Charles pondered, but not long. 'I'll accept on one condition. Before I start, I'd like a short furlough.'
That brought another frown from the major. 'But the whole army's moving, or soon will be.'
'To the rear, I'm told. To the Rapidan and the Rappahannock. The lady lives near the Rappahannock. Fredericksburg. I can rejoin the legion quickly if necessary.'
Hampton smiled. 'Request granted. Do you concur, Major Butler?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then,' said Charles, 'I accept duty as a scout. With pleasure.'
Even though the rejection hurt, and would for a long time, he felt, at the same time, set free. He was happy. Did a manumitted black man experience similar feelings, he wondered as he walked back to his hut at a brisk pace, whistling.
His military passport, countersigned in Richmond, noted his age, height, complexion, hair and eye color, and stated that he had permission to travel to the vicinity of Fredericksburg, subject to the discretion of the military authorities. If that discretion had somehow proved an obstacle, Charles would have put the spurs to Sport, jumped over the authorities, and taken his chances.
As he crossed the miles to Spotsylvania County, first through rainstorms, then a cold snap that whitely crisped the dead fields and bare trees, his eagerness to reach Barclay's Farm increased, together with anxiety that he would find her gone again. At last he saw the sturdy stone house and wooden barns and outbuildings on the north side of the narrow road.
'And smoke coming out of the chimney,' he yelled to the gelding.
It was a fine farm, well maintained despite the war. From the appearance of the fields, he judged that her property spread on both sides of the road. The main house had a look of great age and strength, fortresslike behind a pair of ninety-foot red oaks that must have sprung up wild, hunting the sun they needed. Since the house was old, the trees had probably been saplings when it was built. Now they had grown and spread until their thick limbs hung over the wooden roof shakes and touched the front dormers of an upstairs floor or attic. Wonderful trees, made for climbing and making him wish he was a boy again.
As he reined in, in the dooryard, he heard a squeak and whine. Away to his right he glimpsed a jet of sparks in the dark interior of an outbuilding. He dismounted, and the pedals of the grinding wheel stopped squeaking. A Negro of about twenty emerged from the building. He wore heavy plow shoes, old pants, a mended shirt. He had both hands on the curved scythe he had been sharpening.
'Something we can do for you, sir?'
'This man's all right, Boz.'
The new voice belonged to another Negro, older, moon-faced, with few teeth; he appeared from behind the house, a sack of henhouse feed over his shoulder. Charles had met him in Richmond the night of the ball.
'How are you, Captain?' the older black asked. 'You look like you rode through eighty acres of mud.'
'I did. Is she home, Washington?'
He let out a kind of hee-hee laugh. 'Indeed she is. It's early for a social call, but don't you mind that — she's always up before daylight. Probably frying our morning ham right now.' Washington jerked his head to the right. 'Back door's quicker.'
Charles walked past him and up the wooden stoop, spurs jingling. 'Put the captain's horse in the barn, Boz,' the older freed-man said to the younger. Charles knew he should look after Sport himself, but all he wanted to do was rap on the door, hoping he didn't appear or smell filthy. He could scarcely believe his own excited state.
The door opened. Gus gasped, and a flour-white hand flew to her chin. 'Charles Main. It is you?'
'So my passport says.'
'You confused me for a moment. The new beard —'
'Is it all right?'
'I'll get used to it.'
He grinned. 'Well, it's warm, anyway.'
'Are you on your way somewhere?'
'I didn't realize the beard was that repulsive.'
'Stop that and answer me.' She had liked his retort.
'I am responding, ma'am, to your kind invitation to visit. May I come in?'
'Yes, yes — certainly. I apologize for making you stand in the cold.'
Her old cotton dress, much laundered and nearly bleached of its yellow dye, still became her. She looked a trifle sleepy, yet pleased and excited. He noticed a button missing in the row rising over the swell of her breast and saw flesh in a momentary gap. He felt faintly wicked and fine.
She had been stirring batter. She laid the spoon aside and put her fist against her hip. 'One question before we get down to visiting in earnest. Are you going to insist on calling me by that wretched name?'
'Most probably. This is wartime. We all have to put up with a few unpleasantries.'
He had tried to mimic her tart style. She picked that up and smiled again. 'I shall make a patriotic effort. Breakfast will be ready shortly. There's plenty. I'll heat some water if you want to wash first.'
'I'd better, or your house will look like a mudhole.'
She surprised him by grasping his left sleeve. 'Let me look at you. Are you all right? I hear there may be heavy fighting soon. You've survived the winter so far — so many men haven't, they say.' She responded to his reaction with an annoyed shake of her head. 'Are you laughing at me?'
'No, ma'am. But I counted about half a dozen statements and questions whizzing by. Which shall I take first?'
She blushed, or so he thought. It was hard to be sure because only the fire in the great stone hearth illuminated the room, and the day was dark.
The kitchen was huge, peg-floored and furnished with tables, chairs, a work block on thick legs. All were simply but well designed, with an appearance of strength that matched the house. Like Ambrose, Barclay must have been a good woodworker, Charles thought with a jealous twinge.
'First?' she repeated, lifting and turning pieces of frying ham in a black iron skillet. 'This. How are you? I didn't hear from you. I was worried.'
'Didn't I ever tell you I'm a bad letter writer? I especially lack the nerve to write someone as well educated as you. Another thing — the army mails are slow as glue. Your gift arrived late. I thank you for remembering me.'
'How could I not?' Then, hastily averting her head: 'At Christmas.'
'The book's handsome.'
'But you haven't read it.'
'No time yet.'
'That's a hedge, if I ever heard one. How long can you stay?'
Underneath the lightness of the question he believed he heard something different, unexpected, vastly pleasing. 'Until tomorrow morning, if it won't compromise you. I can sleep in the barn with my horse.'
Hand on hip again: 'With whom would it compromise me, Captain? Washington? Bosworth? They're both discreet, tolerant men. I have a spare room with a bed and no neighbors closer than a mile.'
'All right, but I still have reason to worry about you. There's liable to be fighting around here, and you're —'
A soft clunk. He glanced down. A lump of mud had dislodged from his pants and lay on the floor. Sheepish, he picked it up. She waved the spoon.
'Off with those things, then we'll eat and talk. Go into my room — straight down there. I'll send one of the men with water for the tub and a nightshirt that belonged to Barclay. Some of his things are stored in the attic. Leave your uniform in the hall, and I'll brush it up.' Through all this urging, she prodded him with the spoon, determined as any sergeant drilling a recruit. A last prod — 'Now scat.' He left, laughing.
Gus Barclay's mere presence drew him out of the dank inner places where he had dwelled of late. He sank into hot water in the zinc tub and scrubbed himself with a cake of homemade soap, having first removed the thong from around his neck and laid the leather bag where it couldn't get wet.
He put on the nightshirt and returned to the kitchen, where she filled him with plain, hearty food. The
