“I do remember him, and he was a nice fellow,” Yancy agreed. “He’ll suit Hannah well. I’m glad for them.”
Daniel studied him for a few moments then said quietly, “It’s good that you remember people like Nate, that you barely knew. Dr. Hayden’s told us that memory loss just goes along with your head injury. So how are you doing with that, son?”
Yancy frowned and stared into space. He was silent for long moments.
Daniel waited patiently and quietly.
Finally Yancy said in a voice that was somehow faraway, “For one thing, I have holes in my memory. They’re usually connected to something I do remember. Like Leslie. I remember him, I remember what he looks like, I remember when I brought him here, home, from Manassas, but I can’t remember him, exactly. I can’t remember what he’s like, his personality, his expressions. He’s not really real to me. I remember him, but not all of him.” He looked at Daniel anxiously. “Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” Daniel encouraged him. “Go on.”
“And then sometimes I have mixed-up memories. I think I remember something, but somehow I don’t feel like I’m recalling it right. It’s fuzzy or something.”
“So, what kind of things do you think have gotten mixed up in your memories like that?” Daniel asked.
For the first time Yancy dropped his gaze and fidgeted with the sheet. “Oh, just little things,” he said vaguely. “Just—some things about some people.”
Daniel believed one of those “people” was Lorena, but he didn’t push him; he knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Finally Yancy went on, “And then there’s pictures that pop into my head that I know I should remember, but I can’t get a grasp on them. One of these pictures I keep seeing is this man, with red hair and a mustache and a beard and a bright red flannel shirt, sitting on a kinda runty swaybacked mare. He’s so familiar. But for the life of me I can’t place the man.”
Thoughtfully Daniel said, “Well, one thing I do know is that your mind is working right; your thought processes are obviously working well. You know, Yancy, Dr. Hayden is fairly sure that you’re going to regain most, if not all, of your memories at some point. If you could tell him what you just told me, it would help him to understand where you are in terms of recovery, and then he’d be better able to help you. Do you think you could talk to him like you’ve just talked to me?”
“Guess so. I just don’t like—complaining and fretting to people. You’re different. You have to put up with me,” he said with a mischievous grin, but then he sobered. “I see what you’re saying, though, Father. I will talk to Dr. Hayden. I’ll talk to him today.”
Two days later, Becky and Lorena were sitting in the parlor with the Haydens’ usual afternoon tea. Daniel and Dr. Hayden were with Yancy, and Lily had gone to the market with Elijah and Missy.
Becky and Lorena had hit it off instantly. They had already felt a kinship, because Yancy had told his family much about the Haydens, and likewise the Haydens felt they knew Yancy’s family through him. Also, in the last two weeks since Yancy had been hurt, they had exchanged letters. It could be said that though they had actually been together for only two days, Becky and Lorena were already fast friends.
Lorena said, “Becky, I’ve decided that I’d like to give you a gift. Will you come up to my room with me?”
“Of course,” she answered.
They went upstairs to Lorena’s room, a cozy space with a white embroidered coverlet on the bed, a fine Persian rug, and paintings of lovely Victorian ladies on the walls. A small secretary was placed in front of the window, with a desk chair and two side chairs on either side.
Lorena sat down at the small desk and motioned for Becky to take a chair next to it. Lorena opened the middle drawer and pulled out a top-bound sketchpad. She skimmed lightly through the pages, stopped at one, and opened the sketchpad to that page. Handing it to Becky, she said, “I thought you might like to have this.”
Becky took it and stared down at the drawing with amazement.
The likeness of Yancy was astounding. Lorena had drawn him sitting up in bed, smiling. The scar on his forehead was clear, and she had faithfully represented that his face was somewhat drawn, his cheeks more hollow than usual. But still, she had captured that elusive boyishness Yancy had when he grinned, the sparkle in his eyes, the way they slightly wrinkled at the corners, the way his mouth stretched wide to reveal fine white teeth. She had gotten his proportions exactly correct, his shoulders still broad, and she had even captured his hands, the capable and masculine set of them. Until now Becky hadn’t realized that Yancy had Daniel’s hands. She loved Daniel’s hands.
She looked up. “Lorena, this is simply wonderful. You’ve captured him, his spirit, his playfulness, even his masculinity. It’s sheer genius.”
“You know, I never seriously drew anything until the last two weeks,” she mused. “I used to doodle, make very quick throwaway sketches of flowers or some child I had seen or a beautiful tree outlined in the evening sun, things like that.
“But when Yancy came and he was so terribly injured, he had to be monitored around the clock for two days. In those first days he was so sensitive to light that he couldn’t bear anything but a single candle. I sat with him day and night, and it was too dark to sew, at all, or to read for very long. So in those long hours when Yancy was sleeping so deeply, I started just making line sketches. As the days went by and he could tolerate more light, I started doing these. And I found I was good at it,” she finished simply.
“Yes, my dear, you are,” Becky agreed. Curiously she looked down at the sketchbook. It was about half full. Lorena had turned several pages back to open to this sketch.
Now she watched Becky and finally said, “You’re welcome to look at the others if you like. It’s just that some of them are—difficult to see.”
“Thank you,” Becky said. She turned to the beginning and looked at the first sketch. It was, indeed, brutal. It had been done the first night he had been brought to the Haydens’. The shadows of his sunken cheeks were stark; his cheekbones looked so sharp they were skeletal. His right eye was an enormous dark swelling, and there was a bloodstain on the bandage around his forehead.
His other eye was closed. His mouth was tight and twisted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Ohh,” Becky said, a half moan, half sigh.
Lorena said nothing.
Becky held the sketchbook up closer, letting the strong afternoon sunlight fall on it. She could see small round spots where the paper was slightly rippled. Teardrops.
Becky turned to the next one. A few days later, it seemed, for Yancy looked better, his eyes open, looking strangely vulnerable. Then there were several drawings of him sleeping, and his face was peaceful, each showing his injuries improving slightly. Then there were several studies of him sitting up, alert. In one of them he had an intent look on his face, obviously listening to something. Becky looked up. “Were you reading to him?”
“Yes.”
With satisfaction Becky said, “I could tell. He always looked like that when I read aloud to the family at night. You’ve captured it perfectly. And I know very well that Yancy didn’t sit for these. You did them from memory, didn’t you?”
“Except for the ones when he slept,” Lorena answered softly.
“Amazing,” Becky murmured. She turned to the next one, the last one. It was a full page. Yancy was sitting in the big wing chair next to his bed. His body was completely relaxed. Gentle morning light shone through the window behind and to the side, lighting his face. His head had fallen slightly to the side, as he was sleeping. The lock of hair fell over his forehead. Though he still had the scar, his face in repose was, in fact, beautiful.
Abruptly Becky looked up at Lorena, her eyes wide. “You’re in love with him,” she blurted out.
Lorena pressed her eyes closed and whispered, “Yes. Terribly.”
“You—you hide it so well. I didn’t know until now, seeing these, your drawings of him
. I never would have known, except for this.”
“No one knows,” Lorena said in a choked voice. “I’ve been very careful to hide it.”
“Even from Yancy?” Becky demanded.
“Especially from Yancy. You see, Becky, last October Yancy was here for a whole day and night, which for him is a long visit. That night he told me that he was falling in love with me. He was so certain and sure of his feelings. I—I wasn’t. I wasn’t cold to him, but I held myself back from him. Purposefully. Because of some things in my past, I just didn’t want to feel anything for another man, and I thought I could keep myself from falling in love.
“But the very night he came here, so terribly hurt, and I was so frightened, and he seemed so faraway, it stripped me of all that stupid pride and stubbornness. I realized how very, very much I love him.”
“But then why don’t you tell him? I can understand that you wouldn’t want to complicate things at first, when he was so ill, but now—?”
Lorena shook her head. “I can’t. Because he’s forgotten me.”
Instantly Becky understood. “Oh no. He doesn’t remember.”
“No. I think that now he feels for me much like he does his sister, Callie Jo.” A crooked smile came across her full lips. “Once he even told me that he was pretty sure I was his best friend. And I am. But that’s not all it is… was. It was so much more. Yancy is not the only one that has lost something here. I lost the best and perhaps the only chance for happiness I’ll ever have.” Suddenly tears rolled down her cheeks. She bent her head and sobbed, a heart-wrenching sound.
Quickly Becky came to her, bent down, and wrapped her arms around Lorena’s trembling shoulders. “Don’t, don’t, darling, don’t. Your hope is not in Yancy. You must have hope in the Lord. The Proverbs promise, ‘The hope of the righteous shall be gladness.’ So be glad, dear Lorena. Yancy’s heart will bring back the remembrance of love.”
July simmered on. In the aftermath of the Battle of Seven Days, Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia remained camped close to Richmond. Eagerly Yancy read every single newspaper he could get his hands on, starving for information about the army and particularly about the Army of the Shenandoah Valley. As always, Jackson managed to keep his movements secret. Journalists could only speculate, and generally their speculations were wrong.
President Lincoln and Secretary of War Steward, frustrated with General McClellan’s stubborn reluctance to make any offensive moves with the Army of the Potomac without shrill and unreasonable demands for anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 reinforcements, finally decided to meet him halfway. They formed the new “Army of Virginia” and put General John Pope in charge of it. All of the Richmond newspapers reported Pope’s pompous and blustery speech to his men upon accession to command.
Yancy read as much as he could, but he was subject to violent headaches, so Lorena still often read to him. One hot stuffy afternoon Yancy had given up sitting in his chair, his headache was so severe. He lay in bed in his darkened room with a cool cloth on his forehead, his eyes closed.
Lorena skimmed the newspapers and picked out light, amusing things to read to him. “Listen to this,” she said. “The Richmond Report reads, ‘General Pope bombastically told his men: “My headquarters are in the saddle.” When our valiant General Stonewall Jackson heard this, he shouted, “I can whip any man who doesn’t know his headquarters from his hindquarters.” ’ Isn’t that hilarious?”
Yancy scoffed, “General Jackson never said that. He wouldn’t say anything like that.” His voice was weak, with that slight petulant note that came to people in severe pain. His eyes were closed and restlessly he fidgeted with the cold compress.
Lorena rose, took the cloth from his forehead, and dipped it into the icy water in the bowl on the washstand. Folding it securely, she placed it back on Yancy’s forehead. “Why do you say that General Jackson wouldn’t say that?” she asked curiously. “I had the impression that he’s a man with little use for such theatrics.”
“He is,” Yancy answered shortly. “But that reply is boastful. General Jackson is never boastful. Never.”
Wistfully Lorena thought, He knows and remembers everything about Stonewall Jackson, down to the last detail of his uniform and every facet of his personality. Oh, how I wish he remembered me that well!
“Yancy, I can see you’re in pain,” she said quietly. “I know you’re trying very hard to get better as fast as you can, but you simply cannot speed up the healing process by sheer force of will. You never ask for laudanum anymore, but today I think you should take just maybe ten drops and see if you can nap a little.”
He shifted restlessly. “What time is it?”
“It’s only one thirty.”
“In—in the afternoon?” he asked.
Lorena was somber when she heard this. Yancy hadn’t been confused about the time for a couple of weeks now. This was a definite setback. “Yes, it’s early enough in the afternoon that a short nap shouldn’t keep you from sleeping tonight.”
After a short hesitation he said, “Okay. I do feel kinda tired.”
Lorena gave him ten drops of laudanum. “I’ll come back and check on you in about an hour,” she told him. “But if you need anything, just call. I’ll be in my room right across the hall.”
He nodded, already drifting off to sleep.
She left and went to her bedroom. Since Yancy had been better, he didn’t require constant bedside monitoring, so Lorena left him for naps and at night. But since he seemed somewhat worse today, she pulled up one of her desk chairs right by the door so she could hear him if he called. And then she sketched.
Still, Yancy continued to improve, in spite of occasional setbacks such as the one he’d had that day.
General Pope’s Army of Virginia moved northwest of Richmond, arrayed along the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. McClellan’s Army of the Potomac stayed at Harrison’s Landing on the James River, where they had retreated to after the Seven Days battle. It was obvious that the two armies were going to try to overtake Richmond in a pincer movement.
General Lee sent Stonewall Jackson to the north to deal with Pope. This news made Yancy so restless he was miserable, knowing that his Army of the Valley would soon be in battle.
The last week of July he announced that he was going to rejoin the army on August 1.
Dr. Hayden said calmly, “Oh? And what, exactly, are you going to do when you rejoin?”
“I’m on General Jackson’s staff. I’m a courier, you know that. They’re in the north, and they need me,” he answered with a touch of impatience.
“Mmm-hmm. And so, are you planning on riding Midnight to perform these courier duties?”
“Of course. I’m feeling much better and stronger. I’m going to ride for about an hour this afternoon, and then slowly increase the time each day until the end of the month. Then I should be fit to rejoin my unit.”
“I advise against it, Yancy,” Dr. Hayden warned him. “There is a world of difference between riding a high-spirited horse like Midnight and taking long walks and climbing up and down stairs.”
“I’ve ridden horses since I was five years old, sir. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not at all worried.”
But he should have been. He rode Midnight for an hour that afternoon. He returned home with a headache so excruciating that it literally left him bedridden for two days. And his arm, though the hairline crack was fully healed, had not been exercised and was pitifully weak. Trying to control Midnight, which Yancy had taken so much for granted before, made his arm hurt. It throbbed so deeply and incessantly that he finally asked Lorena to bind it up and immobilize it again.
As he lay in bed, fighting the pain but knowing that he would have to ask for laudanum to be able to rest at all, he came to the bitter realization that he had been insidiously weakened by his wounds. He knew then that it would be some time before he could join General Jackson again.
Dr. Hayden improvised a cautious regimen of exercise, progressing v
ery slowly for Yancy, and he followed it faithfully. But August of 1862 proved to be the most maddening, frustrating month he had ever endured in his life.
On August 9, General N. P. Banks, Pope’s commander of II Corps, attacked Jackson at Cedar Mountain. A relatively small but bloody battle ensued; in fact, it would have been called a skirmish except for the high number of casualties on both sides. The Army of the Valley sustained about 1,350 casualties—killed, wounded, or missing—while Pope’s Army of Virginia lost almost 2,400 men. But General Jackson was once again victorious. Pope’s army retreated, and the weary, dispirited troops made the miserable retreat northward to Culpeper.
On August 10, Yancy had another headache, though it was not so painful as those he had endured before. They had been diminishing both in number and severity.
Lorena had noticed that any stress or worry tended to cause them, as happened when Yancy exercised too vigorously, and mentioned this to him.
He was coming downstairs regularly now, and this morning they sat together in the kitchen while Missy made breakfast. Yancy closely perused each newspaper, frowning. “Where are the casualty lists?” he muttered.
Sitting with him, Lorena said soothingly, “Yancy, you know that it takes a couple of days for those to be published. Be patient.”
“It’s so hard,” he murmured distractedly. “They’re my men. They’re my friends.”
“I know,” Lorena said sympathetically. “Every single day of war is hard.” She reached over to cover his hand with hers.
He grasped it hard—as if it were a lifeline—for long moments, his shoulders and head bowed. Lorena stayed very still. Then with a sigh he released her and sat up. “It is. I don’t for the life of me understand why I miss it. Something must be wrong with me.”
“You don’t miss war, Yancy,” Lorena said gently. “You miss your friends, and you feel a responsibility toward them and to General Jackson. That is an honorable and just motive to wish to return to the war. And I believe you will … soon.”
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