Ashes in the Wind

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Jacques was waving his arm wildly and demanding some show of action from the sheriff. “I tell you I have the paper that say I purchase thees property from the bank!” he declared, withdrawing a packet from inside his coat, and, snapping the back of his fingers sharply against them, ranted on. “I have it all here, Sheriff. Now, I insist you arrest thees woman!”

  The slow, pondering deliberation of the law officer seemed to infuriate the smaller man, for when the sheriff only stared at him, leisurely mouthing a cud of tobacco, the Frenchman railed, “Will you do something?”

  “Well now,” the sheriff drawled. “I’ve been trying to hear what this old lady has to say for herself, but you just ain’t giving her much chance, Mr. Bonny.”

  “DuBonné!” Jacques corrected irately. “And what you think she to say, Sheriff, that will discount this?” He shook the packet beneath the other man’s nose. “I demand you do the thing, or I am forced to highest authority.”

  The sheriff grumbled and, peevishly tugging his hat off, stepped closer to the long porch where the woman stood.

  “Ma’m, I’m sorry, but I have my duty, just like the man said.”

  “Of course, Sheriff,” the woman replied in a firm, but oddly pleasant rasping voice. “But I wonder if Mister DuBonné has made you aware of my skill with my husband’s sword. As yet, I haven’t had a chance to use it on a gentleman of the law.”

  “Ma’m,” he shook his head sadly, “I sure would prefer it if you’d just come along peacefullike.”

  The aged chin raised proudly. “I must respectfully decline, of course. I knew your mother well, Sheriff Bascombe. She was a fine woman.” Mrs. Hawthorne paused for effect, then twisted the well-set prod with vicious intent. “Were she alive today, I’m sure she would be highly distraught if she learned that you dispossessed me without due cause or course.”

  “Well—uh, ma’m—I—I—” The sheriff stuttered into silence, and his face went red.

  “You must enforce the law!” Jacques cried, striding forward a short space. “I have pay the good money to the bank for thees place! I will not be denied! Arrest the old hag!”

  “The debt you rave about, young man, was paid a good six months ago,” Mrs. Hawthorne doughtily informed him. “I have a receipt—”

  “Receipt, bah!” Jacques said. “You have declare the existence of such a paper, but I ‘ave seen no such proof.”

  The woman continued calmly, as if she had not been interrupted. “A letter of receipt, duly witnessed, from the bank.”

  “It doesn’t exist!” Jacques exclaimed as he dared to step nearer.

  Mrs. Hawthorne smiled ruefully. “In either case, sir, you will be a bit more frayed if you set a foot on that step.”

  Shaking his head irascibly, Jacques muttered a few unintelligible words. They meant nothing to the sheriff and Mrs. Hawthorne, but they struck a cord in Alaina’s memory of the moment just before the black released her, when Jacques had uttered a similar-sounding verbiage. And as before, the black was moving on command—sidling to one side behind the carriages to where he could take the woman by surprise. Digging into her pouch, Alaina quickly withdrew her father’s pistol and, with trembling fingers, checked the loading and slipped fresh caps into place.

  The negro was almost even with the end of the porch now and was stealthily working his way around the sheriff’s buggy while Jacques continued to argue with the woman. Alaina stepped out from behind the bushes, bracing her small feet wide apart and squared her sights on the black’s wide chest with both hands clutching the handle of the pistol, then carefully drew back the hammer. The black froze as he heard the double click and slowly searched with his eyes until he saw the threat. True worry furrowed the broad, glistening brow and tiny beads of sweat stood out as he gaped at the thin lad and the huge pistol.

  Alaina gestured with the gun, and the black carefully complied, stepping sideways toward the others as she moved forward. Jacques, at first seeing nothing more than his servant’s return, irately spouted several more commands in the tongue of unknown origin. Then the ragged lad came into sight, and he sputtered into gawking silence.

  “You!” He regained his voice with force.

  The sheriff whirled, and Al calmly nodded a greeting.

  “Aftahnoon, y’all.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” barked the sheriff. “Put down that gun, boy, before you hurt somebody.”

  “Might at that”—Al puckered her lips thoughtfully—“if’n y’all don’t back up a ways from the porch and give Miz Hawthorne a breathing space.”

  Jacques hastily followed the youth’s directions, having already tasted of that one’s contrariness. But the sheriff ignored the scruffy sprite and lifted a foot to place it on the lowest step.

  “Now, Mrs. Hawthorne—”

  The report of the pistol numbed the ears, and a large splinter flew from the plank beneath his foot, leaving a wide gash of fresh wood. The sheriff stumbled back a few steps as the pistol was immediately recocked, and the black halted in a forward stride when it again took his chest as a point of aim. The negro obligingly lowered his foot and relaxed, while the sheriff gaped at the lad, well assured that the youth had lost his mind. Then his face darkened, and furiously shaking a fist, he railed, “You little half-witted bindlestiff! I’ll break that pistol over your backside before I throw you in jail! I’m an officer of the law and—!”

  His words were cut short by a shout and the thundering approach of horse’s hooves. Horse and rider came toward them, and much in the manner of a flamboyant calvary officer, Captain Latimer swung off his still-prancing roan.

  “What goes on here?” he demanded as he looped the reins through the ring of the iron hitching post. Dragging off his gauntlets, he strode forward, taking in the scene that greeted him.

  “Well now, I just don’t see where that it’s any of your business, mister.” The sheriff spat a stream of black juice onto the cyrass and peered at the Yankee with a less than grateful frown.

  Cole tucked the gauntlets beneath his belt and casually rested a hand on his holster. “May I remind you, sir, that the entire occupied area is under martial law. By definition, that suspends all civil authority and affairs. You can be held responsible for what transpires under your offices without the approval of the military governor.”

  The sheriff swore softly beneath the prodding of his memory and gestured toward the lad. “I came out here to do my duty as an officer of the law and that young whelp took a shot at me.”

  Alaina shrugged innocently as the captain turned and raised a brow at her. “I coulda shot him clean through if’n I’da wanted to.” She gestured toward the black with the gun. “Coulda shot him, too, while he was a trying to sneak up behind that po’ woman.”

  “Al, put that gun down,” Cole commanded.

  Undismayed, Alaina laid the still-cocked pistol on the porch and rested an elbow on the planks without removing her hand more than a few inches from the well-worn grip. For the moment at least, she’d let him handle the situation.

  “I repeat!” Cole remonstrated, facing the others. “Just what is going on here?”

  Jacques burst out in a rush of outraged explanations. “That old woman, she don’t pay her debt. The bank put the house up for sale. I bought it! Here are the papers! All legal!”

  “Do you mind if I look at those?” Cole asked.

  “You will see,” Jacques handed them over with open satisfaction.

  After a moment of studying the documents, Cole glanced up at the old woman. “What do you have to say about this?”

  “I pay my debts,” Mrs. Hawthorne informed him loftily. “All of them. I have a receipt!”

  “Bah!” Jacques snorted. “She say she has such a paper, but nothing has been seen of it!”

  “Sir, I do not lie,” she informed him bluntly, raising an audacious brow. “And I do not cheat people either.”

  “May I see the receipt you speak of?” Cole requested.

  Mrs. Hawthorne gazed do
wn at him coolly. “And why should I trust a Yankee, sir?”

  A gleeful cackle from Al won the captain’s glare. “Now there be a woman what’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. “Thank you, child. I’ve often thought the same thing myself.”

  Al gestured casually. “I guess as Yankees go, though, he’s fit to be trusted.” She caressed the handle of the pistol tenderly. “At least, as much as them other fellers.”

  “I am beholden to your kindness, child, but I’m a bit confused. Perhaps I have cause to trust you, seeing that you stopped that black oaf, but why should I take your word?”

  “Well, I ain’t a friend o’ that there fella,” Al nodded toward Jacques, “so I must be a friend of yours.”

  “For some reason, that sounds reasonable to me,” Mrs. Hawthorne responded in wry amusement. She lifted the sword briefly toward Cole. “You know him that well?”

  “Yeah, I know him.” The information came reluctantly. “He’s a sawbones at the Union Hospital.”

  Faced with a choice, Mrs. Hawthorne paused a moment, then as if coming to a decision, she reached into the bodice of her dress and handed over a sheet of paper to Cole with a rueful comment. “Considering my age, I thought it was the safest place to hide it.”

  “Yes, ma’m.” Cole won a private battle not to smile and unfolded the letter to study it for a few moments. “This seems to be well in order, sheriff,” he commented, scanning it once more briefly. He half turned to the man. “Perhaps the bank is in error.”

  “No!” Jacques shouted and shook his own papers. “I have purchased thees property!”

  “If that be true, the bank owes you a reimbursement, sir, for Mrs. Hawthorne’s receipt seems well in order. It’s a statement that this property is free of debt and promises a clear deed. It is dated well before any of your papers.”

  “Sheriff!” Cole turned, leaving Jacques to sputter into silence. “There seems to be adequate cause to believe an error has been made.”

  “You damned right, Yankee!” Jacques spat venomously. “You and this filthy little bastard have made it! You have interfere with Jacques DuBonné.” The Frenchman clenched his fists in rage. “An’ Jacques, he promise your blue coat will be your death!”

  The captain bent a chilly stare on the Cajun. “My usual task is protecting life, sir.” His voice was low and silky smooth, and even Alaina held her breath. “I could make an exception for special cases, however.”

  Jacques struggled between his desire for revenge and a knowledge of the pure foolishness of any such attempt at this moment. Finally he controlled himself and retreated to his carriage.

  “I will be at the bank when it opens Monday to clear thees thing,” he promised, bowing deeply, then jabbered to his man who mounted to the driver’s seat. “We will have some talk then, Monsieur le Capitaine.” He seated himself and, with a wave of his hand, signaled the black to take him from this scene of defeat.

  Cole faced Sheriff Bascombe. “If Mrs. Hawthorne will permit, I shall present this paper to the bank some time next week and evoke an explanation and redress.”

  “Make him sign fer the paper!” Al’s sharp nasal tones cut through the abating tension. “Make the cap’n sign a what-cha-ma-call-it thing, like you got from the bank.”

  Cole turned sharply and met the impertinent stare. Almost gently he warned, “Don’t press me.”

  Petulantly, Al leaned back against the porch. “You’d best give him the paper, Mrs. Hawthorne. That Jacques fella could jes’ come back after the cap’n is gone and take it for hisself.” Al shrugged. “It’ll be the safer thing to do.”

  “Thank you for that bit of confidence,” Cole said with chiding mockery.

  “ ‘Tain’t confidence in you,” Al objected tartly, “it’s jes’ a matter of choices.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  Cole glanced at the museful sheriff. Al never made anything easier, especially when it pertained to getting him out of trouble. “I’m sure as a gentleman of the law, Sheriff, you can understand that the boy was only trying to protect the lady’s rights. He meant no real harm.”

  “Well, I dunno—” The sheriff scratched his head.

  “Good!” Cole took the decision from him. “The boy works at the hospital under my direction, should you need to question him further.”

  Reluctantly the man heaved his heavy shoulders. “I guess he didn’t hurt me none.” He gestured to the splintered board and directed a frown at Al. “You better be careful with that iron, boy. We ain’t hung anyone your age for—oh—eight or ten years, at least.” He turned aside with a grin and winked at Cole, then nodded to Mrs. Hawthorne. “I’ll be checking back to find out how this all comes out, and if I visit again, it won’t be with the likes of Mister DuBonné a-taggin’ at my heels. Good-day, ma’m. Doctor!”

  The sheriff stepped up into his buckboard and clicked his horse into motion.

  “I’ll have your signed receipt now, Captain,” Mrs. Hawthorne stated. “And I will be anxiously awaiting word from you as to what you have found out.”

  “Yes, ma’m. I’ll see to it as soon as I can.” After the necessary papers were signed he glanced around at Al. “Can I see you home before you get into more trouble?”

  “What do you think you are, my guardian angel or somep’n? I can take care of myself. And I don’t need your help gettin’ home. I got Tar.”

  “Perhaps I should return to your uncle’s and assure your cousin that you’ve come to no harm. It will be a while even if you manage to get that beast headed in the right direction.”

  Al’s eyes narrowed. “You do that, Yankee.”

  Cole drew on his gauntlets. “I’m glad I have your approval,” he laughed as he swung into the saddle.

  “Jes’ don’t do nothing what’ll getcha hitched in the family,” Al called.

  Cole pulled the steed around and grinned mockingly. “You needn’t worry, Al. I can take care of myself.”

  “Huh!” Alaina snorted derisively, then frowned as she watched him ride out of sight.

  “Come in, child,” the woman’s rasping voice intruded upon her thoughts, “and have some tea before you go. It’s rare enough these days that I have visitors, much less those of a friendly nature.”

  For the first time since she arrived, Alaina could take a moment to consider the woman. The face was wrinkled and ancient, yet a bloom of rosy color still touched the cheeks, and there was a sparkle in the soft, brown eyes that age could not dim.

  “What name may I attach to you?” the woman asked.

  “Al.”

  “Al? Nothing else?” An elegant brow raised.

  “The res’ don’t matter none.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, child.”

  “Well, you can jes’ call me Al fer right now.”

  “All right, Al.” She stressed the name oddly as she gave the younger one a casual scrutiny. “Now tell me, for what purpose did you traverse this narrow dirt lane? As the road ends at the levee, I can only assume you came to see me.”

  “Yes’m. That polecat Jacques came slinging his mud onto my clean hospital floor and was spoutin’ off ’bout bringing the sheriff out here to arrest you. I jes’ figured I owed him one. That was a fine piece of cuttin’ you did on his shoulder, ma’m.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Hawthorne graciously replied and considered the sword. “I hated to soil it on such vermin, but I’m sure Charles would have understood.”

  “Charles?”

  “My husband. I’m a widow now.” She waved a hand toward the carefully tended, exquisitely flowered garden across the lane. “He’s buried yonder with my daughter, Sarah. They died of the yellow jack before the war.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alaina murmured.

  “Oh, don’t be. Both had a good life, and it is my belief that they’re enjoying a better place now.” She held the door wide. “I hope you like tea. I can’t abide that chicory they pass off as
coffee nowadays.”

  Alaina followed her into the house, and the woman led her through a cool hallway. Without pausing, Mrs. Hawthorne asked over her shoulder, “Has anyone ever explained the decorum of hats to you?”

  Alaina swallowed and, dragging the offending article from her head, mumbled, “Yes’m.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know a little and guess some more, ma’m.”

  “I believe that.” She gestured for Alaina to take a chair at a tea table in the parlor. “Sit there, child. I’ll be only a moment. The water is hot. I was preparing tea when those awful men arrived.”

  Alaina looked down at the tapestry seat of the chair that she had been bidden to take, then glanced around until she found one that her soiled clothes would not damage and exchanged them. Gingerly sitting on the edge, Alaina surveyed the room with more appreciation. Everything seemed in order, nothing missing, no telltale rectangles on the walls where paintings once had been. The furniture was intact and in good condition. A rarity these days to be in a parlor that no Yankee had savaged.

  Mrs. Hawthorne returned bearing a tray upon which reposed a most handsome porcelain tea service and, with a clatter of china, set it before Alaina and began to fill a cup. The woman seated herself in a tall-backed chair across from Alaina and stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her cup, while she carefully perused her tattered guest. Uneasy beneath the woman’s regard, Alaina sipped her tea. When she again raised her gaze, Mrs. Hawthorne’s stare was just as intense.

  “Why do I have the feeling you’re playing games with me, child?”

  Alaina swallowed with difficulty and managed to ask innocently, “Ma’m?”

  “Your clothes! Why are you running around masquerading as a boy?”

  Alaina opened her mouth to answer, then as she realized the full import of the words, her composure crumbled. She sat as one stunned, her mind stumbling and forming no logical thought.

  Mrs. Hawthorne smiled and tasted her tea. “I suppose I have an unfair advantage. Before I married, I taught at a school for young girls. None of them managed to fool me for very long either.” She sipped her tea again and nodded her head. “You’re good. You’re very good. I think your liberal use of dirt”—she wrinkled her nose in mild distaste—“disarms most people. But there’s a softness in the way you step and the way you handle yourself.” She laughed briefly. “And I’ve never known a man who cared about a chair or wasn’t clumsy with a teacup.