Black-draped carriages had been sent for Mrs. Jackson, Hetty and the baby, and two ladies that accompanied her, and for the staff officers escorting the general.
One of them, an older man who had purchased a commission as a captain, was an Episcopalian minister—for Jackson had several ministers on his staff—and was a notorious stickler for rules and protocol. As the officers helped the ladies into their carriage, he muttered to a lieutenant, “What are those impudent boys doing? We had not planned for a mounted escort. Go tell them to fall back and follow at a discreet distance.”
Anna followed his critical gaze, and her weary, reddened eyes softened. “No, sir,” she said with uncharacteristic curtness. “Leave them alone.”
The captain looked vaguely disapproving but said no more.
In truth, Anna felt it was very fitting that they should escort General Jackson. Yancy, Peyton, and Chuckins were the only members of the Stonewall Brigade there, and Sandy was one of the few VMI cadets that had left the institute to follow Jackson into war. For a fleeting moment, the sight of them made Anna forget her overwhelming sorrow. They looked so noble, so dignified, and they were all such handsome young men.
Leading this group were Yancy on Midnight and Peyton on his gorgeous gold palomino, Senator. To each side were the smaller horses, Chuckins’s pinto, Brownie, and Sandy’s elegant buckskin mare, Jasmine. Even the simple Brownie seemed to sense the solemnity of the day, for she held her head high and tossed her glossy mane and stepped proudly.
Slowly the procession made its way the two miles to the executive mansion. Throngs of people crowded the streets in uncanny silence, merely watching the funeral cart with its flower-draped casket go by. They stood still, their grief-stricken faces imprinted in Yancy’s memory. Most of the women, and many of the men, were weeping.
When they reached the mansion, Governor Letcher met Anna, and Mrs. Letcher took her to the governor’s private rooms, where mourning clothes and a veil were waiting for her. The staff officers knotted in little groups, planning where they would stay the night.
Yancy told his friends, “I’m going to the Haydens. Right now. I just won’t wait any longer. I just can’t.”
Chuckins and Sandy had no idea why he spoke that way. But Peyton, for all his lackadaisical ways, had come to understand that Yancy was in love with Lorena Hayden—the lovely woman in the drawings—and that there was some problem, insurmountable it would seem, between them. He nodded encouragingly to Yancy. “Go. Chuckins and Sandy are staying with me.” Senator Stevens had an enormous mansion on the James River.
Without another word Yancy turned and rode off.
Chuckins turned to Peyton, his honest face puzzled. “What was all that about?”
Peyton answered with his old litany, soberly this time. “Yancy doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. Sandy doesn’t know anything. And neither do you.”
Recklessly Yancy rode Midnight hard through Richmond’s streets. Although the way from the railroad station to the executive mansion had been congested with people, the side streets were all but deserted.
He clattered up to the Hayden home, as he had done so many times before—but this time was different. He jumped off Midnight and started to run to the door but then paused. Again he wiped off his dusty boots, straightened his tunic, swiped the buttons to make them glow, checked his sash and saber, then smoothed back his hair. The errant forelock promptly fell down over his forehead again, but he scarcely noticed. Taking a deep breath, he went to the door and knocked.
Missy answered it. Without a word to him, she took him in her arms and hugged him. “I’m so sorry you lost him, Yancy. It’s a sad day for everyone in the South.”
“Thank you, Missy,” he said. “It is a very sad time.”
“They’s in the parlor. Go on in,” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “You’re family. Ain’t no need for me to announce you.”
Yancy went to the parlor and hesitated, standing almost at attention in the doorway. Ever since General Jackson had died, he had not felt at all like himself. His mind, for one thing, seemed to have come to a screeching halt, stopped in that warm room where Stonewall took his last breaths. He felt like one of Stonewall’s Boys, bereft and lost, stuck in time as Yancy the soldier, stiff and unyielding.
The only other thing he felt was a tremendous desire to see Lorena. He had no plan of what he would say to her; he couldn’t picture it in his half-blank mind. He just knew he had to see her.
At the sound of his footsteps and the slight metallic sound of his scabbard, Dr. and Mrs. Hayden looked up.
Yancy, frozen in the doorway, could only manage to say, “Hello. I—I came with—with—escorting General Jackson.”
Lily Hayden hurried to him and hugged him much as Missy did. “Oh, Yancy dear, we are so very glad to see you, but so very sorry it is in these tragic circumstances. Are you all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She held him at arm’s length, and she and Dr. Hayden looked him up and down. They both seemed puzzled at Yancy’s obvious distance.
He couldn’t frame the words to say to reassure them. Finally he blurted out, “Where’s Lorena?”
“Why, she’s in the garden, dear,” Lily answered after a slight hesitation and a glance at her husband. “Why don’t you go on out to see her?”
Without another word, Yancy turned and marched out to the garden.
She was there, cutting flowers. Her dress was a cheerful spring muslin, with tiny sprigs of peach-colored roses entwined with little tendrils of ivy. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a peach ribbon tied under her chin. The setting sun barely touched her face, lighting it with a soft golden glow. Lorena didn’t look up, as she was humming to herself and obviously didn’t hear his approach.
As Yancy hesitated just outside the kitchen door, watching her, she began to sing. It was a song he had never heard before. Her sweet, clear, high soprano voice, and the hymn itself, rent his heart, a confused torrent of great joy mingled with inconsolable sorrow.
Hark! Hark my soul! angelic songs are swelling,
O’er earth’s green fields and ocean’s wave-beat shore:
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more.
Angels of Jesus, angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!
Onward we go, for still we hear them singing,
‘Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come’;
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,
The music of the Gospel leads us home.
Angels of Jesus, angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!
Angels, sing on, your faithful watches keeping;
Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above,
Till morning’s joy shall end the night of weeping,
And life’s long shadows break in cloudless love.
She began to hum the refrain again, but something unseeing touched her, and she looked up, right into Yancy’s eyes. Much like him, she froze.
Long moments passed.
Yancy, in a choked voice, said, “Lorena…? Lorena…”
She dropped her basket, dropped her shears, dropped the red, red rose she had just clipped. She ran to him so fast that her hat tumbled over her back, held by the ribbons. When she reached him she threw herself into his arms, and even though she was such a tiny woman, she moved so fast and hard that he almost staggered as he embraced her.
“Oh, Yancy, Yancy, you’ve remembered, haven’t you?” she cried against his chest.
“Yes. Finally…I’ve come back to you,” he murmured. “Lorena…”
“I love you! Desperately!” she said, pulling back and putting her hands on his face. “I’ve loved you for—forever!” Then she pulled him down to her and kissed him long and passionately.
He lifted his head and stared down at her. “Are you sure? You love me?”
> “Oh, yes, yes.”
He sagged a little, his shoulders bowed, and he dropped his head. He still held her in the circle of his arms.
She waited.
In a voice so low she could barely hear him, he said, “That’s—that’s good, Lorena. Because I not only love you, I—I need you. Much, much more than when I was hurt and sick. I need you now, so much, because—because—”
“You grieve for him,” she said softly. “You’ve lost him. I know, all too well, what it is to lose someone you love.”
“I do grieve, and I did love him,” Yancy said with difficulty. “And all I’ve been able to think of to comfort me—is you.”
“I will do that,” she said. “From now on, forever, I will guard your heart as if it is my own.”
He pulled her to him with a low groan. Yancy had not shed a tear in all this horrid war and did not cry when Stonewall Jackson died. And now, as if he were a lost child, he held her close and sobbed.
Yancy and Lorena went to speak to Dr. Hayden and Lily, returning from the garden where they had, both literally and figuratively, found each other. They went into the parlor, hand in hand.
Lorena’s parents looked up as they entered. Dr. Hayden looked mystified, but after seeing their glowing faces, Lily smiled.
“We—we have something to tell you, sir, ma’am,” Yancy stuttered. He shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly. “We—I mean, Lorena and I—”
“Just say it, Yancy. It’s quite all right, you know,” Lorena said with her old exasperation.
Yancy blew out a long whistling breath. “Okay. Okay. See, Dr. Hayden and Mrs. Hayden, we—I mean, Lorena has said—I asked her—”
“We’re in love,” Lorena blurted out. “And we’re engaged.”
“What?” Dr. Hayden asked, bewildered.
“Finally,” Lily muttered. She rose, went to them, and kissed each on the cheek. “Come, come, Yancy, I’ll bet you didn’t look nearly so terrified when you were riding into one of those famous battles we keep hearing about.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.” He and Lorena sat in their old chairs, but they reached across to hold hands.
“This is wonderful, perfectly wonderful,” Lily said happily, taking her seat by her husband. “Although for a long time now we’ve looked at you as a son, now you truly will be, Yancy. I couldn’t be happier, both for you and for my Lorena.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Yancy mumbled. He seemed almost—but not quite—as stunned as Dr. Hayden.
Lily asked eagerly, “Have you made any plans yet? Set a date?”
Now a shadow crossed over Yancy’s face, and he focused and became intent. “No, ma’am. I thought, somehow, that Lorena might want to wait until the war is over before we got married—”
“No,” Lorena said firmly. “No, I don’t want to wait.”
“I don’t either, once I thought about it,” Yancy agreed. “I’ve thought about a lot of things since General Jackson died. One thing I realized, since I knew him and Mrs. Jackson before, they didn’t waste time. They took every possible minute that they had together and treasured it, no matter what the circumstances. I know that if you had told Mrs. Jackson before she married him that he would die so soon, so young, after they’d been married less than six years and when their only daughter was only four months old, she would say that she wouldn’t hesitate, she would marry him anyway, as soon as she could. And that’s the way we feel,” he finished firmly.
“Exactly. I’m just sorry that we can’t get married today,” Lorena grumbled.
“What?” Dr. Hayden said again.
“General Jackson is going to Lexington, to lie in state one day. And then on Friday he’s to be buried. With your permission, sir, ma’am, I’d like for Lorena to come to Lexington, to be with me these next few hard days. It would be such a comfort to me,” Yancy said, now confident. “And then I would like for us to visit my family on Saturday. I will bring her back on Sunday. And then I have to return to Chancellorsville.”
“Of course,” Lily agreed instantly. “That will be perfectly fine. Missy can go as your chaperone, dear. I only wish that Jesse and I were well enough to travel to Lexington for General Jackson’s funeral and then to go visit Becky and Daniel. But I think it would be too much of a strain, don’t you, dear?”
“Hmm? Oh. Oh yes. A strain,” Dr. Hayden repeated.
Lily patted his knee. “Poor dear, he hadn’t a clue. Of course, I knew all along.”
Lorena put her head to the side, like a small bird. “You did? However did you know, Mother?”
Lily smiled, a sweet expression that was often on her face. “I hope you find out, my darling Lorena, because only then will you understand. Mothers know. Mothers always know.”
“I want to know,” Lorena said softly, looking at Yancy. “And I dare to hope it may be soon.”
On that night they embalmed him.
The famous artist, Frederick Volck, and his assistant, Pietro Zamboggi, made his death mask. Oddly enough, Volck had visted Stonewall Jackson’s camp in December of 1862, at Fredericksburg, when Lee, Jackson, and Longstreet were camped on the heights above the town and faced Burnside’s doomed troops below. Volck had even done some sketches of Stonewall after his staff persuaded him to pose on a stool. As he was prone to do, Jackson fell asleep, and the staff roared with laughter, which woke him up. He was embarrassed but good-natured about it. The work which the artist did this night was very different from that cheerful scene.
He lay in state the next morning at the executive mansion, in the Reception Room. The public was not allowed in there, but any person who could scrape up any connection to the Confederate government and came to the mansion that night was allowed to view the shadowed features. Many lingered for long moments, and many more tears were shed.
Without being asked, and without consulting anyone, Yancy, Peyton, Chuckins, and Sandy came to the executive mansion at dawn that Tuesday. They were greeted at the door by a disdainful butler. “And you are…?” he asked snootily.
“We are General Jackson’s honor guard,” Yancy answered firmly.
“I have no knowledge of this,” the butler said suspiciously.
Yancy stepped up to stand very close—too close—to the butler. He looked down at him; the man was at least a foot shorter than Yancy. In a soft tone that brooked no nonsense and may even have had a bit of menace in it, he said, “Then you may go wake up Mrs. Jackson and ask her about us. She has given us permission to escort her husband all the way to his resting place.” This, of course, was not strictly true. But Yancy knew Anna Jackson, and he knew that she would, and did, wish it.
The butler took a hasty step back, almost stumbling. “No, no, of course I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Mrs. Jackson. Please come in and follow me to the Reception Room.”
Yancy took his place at the head of the general’s coffin with Peyton at the foot. They stood unmoving at strict parade attention, staring straight ahead. After four hours, Chuckins and Sandy relieved them. They took these shifts until the afternoon, when General Jackson’s pallbearers and funeral procession arrived, and Jackson was taken to the House of Representatives.
His coffin was placed in the hall and put on a white-draped altar before the speaker’s bench, with the Confederate flag draped over it. The assembled crowd to witness the placing of General Jackson in state included President Jefferson Davis and his aides, several generals and other high-ranking officers and their staffs, the governor, the cabinet, Richmond city officials, and a number of Virginia and Richmond politicians. They had a long prayer.
After it was over, Yancy pushed people aside and the four friends marched to the general’s casket. The crowd seemed stunned, but before anyone could say anything, Anna went to Yancy and put her hand out. He took it in both of his.
“Thank you, Yancy,” she said softly, but it echoed throughout the silent room. “He was very proud of you, all of you. He would be glad that you are here.” She turned and swept out, her lon
g black skirts whispering on the polished floor. Immediately the crowd broke up and followed her. Yancy and Peyton took their stations guarding the general.
More than twenty thousand people filed through the hall that day and evening. They piled so many flowers about the bier that some had to be taken away to make room for people to pass by the coffin. As it grew later, officials made several attempts to close the doors, but they were soundly shouted down by the hundreds and hundreds of people who had waited in the line of mourners so long and so patiently. Taking pity on them, Governor Letcher ordered the doors left open until everyone who wanted to see the general had filed by and said their good-byes.
Yancy, Peyton, Chuckins, and Sandy guarded him all day until midnight. They never showed any weariness at all. They never wavered. They stayed at his side until the last mourner left the hall of the House of Representatives.
The next day, Stonewall returned to the institute for the last time. By train he went to Gordonsville and then Lynchburg. At each stop the station was crowded with hundreds of people. They pressed close to Anna’s special car, crying out to her. Many times they called out, pleading to see Julia. Anna took pity on them, and Hetty held Julia up to the window dozens of times to be kissed. Julia bore it well, never crying, never fussy, often smiling.
From Lynchburg they took a canal barge to Lexington. The four friends insisted this time on leading the funeral procession to the institute. There VMI cadets took over the escort, marching with their arms reversed. Jackson’s big gray horse that had been a gift from an admirer was the riderless horse. He was led by a VMI cadet, empty boots in the stirrups turned backward.
They took Stonewall to his old lecture room, which had not been used since he left. There he lay the entire day, and another long procession of grieving men and women passed by the window. Roses were piled high beneath it. All day the slow, mournful firing of the institute’s cannon sounded, mourning the loss of their most revered and valiant soldier.
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 37
