Crossing

by Gilbert, Morris

  Before he went in he wanted to savor the cool October afternoon, the dry fall scent of the grass and fields, and the high pale sun set in a light blue sky. Hank, coming from the shade of the oak trees in the back of the house and alerted to his presence, bayed once, then loped up in welcome, ears flopping and tongue lolling. Yancy bent to pet him, scratching his ears and murmuring, “Dumb ol’ dog. How are you doing, dumb ol’ dog? Huh?”

  Now he stood for a moment, absolutely still, remembering the richness of the farm. He was alive to the world that was about him, whether well-known or strange. He was sixteen years old now and one inch over six feet, and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He was one inch taller than his father, and this amazed him each time he thought of it.

  Yancy hadn’t worn his VMI uniform home, though it had been the proudest thing he had ever done to have worn it for a year. It wouldn’t have been suitable to the Amish, however, for they seemed to freeze every time they saw any man in uniform. So every time he visited home, he wore his old work clothes, this time a pair of heavy wool brown pants and a dark blue wool shirt. He had the sleeves rolled up, and it showed his forearms, which were now strong and thickly corded with muscle. He had given up his silvertrimmed VMI forage cap for his old wide-brimmed slouch hat. In deference to the Amish he had even taken off the bead-trimmed band his mother had made.

  Hearing Hank’s welcome bark, Becky came out onto the veranda. Holding out her arms, she cried, “Yancy! Yancy, come in! We’ve missed you so much!”

  He went into the parlor, where Becky and Zemira had their quilting rack down.

  Zemira looked up to him, her bright dark eyes glowing with pleasure. “You’ve come back again! I suppose you got hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry for your cooking, Grandmother.” He went to her, bent over, and kissed her smooth cheek. “You’re getting prettier every time I see you,” he teased.

  “Go away from here with that nonsense!” She waved him away with a little laugh.

  “Becky, are you all right? You look big as a house.”

  Becky laughed. “Yes, I’m well. But you have an odd way of framing a compliment, Yancy.”

  “But that’s the way mothers-to-be are supposed to look, aren’t they? And you’re glowing, you look so pretty. So, Grandmother, are you going to feed me or what? I’m starved!”

  “You can have some leftovers, but save an appetite,” Zemira said sternly. “For supper I’m going to cook a meal that will make your hair curly.”

  “I always wanted curly hair.” Yancy drew up a chair and sat down. He was soon eating heartily of lunch—cold ham, fresh white bread, jacket potatoes, pickles, and cabbage slaw. “This is wonderful!” Yancy said. “I don’t get anything like this at VMI.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re not supposed to get home cooking anywhere but at home,” Zemira said. “Now, tell us everything you have been doing.”

  “It would bore you to death.” Yancy smiled. “I get up in the morning, and I have to make sure my bed is made and everything is put away. I have to be sure that all the younger cadets get their rooms clean and their beds made. We then all go out to eat breakfast. Then we have classes, and then lunch. Then we go back to classes, and then supper. Nothing good like this, though.”

  Becky asked earnestly, “And how are your classes going, Yancy?”

  He chewed thoughtfully. “It’s hard. They’re hard. Stuff I don’t know, and stuff I have to work on real hard to catch up. But Major Jackson has helped me. He said he was like me when he went to West Point. He was behind and he had to study extra all the time. He doesn’t favor me in class—it would be against his sense of honor to do that—but he helps me figure out how to study. He even talked Peyton Stevens into being my tutor, and he helps me a lot.”

  “Who’s Peyton Stevens?” Zemira asked curiously. “I think I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Maybe so,” Yancy said. “His father is Virginia Senator Peyton Stevens, Sr. Peyton is Jr. But he’s not pompous or anything. He’s real smart. He’s just kinda lazy, I guess. But Major Jackson talked him into helping me with my studies, and he’s helped me with everything, from English literature, to mathematics, to European history ….”

  They heard a soft call from upstairs, and Zemira stood up. “That’s Callie Jo waking up from her nap. I’ll go get her.”

  “I’ll get her,” Becky offered.

  “No ma’am, I’m not too old to climb those stairs and get my granddaughter,” Zemira said over her shoulder as she left the room.

  “You’ll never be old, Grandmother,” Yancy called after her. He told Becky, “I’ve never known anyone like her. She’s sure not what I expected when we came here. I was afraid she was going to be this mean old Amish woman that never smiled.”

  “Nice surprise for you. She’s very fond of you, Yancy. I think it’s been good for her—and me, too—that you are here.”

  “You sure?” he asked gravely. “Even though you’re supposed to be shunning me, and all of you are not exactly in the good graces of Bishop Lambright?”

  Becky smiled warmly at him. “Well, you know, Yancy, shunning is not necessarily absolutely ignoring a person. Of course no one expects you to attend church or the sing, but neither are they angry with you or are they going to openly shame you. I don’t think anyone in the community would refuse to speak to you, and certainly no one thinks that we shouldn’t still be your family.”

  Callie Jo came toddling through the door, pulling Zemira by the apron. “Nance! Nance!” she cried, holding up her arms and running to Yancy.

  He stood up, hoisted her high over his head, and turned around in circles. She squealed with delight. Then he sat back down with her on his lap.

  “Hi, Nance,” she lisped.

  Yancy looked up at Zemira and Becky. “No one here had better ever tell my nickname to anyone at VMI,” he said darkly. “Ever.”

  “Okay, Nance,” Becky said. “It’ll be our secret.”

  Yancy kissed Callie Jo’s flushed cheeks. She was two years old now, with thick strawberry blond hair and light blue eyes like Daniel. “Hello, Jo-Jo. Did you know that I brought you a present?”

  “Present?” she said, her eyes lighting up.

  “Yep. It’s out in my saddlebag. Wanna come with me to get it?”

  “Yep.”

  He picked her up and went outside, where Midnight was still hitched to the post in the front yard. He snorted and danced a little when he came out.

  “Minnite,” Callie Jo said and pointed.

  “That’s right. You’re a very smart little girl.”

  He pulled a book out of the saddlebag. “See here? This is for you.”

  “Book!” she announced. “My book! Read me!”

  It was a picture book of Bible stories. Yancy sat with Becky and Zemira in the parlor and went through the entire book with her.

  Then she said, “Froo with book. Go ride Minnite?”

  “You’re a mighty little girl for such a big horse.”

  “Pleez, Nance?” she begged, her blue eyes big and round as saucers. Yancy had been taking her for rides since she turned one year old.

  Yancy told Becky, “You heard her. I’m under orders.”

  Becky smiled. “Be careful. Hold her tight.”

  “Always,” Yancy said. He left the house carrying Callie Jo and headed toward Midnight. He stepped into the saddle and put her in front of him, letting her hold the reins. The beautiful black stallion galloped away lightly, and Yancy reveled in the thrill of the moment.

  It was riotous fall in the valley, with the leaves of the hardwoods turned all the warm shades of red, orange, and yellow imaginable. As always, the evergreens cast their emerald glow over the land.

  The three young men made their way through the thick forest just behind the Tremayne farm.

  Suddenly, Yancy stopped, threw his rifle up, and pulled the trigger.

  “You got him!” Clay Tremayne said. “I didn’t even see that little beast.”

>   “I didn’t see him either!” Clay’s brother Morgan exclaimed. He picked up the squirrel. “You got him right through the head, Yancy. Don’t you ever miss?”

  Yancy shrugged. “Not much. Well—no. I don’t.”

  “Liar,” Morgan scoffed.

  “Have you seen me miss?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t, when no one is watching.”

  They all laughed.

  “We’ve got about enough of these things, haven’t we?” Morgan said, holding up his game bag. “Let’s go back and get Aunt Zemira to cook us up a great big supper of squirrel and dumplings.”

  They shouldered their rifles and started back to the farmhouse.

  There were two families of Tremaynes in the Shenandoah Valley: The Enoch Tremaynes, as they were called, were the Amish Tremaynes. The Luther Tremaynes were English and lived in Lexington.

  In the 1730s the Tremayne family moved to the Shenandoah Valley from Pennsylvania. There were two brothers, Enoch Tremayne, the eldest, and Luther Tremayne, who was the younger. Enoch stayed with the Amish and was Yancy’s great-great-greatgrandfather. Luther fell in love with an English, became a Methodist, and left the Amish. Luther was Clay’s and Morgan’s great-great-great grandfather. Basically the Tremaynes were somewhat distant cousins by now, but the two families had stayed close. They all called each other “Cousin” or “Aunt” or “Uncle,” whatever seemed appropriate to their respective ages. Clay and Morgan called Yancy “Cousin,” and Zemira “Aunt,” and Daniel “Uncle.”

  In the golden afternoon glow, Clay suddenly straightened, pointed, and yelled, “Look, Yancy! There’s one!”

  Like lightning Yancy shouldered his rifle and sighted. Then he lowered it and muttered, “No, there was not one. What are you playing at, Clay?”

  Clay laughed. “Told you you’d miss when no one’s watching.”

  “Idiot,” Morgan grumbled as they trudged on, but his tone was unmistakably affectionate.

  He and Clay were brothers but were different in almost all aspects. Clay was twenty-three, two years younger than his brother, as tall as Morgan and more lightly built. Morgan had auburn hair and blue eyes, while Clay had dark-colored hair and gray eyes. Clay was high-spirited, a prankster, sometimes loud and boisterous. Morgan was thoughtful, quiet, serious. Since they had been old enough to stand, they had fought each other, verbally and physically. Though Clay seemed the more vigorous of the two, Morgan had always had a quiet, intent strength, while Clay was more suited to fighting like a windmill. Somehow Morgan had always managed to keep his rowdy young brother in check, but now that they were older, Morgan sometimes lost his grip on what Clay was doing. Clay was sly.

  “Say, Yancy,” Clay said, “Now that you’re such a big VMI man and all, swaggering around with Major Thomas Jackson, we ought to go out and celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “You, man! It’s time you put your pretty-boy uniform away and have a good time for a change!”

  “Clay,” Morgan said, “you don’t want to be teaching him any bad manners.”

  Clay grinned mischievously. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just an old milksop. I know a young girl about your age, Yancy. We’ll go out and I’ll teach you how to handle women.”

  Morgan warned, “He’ll just get you into trouble, Yancy. I’m telling you, I don’t care what he says, you’ll just get into trouble.”

  Clay slapped Morgan on the shoulder so hard it almost staggered him. “You know, you’re the good brother and I’m the bad one. I guess we’re like Isaac and Ishmael. I always like what the Bible said about Ishmael, that he’d be a wild man. That’s in Genesis 16:12.” He glanced at Yancy and said, “That’s my favorite scripture, because that’s me.” He turned back to his brother and said, “You’re the good man and I’m the wild man, Morgan. Nothing you can do to change it.”

  “Of course there is, dummy. You say that all the time and you know you can change anytime you want to,” Morgan insisted. He told Yancy, “If you want to do something, we’ll go hunting or fishing. My sister plays the piano beautifully, too. You can come for supper and a concert. But don’t go with Clay because he’ll lead you astray.”

  “If I possibly can, I will.” Clay laughed. “You better watch out for me. I’m a wild man, Yancy Tremayne!”

  The next day was Sunday, so after his father and Becky and Zemira had left for church, Yancy headed back to VMI. About halfway to town he saw a buggy pulled over on the side of the road. He looked closer and saw that it was the Lapps’ carriage. Almost all of the Amish buggies looked alike—black with unpainted and unadorned wooden wheels—but Yancy’s powers of observation were sharp, and he also knew the gelding pulling the buggy. It was a big bay named Acer, and he belonged to Hannah Lapp’s family.

  The buggy was pulled to the side of the road, leaning precariously. One of the wheels was awry. The wheel lock had obviously come off, and the wheel tilted drunkenly to one side.

  There were two horses hitched to the rear of the buggy and two men standing in the front. Between their thick shoulders, Yancy could see a white Amish prayer cap.

  Quickly Yancy cantered up to them, dismounted, and said, “So, is there some trouble here?”

  The two men turned, and Yancy recognized Boone Williams and Henry Cousins. They were both tall men, older than Yancy. The two worked at the sawmill in town, where Yancy had met them when fetching lumber for the farm. He had also seen them loitering on the street corners in town, spitting tobacco and furtively watching women who walked by.

  Boone sneered at him. He was a burly man with thick, coarse brown hair and muddy brown eyes to match. “Go on your way, Tremayne. There’s nothing here that you need to worry about.”

  Cousins laughed coarsely. He was a thickset man with bulging muscles and had obviously been drinking. “You heard him. Move on, Injun. We saw this squaw first.”

  They were standing too close to Hannah; Cousins’s shoulder almost touched her face. She had her eyes downcast, but Yancy could see her hands, twisting nervously, and the way she cringed backward away from them.

  Instantly Yancy made a decision. One of the tactics he learned from Major Jackson was to hit your enemy quick and hard and put him out if you can with the first blow.

  Yancy kicked out and his boot caught Cousins in the ankle, which drove the big man off balance. He yelled as he went down, and immediately Boone roared and threw himself toward Yancy.

  Yancy whipped out the knife he always carried and held it steadily pointed at Boone’s barrel chest. “On your way, Boone. You, too, Cousins. You’re not hurt. But if you two stick around you will be.”

  Cousins got up and snarled, “You won’t always have that knife, Tremayne!”

  “You’re wrong. I’ll always have it,” Yancy said evenly. “Now get out of here before I use it on you.”

  The two glared at Yancy, then mounted and rode off, cursing him.

  Yancy turned back around and said rather uncomfortably, “Hello, Hannah.”

  With a sob she threw herself into his arms.

  He jerked with surprise but then patted her awkwardly and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. They’re gone now.”

  She clung to him desperately and cried, “That’s—they scared me. I don’t know what they wanted. Probably nothing … but—my brother went for a new wheel lock, and I stayed, and I shouldn’t have, it was so stupid of me….”

  He held her out at arm’s length. “It’s not your fault, Hannah. Never think that this happened because of anything you did. It was their fault, not yours.”

  Woefully she gazed into his eyes, and he noticed that she was still just as pretty as she had ever been. Her ash brown hair had come loose in soft ringlets from her prayer cap. Her cheeks, though tear-stained, were still soft, and she had a flawless complexion. Her long lashes were wet with tears. Gently he reached out and smoothed one ringlet away from her face.

  The gesture seemed to bring her back to the present. She straightene
d and pulled away from him, almost imperceptibly. Then she calmly folded her hands and composed her distraught features. The change in her attitude was subtle but unmistakable. She was distancing herself from him.

  With a sigh, he stepped back. “So you said your brother was with you?”

  “Yes, he was driving. When the wheel lock came off, he decided to walk to the Keim farm and see if they have another one.”

  “I’m sure they do. Mr. Keim has a good carpentry shop there,” Yancy said lamely.

  “Yes, he does.”

  “How—how have you been?” Yancy hadn’t seen Hannah for almost a year, because of course he stopped going to church when he joined VMI and the bishop decreed that he must be shunned. He reflected that she hadn’t changed at all; she still looked frail and vulnerable and naive. He knew, however, that he had hardened and toughened, and it showed on his face.

  “I’ve been very well,” Hannah answered softly. “You look fine, Yancy. You’re very tan, I see. Were you out in the sun much this summer? Um—shooting, or drilling or something?”

  “Something,” he agreed. “But you know. Indian.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Yes. Okay, well, I’ll just hitch up Midnight and wait with you until your brother gets here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Yancy led Midnight to the back of the buggy and tied him up. Then, his hands stuck in his pockets, he went back to the front of the buggy where Hannah silently waited. As she regarded him, he saw that she had completely regained her composure. Her gaze was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. She just seemed placid and sure of herself.

  Yancy swallowed hard and decided to plunge in. “You know, Hannah, I’ve thought about you a lot. I thought—I thought that we were becoming good friends.” Hannah had always shown particular interest in Yancy at Sunday dinners, constantly serving him more lemonade, more biscuits, more butter.