Chapter 28

He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.

—Jim Elliot

 

Colonel Benton stayed occupied the next couple of days and was actually glad for the outlet that planning and preparing for war provided. He’d been up most of the night with his officers discussing the upcoming move, and welcomed the weariness that now consumed him. Barely awake at this early hour, he headed to the barn.

The sun had just begun to cast a brilliant glow on the landscape, but had not yet gained sufficient strength to melt away the light snowfall that had fallen overnight. Benton wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee, the heat from the liquid doing little to penetrate the bone-chilling cold. Saluting the soldiers he passed at the doorway, he continued into the warmer confines of the barn and inhaled its rich scent.

“Good morning, Kul-nel.”

Benton nodded toward the soldier who greeted him. “Good morning. Quiet night?”

“Yes sir. All quiet here.”

Benton continued walking, but stopped abruptly in front of one of the stalls. “Where’s Chance?” He opened the door of the stall to convince himself there was no horse inside. “Has he been turned out?” Benton had taken the horse into his stable from the beginning, but never allowed it to be ridden even in the smallest skirmish. Everyone knew that if Chance were to be killed or even wounded, the loss would be too much to bear.

“No.” The soldier walked up beside him and gazed casually at the empty stall. “Miss Sarah took him with her.”

“Took him where?” Benton could feel his pulse begin to throb hard against his ribcage. Before his brain could even compute what was happening, his heart had already recognized that this abrupt departure, without a word and at such a time, boded ill.

“Wherever she went, I reckon,” the soldier said. “I didn’t get no details on that. Figured Mrs. Ramsey would have told you. She was down here boo-hooing all morning.”

The soldier lowered his gaze to Benton’s cup, which had begun to slosh coffee over the sides in his shaking hand, while Benton continued to stare into the empty stall, unable to move or speak.

He had wanted to take her to the stable to reunite her with her horse some weeks ago, but the surgeon had thought it better to wait and not overwhelm her with too many images of her past. In the end, Benton had agreed, not wishing to harm her recovery when she was at last beginning to recover bits and pieces of her memory.

“Funny how that horse remembered her and all.” The soldier apparently decided to ignore the colonel’s silence. “I think Miss Sarah might even have remembered him too.”

Benton thought back to the look on her face during their last conversation when she had stared so intently at him, appearing to see images he could not see. Perhaps she had remembered all.

“I need to talk to Mrs. Ramsey.” Benton turned and headed to the house; his body suddenly seemed so heavy that he could barely find the energy to place one foot in front of the other for the short walk to the house. Concern, despair, and a feeling of complete detachment seemed determined to pull his legs out from under him.

“Colonel Benton, have you heard?” Mrs. Ramsey came rushing out of the house with her skirts flying wildly before he had even reached the steps to the veranda.

“She’s left us. Poor dear child.” She patted her eyes with a handkerchief that appeared damp enough to wring.

Benton stood rigid and silent, incapable of accepting the fact she was really gone. “Where did she go?” His voice was low as if he didn’t wish anyone to overhear the conversation, despite no one being around to do so. He continued to stare in the direction of Mrs. Ramsey’s voice, but could not make out her features through the blur of pain that clouded his eyes.

“I don’t know. She didn’t say. Or she wouldn’t say. Or maybe she didn’t even know.” Mrs. Ramsey began sobbing again. “She just said it was time to go. Why would she do it, Colonel Benton?”

Benton had a feeling she knew as well as he did, and so he did not answer. Instead he worked hard to suppress the powerful emotions that consumed him. “The spring campaign is set to begin,” he heard himself telling Mrs. Ramsey. “There is little I can do to seek her out, I’m afraid. We will be moving out in two days.”

Mrs. Ramsey brought the handkerchief back to her eyes and dabbed profusely. “Oh, why would she leave now,” she whimpered. “Why?”

Benton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She felt it was time I suppose. We cannot question, only accept.”

Mrs. Ramsey grabbed his arm. “Do you think she’ll come back? I barely had time to say good-bye!”

“Perhaps in good time,” Benton said, almost choking on the reply because he knew it was not true. “Perhaps in good time.”

Although he spoke calmly and remained casually polite in front of Mrs. Ramsey, inwardly his heart writhed and ached and moaned. Benton had known he would be leaving and that he may never see her again—but he could barely stand the thought of losing her for good. He had not expected this ending so abruptly and so soon.

Benton bowed to Mrs. Ramsey and turned back toward the barn for his horse. They were starting the spring campaign early, and he would be leaving this place of peace and tranquility in two days. He had to move forward and forget the past. There was nothing else he could do.

Surely the move would bring some sort of peace—or at least a respite from the hard ordeal of thinking about the loss. It would force him to live each day and to take each hour as it came. Planning, riding, and fighting would take all he had to give and demand even more. He would allow nothing to stop him from giving his full attention to his duties. But as he made his way to the barn, Benton was haunted by the face that continued to rise unbidden before his eyes.

The frozen ground crunched beneath his footsteps as he walked; the muted sound came as waves over him and echoed in his mind like a crushing headache. How ironic that he could have any woman he desired, yet the one thing on earth he madly craved, was the one thing he would never possess.

Benton looked heavenward and thanked God that at least he had known its value before it was lost to him forever. And though he tried to console himself that he had done the right thing, the knowledge that he had kept his promise to the Almighty provided little solace.

By honoring that vow, he had failed to keep another—the one he had made to himself. No amount of hopes or wishes could repair the pain he’d caused her, and no amount of appeals or prayers could possibly make her think of him as the greatest man she had ever known.