Over Hill’s protestations, Eugenia asked slyly, “And so this was a Senorita Quince, Major Thomas?”
“Eugenia, really,” Anna scolded her. “That is—there was not a Senorita Quince, was there, Major Jackson?”
“No, no, there was not,” Jackson hastily replied. “Quince is a fruit. It looks like a pear, but it is much more tart and crisp. All of us loved them, because they were so refreshing in that hot, dry climate. Once, I’m afraid, this hunger for them forced me and Major Hill to climb an adobe garden wall for fresh quince, and I believe we came closer to getting killed by the owner of the home than we ever were in battle. And there was a senorita involved … at least she made a good deal of noise, and I think that her father thought that we were more interested in her than in the less dangerous fruit. I think that is the fastest that I’ve seen D.H. move, climbing back across that garden wall.”
Isabella glowered. “And you, Harvey, did you know this senorita? Is that how you came to know about the quince tree?”
“No! No!” he vigorously protested. “It was all Jackson’s fault. He had seen the very tip-top of the tree the day before, and he said the gardener would never miss two or three of the fruits. But as it happened, he did object most strenuously.”
“But after all this, did you get any fruit, Major Jackson?” Anna asked, smiling.
“We did, but it was at a high price. D.H. skinned his knee terribly in our shameful retreat, and I fell off the wall on the other side and twisted my ankle so badly I could hardly get my boot on the next day. But the quince was very good,” he added, his blue eyes light and fiery as he glanced slightly at Anna, “and so I may say it was worth it. Most of the time, the things that are hardest to obtain are the more precious to have.”
The First Presybterian Church was a solemn edifice, two stories of graceful Greek Revival architecture of white sandstone, with five lofty columns guarding the entrance and a great steeple with a clock tower. Thomas Jackson had joined the church in 1851. Before he joined he had visited with Dr. William S. White, the pastor, many times and had found him to be a dedicated scholar of the Bible and servant of the Lord.
Once again Thomas found himself escorting Miss Morrison as she and her sisters and brothers-in-law attended church with him. He wondered again at Anna. She was an attractive, modest, intelligent woman of a quiet, sweet wit, and it was unusual for a woman of such family and virtues to remain unmarried by the age of twenty-four. He had known her for five years now, having met her several times, as he had been a popular visitor to D.H. Hill’s home when he had been at Washington College. He had always thought her a mildly pretty woman and an interesting one, but he had been so very much in love with Elinor Junkin that no other woman touched his mind except in passing.
Even now as he thought of Ellie, his thoughts, mind, and heart wandered. It had been over a year, and yet the grief and the feeling of loss was still so raw that, unknowing, he drew in a deep, ragged breath, stopped walking, and stared off at the distant blue hills to the east. The Blue Ridge Mountains were wreathed in mysterious smoke as always, and he longed to lose himself in that far place where, it seemed, everything and everyone must be immortal—forever beloved, unhurt, and undying ….
Anna stopped as Major Jackson paused and watched him with sympathy, for the expression on his face bore some sadness.
She recalled the first time she had met him. It was at D.H. Hill’s house, on one of Thomas’s many visits to the Lexington house where D.H. and Isabella had entertained on any opportunity permitted. Thomas was generally her escort by default, as Isabella was engaged to D.H. and her younger sister, Eugenia, had many suitors to escort here anywhere and everywhere. Anna admired Major Jackson. He was a true man, it seemed to her, and a strong and genuine person.
In fact, she wrote to one of her acquaintances:
More soldierly looking than anything else, his erect bearing and military dress being quite striking; but upon engaging in conversation, his open, animated countenance, and his clear complexion, tinged with the ruddy glow of health, were still more pleasing ….His head was a splendid one, large and finely formed, and covered with soft, dark brown hair, which, if allowed to grow to any length, curled; but he had a horror of long hair for a man … he was at all times manly and noble looking, and when in robust health he was a handsome man.
When Thomas had announced his engagement to Elinor Junkin, Anna had appeared to wish him the best goodwill, as did her family. She never spoke of her private feelings to anyone. Her sisters did know that she admired Major Jackson, but Anna was reserved, so they never dreamed of intruding upon her by questioning her of her feelings about his marriage. Through those two years of Jackson’s marriage, and the death of his wife and his subsequent mourning, Anna had conducted herself with great aplomb; but whenever she saw him again, she had a sparkle in her soft eyes. She spoke of him often to her sisters and to D.H., but it was always impersonal, regarding the last time they had seen him or reminiscing about old times.
Anna was reluctant to interrupt his reverie, but it was almost time for the service to begin. Softly she said, “Major Jackson?”
He came alive again, from that far-off land, and they went into the church, arm in arm.
Anna hoped that one day he would look at her with that same tender regard she had seen as he stared at the faraway Blue Ridge Mountains.
D.H., Isabella, Rufus, Eugenia, and Anna left Lexington on Monday, December 17, a week before Christmas. At the train station, Thomas Jackson discreetly asked Anna if he might correspond with her, strictly as a loyal friend. Anna agreed heartily.
Over the next months, Thomas wrote her nice little letters, about the goings-on at VMI and the coming spring and the beauty of the Shenandoah Valley. In summer he wrote about the great riches of his farm—corn, tomatoes, snap beans, peas, turnips, carrots, squash, celery, and beets. He wrote, mildly and oddly noncommitally, about the growing tensions between North and South on the question of secession.
Anna saw nothing more of Thomas Jackson until July 1856. Virginia Military Institute planned a particularly extravagant July Fourth celebration. Urged by Uncle William Graham and many of their cousins, D.H. Hill and Isabella decided to take a large party to Lexington to celebrate.
Without fanfare, Thomas escorted Anna to the festivites. They watched the fireworks and the immaculate artillery performances by the VMI cadets. As the merriments were winding down, he turned to her and said, “Although I realize it might be forward of me, I have a gift for you. Would it be too presumptuous to ask you to receive it?”
“Not at all, sir,” she answered, blushing in spite of herself. She took his arm and he led her to his horse, which was in the institute’s stables.
Out of his saddlebag he drew a brown-wrapped parcel. He handed it to her, then closed his hands over both of hers as she grasped it. “I would very much prefer if you would keep it until you go home and then unwrap it,” he said quietly.
“Of—of course, Major Jackson,” she answered. “Certainly. I thank you very much, and I’m sure that it is a gift I shall cherish.”
“I hope so.” He led her back to her family.
They returned home, the Hills and Barringers and Anna back to Col Alto, Thomas Jackson back to Junkin Home.
Anna did not open her gift that night. She was tired and slightly drained, and she thought that whatever it was, she would appreciate it much more when she felt well and energetic. And she had the most curious feeling about the gift—great anticipation on the one hand and a sort of dread that it would be disappointing on the other. Though she was extremely curious, she still could not bring herself to open the gift. She told herself that she could deal with the emotion—whichever extreme it was—if she were at home.
The next day was July 5, the day they were to return back home to North Carolina. Anna had packed the brown-wrapped parcel tightly and securely in her trunk, between her brown velvet day dress and her green velvet evening dress. Major Thomas Jackson did not come to
the railroad station to see them off, as he had said his good-byes the night before.
The next day at Cottage Home in North Carolina, Anna finally summoned the courage to open her package. It was Major Jackson, his daguerreotype from that December. There was no note attached. To her, he looked very handsome, and his light blue eyes had a hint of sadness in them. But they seemed to look forward, to new days, instead of the grief of the last year. She was extremely happy with her gift and treasured it, though she kept it in a bureau drawer because she felt it would be too much anticipation of the future to keep it displayed by her bedside.
On that same evening, July 6, she received a telegram. Major Thomas Jackson had written to tell her that he was gone to Europe, on a grand tour including Belgium, France, Germany, Switzerland, England, and Scotland. He hoped that she would be amenable to him corresponding with her. A few days later she began receiving his letters, which she answered immediately.
Once he wrote in more flowery language than she had ever heard him use:
I would advise you never to name my European trip to me unless you are blest with a superabundance of patience, as its very mention is calculated to bring up with it an almost inexhaustible assemblage of grand and beautiful associations….
Anna wrote back that she did, indeed, possess much patience.
He returned in October. His letters had grown steadily more personal and even showed some affection. So though Anna expressed surprise, she wasn’t really shocked when he shambled up on his horse, unannounced, to call at Cottage Home. After visiting with her family, Thomas asked if he might speak to Anna alone.
There were many endearments expressed, although neither Anna nor Thomas recorded all of them. On one knee, holding her hand and looking up at her with a forgotten warmth and hope in his eyes, he asked, “Miss Anna, would you do me the greatest honor and consent to become my wife?”
“I will,” she answered with tears in her eyes. “And sir, you do me great honor.”
Anna Morrison had been kissed a very few times before, but Major Thomas Jackson’s kiss celebrating their engagement was the sweetest, and the most poignant, she had ever known.
They were married at Cottage Home on July 16, 1857.
CHAPTER TWO
Yancy Tremayne leaned over the bank, as motionless as the stones in the stream below. He had held that position for ten minutes, but now with a flash of movement, he grabbed a fish and flung it on the bank behind him. He whooped with triumph, for it was the biggest fish he had ever caught; it was fifteen pounds at least, a striped bass. He strung it out and started back to the camp.
Even at the young age of twelve, he was half a head taller than any of the Cheyenne boys his age, and he already had matured more so that he had taken on a sort of manhood. He had dark eyes and an olive tint to his skin, and his hair was as black as the darkest thing in nature. He had a straight English nose and a cleft in his chin exactly as did his father, Daniel. Like all the Cheyenne, Yancy wore buckskin breeches, moccasins, and a buckskin vest with intricate beading. He had taken that off when he was fishing so that it wouldn’t get wet.
He hurried back, for he always liked to bring his trophies directly to his father. Suddenly a Cheyenne boy named Hinto jumped out onto the path. Hinto was the son of the Cheyenne chief, White Buffalo. Hinto was his eldest son and was much indulged. Although he had handsome features, as did the Cheyenne people, he tended toward chubbiness and was a bully. He was sixteen years old and much bigger than Yancy. Now he blocked Yancy’s way. “I’ll take that fish, Yancy.”
“No, you won’t! This is my fish.”
Hinto grabbed the fish, and Yancy let it go. Hinto turned, and Yancy picked up a smooth round river stone and hit him in the head, knocking him flat. Yancy picked up the fish and looked at Hinto, noting that he wasn’t hurt badly or unconscious, only befuddled. “You go catch your own fish,” he taunted then ran lightly down the path.
He reached the camp made of tepees covered with buffalo hide, which were scattered over an open meadow, but he ran by them like a fleeing deer and circled back to the riverbank. There his father had built a log cabin, insulated with river mud daub. It had only one room, with a loft where Yancy slept, and he headed there to find his father.
Daniel Tremayne sat outside, rocking in a chair he had made from Lake Essee’s fine oak timber.
“Look at the fish I caught!” Yancy cried, holding up his prize.
“That is a right nice fish you got there.” Daniel, at the age of thirty-two, was over six feet tall and was very lean and muscular. Ordinarily he wore a fur cap, but the summer was hot, so he wore nothing on his head. His long reddish blond hair was tied back with a rawhide thong. His face was handsome in a rugged way; his jaw was lean, and his cheekbones sharp. In the bright sun he had sun-squints at the corners of his blue eyes. He had a small scar beside his mouth, and a livid red one ran from his left jawbone down to his shoulder blade. His buckskin vest was much finer than Yancy’s, for the beading was from the V-shaped front all the way to the shoulders and was very intricate. His buckskin breeches had a long fringe, and his knee-high moccasins were also beaded. He reached out and took the fish, holding the mouth with his thumb. “This fellow ought to feed us until we get sick of eating fish.”
Yancy was pleased with his father’s praise. He was telling his father how he had caught it, relating every second, when they wereinterrupted by White Buffalo and his son Hinto, who had a bloody forehead.
White Buffalo growled, “Look what your boy did, Tremayne.”
Daniel got to his feet and looked at the son of the chief. “What happened, Hinto?”
“While I wasn’t looking, Yancy came up behind me and hit me with a rock.”
“That’s a lie!” Yancy argued, and stood up very straight to face Chief White Buffalo, his fists clenched by his sides. “He took my fish away from me, and when he turned around I hit him with a rock. I had to to get my fish back. He’s a thief!”
White Buffalo was tall and well formed, a strong man. Since he was war chief, very rarely did anyone press him or argue with him. He crosssed his arms and frowned darkly at Yancy.
Daniel Tremayne grew alert. He knew the man had a fiery temper and was an expert with any weapon. White Buffalo carried only a knife at his side now, but he was always dangerous.
“You should teach your son how brothers behave,” White Buffalo muttered.
“I’ll take care of my son, you take care of yours, White Buffalo. Hinto stole Yancy’s fish, and he had a right to get it back.”
White Buffalo was angry to the core. He had never liked Daniel Tremayne, who was a far better shot with a rifle than he was. Also, when they were much younger and before White Buffalo became chief, they had a fight during which the two had bloodied each other thoroughly. It was, in fact, because White Buffalo had insulted Daniel’s half-breed wife, Winona. In that altercation Daniel had emerged the victor.
Now White Buffalo grunted, “Your boy isn’t a true Cheyenne, and you aren’t of the people yourself. The boy’s mother was only half Cheyenne. The other half was white trapper.” He spat on the ground disdainfully.
“He’s Cheyenne enough to make his way,” Daniel said quietly and civilly.
White Buffalo had said what he came to say. “Tremayne, why don’t you go to your own people? Neither of you belong here. Neither of you are true Cheyenne.” He turned abruptly and walkedaway, followed by Hinto, who looked back and made a childish face at Yancy.
Daniel watched them leave until they disappeared over the path toward the Cheyenne camp. Then he sat back in his rocking chair and motioned for Yancy to sit down on the rough bench beside him. “Yancy, there’s something we need to talk about.”
Yancy sat and waited, his eyes fixed on his father. He was disturbed by the reference to his white blood. It was something that the pure-blooded Indian boys taunted him about often. His mother had been only half Cheyenne. Her father had been Pierre Charbeau, a fur trapper. The Cheyenne felt only disdain for a
nyone not of pure blood, although they did not—like the Comanche or the Sioux—torment or sometimes kill the mixed breeds. They just didn’t include them, which was difficult for the mixed breeds in the tribe. The Cheyenne creed meant very strong and loyal family ties to their own, and to be left out of this close circle was painful.
The Cheyenne had been, perhaps, more accepting of Winona because she tried hard to fit in with them. She could raise a good tepee, she could fish, she made wonderful soft buckskin breeches and shirts and vests. Her skill in beading was the best in the village; often the chieftains bought beads at the trading post at Cantonment and paid her in fish and deer meat and rabbit to do her beading on their garments.
She had lived alone, because her mother had died when she was fifteen and her father had disappeared during trapping season, going off to the distant Ouachita Mountains, never to return. When Daniel Tremayne had first met the Cheyenne, she had been seventeen. He had loved her the minute he set eyes on her. They had married, in the Cheyenne way, and a year later she had Yancy. When Yancy was ten, she contracted cholera and died.
Now as Daniel remembered her he was saddened, because this place had always been Winona’s home; but he knew that it wasn’t his home, nor was it meant to be Yancy’s home. “Yancy, we’re going to be leaving this place.”
Yancy stared at his father, his dark eyes suddenly narrowing. “Why would we do that? These are our people.”
“No, they’re not, as you just heard. When your mother was alive, we were a part of the Cheyenne people because of her. But you and I … we don’t belong here.”
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