Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [33]
“I wear the uniform of that authority, I’m the only piece of the government here, and this post is my responsibility. No one will start any rebellion with these guns.”
She watched in the dark, felt his movement, and then he stopped, leaned down and took her hand, helped her stand.
“You had better leave, go on home, before it gets much later.”
“Please, Win, please, be careful. These are just . . . things. The army can replace them.”
He hugged her, held her hard against him. “It’s all right. Besides, it’s only rumors. You know what rumors are like. Help should be here soon anyway. It’s probably just for tonight.”
He didn’t sound convincing, knew it, didn’t believe it himself. He was glad she could not see his face; he could never lie to her.
“All right, my dear husband. I’ll be back in the morning, I’ll make a big breakfast for you.”
“Wait, do you have—”
“Yes, Captain, I have the pistol right here. I will be fine.”
He walked her over to the doors, pushed them open slowly, quietly. The moon was coming up over the far trees, and he was relieved to see the street was not as dark as the inside of the warehouse and it would be a short walk to their house. She kissed him, quickly, did not want to draw it out, make it worse than it was, and then she moved away. He followed her with his eyes until she was gone in the dark.
He went back inside, pulled the doors together, could see the moonlight coming in between them, through an opening a half-inch wide. He felt his belt, the pistols, felt a little foolish, thought, You must look like some kind of buccaneer. He sat down on the box, adjusting the pistols, a one-man army. He leaned back against the hard wall, maybe would try a nap, but he was wide-awake, began to listen to the silence. He looked away from the doors, from the small sliver of moonlight, tried to see in the dark, the high stacks of supplies, up to the tall ceiling. He thought of wild animals, the night creatures. What was so different about their eyes? Damned dangerous beasts if they could see in this.
He did not know how much time had passed, could not see his watch. It was late, near midnight, certainly. He stood up slowly, flexed stiff knees, walked toward the crack of the doors. He peered out, saw nothing, no movement, and felt relief, confident Mira had made it home all right. He thought of the children, told himself, purposefully, they would be fine, there would be no danger to them, it was the supplies they would want, the munitions. He went back again to his corner, to the open box of pistols, sat and leaned against the wall, listening to the quiet night.
His hand rested on something, a tin cup, his coffee. He brought it up, smelled it, took a small sip of cold mud, made a face Mira would have scolded him for, set the cup back down on the hard ground beside the box. He heard a horse whinny in the far distance, and a dog barking. He froze, listened hard, heard nothing else, leaned his head back now, his hat a thin pillow against the wood siding.
He heard a horse again, closer this time, and he sat up, felt a burst of cold in his stomach, and quickly he was standing. He moved over against the far wall, listening, and now there were more. He heard the dull rhythm of slow hoofbeats. The cold spread through his body, his heart pounding his brain into a clear alertness.