Strangely enough, McClellan could have won the battle, and the Civil War could have ended at the Seven Days Battle. But McClellan, for all of his organizational ability and all of his dynamic talk, could not do one thing that a successful military commander must do: he could not send men forward into the fires of battle. This was McClellan’s tragic flaw, and Lincoln had seen it before.
Time after time during this Seven Days campaign, McClellan might have defeated the South, but time after time he failed to throw enough forces in to win. He would send men in piecemeal, and they would be cut to pieces, and then he would send in another, equally small part of his army. Never once did he throw the full weight of the Army of the Potomac against the greatly outnumbered Confederates.
So, although no one could have been said to have won the battle, the war was lost for a time to the North and won for a time to the South.
McClellan was pulling his forces out, and they had gathered together on what was called Malvern Hill. Lee and the army were hot on their trail. When they came to the sight of Malvern Hill, Lee looked up and studied the ground. It was not the best place for an attack, but Lee was hungry to destroy it. He turned and said, “Gentlemen, we will attack.”
General Longstreet said, “That’s a bad hill. The Yankees are well entrenched. There’s no cover.”
Lee had unlimited confidence in the Army of Northern Virginia, and now he made one of the two sad mistakes in his military career. “Charge the hill,” he said.
There was no choice but to obey. Clay looked up at the hill and said to his corporal, “Some of our boys aren’t going to come back from this ride.”
“No. You’re right. I don’t understand General Lee.”
“He’s too audacious, I think. People don’t know that, but he’s like a Mississippi riverboat gambler.”
The bugle sounded, and Clay spurred his horse. He was in the first line of attack. The guns began to boom from the Federal emplacements. Musket balls were whistling by, and men were falling. Clay rode hard ahead, following Jeb Stuart, ignoring the sights and sounds of sure death all around him, until the retreat sounded.
He was about to turn when a terrible blow struck him in his right arm. He looked down and saw that his sleeve was already covered with blood from shoulder to cuff, and he knew that the arm was shattered. In spite of the pain that almost blinded him, he wheeled Lightning around and rode back by himself.
Thirty minutes later he was in a field hospital, his uniform stripped off his upper body. The doctor was looking down at the arm, and Clay saw his face grow stern. “That arm’s got to come off, Lieutenant.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“You’ll get gangrene in it and lose it anyway. Let me do it now.”
“No!” In spite of his treacherous weakness, he almost shouted at the doctor.
Then General Stuart loomed over him. “How are you, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Don’t let them take my arm, General,” Clay said harshly. “Tell him. I say no.”
“A man can soldier with one arm, Tremayne,” Stuart said staunchly. “You’d better let him do it.”
“No! I’d rather die….” That was his last word, for he began drifting away into unconsciousness.
Before the blackness closed about him, as if from faraway, he heard the doctor say, “General, we’d better take it while he’s out.”
“No,” Stuart said with sudden decision. “It’s his arm, and it’s his decision. He may die, but I don’t know but that I’d do the same.”
All Clay knew then was the darkness.
PART FOUR: CHANTEL & CLAY 1862–1865
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sometime during the night, Clay struggled out of the black pit of unconsciousness that held him prisoner. There was a window across from him that revealed the moon and stars as they shone brightly, peacefully in the night sky, and he stared at it blankly for a while. His mind slowly and reluctantly swam to the surface.
The room was quiet save for the moanings and mutterings of his fellow patients. He glanced to his right, and there, far down the room, a medic sat at a desk reading a book by the pale yellow light of a lantern.
As he lay there, his mind in that place where it was not yet awake and yet not fully asleep, Clay became slowly aware that something was growing in his mind. It was like a tiny light from somewhere far down a dark road, so dim that it could barely be seen. It grew larger and brighter, and it was not, Clay knew, a physical light, not a real light at all, only something deep within him. But his spirit seemed to glow—there was no other way he could think of it.
As the sensation grew, he relaxed and let his body grow limp. He had kept himself so tense waiting for the next jolt of pain in his arm that every muscle in his body ached sharply. But now a sense of quietness, almost of ease, came to him. His eyelids became heavy, so heavy he could not keep them open, and he slept again.
When he stirred again, and his mind once more started its torturous way to full consciousness, he saw through the window that the dim gray light of morning shone through. With a start, he awakened fully and looked down at his side. His right arm was still there; the doctors had obeyed Jeb Stuart’s order. He lay back on his pillow with weak relief.
“How do you feel, Clay?”
Chantel was sitting by his bed. He wondered if she had been sitting there long.
“Hello, Chantel,” he murmured. “I—I got shot.”
“Yes, I know. Are you thirsty?”
Clay felt a raging thirst. He licked his dry lips and nodded, and she picked up a pitcher on the table beside his bed, half-filled a tumbler, then reached under his head and held it up. The water was sweeter than any drink that Clay had ever had, and when he had drained the glass, she put his head back on the pillow, and he said, “That was good. Thank you, Chantel.”
Chantel replaced the glass and turned to look at him, her face grim. “Clay, I’ve got to talk to you, and you must listen to me.”
“What is it?”
“The doctors say that your arm has to be taken. There’s no other way.”
“No.” The word leaped to Clay’s lips even before she had finished talking.
“But Clay, they say you may die if you don’t. They think they see the gangrene started.”
“I’d rather die than be a cripple. I know that’s foolish, Chantel, but it’s the way I feel.”
He saw that her face was fixed in an expression of sadness, and he said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to die, Chantel. But even if I do, I’m going to die a whole man.”
“But you may die, Clay,” she pleaded. “You will leave behind so much—your family, your friends. You will leave Grandpere— and…you will leave me.”
He stared at her, for Chantel had never expressed any endearments to him, had never shown him anything but common courtesy and politeness. His affection for her had grown much, though he worked hard to deny it, for he had always thought it was hopeless, that he had ruined any chance he might have had with her that night he had so clumsily tried to kiss her. Now she was watching him, her eyes great and dark, and suddenly he could see that she had feelings for him. But his face closed, and he said, “Chantel, I won’t let them cut off my arm. You have to understand. I don’t want to live like that. I won’t live like that.”
Chantel pleaded with him. “Many men have lost an arm, a leg, their sight, and they are still good men and happy men. That is not something an arm or an eye makes, Clay. You are a strong, handsome man, and you can be happy, even with one arm.”
But Clay merely lay there, his lips drawn tightly together, until she finished. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.
Chantel continued her silent vigil, now with a sense of hopelessness. For she had seen that Clay Tremayne would never change his mind.
She went back to the wagon and asked Jacob to talk to Clay, and Jacob agreed at once. She went to the hospital with him but left the two men alone. She tal
ked to others down the line but kept her eye on Clay and Jacob.
She got to one young man, and he said, “You want to get this letter off for me, Miss Chantel?”
“Of course I will, Leonard.”
He handed her the envelope and then said, “Maybe you better look over it to see if I spelled everything right.” She read the letter quickly and was amused, for it said:
Alf sed he heard that you and hardy was a running together all the time and he thot he wod just quit having anything more to doo with you for he thot it was no more yuse. I think you made a bad chois to turn off as nise a feler as alf dyer and let that orney, theivin, drunkard, cardplaying hardy swayne come to see you. He ain’t nothing but a thef and a lopeared pigen toed hellion. He is too ornery for the devil. I will shute him as shore as I see him.
“Are you sure you want to say this?”
“I purely do. I hate that Hardy Swayne. He’s a dead man if he don’t leave my sister alone.”
Chantel struggled to find something to say. Finally she offered, “Maybe your sister loves him.”
“Ain’t no sister of mine going to marry up with a no-account skunk like him. She can just find some other man to love.”
“But Leonard, a woman can’t just switch off love,” she said with a passion that surprised her.
“Why can’t she?”
“Well, when we love somebody, we can’t just stop loving him even if he’s not what he should be. What if our mothers, our fathers, stopped loving us when we do wicked things? What if God stopped loving us then?”
Leonard shook his head and said firmly, “God never told nobody to be stupid! Ain’t any woman who marries up with Hardy Swayne gonna have a good life. He’ll drink and steal and lie and beat her, and she’ll have to raise her kids by herself. It’s only a stupid woman would ask for that kind of life. Now, ain’t that so, Miss Chantel?”
Painfully Chantel thought of her stepfather and wondered for the thousandth time how her mother ever could have married such a man. Resignedly she finally answered, “I—I can’t answer that, me. But if you’re sure, I’ll mail the letter.”
“Thank you kindly, Miss Chantel.”
Leaving Leonard’s bed, Chantel went to visit another young man. She had become very fond of him. His name was Tommy Grangerford, and he was the same age that she was, eighteen years old. He was terribly wounded, a chest wound that very few ever survived. She forced herself to smile brightly. “Hello, Tommy. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I can’t complain.”
“You never do.”
“Do you have time to sit down and talk to me, Miss Chantel?” he asked hopefully. “I know you’re real busy and all, but I’ve been kind of lonesome.”
“I always have time for you, Tommy,” she said kindly.
She sat down and for twenty minutes talked to him. From time to time, the terrible pain that racked him would twist him almost into impossible positions, and she would dab the clammy perspiration from his face. Finally, in desperation she went to the medic and asked for more laudanum for him.
“Might not be a good thing, Miss Chantel,” the medic said reluctantly. “He’s had a lot of it already, and if you give a man too much, he can die.”
“He’s going to die anyway, he is,” Chantel said sadly.
The orderly gave in. “All right, ma’am. Here it is.”
She went back and gave Tommy a large dose of the strong drug, and soon he lay his head back on the pillow. His eyes fluttered, and he said softly, “I won’t be here long, Miss Chantel. But I’m tired, and I’m ready to go home. You know, in the Bible it says that man will go to his long home. That sounds so good, so restful. My long home…”
She waited until his breathing grew deep and even. From his bedside, she could see Clay’s bed and her grandfather talking earnestly to him.
After a while, she saw Jacob rise, motioning to her. She came down the ward and glanced at Clay, who was asleep. They left quietly.
When they got outside, Chantel asked anxiously, “What did he say, Grandpere?”
“The same thing he said to you, I’m afraid, daughter. He’s got his mind made up that he will not lose that arm. I talked to him, because I know the doctors say he’s going to die if they don’t amputate, and asked him if he didn’t know he must come to the Lord and ask Him for salvation. But,” he continued with a sigh, “Clay Tremayne is a stubborn man. He says it would be a cowardly thing to come to God now that he’s helpless. I can’t make him realize that we’re all helpless.”
Chantel dropped her head wearily. “Then he is lost.”
Jacob patted her arm. “We don’t know that, daughter. The good God has His own plan for Clay Tremayne, just as He does for me and for you. We will wait upon God, and we will pray, and we will see.”
Two days later, Chantel sat with Tommy Grangerford, for she knew he was dying. It was late, and there was no one with him but Chantel. All of the other patients slept.
They had been talking quietly, and sometimes Tommy drifted off. But once he roused, and his voice, which had been thin and weak and thready, grew stronger. “I never told you how I got saved, did I, Miss Chantel?”
“No, you never have, Tommy.”
“Well, I heard a sermon, and it scared me. I was scared to death to face God with all my sins. The next day I was out in the field chopping cotton, and my ma and pa, they were down the row from me. My brothers and sisters were there, and I was doing my best just to think about chopping cotton. But somehow that didn’t happen. I knew all of a sudden that God was telling me something, and I couldn’t shut it out. I never heard any words, but God told me, ‘Tommy, this is your last chance. I died for you because I love you. You let Me come into your heart.’ ”
Tommy shook his head and smiled. “I just couldn’t stand it, Miss Chantel. I knelt down right there in the dirt in the cotton field, and I cried out, ‘Oh God, I’m a sinner, but I know Jesus died for me. Forgive my sins, please, and come into my heart.’ ”
“And what happened, Tommy?”
“Well, my ma and pa, and my brothers and my sisters, came rushing to me, but even before they got there I knew something had happened to me. I had been carrying a heavy load, and everything was so dark and miserable. But even as I knelt there in the dirt, I knew that something had happened. That I had something new. I didn’t hear voices or see visions. It was all inside me, Miss Chantel. My parents were crying and holding to me, and I was crying. My poor ma and pa had been praying for me all my life.”
“And what happened then?”
“Well, I was afraid I’d lose that peace that came to me in that cotton field. But I never did. I went to the Baptist church the next Sunday morning, and I told the preacher I wanted to be baptized, and I was baptized that very day. I started reading the Bible, and people helped me learn how to serve God. We all need someone to help us learn about Him, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do,” Chantel said thoughtfully.
“Miss Chantel, I think God has put Jacob Steiner in your life to help you find your way to Jesus.” His voice grew softer and weaker, and he said, “Listen to your grandfather, Miss Chantel. Don’t miss out on Jesus. I want to see you in heaven.”
Tommy died an hour later while Chantel was still holding his hand. He had not spoken again, but his last words she knew she would never forget, his urging her to meet him in heaven.
Chantel was broken as she never had been. She held Tommy’s still hand and wept, torn by sobs. She began to pray then, and suddenly, in the gloom of that hospital ward, she was aware of what Tommy had said. That God had told him that it was his last chance. A cold fear washed over her. Maybe this is my last chance. She tried to pray but could not frame the words.
After a long struggle, suddenly she whispered, “I can’t even pray, Lord!” And then it came to her. She thought about her stepfather and how she had hated him—and still did. And then she suddenly knew why she couldn’t pray. She remembered a part of the Bible that Jacob had read to her. T
he Scripture was, “If you forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you: but if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive ye your trespasses.”
The verse went like a sharp knife into Chantel’s spirit, and she knew that she could not hang on to that hatred and come into the kingdom of God. She finally bowed her head and whispered, “I’ve hated my stepfather, Lord, and You say I must forgive him. So the best I can, I forgive him.”
It took some time. Chantel struggled, hard, for she had years of bitterness in her spirit. Finally, blessedly, she was able to let go of all the hatred and resentment, and then she called on Jesus, and Jesus came into her heart. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. The hot tears of grief streaming down her face changed to tears of joy, and she began to thank God. Chantel knew that nothing for her could ever be the same again.
Chantel saw Jacob’s eyes open, and then he reached out and held her, hugging her with all his feeble strength. She had just awakened him and told him how she had found Jesus.
“Thank God,” he kept saying. “Thank the good God.”
She said, “I’m going to have to have some help.”
“God will send people to help you. Me for one, and if necessary, why, the good Lord will send a mighty angel out of heaven to take care of you, for you are His daughter now and nothing will ever change that.”
Chantel was still crying. “I’ve become a crybaby, me.”
“Those are tears of joy, my sweet girl, and there will be many more of them. I thank God that He has reached down and lifted your soul out of sin and put your name in the Book of Life, and He says He will never blot it out, no never, not throughout all eternity.”
Chantel listened, and the words soaked into her spirit like balm.
She hardly slept, but at dawn she didn’t feel tired. She hurried to the hospital, anxious to tell Clay about her night. As soon as she came through the door she saw one of the doctors, an elderly man named Hardin, motioning to her. She went down the aisle, smiling and greeting Clay and the men, but not stopping to talk.
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