by Michael Ross
“Yes—take this down. Will, funds on their way to First National Bank in Lynchburg stop. Go to Huntington, steamboat arranged, stop. Love Julia stop.”
She signed for the telegram, and the messenger hurried away.
Kirsten entered the room. “What’s all the fuss?”
“It’s Will! He’s alive. He’s coming home.”
“Is that all? That no account Confederate brother of yours would have done better to die in the war. Why, he could have killed Hiram.”
“And I’m just happy they both survived. My brother would have quit years ago if he could have. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see he gets home,” observed Julia with some asperity. She grabbed a bonnet and headed for the stable.
✳ ✳ ✳
Albinia heard the news of Will’s impending arrival and sank to her knees, thanking God. Then she hurried to the barn, where Sara was feeding chickens and Robert mending a harness.
“Ma! Pa! It’s Will! He’s coming home!”
“Praise God,” said Sara. “When?”
“Probably a week or so—he’s in Virginia. I don’t know how he got there or why. Julia is arranging passage for him. Pa, could we make him a room, or build a little cabin or something? I want him to know he’s welcome here. It won’t be like coming home to Lexington, but….”
“Sure we can. I’ll get Ned and some others; I’ll bet they’ll help.”
Albinia hesitated. “Maybe. But Pa, remember, he’s a Confederate, or was. Not all of our black friends are likely to be charitable toward him. Some of our white friends suffered under Morgan’s raid. You know that better than anyone does. Look what almost happened with you and Will. They know you and me, but the gray uniform represents something that tried to put them in chains. They don’t know Will. And after Lincoln’s assassination….”
Robert shook his head. “You’re right, of course. It’s more just than people despising them because of the color of their skin—it’s what’s in a person’s heart that counts. But they don’t know Will. I’ll hire some help from town, not tell them what it’s for.”
“I’ll help,” said Olivia, coming up behind Albinia. She and Jemima arrived from Canada the week before. “And Luther will too, if he wants to eat. Any brother of yours is family to me. I can lift logs and chop wood.”
“Thank you, Olivia! Bless you!” cried Albinia, hugging her.
Luther walked in from the forge. “Miss Albinia, I remember your brother. He was always kind to me. I admit when I saw him here in that uniform, it fired somethin’ in me. But I thought about it, and what you and the parson talked about—livin’ at peace. My mama been on me about it somethin’ fierce. Guess my sister now too,” he said, grinning at Olivia. “I want to give it a try. I figger we can’t change how everyone thinks. Some folks just gonna hate. But I tried that and it don’t work. I still hope the slave catchers rot in hell. But Mama’s workin’ on me to pray for them. If she can do it, I guess I can. She say we got to love people one at a time, even those that hate us. And Ruth, she say the same.”
“Thank you, Luther. That means a lot, knowing all you and your family have gone through. Let’s get the wagon and go tell Peter. Maybe Ruth would want to come? I think Peter has some things to talk to you two about the wedding. It would be like old times, you driving me. I don’t think we’d have trouble, but….”
“You can count on me, Miss Albinia. I’m pretty good with a revolver these days.”
✳ ✳ ✳
The roads and byways were full of Confederates trying to make their way home. Will saw many of them pass. He got Julia’s telegram and stayed with the farmer for a week waiting for funds, which Julia sent by courier. When the funds arrived, he paid the farmer handsomely and bought a new suit of clothes, throwing away his uniform. He traveled by stagecoach to Staunton, and then by rail to Huntington. Once there, he had to wait two days for an Ohio Zephyr steamboat. When he boarded, the captain showed him to the most luxurious stateroom on the boat. There was feast at every meal. Will could hardly grasp the difference from Point Lookout only a month earlier.
He tried not to think about the future, just living in the moment enjoying his surroundings. From freezing and sweating, hunger and rags, guards wanting to torture or shoot him, to a soft bed with silk sheets, roast beef and pudding, and a steward who jumped at his every wish. It felt like a different world. Will learned from the steward that Ohio Zephyr extended free passage to every soldier trying to reach home regardless of uniform—though not the luxury he experienced. After three days on board, Will felt physically recovered. Mentally, scenes haunted his dreams from battle, and from the camps. He woke more than once in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with fever. He purchased a Colt revolver and a Spencer rifle from the money Julia sent, and he kept them near.
Arriving in Cincinnati, he found Julia and Hiram at the dock waiting for him. There was a throng, many looking anxiously at the boat in hopes of catching a glimpse of a loved one returning from war or prison.
“Will! Over here!” Julia shouted.
Will waved and went to hug his sister. “Thanks, Julia, for bringing me. I owe you.” He looked over at Hiram—still gaunt, with a haunted look in the once friendly eyes. They shared a look of understanding, and then looked away. No words were needed.
Will stayed with Julia a few days, and then made the journey to Madison to see the rest of his family. Julia gave him a big buckskin quarter horse named Dusty, with dark legs, mane, and tail, and all of the tack needed for him. Will rode in and saw that guards still manned the gates at the farm. He gave his name and business, and they let him pass. Before he could make it to the barn, his family surrounded him, laughing and crying. Lydia ran to meet him, but seemed shy and a little reserved. Will couldn’t believe how tall she was at ten.
“Look at you!” he said. “You’re practically a lady!”
“Will—you look thin. And different, somehow. Are you home for good?” Lydia asked him.
“I … I don’t know, Lyddie—seems funny to call you that—you seem so grown up.” He dismounted.
Sara came and hugged him a long time. “I’m so glad to have you home, Son. So glad.”
Robert extended a hand that ended in a bear hug. “I’m glad we made it, Son. Can you forgive me?”
“Sir, there’s nothing to forgive. I’m the one that stands in need of your forgiveness, for my bull headed pride.”
“It’s over, Son. It’s over. Lincoln said it best—’With Malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds.’ We need to bind up each other, and others. Welcome.”
“Thanks, Pa.”
Finally Albinia, Peter, Luther, Ruth, and Ned came over.
“We waited for you, Will,” said Albinia after a hug.
“Waited?”
She beamed at Peter. “We have a double wedding—me and Peter, and Luther and Ruth. Next week. We wanted to wait for you to be home. I … I’ve never had a wedding with all my family. You will stay, won’t you? Come and see!”
She led all of them over to a modest log cabin, much like the one the family used to have in Kentucky, except it had a real bed in it and three glass windows.
“It’s yours, Will. We want you to know you’re welcome here.”
Will shook his head in disbelief. “That…. That’s kind of you, Binia. I appreciate it. I can’t say I know my plans just yet.”
Luther attempted to take his horse, but Will said he’d care for him.
“I’m sorry for the way I behaved when you came through before,” Luther said. “I know you never meant us harm. Miss Albinia, she’s the reason we’re free. I’d do anything for her.”
Will smiled sadly and offered a hand, which Luther hesitated and then shook vigorously. “You’re a good man, Luther. I hope you find happiness.”
“Well, we want to do the ceremony with Miss Albinia and Pastor Peter—but we’ll likely have to
do it again next year. Pastor Peter say the government might recognize Negro marriages next year.”
“Just a reason to celebrate twice,” said Will, grinning.
“You right about that!” said Luther, slapping his thigh.
✳ ✳ ✳
The day of the wedding was bright and clear. They all traveled north to Lancaster, to Peter’s church. A pastor friend from Cincinnati came to marry Peter and Albinia, now Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. Peter officiated for Luther and Ruth’s marriage—no other white minister would do it.
Ruth insisted that Peter read Galatians 3:28: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.” Jemima and Sara took one another’s hands, cried together, and hugged everyone.
At the reception, Will sat apart, under a tree. After a time, Robert came looking for him.
“Anything wrong, Son?” he asked.
“What will you do with the farm in Kentucky, Pa?”
“Sell it most likely, unless you want it.”
“No, you and Ma should get for it what you can.”
“But what about you, Son?”
“I don’t know, Pa. You asked if anything is wrong. It’s me. I’m wrong. It’s like I’m broken inside and I don’t know how to fix it. Maybe I’ll never be right again. But I know I don’t fit here. I can’t go back. Sometimes I wake and I’m in the middle of a battle, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. Sometimes I’m back in prison, listening to the men dying.”
“I know about part of that, but I can’t say I know how you feel. I do know that God provides healing, in time. Keep looking to Him, Son.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, Pa. I keep thinking about the verse that says ‘I lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from?’ I wish I knew the answer, Pa. The war took almost everything—it could have taken it all. I almost killed you. Ma and the girls never would have forgiven me. I could have killed Hiram that night at Ashland, though I didn’t know he was there. Or Luther. I lost Jenny. And I did kill so many. How many wives, mothers, sisters and brothers are looking today for one that will never come home, who died by my hand? I don’t know where my help comes from. I don’t know how to heal my wounds, or the nation’s wounds. I think all I can do is take a stand, to love and be a friend, to never again kill because someone orders me to. But I need some time. I’m thinking of going west, to the mountains. I want to find peace, if it exists. Somewhere it must.”
✳ ✳ ✳
The next day, everyone turned out. To Will’s surprise, even some of Albinia’s Negro friends from Georgetown came.
Lydia and Sara were crying. “Will, you don’t have to go. There’s a place for you here.”
Will smiled and started to tousle Lydia’s hair as he used to, then thought better of it.
“I know you don’t understand. I’m not sure I do myself. But I do know I have to go. I promise to write. I’ll come back if I can, someday. Will you write to me?”
“Oh, yes, Will!” she said, hugging him fiercely.
He watched as the three couples—his parents, Peter and Albinia, Luther and Ruth—stood with arms around one another. Then he mounted Dusty and pointed him west along the river. It was time to look for home.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
William Dorsey Crump is an historical person, as are the members of his family, the Clay family, and many others in the story. In the case of Robert Breckinridge and William Lloyd Garrison, I have quoted them directly from their own speeches and writings. I have relied extensively on Basil Duke’s first-person account, Morgan’s Cavalry, for much of the detail about Morgan’s movements and battles, as well as insights into Morgan’s thinking and character. Thanks to the National Park Service staff at Shiloh National Battlefield for their assistance in charting Morgan’s movements during the battle. Many other first-person sources are cited. However, in most cases the speech of historical individuals in the story is my own invention, and not intended to reflect the character or speech of the actual persons, which is largely unknown.
Luther and his slave family, along with Jenny Morton, Hiram Johannsen, and the events and staff at Kentucky Penitentiary are my own invention, though based on accounts of others.
Luther’s story is a composite of many first-person slave diaries and accounts. There is little accurate information on the treatment of slaves at Ashland, the Clay plantation, nor any extant record of a roster of their slaves. Many thanks to Eric Brooks, curator at Ashland, for his kind assistance on the plantation, the battle, and information on the Clay family.
Will had other brothers and sisters who were left out of the story. Julia and Albinia actually did none of the things in the story, but their characters are based on real women, Pauline Cushman and Delia Webster, who did carry out most of those actions.
Pvt. William D. Crump served in Co. C, 3rd (later designated the 7th) Kentucky Cavalry under Morgan. He enlisted in Central Kentucky (possibly Taylor County) on September 10, 1862. He was captured on July 19, 1863 Meigs County, Ohio, near Buffington Island. He was imprisoned at Camp Morton on July 23, 1863 where he is listed as age eighteen, 5’8” tall, light complexion, brown hair, and gray eyes. His residence is listed as Louisville and his occupation as farmer. He was transferred to Camp Douglas and arrived there on August 22, 1863. He was transferred to Pt. Lookout on March 2, 1865 and exchanged at James River, Vancouver, March 10, 1865. He appears on a list of patients at the Confederate Wayside Hospital in Farmville, VA, on March 15, 1865. Sources: Morgan’s Light Brigade by Dr. Dwight Watkins, Compiled Service Record for William D. Crump under 3rd Kentucky Cavalry.
William D. Crump later became a judge and founder of Lubbock and Shallowater, Texas. Will’s involvement in the earlier Lexington Rifles is fictional. He has no known living descendants.
His father Robert Crump was a farmer and merchant in Louisville. The real Albinia died in Cincinnati; no one knows the date. Julia, in the story, was a sister named Sara in real life—her name was changed to avoid confusion with Will’s mother. Sara and Albinia moved in with Lydia in Cincinnati after the war and faded from records. Albinia married a butcher.
Ben Drake, Jesse Davis, Tom Logwood, Archie Moodie and James West were all actual members of the Lexington Rifles, and served courageously under Morgan.
For all my African American readers, please note that the scenes and descriptions of mistreatment of slaves in the book are in the interests of historical accuracy, and in no way reflect an intent to disrespect African Americans. These incidents are based on biographies, letters, and notes concerning events that actually happened in the time period, though the characters are fictional. I believe we can rejoice in how far we have come from those days, yet look forward to how much more there is to do, as the divided races and groups in our country come together to reach “Across the Great Divide”.
The Civil War killed more Americans than World War II, World War 1, Vietnam War, and the Korean War combined—620,000 men. Some estimates are even higher—750,000 men. The Battle of Gettysburg alone killed more men than the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, and the Mexican War combined. In 1860, the population of the United States was 27,489,561 free and 3,953,760 slaves. Twelve-and-a-half percent of the population were slaves. Approximately one in five adult white males in the United States at the start of the war died in the war. More men died of disease than bullets. Fifty-six thousand men died in captivity, many no better off than concentration camp survivors of World War Two.
Let us strive together never to repeat it.
grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
