by Janet Dailey
High above, the first evening star winked dimly while below, the glow of a small campfire threw its faint light against the darkness that gathered beyond its circle of stones. Wisps of aromatic steam rose from the large tin mug on the fire's edge and scented the air with the smell of coffee boiling.
Lije rescued the mug from its bed of hot embers and set it on a flat stone to steep. Automatically, he retreated from the fire, forsaking its feeble warmth to settle back against his saddle, his heavy coat fastened all the way to his neck, his thick leather gloves covering his hands. The air was so cold he could see his breath.
He tore off a chunk of beef jerky from his saddlebags and slowly chewed it. Silence built around him, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire or the stomp of his horse. He idly scanned the shadows. This was the time when the ghosts of the night came out, when the rustling wind reminded him of the whisper of silk, when he saw the golden lights of her hair in the campfire's dancing flames, when the heat of the fire caressed his skin like the warmth of her breath.
With jaws rigid, he reached inside his coat to once again confront his ghost. He pulled out his latest letter from Susannah and shifted closer to let the firelight play over the words penned in Susannah's precise hand.
Dearest Elijah,
It was with great eagerness I read your letter of October 10, advising me of my parents' safe return. It was most assuring as I did not receive Mother's letter until three days later. The first snow has already fallen here. As you warned me, winter is an early visitor to the North. I confess, at times, I long for home and our crisp autumn days that often linger 'til December. But I am quite happy—
Lije skipped the next few paragraphs that described her teachers and the new acquaintances she had made, and stopped when he reached the part that began:
I hesitate to write this, but perhaps it is best that you know. At Payton Fletcher's invitation, I spent this past weekend at his home in Springfield. His grandson Frank Austin Fletcher, whom I believe you knew at Harvard, was also in attendance. Business had recently required that Frank spend time in Boston. As Frank was aware of our prior acquaintance with the Parmelees and the time you spent in the company of Diane Parmelee when you were here, he believed I would be interested to know that Diane has become—and I quote his words—"the belle of Boston." According to him, her list of admirers grows longer with each passing day. He claims they crowd about her like "bees around a jam jar." But it seems she has singled one out.
Frank had the "honor"—his words, again—of sitting next to Diane at a party. He said she asked after you and seemed quite piqued to learn you had made no inquiries after her. Later that same evening, the guests raised their glasses in a champagne toast to celebrate the announcement of her engagement to John Albert Richards. Frank said that Diane's mother was almost delirious with joy over her choice for a husband. I am told Mr. Richards is considered quite handsome by the ladies, and his family is reported to be worth millions. Frank was certain you had met Mr. Richards when you were here.
Lije abruptly folded the letter and shoved it back inside his coat pocket. He remembered the man well from Harvard. John Richards was a rude, insufferable snob. The instant he had learned that Lije was from the western frontier area and Cherokee, he regarded him with nothing but contempt. He was sure Diane's mother would get along splendidly with her future son-in-law.
In the darkness behind him, the big bay horse trumpeted a loud breath, catching some suspicious sound or scent in the night and alerting Lije to it. Lije came to his feet and stepped into the shadows with catlike swiftness. He moved with caution, gathering up the rifle propped against his saddle and padding softly back to where his horse was picketed, his hearing now tuning in the night sounds.
The bay had its head up, its ears pricked forward, its attention fixed on some point in the deepening darkness directly opposite them, Lije slid a hand up the rope to the bay's halter. Something was out there. He could see it in the horse's tension and flaring nostrils, opened wide to sift through the night scents and identify the object.
"Easy now, Jubal," he murmured low. "What do you smell out there, fella?"
Lije knew it could be anything from a skunk or a coyote on the prowl to another rider. A second later he detected the soft footfall of a horse approaching the campsite at a slow walk and felt the bay's chest swell to whicker a greeting. He clamped a hand over its nose to silence the call.
The muffled hoofbeats stopped. Then came the faint creak of saddle leather rubbing together. "Hello the camp," a voice called lazily from the darkness, announcing his presence as common range courtesy required. "I'm coming in."
Lije saw nothing but a wall of shadows. "Come ahead, but come slow."
There was another groan of leather, followed by the slow, but steady, clop of a horse. A black shape came out of the shadows, gradually taking on the form of a horse and rider as it drew closer to the fire. The rider stopped his horse inside the circle of light and rested both hands on the saddle horn. The man's hat was pulled low, the brim throwing a shadow over his eyes. A day's growth of beard darkened his cheeks.
"I've been smelling your coffee for the last half mile," the man said, falling into that slow, Texas way of talking. "I thought I might share your campfire for the night. I'm tired of my horse's company. He never listens to what I say and talks way too much," he said.
The horse shifted, swinging its hindquarters about. The firelight played over the brand on its hip. "Your horse is wearing the Rocking Lazy L brand," Lije said from the shadows.
"He better be." The angle of the man's head changed slightly as he tried to locate Lije's position. "I ride for the Rocking Lazy Ldown in Texas. The name's Lassiter. Ransom Lassiter."
"What brings you up this way?"
"I bossed a herd of longhorns north earlier this year. I'm on my way back home," he said. "You're asking an awful lot of questions. I'd feel easier about answering them if you'd step out where a man could see. You know who I am. It would be kinda nice to know who you are."
"Fair enough." Lije walked into the firelight, carrying the rifle at his side, the butt hooked under his arm and the barrel aimed at the ground. "The name's Lije Stuart. I'm with the Cherokee Light Horse."
"I guess it comes natural to be suspicious of strangers in your line of work."
"It pays to be cautious." Lije inspected the stranger, taking in the thick film of trail dust on his clothes. The dust, as much as the spurs on his boots, the wide-brimmed hat, leather chaps, and the tally book poking out of his vest pocket, told Lije the man was a Texas drover. But Lije saw nothing about the stranger to put him on his guard. The man was his own age, in his early to mid-twenties, with shaggy brown hair framing lean, strong features. His eyes held a glint of humor in their gray depths, and there was something close to a smile on his lips. "Light and spread your bedroll wherever you like."
"I'm obliged." Ransom Lassiter swung out of the saddle. "If you have any coffee to spare, I'll swap you a tin of peaches for some. Mine got ruined at the last river crossing when a couple a snakes came swimming up and my horse objected to their company."
"Smart horse," Lije observed dryly, a small smile showing. 'Toss me your cup and I'll boil you up some coffee."
Ransom Lassiter dug a dented cup out of his saddlebags and lobbed it to him, then set about unsaddling his horse and bedding it down for the night. Moments later he came back to the fire, toting his saddle, gear, and a rifle.
"Did you trail your herd to Kansas City or Westport?" In the last year both towns had been the favored destinations of most herds driven out of Texas.
"We planned on taking them to Kansas City, but we never made it," Rans Lassiter admitted as he lowered his saddle to the ground and dropped his bedroll beside it. "The minute we hit the Kansas border, we were met by a bunch of farmers with shotguns. We didn't have a sick animal in the entire herd, but they refused to let us pass. They claimed they had lost too many cattle to Texas fever and they weren't going to lose a
ny more. So we turned east and walked those longhorns all the way to Saint Louis." He took a tin of peaches from his grub sack and handed it to Lije, then retrieved his mug of boiling coffee from the fire's embers. "I heard Lincoln got elected."
"He did." The elections had been the previous week.
"It begins now." Rans Lassiter sighed and pushed his hat to the back of his head, revealing gray eyes that shined like polished pewter in the fire glow. He sank to the ground and leaned against his saddle, using it for a backrest and stretching his long legs out, his dusty and scarred leather chaps dragging the dirt. "The Southern states will start seceding."
"There's no need." Lije took his knife and proceeded to cut open the peach tin. "The office of the president has neither the power nor the authority to abolish slavery. Even Lincoln has acknowledged that. And Lincoln's party holds a minority in both the House and the Senate. He will be like Tyler, Pierce, and Fillmore before him; anything he tries will be futile. All the Southern states have to do is sit tight."
Lassiter's mouth curved in an amused smile that seemed characteristic of him. "It's clear you don't understand the gentlemen of the South. They promised to secede if Lincoln was elected. It is now a matter of honor. They said they would do it; now they must."
"Wiser and cooler heads might prevail." Lije stabbed a portion of peach and lifted the dripping fruit from the tin.
Lassiter chuckled. "When the choice is between wisdom and honor, honor will always prevail in the South."
"It could be." Lije recalled reading a report that delegates from South Carolina were to meet this week to discuss secession. It had been South Carolina's threat of nullification that Andrew Jackson had faced during the Cherokee's trouble with Georgia. Back then, Georgia had threatened to join with South Carolina. With two states in rebellion, Jackson had not allowed them to unite. In South Carolina's case, he had ordered warships to the Charleston harbor to assert federal authority over the state, while in Georgia's case, he had appeased the state by refusing to protect the rights of the Cherokee to their lands. But Jackson wasn't the man who occupied the chair of the president now. Perhaps the time for further skillful avoidance of a confrontation had already passed.
"My father believes that no president will take military action if any of the states secede," Lije said. "He feels the president will rely on diplomacy and intermediaries to come up with a solution that will ultimately reconcile the two sides."
"Maybe." Rans blew on his coffee. "Many of the Cherokee own Negroes. Where do your people stand on this?"
"Our principal chief John Ross has said it's none of our affair, that it's for the whites to settle. He advocates neutrality, insisting that the Nation is too far removed from the arena of conflict for it to reach this far west." Lije smiled, remembering something else. "The other day I overheard one of our cooks tell Ike that the war clouds hanging over the North and South were too heavy to tote across the Arkansas."
"Who's Ike?"
"One of our Negro servants. We were boys together." His smile faded as Lije recalled his conversation with Ike his first day back and the longing in Ike's voice when the subject of freedom had been raised. Until that moment, it had never occurred to Lije that Ike wanted to be free, and it had troubled him ever since that Ike resented being a slave. They had been friends and playmates all their lives. But Lije was no longer certain he could trust Ike. The discovery brought a feeling of loss with it.
"It strikes me the Indian Territory sits in the middle of things. You got Texas to the south and Arkansas to the east. Both of them are going to side with the South. To the north sits Kansas, and you touch a corner of Missouri. Both of which are mostly Union. I don't see how you can stay neutral when you serve as the perfect supply route—and one side or the other is going to want to control that. You can bet no Texan will want to see a wide open road all the way to its border for some Union army to come marching down. And that's what you've got cutting right through the heart of your land. No, the Indian Nations will have to choose sides, or they'll be caught in the crossfire."
"You talk as if the war has already started." Lije plucked another peach from the tin.
"It's coming."
"Maybe," Lije said between chews. "My grandfather says other nations, such as Switzerland, have maintained a neutral position while wars were waged around them."
"You know"—Rans Lassiter sat forward, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees—"you have talked a lot about what your father believes, what your chief and your grandfather say, but you haven't offered one opinion of your own. I'd like to know what you think."
"I think . . . if there is a war, the Southern states will lose."
Lassiter's head came up, his expression stiffening in offense. "You sound mighty damned definite about that."
"You asked."
"What makes you so certain that will be the outcome?"
"The South has no means to sustain a war. The North can put more men in the field than you, more guns, more cannons, more everything. You will be out-supplied and outnumbered, with Union gunships closing your harbors from resupply."
"Sounds like you spent some time thinking about this."
"I spent the last four years back East in Harvard. When the first rumblings of secession and war began, it was a topic of considerable debate. If you analyze the situation coldly, without passion, there is no chance the South will win."
"Maybe." Rans smiled. "But I think you have forgotten that David felled Goliath with one well-aimed blow. It could be the war won't last long enough for all those other things to come into play."
"I think it will."
Rans tipped his head in disagreement. "A lot of people in the South believe those Yankees don't know how to fight— just one Southern boy could whip ten of them."
"Do you believe that?"
"I seem to recall that those Yankee boys whipped the British twice." Rans glanced sideways at him, a sparkle of humor in his gray eyes. "Of course, they did have some Virginians fighting with them. One of the best was George Washington. The South does know how to grow leaders."
Lije chuckled, liking the Texan. "What do you think, Lassiter?"
For once the Texan was serious. "Like you, I think the Southern states would be up against some long odds. But I am Texan, born and bred. As Texas goes, so will I go." He lifted his head, his glance sober and reflective. "And you, Lije Stuart?"
"The same—as the Cherokee Nation goes, as my family goes, so will I." But Lije knew it would never be that easy for him. There was already one division within the Nation, a splitting along the old lines of feud between the Ross and Ridge parties. Lije raised the tin and drank the liquid in it, but it no longer tasted sweet.
Rans Lassiter drained his mug. "Good coffee," he announced and laid back against his saddle, removing his hat and placing it over his face. Lije did the same. For a long time all was still, with only a few night sounds and the snap of a dying fire. Then Rans spoke, his hat partially muffling the idleness of his words. "I wonder if Texas will still be in the Union by the time I get home."
It was. But on December 20, 1860, South Carolina seceded. Within forty days, the states of Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana followed. The six states met on February 1, 1861, to form their own congress and declared themselves to be the Confederate States of America, choosing Jefferson Davis as their president. Texas joined this new Confederacy of Southern states on March 16, the same day Governor Sam Houston refused to swear an oath to the Confederacy on the grounds that it violated his oath to the United States. He was removed from office.
On April 14, Confederate guns opened fire on the Union garrison at Fort Sumpter in Charleston Harbor, South Carolina. Two days later the Union forces at the fort surrendered. On the following day President Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to put down the insurrection. Virginia, Arkansas, and Tennessee immediately voted to secede.
War was inevitable.
6
Oak
Hill Plantation
July 1861
"Will Gordon, what on earth are you doing?" Eliza stared aghast at her husband.
He ignored her and continued to push at the cork, using his thumbs to work it free from the bottle. It released with an explosive pop and rocketed straight to the ceiling. Alex was there with a glass to catch the liquid that foamed out. Shadrach waited with more glasses on a tray.
"Will Gordon, that is champagne." Eliza swept into the room in high dudgeon.
"Indeed, it is." Will gave his grandson Alex a conspiratorial wink and filled a second glass with the bubbly wine.
She stopped short of him, hands on her hips. "You know very well I will not allow intoxicating spirits in this house."
"Today can be an exception," Will replied smoothly and passed a glass of champagne to his son Kipp.
"It is high time there was something stronger in this house than tea and lemonade," Kipp grumbled under his breath, earning a glare from Eliza.
"This is, after all, a special occasion," Will went on.
"I am very aware it is your birthday," Eliza began.
"My sixty-sixth birthday." Will inserted the reminder, his glance warm with affection and playful chiding. "An event sufficiently remarkable to warrant a bending of the rules, I should think. Shall I pour you a glass?" he asked, an impish twinkle in his cinnamon brown eyes.
When she hesitated on the verge of refusal, Alex leapt in. "Come now, Granny El. You take sacramental wine at Communion."
"That is different."
"Even if it is, one glass of champagne will not condemn you to perdition," he reasoned. "Besides, you know you cannot refuse to drink a toast to Grandfather's continued good health."
"Alex Gordon, that is unfair," she protested.
"Of course it is." He grinned.
"Eliza?" Will held an empty glass in one hand and the magnum of champagne in the other.
She sighed in ill-pleased surrender. "A little sip. No more than that." She watched closely as Will poured barely more than a swallow into the glass. She steadfastly ignored his smile when he handed the glass to her.
