Crossing

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I fail to see any harm in that,” Daniel said firmly.

  “But we do see the harm. It wasn’t so bad when all your son was doing was working at Major Jackson’s home. But now he is mingling with the soldiers at the institute, and he is shooting cannons. I understand he is even learning to use the saber. Please, Mr. Tremayne, you must bring the boy home, here, to work on the farm. Or to find a trade for him.”

  Daniel was angry, and he knew it wouldn’t be good for him to speak what was on his heart.

  Becky, however, spoke up. “You must understand, Bishop, that Yancy led a completely different life with the Indians—a life that included hunting, fishing, and using guns. And after all, he is still in rumspringa. He’s only fifteen years old.”

  “I’m well aware of this, Mrs. Tremayne,” Bishop Lambright said, not unkindly. “But the fact remains that Yancy is not hunting and fishing. He is learning the tools and the ways of war. And that we cannot allow.”

  Becky, Zemira, and Daniel all exchanged glances. Daniel took up the argument. “But most of the time he is working at Major Jackson’s home, helping Mrs. Jackson. Surely you can find no fault in this?”

  “Major Jackson has exposed him to these weapons of war and has influenced his conduct for the worse,” Lambright said. “Yancy needs to be here, with the People.”

  “Major Thomas Jackson is an honorable, Christian—” Daniel began angrily.

  Becky laid her hand on his arm, and he was silent. “Do I understand,” Becky said in a quiet voice, “that you want us to make Yancy quit this job he loves and bring him back here? And if we don’t, will the three of us be punished?”

  “Mrs. Tremayne, you and your husband, and of course you, Zemira, have done nothing wrong. But surely you understand the consequences for the boy, if he persists in this course.”

  That ended the conversation and the three left.

  After they were gone, Daniel turned and the expression on his face was bleak. “I can’t do this to Yancy, make him leave the Jacksons and come back here,” he said. “I think if I did, he’d just take off and leave us. Like I did,” he said bitterly.

  “Of course we won’t do that!” Becky said. “I know we shouldn’t disagree with the bishop, but it’s not right. It’s just not right. You shouldn’t force people into the community. That’s just another form of aggression. You must let them decide for themselves. Yancy has a right to do what he wants, whether it is the Amish way or the English. You know, Daniel, that we don’t shun the members of our families who have gone the way of the English. Look at your cousins, Caleb Tremayne’s family. Sol Raber is still good friends with him.”

  Daniel nodded. “I know. I agree. But—Mother? Are you afraid that the leadership may order us to shun Yancy if we don’t make him stay home?”

  Zemira said firmly, “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Yancy is a good boy. If I would have had this choice with you, Daniel, I never would have tried to force you into our ways, as Becky said. I think that we must let Yancy do whatever seems right to him, and never in this life will I turn my back on him.”

  And that settled the matter for the three of them.

  When Yancy came home from work, Daniel called him aside and related what Bishop Lambright had said. Then he told him what he, Becky, and Zemira thought.

  “What do you think I should do?” Yancy asked worriedly.

  “Whatever your heart tells you, as long as it’s honorable,” Daniel answered, patting Yancy’s shoulder. “And I know it will be. We trust you. Follow your heart, and whatever you decide your family will be with you.”

  The next day Yancy went to work at the Jacksons’ home. He and Mrs. Jackson worked more out in the garden, planting the new daisy-mum that he had brought her from Zemira’s yard. Anna had been delighted. And they were busy weeding and turning over the soil and mulching, preparing the beds for the long winter.

  After a while Anna took a break, getting lemonade for them from the kitchen. She invited Yancy to sit down in the shade for a few minutes. Even though it was the middle of October, the midafternoon was still warm for gardening work.

  They sat in silence, as Yancy had very little to say all day. He was tired, as he hadn’t really slept.

  Finally Anna put her head to one side and asked, “Yancy, what’s wrong? Are you not feeling well today?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not that,” he said, ducking his head. “It’s—it’s a problem. At home.”

  “Is it something you can tell me about?” she asked softly.

  He hesitated for a long time then looked up at her. His dark eyes were troubled. “I don’t know, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I would like to help, if I could.”

  Slowly he explained to her his dilemma. “And so, I’m certain to be shunned if I don’t go back and just stay on the farm.”

  “What do your parents say?” Anna asked.

  “They told me to do whatever I feel is right,” he answered. “Even my grandmother says I should pray and ask God for what is right for me. Even she’s not trying to force me to be Amish.”

  “She sounds like a very wise woman.”

  “She is. I wish I was as close to God as she is. But I’m still not sure about Him, either.”

  “You’re young,” Anna said sturdily, “and you’ll find Him. In the meantime, I will pray for you, Yancy. So you’ll know in your heart what you must do.”

  That night, again, he lay awake at home, staring at the faint starlight on the ceiling. His father had told him that he could take as long as he needed to think about his decision. Yancy didn’t pray much, and when he did, he felt like he was talking to the ceiling. And so it was on this night.

  But close to the dawn, he finally made his decision in his heart and knew his course was set. He dozed for a while then rose early, as always, to go to the Jacksons’ house.

  When he arrived and took Fancy into the stables, he saw that the new hay for the stall beds had been delivered. He decided to go ahead and muck out the stalls and replace the hay before he checked in with Mrs. Jackson. He had arrived early, anyway.

  He started shoveling out the soiled hay bed in the first stall, working energetically. He even started whistling. Since he had made his decision, his heart felt lighter. He knew he had chosen the right course.

  Yancy wasn’t really surprised to see Major Jackson come into the stable, for both of the Jacksons’ horses were still there, so he knew the major hadn’t yet gone to VMI.

  “Hello, Yancy,” Jackson said pleasantly.

  “Good morning, Major Jackson. Want me to saddle Bebe or Gordo for you?”

  “Not just yet. I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. Will you come into the kitchen? Hetty has made fresh coffee for us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yancy said, a little mystified. He and Mrs. Jackson often had coffee or tea or lemonade for a little break, but Major Jackson had never sought him out for a break in work.

  Yancy followed Major Jackson into the kitchen, where they seated themselves comfortably on the high stools at the worktable. Yancy almost always had lunch in here, talking with Hetty. Although the Jacksons had made no specific provisions for Yancy’s meals—in fact, he almost always brought food from home—more often than not Hetty would fix him lunch, usually leftovers from breakfast and last night’s dinner. Sometimes Yancy wondered whether Major and Mrs. Jackson knew this, but then he decided that they were generous people and probably didn’t mind.

  They sipped their fresh hot coffee for a few moments, and then Jackson said, “My wife tells me that you’ve had some trouble at home with the Amish leadership.”

  Yancy shifted uncomfortably on his stool but didn’t drop his gaze. The blue glare of Jackson’s stare hardly allowed one to look away. “I’m sorry if I bothered Mrs. Jackson,” he said. “I didn’t mean to, sir.”

  Jackson gave a dismissive wave. “You didn’t bother her, Mr. Tremayne. She told me out of concern for you and your welfare.
And I have an interest in that, too.”

  “You do?” Yancy gulped. “Well—thank you, sir.”

  “And so, have you been able to come to any conclusions about the course you should follow?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, sir, I have,” Yancy answered. “I’d like—I’d like to keep working for you, sir. There’s just one thing I’d like to ask. It’s kind of a big favor, but I was hoping you might understand.”

  Jackson nodded. “And what is that?”

  “You see, sir, if I keep working for you and disobey the bishop, it—it puts my family in a bad way. They support my decision, sir, but the bishop could still sort of put them in disgrace. They wouldn’t be shunned.” He grinned unevenly. “Guess that’s what’s going to happen to me. But still, they would be out of favor with the leadership of the community. So what I was going to ask is if maybe there’s a room for me out at your farm, sir. Even if it’s just in the loft of the barn or in the carriage house, I could make do. It would just be so much better for my family if I wasn’t actually living at the farm.”

  Jackson leaned back, crossed his arms, and studied Yancy for a long time.

  Yancy didn’t flinch at his scrutiny; he met his icy gaze solidly.

  “That’s a hard decision for a boy of fifteen, Yancy. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “Yes, sir. And it’s not really so hard,” he added. “There’s no law that says I can’t go back and visit them anytime I want. Even if I’m supposed to be shunned, if they decide not to do it, no one’s going to go tell on them to the bishop.”

  “I see. All right, Mr. Tremayne, now let me tell you of something that I think the Lord is leading me to do. You see, Anna and I prayed last night for you, to see if there was something we might do to help you. I believe you’re an honest, hardworking, gifted young man, and that is something that I believe should be encouraged always. So I have a proposition that I’d like you to consider.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Jackson leaned across the table. “How would you like to attend VMI?”

  Yancy’s eyes widened. “Me? Go to VMI? But—how?”

  “One of the alumni has established a charity scholarship program for promising young men who can’t afford to attend the institute,” Jackson answered. “I believe that if I submit you as a candidate, with my recommendation, you’ll be accepted. It would pay for your tuition and your uniforms, provide a small allowance for food and other necessaries, and you would live in the barracks.”

  Yancy was stunned. “But—you really think I can qualify? I’ve had very little education, sir.”

  “Very little formal education, I know,” Jackson agreed. “But I’ve observed that you’re very quick, you’re intelligent, and you pay attention. I know it will be difficult, but”—he sighed dramatically—”it couldn’t possibly be harder for you than it was for me at West Point, Mr. Tremayne. I did it. I have every confidence that you can do it.”

  Yancy jumped off the stool and reached across the table. Jackson took his hand, and Yancy pumped it enthusiastically. “Yes, sir! I can! I will! And how can I ever thank you, sir?”

  “Don’t thank me, Mr. Tremayne,” Jackson said. “It will be all to my satisfaction to see you become the soldier I know you will be. And the time is coming, I think, that it will be good soldiers that we need.”

  Part Three: the Foundation 1859—1860

  CHAPTER TEN

  Broad bands of yellow sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the snowy white tablecloth on the modest fourseater dining room table at Major Thomas Jackson’s house. Anna put the good Blue Willow china on the table; she liked to have a fine table setting when Thomas was home. She looked over the two table settings with satisfaction, with Thomas at the head and her sitting at his right hand. They always sat close together when they dined alone.

  Hetty brought in scrambled eggs, grits, and bacon, and then fresh bread and marmalade. She sighed. “I know Major Jackson is only going to eat one thing. Wonder what it’ll be today? All the biscuits, or all the bacon, or all the eggs?”

  Hetty also served as the Jacksons’ cook, but sometimes Anna Jackson cooked, too. She enjoyed it, although ladies such as those in the Morrison family rarely did any cooking. But this morning she had done the scrambled eggs all by herself, and it lent a rosy hue to her normally pale cheeks.

  “I’ll tell him I cooked everything,” Anna said with a touch of amusement. “Maybe then I can make him feel guilty enough to eat a little of everything.”

  “You can try it, Miss Anna,” Hetty said resignedly. “But he’ll likely outfox you.” She huffed back into the kitchen.

  Anna poured two cups of hot coffee, then put sugar in one and set that one in Jackson’s place. Then she went down the hall to her husband’s study. Politely she knocked—she would never burst in on him uninvited—and called, “Thomas, Thomas, time for breakfast.” She returned to the dining room.

  In a few moments he appeared at the door, buttoning up his uniform tunic.

  She smiled at him. Just then Anna wanted to tell him how happy she was just to see him in the morning, but somehow she could never form that in feeling or proper words. How do I tell this man that when he isn’t here I’m lonely and have a great emptiness? How do I tell him the minute I see him coming I feel safe and secure?

  For so long Anna Jackson had buried her feelings for Thomas Jackson, as she had when he had married Eleanor Junkin. Then, she could never admit to herself that she was in love with a man who was betrothed to another woman; and she could never, would never, entertain the thought that it was through that woman’s death that she had married Thomas Jackson. In a way it held her back from expressing her deepest, most secret feelings. But Thomas Jackson was such an affectionate, loving husband that she thought he probably wouldn’t profit from her confessions anyway. He knew she loved him.

  When he came into the dining room, he put his arms out and she went to him. He held her tightly for a moment, neither of them speaking. He kissed her cheek. “You’re better than any breakfast.”

  Anna said, “I know you, Thomas Jackson. You have eating on your mind, no matter how pretty your words. Let’s sit down and eat this food before it gets cold.”

  They sat down and bowed their heads, and Jackson prayed a simple prayer of thanksgiving. Anna knew that he prayed about everything. Once he told her that he prayed over a glass of water when someone gave him one. Anna knew when he was offered any kind of help he always thanked God for it.

  “Now, that bad habit you have of only eating one thing off the table won’t work today,” Anna said firmly. “I made everything this morning, and I want you to eat some of all of it.”

  “Why, I could fill up on these good biscuits you made. Look, you made eight of them. I can eat seven and you can eat one. Then you can fill up on all the eggs and grits.”

  Anna smiled and reached out and took two of the biscuits off the platter, put them on Jackson’s plate, then said, “Eat those with your eggs.”

  She watched as he scraped some eggs on his plate then gave her the rest. He flatly refused the grits, insisting his plate was full, much more than he could eat. They ate in silence for a few moments, and in spite of Anna’s best intentions, Jackson ate his two biscuits, got two more, and ignored his eggs. Anna gave up.

  Then she said, “Thomas, the news about the North and their antislavery program threatening our cotton states has gotten so heated. What will we do if the South secedes?”

  Jackson said quietly, “God hasn’t told me, esposa. But He doesn’t need to tell me until the problem comes. “Take therefore no thought for the morrow,” the scripture says. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

  “I can’t help thinking about it. All these riots all over the country! It frightens me. I would like to know I have the courage to face a war.”

  Jackson reached over and took her hand. “I was talking to young Mr. Murphy just last week. After Sunday school he came up to me and said he
’d like to talk to me for a few moments, so I took him aside into the church office. ‘Major Jackson, I have a problem.’ Of course I asked what it was. He said, ‘I hear of people who die so easily it is like going from one room to another. If we go to war, I don’t think I can face death like that. I just don’t have dying grace.’”

  Anna asked, “What did you tell him, Thomas?”

  “I told him that he didn’t need dying grace, and he asked me why that was. I said, ‘Because you’re not dying. When it comes your time to die or my time to die, that’s when God will give us dying grace. Until that time comes, don’t worry about it.’ So, my dear, don’t worry about it.”

  Anna always marveled at how her husband could simplify theological problems. He loved nothing better than talking about the deep, profound, and often mysterious things of the Bible.

  Basically he saw things in a very simplistic manner that she envied. To him the scripture was very clear and very personal.

  “I had a dream last night of having a baby,” Anna said dreamily. “But then I worried that it might be too hard to bring a child into this world when it seems there is such trouble ahead.”

  “Why, Anna, don’t you know that Adam might have said something like that to Eve when they were driven out of the garden of Eden? ‘Eve, let’s not have any children, for it might be too difficult.’ “ He took a bite of the last biscuit and chewed it thoughtfully. “There never was a time free of trouble. People are afraid of what might happen, but we must trust the Lord, and we must be wise.” He smiled. “If God wants to send us another child, He will do so.” He rose then and said, “It is time to go to church. Let’s go hear what the Lord will teach us this morning.”

  Yancy rode up to the farmhouse and dismounted. With satisfaction he petted Midnight. He was three years old this month. Grandmother, muttering about “showy, proud horses,” had given Yancy the foal after he had been at the farm for only a month. Yancy had trained him for two years now, and it had been difficult, for Midnight was a high-spirited, proud horse. But when Yancy had been a young boy, the Cheyenne had taught him to train shaggy wild mustangs, and he had developed a special knack for turning them into superb saddle horses. And so he had done with Midnight. But he would tolerate no rider except Yancy.