Crossing (47 page)

“I don’t know either,” Peyton retorted. “But I do know that you’re annoying me to distraction. If you don’t stop twitching I’m going to have to kill you.”

“At least I’d be out of my misery,” Yancy muttered. He put his head in his hands.

Peyton sat up and regarded his friend with concern. “C’mon, Yance. You’ve been a train wreck ever since Fredericksburg. It was bad, I know, but it sure wasn’t as bad for us as Sharpsburg, and you came through that like a trooper. Is it—is it just getting to you? All of it?”

“No, no, it’s not the war,” Yancy answered bleakly. “It’s—it’s—I can’t explain it.”

“Look, you’re my friend,” Peyton said evenly. “I know you’re not much for talking about yourself and your troubles. But just tell me this much—is there anything at all I can do to help?”

“No … no.”

“Is there anyone that can help you?”

“Not really, no.”

Peyton gave up. He lay back down and blew another perfect smoke ring. “Okay, then,” he said resignedly. “But don’t forget. If you don’t calm down, I
am
going to kill you.”

Yancy’s trouble was Lorena, of course.

After Fredericksburg, the army had camped about twelve miles south of the town, in a serene wooded area alongside the Rappahannock. Jackson’s headquarters were at Moss Neck Manor, a gracious plantation mansion with long columned porches. As always, Jackson had refused to stay in the house; he firmly held that soldiers, even if they were lieutenant generals, should quarter in tents. About a week later, however, he developed an earache, a condition that had been cropping up throughout the fall and winter. He bowed to his physician and then consented to use a three-room outbuilding that served as an office, a study, and a library for the master of the plantation, as his office.

The staff had camped nearby on the manor grounds. Peyton, Yancy, and Chuckins were again living comfortably in Peyton’s tent. It was January 1, the first day of the year 1863, and they had been at leisure ever since December 18, when the last Union halfhearted rearguard action had finally allowed the last of the demoralized Federal army to cross the Rappahannock.

And Yancy had been in turmoil since December 18, when his entire being was no longer taken up with battle. On that day, as they had retrieved their belongings from the wagon train and had set up their tent, Yancy had found the letter he had started before the war’s events had provided a so-welcome distraction.

“Dear Best Friend (I’m pretty sure), “ it read
.

Yancy had stared at the innocuous words for a long time. Finally, numbly, he had written a peculiar, disjointed letter, clumsily telling her that he missed her and her family, and he hoped to see them soon. He loved the sketches. Then he begged her to do some drawings of herself and send them to him. In this request he tried to mimic the notes he had hit when he had wheedled her for something—a second portion of roast beef, for her to read to him, for her to fix him bacon and eggs late at night. But the tone was false. It read like begging, and he thought that glimpses of his desperation showed through. He tried and tried to figure out how to rephrase it, but Yancy was not a very subtle man, and he finally gave up, signed the letter, “Your friend, Yancy,” sealed it up, and sent it to the mail tent by Willy before he could change his mind.

And then the mental torture began.
Every day, all day. She is my best friend, I’m sure. But is that all she feels? It must be. All that time, she was warm and friendly and kind and even loving—but like a sister. Was she relieved that I forgot October? That night, she was so unsure; she wasn’t distant but she was so very cautious. Maybe she finally came to realize that she doesn’t love me, can’t love me …
.

But what if … what if … she does have feelings for me? I was so oblivious, so ready to just be friends, she couldn’t possibly have forced herself on me, blind fool that I am. Maybe she thinks that I’m gone forever, that I lost my love for her completely
.

The problem was that Yancy had no idea which scenario was the truth. Was he her best friend, or was he her lost love? He didn’t know, and it gnawed at him constantly. And he simply could not figure out how to find out the truth. He thought it would be foolish to write her and blurt out that, yes, he’d forgotten he loved her but now he remembered. And by the way, had she fallen in love with him yet?

For the same reason, he didn’t ask for leave to go see her. What would he say? What
could
he say? Like running in an eternal, endless, maddening circle, Yancy went over and over these thoughts.

On this day, Yancy had received his Christmas gifts from the Haydens. Dr. Hayden had commissioned Leslie’s tailor to make Yancy two brand-new uniforms for his promotion. As an officer he wore a mid-thigh frock coat, double-breasted, with heavy embroidered gold braid on the cuffs and polished brass buttons. On the trousers, a gold stripe gleamed down the breeches. They also had four fine lawn dress shirts made for him. They had sent him a brand-new pair of leather boots, thigh-high, in the cavalry style. They had even sent him a new kepi cap, with a gold braid.

But the best gift was from Lorena. Yancy had received three letters from her since he had written her that awkward letter from her “friend,” but she had never sent any self-portrait, nor had she mentioned it. Yancy was not really surprised. She was modest, and he thought that her beauty sometimes made her feel uncomfortable. It would be hard for her, he knew, to honestly present herself as the very lovely woman that he knew she was.

But for Christmas, for him, she had done it. She had done two drawings of herself. One was full-length. She was standing in front of a window. Yancy knew it well. It was the window in the guest bedroom, where he had spent two months recovering from his wounds. In the picture she held the drapes slightly open, and golden sunlight fell on her face as she looked down at the quiet street. Yancy had seen her like this a hundred times.

The other picture was three-quarter face. She was looking off to her right, smiling a little. It was an uncanny likeness that captured the warmth in her eyes, the long dark lashes, the mysterious half smile on her full lips when Yancy knew she was secretly amused.

When he first saw them, his heart leaped; surely these pictures of her were so personal, even intimate—a gift from a woman that could be made only for her love.

Then his heart sank. Perhaps, in his consuming love for her, he was transferring his feelings to the pictures, giving them a meaning that Lorena had never intended.

And so Yancy had again spun off into his maddening universe whose center was the riddle that was Lorena, staring again and again at the pictures on the camp desk, prowling around the tent like some caged animal, until Peyton had brought him back to a semblance of his senses.

Now, as he watched Peyton peacefully blowing smoke rings, he realized that it was true—not only was he driving himself crazy, he was driving his friends crazy. He determined that he would find the strength to control himself and his riotous emotions. And he would find a way, somehow, to find out about Lorena and her feelings for him. He had no choice. He had to, or he thought that he would, quite possibly, truly go mad.

Chuckins came in, stamping the snow from his boots, shrugging off his overcoat, humming happily. “Hullo,” he greeted them. “Stonewall gave me the afternoon off.” He warmed his hands at the stove for a few moments. Then, looking at Yancy’s strained face curiously, he walked over and innocently looked at the pictures of Lorena on the desk. He whistled with appreciation. “What a pretty lady. Is she your girl?”

Yancy looked down at the sketches for the hundredth time. “I don’t know,” he said blankly.

Peyton said with exasperation, “Chuckins, don’t ask anybody any questions. Yancy doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. And neither do you. If we don’t leave it at that, I’m going to have to kill Yancy. And we don’t want that, now, do we?”

“No, Peyton,” Chuckins obediently agreed.

“No, we don’t. So, Chuckins, whatcha gonna cook us for supper?”

Never was there such a splendor of Confederate generals and colonels as at the dinner that Lieutenant General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson gave for his favorite tormentor, Major General Jeb Stuart, and his commanding officer, General Robert E. Lee. The dining room at Moss Neck was luxurious. The costly china, crystal, and silverware glowed; and the long, gleaming table was the height of elegance.

But neither the magnificence of the dining room nor the dashing uniforms of the officers—even Jeb Stuart’s flamboyant swashbuckling garments—outshone General Jackson. Stuart had sent him a dazzling officer’s frock coat, with the traditonal grouping of four sets of three gleaming buttons arrayed down the double-breasted tunic, which was trimmed with gold lace. Even the gilded buttons were ornate, stamped with “C.S.A.” The three stars embroidered on the collar and the complex embroidery on the sleeves were of the finest close-woven work. Admirers had given him a gold sash, a new saber and scabbard, and even gleaming knee-high boots.

Of course Jeb Stuart couldn’t resist taunting him. Raising his glass, he said, “General Jackson, I must compliment you on your finery. I see that I am outshone, and I resent it extremely. Tomorrow I will endeavor to renew my entire wardrobe.”

As always when Stuart teased him, Jackson blushed like a girl. “Couldn’t outshine you, General Stuart. You are the biggest and finest peacock of us all.”

In the ease of the moment, one of Jackson’s colonels added, “At Fredericksburg, when our general first rode through the troops in his new fancy dress, one of the men had said, aghast, ‘Old Jack’s drawed his bounty money and bought new clothes!’ Another grumbled something like, ‘He don’t look right, like some struttin’ lieutenant. I’m afraid he’ll not get down to work.’”

Jackson’s servant Jim was a wonderful cook, but for this special occasion he had outdone himself. Some of the lesser officers had not seen such bounty since the war began. They feasted on turkeys, hams, a bucket of Rappahannock oysters, fresh-baked white bread and biscuits, pickles, and other sumptuous delicacies. Most of the food was gifts to Jackson from admirers. Ladies from Staunton had even sent him a bottle of wine, which Jackson readily served and which Jeb Stuart badgered him about.

Even General Lee joined in with gentle teasing of his own, smiling at Jackson. “You people are only playing soldier,” he said. “You must come to my quarters and see how soldiers ought to live.” General Lee’s headquarters were, as always, a plain tent near Hamilton’s Crossing on the Rappahannock.

There were other—perhaps more modest—dinners that General Jackson gave. Undoubtedly he enjoyed wintering at Moss Neck. Though it was not a time of battles, neither was it strictly a time of leisure for Jackson. One of his main priorities had always been drill. He drilled his men constantly, and often he directed the drills himself, always demanding and exacting and seeking to better the men.

Another onerous task that he was obligated to do during this relative cessation of hostilities was reports. His last report had been of Kernstown, one of the parts of the Seven Days Campaign back in July of 1862. Since then he had been engaged in fourteen battlesin eight months, and as the commander of first the Army of the Shenandoah Valley and then Commander of Second Corps, he always had much administrative work.

During this tedious time, he had found Sergeant Charles Satterfield’s help invaluable. Not only was Chuckins a fine clerk, but he also was able to phrase Jackson’s reports professionally, succinctly, and with perfect clarity.

One definite pleasure that Jackson had during the long winter months was the friendship of Janie Corbin. She was the five-year-old daughter of his hostess at Moss Neck. She was welcome at his office at any time, and she played for hours on the hearth while Jackson droned his dictation on and on to Chuckins and his other clerks. More than once he paused in his work to watch her, his grim warrior’s expression softened to gentleness. Sometimes he would take her on his knee, and then they would do Janie’s favorite pastime—he would cut out paper dolls for her, folding paper to fashion figures holding hands.

Every time, she would pull the long line of figures apart and ask, “And who are these, Gen’ral Jackson?”

“Those, ma’am, are the men of the Stonewall Brigade,” was always Jackson’s solemn reply.