Crossing

by Gilbert, Morris

  Zemira reached over and took his hand. Softly she said, “Yancy, no one ever said there are no consequences for sin; there always are. And you’re right. Major Jackson’s position regarding you, under the circumstances, is very different from your family’s position. But why don’t we, right now, get Becky, and all of us will pray for you, that God might spare you and allow you to stay on the path you have chosen? It may be that in His great mercyand understanding, He will spare you this shame.”

  “Knowing how you feel about soldiers, you’d do that for me, Grandmother?” Yancy asked.

  “Of course, because I have the Lord’s charity in my heart, and the Lord is kind and merciful and understanding,” she answered firmly. “And will you pray with us, Yancy?”

  He closed his eyes and a single tear rolled down his cheek. “I can’t. Right now I would feel like the worst kind of hypocrite and like a liar. But please—please—do pray for me.”

  “Always,” Daniel said. “Always, son.”

  Major Thomas Jackson’s classes at VMI always began at 8:00 a.m., and as he was always a punctual man, he always arrived at his office at 7:30 a.m. to prepare. On this Monday, January 2, 1860, Yancy Tremayne was waiting for him in the hallway. When Major Jackson came up the stairs, Yancy came to strict attention.

  Because of his shame, he hadn’t worn his VMI uniform; he was dressed in plain brown wool trousers and a cream-colored linsey-woolsey shirt. He clutched his plain wide-brimmed hat in his hand, turning the brim over and over nervously.

  When Major Jackson reached him, Yancy saluted and muttered, “Major Jackson, sir! Cadet Tremayne at your service.”

  Jackson looked him up and down sternly, and Major Thomas Jackson’s severe once-over was stern indeed. “You are out of uniform, Cadet, and you are also out of countenance.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Come into my office.”

  He unlocked the door, led Yancy in, and seated himself behind his desk. Yancy stood at attention, and Jackson did not put him at ease.

  “What have you done?” Jackson asked abruptly.

  Yancy took a deep breath, his back as stiff as a board, his arms aching at attention at his sides. He sighted somewhere beyond Jackson’s right shoulder. His eye was still swollen but had opened, and his lip had gone down somewhat, but his speech was still slurred. As clearly as he could speak, he said, “Sir! I got drunk, running with the wrong crowd. Then I got into a fight and got arrested. My father bailed me out, sir.”

  Jackson’s blue-light eyes glowed balefully. “I see. And so this wrong crowd, they got you into this trouble, and you couldn’t help yourself?”

  “No, sir. I—I misspoke, sir. I made my own decisions, went my own way, and chose to do the things I did. The—the wrong things.”

  “You see that now, do you?” Jackson asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how do you propose to undo the wrong things you did?”

  Yancy dropped his head wearily. “I can’t, sir. I know that now. It’s done. All I can do is apologize. I’ve gone to my family and begged their forgiveness. And now, sir, I ask you to forgive me and give me another chance. I want to redeem myself.”

  “How will you do that?”

  Yancy lifted his head and stood at strict attention again. “I will be a better cadet, sir. I will work harder, I will study harder, and whatever punishment you feel is appropriate, I will bear. I will regain my honor and my integrity, sir.”

  Jackson rose and looked out the window, out at the parade ground of the institute. “This is a proud and honorable school, sir, and you have a charitable scholarship here. You have betrayed that trust.”

  Yancy almost choked but managed to say, “Yes, sir, I know that, all too well. Please, if you will give me another chance, I promise you I will make you proud. I will make the institute proud. I know I have it in me, sir. I know I can achieve, and achieve excellence.”

  For long moments Jackson stood at the window, staring out. Finally he turned around. “Cadet Tremayne,” he said quietly.

  Yancy met his ice blue gaze.

  “All of us fail,” he said firmly, “but the test of our faith and our military life is when we fail, do we just lie there or do we get up and start over again? Do we fight much harder so as to regain the ground we have lost? I’ll be watching you, Cadet Tremayne. You know everyone here at the institute has heard about this disgrace. You’ll have to work much harder, and longer, to regain your honor and the respect of the faculty and staff and that of your fellow cadets. If you can do it, you will indeed be a fine addition to the institute and a fine soldier.”

  “I will, sir,” Yancy said with a lump in his throat. “I will fight hard.”

  Jackson nodded. “Then go get into your uniform and go to class.” He turned back to the window.

  As Yancy left he thought, I won’t quit! No matter how hard it gets, I will never quit!

  Part Four: The Beginning 1860—1861

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yancy kept the promise he made to himself on that dreary January day. He didn’t quit, no matter how hard it got and how many long hours he had to work. For the next year he was the model cadet. He never missed a class. His rifle skills could hardly be improved, but he still practiced every chance he got. Since his artillery skills needed to be honed, he worked with the cannons every spare minute he had. Of course the only time he had live fire was during artillery class, so he practiced all by himself in dumb show, mouthing the commands, from worming, to sponging, to loading, to priming, to the complicated geometry in aiming, to inserting the fuse, then to firing.

  Night had almost taken over the artillery field, but Yancy told himself he had one, maybe two more drills he could do before full dark. Muttering to himself, he went through the repetitive motions as fast and as thoroughly as he could manage. Finally he ordered himself to fire and pulled on an invisible lanyard.

  Behind him he heard single, slow applause and a low chuckle. He turned to see Major Jackson smiling and clapping.

  It was such an unusual sight that Yancy was speechless for a moment, but then he dropped his head and blushed. “Guess I look pretty silly, huh, Major?”

  “Not at all, not at all, Cadet,” he said. He came forward and held out his hand for Yancy to shake. “I’m very proud of you, Cadet Tremayne. I might wish all the cadets have the dedication that you show.”

  “Not all the cadets have to make up for the mistakes I’ve made, sir.”

  “One mistake is all that I know of, Yancy,” he said gruffly. “And you’ve more than made up for it. Look, here it is Saturday night and I think you’re the only cadet here at the institute. And working at artillery skills at that.”

  “Yes, sir. Believe me, I’ve stayed out of saloons and away from—from—ladies—er—”

  “I’m not that old, Cadet. I think I know what you mean. Sometimes some ladies can get us gentlemen into trouble. We must always mind the ladies.”

  Yancy grinned. “You know, that’s exactly what my father always says—to mind the ladies.”

  “Your father sounds like a wise man,” Jackson said. “So it’s almost too dark to see the targets. Are you going in now?”

  “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go through just one more drill. Just one more,” he answered anxiously.

  Jackson asked curiously, “Why? Why is one more so important?”

  “Well, sir, it’s like this. Today is September 1, 1860.”

  “Yes,” Jackson agreed, puzzled.

  “And so tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going to be seventeen.”

  Jackson nodded. “You seem older. I forget you’re so young.”

  “Most people do, I think. Maybe it’s because I’m so tall. Anyway, last January, when I got myself into so much trouble, one of the things I decided was that I was going to get in one hundred artillery drills, all by myself, before my birthday.”

  “Yes?”

  “And sir, that last one was ninety-nine.”

 
; “I see,” Jackson said gravely. “Well, Cadet Tremayne, it’s so dark now I’m not sure I could sight a target with eagle eyes. But why don’t we do just one more drill. You’re the gun captain. I’ll worm, sponge, and prime.”

  “Sir? You—you want me to be your gun captain?”

  “Said so, didn’t I? Let’s go!” They went through a perfect drill, with Major Jackson worming, sponging, and priming.

  Yancy aimed, set the fuse, and instead of mouthing the words, stood tall and shouted, “Fire!” then pulled his invisible lanyard.

  “One hundred,” Jackson said with satisfaction.

  “Yes, one hundred, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure. And by the way, Cadet Tremayne …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “On Monday I’ll make you a gun captain. Think about the crew you want.”

  “Sir! Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  “Good, good. You’ve earned it, Cadet.”

  Yancy picked up the “worm” and the sponge and started toward the storage shed. To his surprise Major Jackson walked with him. “You know, Cadet, I’ve been watching you carefully this year. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t make a mistake in recommending you for your charity scholarship.”

  “You didn’t, sir,” Yancy said firmly.

  “I’m sure of that now. It takes time to earn trust once it’s been broken. You have done that. Not only with rifles and artillery but with your studies. You’re nineteenth in a class of one hundred and forty-two. That’s quite an accomplishment, Cadet Tremayne, because I know you had no formal education before you came here.”

  “No, sir,” Yancy said. “But my barracks mates have helped me a lot. Especially Cadet Stevens.”

  Jackson said, “He’s a good man, a good soldier. He looks like the worst kind of fop but he’s solid. He kind of reminds me of …” His voice faded out.

  “Lieutenant Jeb Stuart,” Yancy supplied. “In fact, Peyton met Lieutenant Stuart in Charles Town before John Brown’s execution. He’s sort of Peyton’s hero.”

  Jackson said drily, “I can see how he would be. Lieutenant Stuart is a very interesting man.”

  “Interesting, yes,” Yancy agreed. “And by the way, sir, I already know three men I want on my gun crew. My barracks mates—Peyton Stevens, Charles Satterfield, and Sandy Owens.”

  Jackson nodded. “Very good, Cadet Tremayne. You’ll need three more. Any ideas on that?”

  “Not yet, sir, but I’ll know by Monday.” Yancy shut the door to the storage shed, and they walked up through the parade grounds to the stables.

  Yancy looked up. The Milky Way was like a diamond shawl thrown across the sky. In this luminous starlight they could see their way. There was no moon. “Major Jackson?” Yancy murmured, staring overhead.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know why, when there’s no moon, it’s called the new moon?”

  Jackson looked up and studied the sky. “Cadet, you just happened to ask me something that I know. After the full, the moon gets positioned between the earth and the sun, and the dark side is toward the earth. So after the fullest moon, there’s a time when it’s born again that we can’t see. It’s brand-new, and we won’t see it until the earth has turned just right to catch the tiniest glimpse of it.”

  “Born again, and then a glimpse,” Yancy repeated softly.

  “That’s right. Just like life, and love, and learning to live in God’s will,” Jackson said. “It’s not something that just happens. It takes time and dedication.” He glanced at Yancy. “Just like you’ve shown this year, Cadet. Think about that.”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Yancy said soberly. “I will.”

  Peyton Stevens lay on his bunk with his forage cap upside down between his booted feet. Negligently he held a deck of cards and with two fingers flipped one into the cap. “Fourteen,” he said.

  “Shut up,” Sandy Owens said irritably. He was on the other lower bunk, frowning over a book.

  Stevens flipped another card, perfectly sailing through the air and settling neatly into his cap. “Fifteen.”

  “Stevens, we all know you’re so brilliant you don’t have to study, but not all of us are as smart as you are,” Yancy said from the bunk above him. He was diligently memorizing from his physics textbook. “Why don’t you go outside to the parade ground to show off your card skills? Or go to town and call on one of those girls who is always chasing you around?”

  “Boring. And boring,” Stevens said lazily. He flipped another card. “Sixteen.”

  “Shut up,” Charles Satterfield grumbled from above Sandy Owens’s bunk.

  “Whoa, Chuckins, getting kind of bossy, aren’t you?” Stevens said, grinning. “What are you trying to study anyway?”

  “History of the Founding Fathers,” he answered. “But all that’s going through my head is your dumb ‘fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.’”

  “Take my word for it, Chuckins, what’s going on today is going to make more history than all the Founding Fathers put together,” Stevens said. It was November 6, 1860, and it was the day of the presidential election.

  Abruptly Yancy shut his book and turned over on his back. Putting his hands behind his head, he stared at the blank ceiling. “So what do you think this election means, Peyton? What do you think will happen?”

  Peyton flicked another card into his cap but didn’t count it. “I don’t know everything, you know. Just what my father says.” His father was a United States senator from Virginia.

  “So? What does he say?” Sandy asked impatiently.

  Apparently carelessly Peyton replied, “The Democrats have three weak candidates that will split the Southern vote. Abraham Lincoln will probably win. He is undoubtedly antislavery and altogether against secession. If he wins, there will most likely be a war.”

  And so Abraham Lincoln did win, and the rumblings of war did sound in the air of the United States of America. Between his election in November and the first of February 1861, the cotton states held conventions and voted to secede—South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas. That month delegates from those states met at Montgomery, Alabama, and voted to found a new nation. They called it the Confederate States of America. Its first president was Jefferson Davis.

  Secession and war were the topics at VMI—except in Major Thomas Jackson’s classes. He flatly refused to allow any discussion other than the class texts. Even during artillery practice he sternly corrected any cadet that mentioned Virginia’s possible involvement in the growing hostilities.

  But then April came, and it seemed to Yancy as if everyone, both North and South, had gone mad.

  In the first week of April, Abraham Lincoln decided to send a naval relief expedition to Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina, and, carefully avoiding dealing with the Confederacy, notified the state authorities. The fort was a federal naval base and always had been. The problem was that now the Confederacy regarded it as the property of the Confederate States of America, and that government gave the order for the North to immediately surrender the fort. If they did not surrender, Montgomery ordered the dashing Creole commander, General P. G. T. Beauregard, to reduce the fort by arms—to, in fact, start a war.

  On April 12, 1861, Beauregard made his demand to Major Robert Anderson and his seventy-five men. He rejected the demand. The Confederate guns opened on the fort, firing all that day and into the night. The next day the garrison yielded.

  Responding to the frenzy of outrage in the North, on the fifteenth, the president called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to subdue the rebellious South. This resulted in a fury of patriotism in the Confederate states.

  On April 17, Virginia seceded from the Union. Within three weeks, three other states of the Upper South had seceded: Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina. The eleven states of the Confederate States of America was complete.

  Major Thomas Jackson was in his element, for a Presbyterian synod was meeting in Lexington. It was Saturday, April
20, and the Jackson home was packed with ministers. The sound of their voices speaking and laughing was meat to Jackson.

  Anna came to him once and whispered, “You’re in your element, Thomas. You love nothing more than to argue over the Bible with ministers.”

  “We’re not arguing. We’re discussing. It is edifying. You know, esposita, at one point in my life I wished desperately that God would call me to be a minister, but the call never came. So here I am a poor soldier. I can at least give comfort and hospitality to those who are.”

  Anna smiled. She put her hand on Thomas’s arm and said, “In your own way, my dear, you are a minister of the Word, too. Remember one of my favorite chapters in the scripture?”

  “Second Corinthians, chapter five,” Jackson answered.

  “Verse twenty: ‘Now then we are ambassadors for Christ….’ “ Anna said confidently. “You are not only an ambassador, you are a minister. Not only do you teach your cadets, you minister to them, too. Now, please excuse me and I’ll go to the kitchen to see about my ministry—providing enough coffee and tea to these gentlemen. It’s like trying to keep a battalion supplied,” she said with a smile.

  In the hot kitchen, Hetty was boiling two big pots of water when Yancy came in the door with three pounds of coffee, a pound of Indian tea, and a pound of chamomile tea. “Hello, Mrs. Jackson. More coffee and tea for the gentlemen.” Sometimes on weekends he still helped Anna at the house with her garden and with repairs and with the horses.

  “And just in time, too,” she sighed. “I think both the coffee samovar and the teapots are empty. Yancy, you look splendid in your uniform. And let me see …” She stepped up to him and looked up into his face. “You have, I think, grown another inch or two.”

  “Guess so, ma’am,” he agreed. “I’m a couple of inches taller than my father now, and he’s right at six feet.”