"'O! Don't cut my throat, sir,' I pleaded in terror."
Now I pitched my voice higher, imitating poor scared Pip. Beside me, Rachel listened hard. You'd think she'd never heard the story before.
"The convict sounds like a Yankee," she whispered. "They'd just as soon cut our throats as not."
"That would hush a person, wouldn't it?"
Rachel didn't catch my meaning. "What will we do if they come here searching for James Marshall, Haswell?"
"They won't."
"But what if they do?"
"Do you want to hear Mr. Dickens or fret about Yankees?"
Rachel leaned up against me. "Read, Haswell."
So the afternoon passed. While we followed Pip's adventures, the sky darkened slowly. Soon it was time to feed Warrior and milk the cow.
When my chores were done, I took a bowl of soup to James Marshall. He was sitting up in bed looking a world better, but his eyes had dark shadows and his skin was still white as milk that's had the cream skimmed off.
"Tell me about getting shot in the raid," I said.
He shrugged. "Not much to tell, Haswell." He spooned soup into his mouth.
"That's all right," I said. "Tell it anyway. Papa never would say a thing about fighting."
"Maybe he had cause not to." James Marshall glanced at me and went on eating the soup.
"But is it like Homer tells it? Full of blood and noise and heads rolling on the ground?"
"Yes, I guess it is."
"And glory? And heroes?"
James Marshall put his soup spoon down and stared at me. "Haswell, I didn't see much glory. Plenty of blood, plenty of noise, plenty of heads rolling on the ground. But not much glory."
"But heroes? There were heroes?"
"Yes, I did see heroes." He stirred his soup slowly, lifting the spoon and watching the liquid slop back into the bowl. "But most of them died."
I sighed. "Like Achilles."
"Yes," James Marshall agreed. "Short lives full of bravery."
"But you still haven't told me how you got wounded," I reminded him.
"We raided a Yankee camp and stole some horses. Just as we were leaving, three Yankees came riding up. We pretended to be Yankees ourselves and called out friendly greetings. We would have fooled them entirely if that poor fool Peter Jenks hadn't lost his nerve and fired off a shot. Next thing, they were shooting and we were shooting. They killed Peter and wounded William Pickens and me. I don't know what happened to William. I rode one way, and he must have gone another."
"I wish I could go with you when you leave here," I blurted out. "I'm thirteen—that's old enough to ride with you."
"Take my word for it, Haswell, a boy your age is better off at home." James Marshall finished the last of his soup and handed me the empty bowl. "Your mama needs you more than Mosby does."
It wasn't the answer I'd hoped to hear, but James Marshall was through talking. He lay back and closed his eyes.
I sat and watched him sleep. Sometimes he looked agitated, as if he were dreaming something bad. He ground his teeth, which made an awful noise. Once in a while he'd moan or groan. Then he'd thrash around, as if he were trying to escape from something. I wondered if he was getting any rest at all.
***
When I went to bed that night, I lit my candle and studied James Marshall's envelope. It was addressed to Mr. Cecil Montgomery Marshall, River View, Harrisonburg, Virginia. I wanted to open it and read the letter, but I knew that would be wrong. I put it back into my pants pocket and prayed the Lord would spare James Marshall's life so I would not have to send the letter to his father.
3
A WEEK PASSED. By the end of it, James Marshall was up on his feet and tottering around the house, growing stronger every day. Mama fussed over him as if he were her son. She wanted him to stay till spring, and in truth he seemed in no hurry to depart. For one thing, the weather was still bad. Snow and sleet and ice storms made the roads almost impassable. No news came our way, no letters, no visits. Mosby could have been lying low in the Blue Ridge or stealing supplies from Yankee trains toward the East. It didn't make sense for James Marshall to ride off in search of the Rangers. They didn't call John Singleton Mosby the Gray Ghost for nothing.
During those dreary winter days and nights, James Marshall did his best to amuse. He teased Mama and made her laugh, something she hadn't done since Avery departed to win glory in battle. He pulled Rachel's braids and got away with it. That amazed me, for Rachel was not one to tolerate pranks. I suppose he won her heart by reading to her whenever she asked. He obliged me by telling amazing stories of Mosby's exploits. Soon we all looked upon him as a member of our family, a long-lost cousin who'd come to stay with us.
One stormy night, we were huddled around the stove listening to James Marshall tell of the time Mosby kidnapped a Yankee general out of his bed with Federals all over the place. They took a bunch of soldiers prisoner, stole fifty-eight horses as well, and got away without losing a single Ranger. He told the story so well Mama laughed, which gladdened my heart.
"How about a song, Mrs. Magruder?" James Marshall asked.
Mama smiled and blushed. "Oh, I haven't played or sung for such a long time. Surely you don't want your ears to ring with pain from my efforts."
"Now, Mrs. Magruder, I can't allow you to be so modest." James Marshall rose to his feet and offered Mama his hand. "Please." He bowed like a true gentleman. Mama's face reddened even more.
Rachel leapt up and clapped her hands. "Yes, Mama, yes! Please play and sing for us like you used to!"
Mama glanced at me. "Please, Mama," I begged. "You sing so beautifully."
Still blushing, Mama allowed us to lead her to the little organ in the parlor. She seated herself and opened one of Mr. Stephen Foster's song books. "What would you like to hear?"
"Play 'Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,'" Rachel begged. "It's my very favorite song."
Mama smiled at her. "That's because you have light brown hair, just like Jeanie."
Rachel smoothed her braids and darted a coy look at James Marshall. If she'd been ten years older, I'd have thought she was flirting.
"It's also because you're morbid," I told her crossly. "You just love songs and books where people die." Turning to Mama, I said, "Why can't we have a happy song like 'Oh! Susanna' or 'Camptown Races'?"
"Jeanie doesn't die," Rachel said, "She floats like a vapor, on the soft summer air."
"When did you ever see a live person float on the air?" I asked her.
Mama laid her hand on my arm. "That's enough, Haswell. I'll play 'Jeanie' first, and then you can pick a song."
As Mama struck the opening chords, Rachel made a little sneaky face at me. I might have made one back, but Mama began to sing. Her voice was so sweet, it brought tears to our eyes, especially at the end when she sang, "'Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair. Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.'"
"Now 'Camptown Races,'" I said, but James Marshall said I should let Mama pick some pretty songs first. "Play your favorites, ma'am."
Mama smiled and turned to "Beautiful Dreamer." After that she picked "Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming," "I Would Not Die in Spring Time," and "Old Dog Tray." She finished up with "Hard Times Come Again No More."
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.
It was a melancholy song, one Papa dismissed as overly sentimental, but the words always struck my heart, especially now when it seemed hard times had come to stay. While Mama sang, Rachel leaned against her; the lamplight touched their hair with gold. It was a perfect picture, one I knew I'd see in my mind's eye all my life.
By the time we reached the last chorus, we were the saddest folks you ever did see.
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary;
Hard Times, Hard Times, come
again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.
As the last note faded away, Mama sighed and folded her hands in her lap. Tears sparkled in her eyes.
James Marshall laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "Perhaps we should hear 'Camptown Races' now," he suggested.
Mama wiped her eyes with her lacy handkerchief. "Yes," she agreed. "Burton loved that song." She glanced at Papa's tintype on the mantel, showing him in his uniform and beard, and then bent over the keyboard.
As soon as the song began, we all joined in. Our spirits lifted at once. We sang "Oh! Susanna" next, and then James Marshall himself took over the organ and played a grand medley of lively songs, including "Old Dan Tucker," "Cumberland Gap," and "The Bonnie Blue Flag."
Suddenly, Rachel flung her arms around him. "Oh, James Marshall," she cried, "stay with us forever. We haven't had so much merriment since Papa's last Christmas at home."
She turned to Mama and me. "Remember, Haswell? Remember, Mama? Papa was here, and Avery, too, and we were all singing round the organ, just like now."
James Marshall laughed. "Forever's a long time, Miss Rachel." With that, he launched into "Dixie."
He hadn't played more than a few notes when we heard a noise outside. At first we all thought it was the wind thudding against the house, but then we realized someone was pounding on the door.
Mama clutched Rachel tight. James Marshall froze at the keyboard. I stood by the organ, clutching the top. We didn't speak. We didn't move. No civilized person would pound on a door like that. It was the Yankees, coming to ruin everything.
James Marshall was the first to move. Rising to his feet, he ran upstairs as light-footed as a cat.
Mama grabbed my arm. "Look out the window, Haswell," she whispered. "Tell me what you see."
Cautiously I twitched the curtain aside and peered out. "Three men on horseback in the yard," I told her.
Then a voice hollered, "This is Captain Powell of the Pennsylvania Cavalry! Open up!"
Mama looked as if she might faint dead away. "Go to the door, Haswell. Give me time to compose myself." Turning to Rachel, she whispered, "Not one word about James Marshall."
I walked down the hall and slowly opened the front door. A man towered above me, a dark shape against the stormy sky. Frozen rain clung to his hair, his beard, and the shoulders of his greatcoat.
Pushing past me, he strode into the house, his three companions close behind. "What's your name, boy?"
"Haswell Colby Magruder." I stood as tall as I could and looked him in the eye without flinching. I'd never been this close to a Yankee, but I was damned if I was going to let on I was scared half dead.
"Where's your father?" he asked.
I hesitated. The captain was a fearsome ugly man. If I told him Papa was dead, he'd know we had no one to protect us. There was no telling what he'd do then.
Before I'd had a chance to come up with an answer, Mama walked slowly toward us. Rachel clung to her skirt. "What do you want from us, sir?" she asked in a shaking voice. "Food, shelter?"
Captain Powell stepped closer to Mama. "We're looking for a Rebel, ma'am, one of Mosby's Bushwhackers. Rumor has it he came this way about three weeks ago, wounded. You seen him?"
Mama looked him straight in the eye. "No, sir. No one's come by here since the last snowfall."
The captain turned to Rachel. "What about you, sweetheart? You know a young man named James Marshall?"
Rachel shook her head.
"What's the matter, honey?" He reached for Rachel and tried to draw her away from Mama. "You ain't scared of me, are you?" He smiled at her. "I got a little daughter at home just as pretty as you."
Rachel shook her head and looked the captain in the eye. "I'm not afraid of you or any Yankees. Not even General Ulysses S. Grant himself."
The captain laughed. "Well, ain't you a cocky little thing." He glanced at Mama. "Is your mother as full of spirit as you are?" There was a look in his eye I didn't like, but I couldn't say why.
Captain Powell turned to his men. They straightened up as best they could, for they were a ragged group. The smell of them filled the hall. It got worse as they warmed up. Wet wool, dirty hair, dirty skin—I don't know what all.
"Search the house," the captain said. "You, Hicks, don't just stand there looking stupid. Go on upstairs with Andrews."
Hicks was the smallest of the bunch, the youngest, too. He looked more scared than mean, but I reckoned he was just as nasty-natured as the rest. While he climbed the steps behind Andrews, the other man went to the back of the house. Their boots stamped about everywhere. The captain stayed in the hall, smoothing his beard and studying us.
Drawing Rachel and me close, Mama held our hands so tight my bones ached. We all feared for James Marshall's life. Not even Mosby himself could have gotten out of this situation.
"Where's your husband, Mrs. Magruder?" Captain Powell stepped a little closer to Mama, still with that look in his eye.
My skin crawled with fear and anger, but I had no idea what to do. Cursing myself for being a coward, I edged closer to Mama, hoping to protect her from the captain and the evil in his eyes. Rachel kept a hold of Mama's hand, but she glared at the Yankee.
Before Mama could answer the captain's question, Hicks gave a shout. "He's getting away, sir!"
At the moment he yelled, I heard hoofbeats. Then breaking glass upstairs and a volley of shots.
Mama clutched Rachel and me even tighter. Though we didn't look at one another, we all thought a miracle had happened. Somehow James Marshall had gotten to the barn and was riding away on Warrior. Surely he was safe now.
Hicks came running down the stairs so fast he tripped and slid into the hallway on his backside. Leaping to his feet, he said, "Captain, he got out a window and down a tree, sir."
"Did you hit him?"
"No, sir, not in the rain and the dark. He's gone."
Captain Powell scowled. "Get mounted, all of you, and go after him!"
The men made a rush for the door. "You coming, Captain?" Andrews asked.
"Somebody's got to keep an eye on the prisoners," he said.
Mama squeezed Rachel's and my hands. She didn't look at the captain. I had a feeling she was praying hard, so I did the same. Surely the merciful God in heaven wouldn't let us come to harm, for we worshiped every Sunday and did our best to obey His word. Not that I always succeeded, but on the whole I lived a good life and stayed out of the worst kinds of trouble. Hardly ever cursed. Only smoked once, just to see what it was like. Never took even a sip of whiskey. Read the Bible every night. Said my prayers.
While I was checking my conscience, Captain Powell looked at Mama and said, "You know there are penalties for sheltering a Rebel, ma'am, especially one of Mosby's thieving rats."
Mama held up her head and looked him straight in the eye, but she said nothing. She reminded me of a picture at Grandma Colby's house that showed Liberty as a tall, queenly lady, full of courage. I was mighty proud of her.
"Reprisals," the captain went on, "approved by General Meade his very self."
When Mama said nothing, he looked around the hall and beyond, into the parlor. "Mighty nice home you have here. Clean, well kept, snug. Quality furnishings."
He went into the parlor. Drawing his sword, he brandished it at the chairs before the fireplace. Mama's and Papa's chairs, we'd always called them, for no one else was ever allowed to sit in them, though Rachel had sneaked her fanny into them more than once. The sword made a swishing sound in the air, but the captain didn't touch even the tip to the chairs.
Mama drew in her breath and bit her lip. I could feel the anger trembling through her body, but she stood just as tall and silent as ever.
"Pictures of your parents, I suppose." He pointed his sword at the paintings over the mantel, swishing it like he'd done before. If Grandma Colby had seen him do that, she'd have scratched his eyes out. No one showed her portrai
t disrespect.
"Pretty little china doodads—worth quite a bit, I reckon." He nudged Mama's precious shepherds and shepherdesses, the porcelain vase she treasured, and a variety of small pieces, some of which had belonged to her mother and grandmother before her.
Still Mama held her peace.
Finally, he toppled a dainty figurine to the floor. It smashed on the hearth, its head rolling one way, its body the other. The noise it made was unnaturally loud. Mama winced.
The captain looked mournful. "Now, ain't that just too bad. It would be a terrible shame if I was to lose my temper. Why, there wouldn't be one pretty thing left."
The only sounds were the frozen rain ticking against the windows and the wind blowing around the house, cold and lonely and full of sorrow. My heart rode with James Marshall through the darkness, but my body stayed close to Mama, fearful of what was yet to come.
"If my men catch Marshall," the captain said, "I might leave you enough to get by till spring. But if the villain escapes, I'll see to it you have nothing."
He paused. "Of course, I could find it my heart to be merciful, ma'am. I'm not by nature a cruel man. Indeed, at home in Pittsburgh I'm respected by the best people in town." He paused and flexed his sword blade against his thumb. "Perhaps we could discuss my proposal in private."
Mama's face paled and she backed away.
The captain reached out and took Mama's arm. Pulling her close to him, he whispered, "If you don't want your children harmed, I suggest you come upstairs with me now."
Rachel and I clung to Mama, terrified to let her go. Gently she pried our hands away. In a soft voice, she said, "I think it's best for us all if I listen to what the captain has to say. Please stay here and be still."
Hear the Wind Blow Page 3
