what you want.”
He sighed, the cold wind whipping around him and his companion.
“The general wishes to rent your house as a headquarters.”
“Go on and tell another.” He couldn’t help but smile at her response even as she refused entry.
“May I be struck down if it is a lie,” he replied, trying to smile in reply, his teeth near to chattering with the cold. “Please may we come in, or frankly I think I will be struck down, from this cold.”
She finally conceded, and opened the door to let him in. She was tall, nearly six feet, angular, with more the build of a gangly boy than a middle-aged woman. She had a long, pinched face with a hawklike nose, graying hair tucked into a mobcap, and a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Harris motioned for Peter to follow, as with her hand on the door she seemed ready to close it on him.
“Come now, ma’am, would you leave a boy out in the cold?”
She hesitated, then opened it back up.
“In and be quick about it, and wipe your feet first.” She shooed them in as if they were wayward boys back from a romp and would now face punishment.
As they wiped their bare or canvas wrapped feet, she looked down at them, shook her head, and sighed. Peter’s feet were bare and Harris’s wrapped in canvas.
She slammed the door shut once they were inside, and without comment went into the kitchen off to the left, the two following.
The warmth of the room, the smell of something cooking in a kettle over the open fire, struck Harris like a wall. His head swam and for a few seconds he feared he would faint.
The room was saturated with warmth. Strange, almost confining, to feel four walls around him and a solid roof. And the smells! Bread was baking. A stew that smelled like potato, perhaps, with some pork mixed in, simmered over the fire. His stomach convulsively constricted. He looked back at Peter, who was actually leaning against the doorway into the kitchen for support, gazing wide-eyed, as if he had been raised to the gates of a paradise thought to be lost forever.
She turned in front of the fireplace with arms folded, fixing the two with a cold, sarcastic gaze.
“Well, on with it, state your business, and then be off with you. I don’t have time to waste on a lot of foolishness.”
Harris had to swallow hard. Strangely, he actually felt nauseated from the smell of food. As she gazed at them, she wrinkled her nose.
“Merciful God, the two of you stink like a manure pit in August. Now out with it and be on your way, and if it’s food you’re begging for…”
She sighed, looking past Harris to young Peter Wellsley.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Eighteen, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Eighteen,” and she shook her head, sighing. “Oh, damn it. Sit down. One bowl apiece and not a drop more, then out of here. Got barely enough for myself and now you starving boys are swarming all over the countryside. Whoever thought of this war should be shot.”
There was no need for urging as the two leaned their muskets against the wall and sat down on a narrow bench before the kitchen table. Muttering to herself, the woman opened a cabinet, took down two wooden bowls, and stirred the soup simmering over the fire with a wooden ladle. She measured out just one ladleful for Harris and set it before him. She poured one ladleful for Peter, and looked back at Harris.
Muttering under her breath, cursing soldiers, generals, armies, and boys playing at war, she added half a ladle more to Peter’s bowl and set it before him.
He looked up at her, still wide-eyed. He wore the expression of one overcome with awe and gratitude who might shame himself with tears, but he just sat there silent, staring at her.
“Grace,” she announced, but did not bow her head. Instead, she looked up as if about to deliver a lecture to the Almighty.
“God…end this war, send a plague on those who started it, and return these boys home to their mothers. Amen.”
She didn’t offer spoons, and
He sighed, the cold wind whipping around him and his companion.
“The general wishes to rent your house as a headquarters.”
“Go on and tell another.” He couldn’t help but smile at her response even as she refused entry.
“May I be struck down if it is a lie,” he replied, trying to smile in reply, his teeth near to chattering with the cold. “Please may we come in, or frankly I think I will be struck down, from this cold.”
She finally conceded, and opened the door to let him in. She was tall, nearly six feet, angular, with more the build of a gangly boy than a middle-aged woman. She had a long, pinched face with a hawklike nose, graying hair tucked into a mobcap, and a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Harris motioned for Peter to follow, as with her hand on the door she seemed ready to close it on him.
“Come now, ma’am, would you leave a boy out in the cold?”
She hesitated, then opened it back up.
“In and be quick about it, and wipe your feet first.” She shooed them in as if they were wayward boys back from a romp and would now face punishment.
As they wiped their bare or canvas wrapped feet, she looked down at them, shook her head, and sighed. Peter’s feet were bare and Harris’s wrapped in canvas.
She slammed the door shut once they were inside, and without comment went into the kitchen off to the left, the two following.
The warmth of the room, the smell of something cooking in a kettle over the open fire, struck Harris like a wall. His head swam and for a few seconds he feared he would faint.
The room was saturated with warmth. Strange, almost confining, to feel four walls around him and a solid roof. And the smells! Bread was baking. A stew that smelled like potato, perhaps, with some pork mixed in, simmered over the fire. His stomach convulsively constricted. He looked back at Peter, who was actually leaning against the doorway into the kitchen for support, gazing wide-eyed, as if he had been raised to the gates of a paradise thought to be lost forever.
She turned in front of the fireplace with arms folded, fixing the two with a cold, sarcastic gaze.
“Well, on with it, state your business, and then be off with you. I don’t have time to waste on a lot of foolishness.”
Harris had to swallow hard. Strangely, he actually felt nauseated from the smell of food. As she gazed at them, she wrinkled her nose.
“Merciful God, the two of you stink like a manure pit in August. Now out with it and be on your way, and if it’s food you’re begging for…”
She sighed, looking past Harris to young Peter Wellsley.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Eighteen, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Eighteen,” and she shook her head, sighing. “Oh, damn it. Sit down. One bowl apiece and not a drop more, then out of here. Got barely enough for myself and now you starving boys are swarming all over the countryside. Whoever thought of this war should be shot.”
There was no need for urging as the two leaned their muskets against the wall and sat down on a narrow bench before the kitchen table. Muttering to herself, the woman opened a cabinet, took down two wooden bowls, and stirred the soup simmering over the fire with a wooden ladle. She measured out just one ladleful for Harris and set it before him. She poured one ladleful for Peter, and looked back at Harris.
Muttering under her breath, cursing soldiers, generals, armies, and boys playing at war, she added half a ladle more to Peter’s bowl and set it before him.
He looked up at her, still wide-eyed. He wore the expression of one overcome with awe and gratitude who might shame himself with tears, but he just sat there silent, staring at her.
“Grace,” she announced, but did not bow her head. Instead, she looked up as if about to deliver a lecture to the Almighty.
“God…end this war, send a plague on those who started it, and return these boys home to their mothers. Amen.”
She didn’t offer spoons, and
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