[concluding chapter sixteen]
Stewart watched from the gate as Uncle James vanished around a corner on the road back to Arran. He’d hoped he was wrong about Uncle James, but that hope was faint now, and fading.
Of the two men, he was sure that Father would best survive this morning. He had, Stewart realized, much less self-worth tied into what the neighbors thought of him; his ideals would probably survive and even flourish wherever he and Mother eventually settled. Uncle James he now saw as brittle, in the same way as that Federal regiment had been brittle a year ago. One good shock would cause the man to break. And Stewart was no longer sure that he would be sorry if this happened.
The man who would suffer the most, he’d decided, was himself. I’m losing my family, he thought. Donald will probably never speak to me again. And I won’t be able to speak to Mother and Father. Not for several years, at any rate. And who knew what several years would do to him, or them?
Does an idea matter more than family? That was the question he still couldn’t answer. I never got to choose my family. The things I believe in, I have chosen to believe. He hoped that certainty would be enough.
The wagon emerged from the barn, Sally and Mama Cleo in the back amidst the trunks and boxes, Steven driving. Mother got into the seat beside him; the sight no longer meant anything to Stewart. Father mounted one of the two remaining horses; they weren’t leaving Donald with much. With any luck, though, he’d be married soon, and the harvest would be good.
He knew that they were looking at him as he turned his horse to the gate. It was just as well; he would have to lead them for the next few days, until they passed the border into their new life.
Stewart tried not to think too much more about that. He would see them again, some day, if it was God’s will that he do so. In the meantime, there was Texas to deal with.
And then, a visit to the theater.
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