Healing Grace (11 page)

Attempting to refocus, he considered the rider—the spook. If the man wasn’t Julien, then who was he? He had two arms—that much Etienne had noticed—so he wasn’t Trent. Etienne didn’t know anyone else who could ride like that. Wally knew everything there was to know about horseflesh, but he didn’t ride. Wally drove buggies.

Could it have been Sam? Sam knew the tales of Julien’s escapades. Could he have replicated the costume? Because Sam wouldn’t want to see his father, would he use the disguise to keep Edward Murphy from recognizing him? But Sam’s mare wasn’t black and the old thing could never have outrun Igore. Had Sam borrowed a Grace Manor horse?

Etienne stumbled through the pitch black house, only bumping into two door frames and once into a chair, then out into the yard. He needed to take care of Igore. Wally wouldn’t be in the barn, but that was okay because it would give Etienne a chance to inspect the other mounts for telltale signs of exertion. He may not be able to figure out who the spook was, but he’d at least ascertain whether the horse had come from Grace Manor’s stock.

He was doing just that—after lighting several barn lamps—but none of the horses were sweaty. Except for Igore, none of them had been ridden hard recently. Sam’s old mare was there, asleep on her feet, as usual. Could Sam still be out there? Could Sam, at such reckless speeds, have been thrown? Was he injured, lying in a ditch somewhere? Or dead? Was his neck broken, his body shattered? Was he gasping, unable to breathe, like Julien had been? Were there bloody holes in his flesh like their father’s…
like all the others
…

“Sam!” Etienne didn’t know if he spoke aloud. In an instant he was in the fields… the red fields… running, running… tripping, falling… The faces came at him, one after the other… beseeching eyes, crying eyes, men’s eyes, children’s eyes, empty sockets where eyes had once been. The man’s hand was locked around the woman’s, and she was screaming. Her wails burned through Etienne’s skull as he frantically pried at the death-stiffened fingers. He yanked and pulled and yanked some more, but nothing could budge them. He couldn’t free her. The dead man would never let go… never let go…

“Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé!”

The woman wouldn’t stop screaming.

“Je ne peux pas. C’est de ma faute! Je l’ai tué! Je les ai tous tués!”

“Colonel!”

The drummer boy with the bayonet speared through him was there on the ground… blood, so much blood… dripping through his fingers… spouting from his mouth. “Will I… will I be okay, sir?”

“Je ne pouvais pas le sauver! C’est de ma faute et je ne pouvais pas le sauver! Je les ai tous tués!”

“Colonel Grace!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Colonel! Here, sir. Sit down, sir.”

Somebody was clapping. Etienne’s fingers were fisted in his hair and he couldn’t let go. Somebody told him to sit, so he did, sinking to the cushions of a chair, or sofa, he didn’t know which.

“Would you like coffee, sir?”

“Sam… Sam… you’re okay… are you…?” He couldn’t breathe. His head was pounding. “Sam… where am I?”

“In my cottage at Grace Manor, sir. You’re in my bedroom. Sitting on my bed.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… he had a drum just like yours… I thought he was you… he looked like you used to…”

“It’s okay, sir. That was a long time ago. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“No. No. Don’t go. Stay here. Don’t go,” the words were sporadic, spewing out of him, and he couldn’t remember what he said as soon as he said it. “Sam…
oooh
… my head hurts.”

“I know, sir,” Sam murmured. “Why don’t you lie down, sir?”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel. I’ll take care of you.”

“Lost”

Yesterday I saw a fawn,

It heard me and was afraid,

It reminded me of when I was lost,

I wanted to run but was unsure,

I’m glad I didn’t.

Today I saw a kitten,

It heard me and was curious,

It reminded me of when I was found,

I wanted to stay but was unsure,

I’m glad I did.

“Here, piggy! Here, piggy!”

The boy could hear the men’s roars and guffaws. The noise echoed, surrounding him, but he didn’t look at them. They were all laughing, mocking him the way they always did. This time because he’d fallen in the mud. One of them had tripped him.

He didn’t know why the troops hated him so much. He tried to do his best for them, scraping mud off their boots, gathering kindling to start fires, and fetching food. Sometimes he did their laundry. Most of the time though, his job was to clean up the messes left behind when the regiment marched on.

Slipping and sliding, he clamored to his feet. His hands were covered in mud, so he brushed them off on his ratty trousers as best he could. Then he stuck one in his pocket to make sure what was left of his bread hadn’t fallen out. When he looked up, past the heads of soldiers to the rise of ground beyond, he saw the colonel. The austere authority figure was watching, and the boy knew why. That morning, the colonel had seen him steal the bread.

Most of the food the boy ate was pilfered. Occasionally the cook would let him make a plate, but provisions weren’t for a tag-along, and the troops needed them more. It was just that the boy hadn’t had anything to eat since the day before and he’d been so hungry. He’d tried to be discreet when he stuffed the small, hard heel—a piece no one else would really want—in his pocket. But then, just like now, the colonel had been standing on the hill, watching him. And just like then, the colonel started down the hill after him. The only thing the boy could do was run.

For days he kept to the trees, out of sight and as far from the colonel’s quarters as possible, hoping the colonel had forgotten about him. Up until then, he’d been sure the colonel didn’t even know he existed. After all, the powerful leader had more important things to do than chase after a worthless boy.

But then it began to rain. With the rain came the cold. It was dark when the boy curled up at the base of a tree. He was soaked and shivering, his head throbbed and his stomach ached, except it wasn’t the same as the gnawing hunger he was used to. He didn’t hear anyone approach, and because his eyes were closed he didn’t see anyone either, but he sensed the sudden looming presence.

The boy looked up and his heart began to thump so rapidly it made his chest hurt, too. He couldn’t breathe. The darkness didn’t disguise the imposing figure of the colonel. The boy didn’t know how the colonel had found him. The only thing he could think to do was get away, and he tried. But in the ensuing scramble, his elbow jammed into the bark behind him. The knock sent him off kilter and his knees buckled. And then he couldn’t move because the colonel was right there, down on his haunches, keeping the boy trapped between him and the tree.

“Don’t you have a blanket?” the colonel asked as he raised a gauntleted hand.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. He’d known this would happen. The colonel was going to beat him, then forbid him from following the regiment. But he didn’t have anywhere else to go. All he could do was cower and wait for the blows to fall.

“You’ll freeze out here tonight,” the colonel said. “Come on. Come with me. We need to get you out of those wet clothes.”

The colonel didn’t strike him, or cuff him, or hurt him. He took the boy’s arm and helped him to his feet, and then led the boy all the way through camp and to his own tent. He opened the flap and told the boy to go ahead.

Standing inside, dripping, the boy watched the colonel walk around grabbing things—a pair of old trousers and a shirt from a trunk, then a bedroll and blankets, and finally a pillow off his own bed. The colonel laid out the bedroll in the corner and dropped the blankets and pillow on top of it. Then he came over to the boy and handed him the clothes.

“These will probably be big, but at least they’re dry,” he said. “While you change I’ll get you some broth. You can lie down over there.”

The boy reached out for the clothes and queasiness overwhelmed him. To keep the bile from coming up, he covered his mouth. He tried to turn, to run out of the tent, but tripped over his own feet. He landed on his hands and knees and vomit spewed from his mouth, right there on the floor of the colonel’s quarters.

He expected the colonel’s boot to make contact with his backside hard enough to shove him through the door flap. Instead he felt an arm come around his shoulders. A hand cupped his forehead and held him until the retching ended.

The colonel raised him up and led him to the bedroll. The colonel helped him change his clothes and tucked the blankets in around him. A moment later the colonel was there again, holding a steaming bowl of broth. The boy took the bowl, but couldn’t drink from it. He was too stunned watching what the colonel did next.

The colonel got on his knees and cleaned up the mess the boy had made. The smell was awful, but the colonel didn’t say a word. He didn’t complain. He didn’t even make a face. When he was done he washed his hands, and again he came to the boy, this time with a basin of water.

The next day and the next, when the boy could barely lift his head, the colonel was there, pressing cool cloths to his forehead, supporting him when he vomited in the bucket, encouraging him to sip tea and broth. One time the colonel returned to the tent and the sawbones was with him. After a while the boy lost track of the days. He slept a lot and dreamed a lot, and whenever he opened his eyes, the colonel appeared.

Eventually a day came that the boy awakened and the tent wasn’t fuzzy. He wasn’t too hot or too cold, and even the rumbling in his stomach was different. All he wanted was something to eat. It was bright so he knew it was daytime. It was also quiet, so he was sure he was alone. The sudden rustling of newspaper startled him.

The colonel was on the other side of the tent, seated at the table, but he rose when he saw the boy sitting up. He came over, scooched down by the bedroll and said, “You look much better. How do you feel?”

“I…I feel b…better,” the boy stammered. The colonel still scared him.

“That’s good because I have something to discuss with you.”

The boy already knew what the colonel was going to say. He was going to demand payment for the bread. But the boy didn’t have any money.

“I’m in need of a good errand boy and wondered if you’d be interested,” the colonel said. “There’s no pay, but you’ll get meals and a dry place to sleep.”

From then on, the boy stayed with the colonel. No matter where they were, or where the army moved—and they moved a lot—he shared the colonel’s quarters, sleeping on the bedroll in the corner. He fetched the colonel’s dinners and polished the colonel’s boots. He ensured the colonel’s uniforms were laundered and pressed. Every day he made the colonel’s bed and tidied and swept. When it was time to break camp, he packed the colonel’s things. Other duties were to bring the colonel’s bath water, shave him and help him dress. When the colonel’s hair needed trimming, the boy did that, too.

He was pretty sure the colonel was pleased with the work he did, because the colonel said things like, “Good job,” or “I could never have finished this without your help,” and then the colonel smiled and thanked him.

Sometimes the colonel touched him. When he walked by, the colonel would pat the boy’s shoulder or rub his arm. Every so often, the colonel would mess the boy’s hair, but he always fixed the unruly strands with a gentle hand. Other times, the colonel put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and lightly squeezed. The boy liked it especially when the colonel did that. Never once did the colonel mention the stolen bread.

The only problem with being the colonel’s errand boy was that it didn’t stop the taunts and jeers from the troops. If anything, they got worse. The boy had been working for the colonel about two months when one day, while taking the colonel’s clothes to launder, two of the men started after him. They poked and shoved him, while others bellowed, “Lookie there! The colonel’s piggy boy! Suuueee! Piggy boy!”

The boy quickened his pace, but the men kept up. One of them shoved him so hard he staggered and almost dropped the colonel’s uniform.

“ENOUGH!”

The blast sounded from behind. The boy spun. The colonel strode right up to those men and grabbed the one who had shoved the boy by the collar. The colonel pushed that soldier so hard he fell. Then the colonel turned on the rest of them. Frozen and in awe, the boy listened to the colonel berate and threaten his men.

This was why, the next day, when the colonel inadvertently left his watch behind, the boy decided to polish it. The colonel loved that watch because it had belonged to his grandfather. The boy knew this because the colonel talked about his grandfather all the time.

He only wanted to make the colonel happy, and he didn’t mean to drop the watch, but it slipped right out of his hand. He clamored to pick it up, but was too late. The glass lid was cracked and the hinge bent so it couldn’t close properly.

The boy finished the rest of his chores, then huddled on his bedroll waiting for the colonel to return. He expected the colonel to yell at him, call him stupid and tell him to get out. Once more he would be wandering the countryside, stealing food, searching for another regiment to follow—a whole new group of men to laugh and call him names.

When finally the colonel came in, the boy crowded closer to the corner. He held his breath, wishing he could make himself disappear. He watched the colonel go to the dresser and pick up the watch. The colonel opened it and closed it several times before setting it down again. The boy couldn’t look anymore. He pulled his legs more tightly into his body and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Why are you over there?” the colonel asked.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” the boy apologized as well as he knew how. He tried to tell the colonel he would leave if the colonel wanted him to, but his throat was tight and he kept stuttering, and nothing came out right.

The colonel walked over and bent down. He reached out, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “I know it was an accident. You’re the best aide I’ve ever had. I need you here.”

There were other incidents where the boy failed the colonel. Once he even nicked the colonel’s jaw while shaving him, but the colonel didn’t get mad then, either. The colonel never raised his voice to the boy.

As time wore on, at suppertime and in the evenings they talked more and more. Rarely though, did they discuss the war. Most often they spoke of silly things. When the boy told jokes, the colonel laughed. The colonel had this deep, rumbling laugh and the boy liked hearing it, so while doing his chores, he thought up new jokes. Sometimes they made up stories together. The colonel would say one line and the boy the next and they would go on like this, until a fantastic nonsensical tale was spun.

One evening, as they finished up a discourse about a cat named Fuzzy, the colonel remarked, “Do you realize all our stories have cats in them?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess.”

“You never finish your meals. You’ve been giving your scraps to the wild cats,” the colonel said.

That was true. A dozen or more cats followed after the regiment. They were shy, fearful creatures, looking for nothing more than something to fill their starved bellies. Whatever the boy didn’t finish from his plate, he took to them. He hoped, if he crouched low and stayed still, eventually the cats would come to him, but they didn’t. It was okay though, because he understood why they didn’t like people. Some of the soldiers—many of the same ones who had taunted the boy—would kick at the cats when they got too close.

Food supplies were scarce at times, and wasting rations was frowned upon, so the boy had been careful about sneaking his leftover food. He’d thought he’d been discreet enough and that the colonel hadn’t noticed. He was sure the colonel would be angry and tell him not to feed the cats anymore.

“Take this with you when you go out tonight,” the colonel said, and he slid his plate across the table. “Just be careful. Those cats are feral. If you ever get one to let you pet it, don’t bring it in here.”

After that, the colonel saved a little of his own food for the cats every day, too.

The colonel’s other evening pastime was reading. The boy wasn’t sure where the colonel’s books came from, but every week or so, he took away the books he’d read and returned with new ones. The boy wanted to ask if he could read the books when the colonel was done with them, but he didn’t. Sometimes, when he had a few spare minutes while the colonel was out, he secretly read, but there wasn’t enough time to finish any of the books before the colonel got rid of them.

One night, the colonel set his book down and rubbed his eyes. “Reading gives me a headache,” he said. “When I was young my mother used to force my brothers and me to sit and listen while she read to us. Back then I hated it. I would much rather have been running around, getting into trouble. It’s funny how now I kind of miss it.”

Tentatively the boy suggested, “I’ll read to you, if you want.”

The colonel smiled. “I didn’t know you could read.”

It wasn’t an unwarranted assumption. Many of the troops couldn’t read, and the colonel probably thought the boy never had an opportunity to go to school. When the colonel had asked about his home and parents, the boy had told him he didn’t have a home or parents. His old, raggedy clothes certainly looked the part of an orphan.

“I can read,” the boy said.

The colonel handed his book over. “Be my guest.”