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AURA LEE PART FIVE 12/5/2009 6:37:45 AM
PART FIVE continued
Rain was torrential outside the small church in Rumsey the day a year earlier, in 1862, that Daniel Menefee and Melissa Mahaffey were married; it was her birthday, the day she turned twenty-one; and after a long-planned weekend in Asheville at a small inn called Elliott Cove, Daniel kissed his bride goodbye and rode off to join the 16th North Carolina Infantry, Company D, and report for duty as part of the Army of Northern Virginia—more specifically, the Stonewall Brigade temporarily under the command of General James Longstreet.
What Daniel knew that only one other person knew was that his bride and he had, together, made serious plans to be apart the shortest amount of time possible. Their plan had been distilled for months during a long and anxious engagement: no sooner would he leave their small house in western North Carolina than Melissa would get out her sewing shears and meticulously cut off her long, golden tresses, turning herself into the prettiest, fairest fifteen year old ‘boy’ ever to don a Confederate uniform. Her ample bosom tucked inside a flannel shirt five sizes too big, and her rounded hips wrapped in baggy gray trousers, she would barely be noticed with a private’s stripe sewed on her ragged tunic, which in reality was just a warm woolen coat her husband no longer wore.
A crack shot with a Springfield musket and a fast loader who could muzzle load with the best of them, Melissa Mahaffey-Menefee, like many young women not content to stay at home and wait, intended to fight side by side with her husband—even though both were strong Unionists who had little if any interest in supporting the Confederate cause.
“I’m goin’,” Daniel said, “’cause I’m conscripted, an’ I’ve had the militia trainin’. But I been born again, and I ain’t killin’ no Yankees’er anybody else, if’n nobody’s watchin’.”
To herself, Melissa said, “An’ I’m goin’ with you, luv. An’ soon’s we get any place near the Army of the Potomac, we off to join the Fed’rals!”
Daniel was a farmer and a hunter. He had been raised a farmer’s son on sixty-one acres in a lush valley in Wahundin County, amidst the Blue Ridge Mountains in a far corner of North Carolina. He had two brothers and three sisters, and like everyone else in that part of the country, they agreed on—absolutely nothing. Some relatives and neighbors sided with the Confederates, but as many or more wanted nothing to do with secession or slavery, states’ rights, Abe Lincoln or Jeff Davis. It was a part of the country that had separated itself from both the South and the North generations before the Civil War.
The only thing anyone from that region truly agreed upon was that Stonewall Jackson was an American hero of the highest stature—no matter what flag he chose to march under. His reputation, his legend, his persona brought goose bumps to the forearms of inhabitants listening to or regaling stories of his startling feats of valor and military acumen. A common consensus when Wahundin County residents got together was, “Y’all put that Stonewall Jackson with J.E.B. Magruder fer ‘bout two weeks an’ this damn war’s done!”
Ones who leaned toward Union sympathies invariably interjected, “Put him with McClellan or Tecumseh Sherman fer two days an’ ol’ Jeff Davis be high-tailin’ it back to Miss’ippi like he got a hot poker up his ass!”
Southerners would smirk with a rejoinder: “Pshhittt! Lee give Jackson nuff men to fill a Savannah dance card, an’ ol’ Jeff Davis be sittin’ in the Pres’dental Mansion gitting’ tea served him by Mary Todd ryche-now!” It was common knowledge that the tall, gangling commander-in-chief’s wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, had seven brothers and brothers-in-law fighting for the Confederacy against her husband.
Shortly after such dialogue, it was common that a down-and-dirty fistfight would ensue. Broken noses, broken furniture, and broken friendships (and women-folk who wouldn’t speak to one another for years) were the obvious indications one had suddenly awakened in western North Carolina.
But that spring in 1862 Melissa’s plan was simply to catch up with and join her husband before he reached Raleigh.
“Ten, fifteen miles west of Raleigh it’s all woods an’ short hills,” Daniel told her, as they lay in bed their last night together before he was to leave. “What y’all do, you movin’ alone with jess your ruck an’ your rifle, y’all gonna make them woods ‘least a day afore us’n. You hang back in the low scrub ‘til we’s comin’, then when you see me—I be always on the left side of the line—y’all jess come out an’ walk ryche-up ‘side me—an’ off we go! Smart as a candy dancer!”
Melissa kissed his neck and snuggled deeper beneath the goose comforter into the crook of his arm. “Jess make sure y’all there, luv! Married men been knowed to run off an’ desert both the army an’ their wives once they git the war-itch!”
Daniel laughed at that and, taking her playfulness as an invitation, rolled over on top.
One year later to the day, in eastern Virginia, the first officer Scoffie Goodis and Hunter Worboys encountered was Captain William R. Jameson, III. “You men couldn’tna come at a better time. You Georgia boys know how to work those muskets?”
Capt. Jameson, Scoffie felt immediately, was a person to whom he was not going to feel close to. Bill Jameson was no more than twenty-five, but he had that certain air about him of keen worldliness and fabricated achievement only an over-indulged youth seemed to possess. And he had brilliant blond hair and a beard and moustache the color of tarnished brass; he carried himself inside his heavy gray uniform with robust masculine determination. The gleaming, polished VMI emblem on his collar shone even brighter than his sewn white captain’s bars. The man he most idolized and emulated (secretly, of course) was the Union general, George Armstrong Custer. Were I not a true son of the South, he often reminded himself, I would be at Custer’s side.
“Gen’ral Jackson be back first light tomorrow,” Jameson said, anticipating the recruits’ first question. “He told me y’all comin’ in today, so I been makin’ ready for y’all. He’s with Lieutenants Morrison and Smith on a overnight to Gen’ral Lee’s, so y’all can tie up behind that tent over there next to mine, the one on the left, and when y’all get settled in, come back up here, and we gonna get things tidied up some. Come on back over there in no more’n ten minutes.”
The two soldiers saluted smartly and moved their horses down a small rise to where their tents stood in the compound Scoffie was sure made up Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters.
It was comprised of five gleaming ivory-tinted tents in a wide semi-circle; the largest was certainly Jackson’s as it occupied a center position with a Confederate flag to the right and a divisional banner hanging limp and heavy to the left. The front flap was closed, and at this time of late afternoon, that would indicate it was either unoccupied or its owner was asleep; the flaps on all the others were open, desirous of a breath of air within. For early April, it was a warm, still day.
Horses tethered and watered, gear stowed inside the batmen’s tent, Scoffie and Hunter were back outside Jameson’s own tent well within ten minutes. Waiting for them were the captain and three others.
“Corporal Goodis and Private Worboys reporting as ordered, sir!” Scoffie offered, and he and Hunter saluted, snapping to attention.
Jameson looked up and spoke sharply. “Goodis. Worboys. All right!” He glanced at the three other Rebels. “Gentlemen, these are Gen’ral Jackson’s new batmen. They were sent to us courtesy of Colonel Leo Derwent, Georgia 3rd Detached Reserve Infantry, to replace Corporals Huckaby and Vansteen who, as y’all know, were lost to us at Fredericksburg. Soldiers, this is Lieutenant Ronald Purves, Lieutenant Leroy Naylor, and my personal aide, Lieutenant Jack Kreson. All of us are VMI,” he added, as if that would somehow inspire awe in the two newcomers. It did not. Hunter glanced at Scoffie and made an imperceptible facial flash of casual wonderment that no one, including Scoffie, caught.
Captain William R. Jameson, III had graduated from VMI in 1855, eighth in his class, just four years after Thomas Jonathan Jackson had resigned his army commission to accept a professorship at the institute to teach artillery, military strategy, philosophy, and astronomy. It was in Cadet Jameson’s third year that Prof. Jackson had caught him red-handed, caught him cheating on a mid-term by slipping notes from the cuff of his tunic. Confronted privately with the evidence, Jameson denied culpability with utter and feigned astonishment and indignation; it was all a misunderstanding, and if Jackson would overlook it and not report him to the Honor Board, he, Jameson, would not report Jackson to the tenure committee as an unqualified instructor whom no one respected or even liked.
Cadet Jameson’s father was Colonel William R. Jameson, Jr., a member of that committee, and son of the legendary General William R. Jameson, one of several founders of VMI in 1832.
Jackson was not intimidated. His whole being was thoroughly disciplined by the West Point Cadet Honor Code, which was identical to VMI’s and stated, simply, "A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, nor tolerate those who do." He did not hesitate to bring charges against young Bill and set the stage for a trial. Cadet Jameson insisted he was innocent and lamely cried that old ‘Tom Fool’ Jackson was out to get him. The Honor Board listened impassively to both sides of the story and, for reasons blindingly clear, reprimanded Jameson with a string of insignificant demerits—but did not, as it should have, drum him out of the corps.
The cadet immediately responded—to save his honor—by challenging Jackson to a duel. Pistols at twenty paces (as the challenger it was not his choice, but his second, Brian Kiplinger, a “rat”, a first year plebe assigned to serve the whims of upper classmen, said pistols were called for. Jackson merely shook his head and said, “Fine—pistols are fine.”) Unbeknown to Jameson, Thomas Jackson owned a set of superlative dueling pistols, and he practiced with them often, claiming target practice with big-barreled, unreliable flintlock pistols was a true test of marksmanship.
Dueling, even before the Hamilton-Burr affair, was illegal in America, and Jackson took an inordinate amount of time to think it through. "If I kill the young man," he reasoned to himself, "or even wound him, I will have broken two laws: God’s commandment and the law of the land. But as I have no intention of firing my weapon anyplace save into the ground. The only harm that can come of this is, the rascal may accidentally kill me. In the grand scheme of things, however, that is highly unlikely. Unless, of course, it is God’s will that I die that day, rather than on a day I might prefer, say, a Sunday, then what difference does it make whether Jameson shoots me, or a stone falls from a rampart as I enter the building and does me in? In either event I shall be gone, and in the former, Jameson, though he may go to jail or be hanged, will have regained his honor, assuming he ever had any."
At 4 o’clock of the scheduled morning, Professor Jackson, having slept soundly from 9 until 3 by his wife Mary Anna’s side, and praying, as was his custom, until 3:30, donned his greatcoat, re-examined his pistols, and left his warm home in Lexington; he went off on horseback, carrying his Bible and a picture of his mother under one arm, and his pistol case under the other, to the flat pasture at the foot of House Mountain, some three miles away. He rendezvoused just outside of town with his two seconds, Associate Professor Wilson Crandall and Instructor Trent Cambardie.
"This is sheer foolishness, Tom," Crandall muttered, as they waited in the dank air.
"I don’t agree," Jackson replied. "Although the lad doesn’t know it, he has nothing to lose. And neither do I."
"How so?" Cambardie inquired. "It’s a duel, for God’s sake!"
Jackson stifled a chuckle. "So it would appear. But the scenario has been dutifully altered. Good dueling pistols—and I assure you these are among the best—are the most difficult weapon with which to hit anything forty feet away, even in broad daylight. When Jameson takes his stance and fires at me, the odds are a thousand to one his ball will come closer than eight inches from me. After he fires, I will slowly raise my pistol and take aim for over fifteen or twenty seconds before I pull the trigger. During that interminable span, one of two things is likely to happen. Either he will stand his ground like a man and wait for my shot to pierce him between the eyes, or he will turn and run like the coward I suspect he is. It doesn’t matter. He will live to cheat and lie another day and tell his friends whatever story he wishes to concoct. I will, at the end, point my pistol off slightly to the right and waste a perfectly good ball."
They waited in the dank chill until precisely 5:15 a.m., but Cadet William R. Jameson, III never appeared. Jackson said nothing. He merely shrugged, handed his pistol case to one of his seconds, mounted his horse and galloped off in the morning mist.
Jackson never spoke of this incident to anyone, and suggested that his seconds do likewise. Jameson appeased his cronies with a misconception of time: he claimed he had gone to the appointed place at 6 a.m. and no one had come to satisfy him. The young student removed himself from Jackson’s classes, and life at VMI went on as before. At his graduation, Jackson shook the new second lieutenant’s hand, as was the custom, but the boy would not make eye contact. The handshake was quick, limp, and perfunctory; and Jameson turned away and spoke to someone else as if he were passing down a dull receiving line.
Someday, Jackson thought, were I ever again called to uniform, I may be blessed with the opportunity of having this Laodicean lad serve under my command. A cheat is not necessarily a coward; the former can be molded into something; but courage is in the soul. I would like to find out which resides in this peculiar young man.
Now, in 1863, standing in the compound of Jackson’s headquarters with the Army of Northern Virginia and its dozen divisions, its Stonewall Brigade and several others scattered along the south and eastern shores of the Rappahannock and the Rapidan, Captain William R. Jameson, III considered the men around him, the newest ones especially, and said, “Y’all got here just in time, and I’m glad you’ve got new rifles ‘cause we need two more in the squad, at least one attached to the gen’ral to make it official, when we execute a couple gawd-damn deserters just ‘fore sunset!”
