Hear the Wind Blow (13 page)

"Do as I say, Corporal Hicks. That's an order!" The major's voice rose.

With great reluctance, Hicks entered the stall. Ranger whinnied and then reared as if he meant to trample the man. I almost hoped he would.

But that cowardly Hicks moved too fast. One big jump backward and he was out of the stall and slamming the door shut. After he slid the bolt home, he turned to the major. "That horse will kill me, sir." His Yankee voice twanged like a bad string on a banjo.

The major swore up a blue streak. Grabbing my arm, he gave me a shake. "Tell me the truth. You stole that horse!"

For the first time Hicks took a good look at me. His eyes lit with recognition. "Why, he's the one I saw at the house, sir," he said. "His family was sheltering the Bushwhacker we killed."

The major scowled at me. "This means jail for you, boy. And maybe hanging, too. You'll be charged with horse theft for certain and possibly murder, for no one has seen Captain Powell since Hicks and the others left your house."

"Surely the United States Army wouldn't hang a boy." Hicks was clearly shocked by the major's wrathful words.

"Are you contradicting me, Corporal Hicks? Showing disrespect for an officer can result in court-martial."

"Oh, no, sir," Hicks stammered. "No disrespect intended, sir. I was just surprised, sir. I apologize, sir."

The major turned to me. "Go in that stall and fetch me the saddle." So saying, he opened the door and shoved me through.

I landed in a heap at Ranger's feet. For a second I thought the horse might trample me in his rage, but as soon as he saw me, he calmed down. He trusted me—not Hicks.

I longed to jump on his back and ride away, but I knew the major would most likely shoot me. If he shot as badly as he rode, he'd no doubt miss me, but I wasn't brave enough to take the chance. So I picked up the saddle and gave it to the man, certain I was damning myself to jail and maybe hanging.

The major told Hicks to keep his gun on me. Which he did. Slowly the major examined the saddle and then thrust it toward Hicks. "What does that say, Corporal?"

Hicks squinted as if his eyesight was poor. "'J. K. Powell,'" he read. "That's the captain's, all right."

Still holding the saddle, Major Dennison turned to me. "How did you get this horse? And don't feed me any of your lies this time."

"Like I told you last night," I said quickly, "Captain Powell and his men came to our farm looking for James Marshall. They found him upstairs, but he got away. Everyone but the captain rode off after him." I paused to swallow. It was hard to keep from shaking.

"That's right," Hicks said, almost as if he were encouraging me. "The captain stayed in the house."

"Well, he shoved us all in a room and locked the door and then he went after his men." My words sounded weak and foolish, but I kept on talking, praying the major would believe me. "I don't know what happened to the captain, sir. But we climbed out a window and hid down in a gully. We were scared. Didn't know what they'd do to us when they came back."

I paused to take a breath. My throat and mouth had dried up, and I would have given a lot for a drink of water.

Major Dennison scowled down at me. "Go on," he said,

"Powell's men killed James Marshall and brought him back to our house," I went on. "They hanged his corpse from a tree limb and burned our house down. Drank all Papa's liquor while they were at it and left at dawn." I scowled at Hicks, hating him and Dennison and all the other Yankees.

"We rode all over, searching for the captain," Hicks put in. "Not a hide nor hair of him did we see. It was like he'd been carried off by the devil hisself. Least that's what we thought."

In my opinion, every single Yankee deserved to be carried off by the devil, Captain Powell having first priority and the major second.

Major Dennison ignored Hicks and focused on me. "And the horse?"

"I came across him a few days later down by the river, wet and shivering, like he'd fallen in or something." I glanced at Ranger, glad he couldn't speak up and tell the truth. "Our mother had died of fever, and I thought my sister and I could ride him to Grandma Colby's house. I found the horse, you see. That's not the same as stealing him."

"I'd say there's a mighty fine line between stealing and finding," the major said. "Especially considering you lied to me and claimed he was a birthday present. You know full well you should have turned him over to me this morning."

Full of wrath, the major turned to Hicks. "Tie the boy's wrists and take him down to the jailhouse, Corporal. I'm not certain I believe a word of his story. If he lied to me once, he'd do it again."

Hicks opened his mouth as if to protest but shut it at the sight of the major's angry face. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

I put up a fight to keep from being arrested, but it did me no good. The major gave my head a cuff so hard it half dazed me. After that, Hicks didn't have much trouble tying me. Lord, was he inept. If I'd been left alone, I could have wiggled out of those knots in no time.

But I had no opportunity to try. The major picked me up and slung me over the back of the corporal's old nag as if I were a sack of grain bound for the mill. Or a dead man. He handed Hicks the reins and took Ranger's bridle. The horse reared again, and kicked the major in the leg. Howling a string of curses, the man took to beating the horse into submission. It made me cry, for Ranger was the finest horse I'd ever known and he didn't deserve to be treated so badly.

Though Major Dennison didn't have an easy time of it, he managed to lead Ranger behind his own horse. Hicks followed, keeping a safe distance between his horse and Ranger, who danced about and tossed his head.

As we passed the house, Rachel came running out, followed by the aunts and Uncle Cornelius. Grandma Colby walked as far as the edge of the porch. While the others asked where the major was taking me and why, my grandmother stood silently, hand pressed to her heart, as if she were about to die of disgrace. It was strange to see them from my position. A family turned upside down.

"Your nephew is a criminal, sir," Major Dennison told my uncle. "A horse thief and most likely a murderer. It's my duty to arrest him and see he is sent to jail to await a fair trial."

"But the boy's only thirteen years old," Aunt Esther protested.

"And an orphan as well," added Aunt Hester.

"Haswell could not have murdered anyone," Aunt Esther said. "He's a good boy."

"A little foolish sometimes," Aunt Hester put in, "but nonetheless a good boy."

"As for the horse, it must be a mistake," Aunt Esther said.

"No Colby has ever stolen anything," Aunt Hester insisted.

"It's not in the blood," Aunt Esther agreed.

Suddenly, Rachel threw herself at the major, pummeling his legs and the horse's sides. If the nag had had any spirit, he would have reared up and kicked Rachel, but he took his drubbing as if it were no more than fly bites. "Let Haswell go, you dirty Yankee! Let him go!" my sister cried.

While Ranger reared and pawed the air behind him, the major raised his whip and slashed the air a half inch from Rachel's head. If he'd struck her, he would have cut her face open.

Rachel stepped back, fists clenched, face scarlet, breathing hard. "Let my brother go! He didn't steal that horse and he didn't kill anybody! It was Mama who—" Rachel covered her mouth with both hands and silenced herself. "Let him go!"

At this point Uncle Cornelius finally spoke up. "Come now, Thomas, there's no need to take the boy to jail. I'm certain this is all a misunderstanding." He paused and studied the major's wrathful face. Gesturing at Ranger, he added, "You're welcome to the horse, but leave Haswell here. I'll take full responsibility for him."

Major Dennison considered this proposal. "I must say I've found you to be a most hospitable and generous host, Cornelius. But this boy has committed a serious crime. I dare not leave him with you." Turning to Hicks, he said, "Let's go."

The aunts and Rachel rushed to my side as if they feared they'd never see me again. Rachel grabbed hold of my arms and pulled till I cried out in pain. Grandma Colby stayed on the porch, as speechless as if she'd turned to stone.

"Hicks! Get a move on!" Major Dennison shouted.

"Yes, sir." Despite my family's protests, Hicks rode on behind the major, taking care to keep a good distance.

By the time we got to the Winchester city jail, I was dizzy from hanging across that horse's back. In fact, when Hicks lifted me off, I almost swooned. If he hadn't caught me, I'd have fallen flat on my face. I guessed the blood had all rushed to my head.

"You all right?" Hicks asked.

"'Course I am!" I tried to speak up, but my voice sounded a bit puny. And I wobbled when I walked. Hicks kept a hand on my shoulder. I reckoned he was thinking I'd run off. Believe me, I would have if I'd had the strength.

After leaving a soldier to deal with the horses, Major Dennison led the way, favoring the leg Ranger had kicked. Despite my circumstances, that pleased me.

While the major explained the situation to the prison guard, Hicks held my arm in a loose grip. By now I was feeling strong enough to pull away, but I feared I'd be shot if I made a move. So I stood beside Hicks and waited to hear my fate.

"He'll be put on trial," the guard said, "when the judge has time. Meanwhile, I'll lock him up."

Hicks handed me over to the guard. "He's just a boy," he told the guard in a low voice. "Go easy on him."

The guard nodded and led me down a dark corridor lined with locked doors made of bars. Unlocking one, he gave me a little push. "Go on in, boy. It ain't so bad. You ought to see Anderson Prison. Makes this seem like heaven."

He locked the door behind me, and I sat down in a corner. The floor was earth, covered with moldy straw. A blanket and a bucket for waste were the only other things in the cell. On one wall there was a little barred window too high up to see out of. That was it. That and the smell of sweat and urine and dirt and old misery. The cell wasn't big enough to stretch your arms out. And I was just a boy, small for my age.

I'd seen the jail from the outside many times. Papa and Mama, Rachel and Avery and I had walked past it frequently when we visited Uncle Cornelius in the old days before the war. As Papa used to say, an evening stroll was a good way to escape Uncle Cornelius and his after-supper rants about politics and such. I'd often wondered what the jail was like inside, but I'd never dreamed I'd find out one day.

I remembered Rachel asking Papa about it. She was four or five years old, and already smart as she could be.

"Why, that's the jail, Rachel," Papa had said.

"What's a jail?" she'd asked, seeking to enlarge her vocabulary.

"It's where people go who have committed a crime," Papa answered.

"Bad people," I added, thinking to scare Rachel.

She'd looked at me, her face serious. "Then I expect that's where you'll go, Haswell."

Papa had laughed. "'Out of the mouths of babes,'" he'd said. "Be warned, son, and behave yourself."

Rachel the prophet. I hadn't thought it funny then. And I certainly didn't find it funny now.

The day passed. Sometimes I was bored half to death, but mostly I worried about being hanged. Surely Hicks was right. The Union Army wouldn't hang a boy. But then I'd remember Major Dennison's red face and angry eyes. Oh, he'd hang me if he were the judge, I was certain of it. Well, all I could do was hope the judge was not the same sort of vengeful man.

Around dusk a guard brought me something resembling hash in a tin bowl. Supper, he said. Coffee came with it. At least I supposed that's what it was. Black and nasty was how it tasted. As for the hash, I downed it because my belly was empty and needed filling. And it took my mind off hanging, for a while at least.

Slowly the little bit of sky I could see darkened to black. And so did the cell. Things rustled in the straw, and soon I was scratching bug bites. A mouse or a rat chittered nearby. I curled up small as I could in the smelly blanket and tried to sleep, but thoughts of the gallows tree kept creeping into my mind. I'd never seen a hanging, but I'd heard about them. What was it like to climb up to that platform under the gallows tree and look out at the crowd waiting to watch you die? To know you had just a few more minutes to breathe and see the sky? Would they blindfold me? How would the rope feel around my neck? Would I cry and beg, would I struggle, or would I just stand there and feel the platform drop open beneath my feet? How long would I live? Would it hurt? Would Mama and Papa be waiting for me across Jordan?

While I lay there tormenting myself with questions I couldn't answer, I heard footsteps. Someone was walking toward my cell. In the dark I made out the figure of a soldier. Slowly and quietly he unlocked the door and stood over me.

My first thought was he had come to take me to the hanging tree. I started to cry out, but his hand covered my mouth.

"Hush," he whispered. "It's me, Otis Hicks. Don't make a sound."

W
HEN HE TOOK HIS HAND AWAY
, I began to shiver. "Am I to be hanged now?"

"Is that what you think?" Hicks squatted beside me. "Trust me, boy, I've come to get you out of this place."

"Get me out?" I couldn't understand his meaning. Was he trying to help me? Why would he do that? He'd be risking his own life.

Hicks pulled me to my feet, hushing me all the while. From down the hall I heard loud laughter and voices.

"I stole whiskey for the guards," Hicks whispered. "And set up a poker game. Took the keys when they was too drunk to notice."

Even though I'd figured out his meaning, I still didn't know why he was helping me escape. "Why are you—"

"Not now," he whispered. "Come on, will you?"

I followed him out of the cell. Edging along the corridor as quietly as we could, we got past the guards while they argued over the fine rules of poker. Hicks shoved me outside the building just as one of the men yelled, "Hey, Hicks, ain't you playing another hand?"

"You boys are just too smart for me," he called back. "You cleaned out my pockets, for sure."