Benton gazed at her a moment, seeming to deliberate before being nerved to continue. “If I may be so bold, Mrs. Duvall, I feel I must report to General Lee this duty has become too dangerous.”
Sarah took a step toward him. “You cannot. I accept the burden because I know what is at stake.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I know you did not wish this obligation, but you cannot continue to hold my gender against me.”
“It is not that,” he said, his brow furrowed. “It is no longer safe.”
“A ship in the harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are for.” Sarah’s brow wrinkled with consternation. “I have accepted this duty, and I intend to perform it to the best of my abilities.”
“Mrs. Duvall, I beg your pardon, but those people out there can start more rumors in a week about you than I could stop in a year.”
She shrugged dismissively. “I would rather forfeit popularity forever than deny my countrymen a chance for freedom.”
“That is not the point.” His voice grew loud, drowning out the chimes of the mantle clock. “What if I had not arrived when I did?”
Sarah shrugged again, having no answer to his question. “It would be weak and disgraceful for me to say I cannot endure that which is my fate to bear.” She looked up at him. “And you, sir, have no right to interfere with fate.”
Benton moved away from the window, his face drawn with tenderness for her and with anger for a situation that caused her hurt. “I have no intention of interfering with fate, Mrs. Duvall. It seldom does any good. But neither will I stand by and allow you to place yourself in unnecessary danger.”
Again, Sarah had no answer for that and so attempted to change the subject. “You are here at great peril to yourself.” She turned and began to light another candle as if dismissing him. “You risk your standing and reputation by being with me. It would be wise for you to go.”
“I will not leave until you answer my question.” His expression was stern, and his voice carried a tone of anger in it. “What if I had not arrived when I did?”
Sarah turned to face him, and seeing the nerve throbbing near his temple, she began twisting the fabric on the sleeve of her dress. “At worst it would have been my life, and that is worth little to me and nothing to anyone else.”
Benton took an abrupt step toward her. “Do not say such things so lightly.” His voice was very low, but there was a strange and frightening edge to it. “Surely you are aware your threat is twofold. At any moment you may die at the end of a rope from one side—or at the hands of an angry mob from the other.”
“I must dare to do what my conscience dictates.” Her eyes, seemingly of their own accord, fell upon the open Bible lying on the table. “My life is in far wiser hands than my own.”
Benton sighed in apparent exasperation, his gaze following hers to the mark of rich ribbon that lay across the pages, bearing in silver text the words “Be not frightened for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” – Joshua 1:9.
Seeming to sense that arguing any further was futile, Benton returned his attention to her and became calm and businesslike again. “Is that your final word, Mrs. Duvall? I will not press the matter further for now if you are certain of your stance.”
Sarah forced a smile. “Duty is not an option, Colonel Benton. It is an obligation. That is my final word.” She met his gaze for a moment, and then, fearing that her emotions were getting the better of her, she did not venture to speak again. Instead she turned her back to him and waited for him to leave.
“Very well then,” she heard him say. “Good evening.”
Sarah listened to the creak of the door as it opened behind her and to the familiar click of the latch as it closed. The awful finality of that sound caused loneliness and despair to surge through her again. Unable to suppress her emotions any longer, she buried her face in her hands and let loose a deep, racking sob. She had taken great pains to repress her tears in front of him, but now…
It was not until she felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized Benton had tricked her and never left the room. He had simply opened and closed the door behind her.
“I will end this agony with but a word from you, Mrs. Duvall,” he said in a low, gentle voice. “Permit me to tell General Lee.”
Sarah had successfully controlled the sorrow she did not wish him to see, but now she indulged in the tears she no longer had the will to restrain. Unable to suppress what she could no longer endure, she wept passionately, the long pent up agony bursting forth with relentless strength. When she did not answer, Benton turned her around and pulled her hesitantly against him.
“Please don’t cry.” His voice trembled. “They have behaved shamefully toward you.”
Sarah had little choice but to lay her head against his chest and take comfort in the strong arms that held her. “I understand the feelings that impelled them,” she said. “I cannot blame them.” Embarrassed at her emotional display, she tried to straighten and move away, but he tightened his hold on her tenderly—yet powerfully.
“The trial is heavy to all, particularly so to you,” he said softly. “It pains me to watch you suffer so while I reap the glory.”
The anguish in his voice made Sarah wish to console him, yet her pounding heart and racing thoughts would not allow her to voice the sentiment. From the first hour of their acquaintance, she had been aware of her fascination with this man. Now, being held by him, she could barely remember to breathe.
“You must go,” she murmured weakly while allowing herself to be comforted. When his embrace only increased, she stopped trying to resist and rested passively in his eager hold. He smelled of smoke and leather and gunpowder and felt like safety and solace and support.
“Sarah, Sarah,” he whispered. “You cannot continue this dangerous game.”
His words gave Sarah the will to draw back. She broke away from him and hastily wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Others have suffered as much. Please don’t give me more credit than I deserve.”
“But you have received no credit, save a commendation from General Lee.” His voice grew loud again. “My victories will never be attributed to you or your sacrifices.” He paused and stared at her as if not understanding how she could serve her country to the detriment of her own happiness and reputation. “I shall have the honor of dying covered in glory as a soldier—”
“And I with the scorn of a traitor,” she finished for him.
When her eyes welled up again, he leaned forward and wiped away a fresh tear as it splashed down her cheek, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. She accepted the offering and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry to be so weak. I was so made.”
“Weak, my dear?” He stared at her with a look that was both admiring and respectful. “Your courage and calmness are unearthly. I equate you with a heavenly being if there is such a thing.”
Sarah looked up at him, blinking away her tears. “If there is such a thing?” She did nothing to hide the shock of his admission. “Can you doubt that there is a God who rules our affairs?” Her gaze remained transfixed upon him, as if trying to ascertain his sincerity.
Benton looked at her uneasily. “You do a much better job of communicating with the Almighty than I do,” he said softly. “The pure of heart are provided a leg up, I suppose.”
“But surely you believe in the protection of the men you send into battle—that they will be rewarded with eternal life.”
He chuckled and smiled at her as if to lighten the mood. “My dear, my duties are many and varied, but trying to get my men through the gates of Heaven is not among them.”
With furrowed brow, Sarah turned to the table and picked up her Bible. “Here, perhaps this will help you.”
The smile faded from Benton’s face as he stared thoughtfully at the well-worn book. “I cannot accept such a personal gift from one who has sacrificed so much already.” He handed the offering back to her. “But I will take this.”
Sa
rah looked at him questioningly as he took the handkerchief from her hand. He proceeded to unbutton his coat and thrust the damp piece of cloth into his shirt. “I wish to carry your tears close to my heart,” he said, learning forward and brushing away another that had wetted her cheek, “so I may be reminded in the heat of battle that courage and sacrifice are not for the soldier alone.”
Sarah studied his sincere expression for a moment, and then spoke to the floor, unwilling to gaze into the liquid brown eyes that studied her. “It is kind of you to say.”
“Not kind, just the truth.” He walked over to her fireplace, poked at the wood a moment until new flames sprang to life, and then turned to her, saying in a relaxed and casual tone, “Hesitate to ask nothing of me if I can be of service to you, Mrs. Duvall.”
Sarah nodded and smiled contemplatively. He seemed very much changed from the haughty domineering man she had once thought him to be. Although still arrogantly domineering at times, tonight he had proved capable of displaying genuine warmth and affection. She had to admit he was no longer an irritation to her. He was her only ally in a friendless world—he was strong, calm, consoling comfort.
Benton walked to the door and laid his hand on her shoulder. “And take care. That is the only thing the Confederacy asks of you that you do not seem willing to grant.”
Before Sarah could think another thought, or say another word, the door clicked shut, and this time, he was really gone.
Chapter 8
Duty is the most sublime word in our language. Do your duty in all things.
You cannot do more. You should never wish to do less.
—Robert E. Lee
Colonel Benton leaned one shoulder against a tree as he read a newspaper article about one of his recent raids. His merriment was interrupted by the sound of one of his scouts spurring his horse furiously up the hill toward him. The soldier reined his mount to a sliding stop in front of the tree and slid off.
“Sir, the pike’s blue with Yankees,” Lieutenant Matt Kelsey said breathlessly. “They’re thick as rattlesnakes in the May-day sun!”
“Is it Snipes?”
“Yessirah.”
Benton closed the paper and sighed loudly as if exasperated by the antics of a child. But the sigh was accompanied with a grim flash of the eye that boded no good for the enemy. “That man is trespassing on my territory and my patience.”
“According to some townspeople, he is looking for you,” the scout reported.
The men that had gathered around to hear the news started laughing, and even Benton could not resist allowing his mouth to turn up into another reckless grin. “Oh yes,” he said. “Snipes is looking for me about as hard as a sinner seeks God… hoping he does not find Him.”
Colonel Snipes was notorious for riding through the territory, informing the residents what harm he was going to inflict on the evil rebels that lived in their midst, generally making his appearance when Benton and his men were out chasing bigger game—and always availing himself of the pretext of not being able to find his sought-after enemy. Although Benton afforded him every opportunity for a trial of combat, the offer was invariably declined.
As far as the neighboring citizens were concerned, Snipes was considered more of a robber than a soldier. He treated them with insult and cruelty and wreaked havoc on their lives by seizing personal property, slaughtering livestock, and destroying crops. A clash with Snipes would have far more importance for its effect on the minds of the inhabitants in the region than for any intrinsic military value to Benton or the Confederacy—yet this was a fight Benton was eager to have. Although it had not been on his agenda for today, he resolved himself to teach Snipes a lesson.
“Where is he now?”
“Should be about at Mason’s place.”
“How many?”
“Looked like at least four hundred.”
The men looked eagerly at Benton—as they always did—for or an instant solution to the dilemma. Although they knew they had but one hundred, their waiting eyes were filled with confidence as they saw battle written clearly on their leader’s face. Benton feared no odds and no numbers. He held the advantage of surprise, and he fully comprehended the value of retaining it.
Benton paused once more and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if deciding on a chess move, while the willing faces of his men stared at him in anticipation of his next order. They were barely able to restrain themselves at the thought of having another opportunity to prove their valor, appearing as anxious as a group of boys about to be turned loose for a spring holiday after a long, hard winter.
“If Snipes wishes to teach us a lesson, men, we must make it a costly one. Connelly!” Benton turned to his second in command. “Take your men to the church. They should have passed there by now, and prepare to defend the road. I have a feeling Colonel Snipes may be passing back that way sooner than expected.”
Connelly smiled and nodded, galloping away with his devil squadron and disappearing into a cloud of dust. All of them appeared perfectly confident, knowing full well that when an able force is led by an accomplished and capable leader, the ultimate victor cannot always be predicted by mere numbers.
“The rest of you men, follow me.” Benton gave a light tug on his reins. “After today, I fear Snipes will as soon think of attacking the devil as riding into our territory.”
Benton dashed off, and like a pack of hungry hounds on a fresh trail, his men followed. Through cornfields and over stone fences, the invincible little band rushed, blindly following their idolized leader. Yet some of them began groaning under their breath as they watched Benton’s soldierly form veer and plunge into a tangled, impenetrable thicket off the side of the road, knowing without looking that there would be no perceivable evidence of a trail in front of him.
“There’ll be blood spilled sure,” one of them mumbled.
Others swore and cursed, nodding their heads in agreement, for their commander had the notorious and immensely unpopular habit of piloting his troops through the fields and streams of Virginia, insisting a rabbit path through a briar patch was a shortcut. The men knew from experience that they would suffer more irritating wounds and lose more blood by following him through the tangled maze of his imaginary path than they would in actual battle. How he always came away without a scratch was a mystery no one had yet solved—especially at the speeds at which he generally tore through the snarled, angry tangle of barbs.
“Why can’t he take the blasted road,” one of the men grumbled as a vine slashed his leg.
“That’d be wishful thinking, my friend,” another responded.
Indeed, not a hundred yards away, lay a road in the same direction. But that would have been too slow and too far out of the way for the usual rapidity of their gallant leader’s mind and motions. If he could find a shortcut through hell, his men knew with blessed certainty they’d find themselves breathing smoke and riding through fire.
When the last man came barreling out of the wilderness, Benton again split his force, placing them on opposite sides of the road in cover of an embankment on one side and cedars on the other. He spread them out as far as he could, intending to make a show of force that would deceive the enemy of his true numbers.
Another scout came spurring in from the opposite side of the road to report on the progress of the enemy. “They are advancing, sir.”
The news brought a wry smile to Benton’s face. “I predict they will soon be ‘advancing’ backward,” he replied as he stood in his stirrups and stretched his long legs a moment as if just waking up from a nap. It had been Benton’s experience over the last year and a half that two fully loaded revolvers, carried in the belts of a few dozen men with the power, skill, and authority to use them had the magical effect of reversing a Yankees’ sense of direction.
“Steady men. Don’t fire too soon,” Benton said casually as he eased himself back into the saddle and picked up his reins. Although he appeared as relaxed as if he were merely giving the command for
the start of a horserace, his men knew that within a few minutes he would be fighting with the fire and energy of Mars himself. He never appeared so happy, so completely in his element as when he had his officers and men engaged in a hot contest.
Directing two of the soldiers to follow him, Benton rode forward on the turnpike toward his foe, casually lighting a cigar after a distance of about a hundred yards, just as a sea of blue crested a hill within view. Had anyone looked upon his face, they would have seen his eyes watching the advance of the enemy with all the attention that a groom shows at the approach of his bride. Yet he pretended not to notice his foe’s appearance, riding placidly forward with apparent unconcern… inviting attack.
Perhaps Benton did not realize he was in range of their guns as he crested the hill—or perhaps he did not care. In any event, the resultant barrage of lead from the enemy kicked up dust in quite a lively manner on the road around him and his two comrades. Feigning surprise, Benton and his men wheeled their horses as if in panic, and galloped back toward whence they had come, firing a few shots over their shoulders as a derisive salute.
Thinking of nothing but an easy victory over their most reviled enemy, the Union vanguard pursued the fleeing horsemen and rode blindly into the trap without hesitation or suspicion, closely followed by the main body who apparently did not wish to miss out on the fun.
Meanwhile, silence and deep anxiety hung over Benton’s men as they waited breathlessly for the signal. There was no movement and no sound, save their pounding hearts and the occasional impatient stamp of a horse’s hoof. These were battle-tested veterans who knew what they were doing—and, more importantly, were experienced enough to know of the disaster that would ensue if they started doing it too soon. Possessing the confidence that comes from routine victories, the impending conflict held no fear for these men, despite the unevenness in numbers. Waiting in the close shadows of the thicket, with reins clasped, revolvers drawn, they anxiously awaited the sign that would signal the unclenching of their hungry jaws.
Above and Beyond Page 7
