Love and War

freedmen ate, too. They regularly took their meals in the kitchen, she explained. 'Though they always come and go by the back door. Some of my neighbors  — fine religious folk, church every Sunday — would probably burn me out if they saw black men crossing my threshold at all hours. Washington and Boz and I talked it over, and we decided we could all stand a bit of injury to our pride if that's the price of keeping the roof over our heads.'

The freedmen smiled and agreed. The two of them and Gus were a family, Charles realized; one into which he was immediately welcomed.

After he dressed in his cleaned-up clothes, she showed off her fields and buildings in a leisurely ramble on foot. The frost melted, the temperature rose, bare earth oozed moisture and scents of a coming spring. They spoke of many things. Of Richmond, where she had sold produce from the farm twice in the fall. 'It was my impression that every person in that city is engaged in swindling every person in some fashion.'

Of his disillusionment with the army. 'Staff officers are a pretty busy lot. I calculate they spend fifty percent of their time politicking, fifty percent fiddling with pieces of paper, and fifty percent fighting.'

'That's a hundred and fifty percent.'

'That's why there hasn't been much fighting.'

Of her uncle, Brigadier Jack Duncan. She wished she knew his whereabouts so that she could write him. Unofficial couriers — smugglers — could carry almost anything across Confederate and Union lines, using a combination of forged passports and bribes.

Then, without prompting, she spoke of things past. 'I wanted a child, and so did Barclay. But I became pregnant only once, and then only with extreme difficulty.'

They were strolling along a lane bordering a small apple orchard. The lowering sun threw a web of branch shadows down upon them. She was bundled in an old hip-length coat, a coat for chores, and had crossed her arms over her breast and tucked her hands under her sleeves. She didn't look at him while she discussed the subject of childbearing, but otherwise there was no sign of embarrassment. Nor did he feel any.

'I was sick almost constantly for the first four and a half months. Then one night I lost the child spontaneously. I would have had a fine son if he'd lived. I may be able to quote Pope, but I'm not as good at simple things as the old cow in the barn who keeps us in milk and calves.'

She made a joke of it, but she kept her head down, kicking at stalks of long grass beside the lane.

For the evening meal she spit-roasted a round red roast of beef. Washington said he and Boz had chores and so would not be able to join the others for supper. Gus accepted the fiction without question. She and Charles ate by the light of the kitchen hearth — one of the best meals he had ever tasted. Thick slices of browned potatoes grown on her land. Hot corn bread unlike the army's; no wiggling visitors revealed themselves when he broke a piece in half. And the juicy, tender beef, free of the stink of brine and the Commissary Department.

She brought a jug of rum to the table and poured a cup for each of them.

He shared more of his thoughts about the war. 'Independence is a fine, laudable quality in a man. But an army that wants to win can't accommodate it.'

'Seems to me the government is caught in the same dilemma, Charles. And suffering. Each state puts its own wishes and welfare ahead of every other consideration. The principle we're fighting for may turn out to be what destroys us. But here — we're getting too gloomy. Will you have some more rum? Tell me about your command.'

'Shrunk considerably since we danced in Richmond.' He mentioned the petition and his reassignment to Butler's scouts.

Solemnly, her blue eyes fixed on his. 'I've read about the duties of scouts. Very dangerous.'

'But less trying than leading men who want to go fifty ways at once. I'll be all right. I value my horse and my hide — in that order.'

'My, you're in a good mood.'

'It's the company, Gus.'

'Odd —' A log broke in the hearth; fire and shadow moved sinuously over the walls, the stove, the handmade shelves holding her dishes. 'I can almost listen to that name without cringing. As you say' — eyes on him again, briefly — 'the company.'

Each felt, then, the isolation of the house, the sex and rising emotion of the other. Charles brought his legs together under the table. She began to fuss with dishes, forks, spoons, clearing things. 'You must be worn out — and you have a long ride tomorrow, don't you?'

'Yes and yes.' He wanted to follow her as she moved away, sweep his arms around her, let only one bedroom in the dark house be occupied tonight. It wasn't propriety that prevented him, or fear that she would say no, though she certainly might. It was a self-spoken warning from the silences of his mind, one he had heard before. A warning about time and place and the circumstances that had brought them together.

He pushed away from the table. 'I suppose I had better turn in.' He did feel pleasantly tired, his muscles loose, his body warm, his heart content except in one regard. 'It's been a wonderful day.'

'Yes, it has. Good night, Charles.'

Going to her, he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. 'Good night.' He turned and walked to the spare bedroom.

He lay under the comforter an hour, reviling himself. I should have touched her. She wanted it. I saw it in her eyes. He flung the cover off. Strode to the door. Listened to the night house, the tiny creaks and shifts. Reached for the knob. Stopped with his fingers an inch from it. Swore and went back to bed.

He wakened with his heart beating fast and caution gripping him. He heard noise in the hall, sounds not normal for a house at rest. Light flashed under the door. Barefoot, in the borrowed nightshirt, he jerked the door open. Augusta Barclay stood in a listening attitude near the foot of the attic stairs. She wore a cotton flannel bed gown with an open throat, and had braided her yellow hair.

'What's wrong?' he said.

She hurried along the hall, an old percussion rifle in one hand, a lamp casting tilting shadows in the other. 'I heard something outside.' Saying this, she stopped close to him. He clearly saw her nipples raising the soft flannel. Restraint and good sense deserted him. He put his right hand on her breast and leaned down, inhaling the night warmth of her skin and hair.

She pressed to him, eyes closing, lips opening. Her tongue touched his. Then knocking began.

She pulled back. 'What have you done to me, Charles Main?'

The knocking grew louder, overlaid by Washington's urgent voice. Charles fetched his revolver from the bedroom and ran after her to the back door, where he found the two freedmen, obviously upset.

'Powerful sorry to wake you in the middle of the night, Miz Barclay,' Washington said. 'But they's all sorts of commotion on the road.' Charles heard it: axles creaking, hoofs clopping, men cursing and complaining.

Gus motioned with the rifle. 'Come inside and close the door.' She put down the lamp and cocked the weapon.

Charles strode through the dark to the parlor, crouched by the window, and returned presently with reassurance. 'I saw the letters CSA on the canvas of two wagons. They're moving toward Fredericksburg. I don't think we'll be bothered.'

Back in the parlor, standing side by side at the window but  careful not to touch, Charles and Gus watched the train of heavy vehicles pass in bright moonlight. When they were gone and the bellowed complaints of the teamsters, too, Charles saw daylight glinting. There was no time to go back to bed, for any reason.

Washington and Boz said they were cold. Gus began brewing coffee. So the night and the visit ended. He left after breakfast. She walked to the road with him. Sport, well rested, was frisking, eager to be off.

She touched his gauntleted hand where it lay on his left leg. 'Will you come again?'

'If I can. I want to.'

'Soon?'

'General McClellan will have a lot to say about that.'

'Charles, be careful.'

'You, too.'

She lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips, then stepped away. 'You must come. I haven't felt so happy in years.'