Crossing (20 page)

As they ate they talked about the farm, the livestock, and the horses.

Zemira said, “Becky’s father has offered to exchange a billy goat and a nanny goat for one of our roosters and two sitting hens. I think it’s a good trade. Callie Jo likes goat milk. Maybe the new one will, too.”

“I like goat cheese, too,” Yancy offered.

“You like everything,” Daniel scoffed.

“Like his father,” Becky said indignantly. “I think you’d eat grass if Mother Zemira cooked it for you.”

“When he was six years old he ate it without me cooking it,” Zemira said airily. “He saw the horses grazing and decided it might be good.”

“Did he get sick?” Becky asked incredulously.

“No, not at all. That’s why I don’t bother to cook it for him,” Zemira answered.

“Well for me, if I’m ever reduced to eating grass, I’m going to hurry home from the war and have some Friendship Bread,” Yancy grunted.

A silence descended on them for a moment. The only sound was Callie Jo in her high chair, chewing noisily on a piece of beef from the potpie.

Finally Yancy broke the awkward silence and said, “I know, I know, we don’t talk about war. But at the institute that’s just about all we talk about. You know that the Southern states are going to secede from the Union. It’s going to happen.”

Daniel sighed deeply, almost a groan. “We know, and you’re wrong, son, we do talk about it. We think about it all the time, because we love you and we understand what will happen if there’s a war. I don’t suppose that maybe you’d think about coming back to us? Neither the North nor the South will bother the Plain People. They leave us to ourselves and leave our lands to us.”

With slow deliberation Yancy put down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and pushed his plate away. “I can’t do that. I’ve chosen my way. I love you all”—he looked at everyone clearly—”but this is my life. This is the life I want. I want to be a soldier.”

“But son, this is a big mistake, in these days and times,” Daniel blustered. “You’re so young. You’re only sixteen! You can come back to us before there’s some kind of awful war and then, afterwards, see what you want to do! There’s no need for you to—”

Zemira reached over and took Daniel’s hand in hers. “Don’t make a mistake with him, Daniel,” she said quietly. “The boy’s a man, and he’s decided his way, for the time being. All we can do is love him and offer him a home, no matter what.”

For a few moments Daniel’s square jaw tightened, but then he closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, Mother. I know. All right then, Yancy. So, what are the English saying out there?”

“Ah, us English talk too much,” Yancy said, grinning. “The North says we’re a bunch of devils because we own slaves. The

South says the North is a bunch of devils because they just want to take us over and steal our lands and our rights.”

“I still read the newspapers, in spite of what my mother says,” Daniel said mischievously. Zemira made a face at him. “I read where the North has conferred a sort of sainthood on John Brown, and the South has made him out to be the devil incarnate.” He studied Yancy’s face, which was expressionless, and then he added, “You haven’t said anything about him and his execution, Yancy. What did you and all the cadets think about him?”

Yancy replied, “We didn’t think about him much at all, you know. We didn’t know him. We didn’t know anything about him. We only witnessed his execution.”

“That must have been very hard,” Becky said sympathetically.

“It was, in one way,” Yancy said thoughtfully. “In another way it made us all want to—to—fight, to offer our lives in a meaningful way, to want our lives to count for something. John Brown was a sick old man that died a sorry death. Even though we knew he stood for something, we all believe that we would rather die fighting for a noble cause, standing up for our beliefs and dying a death with glory.”

“There is no death with glory in war,” Zemira said solidly. “There is only death, bloody and unnecessary death.”

“I understand you, Grandmother,” Yancy said quietly. “But I would much rather take the chance of a death with honor, facing it with courage, so that it means something to my country.”

After supper Yancy and Daniel made sure the livestock were warm, dry, and well fed in the barn and stables. They banked the fires in the bedrooms and kitchen stove and brought in plenty of firewood for the morning fires. By 7:00 they were tired, and everyone went to bed.

Yancy was having a confused dream in which he and Hannah Lapp were frantically running up and down stairs … when he realized that people were running up and down the stairs. He jumped out of bed and pulled on his clothes, murkily realizing that when people were running about in the middle of the night it must be an emergency.

When he stepped outside of his bedroom, he saw that his father was indeed running up the stairs with a basin of hot water and several white cloths over his arm. “It’s the baby,” Daniel said breathlessly.

“But I thought it wasn’t due till the second week of January,” Yancy said anxiously.

“So we all thought, but it seems the baby thinks otherwise,” Daniel answered, heading toward his bedroom, balancing the steamy basin carefully.

“Should I go get Esther Raber?” Yancy asked.

“Mother says there isn’t time,” Daniel replied tensely. “Go down to the kitchen and make sure there’s more boiling water. And watch Callie Jo if she wakes up.” He went into the master bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Yancy hurried downstairs and built up the fire in the kitchen iron stove. He filled up two copper pots and set them on the stove to start them boiling. Then he ran upstairs to the nursery, where Callie Jo was sleeping. Silently he slipped in and watched her in the crib that he and his father had built for her. She slept soundly, peacefully.

He hurried back downstairs to stare at the pots of water. Hank was in the kitchen, and even he was anxious, sitting and staring at Yancy and then going around and around in circles before lying down on his rag rug in front of the stove. Then he got up and started circling the kitchen again.

Clearly this was a fruitless occupation for both of them, so Yancy went upstairs, grabbed his boots, coat, and warm felt slouch hat and went back down. He took Hank out to pace on the veranda.

It was a beautiful December night. The sky was so thick with stars that it seemed like a mirror to the snow-spangled earth. The air was clear and biting, with a clean, brisk scent to it. Yancy inhaled deeply.

Then began an odd, seemingly aimless round in the silent snowy December night. He paced with Hank; he went to the kitchen to check on pots of water that eventually boiled; he went upstairs to check on Callie Jo, who slept peacefully on.

Once, on one of these roundabouts, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He tiptoed to the master bedroom and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear, through the thick oak, his grandmother’s soft murmur and his father’s low mutterings. No sound came from Becky.

Yancy had much experience with childbearing—or of hearing it, at least. In the Cheyenne camp any woman who was bearing a child was the concern of the entire community. In the tepees their cries were clearly heard. Men bore them with no sign of distress; they accepted it as a part of giving life.

Now Yancy remembered that he’d heard nothing when Becky gave birth to Callie Jo, until she uttered her first baby cries. But now the silence seemed to be ominous, as was this entire night. He wondered if things were going terribly wrong.

Slowly he went back downstairs and led Hank out onto the veranda. There he stood at the head of the steps, staring across to the east. Comically, Hank sat down beside him, sighing a doggy sigh and sorrowfully looking out.

Yancy took off his hat and held it to his heart. He spoke out loud. “Father God, I know I’m not a—a—oh, I don’t know what I am. But I know what You are, and I know that my father and Grandmother and Becky are Your protected and beloved children. I pray for Becky right now, and for that baby. You love them, I know You do. Save them. Make them well. Make them strong. Thank You.”

As always, Yancy felt nothing at all, but he was glad he had prayed anyway. He resumed pacing.

At one minute after midnight he heard loud raucous stomping on the stairs, and his father rushed out onto the veranda. He hugged Yancy so hard he thought he’d suffocate. Hank started howling. “It’s a boy, a boy, a big fine boy, and Becky’s fine, just fine,” Daniel shouted. “C’mon, you have to see your new brother, Yancy. In fact, he kinda looks like you! Hurry, hurry, Becky’s got to go to sleep and the baby’s tired, too. They had a hard time, but they’re both fine….”

They ran upstairs, taking them two at a time, now uncaring that their stout boots made such a rowdy man’s noise. Yancy followed his father into the bedroom.

Becky was soaked with sweat, with purple shadows etched under her eyes. But she looked happy, and her smile was beatific. “Your brother, Yancy. We’ve decided to name him David.” She held him up.

Yancy took the tiny bundle into his arms. His face was red and wrinkled, like an old man’s. But he had a great thatch of black hair, and his eyes were dark as he sighted around his new world. He was colored like Becky, of course, with a fine complexion, not darkened like Yancy’s, but Yancy was still proud. “David,” Yancy repeated softly. “Does he have a middle name?”

Becky and Daniel glanced at each other. “Yancy,” Becky said. “Yancy is his middle name.”

In spite of the growing dark clouds on the horizon that separated North and South, that Christmas holiday at the Tremayne farm was joyous.

All day, Christmas Eve had been a sort of catch-as-catch-can day, for Becky was still very weak, and the baby, though he was healthy, demanded constant attention for the first critical hours.

But that night, all of the Tremaynes, David Yancy included, slept soundly. Just before dawn, Zemira woke up and, after checking on Becky and the baby, started Christmas cooking. Now the family was reaping those riches at Christmas Day dinner.

“Mother, you’ve outdone yourself,” Daniel said enthusiastically. “I think this is the best, biggest, and most wonderful feast I’ve ever had. How in the world did you do it?”

“Humph,” Zemira grunted. “Didn’t you know that Yancy helped me cook almost all of it?”

“What!” Daniel said in surprise. “But he’s been doing all the chores and taking care of the livestock. How could he have possibly helped you?”

Since the birth of David had been of some difficulty to Becky, she had stayed in bed until joining the family for Christmas dinner. Yancy had assured Daniel that he would take care of the farm, while he took care of Becky and the baby. Daniel had stayed almost continually in their room, bringing Becky broth and cool water and fresh milk and continually changing the baby and bathing him so that he’d be clean and comfortable.

But on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Yancy had indeed found time to help Zemira in the kitchen. The Amish didn’t believe in a conspicuous, tawdry celebration of Christmas—to them it was a time to meditate upon the birth of the Christ child and of scripture. But they did believe in celebrating the riches of their heritage, which included the wonderful and tasteful foods of the Amish.

Now Yancy grinned crookedly. “I’ve chopped vegetables. I’ve kneaded dough. I’ve tenderized meat. I’ve timed boiling pots of vegetables. I’ve worked flour and salt and pepper and spices and vegetables into gravy. I’ve stuffed a turkey. I’ve made four batches of corn bread. Take my word for it, Father. I thought studying and classes and artillery and gunnery and marksmanship and mathematics and history and philosopy were hard. They’re nothing compared to helping in Grandmother’s kitchen.”

David Tremayne was a robust, bawling, demanding baby, exactly the opposite of Callie Jo. Sitting in her high chair at the Christmas feast, she pointed to him with her spoon. “He loud,” she said plaintively. “He loud.”

Becky was holding him, and discreetly she put the squalling child under her shawl to nurse him. He immediately grew silent. “Now he’s quiet, Callie Jo,” she said soothingly. “Eat your porridge.”

“Porrith,” she repeated happily and began to, somewhat messily, spoon it into her mouth. She loved oatmeal with cream and brown sugar.