Hear the Wind Blow by Mary Downing Hahn Page A

at the amber liquid as if it held the answers to life's mysteries. In my uncle's eyes, I'd clearly gone too far.
    "The soldiers simply followed orders," the officer said. "General Sheridan has mandated strong reprisals against those who shelter Bushwhackers."
    He looked at Uncle Cornelius and took a long pull on his pipe. "It's unfortunate the children's mother died," he added in a pious voice, "but it wasn't Yankee soldiers who killed her. Perhaps she would have died of fever even if the men hadn't come to the house."
    Rachel drew in her breath as if to speak. I squeezed her arm as gently as I could, knowing a pinch would result in a screech. She looked at me, and I shook my head. Fortunately, she remembered what I'd told her about Mama and Captain Powell and kept her mouth shut.
    Taking advantage of the silence, Uncle Cornelius said, "Children, it seems I've neglected my manners. This is Major Thomas Dennison. He's with the Union Army. We are privileged to share our home with him."
    The major rose to his feet. He was a tall, heavy-set man with a rosy complexion, showing none of the usual sickness and pallor of a typical soldier on either side. His wellpolished gold buttons twinkled in the firelight, and so did the gold fillings in his teeth.

    As Uncle Cornelius introduced me, Major Dennison held out his hand. I kept my hands in my pockets. Damned if I'd shake the hand of my enemy.
    A little silence fell, and the major's face reddened. "God Almighty, boy, have you no manners?" he asked.
    "Manners have nothing to do with it," I said, keeping my eyes on his. Once again my heart was pounding, both harder and faster this time.
    "Please excuse my nephew, Thomas," Uncle Cornelius said to the major. "He's come a long way, without much food or rest from the looks of him."
    "Neither fatigue nor hunger is an excuse for rudeness," the major said. "Were he one of my soldiers, I'd have him flogged."
    With that and a scowl for me, Major Dennison went to the sideboard and refilled his brandy glass. With his back turned to the room, he added, "I heard Southerners had the manners of aristocrats, but, like many other rumors, I find it to be false in most cases."
    Uncle Cornelius beckoned to the aunts. "Perhaps you two could wash these children," he whispered. "Feed them. Put them to bed. Get them out of the major's sight."
    "Yes," Grandma Colby said, "that's a fine idea. I'm going to retire myself. Rebecca's death is one grief too many." Gripping her cane, the old woman levered herself off the sofa and hobbled toward the stairs. Her back bent more than I recalled, and she walked more slowly. Gone were the days when she had the energy to chase me around the yard with a switch in her hand.

    "Don't forget to bathe them," she told the aunts. To Rachel and me, she said. "I am truly sorry to hear of your mother's death. Despite her unfortunate marriage, I was very fond of Rebecca." Up the stairs she went, one slow step at a time, raising each foot as if her shoes were made of lead. We watched till she reached the top and headed down the hall to her room.

11
    A S SOON AS THE KITCHEN DOOR swung shut behind us, the aunts turned to me. "Oh, Haswell, you should have taken Major Dennison's hand," Aunt Esther said.

    Aunt Hester nodded. "Esther is right. We both understand how you feel, but we are greatly beholden to Major Dennison."
    "Beholden to a Yankee?" I stared at the aunts. "I'd sooner be beholden to Lucifer himself!"
    Both aunts gasped. "Haswell, what would your poor dear mother say if she could hear you speak so?" Aunt Hester asked.
    At the sound of Mama's name, Rachel's eyes filled with tears. She pressed Sophie to her skinny little breast, a silent picture of the misery I was holding inside.
    Aunt Esther reached out and patted Rachel's shoulder, as if she were befriending a stray dog that might bite. "Oh, now, Rachel," she whispered. "Please don't cry, darling."
    Aunt Hester left Aunt Esther to comfort Rachel as best she could. Turning to me,