She paused and gazed out the window as if she could see James Marshall out there succumbing to the cold.

  "Maybe I shouldn't have turned him away," she added. "The sweet Lord knows I don't want his death on my conscience. Suppose someone let Avery die alone in the snow?"

  Rachel looked up from her doll cradle. "Don't worry, Mama." Giving me a sly grin, she added, "I saw Haswell take that soldier around behind the barn. Most likely he's sleeping out there in the straw."

  "Rachel!" When I took a step toward her, she jumped up and hid behind Mama's skirt, her favorite refuge.

  "Haswell Colby Magruder," Mama said. "Is that the truth?"

  "Yes, ma'am." I lowered my head and stared at the pine floor. "He would have died otherwise. There's blood on his jacket, and he's so weak he just about fell off the horse. Nobody will see him out in the barn. I'll tend him. You won't have to do a thing."

  While Mama listened to the words tumbling out of my mouth, she looked at the wall of falling snow pressing against the kitchen window. The light whitened her face and showed a network of wrinkles radiating from her eyes. She looked old and tired, worn out from grief and want. I felt like hugging her the way I had when I was little, but at thirteen a boy doesn't hang on to his mother.

  "I'm sorry, Mama, but he looked so pitiful, him and the horse both. I just couldn't turn him away. He's not much older than Avery and fighting for the same cause."

  Mama laid her hand on my arm. "It's all right, son," she hushed me. "We'd best bring him inside and take proper care of him. With luck, no one will know he's been here." She glanced at Rachel, who was rocking her doll in its cradle but not missing a word we spoke. "You hear, Rachel? Don't tell a soul about that young man. Keep your mouth shut tight if anyone asks."

  Rachel smiled—pleased, I reckon, to be included in something so important. At seven, she got left out of most serious matters. "You can trust me, Mama. I'm old enough to keep a secret."

  While Rachel babbled on about how trustworthy she was, Mama pulled on her coat. "Come along, Haswell," she said. "I'll need your help getting the young man into the house."

  "Can I come, too?" Rachel asked.

  Mama sighed and opened the back door. Grabbing our coats, Rachel and I followed her through the thick snow to the barn. "Worst winter in years," Mama muttered. "Must be the Lord punishing us for this war."

  I hated hearing Mama talk like that. You'd think she was a Quaker the way she carried on. But I kept my thoughts to myself and hoped she wouldn't speak ill of the fighting in James Marshall's hearing.

  Mama knelt down and touched James Marshall's forehead. "Fever," she murmured. "Help me get him up on his feet, Haswell."

  James Marshall opened his eyes and did his best to stand, but it took all my strength and Mama's, too, to get him walking. Even then, he staggered between us, his arms around our shoulders, his head hanging. Rachel followed us out of the barn, claiming she'd catch him if he fell backward. Most likely she'd fall down in the snow with James Marshall on top of her, but I was working too hard to point this out.

  Somehow we got James Marshall into the house and up the back stairs to the spare room over the kitchen. Once we'd had an Irish servant girl living there, cooking our meals and cleaning and laundering, but she'd run off with a Yankee soldier a year or so back.

  Though Maura hadn't shown good judgment in her choice of a partner, I missed her. She made a good apple pie. I liked the soft way she spoke, too, and the stories she told about the fairies and such.

  James Marshall fell across the narrow bed with a groan. After sending Rachel downstairs to start the kettle boiling, Mama began to undress him. I helped by pulling off his boots. They were made of fine leather but the soles were worn clean through. I thought of Avery's boots, so shiny and new when he left for the war. Did they look as bad as these now?

  "Go down and fetch a bowl of hot water," Mama said. She'd peeled James Marshall's shirt away to reveal a wound in his side. "He's lost a lot of blood."

  I glanced at the bloody shirt and coat and the hole in James Marshall's skin, all purple and red and ugly.

  "And bring the bottle of whiskey from Papa's cabinet," she called after me.

  I hurried to the kitchen. Rachel had gotten the kettle to boil, and I poured the steaming water in a bowl. She followed me upstairs with the whiskey.

  Mama was tearing a clean sheet into strips. "Set the bowl on the table by the bed, Haswell. The whiskey, too."

  I did as she told me, and she got to work cleaning the wound. James Marshall moaned and tossed, clearly out of his head by now.

  "Hold his arms, Haswell," Mama ordered.

  I did my best, but sick as the man was, he was strong. Somehow I managed to keep him still long enough for Mama to do her work. Using her fingers, she dug a bullet out of the wound and tossed it on the floor. Rachel and I stared at it. Like me, she was probably wondering how it felt to have something like that pierce your flesh.

  Rachel stooped down and picked up the bullet, turning it in her fingers and studying it.

  "Put that down," Mama said sharply.

  "I want it." Rachel wiped it on her dress and dropped it in her pocket.

  Mama was too busy tending James Marshall to do more than frown and shake her head. Before she bandaged him, she poured whiskey in the wound. He screamed in pain, and she held the bottle to his lips. "Drink some," she said, "but not too much."

  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."

&n
bsp; "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."