Daniel, Becky, Lorena, and Missy stood at the front of the crowd that lined the way to Virginia Military Institute. Yancy, Peyton, Chuckins, and Sandy led the funeral procession with great somber grace. When the cadets met them, the four friends returned the cadets’ salutes, turned and rode to the rear of the procession, then turned to the side and dismounted. Yancy hurried to join his family.
After Stonewall Jackson had been placed in state at the institute, they all returned to the farm. Daniel had brought the buggy, so Becky and Missy rode with them, while Yancy rode Midnight.
The Shenandoah Valley was breathtaking in spring. Every scene was richly colored in a hundred shades of green, every field had riotous wildflowers blooming, every house they passed had luxurious gardens surrounding them. Lorena couldn’t see well enough out of the buggy’s back window, so, being the outspoken lady that she was, she demanded that Daniel let her sit with him on the driver’s bench. Of course, Becky was just as demanding, and so she climbed up with them, and the three of them sat crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder.
Yancy laughed at them. Since he had at last found his comfort in Lorena, his mind and soul and even his body felt lighter, more alive. He could smile and laugh now.
As she had done countless times before, Zemira came out onto the porch to meet them. Behind her scooted Callie Jo, now five years old, and David, who was three. They weren’t shy children at all.
Callie Jo ran to Yancy, supremely unmindful of Midnight’s prancing hooves, while David waddled to the side of the buggy, held his arms up, and lisped, “Hold ’im.”
Yancy jumped down and swooped Callie Jo up high in the air. “Hello, Jo-Jo. Missed me?”
“Yes, Nance,” she answered in her little-girl voice. “Now, ride me on Minnight.”
“Not now. Later. Right now I want you to meet my friend Miss Lorena. You’ll like her.”
Zemira came straight up to Lorena when she climbed down from the buggy, threw her arms around her, and hugged her soundly. Then she stood back and looked at her with dancing eyes. “Well, if you aren’t just the tiniest little bitty thing I ever saw in my life. And Becky says you can boss Yancy just fine. Big trouble in a little package, I’ll bet.”
Holding Callie Jo, Yancy came up to them and said, “You know it, Grandmother. But she’s pretty nice. Most of the time.”
They all went into the house, talking. As usual, Zemira had cooked an enormous meal for them—ham, fried chicken, new potatoes, sauerkraut, green beans, creamed corn, and, of course, Yancy’s favorite, Amish Friendship Bread. They found their seats, Callie next to David, in his homemade high chair, and Lorena sitting by Yancy. Without a word, Daniel, Becky, Zemira, and even Callie Jo and David bowed their heads. Lorena glanced at Yancy, and he bowed his, too. Silence ensued. Yancy looked back up as he realized Lorena might be puzzled at their silent praying as he was when he first came here. After a few moments, he pinched her arm, and she looked up to see everyone starting to help themselves to the delicious food.
They kept the conversation light during the meal, mostly talking about the farm, the crops, the doings in the community. No talk of war or death shadowed this family time together.
After they finished and cleared away, Becky and Zemira put the children to bed and they all gathered in the parlor. It was a cool night, and Yancy and Daniel built a small, cozy fire.
Yancy and Lorena sat close together on the settee, and across from them Daniel, Becky, and Zemira sat on the sofa. Yancy reached over and took Lorena’s hand. “I have two very important things to tell you,” he said. “The first is that I spoke to Reverend White, the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Lexington. Mrs. Jackson had been kind enough to write to him and tell him of my situation. You know that I’ve been a Christian for almost two years now, but I’ve never been baptized. I want you to be with me when I am, of course. But I know that no bishop in the Amish church will baptize me. Mrs. Jackson explained this to Reverend White, and he’s agreed to come out and baptize me here, so that you can all be present.”
“Thank the Lord!” Zemira exclaimed, beaming. “That will be a day of rejoicing, for sure and certain, grandson!”
“It will,” Daniel agreed. “I had thought about this, you know, Yancy. But I didn’t know how to solve it. Many ministers would be wary of baptizing someone that is not in their congregation.”
Yancy nodded. “I can understand that. Mrs. Jackson understood immediately. I had the opportunity to be there when she and General Jackson had their baby baptized, and I visited with Mrs. Jackson the next day. She told me of Dr. White, and she must have written to him that very day. Pretty soon I got a kind letter from him, welcoming me into the service of God and assuring me that he would be honored to baptize me at any place I chose.”
“I will write to Mrs. Jackson and to Reverend White to thank them,” Daniel promised. “It’s good to have faithful and caring brothers and sisters in the Lord.”
“Even if they’re not in the community?” Zemira, the lifelong Amish woman, asked suspiciously.
“Well?” Daniel countered, grinning. “Even if they’re not?”
“Hmm. Even if they are those English, I suppose,” Zemira agreed. Somewhat.
“Which sorta brings me to the next thing I want to tell you,” Yancy said. “I’m sorry to say, Grandmother, that I have asked this English to marry me. And she’s been fool enough to say yes.”
With glad cries, Zemira and Becky jumped up, pulled Lorena to her feet, and hugged her so many times that she felt bruised. Daniel and Yancy stood and solemnly shook hands as men do.
Finally they all regained their seats, Yancy and Lorena glancing at each other and exchanging beaming smiles. Happily Becky asked, “When? When, Yancy?”
He sobered, though he didn’t wear the same desolate face that had so marked him a few days before. “I have to go back, you know. After the funeral. The Yankees at Chancellorsville are still making noise, and General Lee says that we have to stay and be vigilant, for no one knows when the next battle will be.”
Zemira sighed. “Very true. All we know is that there will be another, and another, in this wicked old world. But”—she brightened—“you children look so happy. I know that you will have a good life together. And won’t you have some pretty babies!” Both Lorena and Yancy blushed, and Zemira laughed at them.
“Anyway,” Yancy continued, “just as soon as I can, when we may see a few days of peace ahead, I’m going to ask for a furlough. Then I’ll come home and bless Reverend White again. He said he’ll marry us anytime, even if it’s only with an hour’s notice. But you know that I’ll try very hard to make it a time when you all and Dr. and Mrs. Hayden can be there. Neither Lorena nor I can imagine getting married without our families.”
“Then we’ll pray for days of peace ahead,” Daniel said. “Many of them.”
They talked long into the night before Daniel, Becky, and Zemira finally headed off to bed.
Yancy and Lorena sat out on the porch for a few minutes before they retired. They stood close together at the porch steps, looking at the vast tapestry of stars blanketing the blessed valley. “New moon,” Yancy murmured. “New love. New life.” He turned to her and took her in his arms.
Lorena said, “I knew I had already found true friends in Becky and your father, but now I know that they and your grandmother have already begun including me in the family. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I will never forget this day.”
“And I will never forget you again, Lorena,” he promised. “And I will never leave you again. No matter what happens. No matter where I am. I’ll be with you always.”
“And I with you,” she whispered. “For always…beginning now.”
EPILOGUE
On the next day—another innocent, pretty Virginia spring day—General Stonewall Jackson took his last journey. Reverend White conducted a short service. Then the procession went to the Lexington Cemetery. In the shadow of the hills he knew so well, in the valley that he lo
ved so much, Stonewall Jackson was finally at rest.
After the earthly good-byes were said, Anna Jackson, crying softly beneath her veil, turned and walked away from her husband’s coffin. She didn’t look back. The attendees followed her out of the cemetery….
Except for four boys, whom Stonewall Jackson had taught to be men. They came to stand by his coffin, with their beloved flag draped over it. Mounds of flowers surrounded them, the air heavy with their heavenly-sweet scent.
“Atten–tion!” Yancy ordered in a low voice.
Together, very slowly, they raised their hands to give one last salute. They held it for long moments then together snapped back to attention. In silence they stood.
“I will always believe we were closer to him than the others,” Peyton said quietly. “Guess no one else would believe it.”
“I do,” Chuckins said staunchly.
“I do,” Sandy agreed.
Yancy said, “It’s the truth. We were Stonewall’s Boys.”
the
SWORD
PART ONE: FLORA & JEB 1855–1861
CHAPTER ONE
Flora Cooke glared at her full-length reflection in the cheval mirror. So far, in the endless preparations for a young lady of good family to ready herself for a ball, she had put on her chemise, knickers, and stockings and then had pulled on the great bell-shaped crinoline. She pushed it to one side, and it swung airily back and forth, never touching her legs. “Ding, dong,” she said whimsically.
The nineteen-year-old girl in the mirror was plain, Flora knew very well. But she was so lively, so quick and intelligent, and of such willing wit that she was well known as a “charmer.” She did have some good physical attributes, too; her chestnut-brown hair was shiny and thick and took a curl very well, and she had that very unusual combination, for brunettes, of having royal-blue eyes. Her brows were perfect arches, and her long, thick lashes were the envy of many women. Her complexion was like the most delicate magnolia blossom. Though she was not conventionally pretty, Flora had always had her share of male admirers.
And another reason for that, Flora knew, was because of her figure. From a skinny, awkward thirteen-year-old with blemishes covering her face, she had bloomed into a delicate, small woman with a tiny waist and hands and feet, sweetly rounded shoulders, a long graceful neck, and a perfect bosom. She had the classic hourglass figure, while being as dainty as a porcelain figurine.
She was still contemplating her reflection with some satisfaction when her maid, Ruby, came in holding her new ball dress, a peach-colored taffeta confection. The neckline was low, the sleeves off the shoulder, as was fashionable for evening wear, and Ruby had just finished starching and ironing the eight cotton, lace-trimmed ruffles in the wide skirt. Carefully she laid the dress out on Flora’s bed then turned to her, hands on hips. “Miss Flora Cooke, am I standin’ here looking at you with no corset on?” Ruby snapped, her eyes flashing. She was a shapely girl, an ebony black with wide, liquid, dark eyes, only two years older than Flora herself.
“You are,” Flora answered absently. “Mm, the dress looks heavenly, Ruby!” She picked up a ruffle and rubbed it between her fingers, savoring the crisp feel of the thick taffeta and the still-warm stiffness of the cotton ruffle underneath.
“Don’t you be gettin’ around no subject with me,” Ruby sniffed. “Why am I standin’ here looking at you with no corset on? You know you ain’t going to no ball without no corset on like a Christian woman.”
“I am a Christian woman, and I am going to the ball with no corset, and you know I don’t need one, so help me get my dress on,” Flora said. “We need to hurry and do my flowers and my hair. You know it just won’t do for me to be late. Father would probably order a squad up here to drag me downstairs.”
Ruby proceeded to help Flora put on the dress, which was quite a process. The skirt itself was fifteen yards of taffeta and six yards of cotton ruffle. It was heavy, it was stiff, and putting it over Flora’s head practically amounted to throwing a canvas tent over her.
As Flora struggled to find the neck opening and the sleeves, through the crackling of the fabric she could hear Ruby muttering, “They is Christian women with corsets, and they is Christian women with no corsets….Leastenways she got bloomers on. Mebbe they go next…liken as if Colonel Cooke would allow a dragoon…ten-foot pole near you….”
Finally the dress was in place, and Ruby buttoned up the twenty-three buttons in the back. Though of course Ruby would never admit it, Flora did not need a corset to pull in her waist. A man’s hands could span it easily.
Flora carefully spread her skirts so she could sit at the dressing table for Ruby to do her hair. Sitting while wearing a crinoline was tricky. They were cages, in effect, wide cotton petticoats with whalebone or sometimes even very light steel sewn into slowly widening circles. The sewn-in ribs were stiff to hold out the circular shape of the very wide skirts but still thin enough to bend so the wearer could sit down, and they had enough tensile strength to regain their shape when standing. However, when sitting down, if a lady did not learn how to spread her heavy overskirts out—in a graceful manner, of course—to distribute the weight correctly, the entire hoop could simply balloon in a great circle up over her head. At boarding school, Flora and her friends had often played this game, laughing like pure fools at the sight but still fervently learning how to do it correctly so that this abomination would never happen to them, especially, heaven forbid, in public.
Early that morning, Ruby had rolled the ends of Flora’s hair tightly around little rags. Now she began to carefully remove them, leaving little ringlets. Then she parted her hair in the middle, pulled it back, and began to secure it at the base of her neck, with the springy curls falling down her back. On the grounds of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, many of the officers’ little houses had gardens, and Flora had found a friend who had a camellia bush with peach-colored flowers. She had gathered enough that morning to arrange in her hair and have a small bouquet at her breast. With their shiny, dark-green leaves, they adorned Flora’s hair and complexion perfectly.
As Ruby began to arrange them in her hair, Flora watched her carefully in the tri-mirror mounted on the dressing table. Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t just poke them in there any old way, Ruby. Arrange them elegantly,” she chided her. “I want to look just perfect tonight.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ruby said knowingly. “Just gonna aggravate them soldiers, ain’t you? Knowing that Colonel Cooke—”
“I know, I know,” Flora interrupted her, “wouldn’t let ’em get a ten-foot pole near me. You’re wrong, you know, Ruby. Father is perfectly fine with me socializing with soldiers. After all, he’s been one his whole life, and I’ve been around them my whole life. And besides, I don’t want to aggravate them, whatever that means.”
“You’m knows right well what it means, Miss Flora. Don’t I see you right here right now in that there mirror, smiling and practicin’ taking ’em with your eyelashes?”
Ruby had a habit of quoting Scripture, usually incorrectly, and Flora was fairly certain that this reference had something to do with a proverb about women and their eyelids, but already Ruby had moved on. She was now more carefully arranging the flowers in Flora’s hair, and she talked constantly. “Miz Lieutenant Blanton’s flowers sure are pretty with your dress, Miss Flora, if I do say so, and I was talking to her girl Lizzie, and you know what? Lizzie says that she heard Miz Blanton talkin’ about her brother Leslie Spengler marryin’ their cousin! Their own cousin! And him from a good family, as good as yourn is!”
“It’s only his fourth cousin, Ruby. It’s hardly—”
“I don’t keer. It ain’t right. What about that handsome Finch boy, prancin’ around in his showy uniform? Is he gonna marry up wif Miss Leona? That man what always wears those big tall hats—stovepipes, they call ’em, and don’t they look just like that and silly besides. What’s been chasin’ after her ain’t as good-looking, but he’s got money, Miss Leona’s maid, Perla, says. I think Miss
Leona Pruitt better look ahead, ’cause without no money, the mare don’t go. Leastenways you ain’t gonna have to worry about that, Miss Flora. Some rich man in Phillydelphia is gonna snatch you right up soon as you go to capturvatin’ them—”
“I think you mean ‘captivating’ them, and I do no such thing,” Flora said haughtily.
“—captivatin’ ’em, and you do do such a thing, begging your pardon, miss,” Ruby said sassily.
Flora’s brow lowered, and she started to argue with Ruby, but something stopped her.
Flora had been brought up in a world of men. She had been born in Jefferson Barracks, in Fort St. Louis, and had lived in one army fort or barracks or encampment since then. Her father, a career army officer, had been at posts all over the United States, including Indian fighting in the far West. Now he was colonel of the Second U.S. Dragoons, the commanding officer of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had brought her up as a young lady, sending her to a prestigious boarding school in Detroit. Flora had graduated that spring of 1855, an accomplished and elegant young lady, and had come to visit her father for a couple of months before going to stay with her St. George relatives in Philadelphia to make her social debut.
Still, for most of her life, she had been surrounded by men, and she knew they liked her. They were attracted to her, but it was none of her doing. She didn’t encourage them or flirt with them.
Or did she?
“Well,” she now said good-humoredly to Ruby, “maybe I do.”
When she was finished dressing, Flora went downstairs to the parlor.
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