Crossing (31 page)

Yancy swallowed hard. “I have the doctor’s son in that wagon. He’s been shot and he’ll die if he doesn’t get medical attention.”

The pistols wavered just a bit. “You wouldn’t have Leslie in that wagon. He’s a lieutenant in the 2
^nd
Division, United States Army.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know.”

“And you’re a Confederate soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes, with a thick robe. Her eyes were great dark pools in a white, heart-shaped face. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder and reached almost to her waist. Moonlight made everything look colorless, only gradations of white and black, but he had the idea that her hair was light-colored, though not blond. She was tiny, her shoulders narrow, her hands small. In them the pistols looked gigantic, but with a sort of oddball humor, Yancy reflected that from this end they would probably look huge to anyone, no matter who held them.

“Ma’am—” Yancy began.

That moment the front door opened and Yancy saw it was an older man, tall but stoop-shouldered, wearing a robe. “What is it, Lorena?”

“I don’t know, Father. Some soldier that says he wants you,” she answered disdainfully. The pistols, once again, were steady.

“Are you Dr. Hayden?” Yancy asked.

“I am. And you are?”

“My name is Yancy Tremayne, doctor.”

“He’s a Confederate soldier,” the woman said harshly.

“So I see,” the older man said quietly. “How can I help you, Sergeant Tremayne?”

“Dr. Hayden, I found your son on the battlefield at Manassas Crossroads. He told me where you live and I brought him to you.”

Dr. Hayden started and asked alertly, “What? Where is he?”

“He’s in the wagon.”

“Lorena, go get that lantern,” Dr. Hayden said, pulling his night robe closer about him.

Still the woman pointed the pistols at Yancy, staring at him unblinkingly.

“Please lower those pistols, miss. They could go off.”

“They will go off if you’re lying,” she said fiercely.

“Nonsense, Lorena, what do you think? That this man has come to lure me outside and assassinate me? Go back in and get that lantern, girl, and put those things away before someone gets shot,” Dr. Hayden insisted.

She lowered the pistols, but slowly and reluctantly. Her look at Yancy was still hard, cold, and suspicious.

“Ma’am, here’s my pistol, in the holster at my side. You can take it if you wish.”

“Give it to me.”

Wordlessly he unsnapped the flap, took his service pistol out, and handed it to her. Silently she took all three guns inside. Immediately she came back out with a lantern.

The three of them now hurried to the wagon and looked over the side. The woman held the lantern high, and in the lurid light they could clearly see the paper white face of the wounded man.

She whispered, “Leslie … Oh no, it
is
Leslie….”

With a swift movement, she shoved the lantern into Yancy’s hands, lowered the endgate, and jumped into the wagon. She laid two fingers by his throat. “He’s alive, Father. Breathing shallow, pulse shallow, but he’s alive.”

“We must get him inside,” Dr. Hayden said. “I’ll get Elijah to help us carry him in.” He moved quickly to the house, night robe flapping behind him.

Gently she touched Leslie’s face then looked up. “Who did you say you were?”

“My name is Yancy Tremayne. My family lives outside of Lexington. Who are you, miss?”

“I’m Lorena Hayden, Leslie’s sister. You’re a Confederate soldier…. My brother is a Union officer….”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yancy said patiently. “I took off his uniform and put some of my clothes on him.”

“Why are you helping him?”

Yancy had no time to answer for the doctor was back, and beside him was a black man, perhaps six-five and massive. “Elijah, we need to get Leslie in. Do you think you can carry him?”

I spect I can, sir.”

“Here, I’ll help.” Yancy leaped up into the wagon and lifted Hayden’s shoulders while Elijah lifted his legs. Together they eased him to the back of the wagon. Then Elijah picked him up as easily as he would a child.

“Put him in his room, Elijah,” Dr. Hayden ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

They followed him into the house, Yancy behind Lorena Hayden. A pretty black woman with huge dark eyes was lighting candles and lanterns. As they entered the now well-lit foyer, Yancy saw that his hunch was right. Lorena had light brown hair with lighter golden streaks in it. She was small—she might only come up to his chest—but she held herself ruler-straight, and she walked proudly. The stiff, uncompromising line of her spine showed him that she still was not happy to turn her back on him.

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 1
^st
Virginia Brigade—the Stonewall Brigade!” Wild cheers and calls sounded throughout the hall. General Jackson’s new nickname was already famous.