Crossing (19 page)

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, old, 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:

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.

Brown stared around at the soldiers surrounding him and the others waiting in the roadway beyond. He blinked a little, for the sun was incongruously bright and cheerful. It was a cold, crisp day. “I had no idea Governor Wise thought my murder was so important,” he said bitterly.

With his jailer on one arm and the sheriff on the other, he went to the waiting wagon. They helped him up into it, and calmly he seated himself on the coffin between the seats. The driver cracked a whip over two white farm horses, and slowly they crawled out of the town and up the hill to the waiting gallows. The wagon finally reached the hollow square of troops, one thousand of them. It filed past the artillery and the VMI cadets.

In a low voice Yancy called, “Attention!”

The standing cadets stood at a perfect formal stance.

The old man lifted his head and gazed at the distant hills, sweet and blue and faraway, and the meeting place of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers. Yancy heard him say, “This is a beautiful country. I never truly had the pleasure of seeing it before.”

“None like it,” the sheriff answered.

The prisoner mounted the scaffold first. He turned and stared straight at the cadets and the artillery pieces. Yancy thought his eyes glinted fiercely as he gazed into the gaping mouths of the cannons. Two men fitted a white hood over his face while another adjusted the rope.

One man gently nudged him in the direction of the rope, and in a muffled but calm voice he said, “I can’t see, gentlemen. You must lead me.”

The sheriff and a guard led him to the trap, where he stood in his carpet slippers and waited. The militia that had accompanied him from the jail traipsed about below, a confusion of stamping feet and muffled commands.

The sheriff asked Brown, “You want a private signal, now, just before?”

“It’s no matter to me. If only they would not keep me waiting so long.”

The militia went on and on, trying to get themselves into order, and the minutes, it seemed to Yancy, went on endlessly. He felt slightly sick. But some of the younger cadets glanced at each other in secret amusement at the citizen soldiers’ stumbling.

Although they had made no sound, Jackson growled, “Gentlemen.”

Every cadet immediately became perfectly motionless and expressionless.

Finally the militia were arrayed, and Execution Hill became quiet.

John Brown murmured to his jailer, “Be quick, Avis.”

The noose was tightened, the ax parted the rope, the hatch swung open, and John Brown was dead.

Still the field was quiet.

Then Major J. T. L. Preston of VMI shouted loudly, “So perish all such enemies of Virginia! All such enemies of the Union! All such enemies of the human race!”

The soldiers were ordered at ease. Men went forward and took his body down. Nails sounded in the coffin.

The jailer took out the piece of paper that John Brown had handed him, his last words:

The cadets were very quiet as they returned to their rooms in town. The citizens of Charles Town had been very generous, taking them into their homes and feeding them and making sure they were as comfortable as they could be under the circumstances.

Yancy, Peyton Stevens, Charles Satterfield, and Sandy Owens rode together after the company was dismissed. Chuckins and Sandy had attended the cannons. They had all been very close to the scaffold, close enough to hear everything that had been said and see all the inner workings of a hanging.

Chuckins said in a tired voice, “I didn’t know it was going to be like that. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be at all.”

Sandy asked, “What did you think it was going to be, Chuckins?”

“I don’t know. Not so—sad. I think the man was crazy, and I think he was wrong, wrong, wrong in what he did, and I know that he’s massacred people here and in Kansas. But somehow this—this cold, bloodless …” His voice petered out.

“I know what you mean, Chuckins,” Peyton said quietly. “No guts, no glory, no thrill of battle or ringing trumpets or great men shouting commands or fiery martyrdom. Just a kind of whimper.”

Sandy sighed. “I’ve seen dead people before, but that’s the first time I’ve seen an execution. And you’re right, Peyton, I’ve no stomach for it at all. I’m glad it’s over.”

After a few moments Yancy muttered, “I don’t think anything is over. I don’t think anything ended today except John Brown’s life. I think because of it, the trouble has just begun.”

O
n this unrestful year of 1859, Christmas came on the last Sunday of the month, so the Virginia Military Institute let classes out on Friday, December 23. Yancy hurried home early that morning, anxious to see his family. At about noon it began snowing, a soft swirl of big flakes that slowly covered the landscape in a delicate fluffy white quilt. Midnight’s steps puffed up big pillows of snow as he turned up the road to the farm.

Hurriedly Yancy hitched Midnight up to the post at the front porch and jumped the steps up onto the veranda. He heard Hank howling, and before he could knock, Daniel came out onto the porch.

“Son! You made it for Christmas!” He held out his arms and gave Yancy a suffocating bear hug.

Zemira, Becky, and Callie Jo came out on the porch, hugging Yancy over and over. Hank blundered out and jumped on everyone. Becky was now so big that Yancy could barely put his arms around her. He bent over and kissed her on both cheeks. Grinning, he said, “You still look beautiful.”

Sassily she replied, “I suppose if I’m as big as a barn I’d better still look pretty.”

Daniel laughed. “And you do, Beck. Come on, let’s get into the parlor. We’ve got a big warm fire and lots of food.”

“That sounds good, Father, but I don’t want to leave Midnight out in the snow. I’ll stable him and be right back,” Yancy said.

Zemira said, “That’s good, Yancy. Everything’s fresh in the kitchen, but it’ll take us a few minutes to set the table.”

Daniel went with Yancy. Together they led Midnight to the stables, unsaddled him, and brushed him down. It went quickly with the both of them.

“We’ll fix him some of his special mash after we eat,” Daniel said. “And since it’s Christmastime maybe we’ll treat the other horses, too.”

“That we will,” Yancy murmured. He went to each of the stalls—Fancy, Reuben, Stamper, and Reddie—petted them all and murmured nonsense horse talk to them.

They went back to the house. Yancy noticed that the table and chairs from the veranda were now in the parlor so they could eat by the immense fire. Becky and Zemira had prepared a plain homey meal, for the feasts would commence on Christmas Day, and the following day, December 26, which was for family visiting. On this night they had an immense beef potpie, corn fritters, pickled beets and onions, and fried turnips with greens. For dessert Becky had prepared apple cake, a complicated recipe that she had perfected. For a woman who had never cared much about cooking, Zemira had taught her so well that she now loved it.