by Al Lacy
The next morning, Grant told his family good-bye and rode to the Reynolds house. After he said his good-byes to Duane, Beverly, and Billy, he and Lydia were left alone on the front porch.
“Lydia, we won’t be able to write to each other while I’m in Mexico,” Grant said as he held her in his arms, “but we can maintain a closeness by holding up each other in prayer.”
“I know, darling. But I’m going to write you a letter every day anyhow. That, along with the prayer, will make me feel closer to you.”
The army horse standing near the porch whinnied. Grant looked at the horse and said, “Okay, okay. In a minute.” He turned back to Lydia. “I do have to get going, honey.”
They kissed long and tenderly.
“Good-bye, Lydia. I love you.”
A sob caught in her throat, but she fought it as she said, “Good-bye, darling. I love you.”
“Our tender flame will never stop burning.”
“Never.”
Grant kissed her again, then wheeled about and walked briskly to the horse. He swung into the saddle and rode away without looking back.
Tears coursed down her cheeks as Lydia watched Grant until he was out of sight.
The next day, Lydia applied for a job she knew was open in a clothing store in nearby Germantown. She was hired immediately and began to work eight hours a day, six days a week.
True to her word, Lydia wrote Grant a letter each night. As the stack of letters grew, she kept it tied in a bundle with a blue ribbon.
She hung on every word that came from Washington about the Mexican War and read the reports in the newspapers. When she read of the many casualties among the U.S. Army, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread. In the evenings, when her parents saw that she was burdened, they prayed with her, doing all they could to comfort and encourage her.
Lydia clung to her family and to Grant’s family, but gained most of her strength from her private prayer time and reading her Bible.
She was glad to have her job. It helped to pass the time, as well as giving her mind something to dwell on besides war and death. The money from the job was a help too. Much of it was used to purchase items that one day she and Grant would have in their home. She put away each purchase, looking for the day when she and Grant would make their home together. And three evenings a week, she did volunteer work in Montgomery Village’s small medical clinic.
Still, at times the load grew heavy. One Sunday morning, during the altar call, Lydia went forward and told the pastor that she just needed to kneel and pray in God’s house. Pastor Britton had his wife join Lydia at the altar. Delia Britton listened to Lydia describe her fears, then prayed with her. Before they left the altar, Delia said, “Could we get together sometime soon and talk? I want to help you if I can.”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “I’m free tomorrow night. Could we talk then?”
“Tomorrow night would be fine.”
Monday evening came, and Lydia and Delia sat on the edge of Lydia’s bed.
“I don’t pretend to know exactly how you feel,” Delia said, “with the man you love off fighting a war, but I do know what God says in His Word, and I know that the God of peace is able to help you bear this burden.
“Here’s one thing you need to think about: Since the early days of man’s history on earth—I mean, for ages immemorial—men have gone off to war, and their women have stayed behind to keep the home fires burning. Those brave women kept a vigilant lookout for their loved ones to return.
“You must realize that you’re not alone in your vigil. Thousands of American women are doing the same thing. Most of them are not Christians, but you are. You have something they don’t. You have the Lord to lean on, and you have His Word to lean on.”
Tears were trickling down Lydia’s cheeks. “I’ve been sort of self-centered in this, haven’t I, Mrs. Britton? Yes, I do have the Lord and His Word to lean on. I’ve been trying to do that, but I’ve also been wallowing in some self-pity.”
“That’s only natural,” Delia said. “Now, let me suggest two things for you to do. First, it will help you immensely if you will memorize Psalm 91. Hide it in your heart so you can quote it, or parts of it, when your faith shows signs of weakening.”
“All right. That sounds like a good thing to do.”
“Also, you’re busying yourself with your job at the store and your volunteer work at the clinic. This is good, and I commend you for it. But you still have some extra time left over each week, don’t you?”
“Oh yes.”
“How about teaching a Sunday school class? My husband was saying just a couple of days ago that he needs to split a class of six- to nine-year-old girls, and he’s praying about a teacher to take the six- and seven-year-olds. You’ve substituted a few times when you were needed. How about a permanent class?”
A smile worked its way across Lydia’s mouth. “I’d like that.”
“Good! I’ll tell my husband, and he’ll put you to work in a hurry.”
One week later, Lydia kissed her family good night and went to her room. She took out pencil and paper and began composing the day’s letter to Grant:
June 7, 1846
Darling—
I can hardly see to write for the tears that fill my eyes. You understand my tears, I’m sure. This was to be the biggest day of my life, except for the day I opened my heart to Jesus. By this time tonight, I would have been Mrs. Grant Smith, if the war had not come along.
Please understand that I wish things could have happened as we planned, but I am not bitter. Our dear God in heaven could have prevented the war if He had pleased, but He has let it take place. Thus, we are hundreds of miles apart on what was to be our wedding night, and I don’t know where you are or what you are facing.
As I told you in a previous letter, I am memorizing the Ninety-first Psalm, and it is helping me tremendously. I am victoriously dwelling in the secret place of the Most High, and sweetly abiding under the shadow of the Almighty. Between working, volunteering, and teaching, I am very busy, but I love each task.
I had to get over my self-pity, and with God’s help, I believe I have. My faith is growing stronger and my precious walk with the Lord is even closer. Family and friends tell me I have my sunny disposition back.
Mrs. Britton has been a great help, as I wrote you before. She was so right when she said I am no different than thousands of other women who have gone before me, and thousands who at this time have their husbands or sweethearts in the war.
The Lord is helping me to bravely face each new day with renewed hope, and His matchless grace is alive and glowing in my heart. When I speak of your return, I never say if Grant comes home, but when Grant comes home. This seems to have helped women who come into the store, as well as those at the clinic and at church. I want to be an inspiration to everyone around me.
I love you, my darling Grant, with an endless, tender flame.
Yours forever,
Lydia
IN THE DRY, RUGGED COUNTRY OF MEXICO, General Winfield Scott had positioned his battalion some five miles east of the towering Sierra Madre Oriental Range, on a wide stream that was not named on his map. They were in the state of Tamaulipas, which they had reached in early October, after fighting the Mexican army all the way from the Rio Grande at Fort Texas to the advantage point they now occupied.
The Mexican troops had taken their toll on the American forces, but it was nothing like the casualties the Mexicans had suffered. In Mexico City, Santa Anna was working furiously to enlist more men to send against Scott’s troops.
President Polk had sent more battalions from forts in both northern and southern states, and in New Mexico Territory. Some of them had been directed to join General Zachary Taylor on Mexican soil, where he and his troops were moving on Santa Anna’s men due south of Laredo, in the Mexican state of Nuevo Leon. The others had been sent to join General Scott.
With these reinforcements came a letter from the president, informing Scot
t that he was now officially the commander of the entire United States Army in Mexico. The battle was his to lead, and Polk expected him to bring Santa Anna to his knees.
On October 22, a fierce battle had been fought with the Mexicans, both in the mountains and on the plains. The Mexicans had put up a good fight until early afternoon, then were forced to retreat.
General Scott watched his weary men file into camp late in the afternoon. A dozen or so wounded men were laid on the ground, and the medics went to work on them. The bodies of three soldiers killed that day were covered with blankets, and shallow graves were hastily dug near the river bank. Because Lieutenant Grant Smith had made it known that he was a Christian and was often seen with his Bible in hand, General Scott had appointed him battalion chaplain. As the men gathered at the burial site, Grant read Scripture, spoke a few words about the bravery of the men who had been killed, and closed in prayer.
Afterward, while half the men stood guard, the other half bathed in the stream. As soon as the clean men put on their uniforms again, they stood guard while the rest of the men bathed. All were glad that summer was over in Mexico, and the oppressive heat had been replaced with cooler air and soft, refreshing breezes.
The men ate their supper in relative silence while the sun was lowering in the west. Then they laid out their bedrolls and fed the campfires, which fluttered in the wind sweeping down from the lofty mountains, with dead mesquite.
Lieutenant Grant Smith took his Bible out of a leather pouch. After reading a passage and letting its truths seep into his soul, he turned to the flyleaf, which had become his custom since beginning the march to Mexico in May. He angled the page toward the fire and smiled as the words warmed his heart.
To Grant, whom I deeply admire.
May this Bible be a lamp unto your feet
and a light unto your path.
Your friend forever,
Lydia
His smile broadened as he read words that were added later when he wasn’t looking.
Darling, though I will always admire you and will
forever be your friend, please change “admire” in your mind to LOVE and “friend” to SWEETHEART!
Loneliness crept over Grant as he closed the Bible. He longed to hold his precious Lydia and whisper words of love to her.
As he was slipping the Bible into the leather pouch, he saw Corporal Lenny Proffitt coming toward him. Proffitt, a small, thin man of nineteen, was from Roanoke, Virginia, and had been assigned to Grant’s unit. They had fought side by side, and when Proffitt told the lieutenant that he was a Christian, a friendship was born.
“Mind if I sit down, sir?” Lenny asked.
“Be my guest.”
“It’s this time of day that makes a fella miss his girl most, isn’t it, sir?”
“Sure is. And I’ve got a feeling your Susie and my Lydia are missing us pretty bad about now too.”
Swift footsteps were heard from the shadows, and a young soldier appeared by the light of the fire. “Lieutenant Smith, sir, one of the wounded men is dying. He’s asking for you.”
“I’ll wait here for you, sir,” Lenny said.
Grant leaped to his feet and reached for his Bible. “You do that, Corporal. And pray, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Over an hour had passed when Lenny Proffitt, who was placing more mesquite on the fire, looked up to see Grant Smith enter the circle of light.
“I’ve been praying, sir. How did it go?”
“Praise the Lord, I was able to lead him to Jesus before he died.”
“I’m glad for that, sir. Who was he?”
“Private Jess Fisher, from Pittsburgh. I was also able to lead one of the other wounded men to the Lord. He was listening while I was talking to Jess.”
“Wonderful.”
The two men talked some more about the young women who were waiting for them and about their families, and how they yearned for the war to be over so they could go home. After a while, Lenny said, “Well, sir, I guess I’d better turn in. More Mexicans to fight tomorrow.”
Soon the fires all over the camp dwindled to red embers, and while the sentries remained alert, the rest of the men lay in their bedrolls. The night was silent except for the soft moan of the wind across the land and the sound of rippling water nearby. The soldiers slept with the light of the stars on their faces.
One day in early November, the battle-weary men returned to camp, which was now located several miles farther south, on the Santa Maria River. The Sierra Madres were still just west of them, and the coastal town of Tampico lay some twenty miles due east.
The battle had taken place toward Tampico and had been a fierce one. General Scott’s goal was to occupy Tampico within a week. But the Mexicans were putting up a stiff fight. More graves were dug, and more wounded men were being attended by the medics. Lieutenant Grant Smith sat with the wounded men, trying to comfort them and lead them to Christ.
General Winfield Scott sat by a fire after supper, going over a map with six of his colonels. Just as they were finishing plans for the next day’s battle, Scott looked up to see Captain Nathan Daniels draw near.
“Did you need to see me, Captain?” Scott asked.
“Whenever you have the time, sir.”
“We can talk right now. The colonels and I are through working on tomorrow’s battle plan.”
“Thank you, sir. I know you’re busy. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”
As the officers melted away into the night, Scott smiled wearily and said, “My time is your time, Captain. What do you need to talk to me about?”
“About an act of courage I saw today, sir.”
“One of our soldiers outdid himself on the battlefield, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s sit over here by the fire, and you tell me all about it.”
When both men were seated on the ground with the crackling fire between them, Daniels said, “Lieutenant Grant Smith is the man, sir. And when I tell you what he did, he’s going to stand taller in your eyes, even as he does mine.”
Daniels told Scott how Grant Smith had risked his life to take out three Mexicans who were sneaking through heavy brush and would have gunned down Daniels and one of his other lieutenants from behind. Smith had shielded them as much as possible with his own body while firing his revolver. He had taken the Mexican soldiers by surprise and dropped the first two before they could get off a shot, but the third Mexican fired at him. The bullet nicked the tip of Smith’s left ear, but he was able to take out the man with his next shot.
General Scott shook his head. “Nicked his left ear, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then Lieutenant Smith missed death, without question, by probably no more than an inch.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And he would have taken those enemy bullets to save your life if those Mexicans could’ve gotten off their shots.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re right, Captain. The man most certainly does stand taller in my eyes than he did before. I will see to it that Lieutenant Smith is properly commended for his deed.”
“I was hoping you would say that, General.”
“It’s the least I can do. And by making him an example, perhaps it will encourage more men to be just like him.”
Daniels smiled. “And that would improve any army, sir.”
Early the next morning, after briefing and breakfast, General Winfield Scott called for a full assembly before sending the troops out to battle their way toward Tampico. As the troops gathered, the sun came over the eastern horizon.
General Scott stood before the throng of soldiers and called Captain Nathan Daniels to his side. Daniels told the troops of the act of bravery in yesterday’s battle, leaving the hero unnamed. Daniels then asked Lieutenant Grant Smith to come to him. Reluctantly, Grant made his way through the throng and joined Daniels and Scott.
“Men!” Daniels said. “The
valorous deed I just told you about was performed by this man, Lieutenant Grant Smith!”
There was a rousing cheer from the troops and officers.
Then General Scott told the assembled men that Grant was the supreme example of what a soldier in the United States Army ought to be. Then he saluted Grant and shook his hand, and again the troops cheered.
Grant was greatly relieved when the assembly was dismissed. As he mounted his horse to ride out to meet the enemy, he thought of Lydia and asked the Lord to strengthen and comfort her.
In Maryland, Lydia Reynolds continued to work at the store in Germantown, perform her volunteer work at the clinic, and teach her Sunday school class. Recently she had also joined the church choir.
One day in the third week of November, Lydia was in the stockroom at the back of the store when her employer stepped in and said, “Lydia, your pastor and his wife are in the store and want to see you.”
“Oh. All right.” She reentered the store and smiled when she saw the Brittons. “Nice to see you, Pastor … Mrs. Britton.”
Delia embraced her and said, “Honey, I’ve told you … you can call me Delia.”
“Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to do it, but not yet.”
The pastor had a folded newspaper in his hand. Opening it up, he said, “Lydia, have you seen today’s edition of the Baltimore Press?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Britton gently placed it in her hands. “Take a look near the bottom of the page.”
Lydia’s eyes stopped on bold lines that read:
BRAVE LIEUTENANT SAVES LIVES OF
SOLDIERS IN FIERCE BATTLE
See page 3 for story.
Lydia looked at Britton. “I have a feeling this brave lieutenant is someone I know.”
The pastor grinned. “You might say that.”
Lydia opened the paper and found the story written by war correspondent Jack Milan of Baltimore. Milan told of being on the very battlefield where Lieutenant Grant Smith of Montgomery Village had distinguished himself by saving the lives of Captain Nathan Daniels and Lieutenant Dale Matison.
