candle neither, so I said, “Right here, Holt.”
He did a stretched-lip look of disgust. I guess I was a disappointment.
“I knew we were here,” he said. “And this ain’t nowhere for me.”
Later on Holt snored and I didn’t. I took a candle and slid over the floor to my satchel. I had an errand to do and I needed my writing implements to bring it off.
For an address I put down “The Bull Family of Frankfort, Kentucky.”
Dear Mother and Missus Chiles, I wrote. I hope this letter finds you. I am only guessing as to where you are. Missus Chiles, will you please read this to Mother?
There is sad news. Jack Bull is dead, slain by the invaders, as was his father before him. The thing to say is he died for his nation I guess. Actually a doctor might have staved off infection, but there was none and this laid him low. He made as dignified a passing as was possible and there is no reason to be anything but proud of him. I loved him as a brother and you know it.
Mother, Father’s death torments me so. I know I gave him little but argument. His fascination with General Sigel and all things Federal never took hold in me. I gave him grief for that. I still believe he is wrong; we don’t have to tolerate invaders just because they have uniforms and high-sounding titles. That is an Old World trait and I won’t have it. But I never wanted Father hurt over me. We all walked in the dark. I feel I killed him in too many ways. I won’t babble off the whole long list of my regrets.
I hope to someday see you both again. It would be best in a peaceful spot, but it would be good anywhere. I don’t think it will happen soon.
There is one more thing, and I say it only in confidence, and solely to give hope. Jack Bull fathered a girl child last winter and she is a close image of him. I will try to care for the babe as much as fortune allows, for Jack Bull would wish it of me.
I have too much more to say to say anything.
I am wounded somewhat and where I am headed is unknown. It probably won’t be where you are. With all my regards, Jacob.
19
WHEN THE SUN slipped up I was waiting on it. Orton came from his bedroom, rubbing the yellow crud from the corners of his eyes. He carried his boots and sat next to me to put them on.
“How you feeling, Dutchy?”
“Not so bad.”
“You look like you feel good. Do you feel good?”
“I don’t feel too bad.”
“Ah,” he went, then pulled on his boots. “You seem about healed up to me.”
“It still hurts some, my leg does.”
“But it’s about healed, ain’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Why are you so curious, Ort?”
He cocked his head and shrugged.
“Just enjoy it to see a man get well, Dutchy. That’s all.”
I watched him go to the kitchen, and he came back quick, gnawing on a piece of corn bread.
“I got to go to Hartwell today,” he said. “I should be back by night.”
“You want me to come along?” I asked.
“Naw. You go on and finish healing. I’ll take the nigger with me, though. He’s a handy gunman, I hear tell.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Post this letter for me, would you?”
He nodded and took the note when I handed it to him. He put it inside his shirt.
I shoved Holt awake. His eyes were all bloody and he didn’t seem too well rested.
“Mr. Brown wants you to ride with him to Hartwell, Holt.”
“What? All right,” he said. In about a minute he was ready to go.
Orton grabbed his shotgun and he and Holt went to saddle up. I wobbled out to watch them leave. It was a cold morning, and there had been a smearing of snow in the night. My lungs welcomed the clean, chilled air.
The men rode from the barn past the porch where I stood. “You get on in and rest, now,” Orton said. “I want you rested, Dutchy.”
“I guess I’ll do that,” I said, but I stayed right there and watched them amble off over the thin snow and hard earth, out of sight.
During the day I did my normal thing. That is, I cornered gurgly Grace on a blanket on the floor and just reveled in that child. My confusion amongst babes had lessened tremendously when I’d