Westward the Dream (11 page)

11

“Now, don't cry,” Brenton said, sounding impatient. “I'll be back before you know it.”

Jordana shook her head. “You don't understand. You're leaving me here all alone.”

“You have Caitlan,” Brenton encouraged.

“Aye. I'll not let ya get lonely,” Caitlan assured, looping her arm through Jordana's.

Jordana glanced into her new friend's green eyes and found nothing but sympathy and assurance. Somehow, even though they'd known each other barely a month, Jordana felt confident of Caitlan's sincerity. She was a woman of her word.

“When do you suppose you'll be able to write to me?” Jordana tried hard to control her emotions.

“I'll write just as soon as I can. I'll go first to Baltimore and check out the situation there and speak with our solicitor, then I'll drop you a line before going to see Uncle York. It shouldn't take more than a week or so.”

Jordana looked at him and thought he seemed so much younger than his eighteen years. His features were more refined than rugged, and she knew his constitution was not one that would lend itself to great feats of athletics. How in the world would he ever survive being in a battle? He could scarcely shoot straight. Why, she was a better marksman than he was!

“You know this is madness,” she said, deciding one final time to try to dissuade him from going. “You can't shoot straight to save your life, and on the battlefield it may well cost you your life.”

“Jordana”—Caitlan gently squeezed her arm—“ya don't want to send him off like this. Brenton can decide these matters for himself. He must be trustworthy, else yar folks wouldn't have left him in charge.”

Jordana wasn't pleased with the rebuke, even if it was spoken in a kind manner. Still, she reminded herself that Caitlan was only trying to help. Perhaps she saw something in Brenton that Jordana failed to see. Cocking her head ever so slightly, Jordana reconsidered her brother for a moment. Could it be that he was truly as capable as Caitlan believed him to be? Always before, Jordana had figured them to be reliant upon each other; now Caitlan was showing her a side of Brenton she'd not yet considered. The side that allowed Brenton to be strong and independent—totally independent.

Frowning, Jordana decided to keep the matter to herself. She adored Brenton and knew he loved her as well. He was always doing sweet things for her, always considering her needs. Well, most of the time. He'd certainly not considered her feelings when he arranged for her to stay at Deighton. But if that was the way he wanted it, then so be it. She'd have time enough to make her own way, and if Brenton never returned, that was exactly what she'd be doing.

“I'll pray for you,” she finally said. Leaving Caitlan's side, she threw herself into Brenton's arms. “Please don't get yourself killed.”

Brenton grinned. “I don't intend to.”

“I'm sure no one intends to, but people die just the same,” Jordana replied, then realized how macabre she sounded. Forcing every protesting particle of her being into submission, Jordana smiled. “But knowing you, you'd be too stubborn to die.”

“That's the spirit,” Brenton said, but Jordana knew he, too, was trying hard to sound brave for her. “You must both pray and keep each other encouraged.”

“We will, won't we?” Jordana replied, pulling back from Brenton to see Caitlan's expression.

“I'll do me best to keep yar sister happy and out of trouble,” Caitlan replied.

“But no prayers?” Brenton asked softly.

Jordana knew Caitlan's heart on the matter of God. They had spoken often of the deep wounds inflicted by the religious warfare of her homeland.

Caitlan blushed and turned her gaze upward to the cloudy skies overhead. “If God is up there—He's not listenin' to me.” She looked back at Brenton and smiled. “I don't believe in prayin'. No sense givin' ya bad luck by pretendin' I do.”

“I don't believe in luck—bad or good,” Brenton replied.

They seemed almost at an impasse. Brenton stood quietly studying Caitlan, while she met his gaze with what looked to Jordana to be an expression of pain. Jordana couldn't begin to understand how Caitlan's misery and bitter past had led her to discredit the power of prayer. She wanted to question her more on the matter but knew that now wasn't the time.

Looking back at Brenton, Jordana expected to find him making a stance for supporting his beliefs. Instead, his face held a look of tender concern, and it was evident he had no desire to add to Caitlan's pain by debating the issue.

Deighton's chimes rang from the bell tower and combined with several others from all directions in the city to announce midday.

“You'll have to hurry if you're going to catch your train,” Jordana finally said.

Brenton nodded and turned from Caitlan. “Please promise me you'll stay out of trouble while I'm gone.”

Jordana smiled impishly. “Would you not go if I refused to promise?”

Brenton laughed and shook his head. “No, but I would go with an easier mind if you would just do this last thing for me.”

“Don't say it like that!” Jordana declared and reached out to hug him tightly. “It isn't the last thing I'll do for you. I will behave, I promise. But in turn, you must promise to come back to me quickly. Mother and Father would never have wanted you to leave me here in New York by myself.”

“But you won't be by yourself,” Brenton reminded her. “You'll have the school and Meg Vanderbilt and Caitlan. I know you'll be in good hands, and you'll hardly even notice I'm gone.”

Jordana shook her head, tears spilling onto Brenton's coat. “I'll notice,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I'll notice.”

12

Baltimore shuddered under unreasonable chaos. An attitude of suspicion emanated from every corner of the city. Doors that had once stood open in welcome were now closed and barred. Brenton found it appalling that his hometown should suddenly seem so foreign. He had always loved Baltimore—more than any other city. Perhaps it was its stately grace and charm or the peacefulness of its citizens. But peace was far from evident now, and the sight of armed soldiers marching in menacing order appeared completely out of place.

Baltimore was, in many ways, a city under siege. A cannon atop Federal Hill was directed not at the south, from where the enemy was known to be, but rather toward the city, where the enemy was hidden and could do more harm. Trains were stopped by Federal troops well before reaching the city limits and their contents searched and sometimes even seized. Questions were asked and answers demanded by blue-clad troops who seemed nervous and edgy in their new line of work.

Brenton had argued to be let back into the city. The guards were reluctant to allow anyone in, but especially those who admitted to having been away for long periods of time. It didn't matter to the man in charge that Brenton had lived in Baltimore prior to his departure and had family holdings in the city. Nor did it matter that Brenton had made his residence well to the north in New York City. The man saw Brenton as a potential threat and that was all.

Luckily for Brenton, his good friend Able Stewart was one of the new soldiers to stand guard at the depot. Able had vouched for Brenton, pledging on his honor that Brenton would not take up arms against the Federal troops. The guard had grudgingly allowed Brenton admission into the city, but now that he was here, Brenton longed only to return to New York and forget that he had ever seen such sights.

Anxious to understand what was happening, Brenton made his way first to Andrew Marcum's office. The solicitor stared in surprise for several moments before instructing Brenton to take a seat.

“I had no idea you were coming.”

“I know,” Brenton said apologetically. “I should have sent a telegram, but I was afraid if I did, you might urge me to remain in New York.”

“For certain, I would have,” Marcum replied. “Why did you come to Baltimore?”

“I've come to enlist.” Brenton took a seat on a hard red leather chair and waited for the barrage of protest that was bound to come.

“Enlist? Your mother and father would never agree to such a notion. Why would you wish to trade your freedom and safety in New York to come here and enlist? The matter is serious, no doubt, but there are men in better positions to see to it. I can see no sense in including you in the fracas.”

“It's a matter of honor, sir. I feel it is my duty to support the land I love. I desire to protect Baltimore and the railroad. I believe my parents would appreciate this effort on their behalf.”

“But which side will you choose?” Marcum questioned. “Baltimore is greatly divided. Nay, in fact is far more southern in its sympathies. Will you join the Confederacy and support slavery and states' rights to secession?”

“Of course not. I don't believe in the institution any more than you do,” Brenton countered. “But the railroad is in danger of being destroyed. People and property will be completely wiped out unless we afford them protection. There's already been a great deal of destruction at Harper's Ferry. I can't stand by idly and do nothing.”

Marcum, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and a thick beard, rubbed at his whiskered chin. “It is my sad opinion that we will be hard-pressed to protect the great Baltimore and Ohio. The track runs throughout hostile territory now. You must know this.”

“Of course.”

Marcum shrugged. “The southern states consider the B&O to be theirs by rights of the land it runs on. Of course, President Lincoln refuses to see it that way. There has been great destruction along the line—fires, explosions, rails torn apart. Protecting the railroad now consists of arresting anyone who looks even remotely suspicious. Why, two days ago I myself saw Union soldiers hauling in an old man and his wife for questioning, all because they were walking to Baltimore via the cleared and easy pathway of the tracks.”

“That's outrageous and completely uncalled for. What about our rights? Lincoln suspends habeas corpus and throws innocent people into jail, and all because they were walking down the tracks?”

“The railroads have been nationalized for use by the troops,” Marcum replied. “Troops must move freely in order to be successful. This is the first war in America to have such mobility. The railroad may well change everything, and whichever side controls the railroad will probably be the victor.”

Brenton's temper got the best of him, and he slammed his fist down on Marcum's desk. “I can't abide this war! We are supposedly fighting for men's rights and freedom, yet I see nothing but freedom repealed.”

“In many ways you're right. Businesses have been closed and citizens arrested for nothing more than showing themselves to support the southern cause. As Maryland stands, so must Baltimore, but she will do so only by being held there at gunpoint.”

Shaking his head, Brenton closed his eyes and tried to reason the situation in his mind. “Everything has changed.”

“It's worse in Virginia. I had a friend come through not long ago, and he was heartbroken at the sight of it. The Union has removed many Confederate families surrounding Washington. Some have been arrested; some simply fled for their lives as the soldiers marched through. Robert Lee's house at Arlington has been confiscated for its superb view of Washington. It's a necessary vantage point according to the Union.”

Brenton opened his eyes and stared at Marcum. “How awful! I've been there. I've enjoyed parties upon their lawns. My grandfather Adams is a good friend of the Lees—my father and mother as well.” Brenton hesitated before asking the question most on his mind. “What of Oakbridge?”

“Your grandfather's ties to the government and the fact that he freed his slaves has kept it safe thus far, as you know. But now that your uncle has joined the Confederate army—”

“When did this happen?” exclaimed Brenton. “I have heard nothing.”

“I recently received a letter from him, in which he also included a letter for you that I was preparing to send to you in New York.”

Brenton felt sickened. He would easily side with the Union on matters of slavery and obedience to the law of the country. He would proudly stand with the North and remain faithful to the ideas of a unified nation and liberty for all mankind. But his own family was now at risk. And what of his grandfather's plantation? The ancestral home was now under the care of the eldest Adams son, York. York Adams was, in fact, to act as advisor and guardian to Brenton and Jordana in the absence of their parents. But now that he had joined up with the Confederacy and was no doubt an officer, it was very possible that Oakbridge had been taken over by Federal troops.

With this thought, a hundred questions came to mind. Where would York's family have gone? Uncle York and Aunt Lucy and all of their children lived there. Would they have made it to safety?

“Perhaps I've worried you unduly,” Marcum continued. “I can't say that anything has happened to your family.”

“Neither can you say that it has not,” Brenton countered. “This is complete insanity. How can I take up arms against the South—against many members of my own family? Yet how can I sit idly by while others decide the fate of this nation?” He pulled off his glasses and, placing them on Marcum's desk, leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. “This affair will not be settled easily.”

“Without a doubt, you are correct on that matter,” Marcum replied. “If the citizens of this city are any indication of the nation as a whole, we will see much bloodshed before we see peace. The riots at the beginning of the war were enough to open my eyes to the seriousness of the situation. To see those in Baltimore who support the South appear with their Confederate flags and clubs, then to watch them attack the Union soldiers and even innocent citizens who happened to be in the way—well, let me tell you, it was a sight I'd just as soon never see again.”

Brenton couldn't even bring himself to look up. He simply shook his head and sighed. “I came here with the purpose of enlisting, and now I am hopelessly torn. I pray God will give me some direction, but no matter the answer—it will come at the cost of someone's blood.”

“My suggestion is that you go to the house and sleep on it,” said Marcum.

Brenton sat up and nodded. “Perhaps.” In his mind he was already plotting a trip to Oakbridge to see Uncle York for himself, and if he wasn't there, to attempt to find him. Knowing this would haunt him until he saw it through, Brenton took up his glasses and looked at Marcum. “You should know that my sister Jordana is staying at Deighton for the summer. No matter what happens to me, continue to send her portion of support, as well as mine. She may need the extra money in the maddening days to come. There is also the matter of our brother-in-law's sister Caitlan O'Connor. She is working presently for the Cornelius Vanderbilt house because she refused to take what she calls charity, but who is to say how long this will last? I don't want to worry that either of them are struggling for funds while I'm away from New York.”

Marcum nodded and went to his desk to note Brenton's instructions. “I will increase the stipend accordingly. I'm certain your parents would heartily approve of your care of Miss O'Connor.”

“I'm certain they would as well.” Brenton slowly got to his feet and secured his glasses in place. “If something should happen to me . . .”

He didn't know how to continue the thought. He wanted to make sure that Jordana had everything she needed, and he wanted all of his family to know how much he loved them—that he was willing to die for them.

“If you would care to write a letter,” Mr. Marcum suggested, “you could leave it in my care on the chance that the unthinkable should happen.”

Brenton considered this for a moment. “Yes. I believe that would be a sound and reasonable thing. I'll bring something by tomorrow.”

Brenton struggled with his conscience for over a week before giving up the fight. He would go to Oakbridge and talk to his uncle York, if he was still there. He knew the man to be pro-slavery, but he also knew him to be a loving husband and father who cared greatly for the welfare of his family. Brenton hoped they would still be in residence—and safe from the onslaught of war. If not, then he prayed there would be a way to find them.

Going to the railroad station had proved fruitless. Brenton could in no way secure passage to Washington.

“You should understand, son, all rail travel will be strongly devoted to the military's use. We're moving troops to Washington right now, and I haven't got a spare seat among the lot of them. And what with the renegade activities around the track areas—well, I'm not exactly sure I'd want to ride a train just now,” the ticket agent told Brenton that humid summer morning. “It's getting mighty dangerous, and President Lincoln has ordered extra guards along the rails to Washington.”