Shades of Gray (10 page)

“Come here, boy,” the miller called. “Come over here and watch!” He turned a lever and lowered the top millstone so that it would grind the grain against the bottom one. The whole building vibrated as the giant stone began to turn.

The miller's helper headed for the stairs, and Mr. Brown turned to Will. “I want you to go with him,” he said, gesturing toward the young man, “and bring me the first sack of flour.”

Will and the miller's helper watched the flour sift through the mesh bolting cloths after it came down the chute from the floor above. “Where'd Mr. Brown get the grain?” Will asked. He had to shout to make himself heard over the noise of the machinery.

“From Ohio,” was the answering shout.

Imagine having to ship grain to Virginia! Will thought. Before the war, the Shenandoah Valley had produced so much wheat its mills ran twenty-four hours a day. But then General Sheridan and his Yankee troops had ravaged the Valley, destroying the crops, burning the mills, and—

“You look angry,” shouted the miller's helper.

“I was thinking about how the Yankees burned the mills in the Valley,” Will shouted back.

The miller's helper shrugged. “That's the way it is in wartime. I was with our cavalry in Pennsylvania when we burned Chambersburg. Houses, shops, hotels—we sent them all afire. Burned most of the city.”

Will stared at him. He looked like a perfectly ordinary young man, but he'd just admitted to burning people's homes! At least Sheridan had ordered that the homes be spared when he sent his army to plunder the Valley, though the skeletal chimneys
scattered along the pike showed that the fires had sometimes gotten out of hand.

Will turned to watch the flour pouring from the chute and tried not to think about Confederate soldiers burning Chambersburg. When the sack was filled, the miller's helper sewed it shut with long stitches and knotted the string at the end. Will shouldered the sack and climbed the stairs.

When he reached the top, the miller called to him. “Bring that on over here!” he said. Then, taking it from Will, he held it out to Uncle Jed. “This first sack of flour goes to the man who made it all possible!” he said grandly.

Amid the cheers of the other men, Uncle Jed took the sack. “I'm much obliged for this,” he said. “And I know Ella's going to be right happy to have it.”

As Will started out the door with his uncle, he heard the miller say, “Don't the rest of you leave yet—there'll be a sack of flour for each of you, too.”

Outside, Mrs. Brown called to them. “Take these leftovers in case you get hungry on the way home,” she said, handing Will a napkin-covered basket. “There's butter and eggs for your aunt, too.” Then, brushing off his thanks, she hurried back to the house.

As they headed toward the road, Will saw a tall figure standing under the sycamore watching the water turn the creaking mill wheel. It was Tom. Uncle Jed raised his hand in a silent greeting, and after a moment's pause, Tom grudgingly returned the salute. Will thought he saw the hint of a smile under his uncle's bushy beard.

A few minutes later they stopped at the roadside spring, and while Uncle Jed drank a dipperful of the cold water, Will
lifted the napkin from the basket and peeked inside. Besides a dozen eggs and the round of butter wrapped in a damp cloth, there was enough fried chicken for supper, and a whole pie! He grinned, thinking how surprised and pleased Aunt Ella and Meg would be.

“Not bad wages for a day's work,” Uncle Jed commented as he shouldered the sack of flour and they started off again.

“ ‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,' ” Will said, wondering if his uncle would recognize the biblical quotation.

“Will, I want you to see if the miller's wife will trade you butter for that rabbit you got this morning,” Aunt Ella said. “I'd rather do without meat than butter, now that I've gotten used to having it again.”

“Well, with any luck, you won't have to do without meat for supper. I'm going squirrel hunting this afternoon,” announced Uncle Jed.

“I'll try to catch some bluegills after I see Mrs. Brown, in case you don't have any luck,” Will said, leaving the table.

As he walked down the dusty road, Will thought of how his uncle had fixed the millworks the week before. He hoped people would be so glad to have the mill grinding again that they'd forget Uncle Jed hadn't fought the Yankees.

When he knocked on the door at the miller's house, Mrs. Brown welcomed him warmly and said she'd be happy to trade butter for any rabbits he'd bring. “Now, don't forget to come back for the butter when you're through fishing,” she said as he finished the apple pie and milk she'd insisted that he have.

“I won't,” he assured her, adding shyly, “I think that's the best pie I ever ate.”

“Oh, go on, now,” she said, pleased.

Will heard the creak of the waterwheel as he approached the mill, and then he saw Amos lounging on the grass and Hank leaning against the sycamore across the pond.

“Hey!” he called, waving.

Hank waved back. He had something white in his hand. “You've got a letter,” he called.

Will hurried around the pond. But when he reached for the letter, Hank stuffed it in his pocket! Without a word, Will turned and picked up his bait jar. Holding it upside down, he shook out a grasshopper. He put the insect on the hook, managing to keep his hand steady, and cast his line out into the pond.

“Don't you want your letter?” asked Amos.

“Sure I want it,” Will said.

“Why don't you come and get it then?” asked Hank.

Without looking around, Will said, “I reckon you'll give it to me when you're ready to.” He clenched his teeth and kept his eyes on the cork floating on the still surface of the water. Now and then he brushed the gnats away from his face. Who would be writing him a letter? Could it be from Matt? His fingers tingled with the urge to rip the envelope from Hank's pocket.

“Who do you think the letter's from?” Amos asked.

Will shrugged.

“Well,” Amos said, “it can't be from Charlie Page. He's dead.”

Will threw his fishing pole to the ground and jumped to his
feet. In three steps he was facing Hank. “You asked me why I lied about Charlie? That's why! So nobody would—would taunt me about his death. So I could remember him alive instead of being reminded about the way he died.”

Hank looked embarrassed. “We thought it was because you were ashamed of him.”

Ashamed of Charlie? “Of course I wasn't ashamed of Charlie! He was the best brother anybody could have!” Shaking with anger, Will turned his back on the other boys and picked up his pole. Sitting on the bank again, he fixed his attention on the floating cork and tried to ignore the pounding in his temples.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Hank came and sat beside him on the bank. The corner of the envelope was sticking out of his pocket. It took all of Will's self-control not to make a grab for it.

“These bugs sure are bad today,” Hank complained, waving the letter in front of his face like a fan.

“Fishing's not much better,” said Will.

“Well, you can stay here if you want to, but I'm going over to the store,” Hank said at last, slapping at a large fly that lit on his knee. Stuffing the envelope back into his pocket, he motioned for Amos to follow him, and the two boys sauntered off.

Will felt a blinding flash of rage. If only Hank weren't so much bigger than he was! But he'd get even with him for this somehow.

All through that long, muggy afternoon Will sat by the pond, brushing away the troublesome gnats. Why weren't the
fish biting? And how long should he wait before he went over to the store and asked Mr. Riley for the letter?

Suddenly Will sensed that something was different. It was a moment or so before he realized that he no longer heard the creaking of the mill wheel. And then he saw how long the shadows were. It was later than he'd thought! Quickly he pulled his line from the water—noticing with disgust that his bait was gone—and stuck the barb of the hook into the cork. Emptying the remaining grasshoppers from the jar, he hurried toward the store. Mr. Riley was almost ready to lock up when Will got there.

“I—I came for my letter, Mr. Riley,” he said, panting.

“Your letter? Didn't Hank give you that letter?”

“No, sir.”

“He didn't bring it to you over at the pond?”

Will didn't know what to say. Embarrassed, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

After a long moment the storekeeper turned away, swearing under his breath. He went behind the counter and took a handful of letters from a box on one of the shelves. Sorting through them quickly, he found the one addressed to Will. Mr. Riley handed it to him and said grimly, “You can be sure that Hank will hear from me about this.”

Will didn't recognize the handwriting on the envelope, but with a pang of disappointment he knew at once that it wasn't Matt's. He turned the envelope over and saw Doc Martin's return address written on the flap. Why would Doc Martin be writing to him? It was all he could do to wait until he was outside before he tore the envelope open and began to read.

August 10, 1865

Dear Will,

When I left you at your aunt's farm in June, I found myself questioning the wisdom of that arrangement. Not because of your feelings about your uncle's refusal to fight for the Confederacy, but because I am sure that your dear mother had no idea of the hardships you would have to face there.

My older sister, a widow, has come to live with me, so now I can offer you a proper home. I am sure your dear mother would not, under the circumstances, blame us for not continuing to follow her instructions for your care.

You are a fine boy, Will, and I would be proud to raise you as my son. But you must make your own decision about this. Take your time and think it over carefully, and then write and let me know if I should come for you.

Sincerely and affectionately yours,

George Martin

P.S. I've hired Lizzy as my housekeeper.

A feeling of elation swept over Will. He could go back to Winchester! He'd see Matt almost every day, and there'd be school in the fall! He closed his eyes and pictured the high-ceilinged, well-furnished rooms of Doc's large brick house and Lizzy there to pamper him like she had in the old days at home.

But what would his aunt's family say when he told them he was leaving? He hoped they wouldn't think that he was ungrateful—or
that he couldn't take the hard work. Meg would miss him most, but Aunt Ella, too, would be sorry to see him go. And Uncle Jed? He wondered if his uncle would miss his help or would simply be relieved to have one less mouth to feed this winter.

“Doc Martin said to take my time and think it over carefully,” Will said aloud. “I don't have to tell them anything yet.” Stuffing the letter in his pocket, he picked up his fishing pole and started toward home, seeing broad streets lined with homes and shops instead of the narrow, tree-shaded dirt road under his feet. It would be wonderful to be back in Winchester again!

He wondered if Doc Martin's sister would be as nice as Aunt Ella. Probably not, since she wasn't family. Family! Why, Aunt Ella was his closest relative now. When he went to live with Doc, he'd be leaving behind all the family he had left. Could a bachelor doctor, his widowed sister, and a boy be a family? he wondered. He knew how lonely it was to be the only young person in a house.

Suddenly Will realized how much he was going to miss Meg. She wasn't silly and helpless like other girls he'd known—or like his sisters, he thought with a pang. Was it because she was a country girl, or because she'd always been expected to do her share in a family with no slaves—a family that actually took pride in working hard?

Working hard. Will made a fist and flexed his muscles. He was proud of his body's new strength and toughness, even of the calluses the garden tools had worn on his hands. Yes, he'd learned to work hard, but not as hard as his uncle. That man could really work! And he knew how to do almost everything.
Hadn't he been the one to fix the millworks when the miller himself couldn't do it?

With a jolt, Will realized that he was proud of Uncle Jed! That during the weeks they'd worked together he'd come to respect his uncle! He hadn't meant for that to happen. How could Will Page, son of a fallen Confederate patriot, respect a man who'd refused to fight?

Before Will could sort out his feelings, he was wading across the little stream that crossed the road at the edge of his uncle's property. From the lane, he saw Aunt Ella going toward the house with a serving bowl. He was even later than he'd thought! He put the fishing pole in the barn and ran to the porch to wash. The family was already at the table when he came inside.

“I'm sorry I'm late, Aunt Ella.”

“We were beginning to worry about you, Will,” she said.

He passed his plate, and his uncle filled it with a large serving of squirrel stew and dumplings.

“I'm glad you had good luck hunting,” Will said. “The bugs were biting down at the pond, but the fish sure weren't.”

“Well, at least you got the butter,” said Meg.

Will's heart sank. The butter! How could he have forgotten the butter?

“You did get the butter, didn't you?”

“Now, Meg, Will can't help it if Mrs. Brown hasn't done her churning yet,” said Aunt Ella.

“I—I forgot,” Will said lamely.

“You mean you left it down where you were fishing?” Meg's voice rose.

Will shook his head. “I was supposed to go back to the
house for it when I finished,” he said miserably. “And I forgot to.” Why, oh, why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut and let them think Mrs. Brown hadn't churned yet?