Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Courthouse,” Jackson said succinctly.

  Immediately Yancy held up his hand and shouted, “Company, halt!”

  The mounted cadets stopped immediately with barely a sound.

  Jackson, with Yancy and Peyton behind him, rode to a hitching post in front of the courthouse and dismounted. They stopped to survey this shabby building that had come to the center of attention of an entire nation.

  It was a coupled courthouse, old, with gray and white pillars with the paint flecking off. The windows were of thick, wavy glass, and they were forlorn and dusty. The United States flag on the pole in front was faded and tattered.

  Next door was a jail with worn, uneven bricks, with moss growing in between. It, too, was old and dismal looking, the last home John Brown would ever know. As they watched, they saw a plump man, who was evidently the jail master, holding court outside, his thumbs stuck in his suspenders self-importantly. He was talking to some journalists and some others who were obviously just curious.

  “He’s having his day in the sun,” Jackson muttered. “I tell you, cadets, this whole thing has been shameful from beginning to end. I’m going in to see the sheriff about our accomodations. You wait, and don’t let any of the boys wander over there to listen to that fool.”

  That night Jackson wrote to Anna:

  Charles Town, Nov. 28, 1859

  I reached here last night in good health and spirits. Seven of us slept in the same room. I am much more pleased than I expected to be; the people here appear to be very kind. There are about one thousand troops here, and everything is quiet so far. We don’t expect any trouble. The excitement is confined to more distant points. Do not give yourself any concern about me. I am comfortable, for a temporary military post.

  The gallows had been erected on a hill just outside of Charles Town. Facing it squarely were two artillery pieces, each manned by seven VMI cadets. Behind them, mounted, were the seven remaining cadets. Yancy and Peyton again flanked Major Jackson. They waited in perfect silence, the gunners at the ready. It was feared by the governor that Brown’s fanatical followers might make a last-ditch attempt to rescue him. Charles Town and Execution Hill were ringed with militiamen.

  Below them one thousand militiamen waited to escort John Brown to his execution. They led him out of the jail. His steel gray hair and beard bristled aggessively, yet he shufffled slowly in ugly carpet slippers, for he had been injured when he was captured and he was ill. A jail was no place to get healthy and gain strength. Although his step was tentative, his face showed no weakness. He handed a piece of paper to the plump jailer, who took it and started to read it, but Brown spoke in a low tone to him and he folded it and put it in his pocket.

  Brown stared around at the soldiers surrounding him and the others waiting in the roadway beyond. He blinked a little, for the sun was incongruously bright and cheerful. It was a cold, crisp day. “I had no idea Governor Wise thought my murder was so important,” he said bitterly.

  With his jailer on one arm and the sheriff on the other, he went to the waiting wagon. They helped him up into it, and calmly he seated himself on the coffin between the seats. The driver cracked a whip over two white farm horses, and slowly they crawled out of the town and up the hill to the waiting gallows. The wagon finally reached the hollow square of troops, one thousand of them. It filed past the artillery and the VMI cadets.

  In a low voice Yancy called, “Attention!”

  The standing cadets stood at a perfect formal stance.

  The old man lifted his head and gazed at the distant hills, sweet and blue and faraway, and the meeting place of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers. Yancy heard him say, “This is a beautiful country. I never truly had the pleasure of seeing it before.”

  “None like it,” the sheriff answered.

  The prisoner mounted the scaffold first. He turned and stared straight at the cadets and the artillery pieces. Yancy thought his eyes glinted fiercely as he gazed into the gaping mouths of the cannons. Two men fitted a white hood over his face while another adjusted the rope.

  One man gently nudged him in the direction of the rope, and in a muffled but calm voice he said, “I can’t see, gentlemen. You must lead me.”

  The sheriff and a guard led him to the trap, where he stood in his carpet slippers and waited. The militia that had accompanied him from the jail traipsed about below, a confusion of stamping feet and muffled commands.

  The sheriff asked Brown, “You want a private signal, now, just before?”

  “It’s no matter to me. If only they would not keep me waiting so long.”

  The militia went on and on, trying to get themselves into order, and the minutes, it seemed to Yancy, went on endlessly. He felt slightly sick. But some of the younger cadets glanced at each other in secret amusement at the citizen soldiers’ stumbling.

  Although they had made no sound, Jackson growled, “Gentlemen.”

  Every cadet immediately became perfectly motionless and expressionless.

  Finally the militia were arrayed, and Execution Hill became quiet.

  John Brown murmured to his jailer, “Be quick, Avis.”

  The noose was tightened, the ax parted the rope, the hatch swung open, and John Brown was dead.

  Still the field was quiet.

  Then Major J. T. L. Preston of VMI shouted loudly, “So perish all such enemies of Virginia! All such enemies of the Union! All such enemies of the human race!”

  The soldiers were ordered at ease. Men went forward and took his body down. Nails sounded in the coffin.

  The jailer took out the piece of paper that John Brown had handed him, his last words:

  I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away, but with blood….

  The cadets were very quiet as they returned to their rooms in town. The citizens of Charles Town had been very generous, taking them into their homes and feeding them and making sure they were as comfortable as they could be under the circumstances.

  Yancy, Peyton Stevens, Charles Satterfield, and Sandy Owens rode together after the company was dismissed. Chuckins and Sandy had attended the cannons. They had all been very close to the scaffold, close enough to hear everything that had been said and see all the inner workings of a hanging.

  Chuckins said in a tired voice, “I didn’t know it was going to be like that. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be at all.”

  Sandy asked, “What did you think it was going to be, Chuckins?”

  “I don’t know. Not so—sad. I think the man was crazy, and I think he was wrong, wrong, wrong in what he did, and I know that he’s massacred people here and in Kansas. But somehow this—this cold, bloodless…” His voice petered out.

  “I know what you mean, Chuckins,” Peyton said quietly. “No guts, no glory, no thrill of battle or ringing trumpets or great men shouting commands or fiery martyrdom. Just a kind of whimper.”

  Sandy sighed. “I’ve seen dead people before, but that’s the first time I’ve seen an execution. And you’re right, Peyton, I’ve no stomach for it at all. I’m glad it’s over.”

  After a few moments Yancy muttered, “I don’t think anything is over. I don’t think anything ended today except John Brown’s life. I think because of it, the trouble has just begun.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On this unrestful year of 1859, Christmas came on the last Sunday of the month, so the Virginia Military Institute let classes out on Friday, December 23. Yancy hurried home early that morning, anxious to see his family. At about noon it began snowing, a soft swirl of big flakes that slowly covered the landscape in a delicate fluffy white quilt. Midnight’s steps puffed up big pillows of snow as he turned up the road to the farm.

  Hurriedly Yancy hitched Midnight up to the post at the front porch and jumped the steps up onto the veranda. He heard Hank howling, and before he could knock, Daniel came out onto the porch.

  “Son! You made it for Christmas!” He held out his arms and ga
ve Yancy a suffocating bear hug.

  Zemira, Becky, and Callie Jo came out on the porch, hugging Yancy over and over. Hank blundered out and jumped on everyone. Becky was now so big that Yancy could barely put his arms around her. He bent over and kissed her on both cheeks. Grinning, he said, “You still look beautiful.”

  Sassily she replied, “I suppose if I’m as big as a barn I’d better still look pretty.”

  Daniel laughed. “And you do, Beck. Come on, let’s get into the parlor. We’ve got a big warm fire and lots of food.”

  “That sounds good, Father, but I don’t want to leave Midnight out in the snow. I’ll stable him and be right back,” Yancy said.

  Zemira said, “That’s good, Yancy. Everything’s fresh in the kitchen, but it’ll take us a few minutes to set the table.”

  Daniel went with Yancy. Together they led Midnight to the stables, unsaddled him, and brushed him down. It went quickly with the both of them.

  “We’ll fix him some of his special mash after we eat,” Daniel said. “And since it’s Christmastime maybe we’ll treat the other horses, too.”

  “That we will,” Yancy murmured. He went to each of the stalls—Fancy, Reuben, Stamper, and Reddie—petted them all and murmured nonsense horse talk to them.

  They went back to the house. Yancy noticed that the table and chairs from the veranda were now in the parlor so they could eat by the immense fire. Becky and Zemira had prepared a plain homey meal, for the feasts would commence on Christmas Day, and the following day, December 26, which was for family visiting. On this night they had an immense beef potpie, corn fritters, pickled beets and onions, and fried turnips with greens. For dessert Becky had prepared apple cake, a complicated recipe that she had perfected. For a woman who had never cared much about cooking, Zemira had taught her so well that she now loved it.

  As they ate they talked about the farm, the livestock, and the horses.

  Zemira said, “Becky’s father has offered to exchange a billy goat and a nanny goat for one of our roosters and two sitting hens. I think it’s a good trade. Callie Jo likes goat milk. Maybe the new one will, too.”

  “I like goat cheese, too,” Yancy offered.

  “You like everything,” Daniel scoffed.

  “Like his father,” Becky said indignantly. “I think you’d eat grass if Mother Zemira cooked it for you.”

  “When he was six years old he ate it without me cooking it,” Zemira said airily. “He saw the horses grazing and decided it might be good.”

  “Did he get sick?” Becky asked incredulously.

  “No, not at all. That’s why I don’t bother to cook it for him,” Zemira answered.

  “Well for me, if I’m ever reduced to eating grass, I’m going to hurry home from the war and have some Friendship Bread,” Yancy grunted.

  A silence descended on them for a moment. The only sound was Callie Jo in her high chair, chewing noisily on a piece of beef from the potpie.

  Finally Yancy broke the awkward silence and said, “I know, I know, we don’t talk about war. But at the institute that’s just about all we talk about. You know that the Southern states are going to secede from the Union. It’s going to happen.”

  Daniel sighed deeply, almost a groan. “We know, and you’re wrong, son, we do talk about it. We think about it all the time, because we love you and we understand what will happen if there’s a war. I don’t suppose that maybe you’d think about coming back to us? Neither the North nor the South will bother the Plain People. They leave us to ourselves and leave our lands to us.”

  With slow deliberation Yancy put down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and pushed his plate away. “I can’t do that. I’ve chosen my way. I love you all”—he looked at everyone clearly—“but this is my life. This is the life I want. I want to be a soldier.”

  “But son, this is a big mistake, in these days and times,” Daniel blustered. “You’re so young. You’re only sixteen! You can come back to us before there’s some kind of awful war and then, afterwards, see what you want to do! There’s no need for you to—”

  Zemira reached over and took Daniel’s hand in hers. “Don’t make a mistake with him, Daniel,” she said quietly. “The boy’s a man, and he’s decided his way, for the time being. All we can do is love him and offer him a home, no matter what.”

  For a few moments Daniel’s square jaw tightened, but then he closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, Mother. I know. All right then, Yancy. So, what are the English saying out there?”

  “Ah, us English talk too much,” Yancy said, grinning. “The North says we’re a bunch of devils because we own slaves. The South says the North is a bunch of devils because they just want to take us over and steal our lands and our rights.”

  “I still read the newspapers, in spite of what my mother says,” Daniel said mischievously. Zemira made a face at him. “I read where the North has conferred a sort of sainthood on John Brown, and the South has made him out to be the devil incarnate.” He studied Yancy’s face, which was expressionless, and then he added, “You haven’t said anything about him and his execution, Yancy. What did you and all the cadets think about him?”

  Yancy replied, “We didn’t think about him much at all, you know. We didn’t know him. We didn’t know anything about him. We only witnessed his execution.”

  “That must have been very hard,” Becky said sympathetically.

  “It was, in one way,” Yancy said thoughtfully. “In another way it made us all want to—to—fight, to offer our lives in a meaningful way, to want our lives to count for something. John Brown was a sick old man that died a sorry death. Even though we knew he stood for something, we all believe that we would rather die fighting for a noble cause, standing up for our beliefs and dying a death with glory.”

  “There is no death with glory in war,” Zemira said solidly. “There is only death, bloody and unnecessary death.”

  “I understand you, Grandmother,” Yancy said quietly. “But I would much rather take the chance of a death with honor, facing it with courage, so that it means something to my country.”

  After supper Yancy and Daniel made sure the livestock were warm, dry, and well fed in the barn and stables. They banked the fires in the bedrooms and kitchen stove and brought in plenty of firewood for the morning fires. By 7:00 they were tired, and everyone went to bed.

  Yancy was having a confused dream in which he and Hannah Lapp were frantically running up and down stairs…when he realized that people were running up and down the stairs. He jumped out of bed and pulled on his clothes, murkily realizing that when people were running about in the middle of the night it must be an emergency.

  When he stepped outside of his bedroom, he saw that his father was indeed running up the stairs with a basin of hot water and several white cloths over his arm. “It’s the baby,” Daniel said breathlessly.

  “But I thought it wasn’t due till the second week of January,” Yancy said anxiously.

  “So we all thought, but it seems the baby thinks otherwise,” Daniel answered, heading toward his bedroom, balancing the steamy basin carefully.

  “Should I go get Esther Raber?” Yancy asked.

  “Mother says there isn’t time,” Daniel replied tensely. “Go down to the kitchen and make sure there’s more boiling water. And watch Callie Jo if she wakes up.” He went into the master bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

  Yancy hurried downstairs and built up the fire in the kitchen iron stove. He filled up two copper pots and set them on the stove to start them boiling. Then he ran upstairs to the nursery, where Callie Jo was sleeping. Silently he slipped in and watched her in the crib that he and his father had built for her. She slept soundly, peacefully.

  He hurried back downstairs to stare at the pots of water. Hank was in the kitchen, and even he was anxious, sitting and staring at Yancy and then going around and around in circles before lying down on his rag rug in front of the stove. Then he got up and started circling the k
itchen again.

  Clearly this was a fruitless occupation for both of them, so Yancy went upstairs, grabbed his boots, coat, and warm felt slouch hat and went back down. He took Hank out to pace on the veranda.

  It was a beautiful December night. The sky was so thick with stars that it seemed like a mirror to the snow-spangled earth. The air was clear and biting, with a clean, brisk scent to it. Yancy inhaled deeply.

  Then began an odd, seemingly aimless round in the silent snowy December night. He paced with Hank; he went to the kitchen to check on pots of water that eventually boiled; he went upstairs to check on Callie Jo, who slept peacefully on.

  Once, on one of these roundabouts, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He tiptoed to the master bedroom and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear, through the thick oak, his grandmother’s soft murmur and his father’s low mutterings. No sound came from Becky.

  Yancy had much experience with childbearing—or of hearing it, at least. In the Cheyenne camp any woman who was bearing a child was the concern of the entire community. In the tepees their cries were clearly heard. Men bore them with no sign of distress; they accepted it as a part of giving life.

  Now Yancy remembered that he’d heard nothing when Becky gave birth to Callie Jo, until she uttered her first baby cries. But now the silence seemed to be ominous, as was this entire night. He wondered if things were going terribly wrong.

  Slowly he went back downstairs and led Hank out onto the veranda. There he stood at the head of the steps, staring across to the east. Comically, Hank sat down beside him, sighing a doggy sigh and sorrowfully looking out.

  Yancy took off his hat and held it to his heart. He spoke out loud. “Father God, I know I’m not a—a—oh, I don’t know what I am. But I know what You are, and I know that my father and Grandmother and Becky are Your protected and beloved children. I pray for Becky right now, and for that baby. You love them, I know You do. Save them. Make them well. Make them strong. Thank You.”