Hear the Wind Blow

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Henry scrambled up the ladder to the loft. "We can watch through the hole the shell made."

  I followed him, but Polly stayed below. She had a good grip on the musket to prove she was ready to do whatever she had to.

  Outside, Confederate soldiers came running across the field, mostly unarmed, stumbling, shoving one another aside. I watched them go by, my heart sinking fast at the sight of our army in full retreat.

  Henry gripped my arm hard. "They're running," he whispered. "They're running, Haswell. Why ain't they shooting those sons of guns?"

  "Look at them." I pointed to ranks of Union soldiers charging out of the woods in all directions. "How can we fight that many Yankees?"

  Henry pressed his head against the barn's wall. His shoulders shook and I knew he was crying, but I didn't shame him by saying so. Besides, I was so worried Avery was among those fleeing soldiers I couldn't think about anything else. Lord, Lord, I prayed, don't let them kill Avery. Please, Lord, keep him safe, spread your shield over him.

  Another wave of Confederates came into sight, still firing. They'd turn and shoot, run, shoot again, run some more. Officers on horseback moved in and out among the men, urging them to stand and fight.

  It occurred to me the barn wasn't as safe as I'd thought. What if the fleeing soldiers ran inside to escape the Yankees? Why, Polly and Henry and I would die with them.

  The Confederates dashed into the widow's yard. Near the barn, they formed a ragged line and returned the Yankees' fire. The air filled with smoke and dust. I couldn't see who was who. Rifles blazed, men screamed and fell. A minié ball whistled over my head and struck the wall behind me.

  On the grass below my vantage point, a man took a shot in the head. He tumbled off his horse, spraying blood as he fell. The horse screamed and went down, shot, too. In his stall, Ranger answered the dying horse with a loud whinny.

  It was hard to believe any soldier, North or South, would live to see the sun set. Yet they kept on shooting and yelling as if they aimed to kill everyone but themselves. Bullets whined past the barn. Some hit the stone walls, some hit trees, but none hit Henry or me. All I could think was, "Make it stop, dear Jesus in heaven, make it stop."

  But it didn't stop, and it wouldn't stop till it was done.

  Suddenly, I heard Polly call my name. I crawled to the edge of the loft and peered down at her. "A soldier," she said. "He's wounded."

  I looked where she pointed.

  A soldier had staggered into the barn. He was covered with dirt and blood. I couldn't tell if he was a Yankee or a Confederate. But he was dying, I was sure of it.

  He stood by the door, unarmed and bleeding badly. "Please?" he whispered to Polly and held out one arm to her. "Please?"

  Before any of us could speak or move, the soldier collapsed and fell to the floor.

  Henry and I scrambled down the ladder.

  "Is he dead?" Henry asked me.

  "I don't know."

  Polly knelt by the soldier. His eyelids fluttered and he looked up at her. "Don't let me die, not now, not after all I been through."

  She took his hand and held tight. "You're safe here," she whispered.

  The soldier seized Polly and pressed his face to her breast. "Please, dear Lord," he prayed, "let me see my mother's face just once more. My home. My..."

  He began to shiver and then to shake, but his grip on Polly never loosened. Blood ran from his mouth. He struggled hard to breathe, held Polly so tight I thought her dress would rip.

  "Mother," he groaned. "Mother."

  I heard the death rattle begin. He shook harder. His heels drummed against the floor. His body stiffened. Still holding Polly, he died.

  "Oh, Haswell." Polly looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. "The poor young man. Oh, the poor, poor, young man." She held him, her own dress soaked through with his blood, and cried as if she'd never stop.

  The blood on her dress and her tears brought Mama to mind. Surely Polly wouldn't go crazy, too. She hadn't killed the soldier. She'd comforted him at his dying, which was a good thing to do.

  "What are you crying for?" Henry asked. "He's a Yankee, Polly. See his blue coat?"

  "It don't matter what he is," Polly said, holding the soldier tight, "except he's too young to die and his mama don't even know he's gone."

  "Polly." I touched her shoulder. "Put him down. You can't help him now."

  Polly cradled the soldier. "His spirit might be here, watching, seeking comfort."

  "Polly!" Henry tugged at his sister. "Let him go now, let him go!"

  "Please, Polly," I said. "You can't do anything for him."

  At last Polly untangled herself from the soldier's embrace and laid him gently on the barn floor. We all stared at the terrible gaping wound in his chest.

  "For a Yankee, he was brave enough," Henry said. "He took that bullet from the front."

  I reckoned that was the biggest compliment a dead Yankee could expect to receive from Henry.

  "Poor young man." Polly gazed at him a moment. "We don't even know his Christian name. I wish—"

  A shell exploded and drowned out the rest of Polly's words. The three of us flinched. As stones rained from the barn wall, Polly dropped down beside the dead soldier and covered her ears.

  "Get under that wagon!" I shouted. Polly and Henry followed me, and we dove into the darkness and cobwebs and huddled there together. In his stall Ranger reared and pawed at the air with his hooves.

  I didn't know about Polly and Henry, but the same thoughts ran through my head, one after another, spinning round and round as if they were tied together. First I'd pray to God to spare our lives; then I'd pray for Avery; then I'd think about dying and pray to God to forgive me all my sins so I could cross the river and join Mama and Papa in the shade of the trees. Oh, but I didn't want to die, so I'd begin my prayers all over again.

  Just when I thought I couldn't bear it any longer, the battle noise began to fade away. Slowly, slowly, like the sun going down and the sky growing dark and the stars coming out, one by one.

  When we were sure the battle was really over, we crawled out from under the wagon. To my relief Ranger had calmed down. He seemed almost like his normal self but a bit more restless than usual. I decided to leave him where he was for now. No sense riling him up again.

  Slowly we pushed the barn door open and peered out. Partly hidden by smoke, dead soldiers and horses sprawled on the widow's lawn. Wounded men groaned and cried out. Some staggered around, calling names, searching for friends.

  It was a hideous sight, worse than anything I'd ever imagined. We turned our eyes away, even Henry.

  "Please, miss," a soldier called to Polly. "Can you bring me water?" He leaned on one elbow, too weak to sit up. His head was bleeding and his uniform was torn and bloody.

  Others began calling out, pleading for water, for help. Those hurt too bad to speak just moaned and groaned. They lay among the silent dead, who needed nothing now but a decent burial.

  Polly gazed at the soldiers, her face filled with sorrow and pity. "Go to the widow's well," she told Henry and me. "Fill the bucket."

  While Polly moved among the men, inquiring about their injuries, Henry and I went to the well and began hoisting the bucket. Soon we were ladling water to the wounded, doing our best to ease their suffering. For once Henry had nothing to say about Yankees.

  As we were drawing a third bucket from the well, two Union officers rode toward us. Behind them lumbered a wagon fixed up as a field hospital. Without giving us a glance, they galloped past and dismounted near the house.

  "Is this your home, miss?" one asked Polly.

  "No, sir, it belongs to the Widow Ransom."

  "Is she here?"

  "I reckon so." Polly paused and looked hard at the officer. "That is, if you ain't killed her with all that shelling."

  Polly had something there. The widow's house had been hit almost as bad as the barn. There was a big hole in the second story. You could see the bedroom itself—or
what was left of it. The bed, the chest of drawers, the flowered wallpaper. The porch columns were scarred with bullets. Windows were broken. One chimney leaned crazily to the side, ready to collapse.

  The captain strode up to the widow's back door and banged loudly. "Open up," he called. "This is Major Brannon of the New York Thirty-Third. We're requisitioning your house for a hospital."

  The door slowly opened, and an old lady peered out. She scanned the yard, taking in the dreadful scene. When her eyes lit on Polly, Henry, and me, she cried out, "Is that you Polly O'Brien? Land sakes, I'm glad to see you, child! I reckoned you and Henry was kilt for sure."

  The Widow Ransom looked at me, then back to Polly. "Who's that raggedy boy? And where did he come from?"

  "Why, this here's Haswell Magruder from up Winchester way," Polly said. "He's looking for his brother."

  Major Brannon stepped closer to Widow Ransom. "Ma'am, we need your house to treat these men. Will you kindly allow us to bring them inside?"

  I must say he asked in a polite way. He even took off his hat and held it to his breast, as a gentleman should.

  "Yankees in my house?" Widow Ransom frowned and drew herself up as tall as a tiny woman can. "What would my poor deceased husband say?"

  "I don't think it matters what a dead man would say," snapped Major Brannon. I guessed his manners were no more than show after all.

  The two of them looked each other in the eye, the widow peering up, the major peering down. On the grass the wounded men groaned and cried and prayed.

  Polly ran up to the door and took the widow's hand. "Mrs. Ransom, I think you should do what he says. Them soldiers are Confederates as well as Yankees. They need help bad."

  The widow turned to Major Brannon. "You aim to treat our boys as well as yours?"

  He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

  The old woman stepped aside. "You may do as you wish, sir. But please be careful of my home. Treat it as you would your own house."

  The men from the hospital wagon had already begun loading men on stretchers. While we stood watching, they carried them inside. No matter how careful the stretcher bearers were, the men cried out at every jolt and bump.

  "Polly." The widow touched Polly's arm. "Will you stay and help? These boys will need bandages. Perhaps you and Henry could busy yourselves tearing bed linens into strips. And you, Haswell, you could fetch water from the well."

  I hesitated. How was I to say no? Yet how could I stay? The Lord only knew where Avery might be. In the barn, I heard Ranger whinny.

  "I'd like to help, ma'am," I said as politely as I could, "but I need to be on my way. I have to find my brother."

  Polly's face reddened, but she didn't say a word, didn't even look at me. She stood there picking at her fingernails like she didn't know what else to do with herself.

  I went to the barn and led Ranger out. He was still tense and edgy, so I mounted quickly and rode back to Polly. She was standing on the widow's porch, and her face was level with mine. She was so close I could see tears shining on her eyelashes.

  "Are you coming back this way, Haswell?" She didn't look at me, just stood there with her head down, twirling a strand of red hair round and round her finger till the skin turned white from the pressure.

  "No," I told her. "My home's to the west and north from here. But I, I—I'll see you again sometime, Polly. Honest, I will."

  She looked at me, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn't. I leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. I hadn't planned to. I'd never kissed a girl in my whole entire life, hadn't even thought about it. But just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.

  Polly touched her lips. "Oh," she said. "Oh."

  "Polly," the widow called from the house. "Get in here. Henry's doing his best to tear up the linens, but he needs help!"

  I took a chance and kissed Polly again. This time she kissed me back. "You're the prettiest girl in the whole world," I told her. "And I thank you kindly for all you've done to help me."

  She blushed so red her freckles disappeared. "You must be needing spectacles," she whispered. "Else you ain't seen many girls."

  "Boy, get that horse out of here," a soldier yelled at me. "Can't you see you're in our way?"

  "Yes, sir." I turned Ranger reluctantly. I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes on Polly.

  "Be careful," Polly called. "Don't get yourself shot or nothing."

  "You be careful, too, Polly." I nudged Ranger's sides with my heels, and he broke into a trot, obviously more eager to leave than I was.

  Polly ran partway down the lane behind me, waving hard. "Don't forget me!"

  Henry chased after her, shouting, "Wait up, Haswell, wait up! Don't you want me to help you find Avery?"

  I saw Polly grab Henry and hold him tight. "You ain't going nowhere, you stubborn little fool!"

  I wished I could take them both. But Ranger couldn't carry the three of us, at least not very far or very fast.

  So I rode on, giving Ranger his head. Soon a tree blocked my view of Polly and Henry. Then they were gone, and the road lay ahead of me.

  The wind blew, stirring the trees. Somewhere a pair of jays squabbled. A stream along the side of the road gurgled and murmured as it went on its way. But there wasn't a person or a house in sight. Just unplowed fields stretching away under a cloudy sky.

  Loneliness pressed down on me, emptying me of everything but fear. What if Avery were dead? What would happen to the farm? To my sister and me?

  I sent a silent prayer up to the Lord, once more asking His help, and rode on toward the next town.

  20

  IN A FEW MINUTES it became clear I was following the same route as the retreat. The Confederates must have come across the fields and run into more Yankees on the road. Union and Confederate soldiers sprawled where they'd fallen among dead horses, smashed carts and wagons, and abandoned supplies. Blood soaked into the ground and pooled in puddles. Fires smoldered here and there on the grassy banks. The air stank so of death and gunsmoke I could hardly breathe for choking.

  Hordes of flies buzzed around the bodies, bloating themselves as they fed. Crows hopped about, pecking and pulling at the corpses, fighting among themselves, too bold to be afraid of me. Overhead, buzzards circled, waiting their turn.

  At first I searched the dead soldiers' faces, fearing I'd find Avery among them. The agony I saw soon made me stop looking. I prayed to the Lord again. "Please let me find Avery alive, not among the dead."

  With that I nudged Ranger and we increased our speed until we'd left most of the dead behind.

  At twilight I rounded a curve in the road and came in sight of the Confederate prisoners. There must have been thousands of them, huddled together in a field outside a town. Appomattox, I learned later.

  I sat there on Ranger, in plain sight, and watched the men. They didn't appear to notice me. Some lay on the ground, their eyes closed, haggard and weary, no fight left. Others sat and talked in low voices or walked about aimlessly. Most looked like men waking from a dream to find themselves in a place they'd never seen. "Where am I?" they seemed to ask. "And how did I get here?"

  Gradually the sky faded into night. I led Ranger into the woods across the road and dismounted. Every bone in my body ached. I was weary and hungry and sad. I rolled up in my blanket and lay down in the grass, wishing Polly and Henry were with me. I hoped they were safe at the widow's house, that she'd keep them and care for them until their father came home from the war. If he ever did.

  I hadn't given poor Rachel much thought lately, but lying alone in that empty field, I saw her as I'd seen her last, sleeping with her hair spread out, the very picture of Mama. I had no idea how she'd managed living with Grandma Colby all this time. If I knew Rachel, she was giving the old lady fits. But I reckoned she was unhappy and lonesome and pretty angry at me for leaving her there. Yes, sir, when I rode into Winchester, I was going to get quite a reception from both Rachel and Grandma Colby.

  It was full d
ark now, not the moon or a star to be seen, but in the field across road the watch fires burned.

  The Yankees began singing the national anthem. Very faintly at first but growing louder as more voices joined in, the Confederates came back with "Dixie." The Yankees sang the "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and the Confederates countered with "The Bonnie Blue Flag." I fell asleep wishing wars could be fought with songs instead of bullets.

  ***

  Day dawned gray and cool. The wind carried the smell of cooking fires, and my nose filled with the mouth-watering smell of bacon and coffee. In the field the prisoners had formed long raggedy lines. They waited patiently, heads down, as if eating was something they had to do but didn't much care about. My stomach growled. I had nothing but a half a loaf of bread and a wrinkled apple. I gave Ranger the last of his oats and the apple as well. I made do with the bread.

  When I'd eaten the last crumb, I filled my canteen at a creek and mounted Ranger. What I needed was news. For all I knew the war was over and done with and all those prisoners would soon be released. If Avery was amongst them, I wanted to find him before he wandered off somewhere.

  In town, people thronged the streets, mobbing the courthouse steps, shouting and yelling. Church bells tolled. Children cried and covered their ears against the uproar.

  "You heard the news, boy?" A plump woman grabbed Ranger's saddle and stared up at me. Tears ran down her cheeks. "General Robert E. Lee has surrendered to Grant. He's disbanded the Army of Northern Virginia."

  I sat on Ranger's back and stared at the woman. Crowds thronged around us, jostling the horse. "You mean the war's over?"

  "In Virginia it is," she said. "Lee surrendered. Nobody else has that I know of. Mosby's still up in the mountains somewheres."

  A tall, hawk-eyed man pushed the woman aside. "Mexico," he hollered. "Lee's a-going to Mexico. The army will come back, ten thousand strong, and whup them Yankees."