Troopers were all around them, falling back from the still-oncoming Yankees.
Clay’s mouth pressed together in a tight line. Wheeling Lightning, he turned and galloped back toward Yellow Tavern, shouting to the faltering men as he went. Stuart’s words had cut into his very soul, and he knew he must obey his order and return to the battle still raging behind them.
He was afraid it would be the last order he ever received from Jeb Stuart.
Although they were only six miles outside of Richmond, fighting raged all along the Brooks Turnpike, the main road into the city. The ambulance was forced to take back roads. They reached a quiet little bridge on a deserted road, and Dr. Fontaine called for a halt so he could examine Stuart.
With his final order to his men, they had returned to the fray, so with Stuart now were Lieutenant Walter Hullihen and Major Charles Venable from his staff, Dr. Fontaine, two couriers, and three men of the general’s escort.
Dr. Fontaine unhooked Stuart’s double-breasted jacket and unwound his gold satin sash, now crimson with blood. His face grew grave.
Stuart turned to Hullihen, one of his favorites, whom he always called “Honeybun.” With weak cheer he asked, “Honeybun, how do I look in the face?”
“You’re looking all right, General. You’ll be all right.”
“Well, I don’t know how it will turn out, but if it’s God’s will that I shall die, I am ready.”
Dr. Fontaine had observed that the bullet was very close to Stuart’s liver and might kill him at any time. He poured out some whiskey into a cup. “Try some of this. It will help you,” he said.
“No,” Stuart said at once. “I’ve never tasted it in my life. I promised my mother that when I was just a baby.”
They urged him to drink, and finally he relented and held up his hands. “Lift me.” He took a drink of the whiskey and settled back, seeming somewhat eased.
For long hours they made their torturous, circuitous way toward Richmond. They went through small towns and passed many soldiers, and the word spread that General Stuart had been wounded.
Despairing of reaching Richmond, Dr. Fontaine finally ordered the couriers to ride ahead to Mechanicsville, a small outlying district of Richmond just to the northwest. He told them to go to the home of Dr. Charles Brewer and tell them to prepare a bed for the general.
Dr. Brewer was Jeb’s brother-in-law; he was married to Flora’s sister, Maria. It was very late before they reached the Brewer home. At midnight a dismal thunderstorm broke, and it began to rain.
In the city the bad news spread quickly. Even before dawn crowds lined the streets and gathered outside of the Brewer home. In the throngs, women wept.
Flora Stuart was in the country, at the home of Colonel Edmund Fontaine. He was the president of the Virginia Railroad, and his gracious plantation house was about a mile and a half from the major junction at Beaver Dam. She received the telegram with the news early the next morning.
Beaver Dam was about thirty-five miles from Mechanicsville, and in peaceful times she could have reached Jeb’s side in less than a day. But war was the ruler of this land, and along with bloodshed it brought all the follies and vagaries: railroad tracks were torn up, side roads were blocked by fiery skirmishes, bridges were burned. The raging storm continued on, turning even good roads into impossible quagmires. Flora did not reach her sister’s home until eleven o’clock that night. She was three hours late.
Throughout the day, Stuart’s condition grew steadily worse. Like Stonewall Jackson had, almost a year ago to the day, Jeb Stuart returned again and again to the battlefield, muttering orders to his men. Once he rose up and shouted, “Make haste!”
In one of his peaceful times, when he was calm and quiet and free from the terrible pain, he gave instructions about his personal effects. He gave away his two horses to two of his men; he instructed that his gold spurs be sent to his longtime friend, Lily Lee of Shepherdstown; he said that his official papers must be disposed of. “And,” he said quietly, “give my sword to my son.”
President Jefferson Davis had hurried to Jeb’s side. He asked, “General, how do you feel?”
“Easy, but willing to die if God and my country think I have fulfilled my destiny and done my duty.”
After the president left, Reverend Joshua Peterkin of Saint James Episcopal Church came and prayed with Stuart. After the prayer, Jeb said slowly, “Sing. Let’s sing ‘Rock of Ages.’ ” The men gathered in the room sang the old stately hymn, and Stuart joined in, singing in a low voice. After the hymn was over, he was visibly weaker.
Later on in the afternoon, Stuart asked, “How long can I live, Charles? Can I last through the night?”
His brother-in-law shook his head. “I’m afraid the end is near.”
Stuart nodded. “I am resigned, if it be God’s will. I would like to see my wife. But God’s will be done.”
The day wore on, endlessly, it seemed, to Jeb’s attendants. That night Dr. Brewer was standing over him, and Jeb said, “I’m going fast now. God’s will be done.” And then he was gone. The pulse was still. It was twenty-two minutes before eight on the evening of May 12, 1864.
As soon as Flora arrived, she knew by the gravity of the men standing aimlessly about on the veranda and in the entryway exactly what had happened. She went in to him, to be alone with him in the candlelight. Slowly grief overwhelmed her. But it did not seem strange. In her deepest heart, she had always known this would happen.
And so passed the Knight of the Golden Spurs from this world. He had gone to his long home.
Weeping, Flora’s sister, Maria, snipped off a lock of Jeb’s red-gold hair, tied it with a ribbon, and thrust it into an envelope. Then she slowly assembled the few things in his pockets:
An embroidered pincushion, worked on one side in gold thread: Gen. J. E. B. Stuart. On the other side was a Confederate flag bearing the legend: GLORY TO OUR IMMORTAL CAVALRY!
A copy of an order to Stuart’s troops, written with his customary dash and flair:
We now, as in all battles, mourn the loss of many brave and valued comrades. Let us avenge our fallen heroes; and at the word, move upon the enemy with the determined assurance that in victory alone is honor and safety.
A letter to Flora, telling her of his plans to bring her to his headquarters.
An original general order of congratulations to the victorious infantry he had led at Chancellorsville.
A letter from his brother, W. A. Stuart.
A letter asking Jeb to find a government job for a friend.
A poem on the death of a child, clipped from a newspaper.
A New Testament.
A handkerchief.
A lock of Little Flora’s hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE
The funeral was held on May 13th at Saint James Church, with the Reverend Peterkin officiating. There was no music in the Richmond streets, no military escort. The city was so nearly under siege that customary honors could not be performed, even for this most well-beloved son of Virginia.
President Davis was at the funeral, and all of the officers that could be spared from active duty, but none of Jeb’s men were there. In the church, Flora’s helpless sobs were drowned out by the cannon fire on the heights just above the city.
The coffin went into the waiting hearse. Four white horses drew it, and their headdresses were made of black feathers, so suggestive of the fancy ostrich plumes that Jeb had worn in his wide-brimmed hat. At Hollywood Cemetery the Reverend Charles Minnegerode spoke very briefly in his thick German accent. They placed the coffin in a vault, and the carriages moved away. Just as the funeral party left the cemetery, the rain began once more.
North of Richmond, in a vicious skirmish on Drewry’s Bluff, Clay paused for a moment as he realized that Jeb Stuart was being buried in the city below. He felt as if his heart would break, for he, and all of Jeb’s men, did not think of Stuart merely as their general. He was noble and fearless and valiant, he was their leader, and they
loved him.
Clay thought, His time was so short, Lord, too short! He and Miss Flora were so happy, and even in her grief I know that she doesn’t regret a single minute. I’m a fool. I’ve been a fool. I need to beg Chantel to marry me, right now, war or not. Even if she were my wife for only a day and I died the next, it would be worth it!
Then, recalling his general’s last command, he turned, drew his saber, yelled, “Charge!” and galloped toward the enemy.
Again, in spite of overwhelming odds against them, the Confederates beat back the Union forces from their attempt to send gunboats up the James River to Richmond. After the battle, Clay and his company were ordered to return to the front lines, about eight miles north. The night was wild, with violent thunderstorms sweeping them with walls of rain. No lantern could shine in such a maelstrom, and so the horsemen began carefully picking their way along the road north, lit only by constant stabs of lightning.
Clay lingered behind, glancing back toward Richmond. He looked up; the troop was some distance in front of them. Suddenly he wheeled Lightning and turned back south at a breathtaking gallop.
After the Battle of the Wilderness, Jacob had contributed his enormous sutler’s tent to the Glorious Cause. The wounded streamed in again by the hundreds. The hospitals, the warehouses, the barns, and the private homes that could accommodate patients were already overflowing. Surrounding Richmond, in every clearing, were field hospitals. Jacob’s tent had made a good surgeon’s operating room.
Jacob had rented a tidy little cottage just on the northern outskirts of town, close to the fairgrounds, where hundreds of two-man pup tents still sheltered wounded men. Chantel and Jacob traveled around to the different field hospitals every day in the wagon, which had become a medical transport and which now held bandages, liniment, rubbing alcohol, and medicines instead of sutler’s goods.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when he reached the little cottage, but Clay was beyond caring. He banged on the door and called out desperately, “Chantel! Chantel, please!”
After only a few moments, she opened the door, pulling on a dressing gown. Her long black hair was down, and her eyes were huge and luminous. “Clay—” she began, but he stepped forward and swept her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. He kissed her with desperation. She clung to him tightly. Behind her Clay could see Jacob peek down the hallway from his bedroom, but then he quickly disappeared and closed the door.
Clay fell to his knees as if he were praying and clutched both of her hands. “Chantel, my most precious love, I had to come. I had to come now. I—I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want you to be my wife, because then even when I’m not here with you, I won’t be alone. You’ll be a part of me, and I’ll be a part of you. Will you please, please marry me?”
She, too, fell to her knees and took his face in her hands. “Don’t you know, Clay? Don’t you know me? You’ll never have to beg me for anything, ever. Especially not this. I will marry you. I would marry you right now if we could.”
“Oh Chantel,” he said, clutching her to him. “How I wish we could, right now! But soon, soon! As soon as I can arrange it. I don’t know how I will, but I know this. You’re the only woman for me. God sent you to me that awful day. Just to me, because we are supposed to be together. I know this is His will.”
“I know this, too,” Chantel said. “I would never love anyone but you, Clay Tremayne.”
Slowly he rose and helped her up. He searched her face. “I can’t stay.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But you send me word, Clay. I’ll be right here waiting.”
On May 29, Chantel and Jacob sat in the sitting room, a homey small corner of the house with two comfortable rocking chairs, a sofa, and two armchairs.
Gathered around was Clay’s family. Chantel and Clay’s mother, Bethany, sat on the sofa, the twins squeezed between them, quietly sewing. Chantel was making a gold satin sash for Clay, and Bethany was embroidering the distinctive Hussar’s facings on a new short jacket. Although the day was warm, a fitful rain dampened the air and a small but merry fire snapped in the fireplace. Morgan and Caleb Tremayne stood by it, sipping coffee and talking quietly to Jacob, who sat close in one of the rocking chairs.
“I don’t understand how he’s going to get leave to come,” Morgan said. He spoke in a low tone, thinking Chantel would not hear.
She didn’t look up from her sewing. “He’ll come,” she said firmly. “He’ll be here.”
Grant had continued in his unyielding march toward Richmond. Lee had moved the Army of Northern Virginia to Cold Harbor and planted them squarely between Grant and the city. They were arrayed in a battle formation that was seven miles long, and they were digging in. No soldier could hope for a leave. Grant and his tens of thousands were too close.
But three nights previously, a scared little boy of only thirteen, a courier, had brought the message from Clay. In three days, dear Chantel, you and I will be married. God bless you, my darling.
It was noon, and they had a light dinner. Afternoon brought more rain. Bethany began to teach Chantel to knit. Chantel said very little, but she looked happy and expectant, never doubtful.
The twins grew impatient. Belinda said, “Maybe Clay can’t come. Maybe it’s raining too much.”
“Raining too much,” Brenda echoed.
Chantel smiled. “You should know Lightning would bring Clay even in the rain. Clay promised, he did. He won’t break his promise. He’ll be here anytime now.”
And at about three o’clock, he came riding up, Lightning snorting and stamping, and he had another cavalryman with him. Chantel had barely opened the door when they came in, snatching off their dripping hats and frock coats. Clay kissed her soundly and said, “Did you think I wouldn’t make it?”
“No, I didn’t think that, me,” she said, blushing a little. “You promised.”
Morgan was helping him out of his coat. “Well, I want to know how you wrangled a leave. There hasn’t been a soldier inside the city for weeks.”
“I asked politely the first time,” Clay answered, “but that didn’t work too well. So I told Captain Dorsey that I was going to desert. And the captain said that he couldn’t hear me too well, and he turned his back and stalked off. And then I deserted. And this is my friend, Private Elijah Young. He’s a preacher.”
Young, a slight man of thirty with fine blond hair, wide blue eyes, and thin features, said mournfully, “Lieutenant Tremayne made me desert, too.”
“Too bad,” Clay grunted. “I needed you. I want to get married. Right now.”
“What, like this?” Young blurted out. Both of them were dusty and damp and smelled like horses. Their boots and scabbards were splashed with red mud. Clay had a long streak of black powder on his cheek.
Nonchalantly, Chantel licked her fingers and reached up to scrub it off. “Right now, just like this, Pastor Young,” she said. “I want to get married now, too, me.”
And so Young fished a slim book from the pocket of his frock coat—Rites and Ceremonies of the Christian Church—and went to stand in front of the fireplace. Clay took his place in front of him. Jacob came to Chantel, entwined her arm in his, and escorted her to Clay’s side.
“Who giveth this woman in marriage?” Pastor Young asked.
“I’m her grandfather,” Jacob said quietly, “and gladly I give her to join in marriage with this man.” He took his seat in the rocking chair.
Clay took Chantel’s hand and turned her so that they were facing each other. When they repeated the timeworn, solemn vows, they spoke only to each other.
“And now, Lieutenant Tremayne, you may kiss your bride,” Young said, grinning boyishly.
They had not kissed many times, because both of them had been so careful to preserve the purity of their relationship. This kiss, Chantel thought, was like a vow and a promise in itself, that she and her husband gave to each other.
The men all congratulated Clay, and Bethany and th
e twins hugged Chantel. But only minutes after he had finished the ceremony, Private Young said, “Lieutenant, you may have ordered me to desert, and I did. But now I’m heading back, before the provosts come looking for us. Please don’t order me to stay deserted.”
“Go on, and if you meet those provosts on their way here,” Clay said grandly, “you tell them I said they can arrest me tomorrow. Because tonight is my honeymoon, and if I have to fight off a battalion to have it, I will!”
The Tremayne family was staying in town with friends, and they had invited Jacob to come stay with them so that Clay and Chantel could have their one night together in her little house. They didn’t linger long, and soon Clay and Chantel were alone.
He kissed her again, softly and sweetly. Then he lifted his head and stared down at her, slight worry furrowing his brow. “I’m so sorry it had to be like this,” he said. “I would have liked for us to have had a big wedding and at least a weeklong honeymoon.”
“I would like that, too,” Chantel said, “but I would rather be married to you now, like this, instead of waiting for that big wedding. But I—I—” She blushed and finished shyly, “I wish we had a longer honeymoon, too. Still, one night now is better than a week when this war is over. I just—I’m not—I don’t know—”
He pulled her close and ran his hands over her thick glossy black hair. “I have another promise to make to you,” he said in a deep voice “I promise that on this night, we’ll learn what real love, God’s pure and abiding love that He gives to a man and wife, really is. Both of us will learn.”
The 1st Virginia Cavalry, under the command of Fitzhugh Lee, fought on as valiantly as they ever had under Jeb Stuart, although without the same fierce joy. Clay fought the Battle of Cold Harbor in June, and then the Army of Northern Virginia wheeled around to Petersburg. Grant had circled them and invested the old city to approach Richmond from the south, and once again Lee positioned his men between him and the capital of the Confederacy. The siege of Petersburg lasted from June 1864 through March 1865.
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