Love and War

creaky headboard and turned his face away, toward the open window and the slow, stately dance of moonlit curtains. The April night smelled of the earth Washington and Boz had plowed that day. In the pasture behind the barn, where rain had created small ponds in low places, bullfrogs honked.

'We did a lot more than swim the Rappahannock that night —' The memory brought a chuckle, which pleased and relieved her; she hadn't heard him laugh in quite a while. 'We went on, soaked through, till we found the Yankee column. It was Kilpatrick, all right. We hid out until we could snag three of his spare horses as they went by. We mounted and rode along for a while, bareback.'

'In the middle of the Union cavalry?'

'No one noticed in the dark. And it was easier for us to count noses while we were right among 'em. We even forded the river with General Kilpatrick and his boys. I wish we could have shot some of the sons of bitches, but we had to carry our information back to division. So, south of the river, we split away — the dumb sods didn't notice that, either. We rode like fury, and that's the reason General Hampton was waiting when Little Kil showed up.'

She wanted to soothe the hardness from his voice. 'That is quite a story,' she said, patting his bare arm.

Instantly, he rolled away, lifted the curtain, and flipped the cigar butt into the side yard. An Indian cobra of smoke formed in the moonlight. 'Got a few more —' a great loud yawn '— but I'll save them for morning.'

He pulled up the cover, pecked her cheek, rolled onto his left side, and within half a minute started to snore.

The curtains leaped and fell back, partners in a moonlit quadrille. Gus pushed the back of her head deeper into the bolster and once again tugged the cover higher, to warm her breasts. She rubbed her right cheek, surprised and angered by what she felt.

I think he's done with me, and I don't know why. I think he wants to end it and hasn't the courage to say so.

The change, whose causes she understood only in a general way, was poisoning every part of their relationship. His love-making had been drained of tenderness; he thrust hard and hastily all the time, with few kisses and no spoken endearments. What was she to do? There were no alternatives. She couldn't stop what was happening to him or stop loving him either.

Facing that quandary and the growing feeling that they were finished, she had been sleepless many a night lately. This promised to be another such night. 'Oh God,' she said very faintly, continuing to cry in silence.

Later, she opened her eyes and realized she must have slept after all. Freezing there beside him, she burrowed under the cover and called herself a ninny for her earlier behavior. 'Oh, God.' The tears. The despair.

She had always prided herself on strength, self-sufficiency. And merely because she had lowered her defenses and thereby gotten her emotions trampled, she needn't let it continue. She did love Charles, but if the price of it was perpetual misery, she refused to pay. The wrenchings of the war wouldn't stop — at least not soon enough — so it was up to her to force him to his senses.

He needed a shock. A dose of strong medicine. She would give it to him in the morning. Feeling secure again, she fell asleep.

He had others things on his mind in the morning. He strode into the kitchen soon after sunrise, tucking in his gray shirt and pulling up his galluses. She had scarcely offered her greeting before he announced, 'I meant to say my piece about Richmond last night. Any day now —'

'There will be more fighting. You must think I'm an idiot, Charles, always needing instructions from the all- knowing male. I realize the Union forces are at Culpeper Court House and they'll march soon — this way, undoubtedly. But you aren't going to decide when I must look for shelter in the city.' She struck her wooden spoon on the edge of the stove, where grits were simmering. 'I will decide.'

His face grew long above his white-spiked beard. He hooked a stool with his boot, pulled it from under the table, and lit a fresh cigar as he sat down. 'What in hell's got into you?'

She threw the spoon on the stove and marched toward him. 'A strong desire to settle some things. If you care for me, act like it. I'm tired of your clomping in here whenever you take a notion. Helping yourself to a meal and — whatever else you want, and grumbling and growling like a boor the whole time.'

He drew the smoldering cigar from his mouth. 'Having me around doesn't suit you, Mrs. Barclay?'

'Don't glare and sneer at me. You treat me like a combination cook, laundress, and whore.'

He jumped up. 'In the middle of a war, people don't have time for all the little niceties.'

'In this house they do, Charles Main. Otherwise they don't set foot in it. Every time you're here, you act as if you'd rather be somewhere else. If that's true, say so and let's be done with it. Believe me —' no, don't, said a voice she ignored '— in the state you're in, you're no prize.'

In the side yard, her rooster chased two cackling hens. Boz, chopping wood, sang 'Kingdom Coming' with la-la's instead of words. Charles stared at Gus, his eyes wide above the dark half-circles that had been there since he came back from Pennsylvania last summer. Suddenly, she saw a startled innocence in his gaze.

Elated, she didn't dare smile. But she had gotten through. Now they could talk. Work it out. Save —

Fierce knocking. Washington on the kitchen stoop.

'Man on horseback jus' turned in. Comin' around back right now.'

Hoofbeats and the jingle of metal sounded outside. Charles grabbed for his gun belt hanging on a chair, jerked out the six-shot Colt. He was crouching when the horseman's round face and flop hat passed the side windows.

Charles stood, hung the gun belt over his shoulder, and opened the kitchen door. 'What are you doing here, Jim?'

'Hate to roust you out, Charlie, but this here letter come for you 'bout ten o'clock last night. Morning, Miz Barclay.' Jim Pickles touched his hat with the crumpled missive, which he then handed to Charles.

'Good morning, Jim.' Gus slowly wiped one hand on her apron, then the other. The chance was lost.

Jim pointed to the letter. 'Says War Department on it. Personal an' confidential. Mighty fancy.'

'Looks like it's been buried under six feet of dirt.'

'Well, pretty near. Man who brung it said it was in a bunch of letters an' dispatches somebody come across in the woods near Atlee's Station. They found the courier shot dead — been there some time, I guess — an' his pouch open an' this an' a lot of other stuff strewn about. Mebbe Kilpatrick's sojers did it. Anyway, the letter's been a while in root, as the saying goes.'

To Gus, Charles said, 'Atlee's Station in the place General Hampton and three hundred of us bushwhacked Kilpatrick on the first of March. We yelled so loud, we made 'em think we were three thousand —'

He was breaking the seals, unfolding the sheet. His beard lifted in the morning breeze. 'You're right, Jim; it was written in February. It's from my Cousin Orry, the colonel.'

Stunned, he read on. Then he gave Gus the letter. Consisting of one long paragraph, it was inscribed in a fine hand, with all the proper loops and flourishes. As she finished reading, Charles said to Jim, 'Billy Hazard is in Libby Prison. Half dead, according to that.'

'You talkin' about some Yank?'

'My old friend from West Point. I've told you about him.'

'Oh, yeh,' said the younger scout, unimpressed. 'What are you s'posed to do about it?'

'Go see Orry in Richmond right away. I'll get my gear.'

Starting back into the kitchen, Charles had a thought. He turned and pointed at Jim. 'And you forget what I just said, understand? You never heard a word.'

The swift clump of his boots faded inside. Jim Pickles dismounted, stretched in the sunshine, scratched his armpit, as cardinals swooped in and out of the budding red oaks at the front of the property.

'So Charlie's goin' to Richmond, hah? I s'pect he can get away, all right. Things are still pretty quiet. Guess it's the old calm before the storm. General Hampton's back home in Columbia, tryin' to muster three new regiments so Butler an' some of the old hands will get a little relief. Say, Miz Barclay, may I show you something?'

Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from an empty kitchen. 'Surely, Jim.'

From the pocket of his butternut shirt he took a small, square case of cheap yellow metal. 'Mighty proud of