As always, Yancy felt nothing at all, but he was glad he had prayed anyway. He resumed pacing.
At one minute after midnight he heard loud raucous stomping on the stairs, and his father rushed out onto the veranda. He hugged Yancy so hard he thought he’d suffocate. Hank started howling. “It’s a boy, a boy, a big fine boy, and Becky’s fine, just fine,” Daniel shouted. “C’mon, you have to see your new brother, Yancy. In fact, he kinda looks like you! Hurry, hurry, Becky’s got to go to sleep and the baby’s tired, too. They had a hard time, but they’re both fine….”
They ran upstairs, taking them two at a time, now uncaring that their stout boots made such a rowdy man’s noise. Yancy followed his father into the bedroom.
Becky was soaked with sweat, with purple shadows etched under her eyes. But she looked happy, and her smile was beatific. “Your brother, Yancy. We’ve decided to name him David.” She held him up.
Yancy took the tiny bundle into his arms. His face was red and wrinkled, like an old man’s. But he had a great thatch of black hair, and his eyes were dark as he sighted around his new world. He was colored like Becky, of course, with a fine complexion, not darkened like Yancy’s, but Yancy was still proud. “David,” Yancy repeated softly. “Does he have a middle name?”
Becky and Daniel glanced at each other. “Yancy,” Becky said. “Yancy is his middle name.”
In spite of the growing dark clouds on the horizon that separated North and South, that Christmas holiday at the Tremayne farm was joyous.
All day, Christmas Eve had been a sort of catch-as-catch-can day, for Becky was still very weak, and the baby, though he was healthy, demanded constant attention for the first critical hours.
But that night, all of the Tremaynes, David Yancy included, slept soundly. Just before dawn, Zemira woke up and, after checking on Becky and the baby, started Christmas cooking. Now the family was reaping those riches at Christmas Day dinner.
“Mother, you’ve outdone yourself,” Daniel said enthusiastically. “I think this is the best, biggest, and most wonderful feast I’ve ever had. How in the world did you do it?”
“Humph,” Zemira grunted. “Didn’t you know that Yancy helped me cook almost all of it?”
“What!” Daniel said in surprise. “But he’s been doing all the chores and taking care of the livestock. How could he have possibly helped you?”
Since the birth of David had been of some difficulty to Becky, she had stayed in bed until joining the family for Christmas dinner. Yancy had assured Daniel that he would take care of the farm, while he took care of Becky and the baby. Daniel had stayed almost continually in their room, bringing Becky broth and cool water and fresh milk and continually changing the baby and bathing him so that he’d be clean and comfortable.
But on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Yancy had indeed found time to help Zemira in the kitchen. The Amish didn’t believe in a conspicuous, tawdry celebration of Christmas—to them it was a time to meditate upon the birth of the Christ child and of scripture. But they did believe in celebrating the riches of their heritage, which included the wonderful and tasteful foods of the Amish.
Now Yancy grinned crookedly. “I’ve chopped vegetables. I’ve kneaded dough. I’ve tenderized meat. I’ve timed boiling pots of vegetables. I’ve worked flour and salt and pepper and spices and vegetables into gravy. I’ve stuffed a turkey. I’ve made four batches of corn bread. Take my word for it, Father. I thought studying and classes and artillery and gunnery and marksmanship and mathematics and history and philosopy were hard. They’re nothing compared to helping in Grandmother’s kitchen.”
David Tremayne was a robust, bawling, demanding baby, exactly the opposite of Callie Jo. Sitting in her high chair at the Christmas feast, she pointed to him with her spoon. “He loud,” she said plaintively. “He loud.”
Becky was holding him, and discreetly she put the squalling child under her shawl to nurse him. He immediately grew silent. “Now he’s quiet, Callie Jo,” she said soothingly. “Eat your porridge.”
“Porrith,” she repeated happily and began to, somewhat messily, spoon it into her mouth. She loved oatmeal with cream and brown sugar.
“Good Christmas,” Yancy said happily. “Never thought I’d get a present of a little brother. Thought the Amish didn’t go in for gifts and such for Christmas.”
“So they don’t,” Daniel said. “But David was a surprise. Showy gift for the Plain People, he is.”
“Maybe we should name him Christmas,” Yancy said mischievously.
“I think not,” Becky said sturdily. “I’d just as soon name him Tinsel or Holly or Plum Pudding.”
“Hmm…Plum Pudding Tremayne,” Daniel said meditatively. “There’s a thought.”
“No, it’s not,” Zemira said sternly. “That is what I would call no thought at all.”
As they continued the easy banter while finishing up the sumptious meal, Yancy could only be thankful for this special time with his family and hope the coming war—for he was certain it was coming—would not take this all away.
The Amish considered Decmber 26 a day of feasting, of celebrating and visiting among families and the community. At dawn that day, Daniel had ridden around to all of the Amish farms to spread the joyous news of his son David and also to let them know that Becky was still unable to travel around visiting.
By two o’clock that afternoon, the Tremayne farm had received representatives of eighteen families of the community. The food that they had brought overran the kitchen and was starting to crowd even the roomy root cellar.
Every family had been joyous at the arrival of David Yancy, hugging Daniel and shaking his hand vigorously, kissing Becky gently, kissing Zemira…and nodding politely to Yancy. Finally he had seen that his being there, and being shunned, was paining his parents and Grandmother, and he decided to go for a long ride on Midnight. He disappeared at about three o’clock.
They wandered aimlessly along the stream, seeing deer and raccoons and opossums and squirrels scurrying along on their errands. Yancy was amazed at all of the tracks in the snow. For once, Yancy wasn’t zeroing in on a single track to hunt; he was merely observing all the wildlife. Now he saw that they, too, had purpose and family life and homes. It affected him oddly. Never before had he seen prey as anything but animals to be killed and eaten—or merely to be killed as nuisances. Now he saw that they had an intrinsic design to their lives, with mates and children and an urge to hunt for food and shelter.
“Aw, c’mon, Midnight, I must be getting tired and crazy. I’m feeling sorry for that last nasty ’possum we saw that had six babies on her back. Let’s go on home. If we’re still overrun with Amish, I’ll sleep in the stable with you.” Yancy turned him toward home, and Midnight knew the way. Midnight huffed great icy clouds of breath, while Yancy’s was a thin stream of mist. He was bone-tired and bent and yawned over the saddle.
It was actually about eight o’clock, three hours after dark, when Yancy and Midnight returned to the stables at the Tremayne farm. Midnight led the way into the stables and stopped before his stall. Sleepily Yancy jumped off and, by an automatic mechanism stemming from hundreds of repetititons, unsaddled him and brushed him down. Gratefully he saw that his father had left a pot of hot mash on the stove, and he fed all five horses on this frosty night.
He went into the farmhouse through the back door, through the kitchen, into the back hall. To his dismay he heard people—men—laughing…but then he recognized the raucous roar of his cousin Clay. He hurried into the parlor.
The Caleb Tremayne family had all come to welcome the newest Tremayne. Caleb Tremayne was now forty-seven years old, as was his wife, Bethany. Caleb was a burly man, with dark hair and intense dark brown eyes. Clay had inherited his father’s looks. But Morgan took after his mother; she had auburn hair, with light blue eyes, and was of a slender frame, tall and willowy. Clay was as tall as Morgan but more muscular.
And then, to their everlasting surprise, Caleb and Bethany had a “la
te-in-life” baby, but then, adding more to their surprise, they were late-in-life twins. They called them Brenda and Belinda, and they were born in the spring of 1854. Now just over five years old, they seemed to be foundlings that all the Tremaynes were both delighted and bemused by. They looked like picture-book angels, with strawberry blond curls and heaven blue eyes and perfect little faces. Only their mother and father could tell them apart; even Clay and Morgan got them confused. But then, because of the difference in their ages, it wasn’t too surprising that they had spent very little time with their sisters. Clay had dubbed them Bree and Belle, but most of the time he just called both of them Bluebell.
Yancy greeted them all happily. He loved the Caleb Tremayne family. They seemed to be a very happy, stable, loving family, in spite of Clay’s mischievousness. He sat down and took Belinda on one knee and Brenda on the other.
Clay was standing, leaning against the mantelpiece and sipping coffee. “Where have you been, Yancy? Hiding?”
“Yes,” he answered expressionlessly.
There was a tense silence that Caleb Tremayne finally broke, with a covert glance at Daniel. “Being shunned must be hard—on everyone.”
Zemira, seated by Becky, dropped her head and sighed. But Becky straightened her shoulders and said sturdily, “Yancy is strong, and he makes good decisions. Daniel and Grandmother and I have decided to respect that, and him, no matter what.”
“I admire you all,” Bethany Tremayne said softly. “But still it must be hard. Is it not, Yancy?”
He shrugged carelessly, but his words were not. “What I’m wondering is when—or if—I’m just going to be accepted as an English. As you all are. I know, Uncle Caleb, that the Amish do business with you, that your family is respected, that you’re recognized as a leader of the Lexington community by the Amish and the English alike. How—how long will it take before I’m accepted just for who I am?”
Caleb and Daniel exchanged dark glances. Slowly Caleb answered, “Our family has been English for three generations now. Times change, and people change. Who knows? Next year you may be regarded as just one of the English members of the Amish family. We’re not the only ones, you know. There are English Rabers, Fishers, and even an English Lambright, a distant relative of Bishop Lambright. One day you will be treated with affection and respect, Yancy, if you earn it as an honorable man.”
“I will,” Yancy said. “I have to.”
The twins were staring at him, trying to fathom this serious grown-up conversation, when at this moment Callie Jo grew jealous and decided to object to their sitting on her brother’s lap. She toddled over and yanked on Belinda’s bright curls. “My bruvver,” she pouted.
The twins’ eyes grew round but they said nothing.
“Here now, none of that,” Daniel said, hurrying over to pick her up and settle her into his lap. “You have to learn to share. Especially now that you’ve got a new baby brother.”
“Why?” Callie Jo demanded.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Why?”
“Because the Bible tells us to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. So you must love everyone and share with them.”
“Why?”
Daniel frowned. “Because I think it’s past your bedtime, and so we must save this Bible lesson for later.” He stood up, holding Callie Jo, who looked as if she were going to rebel, but then she threw her head onto Daniel’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
“I’m too tiwed,” she lisped.
“I thought so. If you would all excuse me,” Daniel said.
Belinda and Brenda looked at each other in the most uncanny way, perfect echoes of the other’s expressions. “Callie Jo’s tired,” Belinda said.
“Yes, she’s tired,” Brenda agreed. Solemnly they watched Daniel carry her to the stairs.
Clay, standing propped against the mantel, observed idly, “Does anyone else think that’s scary?”
Belinda’s and Brenda’s heads swiveled to him. Belinda said, “What do you mean, Clay? Who’s scary?”
Brenda echoed, “Who’s scary?”
“Never mind, Bluebells. Forget I said anything.”
“Yes, forget it, girls. Sometimes your brother Clay speaks out of turn,” Bethany Tremayne said. “As in, since you were born,” she added pointedly to him. “Clay cried all the time, Morgan never cried, and it seemed as if Belinda and Brenda began talking the day after they were born and haven’t stopped since. And that brings me to your darling David. He seems to be a very good baby.”
“He wasn’t at first, but he’s beginning to settle into his routine now, I think,” Becky said, looking down and rocking the brand-new cradle very gently. David’s dark eyes were open, and he seemed to stare up at her as if assessing his mother. “He hasn’t cried or fussed all day, and he’s definitely been a very busy boy.”
Caleb Tremayne rose. “Forgive us, Becky; we’ve stayed far too long. But the hospitality of your house, Zemira”—he bowed in her direction—“makes us so comfortable. As soon as you’re feeling stronger, Becky, you and your family have an open invitation to dinner at our home.”
They all rose, and Yancy kissed the girls on their cheeks before setting them down. “Thank you, Uncle Yancy,” they echoed.
Clay shook Yancy’s hand. “Next Saturday is the New Year, cousin. If you’re going to be an English, you’d better come to town and celebrate like one.”
“Better not,” Morgan grumbled, shaking Yancy’s hand in his turn. “Every New Year since he turned fourteen has been nothing but trouble.”
Clay clapped Morgan on the back. “Come with us, Morgan, and act your age for once, instead of like a seventy-year-old man! So meet us at Mason’s Grocer and Dry Goods. You can’t come to the house. Mother would probably chain us to chairs. How about it?”
Slowly Yancy nodded. “Might do me some good, to have some fun for a change. I’ll be there. If you’re coming, Morgan,” he added. “I know there’s no way I can handle this wild man by myself.”
“I’ll come,” Morgan agreed. “I wouldn’t mind celebrating a little. But I’ll keep a close watch on you, Clay. You’re not going to get either me or Yancy in trouble. I’ll promise you that.”
“We’ll see,” Clay said with a mischievous grin.
The trouble was that Morgan wasn’t there. When Yancy went into Mason’s to find the two, he found Clay sitting in a straight chair by the iron stove.
His feet propped against an upturned bucket, Clay was eating a pickle and had a handful of crackers and cheese. “Have some of these crackers and cheese, Yancy. They make the pickle go down really good.”
“Think I will.” Yancy fished a pickle out of the barrel then took a hunk of cheese and some crackers out of a jar. “You buying?”
Clay answered, “Sure. I know you boys at VMI don’t make much money, marching around so pretty and shooting at dirt.” Clay’s great-grandfather had, wisely, decided to spin cotton instead of grow it. He had built a cotton mill, which had been built up until it was the largest in the valley. By this time the Caleb Tremaynes didn’t actually work; they were presidents and vice presidents of the mill, gentlemen with the income of merchants, but that didn’t actually sully their hands with manual labor. And the Caleb Tremaynes were very well off indeed.
Yancy bristled. “You don’t want to insult me about the institute, Clay. I’m not going to take kindly to it.”
Clay laughed. “Calm down, cousin. I’ve lived here all my life. I know how all the institute boys take offense at the least little thing. And they say I make trouble for myself? You boys growl at one wrong syllable.”
“Right. Don’t make a wrong syllable,” Yancy grunted. “Even though I’m not wearing it, I still revere the uniform.”
Yancy was wearing his buckskin breeches, moccasins, an undyed, rough linsey-woolsey shirt, and a vest that had been intricately beaded by his mother. He had a canvas rain-proof overcoat that his father had given him.
Clay, in c
ontrast to Yancy, was wearing the typical well-bred gentlemen’s clothes—a black suit, white linen finely-ruffled shirt with silk tie, and black boots. He looked immaculate, with his black hair combed back and curling over his collar. His chiseled features, his mouth shaped by good humor, and his sparkling dark eyes all added to his fine looks.
“Yes, suh, Cadet, I heah you,” Clay finally said after giving him a careful once-over. Then he gave Yancy a mock salute. “And by the way, don’t you have any gentlemen’s clothes?”
“These are Cheyenne clothes. They’re better than gentlemen’s clothes. Except for VMI uniforms,” Yancy said succintly. “Anyway, where’s Morgan?”
Clay shook his head in mock shame. “Mama Morgan had to go home. He got word one of his favorite cows is about to have a calf. It’s out of season, and she’s having trouble with it. You know Morgan, he’s more worried about cows and horses and dogs and cats than he is with people.”
“Well then, why don’t we wait till tomorrow, when we can celebrate with Morgan?” Yancy asked diffidently.
“No, no! You know what the Bible says, ‘Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today.’ ”
“I don’t believe it says that,” Yancy scoffed.
Clay shrugged. “Then it ought to. Come on, let’s settle up with these pickles and crackers.” Rising, he went up to the counter, tapped on it, and called, “Mr. Mason! Mrs. Mason! Hello?”
A large, round woman came through the curtains from the back of the store and chugged along to the money drawer. “There is no need,” she huffed, “for calling out so sharp and yelling like a wild Indian.” When she caught sight of Yancy, her big blue eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. Are you, sir, a wild Indian?”
“No, I’m a tame one,” Yancy said with a smile. He came forward, his hand held out. “How do you do, ma’am. I’m Yancy Tremayne.”
She stepped back and primly folded her hands in front of her apron. “How do you do, sir. I am Mrs. Mason, and it is my pleasure to meet you. I’m aware that you are being shunned by the Amish. However, that is not why I refuse to shake your hand. You, Mr. Tremayne, and you, Clay Tremayne, smell like pickles, and I don’t wish to smell like pickles or to take money that smells like pickles. I insist you come back to the kitchen and wash your hands and face before I take your money…or your hands.”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 15