Westward the Dream (12 page)

“I have to get to my uncle's home. It's near Falls Church.”

The man shook his head. “I wouldn't try it if I were you. They're arresting just about anything out of uniform and shooting anyone wearing colors that don't match their own. I'd stay put.”

“Thanks for the help,” Brenton replied and turned away to walk back home.

If I can't get there by rail, Brenton reasoned, then I'll simply have to go by horse or on foot. He made his way to the Baldwin house to make his plans. There would be no escaping the city by means of the regular roads, so Brenton figured on finding another way out through the forested edges and back roads. One way or another he had to reach Oakbridge. He decided to seek out Able Stewart's help and see what his friend might suggest.

Days later, the plans were in place and Brenton needed only to wait for the opportune moment. Able had alerted him as to Federal troop movement, as well as sharing what little he knew of Confederate movements. There was no sense in getting caught by either side because either group might be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. Then, too, in spite of Brenton's support for the Union, his travel to a Virginia plantation would no doubt make him suspect in the minds of the northern soldiers. Just as true, the Confederacy would never accept him because of his inability to support their views. Tempers were hot now, needing little to ignite them. The war was new and men were driven to the cause—whatever that cause might be. Both sides would probably just as soon kill him as have to contend with him.

Brenton stretched out on his bed and tried not to think about the possibility of his own death. He knew his soul to be firmly secured in salvation, but that didn't make him long for heaven as he'd once heard an elderly lady in their church congregation convey. He didn't want to die. He had too much to live for—there was still so much he wanted to do.

He felt a twinge of loneliness, while at the same moment finding himself grateful that his parents had had the good sense to close the estate down in their absence. He relished the silence of the house—the stillness that seemed to engulf him like a mother's arms. This place held good memories for him. Happy times and family. The house represented all that was good and right in his world, and now it welcomed him back. It seemed to have just been waiting for his appearance, as if asleep and unconcerned with the affairs going on around it. But it couldn't stay that way forever.

Startling awake, Brenton realized by the darkness that he'd slept for some time. Yawning, he got up, stretched, and realized his moment of truth had come. Hurriedly gathering his things, he made his way to the stable. The balmy warmth of the night seemed to beckon him into his nocturnal escapades, and Brenton almost began to enjoy himself. He'd never gone on an adventure of such proportions, and the thought of doing something extraordinary and noble appealed to him. Perhaps he would find a way to bring peace to both sides. After all, he had connections to important men in both camps of the war.

The thought fueled his senses. Perhaps that was why God had led him here in the first place. It might be he was on a mission of much greater importance than he had realized. He opened the stable door as quietly as possible and went to the stall where he'd left the borrowed horse he intended to ride.

Brenton quickly saddled the bay and led him from the stable under the shroud of a moonless night. He worked his way down back alleys and side streets until he reached the edge of the city. Now the navigation would become more difficult. He had to remember Able's instructions to the smallest detail because if the war didn't claim him as a victim, then nature might well do the job. There were boglands and ravines, gorges and woodlands so thick a man could lose his way completely. Brenton had to be sure of his moves.

After riding for over two hours, however, Brenton started to relax. He'd seen no sign of anyone, and Able's suggestions were proving a true course. He started to whistle, then caught himself and chuckled softly. It would certainly do no good to announce his presence. He realized more than ever how unskilled he was in secret missions and such.

Father, guide me into your plan. Show me what it is I'm to do next, Brenton silently prayed.

The words were still echoing in his head when he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse's whinny. Startling, Brenton reined back too hard on his mount, causing the horse to protest in like manner. Realizing he'd just exposed himself, Brenton eased back on the reins and sat perfectly still. But it wasn't still enough.

“Look here,” a deep male voice called out. “I think we've caught us a spy.”

Brenton felt his blood run cold. Weren't spies usually hanged—or shot on sight?

“I'm not a spy!” he declared quickly, hoping the man would listen to reason.

“And I say you are,” a big, beefy man replied, coming out of the shadows to take hold of Brenton's reins. “Luke—John—Davis, get over here and help me. We've got us a spy!”

“No, you don't understand,” Brenton said, trying hard to remain calm. His heart was in his throat and his hands had gone clammy, but noting the man was garbed in a gray uniform he decided to take a risk. “I'm trying to get to my grandfather's house near Falls Church. It's called Oakbridge. Perhaps you've heard of it.”

But no one was listening to him. The burly man held the horse while someone from behind knocked Brenton from the saddle.

“Get up,” one of the men ordered. “We'll go back to camp and let the cap decide what to do with ya.”

Brenton got to his feet quickly and tried again to explain. “You don't understand—”

“I understand that you're gonna get the butt of my gun if you don't shut up. Now move out,” the big man told him.

Brenton did as he was told but found his legs were like rubber. Fear gripped his heart as never before. He thought of the times he'd allowed Jordana to talk him into stupid adventures. Rock climbing, sledding off the side of a train tunnel, and a half dozen other senseless dares. But never before had he been as frightened as he was just now.

I thought I was on a mission for you, God, he silently implored. I thought I was doing the right thing.

They marched through the heavy underbrush for nearly half an hour, and just when Brenton started to tire a bit, the trees opened up onto a small camp. They must feel secure here, Brenton reasoned, because a small fire burned in the center of the camp. Around it, several gray-clad soldiers talked in low whispers.

“Caught me a spy,” the big man announced. “Figured you boys would like to help hang him.”

All eyes turned to Brenton. The stares were filled with anger, resentment—even hatred.

“I'm not a spy. My name is Brenton Baldwin. I was making my way to my grandfather's plantation. It's called Oakbridge. Maybe you've heard of it.”

“I've heard of it all right,” a voice called out from behind him. “I know it well.”

13

From out of the shadows stepped a tall blond-headed man. He secured a high-crowned forage cap atop his head and finished buttoning the double-breasted gray frock coat that completed his uniform. For a moment, recognition failed Brenton, but as the man drew closer to the fire, the details of his face became clearer.

“Nathan!” Brenton exclaimed.

“You know this spy, Captain?” one of the men questioned.

Nathan Cabot laughed. “I suppose I do. This is my cousin Brenton Baldwin. It's just as he said.”

The big man grumbled, looking quite disappointed that there wouldn't be a hanging after all.

“What in the world were you thinking, stalking about on a night like this?” Nathan questioned. “Don't you know there's a war going on around here?”

Brenton looked at the gathering of Confederate soldiers and exhaled rather loudly. “I was going to see Uncle York. I wanted to make sure they were all right. Someone in Baltimore told me the Union troops had thrown Robert Lee's family from the property and now occupied Arlington House.”

“It's true enough,” Nathan replied. “Most likely true for Oakbridge as well.” He looked around him at the loafing men. “Who's on picket duty?”

“We were, Cap,” the burly man replied. “That's how we caught us this here man.”

“Well, I suggest you men get back to your post until you're relieved,” Nathan ordered. The men glanced at one another before giving Nathan a brief salute. Disappointment registered on their faces. Nathan seemed to understand. “Oh, and, men, you did a good job here.”

The men grinned, patted each other on the back and, after handing Brenton the reins to his horse, disappeared into the woods.

“Would you like some coffee?” Nathan asked, eyeing Brenton as if trying to size him up and figure out what he was all about.

“That sounds good.” Brenton hadn't seen Nathan in at least two years, but they had always gotten along. Nathan's father had disappeared after serving a prison term for attempting to kill Brenton and Nathan's grandfather. There were always ominous whisperings between his mother and Nathan's regarding the man. Aunt Virginia, Nathan's mother, had moved with her little family into the Baldwin house in Greigsville just as the Baldwins returned to Baltimore. There had been several weeks, however, when they all lived together, and while Brenton didn't think much of Nathan's conniving twin sisters, he liked Nathan well enough. The man was quiet and thoughtful, and to Brenton, he made an amicable companion.

Nathan returned with a tin cup for each of them. “Just tie your horse over there.” He motioned to a small tree.

Brenton did as he suggested, not wanting to do anything that might be misinterpreted as hostile. He realized there would be no discussing the war without Nathan easily knowing which side he was on. But in truth, Brenton surmised that Nathan already knew which side he'd be on—if, in fact, he must pick just one side.

Moving away from the tents and the other men, Nathan found a dried log and straddled it before handing the cup of coffee to Brenton. “So tell me what this midnight ride is all about.”

Brenton took the cup and sipped it. “It's just like I said. I wanted to see Uncle York. I wanted to know if everyone was all right.”

“I thought you were up north—New York, right?”

“I was. Jordana still is. I forced her to take a summer term at school. She's not too happy with me,” Brenton replied, taking a place on the log. “I figured it would be better for her to stay there while I came down here to check things out.”

“I agree. I talked Mother into taking the girls farther south. Uncle York and his family are also gone. I didn't want to make it common knowledge in front of everyone.”

“I understand,” Brenton said, eyeing Nathan intently. He was little more than a year older than Brenton, but he stood taller and broader, and in many ways made Brenton feel much younger. Perhaps it was the uniform. Perhaps it was the way he'd taken charge when the men had brought Brenton into camp.

“So everyone is safe?” Brenton finally asked.

Nathan nodded. “As safe as they can be. I barely convinced Mother to move before a company of Union soldiers moved in to secure the tunnel area.”

Brenton remembered the Baltimore and Ohio tunnel near their home. His father had helped to supervise the building of it, and Kiernan's brother had died in an explosion while trying to break through from one side to the other.

“There are troops all over Baltimore,” Brenton said absentmindedly, then instantly regretted having revealed this bit of information. He couldn't quite convince himself that Nathan was the enemy. He fell silent and sipped his coffee, wondering how they could possibly have a conversation without betraying one loyalty or another.

“I know what you're thinking,” Nathan said after several moments. “We are in an awkward position here. I know you can't possibly be considering signing on with the Confederacy. I know your opinion on slavery—it just so happens I share that opinion.”

“Then how—I mean, why—”

“Why did I join up with the South?” Nathan interjected. “I suppose because I don't like the idea of the Federal government telling the states what they can and can't do. I'm all for being a united nation, but I can't abide that people sitting in one location can possibly understand the needs of folks sitting in another.”

“But that's why we have congressmen to represent us,” Brenton countered.

“Yes, but it isn't the same. You know it isn't. Do you imagine that folks up New York way understand the difficulties of a southern planter? Do you imagine that we can comprehend the needs of those living west of the Mississippi? Sure, you send a fellow or two to speak out for the cause dearest to your heart, but then ten other fellows who are more closely associated and understand the needs of each other's areas overrule the one or two whose needs are very different. Majority rules. I think the states should make their own decisions, and the government in Washington should stay out of it.”

“I can agree with that to a point,” Brenton replied. “But we have to have some rules that govern us as a whole.”

They fell silent once again. They weren't so very different in their opinions, Brenton thought. He wondered just how divided the nation truly was, or if a few hotheaded men had made a war out of misunderstandings.

“Are you planning to enlist?”

Brenton was startled by the question. “Does it matter?”

“You know it does.”

“I suppose I am,” Brenton said sadly. He wondered how to explain the situation. “I imagine the choice was easy for you, but for me it wasn't. I'm not a coward—I'd die in a minute if it meant saving the lives of those I love. But sitting there in New York, listening to the excitement—many people are almost celebrating going to war—I was torn. I wanted to show myself as honorable and noble, but the dichotomy of which side I belonged to haunted me. It still does.” He stared dismally into his tin cup. “I love my family—all of my family. That includes Uncle York with his beliefs, and you with yours. To take up arms against them is unthinkable. But I also love my country. I listen to people like my brother-in-law and his sister as they talk about Ireland and the oppression they've come from, and I realize what a blessing it is to be a part of this nation. How can I stand by and watch it be torn in two—and do nothing?”

“I know,” Nathan replied, taking his hat off and toying with it in his hands. “I thought becoming a man would give me a sense of power and control, but now life seems just as unreasonable and unpredictable as childhood ever was.”

Brenton felt compassion for his cousin. After all, he himself was as confused by the issues of this war. Then a thought came to him. “Would you really have killed me? I mean, if your men had brought in a total stranger—would you have put him to death as a spy?”

Nathan's hands stopped moving and his head bowed slightly. “Two nights back, we found ourselves near the rail line to Washington. A Union patrol spotted us, and before we could all slip into the woods and find cover, they shot two of my men. One was just a kid. He died in my arms—slow and painfully. They knew I was out there watching, and they called to me and taunted me—promising to kill us all. I'd never seen men so angry. With that one simple act the war became very personal. It forever changed me.” He swung his leg over the log and got to his feet. Looking down at Brenton, his expression half hidden in the shadows, he added, “Had you been a stranger, I would have handed my men the rope.”

He walked away, leaving Brenton there to consider his words. He was alive only because of Nathan Cabot's mercy. He reached his hand up to his throat, feeling a terrible constriction there. He had nearly lost his life this night. It made the war even more real.

Brenton lost track of how long he continued to sit on the log. He watched the comings and goings of the soldiers in the small camp and silently wondered what he should do. There was no sense going on to Oakbridge. Who could tell where his uncle might be assigned? But neither did there seem to be much sense in returning to Baltimore. He was quickly losing his heart for enlisting.

He thought of Jordana and how she might have grieved if he'd been killed, and then he thought of the men Nathan had mentioned and wondered if they, too, had sisters. Who would have gone to them to tell the story of what had happened? Would they believe their brothers to be heroes for the cause? It all seemed so pointless. Brenton felt disillusioned and frustrated.

“What am I supposed to do now, Lord?” he whispered, glancing heavenward to the starry night skies. Without the moon, the stars shone bright and seemed so clear that Brenton could imagine reaching up to touch them. He wished he could photograph the sight and keep it with him always—crisp, clean, glorious. But even if such a thing were possible, he knew the photograph would never equal the awesome wonder of the real thing. Maybe he appreciated it more because his life had just been spared. It seemed strange to even consider such a thing—he would be dead by now had it not been for one man's intercession. And God's.

“Brenton!” Nathan called as he emerged from what appeared to be the main tent.

Brenton got to his feet and grabbed up the empty coffee mug. He walked slowly toward Nathan, whose features now held a more severe expression.

“The major wants to see you,” he said simply and pulled back the flap to his tent.

Brenton entered, his heart thudding. Had Nathan's orders been overturned? Were they now going to reverse the matter and hang him anyway?

A small, unassuming figure sat at a crude table. He eyed Brenton for a moment, then gave a laugh. “You look just like your grandmother.”

Brenton was taken aback for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” It was a comment he was used to hearing, but this time it was most unexpected.

“I knew your grandparents, Edith and Leland Baldwin. Captain Cabot was just telling me about you, and I knew I would have to speak with you myself. The name is Van Dyke. Major Van Dyke.”

“I'm glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” Brenton said, holding out his hand nervously.

The major shook it, then glanced down at the paper on the table. “I understand you've not yet enlisted on either side for this war.”

“That's correct, sir.”

“Are you still of a mind to enlist with the Union?” questioned the major, his small beady eyes narrowing as he watched Brenton.

“To be quite honest,” Brenton said, deciding that total honesty was the only thing he could give the man, “I'm hard-pressed to know what to do.”

The man nodded. “Captain Cabot was just telling me of your dilemma.”

Brenton felt his knees begin to shake and prayed for strength to endure whatever might come.

“Mr. Baldwin, I am going to consider you a prisoner of war,” the major said after a lengthy pause.

“But I already told Nathan—”

“Hear me out,” the major interjected, picking up a piece of paper from the table. “As a prisoner of war, your fate is in my hands. I am offering you a parole—on one condition.”