Sylvia nodded. George didn't mention what happened when sailors came into a port after months at a time at sea. Maybe he was trying not to think about it. Maybe he was hoping she wouldn't think about it. If so, it was a forlorn hope. Boston was a Navy town. More than one sailor had accosted Sylvia on the street. She did not imagine her husband was a great deal different from the common lot of men. Had she so imagined, he would have taught her better.
He clutched her to him. "I don't want anybody but you," he said.
Now you don't, she thought. He gave proof with more than words that he did want her. With a small sigh, she let him take her. He was her husband, he had come home alive out of danger, he hadn't (quite) (she didn't think) been unfaithful to her. So she told herself. But, where only the speed of his explosion the first time had kept her from joining him in joy, where she had done just that the second time, and been as eager, even as wanton, then as ever in her life, now, though she tried, though she strained, though she concentrated, pleasure eluded her.
George didn't notice. Somehow that hurt almost worse than anything he'd told her. In a while, she supposed, he'd want a fourth round, too. "Have we got any more whiskey?" she asked.
Arthur McGregor tramped through the snow toward the barn. The harvest was in, and just in time; freezing weather had come early this year. But the livestock still needed tending. He shook his head. Alexander should have been out here helping him. But Alexander still languished in the Rosenfeld gaol. If he ever got out-
Sometimes, now, hours at a time would go by when McGregor didn't think of his son's being freed. Every fiber of him still hoped it would happen. (How could it not happen? he thought. The only thing the boy did was hang about with a few of the wrong people and let his tongue flap loose. Not one in a hundred would be left free if you locked up everybody who did that.) He didn't count on it or expect it as he had right after Alexander's arrest, though. Scar tissue was growing over the hole the extraction of his son from the family had left.
He fed the horses, the cows, the pigs, the chickens. He forked dung out of the stalls. He gathered eggs, storing them inside his hat. The hens pecked at his hands, the way they always did when he robbed their nests. The rooster couldn't have cared less. All he had eyes for was his harem, as splendid to him as the Ottoman sultan's bevy of veiled beauties.
McGregor's breath smoked as if he'd just lighted a cigarette when he left the barn. The first inhalation of cold outside air burned in his lungs like cigarette smoke, too. After a couple of breaths, though, he felt all right. Once winter really came down, he'd feel as if he were breathing razors whenever he stuck his head out of any door.
Off to the north, artillery coughed and grumbled. It was farther away than it had been halfway through the summer, when Canadian troops and those from the mother country had pushed the Yankees south from Winnipeg. "But not south to Rosenfeld," McGregor said sadly. Winnipeg still held, though. So long as Winnipeg held, and Toronto, and Montreal, and Quebec City, Canada lived. The Americans had claimed Toronto's fall a good many times. Lies, all lies. "What they're good for," McGregor told the air, and started back toward the farmhouse with the eggs.
As usual, the north-south road that ran by the farm was full of soldiers and guns and horses and trucks on the move, most of the traffic heading north toward the front. What went south was what didn't work any more: ambulances full of broken men, trucks and horses glumly pulling broken machines. The more of those McGregor saw, the better he reckoned his country's chances.
And here came an automobile, jouncing along the path toward the farmhouse. The motorcar was painted green-gray. Even had it not been, he would have known it for an American vehicle. Who but the Americans had gasoline these days?
As if it had not been there, McGregor brought the eggs in to Maude. "Trouble coming," he said. His wife didn't need to ask him what he meant. Automobiles were noisy things, and you could hear their rattle and bang and pop a long way across the quiet prairie.
"Americans," Mary said fiercely, sticking her head into the kitchen. "Let's shoot them."
"You can't say that, little one, not where they can hear you," McGregor told his younger daughter. "You can't even think it, not where they can hear you." Mary's nod was full of avid comprehension. She had an instinctive gift for conspiracy the war had brought out young in her, as a hothouse could force a rose into early bloom.
The automobile sputtered to a stop. A door slammed, then another. Booted feet-several pairs of booted feet-came stomping toward the door. "Shall we open it?" Maude whispered.
McGregor shook his head. As quietly, he answered, "No. We'll make 'em knock. They have to know we're here-where else would we be? It'll annoy them." By such tiny campaigns was his war against the invaders fought. Mary's eyes glowed. She understood without being told the uses of harassment-but then, she had an older brother and sister.
"Damn Canucks," said one of the American soldiers outside. McGregor nodded, once. Mary giggled soundlessly.
"Quiet." That was a voice McGregor recognized: Captain Hannebrink. All the farmer's pleasure at annoying the occupiers changed to mingled alarm and hope. What was the man who had arrested Alexander doing here? He hadn't come out to the farm since the day of the arrest.
Maude knew his voice, too. "What does he-?" Her voice cut off in the middle of the question. Hannebrink was knocking at the door.
It was an utterly ordinary knock, not the savage pounding it should have been with a car full of American ruffians out there. Stories said they used rifle butts. Not here, not today.
McGregor went to the door and opened it. The captain nodded, politely enough. Behind him, the three private soldiers came to alertness. They had rifles, even if they hadn't used them as door knockers. Hannebrink didn't say anything, not right away. "What is it?" McGregor asked as silence stretched.
From behind him, Mary asked, "Are you going to let my brother go?"
"Hush," Maude said, and pushed Mary back to Julia, hissing, "Take care of her and keep her quiet"-not an easy order to follow.
Captain Hannebrink coughed. "Mr. McGregor, I have to tell you that over the past few days we obtained information confirming for us that your son, Alexander McGregor, was in fact an active participant in efforts to harm United States Army occupying forces in this military district, and that he should therefore be judged as a franc-tireur."
"Information?" McGregor said, not taking in all of the long, cold, dry sentence at once. "What kind of information?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, sir," Hannebrink said stiffly. He scratched at the edge of his Kaiser Bill mustache, careful not to disturb its waxed perfection.
"Means somebody's been filling your head up with lies, and you don't have to own up to that or say who it is," McGregor said.
The American shrugged. "As you know, sir, the penalty for civilians resisting in arms the occupying forces is death by firing squad."
Behind McGregor, Julia gasped. He heard Maude stop breathing. Through numb lips, he said, "And you're going to-shoot him? You can't do that, Captain. There has to be some kind of appeal, of-"
Hannebrink held up a hand. "Mr. McGregor, I regret to have to inform you that the sentence was carried out, in accordance with U.S. Army regulations, at 0600 hours this morning. Your son's body will be released to you for whatever burial arrangements you may care to make."
Mary didn't understand. "Father-?" Julia said in a halting voice; she wasn't sure she understood, and desperately hoped she didn't. Maude set her hand on McGregor's arm. She knew. So did he.