General Lee at once recognized the officer, embraced him, then they whispered for a few minutes before the general said, “Wait here.” As he turned to enter the house, he looked at the Union colonel, saying, “Thank God this war is over!” Entering, he closed the door after him as if to shut out the whole tragic past.
In a short time a member of the general’s staff appeared. “Colonel Yates,” he called, for he did not, at first, see the man in the great crowd. “General Lee directs me to give you this letter to deliver to your wife, and may you have a speedy journey westward.”
“Thank the general for me,” he managed to say. “And may God bless him.” He saluted, turned, mounted a big black horse, and rode away.
CHAPTER XXII
He came back—yes, that damn Yank came back. Can’t you just feel the gladness in his heart as he rode back over the old trail whence he had come in the fall of ’61? Back across the valley; over the turnpike to White Sulphur Springs, through the war-battered old town of Lewisburg; up over Big Sewell, where Lee had camped; down past the old Stone House; by Spy Rock; down Gauley to the Tyree Tavern, which was deserted then; and finally, the last mile down the lane to the Pines.
For companionship on the journey home, you can close your eyes and imagine a conversation with Black Demon, the high-spirited, intelligent steed that carried him safely through the war. Can’t you hear him saying, as he patted the animal’s sleek neck, “Thank God the war is over. We’re going home to Molly—won’t she be glad to see us? What a surprise when we blow in unannounced—you and me, boy. Well, you and I—we’re the two things she loves most”?
Can’t you see the horse prick up his ears and turn his head from side to side, as if he were answering? As they turned down the lane, he would sense that he was home and his heart would pound as hard as his rider’s.
Rubin was in the barn out back when the rider dismounted, dropped the reins, hurried up the wood walk, bounded out to the porch, and rapped on the closed door. Again and again he knocked. He tried the latch—it was locked. He came around to the front; the same greeted him—no answer. He walked around the house, peeking into the windows. Things were in place as he remembered. Then he sat down on the back porch.
Rubin knew it was Black Demon sipping from the old moss-covered trough, but he stayed hidden, remembering Rachel’s promise to Molly. At once Black Demon raised his head, looked toward the barn, and whinnied. Had he recognized Rubin, or was he wondering where Molly was? Rubin saw Andy look his way. He froze when he started toward the barn but changed directions and walked across the ravine by the springhouse and down to the family cemetery.
There he saw two new graves marked with one stone. He eased forward to read,
He turned away and gazed back toward the barn, where Rubin was watching through a crack between the siding. He saw the tall, strong Yankee turn back toward the marker and bound to the other side to read its inscription. He saw Andy stagger, fall to his knees, grasping the stone in each hand. He turned white. Sobbing, he read out loud the delicate lettering chiseled into the marker,
Rubin heard him gasp and cry out loud, “Oh God—what trick has fate played on me now? Molly, I promised I’d come back to you. I’ve kept my promise—I’m here. Why didn’t you wait? Oh God—you can’t come back. Fate has taken you away—someday, someday—by God’s grace, I’ll come to you.”
Andy staggered to his feet, removed something from his pocket, dropped it on Molly’s grave; dazed and blinded with tears, he walked back across the ravine, by the barn, where Rubin watched and could hear his hysterical sobbing, on his way to Black Demon. He threw his arms around his neck, saying, “Molly’s not here—she won’t be with us.”
He gathered the reins in his hand, mounted, and rode back up the lane, head bowed and tears flowing.
Halfway up the lane, he met a wagon driving toward the cabin. A black woman occupied the seat with a little child—a white child. She spoke to the Yankee soldier, but Andy, seemingly, unconscious even to their presence, gazed straight ahead and rode hastily on.
Rachel, after the soldier passed, to herself said, “It’s Black Demon.” Bringing the horses to a stop, she stood up, turned around shouting, “It’s Black Demon! Oh God! It’s Black Demon—Ah tell yo’, it’s Black Demon.”
It was too late. The retreating horse and rider were out of sight. The rest of the way down the lane, she mumbled to Pearl, “Yo’ can’t fool Black Nanny on dat horse. No, sah! Recon’ ah’d know ’im if ah’d see ’im—an’—an’ that black-whiskered good-for-nothing Yankee’s done stole ’im. Dat’s exactly what he’s done. But Master Lee’ll get ’im and hang dat black ablish’nists, for dis heah war am ober.”
Rubin couldn’t wait to tell Rachel what had happened. When he saw her coming down the lane, he ran to her, shouting. Rachel was shouting back, “Yo’ black nigger, why yo’ no git Black Demon an’ stop dat Yank?”
A verbal battle ensued, and because of Rubin’s fear, Andy, he was allowed to ride away without knowing that white child in the wagon was his.
Some days later, Rachel brought me the letter that Andy dropped on Molly’s grave. It was from General Lee.
April 11, 1865Richmond, Virginia
My dear child:
Today you would have thought me a hero when I rode into Richmond. The crowds cheered and cheered the commander of a defeated army. There is no one more thankful than I that the war is over.
When I arrived home, my family was not allowed to meet me out front. The Union troops kept them inside for their protection. But when I dismounted, I heard a familiar voice, calling, “General Lee, General Lee, I’m Andy Yates. Could I speak to you?”
There he was, a colonel in the most unkempt and dirty uniform I have ever seen. He and a quadrant of men were guarding the homeplace and my family.
Molly, this letter is threefold. First, I wish to extend my sympathy to you in your aunt’s death. Colonel Yates, only a few moments ago, informed me she was killed by black plunderers. I’m totally sorry that something wasn’t done to protect the citizens of this city.
The second item I know is of great sadness to you. Your father and I were like brothers. You and Levi I thought of as my children. I feel pain in my heart for all the men of the South who sacrificed themselves for our cause. But somehow, the pain is greater when I think of Oran, your father, and your brother, Levi. I hope they can share in the history of this great war. You should also have a place in its history. I have been and will be forever grateful for the information and assistance you afforded me in the Sewell Mountain encampment.
Thirdly, Molly, I owe you an apology. I remember when you rode into my camp on Big Sewell in the fall of ’61 relating your and Andy’s plight. I also remember the fatherly advice I tried to give you. I know now I was wrong. This colonel—this Andy Yates—he loves you dearly. You are his every concern.
His thoughts are ever of you. I can see the admiration in his eyes when he speaks of you. You can be proud of this Yank, not because of his rank in the Union army, nor for his deeds during battle, but because of his enduring love. Child, he is far above the average husband. Cherish and love him forever.