In the still night, they heard a baby’s cry. It was eleven minutes to eleven.
Esther’s step sounded on the stairs, and they rushed into the house like mad bulls.
“Come on up,” she said, smiling widely. “They’re fine.”
They ran up the stairs and then, slowing down and almost tiptoeing, they went into the bedroom.
Rebecca sat up in bed. She looked tired, and her hair was dripping with sweat, but she smiled. “Look, Daniel! Just look! Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She…she? It’s a girl?” Daniel murmured, standing by the bed. “Thank the Lord! She’s—all right?” he asked Esther anxiously.
Zemira soundlessly came up to stand beside him. She beamed down at the baby. “She’s perfect, just perfect. She reminds me of—of—” She choked slightly, then finished in a low voice, “Of you, of course, Daniel. Of you.”
The baby was awake and seemed to stare right up at her father. She had reddish blond hair and light blue eyes, just like Daniel. Most babies just look like babies, but Yancy thought that she did indeed resemble Father.
Becky held her up for Daniel to hold. He took her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. “A little girl…a girl…Oh, thank you, wife.”
“Thank you, husband. So what shall we call her?”
“Well, we did talk about that. I know it’s kind of a mouthful, but I still like it. Callie Josephine? Callie after my grandmother and Josephine after your grandfather Joseph?”
“Callie Josephine it is,” Becky said, settling wearily back into her pillows. “What do you think about your new sister, Yancy?”
It gave Yancy a warm feeling for Becky to call the baby his sister instead of his half sister. Over the last two years he had come to love Becky, though he could never call her Mother. But this did give him a tie to the baby, for them to name her after his great-grandmother Callie. Grandmother had told him a lot about her mother. She had been a strong, loving woman.
Yancy answered, “Well, she’s—uh, little. And she’s all red. But she’s got pretty-colored hair, like Father’s.”
Becky laughed. “The red will go away, and she’ll have a beautiful complexion, just like her grandmother Zemira. And yes…” she finished softly, “she is very much like her father.”
Part Two: The Prelude 1858
CHAPTER SIX
Three cadets scurried across the compound, headed for the classroom building. They were fifteen minutes late. They were students of Virginia Military Academy, better known as VMI. This institution was joined to Washington College in the small Virginia town of Lexington.
Sandy Owens, a tall, lanky boy of fifteen with hazel eyes and the sandy reddish hair that his nickname would indicate, led the three. Behind him was Charles Satterfield, a short, stocky fifteen-year-old with jet black hair and warm, brown eyes. Peyton Stevens, the third member of the group, was a handsome blond boy with china blue eyes and the look of aristocracy about him. He was sixteen but could have passed for eighteen. He wasn’t as flustered as the other two boys, knowing he wouldn’t be in a great deal of trouble since his father was a senator and had gotten him out of every trouble he had managed to get into.
Their awkward hurry was jarring with their splendid appearance. They wore the distinguished uniforms of the Virginia Military Institute, and with that uniform went the unbreakable rule that they be spotless and without fault. The cadets wore the gray tunic with tails. Finely embroidered “frogs”—so named for the three-lobed fleurs-de-lis—adorned the collar and the face of the tunics. At each frog was a button, a silver image of the seal of the state of Virginia. Their breeches were spotless white, and if they were not spotless, the cadet was immediately sent to the barracks to don acceptable pants. In formal dress, they wore snowy white crossbelts with a silver buckle. They proudly wore forage caps with thick silver cords around the brim.
The cadets’ finery particularly troubled Sandy Owens; he was something of a ladies’ man, and he despised his uniform getting spoiled. It was all too easy for the spotless white breeches to get soiled when riding, or in musket drill, or particularly in cannon drill. He avoided all contact with dirt and grime with great perseverance.
Charles, whom everyone affectionately called Chuckins, had a worried look on his face. He was a good-natured boy who took teasing very well, which was surprising considering he came from an extremely wealthy family. He showed no signs of the usually spoiled scion, however. Now he muttered nervously, “We’re going to catch it, Sandy! You know what old Tom Fool will do to us for being so late!”
Sandy grunted. “Whatever happens, you better not let Major Jackson hear you call him Tom Fool. He knows more than we think he knows. I don’t know who started calling him Tom Fool, but they’re crazy, ’cause he ain’t no fool.”
“You’re right about that,” Peyton languidly agreed. He was breathing easily, and he kept his eye fixed on the great Gothic institute that rose before them. “They say that he ate those Mexicans alive during the war, with the artillery. He sure does know what he’s doing with artillery pieces.” In spite of his apparently languid and lazy appearance, Peyton Stevens dearly loved musket practice and artillery practice. He was very good with both rifles and cannons.
“We know, we know, his artillery class is the best,” Chuckins agreed, breathing hard because he had been trotting to keep up with Sandy and Peyton. “It’s just this natural and experimental philosophy class. He just recites it from memorization. Puts me to sleep every time, no matter how hard I pinch myself!”
“We have to stay awake, and we have to figure out a way to get into that classroom with a good excuse,” Peyton said. “Otherwise we’ll all get demerits.” Suddenly he stopped walking.
Then Sandy stopped and Chuckins ran into him.
“What we need is a good, sound alibi,” Peyton said thoughtfully. “What’s the biggest lie you can think of, Sandy?”
“Uh—my grandmother died?”
“Your grandmothers have died four or five times,” Peyton scoffed. “How about this? Chuckins, you ate too much dinner and it made you sick. Sandy and I had to take you to the infirmary.”
Perplexed, Chuckins asked, “But what would I be doing coming to class if I was sick?”
“You weren’t as sick as you thought,” Peyton answered smoothly. “And you’re so loyal to VMI that you insisted on coming to class, sick or not.”
“Hey, that might work!” Chuckins exclaimed, his hazel eyes fixed on the forbidding gray sandstone building looming up before them. “I think I feel my sickness coming back on. Maybe you better help me in.”
“That’s it, Chuckins,” Sandy said. “Here, Peyton, grab his arm. Poor boy is sicker than anybody knows.”
Slowing their pace, the three cadets moved toward the classroom building. As they did, Sandy Owens said, “You know, I feel sorry for Major Jackson.”
“Why would you feel sorry for him?” Peyton asked.
“You know he got married. Well, his first wife died along with his baby.”
“Yeah, but he got married again right away,” Peyton said. “He didn’t let any grass grow under his feet. That woman he married, Elinor Junkin, she’s the daughter of Dr. Junkin that was the president of Washington College. For sure she has money. I imagine she set up the Major pretty well.”
Sandy looked at him with surprise. “But Peyton, didn’t you hear? Last month Major and Mrs. Anna Jackson lost their baby. A little girl that they had named Mary Graham. She lived almost a month then died. I think maybe that’s why he’s been so much more stern this last month.”
Peyton looked repentant. “No, I hadn’t heard. That’s—hard. That’s hard for a man.”
They marched on silently, but they were young, and the tragedies of life had not yet become real for them.
As they neared the classroom building, Chuckins said weakly, “I’m feeling sicker, boys. Let’s go in.”
The three, moving more slowly, entered the building and trudged down the hall until they ca
me to a door that led into the classroom. They tried the door—but it was sturdily locked. They weren’t too surprised, because Major Jackson often did this when he wasn’t in a very good mood.
Soon the man himself opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “Yes, gentlemen? I believe you are—” He ostentatiously pulled a watch from his pocket and stared at it, then looked up. “You are eighteen minutes late.” He still wore his dusty major’s uniform from the Mexican War. He had grown a fine mustache and beard, and right now they bristled. His eyes were as cold and icy blue as the darkest winter midnight.
“Yes…sir…Major…sir,” Chuckins said weakly. “I was sick. Sandy and Peyton took me to the infirmary.”
Major Jackson stared at him unforgivingly, raking him from head to toe.
“Uh—but—” Sandy started stuttering.
“Chuckins feels better now, though, Major Jackson,” Peyton said smoothly. “He didn’t want to miss class.”
Jackson’s blue-light gaze transferred to Peyton, and even he shifted uncomfortably. “Who is Chuckins?” Jackson demanded.
Charles Satterfield came to backbreaking attention and said stiffly, “It’s me, sir. I’m Cadet Charles Satterfield.”
“Well, Cadet, you are late for class, and being ill, you’ve also made your friends late for class. Two demerits for you, one for each of you, Cadet Owens, Cadet Stevens. If you don’t want any further punishment, be on time for artillery tomorrow,” Jackson said coldly. “Dismissed.” He went back into the classroom and again locked the door firmly.
The three cadets stood still in shock for long moments. Then Sandy blew out a long, “Wheeew! We set him off this time, no fooling!”
They turned to walk back down the hall. “And I got two demerits,” Chuckins wailed. “That’s not fair! I didn’t think of it. You did, Peyton!”
“Relax. I’ve already got four demerits,” Peyton said carelessly. “It’s not like they won’t graduate you, Chuckins. You’re a good little cadet. You’ll be fine.”
“Well, I’m never listening to you two again,” Chuckins grunted. “I’m gonna be right on time for artillery tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Sandy agreed.
After a while, Peyton said, “Yeah, me, too.”
Sandy Owens, Chuckins Satterfield, and Peyton Stevens were on time, even early, for artillery class the next day. With much self righteousness, they sat in the front row, their eyes fixed, without wavering, on Major Jackson.
“Understand that learning to load and fire a cannon has no importance whatsoever if you don’t learn to aim a cannon….Any fool can fire a big gun, but it takes a smart man to hit what he’s aiming for.”
The cadets sat listening as Major Jackson lectured, and none of them wiggled, for they had learned that his eyes would glow dangerous blue fire if they did. Also, as unassuming as he was in his natural and experimental philosophy classes, he was the polar opposite in his artillery classes. He was authoritative, commanding, and knowledgeable to the point of being almost mystical. In the Mexican War, one of his sergeants had said that it was almost as if he had single-handedly invented artillery.
“Now, gentlemen, we will go out and take practice in the art of artillery. I will appreciate it that you understand that the cannon is an instrument. It is an art as much as a skill. Some of it has to be born in you, for it’s not just the mathematics and the angle and the azimuth and the wind speed. You’ve got to have the eye. The eye, gentlemen! So let’s go see if any of you boys are blessed with the eye.” Jackson stepped off the podium and left the room.
In perfect order the cadets lined up two by two, marching behind him.
Before VMI was given the opportunity to obtain the services of the renowned Major Thomas Jackson, they had only conducted dumb-fire exercises of the cannons, relying on live-fire for the muskets. But former Lieutenant Thomas Jackson, of General Winfield Scott’s army in Mexico fighting Santa Anna, had made quite a name for himself. He and one man, a sergeant of artillery, had managed to break down the great fortress of Chapultepec single-handedly, with one cannon. They held the line until reinforcements arrived from his commander, Captain John Magruder. General Winfield Scott had taken special notice of Lieutenant Jackson, and so because of conspicuous bravery, he had been brevetted to the rank of major.
Because Major Thomas Jackson had gained quite a bit of fame and notoriety for his artillery work and he had persuaded the commandant of VMI that live fire of cannon was essential for the training of the cadets, he had been granted extremely special privileges for his artillery class. The college had, in effect, dug out a large trench, so that the cannons would fire into a hillside and not a fallible target. Four cannons had been purchased for the institute, and every month more powder and balls were bought for Major Thomas’s enthusiastic students.
The low ground of open field was to the west of the classroom building. The cannons were placed into a twelve-foot gully that rose above them. Six-foot-tall bales of hay, with circles painted on them vaguely representing men advancing, served as targets. To the rear was a shed filled with ammunition and supplies. The targets were set up in the field, and the underclassmen among the cadets began to open the shed and bring out the powder and shells.
Major Jackson stood rigidly as they did this, staring at the targets as if they were an oncoming battalion.
Peyton Stevens, the only cadet that had ever dared to initiate a conversation with Jackson, stood close by him. “Sir,” he asked speculatively, “do you think there will be a war? The papers all say so.”
“I’m more interested in what God says than what the papers say, Cadet Stevens. But I pray daily that there will not be a war,” Jackson answered.
The irrepressible Stevens would not be quiet and asked intently, “Would you fight with the Union, sir?” This was a constant question with Southern men—what would they do in case the South seceded?
“I ask God every day of my life to bring North and South together without shedding of blood. I love this country, Cadet Stevens, and it would break my heart to see brother fighting against brother on the field of battle.”
And at that Peyton Stevens grew quiet.
Anna Jackson looked across the tea table at her sister Eugenia. Anna was pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She had borne Thomas a daughter on April 30, and they had named her Mary Graham Jackson, but she was weak and ill and had died on May 25.
Eugenia had been here with her sister since the birth. It was the end of June, and Anna assured her that she was fine and Eugenia could return home. Eugenia herself had two healthy children, which, oddly, made her feel a little guilty. It didn’t, however, diminish her true sorrow for her sister. Eugenia smiled a little. “You know, Anna, I never told you this, but I was absolutely astonished when you married Major Jackson.”
“Why would you be astonished, Eugenia?”
“He’s so different from you. You’re so lively—and he seems so stately, I suppose you’d say.”
Anna nodded a little. “He does appear that way. You were always prettier than I, and the young men were fighting to see who would squire you around. While you were doing that, I was spending time with Thomas.”
“He’s just so different from most men. Does he still worry about his health?”
Anna appeared somewhat disturbed with this. She hesitated before answering, “I’m afraid he’s too concerned with his health. He seems to me to be absolutely strong and healthy, but he has some odd ideas. He stands straight up for long periods in order to keep perfect alignment of his organs, or so he believes. He will only study his books in the daytime, because he thinks that artificial light like candles harms his eyesight.”
“My, that is strange.”
“Yes, it is. I suppose you’ve noticed that he keeps a lemon with him at all times? Very rarely do you see him for a long period without his biting the end off and sucking the juices out.”
“I don’t see how he does that. I should think it would make his mouth pucke
r.”
“He thinks it helps his health. He’s really two men, Eugenia; it’s almost as if he leads a double life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you know him, and the people of Lexington have never really known my husband. He’s so formal and stiff at times in public, but there are other times, especially when we’re alone, when he is so gay and carefree no one would recognize him.”
“I can’t imagine him being gay and lighthearted.”
“Oh yes! Why just yesterday he was talking to one of the little girls that belonged to one of the neighbors. He was saying a poem for her, and what poem do you guess it was?”
“I’d guess Wordsworth or Shakespeare.”
“No indeed, it was quite different from their work.” She smiled and quoted the small poem:
“I had a little pig,
I fed him on clover.
When he died,
He died all over.”
“Oh, that’s funny! Did he make it up himself?”
“He wouldn’t admit it, but I’m sure he did. So as you see, he’s really two men. The austere major and professor in the classroom, sometimes very stern and harsh. But when we’re alone, it’s a different story.”
Eugenia said in a low voice, “I know you’ve grieved terribly over the loss of Mary Graham, sister. Yet Thomas, to a stranger, seems to be just as strong and sure as ever he was.”
Anna put down her teacup and grasped her sister’s hand in hers. “He suffers, Eugenia. He suffers as much or more than I do. You remember, he and Ellie lost a son.”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 7
