Facing that quandary and the growing feeling that they were finished, she had been sleepless many a night lately. This promised to be another such night. "Oh God," she said very faintly, continuing to cry in silence.
Later, she opened her eyes and realized she must have slept after all. Freezing there beside him, she burrowed under the cover and called herself a ninny for her earlier behavior. "Oh, God." The tears. The despair.
She had always prided herself on strength, self-sufficiency. And merely because she had lowered her defenses and thereby gotten her emotions trampled, she needn't let it continue. She did love Charles, but if the price of it was perpetual misery, she refused to pay. The wrenchings of the war wouldn't stop — at least not soon enough — so it was up to her to force him to his senses.
He needed a shock. A dose of strong medicine. She would give it to him in the morning. Feeling secure again, she fell asleep.
He had others things on his mind in the morning. He strode into the kitchen soon after sunrise, tucking in his gray shirt and pulling up his galluses. She had scarcely offered her greeting before he announced, "I meant to say my piece about Richmond last night. Any day now —"
"There will be more fighting. You must think I'm an idiot, Charles, always needing instructions from the all-knowing male. I realize the Union forces are at Culpeper Court House and they'll march soon — this way, undoubtedly. But you aren't going to decide when I must look for shelter in the city." She struck her wooden spoon on the edge of the stove, where grits were simmering. "I will decide."
His face grew long above his white-spiked beard. He hooked a stool with his boot, pulled it from under the table, and lit a fresh cigar as he sat down. "What in hell's got into you?"
She threw the spoon on the stove and marched toward him. "A strong desire to settle some things. If you care for me, act like it. I'm tired of your clomping in here whenever you take a notion. Helping yourself to a meal and — whatever else you want, and grumbling and growling like a boor the whole time."
He drew the smoldering cigar from his mouth. "Having me around doesn't suit you, Mrs. Barclay?"
"Don't glare and sneer at me. You treat me like a combination cook, laundress, and whore."
He jumped up. "In the middle of a war, people don't have time for all the little niceties."
"In this house they do, Charles Main. Otherwise they don't set foot in it. Every time you're here, you act as if you'd rather be somewhere else. If that's true, say so and let's be done with it. Believe me —" no, don't, said a voice she ignored "— in the state you're in, you're no prize."
In the side yard, her rooster chased two cackling hens. Boz, chopping wood, sang "Kingdom Coming" with la-la's instead of words. Charles stared at Gus, his eyes wide above the dark half-circles that had been there since he came back from Pennsylvania last summer. Suddenly, she saw a startled innocence in his gaze.
Elated, she didn't dare smile. But she had gotten through. Now they could talk. Work it out. Save —
Fierce knocking. Washington on the kitchen stoop.
"Man on horseback jus' turned in. Comin' around back right now."
Hoofbeats and the jingle of metal sounded outside. Charles grabbed for his gun belt hanging on a chair, jerked out the six-shot Colt. He was crouching when the horseman's round face and flop hat passed the side windows.
Charles stood, hung the gun belt over his shoulder, and opened the kitchen door. "What are you doing here, Jim?"
"Hate to roust you out, Charlie, but this here letter come for you 'bout ten o'clock last night. Morning, Miz Barclay." Jim Pickles touched his hat with the crumpled missive, which he then handed to Charles.
"Good morning, Jim." Gus slowly wiped one hand on her apron, then the other. The chance was lost.
Jim pointed to the letter. "Says War Department on it. Personal an' confidential. Mighty fancy."
"Looks like it's been buried under six feet of dirt."
"Well, pretty near. Man who brung it said it was in a bunch of letters an' dispatches somebody come across in the woods near Atlee's Station. They found the courier shot dead — been there some time, I guess — an' his pouch open an' this an' a lot of other stuff strewn about. Mebbe Kilpatrick's sojers did it. Anyway, the letter's been a while in root, as the saying goes."
To Gus, Charles said, "Atlee's Station in the place General Hampton and three hundred of us bushwhacked Kilpatrick on the first of March. We yelled so loud, we made 'em think we were three thousand —"
He was breaking the seals, unfolding the sheet. His beard lifted in the morning breeze. "You're right, Jim; it was written in February. It's from my Cousin Orry, the colonel."
Stunned, he read on. Then he gave Gus the letter. Consisting of one long paragraph, it was inscribed in a fine hand, with all the proper loops and flourishes. As she finished reading, Charles said to Jim, "Billy Hazard is in Libby Prison. Half dead, according to that."
"You talkin' about some Yank?"
"My old friend from West Point. I've told you about him."
"Oh, yeh," said the younger scout, unimpressed. "What are you s'posed to do about it?"
"Go see Orry in Richmond right away. I'll get my gear."
Starting back into the kitchen, Charles had a thought. He turned and pointed at Jim. "And you forget what I just said, understand? You never heard a word."
The swift clump of his boots faded inside. Jim Pickles dismounted, stretched in the sunshine, scratched his armpit, as cardinals swooped in and out of the budding red oaks at the front of the property.
"So Charlie's goin' to Richmond, hah? I s'pect he can get away, all right. Things are still pretty quiet. Guess it's the old calm before the storm. General Hampton's back home in Columbia, tryin' to muster three new regiments so Butler an' some of the old hands will get a little relief. Say, Miz Barclay, may I show you something?"
Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from an empty kitchen. "Surely, Jim."
From the pocket of his butternut shirt he took a small, square case of cheap yellow metal. "Mighty proud of this. Came two days ago. My sisters got together an' paid for it." He opened the case on an oval ambrotype of an unsmiling middle-aged woman wearing a black dress. Her face looked like something made from granite, with very little of the granite block removed.
"That's my ma," he said proudly. "Fine likeness, too. She's raised us kids since Pa died. I was only four when he went out shootin' deer with a bunch of boys an' got his leg blowed off. He only lasted two weeks. Ma ain't been in the best of health the last year or so. Worries me. I love her better than any person in this world, an' I ain't ashamed to say it. I'd walk through fire if it'd please her."
"That's commendable, Jim," Gus said, returning the case.
Charles appeared with his hat, patched jacket, and the little cloth bag in which he kept his razor and cigars. He squeezed her arm gently, gave her cheek a peck.
"You mind what I told you about Richmond."
Unhappy because the chance to set things straight had slipped away, she burst out, "I'm not one of your recruits to be ordered about. I told you, I'll make my own decision."
The fiery sunrise filled his eyes. "All right. We'll settle this whole mess next time." It was less plea than warning. She folded her arms over her bosom.
"If I'm here."
"My God, you've got a vinegar tongue this morning."
"So have you. And I'm astonished by your tender concern for your Yankee friend. I thought you wanted to kill every last man on the other side."
"I'll only go to Richmond because it's Orry who's asking. That enough explanation for you? Come on, Jim, let's get my horse."