The Sword (42 page)

Flora laughed. “Yes, he is. Here, let me put that meat up.”

After putting the meat under a cloth to keep the flies away, she and Chantel sat down at the sturdy oak worktable. Chantel sat with Jimmy on her lap. To amuse him, she pulled off her bag and set it on the table, and he immediately began to reach into it and
pull out the contents. Chantel kept all kinds of things in her bag: paper, pencil, buttons, candy, a spoon, a small New Testament, headache powders. With delight Jimmy pulled out a sheaf of paper and a pencil and started drawing.

“I’ve got enough for one cup of coffee apiece,” Flora said. “After that’s gone, we’ll be drinking acorn water.”

“Acorn water? What’s that?”

“Oh, people take acorns and bake them and crush them up.”

“It sounds awful. What does it taste like?”

“Like burned acorns.” Flora shrugged.

Chantel made a face. “I’ll bring you some real coffee, me. Grandpere wouldn’t like it if he knew General Stuart was drinking from acorns.”

“I wasn’t trying to hint, Chantel,” Flora said, but she was smiling. “But I should have known. If your grandfather has it, he will share. He’s worth his weight in gold.”

“More than you know, Miss Flora,” Chantel said, amused. “Now, tell me all about Jimmy and about General Stuart. Soldiers talk, they do, but they never know anything.”

“Jeb doesn’t tell me much,” Flora said quietly. “I worry about him, you know. I try not to let him know it, but of course he does. I pray, all the time, that I’ll just enjoy the time we have with him and not fear the future.”

“Sometimes that’s hard, not to be afraid, when men go to war,” Chantel said, her eyes gazing into the distance. “Even for Christians, I know now, me.”

Flora eyed her knowingly. “And who do you fear for, Chantel?” she asked gently.

Chantel dropped her eyes and ran her hand over Jimmy’s hair. It was thick and looked wiry, but actually it was very soft. “He—he’s just a friend,” she said rather lamely. “But I’ve known him for three years now, me. So I worry about him, Lieutenant Tremayne.”

“I see,” Flora said. “Jeb says he is a fine man and one of his best soldiers. He’s told me that even when he sets the formations for
the column, he looks up and Lieutenant Tremayne is there, always close to him.”

Chantel nodded. “He’s loyal to General Stuart, he is. He said he wouldn’t want to serve anywhere else, with any other man.”

“He’s not a Christian, is he?” Flora wisely guessed.

“No ma’am, he isn’t. He just can’t seem to find his way to the good God,” Chantel answered. “And so, we both know … Anyway, I don’t see him much, since he got out of the hospital.”

Flora reached over and patted her hand. “One thing I know about being a Christian,” she said, “it means that God has a wonderful plan for our lives if we’ll just let Him lead us. He is faithful and true, and He will give us joy, always, no matter what happens.”

Chantel said unhappily, “Grandpere has told me this. But it’s hard sometimes. Especially when we want things the Lord doesn’t want us to have.”

“He will give you the desires of your heart,” Flora said simply. “Trust Him.”

In the three years Abraham Lincoln had held the office of the president, he looked as if he had aged thirty years. The war had worn him down, and now once again, he had to choose a commander for the Army of the Potomac.

He had chosen wrongly several times. McClellan was the wrong choice. He simply did not have the nerve of a fighter. Pope had been another failure, and Burnside a complete disaster when he was commanding at Fredericksburg. Finally, in desperation, Lincoln decided, “It will have to be Joe Hooker. They say he can fight. I hope he’s able to get an army ready.”

Indeed, General Joseph Hooker was probably the best Union general in seeing that his men were well cared for. He was able to wrangle new uniforms and new equipment for them in record time.

Hooker himself was a handsome man. He had a complexion
as delicate as a woman’s, fine blond hair, and the erect bearing and demeanor of a soldier. But he was a drinking man, and a womanizer as well, so naturally he did not have the mentality about his soldier’s morals as much as others did.

He was called Fighting Joe Hooker, but no one knew exactly why, for he had not been the brightest star in the army, although he had won several minor engagements. He had more confidence than was merited, and the phrases, “When I get to Richmond,” or, “After we have taken Richmond,” cropped up frequently in his talk. And now he had his chance to take Richmond and stop the Confederacy, for Fighting Joe Hooker was appointed as commander-in-chief of the Army of the Potomac.

I
want you to bring the children and come out to the camp, Flora.”

Flora looked up from Jimmy, who was sitting in a dishpan enjoying his bath as usual. He was splashing and chortling, and his eyes gleamed. “What for, dear?”

“Oh, several things. First of all, there’s going to be a good meal. And there’s going to be good music and good preaching. You know our chaplain?”

“You mean Major Ball?”

“Yes, Major Ball, our champion scrounger.”

“What’s he done now, Jeb?”

“He’s gone out and liberated the awfulest bunch of food you ever saw. I don’t know where he gets it. People here in Richmond are going hungry, almost, and he comes into camp with the carcasses of four of the fattest pigs you ever saw and two young steers. The men have made a big barbecue pit, and he’s barbecuing them.”

“But where does he get these things? Does he buy them?”

Jeb’s eyes sparkled. “Buy them? Not the foraging parson! He goes out and takes them from the Yankees, somehow or other. We just hear rumors of him suddenly appearing on one of the Yankees’
outlying pickets and holding ’em at gunpoint and liberating their supplies. He says the Lord provides and blames all the stuff he brings in on the Lord’s doing. Maybe he’s right. In any case, it’s going to be a great meal.”

“Why yes. Of course Jimmy and I would love to be there.”

“While we’re eating, I’ll have all my minstrel men do some singing and dancing. We might do a little dancing ourselves.” Jeb came over, put his arm around Flora, hugged her and kissed her soundly, then reached over and poked little Jimmy’s fat stomach with his finger. “You want something to eat, Jimmy?”

“Eat!” he cried. “Eat, Papa!”

“You’re my son, all right,” Jeb said.

“He looks just like you, Jeb. Or just like I think you must have looked when you were his age.”

“Not likely.” Jeb grinned. “Remember, they didn’t call me Beauty at the Point because I was so pretty. It was because I was so homely.”

“You’re not homely, as I’ve said a thousand times. And every woman in the South, it seems to me, thinks you’re just as handsome as I do. It’s a good thing I trust you, Jeb. Because I would be one miserable wife if I didn’t, the way women chase after you.”

“I think it’s my hat,” he said, his blue eyes dancing. “That fancy plume gets ’em every time.”

Flora laughed. “Silly old bear.”

“Anyway, after the feast, Stonewall Jackson has organized a religious service. He’s the finest Christian man I ever knew and the best soldier. I’ve never known any man like him. Guess there aren’t any men like him.”

“We’re all very proud of the general,” Flora said. “Not just for his military successes, but for being the kind of man he is.”

“Did I tell you, Flora? The other day he asked for a glass of water, and someone gave it to him. I noticed he didn’t drink it right off. He just sat there, holding it for a minute. I asked him, ‘General, are you going to drink that water?’ He looked at me with those eyes of his that look right through a man. Then he said, ‘Yes,
General Stuart, I am, but I always give thanks for everything. Even a glass of water. I made it a habit to give thanks for the little things as well as the big things.’ ”

“It must be good to be that close to the Lord,” Flora said. “Most of us aren’t. We’re not strong enough.”

“He’s a strong man, not just in the Lord but in war. If we had about five more Stonewall Jacksons, we’d run the Yankees back all the way to Washington screaming for help.”

“Every Christian in the South prays for him every day. And for you, my love, and General Lee and all of our men.”

“You keep it up, sweetheart. I’ll be back later to fetch you and Jimmy.” He gave her another kiss and leaned over to kiss little Jimmy’s soapy face.

The child happily grabbed his beard.

“You’re like your mama. She likes my beard, too.” He laughed, and then he left.

“Look, Clay, there’s Miss Flora with Jimmy.” Chantel pointed and said, “Let’s go speak to her. I want to see little Jimmy, too.”

“He’s a pistol,” Clay said, “just like his papa.”

The men had set up a bandstand, a platform of rough-hewn logs covered with strips of canvas, contributed by Jacob Steiner. Out in front of it they had gathered up every bench, every camp chair, and every cot they could find so that everyone could have a seat.

General Stuart and Flora were seated in the front row, as were such dignitaries as General Stonewall Jackson, Major Roberdeau Wheat, General P. G. T. Beauregard, and most all of the other officers of the Army of Northern Virginia. Even the august commander General Lee was in attendance. He was a handsome man, with his neatly trimmed beard and thick silver hair. He was always immaculate—his uniforms pressed to crisp perfection, his boots shined, his white gauntlets spotless.

Clay and Chantel made their way over, and Flora greeted them
with a smile. “Hello, Chantel. Lieutenant Tremayne, you look splendid. And you look well. I’m so glad you have so miraculously recovered from your grievous wound.”

“I am well, very well, thank you, ma’am,” Clay replied. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Stuart. And who’s this young man? He looks like a certain general I know.”

Chantel added, “It’s like the general was shrunk and his beard plucked off. A tiny little General Stuart.”

“Watch him,” Flora said, setting him down. Promptly he took off. “He even walks like Jeb.”

“Really?” Chantel asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“As a matter of fact, Jeb has a strange walk. He’s like a centaur in the saddle, with never a false move, but his walk is not graceful in the least. His upper body seems to get ahead of his feet, and he rolls along, bent somewhat from the waist.”