Connelly looked at Benton and seemed to be reading his mind. “It matters not how we got here. It matters only what we do about it.”
“But if we leave now,” Benton said quietly, “her fate will be sealed.”
“If we don’t,” Connelly replied, “ours will.”
Benton thought back to the ominous warning he’d been given by Mrs. Grimes, and the weight of his burden increased. The trap had been meant for him, but his entire command had been caught in the net.
“Sir,” the courier offered. “They were moving quickly. There can be no doubt they are in a hurry to get to the mainland.”
Again all eyes went to the colonel to see how he would receive the news. His pursed lips revealed how deeply the information affected him, and when he swayed, Connelly put out a hand to steady him. “It is your duty to get these men out,” Connelly reminded Benton. ‘There is nothing you can do for her now.”
Colonel Benton stared blankly into space as the full realization hit him with crushing weight. She had known if there was a chance of rescue he would undertake it—perhaps at the cost of other lives. She also knew—as did he—that her chances of still being alive by the time he discovered her missing were slim.
Again Connelly tried to reason with him. “Sir, it cannot be in the stars of fate that such a sacrifice fail of its reward. We must move these men out. Every minute of delay adds to our danger.”
“What would have they done to her?” Benton mouthed the words more so than asked them out loud, yet everyone understood what he said and knew the answer. If it were Snipes, he would hang her without saying grace.
Benton, with lifeless, unseeing eyes, stared into the distance, then focused on Connelly. With a nod, Connelly gave the command to move out, the colonel going through the motions as he tried to make sense of the unkind lesson Providence had provided.
* * *
Where men had been preparing for a battle to the death, they now rode mostly unmolested past the most narrow and dangerous part of the peninsula. Frequent halts were called to send scouts ahead to ensure against any surprises on the road, but for the most part, they rode undisturbed. When they were close to the mouth of the peninsula, a few skirmishes erupted in the front, the only sign of the presence of the enemy at all. These were more minor encounters rather than fights, as if the enemy was feeling pressured by the swift progress of Benton’s men—not trying to stop their advance.
With their safety practically guaranteed, the command’s spirits seemed to lift. No one could really believe or accept the possibility that Lieutenant Duvall could have met with bad fortune. She was too young, too vibrant, too virtuous—and too impeccably pure.
Even Colonel Benton convinced himself she would return, because he could not accept any other outcome. He still possessed a consciousness of her closeness, of her spirit, and knew she must be near. It was a feeling so elusive he was unable to describe it, yet so powerful he was forced to recognize it. The feeling sustained him, uplifted him, and gave him hope.
In fact, scouts were told to be on the lookout and to bring her back—as if she was just lost out there somewhere and was actually coming back. It was a courageous thing for Benton to attempt, and he succeeded very well in maintaining the illusion that the absence of the one upon whom his entire universe revolved was only temporary.
But after a full despairing day with no news, a new general order was issued at the request of Major Connelly. “Pickets are expected to pass without the countersign, and scouts to bring in without delay, anyone with information concerning Sarah I. Duvall—be they friend or foe.”
Even with no information forthcoming, Benton refused to allow his mind to ponder the possible implications of her absence or accept the possibility that it was permanent. He had too much to do and too many lives depending on him to consider or contemplate her fate. To dwell for even a moment on Sarah Duvall would render him unfit for duty.
Chapter 20
These things have I written unto you that believe in the name of the
Son of God; that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that
ye may believe in the name of the son of God.
—1 John 5, 11–13
It was the first full night of sleep for General Benton, and it seemed he had no sooner laid his head upon the pillow when he heard the challenge by the pickets and a horse come galloping in. He sat straight up, and in another instant, he was outside his tent where his eyes were drawn to a strange light that glowed by the road. It seemed odd, because the light was neither of night or day, nor of twilight or dawn. No moon or stars were visible to him, yet it was not dark.
As if by magic, a figure appeared out of nowhere, and in an instant, he knew it was Sarah. She wore a grave expression as if having news of utmost importance to tell him, yet for a long moment, she did not speak. “I had to go,” she finally said. “I had to go.”
Benton took a hurried step toward her. “But you came back. At last. You’ve come back.”
Sarah sighed heavily and he noticed that a peculiar aura of light surrounding her seemed to flicker and spark. Her face, soft and angel-like, appeared strange and unearthly, yet when she walked toward him and touched his arm, she felt real. “You know I can’t stay, Doug. I only came to say good-bye…”
“No… Sarah—”
He reached for her, but as he did, a sound like a thunder clap fell upon him and a dark curtain dropped, instantly blocking all light and turning the night completely black. He stepped forward, groping in the dark for her—but she was gone.
“Sarah! Don’t leave! Come back!”
Men from throughout the makeshift camp ran from where they slept to find their leader pale and shaking.
“Did you see her?” Benton pointed into the darkness. “Stop her!” Benton ran out onto the road and looked frantically both ways. “Did you see her?” He turned and scanned the crowd of faces all staring at him with pitiful eyes. “She was right here!” He turned in a circle with both palms facing upward as if he could not understand how she had vanished.
“Sir, I was sitting by that campfire, right there,” one of the men finally said. “I didn’t see so much as a hoot owl come by.”
Benton stood in the darkness, gasping for breath, trying to erase the vision from his mind. Staring up at the stars that now twinkled overhead, he tried to comprehend the finality of what he had seen—or thought he had seen. “The sacrifice,” he whispered, “it is too much.” He did not realize he had said the words loud enough for anyone to hear until Major Connelly came up behind him and placed his hand on his shoulder. The gesture was a powerful one from this reserved and respected man.
“No.” Connelly gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Look around at the faces of these two hundred men, many with wives and children—all with loved ones at home. Think of the sacrifice as a great one, but don’t believe for a moment that it was in vain.”
Until now, Benton had been solitary in his grief and regrets, but now he felt the urgent need to share his deepest sorrows. He spoke from the heart, for the first time admitting to himself she was not coming back. “It seems impossible that one so holy could die such an inglorious death,” he murmured.
Major Connelly merely nodded. It seemed he had already accepted what Benton had been trying to deny. She was gone.
Gone for good.
* * *
For more than a week there had been no word, no sign. Rumors chased each other, always vague and elusive, often contradictory, and always exaggerated. The gaiety and laughter that had once been on everyone’s lips was now seldom ever heard. It seemed a vital glow had died out of the campfires and the eyes that once beamed so brightly around them.
It was just one long, lifeless day after another. The men continued to try to comfort Benton, telling him that time heals all wounds, but the feeling of loss did not leave him or even diminish. It only deepened like a gaping wound that would not heal. She had filled the camp with her presence, her energy, her strength—a
nd that spirit, that force, had departed with her.
Despite the facts facing him, Benton continued to wait minute by minute as hours turned to days, listening for footsteps that never came, praying for the voice that appeared to be gone from his world forever. Although sometimes when undertaking the duties and responsibilities of war he would become himself again, his mind, for the most part, had become overwhelmed and benumbed by days of accumulated agony.
Even after the camp returned to its normal routine, it was still obvious that something was missing. It was not just Sarah’s physical presence that was gone—though Lord knows that hole was big enough. It was also that elusive something that she had conveyed to all she had met—comfort, inspiration, a solemn wisdom that stirred and encouraged each man to do and be more.
Benton had found a new Bible in her saddlebag and had taken to reading it for solace, trying to find the answers she had said were written so clearly there. When he first gazed upon the dented button pinned neatly to a bookmark, he knew in his heart that a special bond had formed between them. That she had put the reminder of him in such a place that she would gaze upon it daily was a thought so sweet that he obsessed on it. But when in his silent moments he thought of her goodness and her courage and grace, it seemed to him it was not so much the will of God that had taken her from this world, but the utter wickedness of man.
Benton began to nurse a futile rage and ever-deepening sorrow that went beyond all hope and past all comfort. Nothing he did could erase her calm, serene face, or her solemn and holy eyes. The last words they spoke were the last words they spoke, and when he remembered the concern in her voice and disappointment in her eyes that night, he knew he would never forget those few precious moments as long as he lived.
He began to analyze every memory, every token of the past, and filled his heart with recollections so that he might never forget the words and inspiration she gave him. It made his heart ache anew to recall how he had missed her all those months between their brief visits. And now their separation was by a much greater barrier than mere distance.
Days began to drag by like a painful dream, making Benton wonder—along with many of the other men of the command—if she would have dealt him this hurt had she known what a tormenting wound it would be.
Chapter 21
For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it might cost, I am willing to
know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.
—Patrick Henry
Back on the mainland, but still far from where they called home, Benton’s command encamped to rest and await new orders. The daily routine and monotony of camp life soon returned as the tedious chores and customary tasks became commonplace once again. Local citizens opened their doors and offered to provide every comfort to their hero soldiers, and of course, feminine society was once again widely accessible.
Most of the men expected Benton to drown himself in liquor to forget the pain of that expedition, or to surround himself with women to prove his worth, but he did neither. He attended the social gatherings that required his attendance—but only as long as was necessary to satisfy the hostess. He was still courteously polite to women, but even that was forced, as if he took no pleasure in it.
Balls and social gatherings, once so celebrated and admired, were now tributes Colonel Benton endured rather than encouraged or enjoyed. Even his men felt the difference. Events that had once been filled with boisterous toasts and discordant songs were now quiet and subdued affairs. Something in the colonel’s eyes prevented anyone from referring to the past, and time had not made it easier.
Benton had turned inward, the gay signs of happiness no longer reaching his lips, and the haunted look of loss never leaving his eyes. He smiled only by necessity and laughed not at all. As the hours and days wore on, he appeared disheveled; the clothes he wore appeared flung upon him—or perhaps had never been removed. It was disheartening to watch this man changed so drastically by war. He was a still a warrior, but a nobler flame and purer spirit animated him now.
His men noticed that Benton spent a great deal of time in front of his tent, supposedly working on reports, but most of the time, sitting with pen in hand, forgetting to write, his gaze focused vacantly on the horizon.
He would gaze at whatever was in front of him, motionless and silent, apparently weighing and contrasting what ought to be with what was. Although unheard of before, it was now quite common to see Benton in the pastor’s tent at night, sitting with hands crossed and speaking in low tones by lantern light. A few of the men even claimed to have witnessed him all alone on his knees in the quietness of the morning mist, with his head bowed, his lips moving in fervent prayer.
Tonight, though, with one of the local homes lit from top to bottom and with dozens of young women roaming the halls, Colonel Benton looked tormented and extremely uncomfortable. Although the colonel had always moved at a hurricane pace, eager to flirt and to dance, it now seemed a great exertion for him just to talk and socialize with members of the opposite sex.
Major Connelly watched Benton silently from the doorway and knew there was but one touch, one voice that could sooth the colonel’s pain from the past that stalked him.
Surrounded now by beautiful women, Benton’s eyes remained cast with a look of loneliness, seeming to take more interest in the flames of the fire than the conversation going on around him. Every now and then he nodded, but it was apparent to Connelly he only did so when he thought it called for.
It was the first time in all the years of war that Benton looked defeated or overwhelmed, and there was something painfully touching in the weakness of this strong man.
A white-faced lieutenant suddenly appeared at the door, looking left and right searching for someone. When he saw Connelly, he strode toward him and shoved a piece of paper into his hand. “A communication for Colonel Benton.”
“He’s right there.” Connelly started to hand the piece of paper back as he nodded toward the colonel.
“I think you’d better deliver it, sir.” The lieutenant swallowed hard. “They’re holding the man they found it on for interrogation. I’ll wait outside to escort the colonel.” The lieutenant saluted, turned on his heel, and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
Connelly glanced down at the unsealed missive merely to see from whom it had come, but he could not stop reading when he saw the scratchy writing of the hastily written note. The major closed his eyes as the breath rushed out of him in an audible groan. When he opened them, he saw Colonel Benton walking toward him with an intent, strained look in his eyes.
“That for me, Major?”
Connelly nodded. “Yes, sir.” He paused a moment. “Perhaps you should read it outside. The person who delivered it is being held by the pickets.”
Connelly watched Benton’s composure crack visibly. His face turned ashen, and his hand noticeably trembled when he took the piece of paper, as if just by touching it he could predict what it said.
He did not look at it right away, but took Connelly’s advice and stepped out onto the portico. As Benton read the missive, Connelly watched him pass an unsteady hand across his eyes, like one who is awakened abruptly from a deep sleep and doesn’t quite understand where he is or what he is doing.
Connelly replayed each word in his head as Benton’s eyes moved back and forth slowly across the communication as he read and reread each word:
One Sarah I. Duvall, a civilian, was captured and detained upon suspicion of previous duplicity with the enemy. In the subsequent search, she was found to be in possession of a dispatch containing information about the strength and movements of military forces and was therefore accused as a spy.
She was consequently tried as a spy.
She was condemned as a spy.
And you may rest assured, she was hung as a spy.
I have the honor to be Colonel Clayton M. Snipes, U.S. Army
Benton swallowed hard in an obvious effort to suppress the groan that rose f
rom his throat. He trembled with the suppression of emotion, and Connelly felt he could almost see his heart die within him.
“Right this way, sir.”
Benton began to walk quietly behind the captain of the pickets as if in a daze. Behind him, news of what was transpiring began to be whispered from one to another in the great hall. In mere moments, the news had spread throughout the room, and in another moment, the entire house was empty of men. No one asked any questions, because the silent tread of their commander told the men everything. As if by an unspoken missive, an aspect of sorrow and silence enveloped the entire camp.
Just as Benton and Connelly stepped into a clearing, the sound of an interrogation already in progress fell upon their ears.
“I didn’t have nothing to do with her hanging, I swear!”
Benton stopped in mid-step, and his gaze seemed so bright with such unwavering calm that for a moment, those in attendance wondered if he had heard. But without warning, he lunged toward the man sitting on a log with his hands tied behind him. Grabbing the unsuspecting prisoner by the neck with one hand, Benton’s lifted him off the ground, and shook him like a ragdoll. Never did fingers more tenaciously grip a throat.
“What did you say?”
The prisoner, whether from the fact that he had no air, or that he was looking into the raging eyes of Colonel Benton became instantly speechless.
“You lie!” Benton bore the man to the ground in one swoop, placed his knee on his chest, and cocked his revolver behind the man’s ear. Inured as he was to danger and accustomed as he was to the horrors of war, it did not appear he could accept the reality before him.
Above and Beyond Page 17
