Will was cutting the grass around the house. He swung the scythe in wide arcs, trying to maintain the easy, rhythmic movement he remembered from watching Fred. Meg sat on the porch with her favorite of the half-grown chickens in her lap. “Someone’s coming, Will,” she said.
Will straightened up, flexing his fingers to rest them from their tight grip on the tool’s handle. Turning, he saw a tall, dark-haired man limping up the lane.
“Hey!” the man called, waving.
Will leaned his scythe against the fence and went to meet the stranger.
“I—I need a place to spend the night,” the man said. “A young fellow back at the store directed me here, but he didn’t say it was so far.”
Under his tan, the man’s skin had a grayish tint, and his eyes were sunken in his thin face, as if he’d been ill. Will wondered why the Rileys or the Browns hadn’t put him up instead of sending him several miles farther on. Then the truth hit him. “You’re a Yankee, aren’t you?” His mouth felt dry as he spit out the words, realizing with surprise that it had been weeks since he’d thought of the hated Yankees.
The man’s jaw tightened and he nodded. “Union cavalry. I was wounded just before the war ended, and now I’m finally on my way home. It’s going to storm,” he said, gesturing toward the lowering clouds in the western sky, “so if I could just sleep in your barn tonight. . . . ” His voice faded and he swayed a little.
Meg spoke up. “Help him over to the shade while I get some water.”
The man swayed again, and Will automatically grasped his arm to steady him. He led him to the stump under the oak tree where he sat to split kindling.
Just as Meg came running back from the spring with the water, Aunt Ella hurried over from the house. Will watched the man struggle to his feet, surprised that a Yankee would have good manners.
“Sit down, sit down!” commanded Aunt Ella.
The man sank back onto the stump. His hand shook as he reached for Meg’s dipper.
“Will,” Aunt Ella said quickly, “go find your uncle. And you, Meg, bring me the butter from the springhouse.”
Aunt Ella disappeared into the kitchen, and his cousin hurried to get the butter. Will scowled. Imagine wasting their carefully hoarded round on a Yankee! Hands in his pockets and chin thrust out, he started toward the buckwheat field. His stomach lurched at the thought of the three biscuits that had been left over from dinner, thickly smeared with golden butter, disappearing into the Yankee’s mouth.
Uncle Jed came to the edge of the field to meet him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s a Yankee that wants to stay the night, and—and Aunt Ella’s feeding him!”
“Even Yankees got to eat,” Uncle Jed said mildly.
“You—you’re not going to let him stay, are you?”
Uncle Jed ignored his question. “Seems strange a Yankee going home would end up this far from the main road.”
“They said at the store he should ask to stay here. Don’t you see, they figured you’re the only one around who’d be willing to take in a Yankee. And if you do it, you’ll lose all the respect you gained by fixing the millworks!”
Uncle Jed looked down at him quizzically. After a few moments he said, “I do what I think is right without worrying as to whether it will cause me gain or loss. A man doesn’t want to have to stop and try to figure out what everybody else might think or do each time he has to make a decision.”
“You’re going to let him stay,” Will said flatly.
“Probably will. I guess some Yankee families took in my boys on their way to Ohio.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Will argued.
“How do you figure that?”
“Sam and Enos weren’t their enemies. They’d never fought against them or stolen their stock or burned—”
“Lad,” said Uncle Jed, laying a hand on Will’s shoulder, “The war’s over. I know how you feel, but—”
Will jerked away from his uncle’s touch. “No, you don’t know how I feel! You didn’t lose everything you cared about because of the war!”
“I didn’t lose everything, the way you did,” his uncle said. “I still have Ella and Meg. And the house and land. But that war cost me a daughter and two sons. And—”
“But Sam and Enos—”
“Don’t interrupt me!” Uncle Jed said sharply. “Stop brooding on your own losses long enough to think about somebody else for a change! Sam and Enos are alive and healthy, and I’m thankful for that, but they’re lost to Ella and me. They’ll settle in Ohio. They’ll marry and raise families there instead of in Virginia.”
He paused and looked at Will. “How do you think I felt when my boys left home at sixteen because those two armies hadn’t left us with enough food to go around?” he asked. “How do you think I felt when I realized I’d never be able to buy seed and livestock to get this place back on its feet if those boys didn’t find work and send home their earnings? And how do you think I’ve felt when folks I’ve known all my life treat me like a stranger—or maybe an outlaw—because I acted on my beliefs instead of on theirs?”
Will’s face burned with shame. “I guess I never thought about any of those things.”
“No, you’ve been so busy feeding your own feelings of hate and anger that you haven’t been able to think about much else.”
“I—I’m sorry, sir,” Will mumbled.
His uncle’s jaw tightened. “I’ve told you not to call me ‘sir,’ ” he said harshly.
“I forgot,” Will said, unable to meet his uncle’s eyes.
“Well, see that you don’t forget again.” Uncle Jed turned on his heel and started toward the house.
Will followed several paces behind him. He was shaken by his uncle’s anger and by the realization of how self-centered he’d been. He’d never given a thought to how Uncle Jed might feel! He wished he hadn’t slipped and said “sir”—there was no need to be so obvious about not wanting to call his uncle by name.
When they reached the corner of the springhouse, Uncle Jed lengthened his stride and walked toward the stranger. The young man struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “James Woodley, from Pennsylvania,” he said.
Uncle Jed shook hands with him. “Jed Jones,” he said. “I understand you need a place to stay the night. From the looks of you, better plan on resting here a week or so before you go on.”
Without waiting to hear more, Will turned and went back to the yard. He welcomed the thought of physical exertion, and as he watched the grass fall before the scythe he tried not to think about his confrontation with Uncle Jed. But it was hard to put his uncle’s words out of his mind.
When he went inside for supper, the sight of the table set for five made Will’s stomach knot up as if he had been punched. “I’m going upstairs, Aunt Ella,” he said stiffly. “All of a sudden I’m not hungry anymore.”
It was hot in his attic room. Hot and stuffy. Quietly he opened the door he’d slammed as he came in, hoping to create some cross ventilation, though the air outside was oppressively still. From downstairs he heard the stranger’s voice. “Isn’t your son eating with us?”
“Will’s my nephew from Winchester. He lost his family, so he came to us.”
“Winchester! No wonder he was so unhappy to see me! People there suffered terribly during the Union occupation.”
Will hesitated at the door, half tempted to stand there and listen, but he heard Aunt Ella say, “Take this on up to him, Meg. He’s bound to be hungry after scything the yard.” Tiptoeing to the bed, Will lay down with his arm across his face. He heard his cousin’s bare feet on the steep stairs and her timid knock at his open door. Sitting up, he turned toward her and blinked, hoping she’d think she’d awakened him.
“Ma sent you up a plate,” she whispered. “I’ll just leave it on your table so you can eat it when you’re ready.”
Will felt a wave of affection for his cousin. “Thanks, Meg,” he said. “I guess I’m hungrier than I thought I was.”
She looked at him levelly. “When you come to breakfast in the morning, I think you’ll find that Jim’s a good person even if he is a Yankee.”
“So it’s ‘Jim’ now.”
Meg nodded. “He said that’s what his family calls him. Since he’ll be here awhile, Ma asked him.”
“So now we have to stretch what little food there is to feed five, do we?”
“We have plenty of food now with the garden and the summer apples. And, anyway, you didn’t seem to worry about stretching the food when you came here, Will Page!”
Will’s face flushed as he remembered the few wizened potatoes that had been in the root cellar the day he’d arrived and how willing the family had been to share what little they had.
“Don’t worry, Will. I know you didn’t mean to sound so selfish. I know you’d gladly go hungry for a week if Jim had fought for the South and that it’s having a Yankee under the same roof that’s upset you.”
Under the same roof! “Where—Where’s this ‘Jim’ going to sleep?” he whispered.
“He said he’d sleep in the barn. He understands how you feel.”
Will waited until the sound of Meg’s footsteps on the stairs had faded away before he got up and ate his solitary meal. He wasn’t so sure that he liked being understood.
That night, Will awoke during a violent storm. He climbed out of bed and hurried to close the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the yard, and for a moment the outbuildings were silhouetted against its brightness. Will thought about the Yankee soldier sleeping—or perhaps lying wakefully—in the barn.
Back in bed, he found sleep impossible. It seemed like hours before the storm faded into the distance, and then all at once it was morning and the light was streaming in his window. As soon as he opened his eyes, Will remembered the Yankee. He slipped out of bed and pulled on his clothes. How would he get through the day? Through the week? Meg had made it clear that he would be expected to eat with the Yankee—with “Jim.” Picking up his supper plate and fork, he hurried down the narrow stairs and across the wet grass to the kitchen.
“Thanks for sending my supper up last night, Aunt Ella,” he said, setting the dishes on the narrow table.
His aunt wiped the flour off her hands and said, “From now on, though, you’ll sit at the table with the rest of us.”
Will nodded, staring at the floor.
“You know, Will,” Aunt Ella continued, “which side a man fought on in the war was nothing more than an accident of geography. If your father had been born in Pennsylvania or Michigan instead of in Virginia, he’d have fought just as bravely for the Union as he did for the Confederacy.”
Will stared at his aunt, appalled at the thought.
She laid a hand on his arm. “There were good men fighting on both sides, Will. And some good men didn’t fight at all. One of these days, I hope you’ll understand that.”
“None of the Yankee soldiers I ever heard about were good men,” Will said, “and I saw a lot of them when they held Winchester. They were rude and cruel, and they—”
“Rude, cruel men made rude, cruel soldiers—and honorable men made honorable soldiers—no matter which army they were in,” Aunt Ella said firmly. “Now, take that bucket and bring me some water.”
Will started toward the spring. How dare Aunt Ella imagine his father as a Yankee soldier!
His morning chores finished, Will was washing up at the dishpan on the porch railing when Meg carried over a platter. “It’s the last of the eggs Mrs. Brown sent. Ma scrambled them,” she said.
Four eggs, split five ways, Will thought glumly as he went inside. The table was set with an extra plate, as he’d known it would be, but the Yankee soldier was nowhere to be seen.
“Shall I go over to the barn and get Jim?” asked Meg.
Her father shook his head. “Let Will go for him.”
Sullenly, Will crossed the yard and squished through the mud to the barn. He paused at the door, wondering if he should knock, then pushed it open and stepped inside.
“Good morning,” a voice said. There on a blanket-covered pile of straw sat Jim. He was reading a book in the dim light from the high window.
Will cleared his throat. “It’s breakfast time,” he said.
“I’ll have a bite to eat in the kitchen while your aunt’s cleaning up,” Jim said, a finger marking his place in the book.
“They want you to eat now.”
For a moment the young man hesitated. Then he noted his page number, closed the book, and struggled to his feet. Wincing as he stood, he said apologetically, “It’s always worse in the morning.”
Will turned and started back to the house with the Yankee limping behind him. He was relieved to find Meg sitting beside his place. At least he wouldn’t have to sit next to the Yankee.
As he listened to the cheerful chorus of good mornings, Will wondered how his aunt’s family could like a Yankee, after they’d lost so much to Yankee foragers. Confederate scouts had taken a lot, too, he remembered, but that was different. Will took a mouthful of the scrambled eggs. He shaved off a sliver of butter and spread it on a biscuit, noticing that Jim had slathered on so much butter that it was dripping off his biscuit in a thin, golden stream.
Jim sighed contentedly. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve tasted eggs or had fresh butter on hot biscuits, ma’am.”
Not much longer than it had been for the rest of them, Will thought. But he didn’t dare say it.
Aunt Ella beamed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a young man to appreciate my cooking.”
Will looked at her in disbelief. What about him? Didn’t he count?
“You must really miss your sons,” Jim said sympathetically.
Aunt Ella nodded. “This house was a sad place after those boys set off. I don’t think any of us really cheered up until Will arrived. Here, Will,” she went on, “go ahead and finish up this last biscuit.”
He took it, a little surprised that sitting at the table with a Yankee hadn’t ruined his appetite.
That morning, Will helped his uncle clear the thistles from the pasture, a job he hated. The pinkish-lavender blooms were pretty, but the roots of the fast-spreading weeds went straight down, and digging them out was arduous work. After what seemed like hours, Will went to the spring to cool off. He glanced toward the house and saw Aunt Ella and Meg sitting on the porch with their mending while the Yankee lounged on the steps. The sound of their laughter followed him as he walked slowly back to the pasture.
When they all sat down to dinner at noon, Meg showed Will the tiny basket Jim had given her. “He carved it from a peach seed,” she said, running her finger along its delicate handle. “And you should see the lovely things he carved from bone!”
Jim looked embarrassed. “Carving helped pass the time during the months I spent in the hospital,” he said.
“Go on, show him!” Meg urged.
“I doubt that Will is interested, Meg,” Jim said.
Torn between his desire to snub the Yankee and his reluctance to have Meg think him rude, Will mumbled, “Let’s see what you made.”
Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth bag. Loosening the drawstring tie, he poured onto the table a dozen or so tiny carved blossoms.
Meg picked one up and turned it over so Will could see the tiny loop on the back. “They’re buttons! See?”
Will was impressed in spite of himself.
“Show him the brooch, Jim,” said Aunt Ella.
They all leaned forward as Jim set on the table a small oval with a raised design of a leaping doe.
“That’s a fine piece of craft if I ever saw one!” Uncle Jed exclaimed.
“It’s for his sweetheart,” Meg said.
Blushing, Jim replaced it in the bag and began to gather up the buttons.
Uncle Jed turned to Will. “I’m not working on that fence this afternoon, so I won’t be needing you,” he said.
Will quickly pushed his chair back from the table. “Then I’ll go fish at the river.” As he started out the door he turned and said, “That rabbit pie was real good, Aunt Ella.”
“Why, thank you, Will,” his aunt replied, and the surprised pleasure in her voice made him realize how seldom he showed any appreciation for all she did for him. No wonder she was glad to have that polite Yankee visitor, he thought wretchedly.
Will took the fishing pole he now thought of as his own and set off. At the dead poplar tree, he turned into the woods and followed the blaze marks, thinking of his first trip to the river. It was one thing to be beaten in a fair fight, but for Hank Riley to trip him and then to push him back with his foot when he’d tried to get up—well, that was something else!
When he reached the fishing spot, Will realized that in his hurry to leave, he’d forgotten to bring bait. Glumly, he sprawled on the grassy bank, propped his elbows on the ground, and rested his chin in his hands. Less than one day of the Yankee soldier’s “visit” had passed. How was he going to live through six more?
Maybe he should go back to Winchester right now, he thought as he watched the little eddies created by a partially submerged log. But even if he wrote to Doc Martin today, there was no way Doc could get the letter and come here before the Yankee’s week was over. Will sighed. He’d just have to put up with him. When he did go back, though, there would be so much to tell Matt! He tried to imagine what his friend would say when he heard that Uncle Jed took in a Yankee soldier.
With a jolt, Will realized that Uncle Jed wasn’t doing anything the people of Winchester hadn’t done throughout the war. He remembered how his mother and the other women had fed the wounded soldiers who straggled through town for days after the battle at Sharpsburg, not caring in the least whether they were Confederate or Yankee. They were just young men in need of help.
Jim Woodley had certainly been in need of help when he arrived yesterday, Will thought, ashamed now that he’d wanted Uncle Jed to turn him away. Taking him in was the decent thing to do, he realized, and Uncle Jed was just about the most decent person he’d ever known—in spite of his refusal to fight for the South. Will figured that he had to accept the Yankee’s presence, but that didn’t mean he had to be friendly, the way the others were. He’d avoid the man whenever he could.
Will stared into the water. He wished Matt were there. “Maybe I could write to him,” he said aloud, thinking of the blank sheets of paper at the back of his copybook. But what would he say? Matt wouldn’t be interested in hearing about Meg and Aunt Ella, and Will couldn’t tell him much about his uncle without sounding disloyal. It would be hard to explain about the trap line or how he was helping to repair the fence, and he certainly didn’t want to write about Hank. All that was left to say was that he missed Matt a lot and wished they could go fishing and swimming together the way they used to. That wouldn’t be much of a letter.
Anyway, he thought, picking up his fishing rod and starting for home, if he was going to write to anyone, it should be Doc Martin. Why did he keep putting that off?