Crossing

by Gilbert, Morris

  She sighed. “It’s been a long time, you know, Yancy. A lot has happened. You’re very different now than you were then.”

  He nodded. “Guess I am.” He looked up and squinted in the afternoon sun. “I hear a wagon. Maybe it’s your brother.”

  It was Amos Lapp, Hannah’s oldest brother. He was a tall, muscular man with straw blond hair and a stern jaw. He reined the wagon up and nodded at Yancy.

  “Hello, Amos,” Yancy said. “I happened by and thought I’d wait with Hannah until you got back.”

  “That was very good of you, Yancy. Thank you. The Keims had a wheel block and also let me bring an extra wheel in case it’s warped.” He jumped out of the wagon.

  Yancy looked closely at the wheel on the buggy. “It looks true, though. Can I help you fix it?”

  “It would be easier with two.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “I’ll pick up the wagon if you just slip the wheel back on the axle, Yancy. Then we’ll see if the new block will hold it.”

  “Sure.” Yancy noticed that Amos picked the wheel up as if it was made of feathers. Yancy straightened the wheel over the axle and then Amos let it down. Together they fit the wheel lock over it and hammered it in until the wheel was secure.

  After they were finished, Amos said, “Thank you, neighbor. I appreciate the help, and for staying with my sister while I was gone.”

  “Glad to do it,” Yancy said, holding out his hand.

  Amos looked down at it then looked up at Yancy gravely. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Some of the arbitrary rules of the Ordnung dictated certain conditions of shunning. The Amish could offer help to those who were shunned and could accept help from them. But they couldn’t, for example, offer them rides or accept any from them. And they couldn’t shake hands with them.

  “It’s all right. I understand,” Yancy said hastily. He turned to Hannah. “Hannah, I was wondering—that is, I thought—”

  “I’m sorry, too, Yancy, but no,” she said so softly he could barely hear her. And then she turned her back.

  Yancy didn’t go home the next weekend. He stayed at the institute, doing some extra studies—he always had to work twice as hard as the other boys because of his lack of education when he was young. He washed all his clothes and cleaned the barracks room—twice—and busied himself with other work so that he wouldn’t think too much about Hannah Lapp. Seeing her again had sharply reminded him that he had begun to develop feelings for her. In the last year since he had joined VMI, he had been so busy that he was able to block most things out of his mind except his classes and training. But when he had seen her in such awful circumstances, it had awakened all those emotions that he had with such determination put aside.

  He had awakened before dawn on Sunday morning, ventured out in the bitterly cold gray predawn, and went for a short ride on Midnight. He found no joy in it though. He and Midnight both got chilled, and there was an icy fog that lay around the grounds of the institute, turning everything in sight a dull gray. He led Midnight back to the stables and began to give him a thorough brushing-down. After that, on the livery potbellied stove, he heated up a pot of hot mash. It was a mixture of oats, grits, and barley soup. It was Midnight’s favorite treat.

  Major Jackson came into the livery and came right to Midnight’s stall. “That smells as good as my breakfast did this morning,” he said, stroking Midnight’s velvety nose. “This is a fine horse, Cadet Tremayne. No wonder you spoil him.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Yancy said listlessly.

  Jackson eyed him shrewdly. “You have anything planned for this morning, Cadet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, good. I want to ask you a question. Are you a Christian, sir?”

  Yancy looked up, directly into his burning blue gaze. “I don’t rightly know, Major. I pray, but it doesn’t seem to do much good, for me or anything else. So I’m just not sure.”

  “Good answer, Cadet,” Jackson said briskly. “Honest and to the point. One day you’ll be able to answer with one word—yes. But for now, I’d like you to come with me this morning.”

  “Where to, Major Jackson?”

  “To Sunday school.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yancy was puzzled. Normally no one at the institute saw Major Jackson on weekends. Of course, since Yancy had worked for him and Mrs. Jackson, he was a little more familiar with them than the other cadets. But during the time Yancy had worked for the family, Major Jackson had never asked him to go to church. He wondered now if the major had noticed how low he had been for the past week.

  Quickly Yancy saddled Midnight up again and they went into town, into the fine First Presbyterian Church of Lexington. Between the sanctuary and a private residence was the “Lecture Room.” Major Jackson and Yancy dismounted and hitched there, a modest one-room addition to the church.

  “Here we are, Cadet Tremayne,” Jackson said. “I started this Sunday school in 1851, when I first came to Lexington and to the institute. We’ve had a wonderful time in the last eight years.”

  He opened the door. Yancy followed him and stopped suddenly as he saw that the room was filled with black people. Many of them were children, some of them young people, but there were also several adults.

  Jackson went to the podium at the front of the room. “We have a guest today. This is Yancy Tremayne, one of our cadets from the institute. I thought you might want to meet one of our fine young men.”

  Yancy was speechless, for he had never dreamed of such a thing. He had remembered hearing Mrs. Jackson speak of a Sunday school, but it had never occurred to him that it was for black people. He took a seat and listened as Jackson taught the lesson. Yancy was once again amazed at how complex this man was. When he had heard of Jackson’s fighting ability in Mexico, he pictured him being a man with a murderous spirit in battle. Here he was speaking gently, and one could see the affection that the children had for him, which he returned. After the lesson, they questioned him with spirit and intelligence about the lesson. They called him “Marse Major.”

  After the lesson and the singing were over, Jackson and Yancy left.

  “That’s a very fine thing, Major. I didn’t know you did it.”

  “It was something the Lord told me to do. It gives me a great deal of pleasure. I feel sorry for these people because they have a hard way, and I believe the children should be taught just as well as white people, in all things. Ignorant people are sad people, and it’s a waste.”

  Yancy asked hesitantly, “Major, do you think that slavery is wrong?”

  Jackson sighed deeply. “I believe that all men should love God and His son, Jesus Christ. I believe that all men should be treated with dignity and respect and courtesy.”

  Yancy waited for Major Jackson to expand on this equivocal answer but he did not.

  They rode on silently. At the cross street that led to Major Jackson’s house, he bade Yancy farewell and turned toward home, and Anna.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Late at night on May 24, 1856, armed raiders went into men’s homes and took them to a dark place, and eventually, to their deaths. The condemned men were proslavery settlers in Pottawatomie, Kansas, and their names were James Doyle, William Doyle, Drury Doyle, Allen Wilkinson, and William Sherman. The killers who kidnapped them followed an antislavery crusader named John Brown. They hacked the five men to death with sabers. Later John Brown claimed to have no part in the killings, though he observed them. And he did say that he approved of them.

  John Brown’s long journey from the Pottawatomie Massacre to Harpers Ferry, Virginia, was a long and convoluted one. Along the way he went from Kansas to Missouri and all over New Engand and to Canada and the Midwest and finally back to Kansas. He met such notable sympathizers as William Lloyd Garrison, Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Harriet Tubman, and Frederick Douglass. However, none of these stalwart men and women were with him on October 16, 1859, when he led eighteen of his followers in the attack on the Harpers Ferry A
rmory. He had two hundred .52 caliber Sharp’s rifles and nine hundred and fifty pikes contributed by Northern abolitionists. It was his feverish dream that all the slaves in Virginia would join them in the uprising and no blood would be shed except in self-defense.

  At first they met no resistance. They cut the telegraph wires and easily captured the armory, which was only defended by one watchman. Then they spread out and took hostage slaveowners from nearby farms, including Colonel Lewis Washington, great-grandnephew of George Washington. Along the way they spread the news to the local slaves that their liberation was at hand.

  But then a Baltimore & Ohio train came to the station. The train’s baggage master, Hayward Shepherd, tried to warn the passengers that the station had been taken by gunmen. Brown’s men called for him to halt and then opened fire. He was shot in the belly, and he spent the next twelve hours begging for water … until he died. He was a free black man and had a good reputation in Harpers Ferry. His death was much mourned, by black and white alike.

  By 7:00 a.m. on October 17, John Brown’s dream had become a nightmare. Local farmers, shopkeepers, and militia pinned down the raiders by firing from the heights behind the town. Some local men were killed by Brown’s men. The raid became a pitched battle, with Brown outgunned and outnumbered. Brown was trapped in the arsenal.

  By the morning of October 18, Harpers Ferry Armory was surrounded by United States Marines. In command was Colonel Robert E. Lee of the army. A young army lieutenant by his side was J. E. B. “Jeb” Stuart.

  Colonel Lee turned to him. “Lieutenant Stuart, take the message in to Brown, if you please.”

  Stuart, a heavy-set, muscular young man with a full beard and piercing eyes, jumped off his horse, saluted smartly, and said, “Yes, sir!” Waving a white handkerchief, he reached the door of the arsenal and called out, “Surrender now, sir! If you surrender now, your lives will be spared!”

  Brown shouted, “No! No, I prefer to die here!”

  The Marines used sledgehammers and a battering ram to break down the door. In three minutes Brown was captured, along with his captives.

  In those three days, Brown had killed four men and had wounded nine. Ten of Brown’s men were killed, including two of his sons.

  With the last week in November, winter had come to the Shenandoah Valley. The days were bright and cold, the nights frosty and starry. There was no hint of snow in the air yet, but the wise longtime inhabitants of the valley felt it coming, smelled it coming, in the biting morning air.

  Yancy was in Major Jackson’s office. The two of them were going over plans for an overnight out in the woods to toughen up the cadets.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” Jackson ordered.

  The door opened.

  “Lieutenant Stuart,” Jackson said, “it’s good to see you.” He stood up, smiling one of his rare shy smiles.

  Jeb Stuart stepped inside in his blue uniform, the uniform of the United States Army. He came over immediately to shake hands with Jackson. The two men knew each other slightly and had a mutual admiration for each other. “This is Cadet Yancy Tremayne. Cadet Tremayne, this is Lieutenant Jeb Stuart.”

  Yancy took his hand, and Stuart clapped down on him like a vice and spoke the words expected. He had taken off his hat and had jauntily tucked it under his arm. His full head of auburn hair was a mass of curls, as was his beard.

  He turned back to Jackson. “I have orders for you, Major Jackson.” Stuart reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  Jackson opened it, read it, and looked up. “Do you know what these orders say?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. You and a number of your cadets are ordered to go to the execution of John Brown.”

  Jackson nodded, pointing toward a chair. Stuart took his seat and Jackson resumed his, sitting bolt upright as always. Yancy deferentially stayed behind Jackson’s chair, hoping he wouldn’t send him out.

  “I see these orders come from Governor Wise to Commander Smith,” Jackson said. Francis Smith was the superintendent of VMI.

  Stuart replied, “The governor decided it was the politic thing to do. This whole John Brown uprising has become a powder keg. And the pride of Old Dominion is the Virginia Military Institute. Since Southerners believe Brown incited slave insurrection in the South, but particularly in Virginia, the governor thinks that it would be better for the superintendent of VMI to be in charge of the execution, rather than the army.”

  “It’s hard to believe that responsible men and women in the North actually helped this madman,” Jackson said disdainfully. “The situation between North and South was bad enough as it is. Armed insurrection against Harpers Ferry, and all those senseless deaths … No good can come of it, no good at all.”

  “I agree, Major Jackson. Brown’s trial was nothing short of a circus sideshow, with all the newspapers, North and South, competing against each other to see who could shout loudest and longest about who’s right and who’s wrong,” Stuart grunted. “Makes me very proud that I’m a soldier and not a politician and not a journalist.”

  Jackson nodded agreement. “What is it like, with Brown?”

  Stuart shrugged. “He’s quiet. He glares with those fiery eyes of his. The old man doesn’t have any nerves, I’ll give him that.”

  John Brown’s futile attempt to free the slaves had been in October, lasting for three days, the sixteenth through the eighteenth. He had been imprisoned in Charles Town since then.

  Stuart continued, “Anyway, as you see there, Major Jackson, his execution is slated for December 2, so you’ve got some preparations to make.” He rose and the two men enthusiastically shook hands again.

  Stuart turned to Yancy, his blue eyes alight. “When I was in the livery I saw a fine black stallion, and one of the cadets told me that it belonged to a young man named Tremayne. Are you that lucky young man by any chance?”

  Yancy smiled. “Yes, sir, I am. His name is Midnight.”

  “That horse is the only horse I’ve ever seen that I think someone riding him might beat me in a race.”

  “Midnight would beat you, sir, on any mount.”

  Stuart laughed, a hearty, rich sound. “I like a man who believes in his horse. Maybe we’ll have a chance to try that out sometime, Cadet Tremayne.” He turned back to Jackson. “I assume Cadet Tremayne will be accompanying you to Charles Town, Major?”

  “He will. He’s proven to be a very good aide,” Jackson answered.

  “Then I will see you there, Cadet,” Stuart said, holding his hand out to give his usual bone-crushing handshake again. “Though I fear it will not be such a pleasant day as this.”

  Jackson and twenty-one VMI cadets arrived in Charles Town on November 28. Although Jackson had never made any official appointments, the two cadets whom he depended on most were Yancy Tremayne and Peyton Stevens.

  Stevens, in spite of his languid ways, was a good and conscientous cadet and would make a good soldier. He rode a magnificent gold Palomino with a blond mane and tail named, appropriately, Senator. Yancy rode high-stepping Midnight, and between them Major Jackson slouched along on Cerro Gordo. They were an unlikely trio, with Peyton and Yancy in their fine, showy VMI gray and white uniforms and Jackson tightly wound up in his dusty blue coat. There could be, however, no question of who was in command.

  The streets were crowded with people talking loudly, groups of men arguing on the street corners, paperboys shouting the latest penny press. The troop rode slowly through and kept in wonderful trim until they reached the town square.

  “Courthouse,” Jackson said succinctly.

  Immediately Yancy held up his hand and shouted, “Company, halt!”

  The mounted cadets stopped immediately with barely a sound.

  Jackson, with Yancy and Peyton behind him, rode to a hitching post in front of the courthouse and dismounted. They stopped to survey this shabby building that had come to the center of attention of an entire nation.

  It was a coupled courthouse, o
ld, with gray and white pillars with the paint flecking off. The windows were of thick, wavy glass, and they were forlorn and dusty. The United States flag on the pole in front was faded and tattered.

  Next door was a jail with worn, uneven bricks, with moss growing in between. It, too, was old and dismal looking, the last home John Brown would ever know. As they watched, they saw a plump man, who was evidently the jail master, holding court outside, his thumbs stuck in his suspenders self-importantly. He was talking to some journalists and some others who were obviously just curious.

  “He’s having his day in the sun,” Jackson muttered. “I tell you, cadets, this whole thing has been shameful from beginning to end. I’m going in to see the sheriff about our accomodations. You wait, and don’t let any of the boys wander over there to listen to that fool.”

  That night Jackson wrote to Anna:

  Charles Town, Nov. 28, 1859

  I reached here last night in good health and spirits. Seven of us slept in the same room. I am much more pleased than I expected to be; the people here appear to be very kind. There are about one thousand troops here, and everything is quiet so far. We don’t expect any trouble. The excitement is confined to more distant points. Do not give yourself any concern about me. I am comfortable, for a temporary military post.

  The gallows had been erected on a hill just outside of Charles Town. Facing it squarely were two artillery pieces, each manned by seven VMI cadets. Behind them, mounted, were the seven remaining cadets. Yancy and Peyton again flanked Major Jackson. They waited in perfect silence, the gunners at the ready. It was feared by the governor that Brown’s fanatical followers might make a last-ditch attempt to rescue him. Charles Town and Execution Hill were ringed with militiamen.

  Below them one thousand militiamen waited to escort John Brown to his execution. They led him out of the jail. His steel gray hair and beard bristled aggessively, yet he shufffled slowly in ugly carpet slippers, for he had been injured when he was captured and he was ill. A jail was no place to get healthy and gain strength. Although his step was tentative, his face showed no weakness. He handed a piece of paper to the plump jailer, who took it and started to read it, but Brown spoke in a low tone to him and he folded it and put it in his pocket.