Yancy was sitting in the Haydens’ kitchen. The maid servant, Missy, had fixed him what would normally be called a breakfast, though it was about ten o’clock at night. But it was fresh and hot and delicious, and Yancy ate heartily. Seated at Missy’s work counter by the stove, she had put before him ham and eggs and biscuits and grits.
Oddly, Elijah and Missy stood by the stove, silently watching him eat. Missy’s hands were clasped in front of her apron, while Elijah stood silently, his hands clasped behind his back. Yancy wondered if they were slaves, but then he thought that surely they must not be, since it appeared that the Haydens were obviously Northern sympathizers. Of course, not all Southerners held slaves. Anna Jackson’s maid, Hetty, was a free woman, a paid servant.
Yancy realized that they probably wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, so he said, “This is mighty fine cooking, Missy. Thank you.”
“Why, you’re welcome, Mr. Tremayne. Maybe you want some molasses and some butter to put on them biscuits?”
“I would appreciate that, Missy.”
As she was fetching it for him, Lorena and her father came in.
Yancy got to his feet at once, almost standing at attention. “How is he?”
“Sleeping, but very weak,” Dr. Hayden said. “Luckily the bullet was lodged very close under the skin in his back, and I was able to remove it fairly easily. I think he has a broken rib, but at least the bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. Elijah, please go sit with him and call me if he stirs in the slightest. Missy, my wife is with Leslie right now, but she’s exhausted. Please see if you can get her to go back to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” they murmured and slipped out.
Dr. Hayden turned back to Yancy, who studied the man. He was tall, as Leslie Hayden was, over six feet, though he had a slight stoop. They were slender men, with classic features, and Dr. Hayden had bequeathed to both his son and daughter his fine light brown hair with golden streaks. Dr. Hayden had a thick sweeping mustache. “Please, Sergeant Tremayne. Sit down and finish your meal.”
Missy had made a pot of coffee. Lorena fixed cups for herself and her father, and then they sat on two of the high stools in the kitchen.
Yancy felt somewhat awkward, but he was still hungry. He sat down and finished his last biscuit and the final bites of eggs and grits. Carefully he wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin that, somehow, he found incongruous in the circumstances. Finally he said, “I know you’re wondering about all of this.”
“I know it was a good thing that you got Leslie here when you did, Sergeant Tremayne. Much longer, and my son likely wouldn’t have survived without you.”
Lorena’s eyes narrowed. Now he could see that she had very dark blue eyes, almost black. Her mouth was well-shaped, her lips rather full but not vulgarly so. She asked in an even voice, “Can you tell us exactly why you brought him here? What could possibly have happened between you, who are obviously sworn enemies?”
Yancy murmured, “It’s a strange story and I don’t understand some of it myself yet.”
Lorena and Dr. Hayden watched him intently.
He was silent for long moments. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted his head and stared into space, trying desperately to think what to tell these people, how little or how much. Regardless of the fact that he had given aid to Leslie Hayden, he had no intention of telling these Union sympathizers anything that could be construed as information about the war. He knew very well that the newspapers would all have accounts about the battle in the morning, but still he felt it wouldn’t be right for him to tell them. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell them that he was a courier for General Jackson. Jackson was secretive to the point of paranoia anyway, and besides that, it wouldn’t be right to let them know of his position and his mission.
His mission …
Though he had been, for the past several hours, concerned about Leslie Hayden, he now realized that he was on a mission. He was in possession of important—and secret—dispatches to the president of the Confederate States of America from one of his top commanders. Suddenly his heart beat faster and unevenly, a raw and uncomfortable feeling. Those dispatches were still out in his saddlebag in the wagon, unguarded … and almost forgotten.
Yancy jumped up so quickly that he knocked over his stool. “I–I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“What?” Dr. Hayden said in astonishment. “But—but surely you can stay and at least tell us who you are and explain to us how it came about that we should be in such great debt to you!”
“No, no, sir, I’m very sorry but I really must leave now,” Yancy said, striding to the foyer to retrieve his forage cap. “Ma’am, may I please have my pistol back?” Dr. Hayden and Lorena had followed him.
Her eyes narrowed and her face grew dark with suspicion. “And why is it that you should have to leave in such a hurry, sir? Who are you going to report to, and to whom are you going to tell of my brother, and—”
“No, Lorena, no,” Dr. Hayden said with sudden understanding. “Sergeant Tremayne surely has his own way to make. He would never betray us after he has gone to such trouble, and he has without doubt saved your brother’s life. Leave him be, and let him go.”
After hesitating a few moments, with obvious reluctance Lorena pulled Yancy’s pistol out of a drawer in a side table in the foyer. She handed it to him without meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hayden, Miss Hayden. But I know that in the next few days you’ll know—more—about this day, and what has happened between us. Between the North and the South. With your permission I would like to return and see Leslie, and then perhaps I may be able to speak more freely.”
Dr. Hayden gave him his hand. “You will always be welcome in my home, Sergeant Tremayne, regardless of what happens out there in the fields of battle. Please do come back as soon as you possibly can.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.” Yancy turned to Lorena and searched her face, but there was nothing there except doubt and suspicion. As Yancy hurried to Midnight, Lorena and Dr. Hayden followed him to their porch. Their conversation carried to his ears, obviously unknown to the pair.
Lorena turned to her father. “I don’t trust him. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“We will need to hear his story before we decide if it makes sense or not, Lorena,” Dr. Hayden said mildly. He turned and gently put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder to walk with him toward the stairs. “I think it’s a miracle. This young man, I believe, has a good heart, honorable and true. I don’t know how I know it, and I don’t know why, but I believe the Lord touched him, and then he saved your brother. I know you’re suspicious of all men, Lorena, but I think you can trust this one.”
Without any reaction to their words as to give away that he had heard, Yancy mounted and rode away.
As was to be expected, Richmond was like a boiling cauldron after the victory at Manassas. In particular, the capitol had great swirling crowds of men at all hours, running in and out, shouting to each other, disappearing into offices and then coming back out on other urgent war business.
Of course the Department of War offices were insanely busy. That night, on July 22, Yancy reported there at about ten o’clock. He was seated in an anteroom and watched men come and go, their faces by turn fiercely delighted or grievously worried, until about seven a.m. the next morning.
Yancy recognized one of the secretaries, a dry, threadbare little man with a bald pate, thick glasses, and ink-stained fingers, when he came out of one of the offices. All night long Yancy had seen the secretary call one man in, escort another man out, take papers from that one, deliver them to another. “Dispatches!” he called, as the secretaries did when they were ready to take the messages the couriers brought in. “Dispatches from the 1st Virginia Brigade—the Stonewall Brigade!” Wild cheers and calls sounded throughout the hall. General Jackson’s new nickname was already famous.
Grinning like an idiot, Yancy stood and held up his hand. “Here, sir! Dispatches from the—the Stonewall Brigade
!”
Men gathered around him, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand, until he was almost dizzy. “There he stood, like a stone wall!” they kept repeating. Yancy duly delivered his dispatches, and the secretary told him to wait. He was besieged by the men who demanded detailed accounts not only of the action, but of every gesture, every word, every expression of Brigadier General “Stonewall” Jackson’s. Yancy talked until he was hoarse.
But eventually the men got back to their own peculiar business, and Yancy was left to sit on the hard bench again, waiting. It was a long, grueling day, sitting on a hard bench. Yancy once went out to water Midnight and retrieve his own canteen, but he was worried he might miss his summons so he hurried back inside. From time to time he dozed, even though he was uncomfortable. He was exhausted.
At about seven o’clock that night a report circulated from the war office. In the Battle of Manassas, the Federals had 3,000 dead and wounded, and they lost more than 1,400 as prisoners. These were paraded through the streets of Richmond where crowds yelled, “Live Yankees! Live Yankees!” The Confederates had lost 2,000 men of which 1,500 were wounded; only a scant dozen had been taken prisoner. Yancy did learn that General Beauregard had taken treasures also, including six thousand small arms, fifty-four field guns and five hundred rounds of ammunition.
Poignantly Yancy thought, And one supply cart that brought a wounded Yankee home. He had been thinking a lot about Leslie Hayden. He didn’t regret his actions. Even though some might regard his sheltering the enemy as traitorous, Yancy knew, without a doubt, that the Lord had told him to be a good Samaritan to the wounded man who had so mercifully spared his life.
Eventually the secretary returned and told Yancy, “Sir, we will have messages to return with you, but they won’t be ready until tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay? I’m certain we can find room for one of Stonewall’s boys!”
Yancy stood and shook his hand for the third time. “Thank you, sir, but I have some friends in town. I’ll go visit them.”
Yancy was glad to leave behind the roiling and boiling at the capitol. He rode slowly on Midnight, savoring the quiet after he got out of the center of town. It was a mild night, for July, with a light breeze that sometimes, as he came into the residential sections, carried on it the sweet, fresh scent of jasmine. After the stench of blood and guns and death, it was like a sweet shower to Yancy. His clothes and hair still stank of gunpowder.
He reached the Hayden home and was glad to see that there were still warm lights on both upstairs and downstairs. Although it was only about eight o’clock, he had realized that Dr. Hayden seemed frail, and he had been afraid that the household regularly retired early. Gently he tapped the front door knocker twice. He saw the curtains move in the parlor, and then Lorena Hayden opened the door.
“Hello, Sergeant Tremayne,” she said. “Won’t you come in?” She turned and led him into the sitting room. Although she was polite, Lorena’s tone had a chilly quality about it, and her entire demeanor was distant.
Yancy wondered what had hardened this woman so, or if she simply still didn’t trust him. He supposed if that was it, it would just take time to gain her trust, and Yancy was vaguely surprised at how important that suddenly seemed to be to him.
Dr. Hayden rose to greet him. Beside him was a small woman with chestnut hair who was modestly pretty, watching him with warm brown eyes.
“This is Sergeant Yancy Tremayne. He brought Leslie home, my dear. Sergeant, this is my wife, Lily.”
The woman came forward at once and held out both her hands. Yancy was surprised, but he took them in his, noticing that her bones were almost birdlike in their fragility. Suddenly her kind eyes filled with tears and she said softly, “We can never thank you enough, Sergeant Tremayne, for bringing our son home.”
“I—I had to do it, ma’am. It was the right—the only thing to do.”
She nodded with complete understanding. “Please, sit down. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have Missy make tea. Or perhaps you prefer coffee, Sergeant?”
“Actually I do, if it’s not too much trouble, ma’am,” Yancy answered, taking his seat in a wing chair across from the sofa where Dr. and Mrs. Hayden had been seated. “Especially Missy’s coffee. It was very good.”
She nodded and left the room. Lorena sat in a matching chair next to him, her back perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. He saw that she was wearing a blue dress with a white lace collar. She would have looked beautiful if she were more poised, but the set of her head was so defiant and her posture so stiff that it detracted from her china doll looks.
“So how is Lieutenant Hayden?” Yancy asked Dr. Hayden.
“He’s doing fairly well,” he answered. “Thankfully neither bullet hit any vital organs, though he did lose a lot of blood. Actually, the wound in his leg may give him the most trouble. It tore some muscles and ligaments, and it’s possible he may have a slight limp, or at least may have to walk with a cane. But he’s resting comfortably, and Leslie is strong. I believe he’ll recover quickly.”
“Thank the Lord,” Lily said, coming back in and sitting down by her husband.
“Amen,” Yancy said quietly. “And that is, by the way, the message that Leslie wanted me to give you, in case … in case. He said he wanted you to know that he was trusting in the Lord, and that he wasn’t afraid.”
“The Lord has mightily blessed us, Sergeant Tremayne,” Lily said, “by sparing Leslie and sending you to him.”
Dr. Hayden said gravely, “We understand, Sergeant Tremayne, the position you so willingly put yourself in, and because of that I would like to explain something about our family. We—Lily, Lorena, and I—are actually what might be called neutrals in this war, although that is somewhat unrealistic under the circumstances. We love Virginia. Richmond is our home. But we could not bring ourselves to agree with secession, and we think this war is tragically, utterly wrong on both sides. I will let Leslie explain his decision to join the Union army, if he chooses to. But I wish you to know that, as a doctor, I am attending injured soldiers from the North and the South, without discrimination, and I pray every day for the end of this war and blessings and peace for all of the men who are in it.”
Yancy sighed. “Thank you, sir. That does help me to understand a little. You’ve been caught between two forces that seem to be inescapable, just as Leslie and I were in the battle. I assume you’ve heard the news?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes, we understand that the Confederate forces had a great victory,” Dr. Hayden answered. “There were many, many wounded.”
“Chimborazo Hospital is filled to overflowing,” Lorena said sadly. “Father has worked very hard to help.”
“As you said, Sergeant Tremayne, I have to. It’s the right thing to do,” Dr. Hayden said with a small smile.
Missy came in then with tea and coffee service, and they took a few minutes in the homey, comfortable ritual of taking refreshment.
After Missy left, Dr. Hayden continued, “And so, now that we have given you some idea of our views on the war, I hope you will see that we would never ask you to betray any confidential or sensitive information to us. But we would very much like to hear how it happened that you found Leslie and brought him home to us.”
Yancy told them the story, although he didn’t say what his mission was, and he downplayed the horribly tense moments when Leslie was pointing his pistol at him and Yancy was sure he was going to kill him.
“So there I was, looking down the barrel of a Yankee lieutenant’s pistol, and at the time all I remember thinking is, I don’t know the Lord. I may be facing Him in the next few minutes, and I don’t know Him. So I asked God to forgive me, and I waited. But Leslie laid the pistol down in his lap and just sort of sighed. And then I prayed, hard, and asked the Lord to save me and lead me, and then I knew. I had to help Leslie,” he finished.
Lily smiled and her voice was soft and glad. “I’m so glad you found the Lord, Sergeant Tremayne. Even when we are facin
g death, to know Him is to know life.”
“My grandmother has told me that and many other things about the Lord,” Yancy said. “And they’re only just now starting to make sense.” He smiled. “And I can tell you that I think I have a pretty good understanding of the situation you are in, about the war and struggling to stay neutral. You see, my people are Amish.”
“Are they?” Lorena asked with an abrupt interest that surprised Yancy.
“Yes, they are. At least, my father and stepmother and grandmother are. My mother, my father’s first wife, was half Cheyenne Indian. She died, and we came back here, to my father’s family.”
“Cheyenne Indian,” Lorena repeated in a half whisper, her eyes wide and dark as she looked at him. “So that’s it…. They must be handsome people….”
“I beg your pardon?” Yancy said blankly. He thought he had misunderstood her.
A quick, amused smile came over Lily Hayden’s gentle features, and she said, “Your countenance shows your heritage, Sergeant Tremayne, and you should be proud.”
“Yes, I learned their ways and I know them,” he said simply. “My mother was a wonderful woman, and I am proud of her. So my father and I returned to Lexington, to his home, and he rejoined the Amish community. He married a fine woman. She’s been as good to me as my own mother. They have two children now, and my grandmother lives with them.”
With some difficulty Lorena asked, “So—so you, you obviously aren’t—don’t completely agree with their beliefs.”
“Not all of them,” he said. “They are fine Christian people, but they’re extremely strict, you know.”
“I admire their willingness to pay a high price for their beliefs,” Dr. Hayden said. “But I understand that living that way of life is just not possible for everyone.”
Missy came back in and said, “Dr. Hayden? Leslie’s awake now, and I told him the sergeant was here. He’d like to see him.”
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