Pat paid no attention to this adolescent outburst. It was later than she had thought; she quickened her steps, letting the young people fall behind. Surely Josef wouldn't be foolish enough to take up his position earlier than they had agreed, before there was someone to stand guard…
He was in the parlor, in the big chair that had been Jerry's favorite, a squashy, almost shapeless object of in-determinate color, which Jerry had laughingly defended from all Pat's redecorating plans. The table beside the chair held a stack of books, and Josef was so absorbed in his reading that he didn't look up immediately. His dark head, bent over the book, was utterly unlike Jerry's sandy mop, but the familiarity of the tableau stabbed Pat with a new pang of pain.
Josef looked up and saw her. He rose, politely.
"Did you have a nice time?"
His tone was not without sarcasm. Pat took the chair on the opposite side of the table-her chair…
"I've acquired a headache from drinking beer, which I detest. But I think it was a sacrifice in a good cause. The young man is more capable than he appears. He has offered to lend us some of the Bates papers."
Josef's eyes strayed from her face toward the front door.
"Where are the kids?" he asked.
"In the kitchen," Pat snapped. "That's where they always go first-contrary to what you may be thinking."
"It was a perfectly harmless question. I didn't mean to imply anything."
The parlor was dark and shadowy except for the circle of light cast by Josef's reading lamp. It shone full on his face, the harsh, unflattering illumination bringing out every line and wrinkle. It occurred to Pat that he might not be looking forward to another encounter with the unknown force that had already attacked him once before.
"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I found out something to-night that bothers me-though I'm not sure why it should. Mr. Bates was an abolitionist. His son served with distinction in the Union army."
Josef's eyebrows lifted alertly.
"I know why it disturbs you. You're wondering where your son has been getting such accurate information. And so am I. At the risk of adding to your perturbation I must tell you I've found another fact that substantiates Mark's wild theory. Mr. Turnbull was a Confederate officer, as was his son, Peter." He held out the book he had been reading. Pat recognized it as one of Jerry's- a history of Maryland military units during the Civil War.
The tramp of feet heralded the appearance of Mark, carrying a tray.
"I thought we might have a little snack," he announced.
Josef eyed the heaped-up tray with consternation. "Does he eat like that all the time?" he asked Pat.
"My food bills are unbelievable," Pat admitted. "But his friends are just as bad. I suppose the girls are always on diets, aren't they?"
Mark, absorbing a piece of chocolate cake, saw the book Josef was holding.
"Oh, you found it. I left some of my books for you, in case you finished your work before we got home."
His voice was bland, his face innocent; but the older man caught the implication.
"You mean you knew I would want to check your facts," he said. "You were correct. Is this where you got the information you gave us this morning?"
"Some of it," Mark said cautiously. "That book was my source for Turnbull's Southern sympathies." He took another bite, and added thickly, "You can tell Mom and Kathy about it if you want. I'll bet they never even heard of Captain 'Lige White."
"I haven't," Pat said. Mark was manipulating his rival very nicely. She wondered if Josef was aware of being manipulated. From his severe expression she suspected that he was, but he responded as he was meant to.
"White was one of Maryland 's most famous Confederate officers. Born not far from here, as a matter of fact. He formed his own cavalry troop, mostly of Poolesville men. They called themselves White's Rangers. They became part of the Thirty-fifth Virginia Battalion and fought all the way through the war until Appomattox."
"They didn't surrender, even then," Mark said. "They broke through the Union lines and-"
"Turned themselves in later on," Josef said, eyeing Mark without favor. "Don't romanticize a group of killers. These men even raided their home county. In December of 1862 a group of them stole horses and supplies from their former neighbors. Among those present was Captain Albert Turnbull."
"Our Turnbull?" Pat asked.
"Yes. The author of this book seems to share Mark's weakness for stupid violence; he mentions, admiringly, that Turnbull was almost sixty at the time, but 'as straight in the saddle as his own young son, who served as his aide.' "
He dropped the book contemptuously on the table. Seeing battle in the eyes of her own son, Pat said hastily, "But young Turnbull-Peter-must have been barely sixteen. How could he-"
"In 1862 he was eighteen," Mark said. "Some of them were a lot younger than that."
He reached a long arm out and selected another book from the pile on the table, flipped through the pages, and handed the volume, open, to his mother.
It was a large, handsomely illustrated picture history of the Civil War. So remote and so romantic does that era seem that many forget that photography was well advanced. The faded photos reproduced well-too well. The crumpled bodies of the dead struck Pat no more painfully than the faces of the living, most of whom would also die violently in battle. Some were boys younger than her own son, standing as tall as they could in their too-large uniforms, their rounded faces set in expressions meant to be grim.
"Such a waste," she murmured.
"War always wastes the young first, " Josef said. "And back then boys grew up to adult responsibilities earlier than they do today."
Pat looked at him suspiciously, wondering if this was meant as a slur on Mark, but Josef's face was serious, without visible malice, as he went on, "The same thing happened in this century, in World War Two; toward the end our men were fighting boys of fourteen and fifteen- the Hitler Youth. And, my dear, lest you take it too hard, I might add that the young ones are sometimes the most vicious and intolerant of all soldiers."
Leafing through the pages, Pat came upon photographs of survivors of the prison camps, Northern and Southern. They reminded her of World War Two atrocity pictures. She closed the book.
"Horrible. Why do men-"
"This is no time for a debate on ethics," Mark said impatiently. "Don't you see what it means? The two families were divided-violently divided. Can you imagine what it must have been like, living right next door to each other-two sisters, once devoted-and their sons fighting on opposite sides? Don't tell me that wasn't a tragedy."
He and Josef continued to talk. Pat paid no attention. The faces of the long-dead children in uniform-they were no more than children, some of them-had given the case a human immediacy it had never had before. The idea of the two women waiting for news from the battlefield, news of beloved young sons, wrenched her heart. They could not even console one another; loyalty to their husbands and the causes they espoused would alienate them. The gun aimed at one boy might be held by the other's hands…
"Did they survive?" she asked.
"Who?" Interrupted in midsentence, Mark blinked at her.
"The boys. Peter Turnbull and the Bates boy."
"Edward," Mark said. "You mean did they survive the war? Edward did. According to the genealogy he died in nineteen-something." He reached for another book, a thin, limp volume bound pretentiously in brown calf. Pat caught a glimpse of the title. "Morton Genealogy," she said, in surprise. "I thought-"
"Morton was the name of the man Susan Bates married," Mark explained. "This was written, and privately printed, by her son. He was more interested in the Morton family, so there isn't much about the Bateses."
"I wonder," Pat began, and then stopped. No need to wonder where the book had come from; Jerry was always picking up used books in secondhand bookstores, or sending away for them. He had received a small box of books a few days before he died.