Above and Beyond

by Jessica James

  When it finally came, the demoniacal cry that rose from their throats instantly instilled in the Federals the belief that they had substantially miscalculated their enemy’s strength. Or perhaps it was that they did not wish to fight the demons who were speeding undismayed into their midst, yelling as they swept forward like a pack of ferocious wolves. Then again, it could have been merely the fear of Benton himself that lent a thousand terrors to the enemy’s mind, for they wavered, broke, and fled at the first sight of the fanatical rebel band. Fired to a divine energy and with the majestic madness so common to them, this band of heroic troopers continued to stir the air with their battle cry, making music enough for a battalion though there were now many less than one hundred on hand.

  The combined result of fire and shock instantly drove the vanguard back into the main column, which, for the most part, had already turned and begun running back down the pike—directly into the open and waiting arms of Connelly and his men. Benton pulled his horse up on an eminence and watched his men vigorously carry out his order to “make a meal of them.”

  “Wear them out!” he yelled smiling, knowing they needed no further coaching from him. They performed their duty with a precision and thoroughness that indicated bountiful amounts of previous practice. The outcome, therefore, was as Benton predicted. Snipes had reversed his direction, suddenly more eager for flight than a fight. Benton observed the action with an expression that looked more like impatience than concern and turned his thoughts to the prompt removal of the wounded, prisoners, and horses.

  Rubbing his temple thoughtfully, Benton watched his men round up and separate the enemy from their mounts. With at least two hundred of each, it would take a few men to get the horses back to headquarters, and another half dozen to escort the prisoners south. Although it had been a successful afternoon so far, he was losing men and time. This little fray was going to put him hours behind schedule…and as he glanced at the sky, the weather appeared to be inclined to do the same.

  “What say you we go stir up some Yankees,” Benton said, once his men were reassembled again. He was impatient to get started on the task he had been ordered to perform: harass and delay—if not prohibit—any advance on General Stuart’s cavalry.

  The sky was turning dark and massing with angry clouds when the group finally headed south in the direction a force of the enemy had been reported. It was not long after that rain began falling in sheets… a situation that was wholly disregarded by Benton.

  The sound of an approaching wagon, barely distinguishable in the storm, sent the men scurrying into the cover of trees. All except Benton that is, who stood in the middle of the road, signaling for the wagon to halt. While speaking leisurely with the wagon’s occupants on the possible whereabouts of the Federal army, two Union officers rode out from the darkness behind the wagon. Although their sudden appearance no doubt surprised Benton, he conversed casually with them without revealing his identity. After ascertaining they were alone, and finding out where they were heading, he officially introduced himself.

  “Heading south?” When they answered in the affirmative, Benton drew his weapon from beneath his coat so quickly it was difficult to see any movement. “Allow my men to escort you.”

  As usual, the demand for surrender was so strongly stipulated and forcefully requested that compliance was immediate. Benton’s words brought instantaneous action from those waiting in the tree line, and the Federal officers were soon on their way to Richmond. The intelligence gained was then hastily copied to a dispatch and forwarded through a courier to Stuart.

  “Forward, men,” Benton said when that business was completed to his satisfaction. “I believe we shall find some more this way.” These words were said in such a lackadaisical way as if to imply he believed nothing more was needed to establish a victory for the Confederacy than to show his men where to find the enemy.

  After another three hours of steady, uneventful riding, Benton directed his men into the shelter of a grove of cedars where only an occasional drop of rain could be felt. As was common, the men instantly took advantage of the pause, many of them sliding off their horses and falling asleep before they hit the ground. Major Connelly lay down with his horse’s reins wrapped around his hand and, within minutes, heard Benton mount and ride away, no doubt seeking some stimulating enterprise to win his men a return for their endurance of the inclement weather. In another few minutes, Connelly was asleep, despite his soggy bed, only to be awakened about an hour later by the sound of Benton’s voice.

  “Connelly,” he whispered, standing directly over him.

  Connelly was awake in an instant.

  “Wake up Jake and question these gentlemen for the countersign.”

  Connelly looked up at the two Yankee privates Benton had on each side of him. Taking charge of the two prisoners, he watched his leader remove his noisy spurs, lay them by a tree and disappear again…this time on foot. If Benton ever slept, Connelly thought, no one witnessed it.

  After waking up Jake, Connelly separated the men for their questioning. From his prisoner’s story, it did not take long for him to figure the chain of events. Benton had gotten into the enemy’s camp, but had apparently found himself in a larger and more heavily guarded outpost than anticipated. To help him get out he had recruited these two unsuspecting privates, who were innocently having a late-night conversation around a campfire. With a soldier in blue on each side, both of whom had been suitably threatened with death, Benton had merely nodded as he rode by the pickets, asking, “Is all quiet? Good! Keep a sharp lookout!”

  It was typical Benton, Connelly thought to himself, as he began questioning his prisoner about the countersign. It soon became evident, however, that the private was no longer in the mood to cooperate. Whether he had gained his senses and had taken in the gravity of the situation or he was no longer in the presence of Benton, Connelly could not ascertain. But only with the persuasive use of a pistol to the Yankee’s head did he manage to convince the private to divulge the important code.

  Putting the prisoner under charge of another man, Connelly went back to Jake to compare notes. They had just discovered that the two prisoners did not seem to agree on the countersign, when Benton came striding unhurriedly back into the camp as if he had been out for a moonlit stroll. Benton’s eyes smoldered when Connelly explained the situation, but he did not appear overly alarmed. He had a way of wringing desired facts from even the most reluctant prisoner, and Connelly ascertained no doubt that the two men would cooperate with a little encouragement.

  And so it was that the two prisoners were again questioned separately, and again with a gun to their heads—but this time the weapon was in the hand of Benton, and this time the gun was cocked. Apparently this method was a little more convincing and authoritative, for he found the word he was seeking from each and they matched.

  “Let’s say we go recruit some Yankee horses to the Confederate service, men,” Benton said, before turning on his heel and mounting his horse.

  And so armed with the countersign and plenty of nerve, the band of Rebels hastily mounted and followed their leader, riding straight into the outpost unmolested. The negligent, slumped position in which they sat their horses and the casual way in which they nodded at the sentries as they passed led the Yankee soldiers to believe they were a returning scouting party of their own men whose presence was duly noted and instantly forgotten.

  The men worked quietly in the enemy camp, each knowing his business and doing it without hesitation or fear. Within minutes, the Rebel band had secured another eighty-five horses for the Confederacy without a shot being fired. Before he left, however, Benton made sure the Federal troops knew he had been there by carving his name into a nearby tree. He understood that penetrating the enemy’s mind with fear was as important as penetrating a body with lead. Because of this tactic, Benton had become a legend, his reputation so menacing and his character so terrorizing that the mere mention of his name struck fear in the hearts of the enemy
.

  There was no limit to Benton’s audacity in the minds of the enemy—and therefore no end to his success. Consequently, when calamity, misfortune, or disaster struck a Federal camp, no matter what the circumstances or who was responsible for the blow, the cry that echoed up and down the line was universal: Benton.

  Union officers were at a loss to explain what made the Confederate leader so often victorious, but Benton’s men were not. They knew that his triumphs were partly due to his calm and indomitable courage and partly to his cool and collected bearing when he stood in the midst of crises and chaos. But mostly he won, even against overwhelming forces, due to his pure, stubborn, and fierce refusal to be whipped.

  Tireless, relentless and seemingly always in the saddle, Benton functioned as if impervious to danger and fatigue. No matter how many days he had been in the saddle, or how many hours since his last meal, he was capable of handling any challenge and overcoming any obstacle. Never, no matter the odds, did he hesitate or waver when commanding the field. As one of his men once said, “The Colonel’s actions follow thought as a bullet follows the bang…so quickly that they seem simultaneous.”

  Chapter 9

  Anguish and grief like darkness and rain can be described, but joy and

  gladness like the rainbow of promise defy alike the pen and pencil.

  —Frederick Douglas

  November 1863

  The summer turned into fall, and the fall to that time of year when cold, blustering nights keep everyone inside and close to the warmth of a fire. Preparing for bed one such night, Sarah barely heard a tap on the door above the sound of the howling wind and sleet hitting the window. Throwing on a wrapper, she descended the stairs in her bare feet, and hesitantly opened the door a crack.

  Standing in the dark of the night, his hair glistening white with ice from beneath the rim of his hat, stood Colonel Benton. “Lieutenant Duvall,” he said, bowing slightly, “Pardon the lateness of the hour, but General Lee asked that I stop and see with my own two eyes that you are well and to report back to him.”

  Sarah stared at him a moment. “You needn’t have come in such atrocious weather.”

  He appeared to shiver. “It could not be helped. I’m on my way back to headquarters now.”

  Sarah peered over his shoulder into the darkness. “You are alone then?”

  “Yes, I sent my men on without me.”

  “Then you must come in and warm yourself.” His powerful physique, as forbidding as it once had seemed, no longer intimidated her. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door, but Benton planted his feet. “It should be safe,” Sarah said, looking around him into the darkness beyond. “No one in his right mind will be out in this weather.”

  “But my horse…”

  Sarah frowned at the sight of his horse standing with head down against the cold blasts of air. “Put him in the barn. There’s plenty of corn and hay. I’ll go stir the fire.”

  * * *

  When Benton reentered the house, she was standing by the fire, poking at flames that were coming to life. He paused for a moment at the doorway and watched as she worked. Her hair, which was uncharacteristically loose and unbraided, flowed in soft waves down her back, almost to her waist.

  “You needn’t go to any trouble,” he said, causing her to turn around.

  She shook back her long, magnificent locks and approached him. “Oh, it’s no trouble. My head has been aching with the monotony of blue cloth—you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Benton would have laughed at the statement had he not felt so woozy. He blamed it on the hard ride, the frigid cold, and now, the heat from the fire.

  “Really you do not look well, Colonel.” Sarah walked toward him and took his hand to pull him into the room. “Come, stand by the fire.”

  Before he could move, she stopped and clasped both of her hands around his fingers. “It is as I thought,” she said, grimly, her gaze going up to meet his. “Cold as ice.” She reached up, placed the back of her hand on his forehead, and then her open palm on his cheek. “And hot as a stovepipe.”

  “Take off your wet coat,” she instructed. “Where is your gum blanket?”

  “I gave it to one of my men,” he said wearily. Fighting hard to keep his teeth from chattering, Benton felt himself being swiftly drained of strength.

  “Come, stand by the fire—”

  “Really, I should be getting on my way.” Benton remained firm. “I only intended to stop for a moment.”

  “Your men will miss you?”

  “No, not exactly. They are accustomed to my…” He looked into her eyes and sighed at what he saw there. Even with her isolation she knew enough, or had guessed perhaps, of his frequent wanderings.

  “You owe me no explanation,” she said hurriedly. “But surely there is no reason you cannot warm yourself and rest a minute.”

  Frustrated he could not come up with another excuse, Benton sighed heavily. He felt so cold on the outside and hot on the inside that he could not think.

  “Of course you outrank me, I cannot order it.” Sarah nodded toward the weapon leaning against a wall nearby. “But I could hold you at gunpoint.”

  Benton could see that her eyes, for once, were twinkling with something of humor—though her lips still showed no trace of a smile. She seemed strangely kind and motherly, which confused him. Perhaps it would be better to come in and warm up. He desperately needed to sit down—even if just for a moment. And truth be told, when he glanced into her warm, inviting eyes, he felt more of an interest in staying than any desire to go.

  “The gun will not be necessary,” he said wearily. “I am at your mercy.”

  She did not hesitate once he acquiesced and began to unbutton his overcoat. “Your uniform has seen hard service.”

  “As has the wearer,” he said tiredly, removing his hat as she continued unclasping his coat.

  “Oh my,” she exclaimed as she got to the button in the middle of his chest.

  Benton looked down at the dented piece of brass that had caused the reaction. “A souvenir from our last engagement,” he said. “It appears the bullet was pretty well spent before it hit me, but the button spared me some blood.”

  Sarah continued to stare at the button and the wide expanse of chest that was its target as if envisioning the bullet and its course—and contemplating the end result. “May I have it?” she finally asked in a low voice.

  Surprised, but weak with fatigue, Benton did not question her motives. He hastily tore the button from the coat and handed it to her. “If it will be of some value to you, it is yours.”

  Sarah stared at it, turned it over in her hands, and then spoke in a low voice. “As you wished to keep the handkerchief, I wish to keep this—to remind me of the potential sacrifice, and pray for the courage to be equally as brave.”

  Benton was stunned by her compliment of bravery, but the seriousness of her tone gave him pause. “It is not for you to fight and win this war, Mrs. Duvall, nor do I wish to compete with you in the courage department. You have already demonstrated you possess ample supply.”

  Whether she heard his words or not, he could not say for she showed no sign of it. “Get out of these wet clothes while I go get you some dry. You are about the same size as my husband.”

  Benton reached for her arm as she turned to leave. “It’s true? You were married then?”

  For moment, she seemed taken aback, though he did not know if it was by the question or the fact that he had the audacity to ask it. “I am a widow,” she snapped. “Surely you knew that.”

  “No… I mean, yes… I mean, ah, I suppose it’s common knowledge…”

  She stared at him silently for a moment with a look that appeared to be disappointment. “I hope you do not pay too close attention to things that have been manufactured in the rumor mill, Colonel Benton,” she said before disappearing up the staircase.

  Sighing loudly, Benton began unclasping his shirt, his cold, stiff fingers barely able to complete
the task. How many months had he known this woman now? And yet he knew almost nothing of her. He became surprisingly curious about whom or what had left her so solemnly reclusive. Perhaps she was so accustomed to solitude that she merely shunned companionship and conversation for their strangeness.

  “Hang your wet clothes by the fire there.” She entered the room as quickly as she had left it, leaving a pile of clothes on a side table as she passed. “I’ll fix you something warm to drink.”

  Benton did as he was told, and when dressed in dry clothes, lowered himself onto the couch by the fire. Too weak now to keep his teeth from chattering, he sat shivering and shaking until she reentered the room.

  “Lean forward,” she instructed from behind him. When he did as he was told, she placed a warm, thick quilt behind him and, as he leaned back, wrapped it tightly across his shoulders. “There. Feel better? Now drink this. It will help warm you on the inside.”

  Benton took a long sip of the drink, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to clear his foggy mind. “So he was a Union officer, then?” Sarah had risen to stir the fire again, and he heard the poking stop as she paused to answer his question.

  “Yes, the rumors on that account are true.”

  After a long silence, she lowered herself in the chair beside him. He opened his eyes briefly to look at her and saw she wore her usual contemplative expression, one, he surmised was due to much communing alone.

  “I suppose you are curious as to the circumstances.”

  Wrapped in warmth and content by the fire, he kept his eyes closed now. “It’s none of my business, but I am not immune to curiosity.”

  The room became quiet, so quiet that the crackling fire, unnoticed before, now dominated all else. When he opened one eye to look at her, he saw she had turned her attention to the flaming logs. She stared at them hard, as if seeing pictures of the past she had not gazed upon for a long time, or upon things she had been trying to forget.