He dropped Lucy’s hands and stroked her hair. “You need to face the worst. If war comes, as I feel it will, our lives will never be the same.” He paused before adding, “Neither will Jere’s. If I know Laird Cunningham, and I believe I do, he will move heaven and earth to ensure his son fights for the Confederacy.”
“No!” Lucy shrieked. She bounded to her feet and glared down at her father. “If he wants war, he should be the one to go fight it, not his son. Jere can’t go. I won’t let him!” More protective of the man she loved than a wildcat guarding her cubs, Lucy felt herself wave good-bye to lingering childhood.
“How does Jere feel about it?” Dr. Luke asked.
Lucy’s defiance crumpled. She would fight Laird Cunningham to the death, but if Jere chose to go, she would be helpless. “I don’t know. Oh, Daddy Doc, how can such things be?”
Lucy’s poignant cry resounded across the valley and echoed off the distant ridges above Hickory Hill. They grew even louder three days later when Lincoln ordered Union troops to reclaim Fort Sumter. The South saw it as a declaration of war. Soon Arkansas, North Carolina, and Tennessee joined the Confederacy.
So did Virginia, in spite of vehement protests by those in the western counties. Strongly loyal to the Union, they threatened to leave Virginia and become a separate state.4 Southern patriots branded them as traitors.
Once Virginia joined the Confederacy, Jere Cunningham’s life became a living hell. Laird Cunningham continually harped on the need for Jere to enlist in the “Cause.”
“Would to God I weren’t desperately needed here,” he lamented. “Since I am, you must go in my place.”
Jere didn’t know what to do. The desire to please his father for once in his life warred with his own convictions. “Or lack of convictions,” he told Dr. Luke one day while waiting for Lucy to come downstairs. “I see right and wrong on both sides.” He buried his head in his hands. When he raised it, he felt his mouth twist into a grimace. “Our preacher told me it was my duty to serve. He said God would give the South victory over the oppressors. My God isn’t Northern or Southern. Claiming He is on one side is simply an excuse to justify war.”
“My heart goes out to you,” Dr. Luke quietly told him. “I wish I had the answer. Instead, I struggle over my own place of service. I’d like nothing better than to stay right here. I doubt it will be possible.” He gripped Jere’s hand.
Lucy’s quick footsteps on the stairs effectively ended the conversation, but not Jere’s dilemma. It worsened one afternoon a few weeks later when his father called him into the drawing room. In the past months, Jere had grown to hate the room that had seen so many quarrels. Every tick of the mantel clock prolonged the battles. Strange. Until now he had never noticed how relentlessly it marked time. Now he groaned. What new torment had Father dreamed up?
Laird Cunningham’s latest ploy far exceeded Jere’s wildest fears and imaginings. He carefully seated himself in the chair across from the one his son occupied. His colorless eyes gleamed. “I have a proposition for you, Jeremiah.” He fitted the tips of his fingers together and made a teepee before aiming a calculating look toward Jere. “Do you still hope to marry the Danielson girl?”
Jere clutched at his frayed temper with all his might. “Yes, I intend to marry Miss Danielson, when the time is right for both of us.”
“I am ready to withdraw my objections—on one condition.”
Jere’s heart leaped at the first statement, plummeted with the second. Father never traded unless sure he would best his opponent. “That condition is …?” He marveled that the words could crowd out of his suddenly dry throat.
Another long, searching look probed the depths of Jere’s soul. He had the feeling eternity hung in the balance. Then Laird said, “If you will enlist and serve your country, I will no longer oppose your ill-advised choice of mate. It will not take long for the South to drive the enemy from her lands. I fully expect this ill-conceived impertinence to end long before your birthday in August.”
He paused to let his proposition sink in before folding his arms across his chest and tucking his stubborn chin deeper into his high collar. “You will come home having done your God-given duty. You will be twenty-one. The land set aside for you will be ready and waiting. If you present the betrothal ring as planned, Dr. Danielson will insist on his daughter having a year in which to prepare for her marriage. During that time, you will build a fitting home for the woman you intend to wed.”
Once long ago, Jere and Ebony had been caught in a hailstorm that pelted them with ice balls the size of walnuts. In the few minutes before they reached shelter, both were bruised and battered. So it was now. Each word bruised Jere’s spirit and battered against reason. What a diabolical plan, yet how canny! With his usual unerring instinct, Father had ferreted out Jere’s weak spot: Lucy. Now he had made clear that he intended to use it to conquer his rebellious son.
“Well?” The word cracked like a horsewhip.
Jere steadily eyed the father he loved but could not please, no matter how hard he tried. What if he acceded to the lord of the manor’s wishes and enlisted? What if he refused? The questions smoldered in his soul, then burst into a raging flame. He had to know the answers, no matter how terrible they might be.
“Speak up, boy. What’s it to be? Will you do as I command?”
Jere took a deep breath, held it, then slowly expelled it. “If I refuse …?”
Rage changed the granite-hard face to an ugly mask. “Should you be half-witted enough to cross me in this, you will henceforth be no son of mine. I will have no part of you. The land earmarked for you will be given to the man Jinny marries.” Laird stood and strode to the door on giant steps, turned, and flung back, “You have one week to decide. Seven days from now you will pack and leave Hickory Manor. Either you will take up arms for your country or go wherever you choose, so long as it is out of my sight. I cannot force you to leave Hickory Hill, but I give you fair warning.”
He shook a long, bony finger at his son. “If you stay, no neighbor will hire you. I will see to that. If we meet on the street, I shall neither recognize you nor speak.” Again he paused, then fired the most significant weapon in his arsenal. “I shall also forbid your mother and Jinny to have anything more to do with you.”
White-hot fury brought Jere to his feet. “Only a coward threatens from behind women’s skirts.” Scorn underlined each word. “Nothing on earth, including you, can keep me from Mother and Jinny. Do you think they will allow it? Lord of the manor you may be; lord of creation you are not.” His voice rang in the silent room. If the truth sounded a death knell to reconciliation with Father, so be it.
Laird Cunningham turned apoplectic. “How dare you speak to me like this?” he thundered. “It is a commandment of God that you honor your father.5 I myself taught you His precepts.”
Jere didn’t give an inch. “They also require me to honor my mother. Forsaking her would not show honor.” Another accusation poured out. “The Bible also warns, ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged.’”6
His father remained rigid, yet Jere had the feeling he had suddenly shrunk in stature and grown hollow. Pity welled up in Jere. It softened his voice. “Father, I haven’t yet said I won’t fight.” He ignored the hope flickering in the watching eyes. “I know your offer to set aside your feelings about Lucy was not easy. I thank you for making it. On the other hand, she can’t be a pawn. Or a carrot dangled before my nose to make me do your will.” He spread his hands wide.
“Don’t you see? I have to decide my own course. We are talking about my conscience and my life, Father. Consider. What if you send your only son into battle and he comes home to lie in the family plot? How will you feel?”
Laird straightened his shoulders. The look of a fanatic came into his face. “If that comes to pass, and I pray to God it never shall, I can always be proud I had the courage to do what was right. You have one week to decide.” The first hint of emotion he had shown
during the entire conversation roughened his voice. “If you cannot serve for the girl’s sake or for that of your country, go for your mother and sister. If war reaches Hickory Manor and I am killed, they will not be safe from invaders.” He turned on his heel and marched out, closing the door behind him as firmly as he’d closed off any chance of compromise.
Jere could not help respecting his father for the valiant fight he was making on behalf of what he undeniably believed was right. He walked to the fireplace, cold and empty now, and leaned his head against the mantel. If only Father’s passion were directed toward anything but “the Cause”!
The door opened behind him. Please, God, don’t let it be Father, Jere silently pleaded. I can’t talk with him any longer just now. I must have time to think.
A rustle of silken skirts brought his head up. He turned. His mother stood at his side. “Jeremiah, you must follow your heart.” Her soft lips quivered and the hand below her laceedged sleeve found its way into her son’s. “No matter how high the cost, you must do what you believe is right.”
He clutched her fingers, wishing he was a carefree child again, not a man facing the hardest, most important decision of his life. His cry of despair rose to the high drawing room ceiling. “What is right? If I only knew!”
Isobel Cunningham mournfully shook her head. The mantel clock continued its merciless ticking. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Each pushing the troubled son of the house of Cunningham closer to his moment of decision.
4 This separation led to the eventual statehood of West Virginia in 1863.
5 Exodus 20:12
6 Colossians 3:21
Chapter 7
Late in the afternoon of the sixth day following Laird Cunningham’s edict, Jere and Lucy rode to the knoll overlooking the peaceful valley they both loved. Dismounting, they stood side by side, united by years of companionship. Hickory Manor lay tranquil in the sunlight. At that moment, the possibility of battle one day marring its serenity seemed unreal.
Long moments passed before Lucy turned to the tall young man who had transferred his blue gaze from the valley to her face. So much love and pain showed in his eyes, she wondered how her heart could go on beating. At last she spoke. “You know what your decision means.”
“I know.”
She didn’t cry out or attempt to sway him. She didn’t know if his choice was right or wrong. She only knew the boyishness he had retained in spite of reaching manhood was gone, perhaps forever. She mourned its passing, even while recognizing that the upheaval of their secure world required both Jere and she herself to put aside childish things and become man and woman.
Jere had not told her of his soul struggle and nightlong vigils. Lucy had also kept vigil in the sleepless hours, not knowing what to say to God at this momentous time. The night before, she stole from bed in the darkest hour and made a light. She returned to her pillowed nest with her Bible. It fell open to Psalm 119:105—“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” Again she tried to pray, to ask for that light. She felt her petition barely reached the ceiling.
“Please, God, help me,” she whispered. After a short while, something Daddy Doc said long ago crept into her troubled mind. Lucy remembered the day as clearly as if it was yesterday. She sat next to her father in the buggy, a small child content to be going on rounds with him. She was curious about the world and God and Daddy Doc’s faith in Someone he couldn’t see. “Does God hear every prayer? Even the littlest, tiniest one?” she anxiously asked.
“Oh my, yes,” her father told her. “He hears all kinds of prayers. Ones we speak, and ones we just think and don’t say out loud.” Dr. Luke chuckled, a sound as warm as the sunlight on his fair hair. “God hears written-down prayers, too. Many of the songs we sing are really prayers.” He began to sing.
“O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home!”7
Lucy never forgot that special moment, with sunlight on her face and Daddy Doc close beside her. Every remembrance of his rich voice raised in a hymn of praise, which she felt surely reached the heavens, set chills playing tag up and down her spine. Now she idly turned the pages of her Bible, reading verses here and there until one Scripture leaped from the page and etched itself into her brain.
“And the Lord answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain….”8
The rest of the sentence blurred. Lucy’s heart threatened to burst from her chest. She had prayed for help. Was this God’s answer?
She scrambled from bed, heedless of the cool breeze blowing in the open window and fluttering the thin sleeves of her nightgown. She dared not chance disturbing her father, so she crept down the hall guided by pale moonlight streaming in the window near the head of the staircase. For once, Lucy didn’t even consider sliding to the entryway below but descended step by cautious step.
A few minutes later, she gathered writing materials and curled up in her favorite chair in the small sitting room, not bothering to close the door. What she planned to do wouldn’t rouse her father. A thick book with blank pages lay in her lap, one she had intended to use for recording patient visits. Daddy Doc wouldn’t care if she used it for a worthy purpose. After a time of thought, Lucy started writing.
Dear God,
Daddy Doc says songs are written-down prayers, and that You hear every one. I am having a hard time telling You how I feel, so I was just wondering: Will You hear my prayer if I put it in a letter to You?
A little while ago, I asked You to help me, and I found the verse about writing. I don’t know if it is Your answer, but right now it is so much easier to talk to You on paper. Everything is so confusing. The war. Jere and his father. Even Hickory Hill has changed. At church last Sunday some of the families who have always sat together took seats as far away from each other as possible and scowled across the aisle.
Lucy was so engrossed in her task, she didn’t realize she was no longer alone until a slight sound drew her gaze to the open doorway. Her father stood rubbing his eyes in amazement. “I thought I heard a noise. What is Miss Nightingale Danielson doing out of bed in the middle of the night? Doesn’t she know my best nurse needs her rest?” He looked at the blank book. Understanding came into his eyes. “A letter to Jere?”
“No. A letter to God.” She waited, hoping he would grasp what she couldn’t fully explain, even to herself.
“A fine idea, Lucy. I am sure any means that helps us approach our heavenly Father is acceptable to Him. Go on with your letter.” Dr. Luke cleared his throat and quietly left the room.
In the wee morning hours, Lucy slipped back to bed, carrying the book. Little did she realize she’d just written the first of many letters to God, letters that would sustain and give her hope in the perilous times ahead.
The last six days had also taken their toll on Jere. Keenly aware of his father’s marking time, he spent hours alone with Ebony on their favorite knoll. He watched the slaves on the plantation, noting how well-cared-for they were. What would happen should they be freed? Used to others being responsible for their welfare, could they survive if set adrift? Yet Jere’s soul rebelled at taking up arms against the Union, even in defense of the only way of life he knew.
He turned to the Scriptures for help and found it in James 1:5, a familiar verse: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.” Instead of stopping, as he usually did, he read the next verse. “But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.”
The words haunted him. What would tomorrow and all the tomorrows bring? To him, to Lucy, to North and South? He ceased to waver and made his choice.
Only God could know the outcome, but Jere shuddered just thinking about it.
Now he laid his arm across Lucy’s slim shoulders. “It means separation,” he qui
etly told her. “No one can predict for how long.” His heart quelled at the thought. How could he stand days and months apart from the bright-haired lass he loved more than anything in the world except God? “I’ll come back, Lucy.”
“I know.” She turned from the valley and looked into his eyes. “I’ll be here waiting.” Her voice broke.
Jere gathered her into his arms and bent his head. How ironic! Their first mutual kiss—bittersweet with memories and fear of the future—was also good-bye. Lucy clung to him for a moment, then freed herself and stumbled to her horse.
They silently rode from their meeting place to Hickory Hill, Lucy’s promise warm between them. The tiny lamp pin glinted on the collar of her blouse. Neither spoke when Jere wheeled Ebony in front of her home and goaded him into a dead run. Yet if he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget his last blurred sight of her. Head high, although Jere knew her heart was breaking, Lucy flung one hand toward the sky in a valiant gesture of farewell. Only the knowledge that he had chosen the one course open to him kept Jere from turning back.
Supper at the Cunninghams’ that night was a miserable affair. Jinny poked at her food until Laird ordered, “Either eat it or let the servants take it away.”
Jere longed to defend his sister but refrained. Tension in the dining room was already thick enough to slice. With a reassuring glance for his drooping sister and a prayer for the coming interview, Jere said, “I’m finished, as well.”
His father threw down his linen napkin and rose. “Then I suggest we excuse ourselves from the ladies and repair to the drawing room. Tomorrow is the seventh day, as I’m sure you recall.”
Jere searched the stern face for any sign of weakening. There was none. He sighed, stood, and opened the fray. “Mother, Jinny, I want you to be present.”
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 5
