by Jeff Andrews
“My God, what have they done?” Henry shook his head and walked away.
_____
Henry avoided the cliques—southern cadets in one room, northerners in the next. Hushed discussions might be taking place behind closed doors, but the friction of earlier days appeared to have lifted. The weekend was cloaked in a surreal mantle of tense politeness.
Henry rose early Sunday morning and went to chapel. Many attended, but there seemed little agreement as to what their prayers should be. Afterward, Henry wandered back to the barracks, speaking to no one. He entered his room without a word, tossed his hat on the bed, and began unbuttoning his tunic.
“What will you do?” Edward asked. He had broken the rules by lying on his bed during daylight hours. In different times, cadet officers roaming the hallways would have been quick to issue demerits. On this Sunday, no one bothered. He crossed his feet and put his hands behind his head.
“Virginia is Union and she’ll stay Union,” Henry said as he hung his tunic on the wooden peg. “We had our election a week ago. Secession was soundly defeated. I stand with my country and I stand with Virginia.”
“That might get you by for today, McConnell, but what about tomorrow? What about next week? Virginia is a slave state. She won’t be staying.”
“Then ask me again next week. I go where Virginia goes.”
_____
The rattle of drums woke Henry with a start. Rubbing his eyes, he climbed out of bed. Through the window, gray dawn heralded another Monday. He splashed cold water on his face and began preparing for morning muster when a commotion came suddenly from the hallway outside his room. He cracked open the door. A crowd filled the passageway.
“Sumter surrendered,” a cadet shouted. “Anderson struck his flag.”
“And Lincoln’s calling for an invasion of the south,” cried another plebe.
Politics and lies—a waste of his time. Henry slammed the door and finished dressing. He hurried down for morning formation.
Subdued requests replaced the normally sharp commands barked by the cadet officers. Henry took his place in formation. On command, the company covered down, filling gaps vacated by the cadets he’d seen packing their bags over the weekend. South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas—all gone.
As they marched to class, Henry reflected on the tensions created over the last several days. He’d have never guessed that he would look forward to algebra class. He smiled to himself. At least there were no politics in the classroom.
_____
Henry strode to the blackboard and wrote out his solution in large block numbers.
“Mr. McConnell, please enlighten us with your solution to problem number three.” Professor Robertson sat on the corner of his desk holding a wooden pointer across his shoulder.
Henry pointed to his solution, explaining each step.
“Precisely, Mr. McConnell, a worthy recitation. Are there questions?” The professor looked around the class.
“Just one.” Cadet Wheatley rose from his seat. “How much longer are you seceshers going to linger here abouts? The true patriots among us are growing tired of having traitors in our midst.”
Professor Robertson jumped to his feet. “Remove yourself at once, Mr. Wheatley.” He swept the pointer toward the door. “I will tolerate no such outbursts in my classroom.”
Cadet Wheatley picked up his books. He glared at Henry, then turned and marched out the door.
“Get back to work.” The professor tapped his pointer on a desk. “Problem four. Are there any volunteers?”
_____
At the end of class cadets filed from the room. Professor Robertson motioned to Henry. “Cadet McConnell, a moment, if you please.” The professor waited until all the other cadets had departed, then settled on the edge of his desk. “What’s your decision, Henry?”
“There is no decision to make. Virginia stays with the Union; I remain with her.”
“Did you hear the news?”
Henry shook his head.
Professor Robertson walked around behind his desk. “Word just came up from Washington—Lincoln is asking for volunteers. He’s calling for seventy-five thousand men to invade the south and quell what he calls the rebellion. Virginia will never stand for northern troops passing through her to invade our neighbors. Virginia will have to secede, mark my word.”
“I pray you are wrong, sir. I cannot envision lifting my sword against my country or putting a fellow cadet in my sights.”
The professor smiled. “Not even Cadet Wheatley?”
Henry straightened. “Sir, in Virginia we are partial to our jackasses. They serve a useful, though often uninspiring, purpose.”
“Touché, McConnell.” The professor saluted with the pointer. “A word of advice. Keep an eye on Fitzhugh Lee. Follow his lead.”
“Lee? Yes sir, Lieutenant Lee is well regarded by all cadets, north and south. Truly, a man to be followed.”
“Good. Then watch Fitz.
_____
The news arrived late Wednesday night, hitting the barracks like a flash of lightning: “Virginia secedes!”
Henry closed the door, leaning against the frame.
“What is it?” Edward asked, sitting up in his bed.
Henry waved him quiet, then blew out the lamp and dropped onto his bunk. An early spring breeze lifted the faint scent of honeysuckle and new grass through the open window. The familiar fragrances took him back to a simpler time—spring evenings in Virginia.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed, followed by angry voices. Henry snapped back to the present. Gaslights outside cast the shadow of the window frame against the ceiling, forming a cross. Secession? It couldn’t be. The academy, the army, even the republic—now, all were his enemy? He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come.
Dawn brought no respite. Henry didn’t bother preparing for class, but took extra time to ensure his uniform was inspection ready.
“Others will be watching, wondering what you Virginians will do.” Edward stood before the mirror adjusting the line of his tunic.
“I know only what I must do. I spoke with Lieutenant Lee yesterday. We agreed. We must go with our state. Others may wait until they hear from home, but come Sunday, I will be on the packet boat returning to Virginia.”
“And you will be missed,” Edward said. “At least by this Yankee.”
Henry hooked the last button on his frock coat, then turned to his roommate. “May God never place us on the same battlefield, but if he does, may he strike me down in all his fury if any harm comes to you by my hand.” He placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder.
“Likewise,” Edward said, clasping Henry’s shoulder. “The war will be over long before I graduate, but even if it isn’t, there is no cause so just as to bring me to raise my sword against you, my friend.”
“Enough of this pathos.” Henry pushed Edward away. “Today is for social calls and farewells, and tomorrow . . . tomorrow I will see my Belinda.” He checked the alignment of his tunic in the small mirror. “I dare say I will ask her to await my return, as I must fulfill my duty before I can ask for her hand.”
“Why, you sly fox! Congratulations.” Edward punched him on the shoulder.
“Hold on there. She still has to say ‘yes.’”
“No chance she won’t, Henry. That girl’s stuck on you and all your southern charm.”
“Well then, let’s go warm up some of that charm. Come tomorrow night, it’ll be flowing like hot apple butter on a buckwheat biscuit.”
_____
Henry surveyed the crowd surrounding the dance floor. The animosity of the past six months seemed forgotten as cadets, North and South, came together once more as brothers. Almost a third of the corps were Southern, and many had already departed. Tonight’s dance was an occasion to bid farewell to the next group to leave—the Virginians.
Belinda should have been there by now. She always found a spot toward the front. The band opene
d with a polka and couples filled the dance floor.
“Good luck, McConnell. I’d stay close and provide support, but there’s this little Jersey girl who needs my attention.” Edward gave Henry a wink, then dashed away in search of his date.
Henry edged toward the band, searching the far end of the hall. It wasn’t like her, she’d always attended, and she’d always made her presence known. He climbed onto a bench along one wall. The entire room came into view. Couples whirled past in blurs of pastel and gray. A familiar shade of yellow swept by, topped with raven black hair. Jumping from his perch, Henry kept pace with the couple, positioning himself to move in as soon as the dance ended.
A smattering of polite applause accompanied the final note. Henry leaped as high as he could, peering over the crowd. There she was, only a few feet away, surrounded by other cadets and their ladies. He pushed his way through the gathering.
“I thought you must have missed the packet boat,” Henry said. “I was worried.”
“Oh, hello, Henry.”
The music slowed to a waltz. Henry bowed and offered his hand. “Shall we—?”
Belinda looked away.
He withdrew his gloved hand and straightened. “Is there a problem?”
She folded her arms. “The problem is your southern friends turning on our nation and attacking our flag. I can’t abide a traitor, Henry, and I’ll not be seen dancing with one.”
“Is this cadet bothering you, Miss Belinda?” George Wheatley appeared, placing his hand on the small of her back.
“Come with me,” Henry said, grabbing Belinda by the hand. He stormed through the double doors to the veranda. Outside, he spun her around. “Traitor is a powerful word. I swore my allegiance to Virginia and the United States, but when the government in Washington saw fit to turn state against state, honor required that my sword be used to defend the oppressed, not aid the oppressor.”
Belinda shoved her hands on her hips. “You can frame it any way you please, Henry McConnell, it’s treason all the same, and I’ll not have my reputation sullied by dallying one instant more with the likes of a man who is neither a patriot nor a gentleman.”
“Belinda, wait—“ He reached for her hand. From behind, a fist flew over his shoulder, crashing into his jaw. Henry crumpled to the flagstone patio. Clatter filled his ears like drumsticks on a tin pot. He shook his head and slowly pushed up on one elbow.
“You’d best leave our northern women alone, McConnell. Get back to your plow horses while you still can.”
That voice . . . The night, back in November, returning to the barracks . . . .
Cadet George Wheatley towered over him, hands on his hips, his feet spread apart. Belinda peered from behind the swaggering cadet, her expression one more of curiosity than concern.
“Get back to your cotton,” Wheatley said. “Your kind’s no longer welcome here at the Point.” He started to walk away with Belinda on his arm.
Henry struggled to his feet. “Wheatley . . .”
Cadet Wheatley turned.
“You’re a damned coward.” Henry balled his fists. “It took three of you to best me in November and tonight you sneak up behind me like the stinking polecat you are. Stand and fight or strike your colors. Either way, you’ll learn a lesson tonight . . .”
A crowd of cadets and young ladies circled the two.
Wheatley sprang, unleashing a wild right punch. Henry dodged the haymaker and jabbed hard to Wheatley’s midsection. Wheatley recovered, throwing two quick punches. Both missed. He came at Henry again with another violent lunge. Henry ducked, shifted his weight, and smashed an uppercut to Wheatley’s chin. Teeth cracked against teeth. The tall New Yorker collapsed, blood gurgling from his mouth.
Belinda rushed to Wheatley’s side. She cradled his head in her arms and glared at Henry. “You brute!”
Henry massaged the knuckles on his right hand, then pointed to the unconscious cadet. “Looks to be a long war for you Yankees if that’s the best you can muster.” He turned on his heel and marched to the barracks.
_____
Henry lay on his bunk reading a letter penned on pale yellow stationary.
Edward entered the room and sat, straddling his chair. “I tried finding you after the ruckus, but you’d already left. You all right?”
Henry put down the letter. “Never better, my friend. Never better.”
“You sure?”
“What use did I have for that little trollop anyway? In South Boston alone there must be a dozen girls who could best her.”
Edward laughed. “One thing’s for sure, Wheatley won’t be bothering you anymore. Cadets were talking after you left. Even the northern boys liked what you did. He never had much of a following around here.” Edward stood and shoved the chair under his desk. “The corps is gathering tonight to give Lieutenant Lee a proper sendoff. Come morning, he’ll be on the packet boat with you. How about we head over to officers’ row and join the activities?”
“Anything for Lieutenant Lee,” Henry said. He hopped out of bed and buttoned his tunic.
They walked across the quadrangle, joining the growing procession of officers and cadets.
“Must be the entire corps here.” Henry gestured toward the impromptu formation of gray gathered on the lawn in front of Lieutenant Lee’s quarters. All of the cadets removed their covers, tucking them under their arms, as the officers led the serenade for their departing comrade.
The first song, a somber rendition of “Kathleen Mavourneen,” was one of Henry’s favorites. Two hundred male voices drew Lieutenant Lee to the small porch on the front of his quarters. He nodded and waved to the crowd, appearing hard pressed to resist the wave of nostalgia sweeping over those gathered in the commons. Next came a mournful rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Finally, they bid the lieutenant adieu with the prayerful strains of “Dixie.” As they sang the final verse, cadets and officers slowly broke ranks, drifting back to barracks and billets.
Chapter Fifteen
April 1861
“You may go on Saturday—if you get that chair finished.” Thomas pulled the door closed behind him as he left the bunkroom.
Mr. Jones shot Isaac a quizzical look. “Where’s you going Saturday, boy?”
“Eat your squirrel, old man.” Isaac ladled stew onto the tin plate and took a seat at the table.
“But what’s he talking about? You going somewhere and you can’t tell Mr. Jones?”
Isaac poked at his food. “It ain’t nothing. I just asked could I borrow the wagon after chores was done.”
“What’s you needing a wagon for?”
Isaac lowered his voice. “I’s figuring to head down by Yanceyville, see if I might can have a visit with Raleigh.”
Mr. Jones slapped his knee. “That girl sure enough got herself under your skin. You reckon she’s partial to you too?”
A warmth rushed to Isaac’s face. He stared at his plate. “Could be. She ain’t said.”
“I wager the two of you’ll be jumping that broom before the corn’s in the ground.” Mr. Jones hopped up from the table and danced around the small room, laughing and clapping his hands.
Isaac pushed aside his plate. How would he know if she was partial to him? Did she lay awake nights thinking on Isaac like he did on her?
_____
Isaac clutched his stomach as the wagon bounced over a rut. Years ago, he’d experienced similar queasiness. They’d been swimming down at Bennett’s Creek and Henry and Patrick had held him under water. Then, a stomach full of creek water had forced him to lie on the bank until the nausea passed. Now, it wasn’t creek water that turned his stomach in flips, but rather the prospect of a meeting with Raleigh.
“I ain’t never called on a woman before,” Isaac said to the horse. “Ain’t certain what I should say. Shoot, I ain’t even certain this is such a good idea. Well, too late to turn back.” He tugged on the rein. The horse turned into the winding lane leading to the Patterson house. Isaac stopped the wagon beside the
porch and hopped down, tying the reins around the hitching rail. He patted the horse as he studied the porch, then cautiously climbed the steps and crossed to the door. He lifted his hand, then hesitated.
She didn’t know he was coming. What if she was off doing errands or tied up with chores? What if she didn’t want to see him? His stomach tightened. He lowered his hand. This had been a bad idea. He turned toward the wagon.
The door opened.
“Yes?” Mr. Patterson stood in the doorway. “It is Isaac, isn’t it? To what do we owe the pleasure? Was there something more from Mr. Day?”
Isaac snatched his hat from his head, clutching it in front of him. “No sir, Mr. Patterson, I don’t have no business from Mr. Day. I . . . I come to see Raleigh. I was hoping for a short visit.”
A smile crossed Mr. Patterson’s face. He pointed to one of the straight-backed chairs. “Set on down, boy.” He chuckled as he disappeared into the house.
The morning sun warmed Isaac as he sat, hat in hand. On the front lawn, daffodils encircled a thick, gnarled oak. Forsythia splashed yellow across the paddock fence. Isaac’s knee bounced uncontrollably.
“Hey there.”
Isaac turned quickly.
Ezekiel stood beside the porch. “You’s that boy from up Milton way, ain’t you? You bring us another table, maybe a new bed?”
“I . . . I come to see Raleigh.”
Ezekiel glanced cautiously at the door. “She know you here?”
“Massa Patterson went to fetch her.”
“Raleigh don’t cotton none to men callers. Mighty particular, that woman, and she don’t tolerate the attentions of no slaves.”
Isaac’s stomach tightened. She was free. What could she see in him, other than just another slave?
Ezekiel removed his hat and raked his fingers through his snowy hair. “Well, I has to go clean the barn. You take care, boy.” He set his hat on the back of his head and whistled as he walked away.
Isaac started to wipe his sweaty palms on his shirt, then hesitated. That church shirt was all he had, not counting slave clothes. He rubbed his hands down the front of his britches.