Westward the Dream

by Judith Pella; Tracie Peterson

  Nathan returned with a tin cup for each of them. “Just tie your horse over there.” He motioned to a small tree.

  Brenton did as he suggested, not wanting to do anything that might be misinterpreted as hostile. He realized there would be no discussing the war without Nathan easily knowing which side he was on. But in truth, Brenton surmised that Nathan already knew which side he’d be on—if, in fact, he must pick just one side.

  Moving away from the tents and the other men, Nathan found a dried log and straddled it before handing the cup of coffee to Brenton. “So tell me what this midnight ride is all about.”

  Brenton took the cup and sipped it. “It’s just like I said. I wanted to see Uncle York. I wanted to know if everyone was all right.”

  “I thought you were up north—New York, right?”

  “I was. Jordana still is. I forced her to take a summer term at school. She’s not too happy with me,” Brenton replied, taking a place on the log. “I figured it would be better for her to stay there while I came down here to check things out.”

  “I agree. I talked Mother into taking the girls farther south. Uncle York and his family are also gone. I didn’t want to make it common knowledge in front of everyone.”

  “I understand,” Brenton said, eyeing Nathan intently. He was little more than a year older than Brenton, but he stood taller and broader, and in many ways made Brenton feel much younger. Perhaps it was the uniform. Perhaps it was the way he’d taken charge when the men had brought Brenton into camp.

  “So everyone is safe?” Brenton finally asked.

  Nathan nodded. “As safe as they can be. I barely convinced Mother to move before a company of Union soldiers moved in to secure the tunnel area.”

  Brenton remembered the Baltimore and Ohio tunnel near their home. His father had helped to supervise the building of it, and Kiernan’s brother had died in an explosion while trying to break through from one side to the other.

  “There are troops all over Baltimore,” Brenton said absentmindedly, then instantly regretted having revealed this bit of information. He couldn’t quite convince himself that Nathan was the enemy. He fell silent and sipped his coffee, wondering how they could possibly have a conversation without betraying one loyalty or another.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Nathan said after several moments. “We are in an awkward position here. I know you can’t possibly be considering signing on with the Confederacy. I know your opinion on slavery—it just so happens I share that opinion.”

  “Then how—I mean, why—”

  “Why did I join up with the South?” Nathan interjected. “I suppose because I don’t like the idea of the Federal government telling the states what they can and can’t do. I’m all for being a united nation, but I can’t abide that people sitting in one location can possibly understand the needs of folks sitting in another.”

  “But that’s why we have congressmen to represent us,” Brenton countered.

  “Yes, but it isn’t the same. You know it isn’t. Do you imagine that folks up New York way understand the difficulties of a southern planter? Do you imagine that we can comprehend the needs of those living west of the Mississippi? Sure, you send a fellow or two to speak out for the cause dearest to your heart, but then ten other fellows who are more closely associated and understand the needs of each other’s areas overrule the one or two whose needs are very different. Majority rules. I think the states should make their own decisions, and the government in Washington should stay out of it.”

  “I can agree with that to a point,” Brenton replied. “But we have to have some rules that govern us as a whole.”

  They fell silent once again. They weren’t so very different in their opinions, Brenton thought. He wondered just how divided the nation truly was, or if a few hotheaded men had made a war out of misunderstandings.

  “Are you planning to enlist?”

  Brenton was startled by the question. “Does it matter?”

  “You know it does.”

  “I suppose I am,” Brenton said sadly. He wondered how to explain the situation. “I imagine the choice was easy for you, but for me it wasn’t. I’m not a coward—I’d die in a minute if it meant saving the lives of those I love. But sitting there in New York, listening to the excitement—many people are almost celebrating going to war—I was torn. I wanted to show myself as honorable and noble, but the dichotomy of which side I belonged to haunted me. It still does.” He stared dismally into his tin cup. “I love my family—all of my family. That includes Uncle York with his beliefs, and you with yours. To take up arms against them is unthinkable. But I also love my country. I listen to people like my brother-in-law and his sister as they talk about Ireland and the oppression they’ve come from, and I realize what a blessing it is to be a part of this nation. How can I stand by and watch it be torn in two—and do nothing?”

  “I know,” Nathan replied, taking his hat off and toying with it in his hands. “I thought becoming a man would give me a sense of power and control, but now life seems just as unreasonable and unpredictable as childhood ever was.”

  Brenton felt compassion for his cousin. After all, he himself was as confused by the issues of this war. Then a thought came to him. “Would you really have killed me? I mean, if your men had brought in a total stranger—would you have put him to death as a spy?”

  Nathan’s hands stopped moving and his head bowed slightly. “Two nights back, we found ourselves near the rail line to Washington. A Union patrol spotted us, and before we could all slip into the woods and find cover, they shot two of my men. One was just a kid. He died in my arms—slow and painfully. They knew I was out there watching, and they called to me and taunted me—promising to kill us all. I’d never seen men so angry. With that one simple act the war became very personal. It forever changed me.” He swung his leg over the log and got to his feet. Looking down at Brenton, his expression half hidden in the shadows, he added, “Had you been a stranger, I would have handed my men the rope.”

  He walked away, leaving Brenton there to consider his words. He was alive only because of Nathan Cabot’s mercy. He reached his hand up to his throat, feeling a terrible constriction there. He had nearly lost his life this night. It made the war even more real.

  Brenton lost track of how long he continued to sit on the log. He watched the comings and goings of the soldiers in the small camp and silently wondered what he should do. There was no sense going on to Oakbridge. Who could tell where his uncle might be assigned? But neither did there seem to be much sense in returning to Baltimore. He was quickly losing his heart for enlisting.

  He thought of Jordana and how she might have grieved if he’d been killed, and then he thought of the men Nathan had mentioned and wondered if they, too, had sisters. Who would have gone to them to tell the story of what had happened? Would they believe their brothers to be heroes for the cause? It all seemed so pointless. Brenton felt disillusioned and frustrated.

  “What am I supposed to do now, Lord?” he whispered, glancing heavenward to the starry night skies. Without the moon, the stars shone bright and seemed so clear that Brenton could imagine reaching up to touch them. He wished he could photograph the sight and keep it with him always—crisp, clean, glorious. But even if such a thing were possible, he knew the photograph would never equal the awesome wonder of the real thing. Maybe he appreciated it more because his life had just been spared. It seemed strange to even consider such a thing—he would be dead by now had it not been for one man’s intercession. And God’s.

  “Brenton!” Nathan called as he emerged from what appeared to be the main tent.

  Brenton got to his feet and grabbed up the empty coffee mug. He walked slowly toward Nathan, whose features now held a more severe expression.

  “The major wants to see you,” he said simply and pulled back the flap to his tent.

  Brenton entered, his heart thudding. Had Nathan’s orders been overturned? Were they now going to reverse the matter and h
ang him anyway?

  A small, unassuming figure sat at a crude table. He eyed Brenton for a moment, then gave a laugh. “You look just like your grandmother.”

  Brenton was taken aback for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” It was a comment he was used to hearing, but this time it was most unexpected.

  “I knew your grandparents, Edith and Leland Baldwin. Captain Cabot was just telling me about you, and I knew I would have to speak with you myself. The name is Van Dyke. Major Van Dyke.”

  “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Brenton said, holding out his hand nervously.

  The major shook it, then glanced down at the paper on the table. “I understand you’ve not yet enlisted on either side for this war.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Are you still of a mind to enlist with the Union?” questioned the major, his small beady eyes narrowing as he watched Brenton.

  “To be quite honest,” Brenton said, deciding that total honesty was the only thing he could give the man, “I’m hard-pressed to know what to do.”

  The man nodded. “Captain Cabot was just telling me of your dilemma.”

  Brenton felt his knees begin to shake and prayed for strength to endure whatever might come.

  “Mr. Baldwin, I am going to consider you a prisoner of war,” the major said after a lengthy pause.

  “But I already told Nathan—”

  “Hear me out,” the major interjected, picking up a piece of paper from the table. “As a prisoner of war, your fate is in my hands. I am offering you a parole—on one condition.”

  Brenton tried to force himself to breathe normally. “What condition is that, sir?”

  “You must sign this agreement. It simply states you will not bear arms against the Confederacy at this time—or anytime in the future.” A slow smile crept across the man’s face. “I believe it will relieve you of this entire complicated matter. It’s an honorable way out, because believe me, if you do not sign, I’ll be forced to send you south with the men who are camped just beyond this ridge. You may not know it, but there are over three hundred men out there, and I don’t think they’d treat you quite as kindly as your cousin has—or for that matter, as I have. There’s fighting going on all over Virginia, and these men are itching for a fight. To many of them this is just a big adventure.”

  Brenton looked at the man and realized what was happening. By signing, he would pledge his good name and honor to uphold the conditions of the arrangement. No one could question his bravery or his politics then. He would have signed a gentleman’s agreement, and as a gentleman he would be expected—although reluctantly by some—to uphold it.

  “I’ll sign it,” Brenton said, reaching out to take the paper. Gone were all illusions of becoming some great mediator for God and man.

  “I thought you might,” the major replied. He handed him a pen. As Brenton signed a copy for each party, the major added, “Captain Cabot will escort you to safety. I wish you the very best.”

  Brenton handed him the paper, keeping the additional copy for himself. “I wish the best for all of us. I pray this war might be resolved before any more men die.”

  The major’s expression grew solemn. “It is my prayer as well.”

  Back in Baltimore, Brenton tried hard not to think of the regretful look on Nathan’s face as he had turned to rejoin his regiment. There was something in his expression that made Brenton believe he would just as soon have joined him on the journey back to Baltimore and north.

  Brenton said nothing of his escapades to Andrew Marcum. He picked up a letter from his mother and father and advised his solicitor that he was returning to New York. The man seemed pleased with this news.

  The letter, in his mother’s handwriting, could not have been more timely. How he missed his parents’ guidance. His mother had always kept herself aware of the most current world affairs and now was no different. Her comments on the war made Brenton more sure than ever that he had done the right thing in signing the paper. His mother was understandably worried over a war in America. Especially a war that hit so close to the heart of issues within their own family.

  It is hard enough to be away from you and your sister, but knowing there is a threat to your well-being causes me great worry. I have prayed and asked God to strengthen you as you face this crisis. Your father and I are unable to leave at this point. Amelia has taken ill, and though she is out of danger now, she must have an extensive time of recuperation before we can even think of traveling. But please know that you are never far from our prayers. York and Virginia will no doubt ally themselves to the cause of the South, but it is my desire that you refrain from engaging in this conflict. Should York be unavailable to you, remember Mr. Marcum is highly regarded by your father and me. He will help you make the best decisions. Nick and Amelia send their love, as does your father. I love you both so very much. Please remain safe.

  There was a postscript added by their father, confirming his approval of their mother’s message. He added that the war would most likely be resolved soon, but regardless, he was counting on Brenton to oversee Jordana’s welfare.

  Brenton refolded the letter and felt a confidence in returning to New York. His only sorrow came in having felt certain that God was leading him to great things. Now it seemed he would spend the war hidden away in a photography studio in New York, useful only to his sister and Caitlan.

  Caitlan. The name made him reflect on all he’d just come through. He’d thought of her briefly when certain he was facing his death. The feelings in that thought had been of regret. Regret that he’d not had a chance to know her better. That he’d not found a way to help her see God as good and loving—or really caring what happened to His children.

  Perhaps now he would have a chance to speak with her about her anger toward God. Maybe going back to New York would settle a bigger, more spiritual war.

  14

  Jordana was awakened by a strange tapping sound. At first she thought she’d only dreamed the noise, but as it became more persistent, she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Meg was back on Staten Island for the summer, and her bed was very obviously empty. So where was the noise coming from?

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  There it was again! Jordana got up from the bed and went to the window. Pulling back the drapes, she nearly screamed aloud at the sight of Caitlan O’Connor hanging on to the ledge.

  Opening the window quickly, Jordana took a firm grip on Caitlan’s arm. “What are you doing?” she hissed in a frantic whisper.

  “Breakin’ me neck if ya don’t pull me in!” Caitlan’s voice quavered fearfully.

  Jordana could see that she’d climbed up the narrow trellis that barely came to the bottom of the second-story windows. She anchored her feet against the wall and pulled with all of her strength while Caitlan got a good tight hold on the windowsill and began to hoist herself upward.

  “I’m glad ya showed me yar room last time. I might not have known where to find ya,” Caitlan said just as Jordana fell backward, with Caitlan plunging hard onto the wood floor right beside her.

  “Are you all right?” Jordana was still unable to think clearly.

  “Aye. I am now,” Caitlan said, easing into a sitting position. “Sorry to give ya such a fright, but I’m in trouble and ya were the only one I could turn to.”

  Jordana sat up. “You’re in trouble? Why?”

  “The housekeeper thinks me a thief and threatened to call the police. ’Tis the commodore hisself who could be explainin’ it all, but I’m doubtin’ he will.”

  Jordana was completely confused. “Wait a minute. Back up. Why did the housekeeper accuse you of being a thief?”

  “Because the commodore lost his watch, and she found it under me bed. For sure she thinks I stole it, but the truth is the old man came to me room and we had a bit of a wrestlin’ match.”

  Jordana’s mouth dropped open in shock. “That old man is incorrigible.”

  “I had to leave,” Caitlan said, a
nd her voice sounded sad. “I couldn’t explain why the watch was there without havin’ the commodore agree with me story.”

  “But surely he would have,” Jordana replied. “After all, everyone already knows how he is with the ladies. Why, he even told Meg that he keeps you there because he likes your spirit. He thought your cheekiness was refreshing compared to those other cowering ninnies.”

  “My ‘cheekiness’! Why, the nerve of the man after the way he behaved!”

  “Well, I think he meant it as a compliment.” Jordana jumped up from the floor and gave Caitlan a hand up. When they had plopped more comfortably onto the bed, Jordana added, “So what happened?”

  “I managed to slip away; then when the watch was found I tried to talk to him. I asked him to clear me name, but he knew all along where they’d find the watch, and he figured it’d give him leverage with me. He offered to keep me out of trouble if I’d be a bit more friendly with him.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Don’t even say it,” Caitlan replied, putting her finger to Jordana’s lips. “It’s foreign ya are to such things. I wouldn’t ask ya to help me, but yar the only one who can.”

  “Besides, you made me a promise,” Jordana said, taking hold of Caitlan’s hand. “We’re friends, and friends look out for each other. I’ll hide you here until morning, and then we’ll decide what is to be done.”

  “Are ya sure?”

  “Positive,” Jordana replied. “Come on. You can sleep the rest of the night in Meg’s bed. Things will look better in the morning.”