Crossing

by Gilbert, Morris

  As the Union army fled, Jackson tried to convince his superior officers that this was the time to strike Washington, but no one would listen. He turned to Yancy in despair and said, “Now is the time to win this war, but no one sees it.”

  Yancy said, “Our men are pretty tired, sir.”

  “We’ll never be in a better position to strike Washington than we are now. Go find General Johnston; I’ve written this note. But you tell him that the 1st Virginia Brigade will attack Washington alone if we have to!”

  Yancy said, “Yes, sir!” He wheeled Midnight around and took off across the broken battlefield.

  He delivered the message to General Johnston who said, “No, we’re too weak and they’ll be behind the barricades. Tell Jackson we have won the victory.”

  Dispiritedly Yancy rode back and gave Jackson the message.

  Jackson just replied, “Very well. Here, Sergeant. I have written a report for the president. Take it to Richmond. Remain there until you get an audience with him.”

  Yancy rode Midnight south toward Richmond, believing that the battle was over and he was safe, paralleling the Confederate lines to the east. But he had not ridden more than a mile when he suddenly saw that part of the battle was still raging. A small group of Federals were engaged in a desperate fight with a force of Confederates. The Confederates appeared to be winning because they outnumbered the opposing force, but Yancy was a soldier, and he had to fight.

  He tied Midnight to a scrub oak then ran forward, loading his rifle as he ran. But by the time he reached the line of battle, the men in blue had fled with the Confederates in full pursuit. Yancy considered them and realized that the Federals were sure to be taken prisoner.

  He remembered his first duty was to carry out General Jackson’s orders. He turned back … then suddenly stopped dead still.

  Not ten feet away was a wounded Union officer, a lieutenant, sitting with his back against a tree. His hat was on the ground. Locks of his sandy brown hair, fine and caked with sweat and battle grime, had fallen down over his forehead. His tunic was covered with blood. He had a pistol in his hand that was aimed directly at Yancy. The lieutenant’s eyes were clear enough, and the pistol in his hand was steady.

  Yancy stopped dead still then threw up his rifle, but he knew that he had not finished loading it. There was no charge in the barrel, so helplessly he lowered it again.

  At that moment, as he saw the officer’s finger tighten on the trigger, Yancy Tremayne understood with a shock that he was only a few seconds from death. He would be facing a God whom he had never served. Strangely enough, he felt little fear, only regret that he’d never found God. A cry leaped unbidden from his lips: “God, forgive me!”

  He then waited for the shot that would send him to eternity.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Yancy stared into the barrel of the pistol aimed directly at his heart, he was very aware of all of his surroundings. He could still hear the faint cries of the Confederates, chasing the company that this Union lieutenant belonged to, or so he supposed. The chilling Rebel yell carried on the still air. He could feel each great drop of sweat that rolled off his forehead and down his nose and cheeks. He could smell burning gunpowder in his nostrils.

  Yancy’s hands were trembling. He was intensely aware of the details of the wounded lieutenant, even noticing that he had a gold ring on his finger on his right hand, the hand that held the pistol that was aimed at his heart.

  But now, even as he took these inconsequential details into his mind, he was very aware of his overall state of mind. Since he had cried out to God, he was amazed to find that the fear that had burned in him was gone. Calmly he waited for the lieutenant to fire, even standing up straight and turning slightly to face him full front. As the seconds ticked off, he couldn’t understand why the end didn’t come.

  He shifted his gaze from the round muzzle of the pistol upward until he focused on the face of the officer. Oddly, he thought, He looks like a good man. He didn’t expect to find goodness in a man trying to kill him, and he was unsure of what quality in the man’s face made him think such a thing.

  The gray eyes of the soldier stared at him steadily.

  Yancy stared back, expressionlessly, and then he leaned forward, unconsciously anticipating the force of the bullet that would kill him. But no shot came.

  Abruptly the officer dropped the gun into his lap. A deadly weariness washed over his face. He was pale and his lips were moving unsteadily as he spoke. “I’ll be in the presence of God soon, and I don’t want the blood of a helpless man on my hands.” He slumped forward, his chin falling on his chest.

  With somewhat of a shock Yancy realized that he was still alive and that he wasn’t going to die, in the next few minutes anyway. He fell to his knees, bowed his head, and cried, “Oh, God, I believe that Jesus is the Son of the living God, and I believe He died for my sins. I put my faith in Him and I ask You, God, to save me from my sins and make me into the man You want me to be!”

  He knelt there for only a few moments, and a strange peace descended upon him. Slowly he got to his feet and found that his hands were now steady.

  Yancy went to the wounded man, knelt down beside him, and took the pistol that lay on the man’s lap. As he did, he saw that there was a wound in his leg that was bleeding. But it was just a graze, on the outside of his thigh. He opened the officer’s tunic and saw an entry wound just down and on the left of his chest. He thought that probably the ball had missed the lung, but when he eased him forward, he realized that the bullet hadn’t come out.

  Gently he propped the man back against the tree. Running to where Midnight waited, he grabbed an old muslin shirt out of his saddlebag. After he returned to the wounded man, he ripped the shirt into shreds and removed the man’s coat. He tied the strips of the shirt together and took a larger piece and placed it over the wound that was bleeding. He used the strips to tie the rough bandage in place. Then he cut the man’s trousers off and bandaged the wound in his thigh.

  Yancy was just finishing up bandaging his leg when the man’s dull gray eyes opened and he murmured, “Do you have any water?”

  “Yes, I’ll get my canteen.” He once again rose and went to Midnight and got his canteen. He took the cap off and held it to the man’s lips.

  The soldier grabbed the canteen and looked as if he was going to gulp it down.

  Yancy pulled it away and said, “Don’t drink too much right now, because of your wound. Just sip it. After we get you fixed up you can have more.”

  The soldier’s eyes were steady now, and he was lucid. He nodded and took only three small sips. “Thanks for the water.”

  Yancy, kneeling beside him, asked, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  The lieutenant managed to smile. “For the same reason you’re not killing me. We didn’t want blood on our hands. Blood of unarmed men, anyway.”

  “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”

  “Leslie, Leslie Hayden.” The young man closed his eyes and Yancy thought he was losing consciousness. But he opened them again to regard Yancy gravely. His voice was faint, but Yancy could clearly hear him. “I’m going to ask you a favor, Sergeant. I think I’ve lost too much blood. Would you carry a message to my family?”

  Yancy answered, “I don’t think you’re going to die, but I’ll do what you ask.”

  “My father lives just outside of Richmond, just south of the Episcopalian church. His name is Dr. Jesse Hayden. If I don’t make it, will you go and tell him and my mother that I died trusting in the Lord? And tell them that I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid at all anymore.”

  Suddenly Yancy knew what he had to do. This man in one sense was the enemy, and Yancy had sworn to defend his homeland from men like this soldier; but now he was no longer a soldier. He was now a noncombatant, and he had shown Yancy mercy.

  Yancy made a hard decision. “I’ll take you to your family, Lieutenant Hayden, and your father can treat your wounds.”

  Surprise washed o
ver Hayden’s bloodless face. “But if we get caught, you could be executed for giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “Then we won’t get caught. I’ll be back. You just hang on.”

  The roadside was littered with field packs and even weapons that the Federals had thrown away in their disorganized rout. Yancy had passed a wagon about a quarter of a mile back, a supply wagon with blankets and tents. Someone had taken the horse and run. Yancy rode Midnight to it, hitched him up, and hurried back to Lieutenant Hayden. He jumped out of the wagon and said, “This should get us back to Richmond with you as comfortable as can be, under the circumstances.”

  “My uniform …” Hayden said weakly.

  “I’ve got some work clothes in my pack. We’re about the same size.” He pulled his extra shirt and a pair of work pants that he wore sometimes in camp when doing rough work. Being as careful as he could, he took off Hayden’s tunic and redressed him. He had fine officer’s boots, so Yancy took those and, wrapping the uniform and boots together, threw them to the side of the road. He had seen some dead soldiers in the field where they had been skirmishing, but somehow Yancy didn’t think he could stoop to stripping them of their shoes. He had one pair of extra socks, and he put those on the wounded man and thought that would have to do.

  “All right, Lieutenant Hayden, it’s going to hurt, but I’ve got to get you in that wagon.” Leaning down, Yancy put his arm around Hayden and pulled him to his feet. He heard the man sigh heavily, but he didn’t cry out. They staggered over to the back of the wagon. Hayden was almost dead weight, and for a few moments Yancy wondered if he would be able to bodily lift him into it, but somehow Hayden managed to summon some strength and drew himself up to get up onto the tailgate. He then fell heavily on the bed of blankets.

  Yancy jumped up into the bed and managed to pull him into a more comfortable position. “If anybody stops us, let me do the talking.”

  Hayden was lying flat on his back, staring up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  Yancy thought for a moment, then he smiled slightly. “Lieutenant, I think that God is telling me to help you.” His own words surprised him. He hesitated then went on, “This is the first time I’ve ever heard from God, so I guess I’d better do what He says.”

  He jumped to the ground and put the tailgate up on the wagon. Quickly he climbed into the seat, snapped the reins, and muttered, “Come on, Midnight, we have long miles to go.”

  It was a smoky, sultry night in Richmond. Thinking hard, Yancy remembered having seen the Episcopal church just south of the heart of town. He skirted around the city. There were few people stirring, but he suspected that downtown and around the capitol would be one great buzzing hive of activity. But it was quiet, with very few home lights glowing, in this gracious residential section.

  The moonlight was brilliant; its silver light bathed the street in argent beams. Before they had ridden out, he had asked Lieutenant Hayden what his father’s house looked like, and the Lieutenant had described it as “a large two-story house with four gables in the front and framed by two enormous walnut trees.”

  The description was accurate enough, and Yancy pulled Midnight to a halt. Quickly, he tied the lines off and jumped into the back of the wagon. He hadn’t wanted to waste time stopping to check on his passenger. Hayden had been very quiet, and by the time Yancy found his family home, he was afraid he might have died. He checked him and saw that he still had a faint pulse and his breathing was very shallow; he was unconscious, but he lived.

  Yancy jumped out of the wagon and looked up and down the street. It was an elegant street, with two-story family homes, great live oak trees, magnolias, elms, and walnut and pecan trees. Few of the windows were lit. Yancy didn’t know what time it was, but it was late.

  At the Hayden residence there was only one small light in an upstairs window, and the home had a private, reserved air that made Yancy wonder exactly how he would approach this family of Union sympathizers. He still wore his Confederate gray uniform and forage cap. Undoubtedly this family would not exactly welcome him with open arms. Still, he knew he had to get Hayden to his father.

  He went up the steps onto the wooden veranda, and his boots seemed to make a lot of noise. He knocked on the door, quietly and softly. There was no answer. Sighing, he turned to go back to check on Hayden.

  Then suddenly behind him was a sharp wedge of light, a quiet tread on the porch, abrupt darkness, and then a woman’s voice. “Stop right where you are, Johnny Reb. Be very still, or I’ll shoot you. Put your hands up over your head.”

  Yancy froze, put his hands up over his head, and said in a voice as calm as he could manage, “I’m looking for Dr. Hayden.”

  “What for? What do you want with him?”

  “I’m going to turn around now. Please don’t shoot me.” He turned around with his hands lifted high.

  There in the shimmery moonlight, he saw a young woman who was indeed holding a pistol in each hand. Both of them were cocked and both of them were pointed at his chest. She had slipped out of the front door and stood in the shadows in the corner of the entryway.

  Yancy swallowed hard. “I have the doctor’s son in that wagon. He’s been shot and he’ll die if he doesn’t get medical attention.”

  The pistols wavered just a bit. “You wouldn’t have Leslie in that wagon. He’s a lieutenant in the 2nd Division, United States Army.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know.”

  “And you’re a Confederate soldier.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes, with a thick robe. Her eyes were great dark pools in a white, heart-shaped face. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder and reached almost to her waist. Moonlight made everything look colorless, only gradations of white and black, but he had the idea that her hair was light-colored, though not blond. She was tiny, her shoulders narrow, her hands small. In them the pistols looked gigantic, but with a sort of oddball humor, Yancy reflected that from this end they would probably look huge to anyone, no matter who held them.

  “Ma’am—” Yancy began.

  That moment the front door opened and Yancy saw it was an older man, tall but stoop-shouldered, wearing a robe. “What is it, Lorena?”

  “I don’t know, Father. Some soldier that says he wants you,” she answered disdainfully. The pistols, once again, were steady.

  “Are you Dr. Hayden?” Yancy asked.

  “I am. And you are?”

  “My name is Yancy Tremayne, doctor.”

  “He’s a Confederate soldier,” the woman said harshly.

  “So I see,” the older man said quietly. “How can I help you, Sergeant Tremayne?”

  “Dr. Hayden, I found your son on the battlefield at Manassas Crossroads. He told me where you live and I brought him to you.”

  Dr. Hayden started and asked alertly, “What? Where is he?”

  “He’s in the wagon.”

  “Lorena, go get that lantern,” Dr. Hayden said, pulling his night robe closer about him.

  Still the woman pointed the pistols at Yancy, staring at him unblinkingly.

  “Please lower those pistols, miss. They could go off.”

  “They will go off if you’re lying,” she said fiercely.

  “Nonsense, Lorena, what do you think? That this man has come to lure me outside and assassinate me? Go back in and get that lantern, girl, and put those things away before someone gets shot,” Dr. Hayden insisted.

  She lowered the pistols, but slowly and reluctantly. Her look at Yancy was still hard, cold, and suspicious.

  “Ma’am, here’s my pistol, in the holster at my side. You can take it if you wish.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Wordlessly he unsnapped the flap, took his service pistol out, and handed it to her. Silently she took all three guns inside. Immediately she came back out with a lantern.

  The three of them now hurried to the wagon and looked over the side. The woman held the lantern high, and in the lurid li
ght they could clearly see the paper white face of the wounded man.

  She whispered, “Leslie … Oh no, it is Leslie….”

  With a swift movement, she shoved the lantern into Yancy’s hands, lowered the endgate, and jumped into the wagon. She laid two fingers by his throat. “He’s alive, Father. Breathing shallow, pulse shallow, but he’s alive.”

  “We must get him inside,” Dr. Hayden said. “I’ll get Elijah to help us carry him in.” He moved quickly to the house, night robe flapping behind him.

  Gently she touched Leslie’s face then looked up. “Who did you say you were?”

  “My name is Yancy Tremayne. My family lives outside of Lexington. Who are you, miss?”

  “I’m Lorena Hayden, Leslie’s sister. You’re a Confederate soldier…. My brother is a Union officer….”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Yancy said patiently. “I took off his uniform and put some of my clothes on him.”

  “Why are you helping him?”

  Yancy had no time to answer for the doctor was back, and beside him was a black man, perhaps six-five and massive. “Elijah, we need to get Leslie in. Do you think you can carry him?”

  I spect I can, sir.”

  “Here, I’ll help.” Yancy leaped up into the wagon and lifted Hayden’s shoulders while Elijah lifted his legs. Together they eased him to the back of the wagon. Then Elijah picked him up as easily as he would a child.

  “Put him in his room, Elijah,” Dr. Hayden ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They followed him into the house, Yancy behind Lorena Hayden. A pretty black woman with huge dark eyes was lighting candles and lanterns. As they entered the now well-lit foyer, Yancy saw that his hunch was right. Lorena had light brown hair with lighter golden streaks in it. She was small—she might only come up to his chest—but she held herself ruler-straight, and she walked proudly. The stiff, uncompromising line of her spine showed him that she still was not happy to turn her back on him.