Love and War

'The answer to your question is very plain and unromantic, Captain. My father and mother were dead, and my only brother, too. A hunting accident took him when he was sixteen and I was twelve. I had no other kin in Spotsylvania Leonard County, so when Barclay came to propose, I thought it over for an hour and said yes.' She gazed in the empty glass. 'I felt no one else would ever ask me.'

'Why, of course they would,' he said at once. 'You're a handsome woman.'

She looked at him. Feeling leaped like lightning between them.

The little mouth curl, the smile of defense, slipped back as she broke away from his steady gaze, standing abruptly. Her big breasts swelled the bosom of her dress, which she tugged self­consciously. 'That's gallant of you, Captain. I know I'm not, but I always wanted to be. Hope springs eternal. That, too, is Mr. Pope. Now, whatever else I am, I'm tired. I will thank you again for saving the quinine and ask you to excuse me. Good night.'

He rose. 'Good night.' When she was out of sight, he said to Ambrose, 'Damnedest female I ever met.'

Ambrose laid the melodeon aside and grinned. 'Don't get smitten, Charlie. Colonel wants you to tend to business.'

'Don't be an idiot,' he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

Charles slept well and woke at dawn, filled with an unusual eagerness to be up and doing. He left Ambrose snoring, stole outside and whistled 'Dixie's Land' softly while he fed and watered Sport and the bay. He studied the upstairs windows of the farmhouse. Which was the spare room?

A red sun rose over the gentle hills and woodlands east of the road. Birds sang, and Charles stretched, exhilarated. He' hadn't felt so fit and good in months. He hoped the change would last a while. He didn't need to speculate about the cause.

Wood smoke, pale and pungent, rose from the kitchen chimney; breakfast working. He was starved. Going in, he remembered he must unpack his personal pistol from his camp trunk. With a battle surely coming soon, he must clean and oil it. He hadn't worn the weapon since he returned from Texas. It was an 1848 army Colt, six shots, .44 caliber, to which he had added several expensive options, including walnut grips, a detachable shoulder stock, and a cylinder engraved with a depiction of dragoons attacking Indians. With the revolver, his shotgun, and the regulation legion sword, he had everything he needed to whip Yankees — a task he was eager to undertake this morning.

Augusta was in the kitchen helping the farmer's wife fry eggs and slabs of ham. 'Good morning, Captain Main.' Her smile seemed cordial and genuine. He replied in kind.

Soon they all sat down. Ambrose was handing Charles a warm loaf of heavy homemade bread when they heard a horseman in the dooryard. Charles overturned his chair in his haste to rise. Augusta, seated on his right, touched his wrist.

'I suspect it's the man from Richmond. Nothing to worry about.'

Her fingers, quickly withdrawn, left him with a quivery feeling. Acting like a damn schoolboy, he thought as the farmer went to admit the visitor. Augusta stared at her plate as if it might suddenly fly away. Pink showed in her cheeks.

The man from Richmond knew her name but didn't give his. He was slim, middle-aged, clerkish, in a brown suit and flat-crowned hat. He accepted the farmer's invitation and hauled a chair to the table, saying, 'The quinine's here, then? Safe?'

'In the attic,' Augusta said. 'It's safe thanks to the quick work of Captain Main and Lieutenant Pell.' She described yesterday's events. The man from Richmond responded with praise and gratitude, then started on his food. He didn't say another word and ate enough for six men his size.

Charles and the widow conversed more comfortably than they had the night before. In response to questions about Billy, he described the unhappiness of the Hazards and the Mains when they found themselves on opposite sides of the war. 'Our families have been close for a long time. We're tied by marriage and West Point, and just by the way we feel about one another. If the Hazards and the Mains hope for any one thing right now, I guess it's to stay close, no matter what else comes.'

A gentle tilt of her head acknowledged the worth of the wish. 'My family is split by the war, too.'

'I thought you said you had no kin.'

'None in Spotsylvania County. I have one bachelor uncle, my mother's brother, in the Union army, Brigadier Jack Duncan. He went to West Point. He graduated in 1840, as I remember.'

'George Thomas was in that class,' Charles exclaimed. 'I served under him in the Second Cavalry. He's a Virginian —'

'Who stayed on the Union side.'

'That's right. Let's see, who else? Bill Sherman. A good friend of Thomas named Dick Ewell — he's a general on our side. He's just been given one of the brigades at Manassas Junction.'

'My,' she said when he paused, 'West Point does keep track of its own.'

'Yes indeed — and we aren't too popular because of it. Tell me about your uncle. Where is he?'

'His last letter was posted from a fort in Kansas. But I suspect he's back in this part of the country now. He expected reassignment. In a paper I picked up in Washington, I read a piece about high-ranking army officers who are Virginians. Nine have joined the Confederacy. Eleven stayed. One is Uncle Jack.'

Ambrose shot his hand out, beating the Richmond courier to the last ham slab. After everyone finished, Ambrose brought Augusta's buggy to the front while Charles carried her travel valise to the porch. As he stowed the valise in the buggy, she finished tying a yellow veil over her hair.

'Will you be safe going the rest of the way alone?' he asked.

'There's a pistol in that bag you just put away. I never travel without it.'

He welcomed the chance to take her hand and help her up to the seat. 'Well, Captain, again I express my gratitude. If your duties ever bring you along the Rappahannock to Fredericksburg, please call on me. Barclay's Farm is only a few miles outside town. Anyone can direct you.' She remembered herself. 'The invitation extends to you, of course, Lieutenant Pell.'

'Oh, certainly — I knew that's how you meant it,' he said with a sly glance at his friend.

'Good-bye, Captain Main.'

'It's a little late, but please call me Charles.'

'Then you must call me Augusta.'

He grinned. 'That's pretty formal. We had nicknames at West Point. How about Gus?'

It was one of those things quickly said because it came to mind the same way and seemed clever and inconsequential. She sat up as if touched by something hot.

'As a matter of fact, my brother always used that name. I detested it.'

'Why? It suits you. Gus would work in her own fields, but I doubt Augusta would.'

'Sir, I admit your gen'ral rule —'

'How's that?' Then he realized she must be quoting that damn Pope. Sweet and dangerous, her smile shone.

'— that every poet is a fool. But you yourself may serve to show it, that every fool is not a poet. Good-bye, Captain.'

'Wait, now,' he called, but the chance for apology left as fast as the buggy. She whipped up the horse, jolted out of the door-yard, and turned south. On the porch, the farmer nudged his wife. Ambrose approached with an air of mock gloom.

'Charlie, you put both feet in your mouth clear to the ankles that time. Had a nice spark struck with that little widow, too.

'Course, I don't think a gal's very feminine if she hoes a potato patch or has a vinegar tongue or a name like Gus, for that mat —'

'Shut the hell up, Ambrose. I'll never see her again, so what difference does it make? She can't take a joke, but she sure can hand 'em out. The hell with Mr. Pope. Her, too.'

He saddled Sport, touched his shako to salute the farm couple, and rode like a Tatar toward the south. Ambrose had to hold his shako and spur his bay just to keep Charles in sight.

After about five miles, Charles cooled down and slowed down. During the next hour he silently examined details of his various conversations with Mrs. Damned Highbrow Widow Augusta Barclay, whom he continued to find