Chapter Two
Isaac Buckner nudged the reins but the old mare needed no prompting. She knew what to do as well as he did. Right on cue she turned off the main road and halted the black, box-like buggy in its usual spot near the barn.
Jacob stepped to the ground and helped his mother down. Isaac stayed on the driver’s seat, staring into space as if in a trance. Finally, with a shake of his head, he joined his family as they headed for the front yard.
Buggies, all black and box-like, were filling the drive and lining the main road in front of the house. Family groups carrying wicker baskets with white cloth over the contents disembarked and silently made their way into the yard.
They had come from the cemetery. Joshua’s burial services were over, and it was time for the healing to begin.
“Place the food on these tables,” said Sara, struggling to be a good hostess. “There’s water and fresh tea on that table under the oak tree. We’ll eat shortly.”
“We’re grateful that you’re here to help celebrate our son’s glorious ascension,” announced Isaac, composing himself. “Joshua lives now in a better place.” He inhaled, fortifying himself. “We thank our Lord for the strength and wisdom to forgive those who…played a role in taking him from us at such an early age. Now it’s time to put that behind us.”
Heads nodded and people began to converse and move about. Sara motioned everyone to the tables.
Jacob and Amy stood a short distance apart so as not to attract attention. They had spoken only once, briefly, since the shooting. When Isaac mentioned forgiving those involved in Joshua’s death, Amy subtly rolled her eyes toward Jacob in a way that told him she wished to meet in private.
Amy sat with her family near one end of the row of tables. Jacob sat quietly near the other end. Dishes of chicken, fish and pork were passed around along with fresh corn, snap beans and other vegetables. On a separate table was a wide variety of breads, pies, cakes, and jellies.
Jacob tried not to glance at Amy but found himself doing so several times. He also noted a lack of conversation directed his way by others at his table. Of course, he had just lost his brother and wasn’t noted for his conversational skills in the first place. Still, he suspected it had to do with his role in Joshua’s death.
A half-hour passed. People went to the dessert table and returned with pie or cake. Others visited the privy or saw to their horses.
Jacob arose and ambled around the house to the back yard. With a bucket placed beside the well just for that purpose, he drew water and carried it to their mare, still standing harnessed to the family buggy. While the horse drank, Jacob busied himself unhitching her, all the time wondering if Amy had seen him slip away. Soon he noticed her coming around the far side of the house.
They ignored each other as Amy moved on toward the privy. Jacob led the mare to her stall inside the barn. From a peg he took down a curry-comb and began brushing the animal. Five minutes passed.
“Hello, Jacob,” said Amy. She stood in a doorway on the back side of the barn.
Jacob spun around. “Amy! How nice to see you! Did you get enough to eat?”
The feigned surprise was a habit formed to make their meetings seem accidental, though by now everyone knew the truth and weren’t surprised to see them together occasionally. That was acceptable as long as they showed proper discretion.
“I didn’t have much of an appetite,” said Amy. “We call this a celebration, but it’s hard to eat on such a day. Your brother was a sweet, kind boy and I’ll miss him.”
“As will I,” said Jacob softly, growing emotional.
Amy came to him and put her arms around his waist. “I know it’s hard. I saw your look when your father, you know, mentioned forgiving the ones responsible, but I’m afraid he’s right, Jacob. Even if we can’t forget, we must forgive and move on.”
“He was talking about me, Amy, not the Yankees! He holds me responsible!”
“I was afraid of that…”
“Does he think I was trying to get Joshua killed? I was defending our home! Yet he forgives those murdering mongrels and blames me, his own son! They were wrong, not me! It hurts, Amy, it hurts bad.”
“I understand, Jacob. Losing Joshua was hard enough but…well…like the Bible says, we must forgive those who trespass against us…”
“I can’t look at it that way, Amy! I’ve said it all along, the strong prey on the weak! Our weakness killed Joshua, not me. I’ll never bow to those murderers!”
“What…do you plan to do?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to patch things up with Father, but…I just don’t know.
* * *
“Jacob, I must talk to you.”
Isaac’s voice, clear and firm, came from the study where he had retreated after supper. It was two days since Joshua’s funeral. Jacob had looked for a chance to talk with his father man to man, but hardly a word had passed between them.
Jacob arose from the kitchen table and glanced toward his mother. She sat with her eyes down, nervously kneading a dish cloth through her hands. Jacob knew then that this talk would not be an exchange of pleasantries.
Bookshelves lined one wall of the study and a desk sat against another with a small table in the middle flanked by two rockers. On the table were a coal oil lamp and an ashtray. His father came here every night after supper to read and smoke.
Isaac sat in a rocker with a Bible in his lap, staring out the window. “Sit down, Jacob,” he said, gesturing toward the other rocker. He laid his pipe in the ashtray.
The elder Buckner looked tired to Jacob, and there seemed to be a hint of conciliation in his voice. The strain of the last few days, Jacob thought. Perhaps this was an opportunity to reach some sort of understanding. He sat down in the rocker.
“The elders have met and discussed the…the situation, Jacob.” Isaac nervously fingered his pipe, lifting it, putting it down again. “We all agree that you committed a terrible sin by opposing our visitors, the worst committed by someone in our community in anyone’s memory. You violated the laws of God, you transgressed against your family and friends, and worst of all, your actions caused the death of your brother.”
Isaac’s voice had turned grim and contained no conciliatory tone. It was clear that the elders had directed him to have this talk with his son.
“But Father…”
“Please don’t speak until I’m finished, Jacob!” He lifted his Bible and held it out. “This is the word of God, and in Matthew 5:39 He states: ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also’! You chose not to do that and now Joshua is gone! You broke God’s rules and Joshua’s life was the price we all paid!”
Mr. Buckner pursed his lips and fell silent. Jacob’s face flushed.
“I didn’t see those Yankees turning the other cheek,” he said, his voice bitter. “What punishment did they receive, Father? Did they lose a brother too?”
“That’s between them and God, Jacob. We’re praying for them as we are for you, but unlike them, you’re Amish. If you were a church member you’d be shunned, but even so, your actions were so severe that the elders have decreed that you must repent promptly or leave our community. You and I have discussed rumspringa but now you don’t have a choice, and I concur. You must leave, Jacob, and return only if the elders approve. We pray that time will reveal to you the seriousness of your actions.”
The very air in the room seemed to turn toxic. Isaac set his jaw and looked out the window. Jacob stared at the floor, his gaze intensifying.
He was being told to leave. His only other option was to go before everyone, admit his sins and ask to be forgiven. He wasn’t prepared to do that. So be it. He had considered leaving anyhow and was fully prepared to do so if that’s what they wanted.
He arose and turned to leave the room. “You’re wrong about one thing, Father,” he said. “As of this moment, I’m no longer Amish.”
* * *
The sun rose over the Mattaponi, its rays casting long shadows among the trees along the shore and sparkling like diamonds on the rippling blue-green waters. Marsh grasses swayed to the touch of a gentle morning breeze as a lone egret deftly trod the shallows in search of breakfast. Two ospreys circled overhead, their orange, brown and white plumage bright against the clear blue sky.
Jacob had told his mother Sara the previous night that he was leaving. He knew no one else would speak to him, not even Amy, for her family would prevent it. Sara had kissed him, bid him Godspeed and broke into tears. He promised to write and to try to return in a year. In reality, he had no plans to return.
This morning as he prepared to leave, he found a cloth bag in the kitchen next to his coat. It contained ham, bread, a jar of apple butter, a wooden figurine and a note from his mother. Wrapped in the note was $20 in Confederate bills, money she had earned by selling eggs and baked goods in West Point.
The figurine was part of a three-piece set carved a decade earlier by Isaac. It was of a woman – Sara - gazing skyward. Two smaller figures meant to be Jacob and Joshua had been carved to fit snugly on each side in her protecting arms. Prophetically, the figure of Joshua had been broken years earlier. His mother’s note read:
My dearest Jacob,
Enclosed is $20 for your use. Also enclosed is the figure of me that your father carved. Please carry it with you so that each time you look at it, you may know that I am thinking of you and love you more than life. The figure of you will remain in its place atop the cook stove so I may see it as I work. Each day I will pray for your safety as I await the day when the two figures shall be united again.
Go with God, my son.
Your loving mother
A queasy feeling flashed through the dark confusion of Jacob’s mind like a streak of lightening. He suspected that she knew he wasn’t planning to return and was trying to strengthen the bond between them. It made him realize the seriousness of his actions; he might never see her again, or his father, or even Amy. He felt sick.
But to stay would mean living a lie, and the real Jacob Buckner would suffocate under the weight of the lie. His intuition had led him to that conclusion long ago but he could never bring himself to make the decision. Now events had made it for him.
With the bag over one shoulder and a blanket roll over the other, he slipped out the back door and paused for a long last look across the marshes to the river he loved so much. A moment later found him on the main road headed west, his lanky strides quickly taking him away from the only home he had ever known.
A tall, trim figure emerged up ahead, and Jacob quickly recognized the figure as Amy. She broke into a run toward him. He dropped his bag and blanket roll as she drew near, her eyes filled with tears, her arms hungrily reaching for him.
“Jacob, oh Jacob! I couldn’t let you go without seeing you!”
He received her in his arms and they kissed, long and tenderly. Her hair cover slipped from her head to her neck and still they held each other.
“I wanted to see you, too, but your father, you shouldn’t have come!”
“I can’t help it. When I heard the elders had told you to leave, I just had to see you,” said Amy, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I’m glad you did, Amy. I wish you were coming with me.”
“Oh Jacob, you know I love you, but my family, the church - there’s just…too many things holding me here. Better that you go and I’ll wait for your return.”
“Amy…I may not return.”
“Don’t say that, Jacob. I had those feelings too. You’ll return, I know you will. You’ll join the church…we’ll be married…we’ll have a family. I…know you’ll return.”
“I love you, Amy. I’ll write, but I must go now. It’s best to do this quickly.”
Jacob took up his gear to leave. Amy clung to him as if trying to possess him, but at that moment he didn’t want to be possessed. He wanted to leave, to close that door and get on with what he must do. He pulled away and headed down the road. The sound of sobs slowly faded away behind him.
He crossed the Mattaponi a mile upriver on a horse-drawn ferry, then took another across the Pamunkey. At the latter, he met a farmer taking a wagon load of produce to the market in Richmond and hitched a ride with him.
* * *
Jacob had never seen anything like Richmond. The city stretched along the north bank of the James River at the fall line and extended back to envelop a series of low, rolling hills. Tall smokestacks rose skyward from factories along a canal that ran parallel to the waterfront. So large and so many people, all of them in a hurry, but that was to be expected of the capital of a nation at war, he supposed.
When the farmer reached his destination, Jacob helped him unload and then set out for a better look at the wonders unfolding around him. He made his way west along Broad Street, up a hill, and then south down 10th Street.
A six-foot cast iron picket fence blocked his path. It encircled a square block known as Capital Square, which sat on a hill and contained the capitol building and other facilities of the Virginia Government. He went around the left side of the fence and proceeded south on 12th Street, stopping frequently to marvel at the majestic capitol building. It dominated the landscape with its wide portico and pillars the size of the smokestacks down along the river.
He was moving downhill through a warehouse district. That should lead him to the waterfront, he figured. He was curious for a look at the James River and how the waterfront here compared with the one in his small town of West Point.
Richmond seemed a mixture of military camp and city under siege. Citizens and soldiers mingled on the sidewalks, scurrying about, buying toiletries, household goods, clothing, all as if the stores were about to close. Army officers on prancing horses shared the streets with whip-cracking teamsters driving four-horse supply wagons. Well-dressed black coachmen tended fine carriages while their owners, ladies in lacy bonnets and silk dresses, bargained with surly shop owners over the inflated price of flour and linens. All exuded an undertone of nervous anxiety.
The number of people, the shops, the bustle of activity fascinated Jacob. The streets were paved with cobblestone, not oyster shells like at home. Less appealing was the trash and smelly garbage piled along the streets and in the alleys.
Three soldiers in grey uniforms approached on the sidewalk. All wore beards of varying lengths and kepi hats cocked low on their foreheads.
“Hello,” said one wearing corporal’s stripes. “You look lost. Can we help you?”
“I’m all right, thank you,” said Jacob, feeling awkward and self-conscious. “Just new in town and, you know, seein’ the sights.” He put a hand over his scar.
“You lookin’ to enlist?” asked another. He was nearly as tall as Jacob and more muscular. “We’re in the Fifteenth Virginia Infantry. If you’re int’rusted, we can direct you to our camp.” The man looked Jacob up and down. “Where you from, anyhow?”
“West Point, east of here.” He felt their eyes gawking at him. “Uh, I was raised as…as Amish. Don’t have much interest in soldiering…but thanks anyhow.”
“Amish? Guess that explains the strange clothes. You’re the people who refuse t’fight. I noticed that scar and figured you’d been wounded and was lookin’ t’get back in the action. Ya’know, you could still serve as a cook or sumthin’. ‘Fore this party’s over, they’re gonna make you serve one way or t’other. If you change your mind, just follow Broad Street west to our camp. It’s a big one. You can’t miss it.”
Jacob thanked them and moved on, figuring it was time to shed his straw hat, high-waist pants and suspenders. It wouldn’t hurt, either, to grow longer hair and that beard he had wanted for so long, but first he must see about a job. What money he had would go quickly for food and a place to stay.
Interestingly though, the grey uniforms of the soldiers had ignited far different feelings in him than the blue ones worn by the sailors who killed Joshua.
He reached the intersection of 12th and Cary Streets. On the corner was a tobacco warehouse. Ships’ masts towering above the buildings told him the waterfront lay just a few blocks away. He proceeded down 12th Street to Dock Street and came face to face with an impressive sight. Supply ships, small steamers and navy vessels lined the docks for blocks.
He strolled along the waterfront and drew abreast of a large, paddle-wheel steamer tied to the wharf. Crates of cargo were being off-loaded down a gangplank to waiting wagons.
“Say farm boy, why ain’t you in uniform?” bellowed a beefy deck hand leaning over the steamer’s rail. “Don’t need t’be scared o’gettin’ shot. No Yankee alive could hit such a skinny target!” The other deck hands snickered.
Skinny! Jacob’s face flushed. “Somebody’s gotta grow all the food it takes t’feed fat boys like you!” With a dry grin, he walked on. The man glared at him but turned away as laughter broke out among his shipmates.
Just past an area known as ‘Rockett’s’, consisting of bars, restaurants and shops selling ship supplies, he came to a boy about his own age sitting on a bale of cotton and leaning against a piling. He was shorter and built thicker than Jacob, and had a thin moustache. He wore what Jacob took to be a uniform and held a fishing pole with a line trailing down to a cork bobbing on the water.
It stirred Jacob’s memories and he couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. “Catchin’ anything?”
“Couple catfish. Nothin’ worth keeping,” said the boy.
“Why? Were they too small? Catfish are good eatin’.”
“Too dirty. Catfish eat whatever’s in the water. See all the ships? Whadaya think these sailors are putting in the water?”
“Oh,” said Jacob. “No problem like that back home. One o’these ships yours?”
|
|
“Yeah.” The boy jerked his fishing line, but to no avail. “Yonder against the far bank. The CSS Beaufort, Cap’n William Parker commanding. Where you from?”
“The Mattaponi River near West Point.” Jacob glanced over and quickly sized up the Beaufort. A small steamer, maybe ninety feet, he estimated. He could see one cannon mounted in the bow and a Confederate flag waving lazily from the masthead. “So you’re in the, the Confederate Navy?”
“Yeah. We’ll be sailing soon. What’s your name anyhow?”
“Jacob Buckner. How ‘bout you?”
“Roger Phillips, from Amelia, west of here. Do folks call you Jake?”
“Uhh, yeah, Jake’s fine.” He liked that idea. It was less Amish-sounding. “You seen any fighting yet, Roger?”
“Naw, but it won’t be long. Big Yankee fleet off the coast. Soon as we find out where they’re headed, we’ll head there too. You in the army?”
“No, I’m not in anything.”
“Didn’t think so,” said Roger. “But you may want to think about it. If they start draftin’ fellas, they’ll put you wherever they want. Now, bein’ from the Mattaponi, you must be familiar with boats and the water and such. You ever thought about the navy? The Beaufort could use a few more men.”
“Never thought about the military at all,” said Jacob. “By the way, you ever hear of a Yankee ship called the Arapahoe?”
“Yeah. Shallow draft for her size. She’s been raiding up the rivers. Plenty of folks ‘round here who’d like to see that ship on the bottom. You one of ‘em?”
“Could be. How do’ya like the navy?”
“It’s not bad. Had a little problem with seasickness at first. But we get regular food, a place to stay, a uniform, some pay. You’re Amish, aren’t you?”
“Yeah…at least I was. Does it show that much?”
“Had some Amish neighbors back home. Nice people. Sounds like maybe you, you know, got tired o’that life or had a falling out or something.”
“You might say that. Guess I better be going.”
“Didn’t mean t’pry, but if you want’a serve, come on back and I’ll take you to Cap’n Parker. He’s a good man. I think you’d fit right in. And you never know, we might just come up against the Arapahoe one day.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Jacob visualized the Arapahoe’s huge size and big guns and wondered just how the tiny Beaufort would fare in a confrontation. Not well, he imagined.
He headed up a steep hill that led away from the waterfront. He was told it was called ‘Church Hill’, after a famous church located there. He was told also that there were boarding houses in that area. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he found one and secured lodging.
For the price he had to pay, he expected more than just ‘lodging’, but that was all he got. He and three other men shared four bunks in a ten-by-twelve room. The bunks had thin, cotton-filled mattresses so lumpy that they might as well be filled with rocks. The room had no heat or blankets and the privy was far out in the back yard. Jacob was glad he had brought a blanket roll with him.
He was still awake when the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains. As if the mattress and cold night weren’t enough, one of his roommates needed a good scrubbing with lye soap and another snored like a runaway locomotive, but no matter. He couldn’t have slept even if he had brought his own bed and had a room to himself.
It was his first night ever away from home. In the largest city he could imagine, sharing a room with three other men, and he still felt alone. The snoring from the next bunk couldn’t replace the soft snoring of his parents down the hall. He longed to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. He missed falling asleep to the calls of whippoorwills and frogs and the reassuring glow of the moon rising over the river.
He had no job, little money and clothes, facing a possible military draft, cold and hungry and agitated by obnoxious roommates. He lay in his bunk and stared at the dark ceiling, wondering if he had made a mistake.
He must stop thinking like that, he told himself. He must stop feeling sorry for himself and think rationally.
He had left the self-sufficient Amish cocoon he had known all his life and for the first time was realizing the value of money. To make it on his own would require money. Money would restore the security he forfeited when he left home. He must find a job.
For some reason his mother entered his thoughts. He was worried about a job when she no doubt had shouldered an unbelievable burden of chores now with both of her boys gone. But at least the crop season was over. The harvests were in, the canning done, the hogs butchered and the hams hung in the smokehouse.
The hams! The thought brought the whole ugly episode flooding back - the Arapahoe, Alonzo Peck, the scuffle, the gunshot. He would never forget that day. Every detail would live in his mind forever.
Roger Phillips had said that the Arapahoe should be on the bottom. He would love to help put her there. She was probably raiding a farm or town at this moment. He would also love to face Peck again, this time perhaps with a gun and with men who, like him, didn’t believe in turning the other cheek.
He viewed war as illogical and counterproductive. It didn’t excite him nor would he ever wish to be involved. But in truth, war had walked into his barnyard one day and killed his brother, and now he was involved whether he liked it or not.
He knew now what he must do. He wouldn’t wait to be drafted nor would he look for a job. The perfect job had been staring him in the face all along.
He would join the Confederate Navy. If he must fight, he would fight against the men who killed his brother.
The rising sun’s rays gleamed off the state capitol building high on its hill as Jacob dressed and headed for the waterfront. He must go and see Roger Phillips.