Hear the Wind Blow

by Mary Downing Hahn

  After I boosted Rachel into the saddle, I wrapped her in a blanket and mounted the horse in front of her. She wrapped her arms around my waist, and I felt the doll's china face press into my back One touch of my heels against his sides and Ranger was ready to go.

  I looked back once at the ruins of our house. Somewhere in those ashes was the body of Captain Powell. His little daughter would never see him come riding home. Most likely no one would know what had happened to the man. Well, he wasn't the first soldier lost. Nor would he be the last.

  Then I turned my face toward the road and left my home behind.

  8

  AT THE END OF OUR LANE, I turned Ranger toward Grandma Colby's farm. Snow and ice lingered in gray lacy patches under trees and in shadowy places, but most of it was gone already. The road was muddy and rutted, and Ranger picked his way carefully.

  A cardinal as red as blood flew past us and a flock of crows cawed from the treetops, but we saw no one. The road stretched ahead, winding through fields and in and out of woods. Not too long ago, we would have passed farmers with carts, men on horseback, families in carriages, or folks just walking along. Now there was no one. Not even a soldier.

  Over our heads, trees swayed in the wind, making a sound like a crowd mourning a great loss. Gray clouds hung low and heavy above the brown fields. Frozen ponds reflected the dull sky. Not a cow to be seen. Not a sheep. Not even a squirrel.

  "Are we almost there?" Rachel asked after a couple of hours. "I'm cold and hungry. And my legs hurt from sitting so long."

  I looked to the west. The sun was barely visible through the clouds, but I could tell it wasn't far above the mountains. It would be dark in less than an hour. "We must be close," I said.

  "I surely hope so. Seems like we've been riding all day," Rachel said wearily.

  "Would you rather we were walking?"

  "No."

  "Well, then."

  Rachel sighed and shifted her position. For a while she was silent. The sun slid farther down the sky, lighting the horizon with a long streak of purple. Darkness gathered in the woods, as thick as wool spun from black sheep. The wind rose, rattling in the trees like something trying to break free, moaning every now and then in a woeful way. With all my heart I wished we'd left home earlier.

  "You said we'd be there before nightfall." Rachel sounded fearful.

  "We will," I said, praying I was right.

  Rachel held me tighter. "But, Haswell, the woods look so dark. Will bears eat us?"

  "Of course not. They hibernate in the winter. Don't you know anything?" Nonetheless, I touched the butt of the revolver, which I'd stuck in my waistband. It was good to know Rachel and I had some protection. Not from wild animals but men. Deserters, raiders—who knew what manner of person you'd meet so far from houses and towns?

  By now we'd reached a bridge I remembered from other trips. I knew that bridge meant we were almost to the farm.

  "We're close now, Rachel. Remember that bridge up ahead?"

  Rachel hugged me. "Yes, Papa used to pretend it was the bridge at Concord and he'd recite that poem about the shot heard round the world."

  I nodded, but for some reason I felt uneasy. The woods on the other side of the bridge were already dark. Tree crowded against tree. Branches intertwined across the road, so it looked like a tunnel leading into the night. A crow cawed and flew out of a tall oak, followed by three or four others. Ruffians, Mama called them, making trouble wherever they went. Outlaws, bandits, thieving rascals.

  Ranger slowed, his ears pointed, as if he sensed something, too. I didn't know whether I should urge him forward or rein him in. Could be he was spooked by a shadow or a branch, but he hadn't shown signs of nervousness before.

  I leaned close to his head. "What's the matter, fellow?"

  Ranger snorted and pawed at the bridge with his front hoof. But he didn't move.

  Rachel's grip on me tightened. "Why are we stopping, Haswell?"

  "Oh, you know how horses are, Rachel. Sometimes they don't care much for bridges." I nudged Ranger. "Step along, sir."

  Rachel was the first to spy what was bothering Ranger. "Haswell," she cried. "There's someone on the road. See?"

  Sure enough, just beyond the bridge a bundle of rags lay in a heap in the mud. Bending over it was a man, desperately pulling at something. He looked up when Rachel spoke. His face was in shadow, but I could see enough of him to tell he was half starved. His hair and beard had grown long and wild and his clothes were nothing but rags.

  "I found him first," the man hollered in a half-crazed way. "He's mine. You keep away!"

  The man gave a final jerk at the thing and fell backward, clutching a boot in his hands. That's when I realized the heap was a soldier's corpse.

  Rachel's grip on me tightened. "It's a dead man, Haswell."

  I nodded but kept my eyes on the living man. He was pulling the boots on, forcing his feet into them.

  "I get the coat, too," he snarled at me. "And anything else he has on him."

  With that, he began pulling at the coat. The dead man rose as if he were fighting to keep what was his, but his head fell back and his arms flapped as the robber succeeded in yanking the coat off. "It stinks," he said with a grimace, "but I'm used to that." He struggled into the coat and stood looking at us. A sadder-looking man never lived and breathed. Nor a scarier one, for that matter.

  "You have any food?" He came a little closer, a gaunt man wearing a dead man's boots and coat, reeking of death. But not as old as I'd thought at first.

  "Get back." I tried to speak loud, but my voice came out as small as a child's. "Don't come a step closer. I've got a gun and I know how to use it."

  Rachel's grip on me tightened and I could feel her trembling. "Go away," she whispered. "Leave us be."

  "Ah, now, sweetheart." The man leaned around me, trying to get a better look at my sister. "What's a pretty little girl like you want to be so mean? Ain't your preacher taught you the Lord's way of sharing with the less fortunate?"

  Rachel pressed her face against my back. "Make him go away, Haswell."

  "All I want is something to eat." The man sounded indignant. "God Almighty, is that too much to ask, boy?"

  Instead of answering, I kicked Ranger hard. The horse fairly flew across the bridge, passing the man before he had a chance of stopping us.

  "Hey," he hollered after us. "Just a morsel, a sip of water!"

  Neither Rachel nor I looked back, but we could hear him shouting and cursing even after we rounded a bend in the road and left him behind.

  When we'd gone a safe distance, I slowed the horse to a trot and looked back. Nothing moved among the trees. Nothing followed us.

  "Was he a Yankee?" Rachel asked.

  "Hard to say. After a while they start looking the same. Dirty, ragged, hungry, sick." Weary of it all, I spit on the ground.

  "I think he was a Yankee." Rachel spit on the ground, too. "Were you scared of him, Haswell?"

  I hesitated. If I told Rachel the truth, she might worry I wasn't fit to take care of her. "I feared he'd take our food," I said slowly. "But I don't think he aimed to hurt us."

  "You could have shot him." Rachel touched the revolver stuck in the waistband of my trousers.

  "Yes, but I'm glad I didn't have to."

  "Trouble is, folks like us aren't accustomed to killing people," Rachel said with a sigh. "Look how Mama felt after she shot Captain Powell. I wouldn't want you losing your wits, Haswell."

  I didn't say anything, so we rode a few minutes in silence. Then Rachel spoke up again. "How do you think Avery feels about killing?"

  "He's probably used to it by now, Rachel."

  "He just aims and pulls that trigger." Rachel pointed her finger straight ahead. "Bang! Bang, bang! And he doesn't even know who he hits or whether they die or not."

  "I reckon that's just about the way it is." But it made my stomach tight to picture Avery charging into battle like our old hero Achilles, laying waste to the Yankees the w
ay Achilles laid waste to the Trojans. It might change a person to behave like that. What if the souls of all those dead soldiers followed you the rest of your life, rebuking you for killing them? I shivered, and not just because the night was damp and cold. Please God, I prayed, let Avery come home safe, just the way he was when he left. Don't let him be shot or killed or sick.

  "I thought we were almost there," Rachel said.

  I peered ahead. The road was pale in the dark but crisscrossed with shadows. "I think it's just around that curve," I told her.

  When we were finally in sight of the farm, I headed Ranger off the road and into the trees. From the safety of the woods, I peered down at Grandma Colby's house. No smoke rose from the chimney, no lights glowed in the windows. The house was dark against the night sky. Empty. Abandoned. Lifeless. There was no one to welcome us. No one to feed us. No one to tuck us into warm beds.

  Rachel squeezed my waist. "Where is Grandma Colby? Where are Aunt Hester and Aunt Esther?" Her voice rose. "Did the Yankees come and kill them?"

  "No, of course not." I patted Rachel's knee. "Most likely they've gone to stay with Uncle Cornelius in Winchester." I couldn't help wishing I'd thought of that earlier. As stubborn as Grandma Colby was, she wouldn't stay on the farm with no man to protect her and my aunts.

  Rachel sighed. "Oh, Haswell, I'm so hungry and tired and cold."

  I slid down from Ranger's back. "Wait here, Rachel. I'll make sure the house is safe. If everything's all right, we can sleep here tonight and go on to Winchester in the morning."

  Rachel leaned down and grabbed my arm. "Don't leave me alone in the dark. Suppose that crazy man comes along and steals Ranger from me."

  "He's long gone by now," I said, but I couldn't help glancing at the road behind us. Nothing but darkness. No sound but the wind in the trees, no motion except branches tossing.

  "Please let me come with you," Rachel begged.

  She looked pale in the dim light—scared, too. Not her usual daytime self at all.

  "I'll be right back, I promise."

  "What if that man kills me?" Rachel called after me. "You'll be sorry then."

  "Don't be silly! No one's going to kill you." I turned my back on her and crept off through the trees toward the house. I heard Rachel crying, but she stayed where she was.

  Which was a good thing because there was no way of knowing what lay ahead.

  9

  AS SOON AS I WAS out of Rachel's sight, I took Papa's revolver out of my waistband. Praying I wouldn't have to use it, I slipped from tree to tree along the lane. The ground was frozen, churned up into ruts by horses and wagon wheels and boots. Men had been here, soldiers most likely. North or South, the signs of their presence didn't bode well. They could be renegades, deserters, heartless and greedy. Dangerous.

  Instead of going to the front door, I made a wide loop around to the back. A broken rocking chair lay in the mud, along with odds and ends of kitchen things, clothing, and Grandma Colby's favorite carpet, which she claimed had been hand-woven in Persia.

  The door lay on the porch, broken off its hinges entirely. I entered cautiously, stopping every now and then to listen. I went from room to room. Most of the furniture was gone. Whether stolen or used for firewood, I couldn't tell. Framed pictures had been yanked from the walls, their glass broken, the faces of my ancestors trampled. In the dim light I stumbled over heaps of silk dresses, shirts and jackets, a tall silk hat Grandfather Colby had worn on fine occasions, bed linens and feather pillows, all torn and soiled and scattered on the floor. But not one person, dead or alive, was to be found.

  By the time I rejoined Rachel, a little sliver of moon had just cleared the mountains. I took Ranger's bridle and led him down the lane. Rachel studied me, her face as pale as her doll's in the dusky light.

  "Did they kill Grandma Colby and the aunts?" she asked in a quavery voice.

  I shook my head. "They wrecked the house, though."

  Rachel sighed and hugged Sophia to her chest. But she didn't say a word, just sat on Ranger's back and let me lead him around the house. When I started guiding him up the steps to the open door, Rachel stared at me as if I'd taken leave of my senses. "Haswell, you can't take this horse into Grandma Colby's house."

  "He can't make it any worse than it already is," I said. "Besides, he needs shelter, too. What if that lunatic found him outside? He'd be on his back in a second."

  Rachel frowned and slid off Ranger's back. "I thought you said he was far from here, miles away."

  "Well, I hope he is," I said, "but who knows who could come sneaking around in the dark?"

  Without looking at Rachel, I tied Ranger to the stair rail in the hall and took off his saddle. From one of the saddlebags, I pulled out a handful of the oats. While Ranger munched his food, I went out to the well and pumped water for him and us. Two bucketfuls. Then I set myself to finding furniture to use for a fire. Whoever had been here hadn't taken much from the second floor. I began with doors and shutters and old odds and ends of furniture.

  I lacked the heart to burn a pair of carved chairs and a small walnut table. According to Mama, Grandfather Colby had brought them from Richmond as a wedding present for Grandma Colby.

  Using an ax I found in the kitchen, I split the doors and shutters into kindling wood. Rachel watched silently. After a while she said, "Grandma Colby's going to skin you alive for breaking up her belongings."

  "I wasn't the one who wrecked the house. What difference do a few more things make?"

  Rachel looked around the ruins of Grandma Colby's once fine home. "Mama thought Grandma Colby was house-proud," she said. "Now she's got nothing left to be proud of."

  I shrugged and tossed a kitchen chair leg into the fireplace. Mama had been right. Grandma Colby had taken great delight in showing off her fine drapes and wallpaper from France, her mahogany, her silver, her silks and satins and fine china from England.

  If she weren't such a mean old lady, I would've felt sorry for her, but she'd made Mama feel bad by blaming our so-called poverty on Papa. Grandma Colby faulted him for being more interested in history and poetry than acquiring wealth.

  No matter what she said, none of us had ever felt poor. We had clothes on our backs, food in our bellies, a roof over our head, and all we needed.

  But not anymore. No, not anymore. Hard Times had knocked so hard on our door, he'd broken it down.

  When I'd piled up the proper amount of furniture parts, I struggled to light the fire. It took a while, but I finally got it going. The chimney drew fine and soon the room warmed up. Rachel and I crouched near the flames and ate the vegetables we'd brought from home.

  After we'd eaten all we had, we gathered blankets and pillows and made ourselves beds by the fireplace. For a while neither of us spoke. We lay there watching the fire turn the wood to glowing coals and ashes. Every now and then I added more fuel, but I knew it would burn out long before morning.

  "It looks like cities burning," Rachel said. "Farms, and barns, and houses, all burning, burning, burning." She buried her face in her arms. "I used to love watching fire," she added softly, "but that was before the war."

  Feeling much the same, I closed my eyes and let the fire warm my back. Half asleep, I remembered Papa talking about ancient wars and how the Greeks looted Troy and burned it and how the great Trojan Aeneas fled his homeland, carrying his father on his back, and founded the Roman Empire. And then a long while later the barbarians came and burned Rome. It seemed people had done nothing but loot and burn since the beginning of time. God wouldn't need to destroy the world with fire. We'd most likely beat Him to it.

  ***

  I woke in the morning cold and stiff from sleeping on the floor. The fire was out, and the smell of wood smoke hung in the air. When I sat up, Rachel opened her eyes. For a moment, she looked bewildered, as if she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered.

  "What are we going to do now?" she asked.

  I got to my feet, still wrapped in the blanket, an
d went to the window. The sky was a dull, solid gray, as lifeless as the ashes of last night's fire.

  "Why, I guess we'll go on to Winchester," I said.

  "Winchester." Rachel sighed. "That's a long way, Haswell. I'm still sore from yesterday." She patted her rear end and gave me a pleading look. "Can't we just stay one more night here?"

  "It's only a day's ride, Rachel."

  She poked out her lower lip and folded her arms across her chest. "My fanny's too sore to get on that horse."

  "What if the soldiers come back?"

  Her eyes widened. "Do you think they will?"

  "They might."

  Without another complaint, Rachel gathered up her blankets and her doll and went outside to use the outhouse.

  I fed Ranger the last of his oats and led him out into the gray dawn. He tossed his head and nickered as if he were glad to be outside again. Rachel emerged from the outhouse, clutching Sophia and trailing her blankets. I boosted her onto Ranger's back, helped her wrap herself up warm, and climbed into the saddle. My rear end was tender, too, but I wasn't about to admit it.

  We paused at the top of the hill and stared down at the farm. Except for the barn, the place didn't look too bad. At least the house was still standing. Maybe someday Grandma Colby would come back. But then again, maybe she wouldn't. Who would help her plant crops and rebuild things? Papa was dead. Uncle Cornelius was a city man, a lawyer. His son, John, was two years dead, killed at Gettysburg. And Avery and I would have our own farm to work on.

  We rode in and out of cold showers, passing one deserted farm after another. General Sheridan had done his work well. Now and then we'd meet a solitary man or woman trudging grimly through the mud, head down, bundled in blankets like us, tired and hungry like us.