The captain of the pickets came running over and put his hand on the colonel’s shoulder to calm him. “Sir, you are doing nothing to help his memory. Have mercy!”
“God is for mercy,” Benton said in a low, violent tone. “I am for justice.”
The prisoner, profuse with sweat, trembled and shook so as to be rendered nearly unconscious.
“Colonel Benton.” Major Connelly’s voice was low and direct behind him. “You will not get the information you seek that way. This man came to us of his own accord.”
Benton lifted his eyes, but it was apparent he was not really seeing, not really thinking. A few moments passed before he came to his senses and pushed himself off the man. “Go on then. Speak!”
The prisoner looked hesitantly at the intent faces around him as he struggled to his knees. Connelly helped him back over to the log, where he practically collapsed, his head bent between his legs. “I didn’t know they was going to hang her,” he said. “I swear!”
“Hang who?” Connelly did the questioning now as Benton stood silently watching, breathing heavily. No one could tell what he suffered. They could only guess from his trembling form and his ashen face that it was overpowering.
“It was the widow woman.” The man took a deep heaving breath, seeming to recall the scene. “I don’t know her name.” The last words were whispered, and he put his head back down between his knees as if to escape the image. “They told me to go fetch her,” he finally said. “Everyone else had moved out because they feared an attack. There was only one wagon left.”
“Go on.” Connelly glanced over at Benton, but his countenance was set in stone.
“Captain Delbert, he tied her hands…and he asked her if she wished to take the oath of allegiance or accept her fate.”
Connelly swallowed hard and felt the man beside him lean forward to hear what the prisoner would say next. The rest of the men had been silent through this and remained so now.
“She said—” The man paused and bit his lip.
“Out with it, man!” Colonel Benton, his shoulders square with barely controlled rage, roared.
All who were gathered there knew…feared…what her answer had been. Deep down where the spirit meets the bone, they knew she would not answer the enemy’s questions nor submit to their authority by taking the oath—even at the cost of life.
“She said she would accept her fate, that her honor had already been pledged.”
A surge of breath was released simultaneously be those who heard the words. Benton turned his back on the man, his chest heaving as he clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to gain control of his emotions.
“Then what happened?” Connelly tried to sound commanding, but his voice was low and grave.
“Then he put a noose around her neck and told her to stand in the back of the wagon. I-I asked what he was doing and he said, ‘Rope justice for a damned spy.’” Tears began streaming down the man’s face. “He ordered me into the wagon, and then he slapped the horses.…”
The prisoner began rocking back and forth as he recalled the memory. There was nothing for a long moment but the prisoner’s sobbing, while grown men with closed eyes tried hard not to imagine a scene they had convinced themselves had not occurred.
“It was dark,” he said, staring into space now. “I jumped off the back of the wagon. They didn’t see me.” His voice got so low the men had to lean forward to hear. “I cut her down. It was only a few minutes, but she was so pale…like a ghost.”
“Was she dead?”
“I don’t know. She looked dead. But I-I-I didn’t have time to see. I had to go back!” He looked up at the faces surrounding him. “I had to go back to the wagon, don’t you understand? They would have shot me for desertion!”
The group remained silent, but the man spoke again, mumbling as if talking to himself.
“I just couldn’t let her hang there like that,” he said, as his shoulders shook with sobs again.
His story had taken only a few minutes to tell, but the grief and suffering it caused would last much longer. On the surface, everything around them was the same—the moon, the stars, the eerie silence of the night—yet everything was completely and irrevocably different.
Benton’s voice came out of the darkness, sounding strange and detached like something other than human. “Untie him.”
When his men had done as they were told, the prisoner stood quaking visibly before him.
“Take me there.”
The prisoner looked up at Benton questioningly.
“To the tree.” Benton’s eyes drilled into the man, determined, unwavering and unearthly. “Take me there.”
Chapter 22
If God has made this world so fair,
Where sin and death abound,
How beautiful beyond compare
Will paradise be found!
—James Montgomery
With grief-blind eyes, Benton rode at the back of his escort so that none could see his face. For weeks he had awakened each morning with a pain in his chest, but now that aching anguish and emptiness had turned to a torturous hurt that threatened to undo him.
As he gazed around him at the crystal dewdrops adorning the trees and listened to the muted conversations of his men, it seemed unnatural that the world could go on spinning, and the clock keep on ticking. Abundant life flowed all around, yet he had no part of it. For him, the black flood of numbing despair and agony encompassed all else in the world.
Benton’s mind involuntarily went back to those moments in time when he could have said something or done something to prevent this tragedy—mere seconds that, having said nothing or done nothing, had wrought that which could never be undone.
Just thinking about the long and torturous days to come, about the bleak, endless march of time made Benton cringe. He knew there would forever be a constant gnawing of torment, more deadly and bitter than all the perils of war, because he loved Sarah Duvall with an intensity that could never be repeated in a lifetime. The grief, the utter dread, spread through him like an illness—it did not kill him, but made him wish that it would.
When the group came to a sudden halt, he urged his horse to the front.
“He thinks we’re getting close, Colonel,” Connelly said. “He’s trying to get his bearings now.”
The group moved out again, but there was barely a sound now, save the creaking of the saddles, the steady tramping of hooves, and an occasional sneeze from one of the horses. The men appeared impatient, fidgeting in their saddles while Benton sat gazing straight ahead, trying to master his emotions and the situation. After just a few more minutes, the Union soldier drew back on his reins and pointed. “There it is.”
All eyes from the staff went to the tree, first to the trunk which seemed too small to carry out such an evil duty, then slowly, in unison, each gaze lifted to the limb above, where a piece of frayed and tangled rope had wrapped itself over and over upon a branch. Where all had been still and eerily quiet, a wind with bone-seeking chill in it suddenly stirred from some invisible place, causing branches to rub together and groan so that even Nature seemed to join in the somber event.
During this time of war, a mangled and torn body would cause only a passing glance and not a moment’s thought from battle-hardened soldiers such as these. But this rope, swinging above their heads in its ghastly suspension between heaven and earth, created an overwhelming emotional response from those who gazed upon it.
All sat still as death and rested their eyes where last hers had rested. Nothing could lessen the intensity of the heroic and horrific act that had occurred here, or soften the haunting cruelty of the sacrificial scene.
A sudden surge of nausea all but choked Benton as he clung to his horse. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the picture of her composed, serene face hanging there in the dark. His ears rang. His heart stopped. He couldn’t move or breathe. But even putting a hand in front of his tightly closed eyes could not stop the images that continue
d to appear. Her sweet voice echoed with every beat of his throbbing breast, and he selfishly wished he had died in advance.
Knowing that others watched him, Benton urged his horse forward. After taking a few deep breaths, he dismounted slowly, trying hard to control his emotions—but the calm exterior cost him. He sank to his knees, unable to stand, and touched the bare ground beneath the tree with his hand incredulously.
He could not help but picture her with the cold dew on her eyelashes, and her cheeks as pale and cold as death. He had refrained from thinking of her thus, lying with her delicate skin against the damp unforgiving ground, but now, involuntarily, the image formed before him, and he uttered a cry that only those who have heard the roar of a wounded lion can conceive.
Confused, Benton looked around as if expecting to see her body—or perhaps a relic of it—but there was nothing but the rope to testify to the atrocity that had taken place here. Perhaps the enemy had recovered it, or a kind passerby had buried it, but in any case, this was the spot where her spirit had left its earthly bounds, and it was all that remained.
Continuing to stare in confusion at the stark, barren scene, Benton could feel his whole being straining toward something he could neither see nor comprehend; something that hovered above and beyond, out of his reach, yet so near he felt he could almost touch it.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, wishing he could console himself with the thought that her death had been a swift blotting out as in battle—perhaps that he could have accepted.
Instead, her last moments had been a ceremony of horror and shame, which unfolded before him now in a scene so despicable and revolting that he shuttered at the thought. She, who had unsparingly doled out spiritual nourishment to his men, whose destiny it had been to protect the fate of so many, and who represented nothing but white-robed Angelic peace, had been taken from this earth by an act repulsive to the senses.
With deliberate effort, Benton stood and, without a word, walked back to his horse. Lifting an ax from his saddle, he strode back to the tree and swung the instrument into the wood. The sound of the ax head burying itself into the bark echoed through the air with an explosive thud that seemed to reverberate through the souls of those watching. He swung it again and again, faster now and more furiously.
Connelly dismounted and grabbed his arm. “Take a rest, sir. We can finish it for you.”
Benton pushed him away and began swinging the ax again. Slivers of wood flew furiously through the air, and drops of sweat sprayed from his forehead with every motion. His men watched silently as the ax landed time and time again deep into the tree until finally there was a loud crack and it began to give way.
Red-faced and soaked, Benton fell to his knees in exhaustion as the tree groaned and creaked in retaliation before falling with a crash. Steam from the chilly air rose from Benton’s heated body and flowed in puffs from his mouth as he panted, creating a ghostly and ghastly image in the dim light of the forest.
When Connelly stepped forward with a knife, Benton cut the rope, and closed his eyes as he felt the course piece of hemp scrape against his hand. He had to accept it now—she was one with the sacred dust. “God of mercy,” he whispered, “yield me the power to make a sacrifice equally as brave.”
Before it had not seemed real, but now there was proof in the harsh, brutal texture of the rope in his hand. Reality washed over him with a peculiar mixture of despair and bewilderment that he had spent that last evening with absolutely no sense of her fate, while what was to come was coming.
Try as he might, Benton could recall nothing in her countenance or her demeanor that indicated an awareness of any impending danger or fear. He remembered only a calm, daring, unflinching look of unearthly calm. How could he have not seen death shining from those glorious eyes? And how could she have escaped to heaven before he could adequately tell her what she meant to him?
Colonel Connelly lifted his hands into the air beside him and closed his eyes while the others in the group bowed their heads. “Heavenly Father, we ask for blessings for our comrade Sarah Duvall, whose fortune, honor and life were laid willingly upon the altar of her country in its hour of trial. God grant that the lesson of devotion and loyalty be not lost, and may her beautiful spirit, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” He paused and glanced at Benton. “And Dear Lord we pray that this be our comfort and our consolation: Sarah Duvall is where she deserves to be, and where a merciful Lord wanted her to be. So give us the strength to bear the loss and say, His will be done. Amen.”
The solemn finality of the prayer left the men’s cheeks damp, but the gloomy day made it hard to discern whether the tears were theirs or those of Mother Nature. Connelly lowered his hands and placed one on Benton’s shoulder. “Be consoled that Death has placed her soul beyond human malice, and she is in a place where she can forever rejoice with the Savior she so dutifully served.”
Benton nodded as he thought of the hardships and tumult she had endured during her short life, and the weight she had carried on her fragile shoulders. If not comforted by the thought that she was now in Heaven, he was at least a little less miserable. But oh, how his hands trembled at the desire to see and touch her once more.
“Yes, she belongs to the ages now,” Benton said, his voice trembling, “though I preferred it when she belonged to us.” He stared silently another moment at the rope in his hand and then began to walk toward his horse, the tragedy of having no grave at which to grieve settling upon him like a heavy weight.
“Colonel, may I have a word?” Connelly steered Benton away from the other men so they could talk privately.
“Sir, we all understand the depth of your pain. The loss is a blow to us all, but…”
Benton remained unmoving, staring into the nothingness that lay before him. Did he know the depth of his pain? Some compelling power or emotion had urged her to the sacrifice, and he had failed to see it, discarding her forewarning for the sake of his own pride and reputation.
Connelly paused a moment apparently unsure how to continue and then blundered right on. “Sir, we must in this time of great peril, particularly in this time of great peril, be resolved to forge ahead, to focus solely on the task before us. She would wish it. It is our duty to be worthy of what she gave to us.”
When Benton still did not respond, he blurted out what he was trying to say. “What occurred is a tragedy. What could have occurred? A catastrophe. She is gone, sir. It is time to forget.”
Benton reacted by exhaling loudly as if he had just been punched in the stomach, and held his tightly clenched fists by his side. His breathing came in gasps rather than breaths as he made an obvious effort to control his emotions and his rage. Then, as if she were standing beside him, he heard her voice clearly in his ears. “Observe what Christ says. Make his conduct your example.”
“Yes, she is gone,” Benton said after staring again at the rope he held in his clenched hand for a few long moments. He took a step closer to Connelly, his eyes glistening madly in the early morning light. “For the sake of the men, Major Connelly, I will move on.” His voice quivered as he spoke. “But I shall never forget!” He swallowed hard, then walked back toward his waiting men. “Parole him,” he said, nodding toward the Union soldier with a look of searing agony and regret.
Benton tied the rope onto his saddle and mounted, waiting patiently for the rest of the men to follow. When Connelly was ready, he rode up beside the colonel and leaned toward him. “Sir, I noticed a path to a house a little ways back. Perhaps we should stop there for some nourishment and warmth.”
Benton nodded. “Lead the way, Major.”
Connelly saluted, but before moving his horse forward, he paused a moment and touched the rope that was tied to Benton’s saddle. Without a word, the other men of the detail moved their horses into single file behind Connelly and silently touched the rope as they passed by. Although painful to feel, it served as a way to remove all doubt about the course of events, and cleanse them of bu
rdens held tightly but best let go.
For some, the rope served as a source of inspiration, for others a way to recall a lost comrade—but for most, it was a way to find the courage to continue the fight, and perhaps make a silent pledge to avenge the death of one so brave. The piece of hemp seemed to become a symbol of their unity for the mere fact that they had nothing else of her to see or touch or hold.
Chapter 23
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,
And breath be made of life, I have no life to breathe.
—Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act 3, Scene 4)
The troop moved silently through the shadows as the sun continued its climb above the treetops. The distance to their destination was only about four miles, but the time, as far as Major Connelly was concerned, was an eternity. The day was raw and cloudy, and whether from the damp air or the deep gloom that surrounded him, he felt chilled to the bone. As he had predicted though, the trail off the road led to a large farmhouse that showed bountiful amounts of smoke pouring forth from the chimney. Before dismounting near a pine tree, Connelly ordered one of the men to knock, which brought an older woman and young girl to the door.
“Pardon the intrusion,” Connelly said, leaning forward in his saddle, and lifting his hat. “Could you spare a meal for Colonel Benton and his staff? There are but eight of us.”
The woman eyed Connelly suspiciously and then swept her gaze across the group, pausing as she watched Benton dismount wearily from his horse. “I suppose we can feed eight.” Her lips held no smile, but her offer seemed genuine. “There’s corn in the barn for the horses.”
“We’re mighty obliged.” Connelly replaced his hat and nodded toward the far corner of the yard. “I can see this must be a difficult time for you. Our condolences for your loss.”
The woman’s gaze darted nervously to the fresh mound of dirt and handmade cross near a small grove of trees. “She ain’t no one of ours really.” The little girl who sat swinging her legs in a chair from behind the woman spoke up. “Just some stranger we found.”
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