Hear the Wind Blow Read Online Free Page B

Marshall glanced at me and went on eating the soup.
    "But is it like Homer tells it? Full of blood and noise and heads rolling on the ground?"
    "Yes, I guess it is."
    "And glory? And heroes?"
    James Marshall put his soup spoon down and stared at me. "Haswell, I didn't see much glory. Plenty of blood, plenty of noise, plenty of heads rolling on the ground. But not much glory."
    "But heroes? There were heroes?"
    "Yes, I did see heroes." He stirred his soup slowly, lifting the spoon and watching the liquid slop back into the bowl. "But most of them died."
    I sighed. "Like Achilles."
    "Yes," James Marshall agreed. "Short lives full of bravery."

    "But you still haven't told me how you got wounded," I reminded him.
    "We raided a Yankee camp and stole some horses. Just as we were leaving, three Yankees came riding up. We pretended to be Yankees ourselves and called out friendly greetings. We would have fooled them entirely if that poor fool Peter Jenks hadn't lost his nerve and fired off a shot. Next thing, they were shooting and we were shooting. They killed Peter and wounded William Pickens and me. I don't know what happened to William. I rode one way, and he must have gone another."
    "I wish I could go with you when you leave here," I blurted out. "I'm thirteen—that's old enough to ride with you."
    "Take my word for it, Haswell, a boy your age is better off at home." James Marshall finished the last of his soup and handed me the empty bowl. "Your mama needs you more than Mosby does."
    It wasn't the answer I'd hoped to hear, but James Marshall was through talking. He lay back and closed his eyes.
    I sat and watched him sleep. Sometimes he looked agitated, as if he were dreaming something bad. He ground his teeth, which made an awful noise. Once in a while he'd moan or groan. Then he'd thrash around, as if he were trying to escape from something. I wondered if he was getting any rest at all.
    ***
    When I went to bed that night, I lit my candle and studied James Marshall's envelope. It was addressed to Mr. Cecil Montgomery Marshall, River View, Harrisonburg, Virginia. I wanted to open it and read the letter, but I knew that would be wrong. I put it back into my pants pocket and prayed the Lord would spare James Marshall's life so I would not have to send the letter to his father.

3
    A WEEK PASSED . By the end of it, James Marshall was up on his feet and tottering around the house, growing stronger every day. Mama fussed over him as if he were her son. She wanted him to stay till spring, and in truth he seemed in no hurry to depart. For one thing, the weather was still bad. Snow and sleet and ice storms made the roads almost impassable. No news came our way, no letters, no visits. Mosby could have been lying low in the Blue Ridge or stealing supplies from Yankee trains toward the East. It didn't make sense for James Marshall to ride off in search of the Rangers. They didn't call John Singleton Mosby the Gray Ghost for nothing.

    During those dreary winter days and nights, James Marshall did his best to amuse. He teased Mama and made her laugh, something she hadn't done since Avery departed to win glory in battle. He pulled Rachel's braids and got away with it. That amazed me, for Rachel was not one to tolerate pranks. I suppose he won her heart by reading to her whenever she asked. He obliged me by telling amazing stories of Mosby's exploits. Soon we all looked upon him as a member of our family, a long-lost cousin who'd come to stay with us.
    One stormy night, we were huddled around the stove listening to James Marshall tell of the time Mosby kidnapped a Yankee general out of his bed with Federals all over the place. They took a bunch of soldiers prisoner, stole fifty-eight horses as well, and got away without losing a single Ranger. He told the story so well Mama laughed, which gladdened my heart.

    "How about a song, Mrs. Magruder?" James Marshall asked.
    Mama smiled and blushed. "Oh, I haven't played or sung for such a long