The Sword (50 page)

By the end of March 1865, General Lee knew that the end was near, and he could no longer guard Richmond. The army moved west to join other forces in the Shenandoah Valley. Clay sent Chantel and Jacob to his parents’ home in Lexington. Grant, with nothing to stop him now, occupied Richmond and dogged Lee. The forlorn retreat of the Army of Northern Virginia lasted only a week. It ended at Appomattox Court House.

General Grant rode up to Wilmer McLean’s fine two-story home. He was shabby and dusty. He had on a single-breasted blouse made of dark blue flannel, unbuttoned in front, showing a waistcoat underneath. His trousers were tucked into muddy boots. He had no spurs, and he wore no sword. The only designation of his rank was a pair of faded shoulder straps with four dimmed stars.

The aides he had sent ahead were waiting for him, and a group of Confederates, dressed in rather worn full-dress uniforms stood around the home.

Grant dismounted. “He’s already here?” he asked an aide.

“Yes, sir.”

Grant nodded and hurried into the house.

Clay had found the remnants of the Louisiana Tigers, and Armand Latane was there, in his full-dress uniform. It was clean, but it was faded and patched, as was Clay’s uniform. They watched as Grant and General Phil Sheridan went inside with several other officers.

“And so it’s over,” Armand murmured. “At last. I joined, I fought, I thought that we would win. Until the winter, in Petersburg.”

Clay said quietly, “You know, when I joined, I just knew the South would win. I kept thinking that, even after Grant came after us and kept pushing us back, throwing more and more men at us. But on the day Jeb Stuart was shot, I began to think that we were going to lose. It’s as if all my hopes were in him. That was wrong. No one man can win a war. But I couldn’t help it. Not one day since that day did I ever think again that we would be able to beat them.” The two could say nothing more.

Finally the door opened, and the two generals came out. Clay sighed deeply when he saw Robert E. Lee. He was dressed in a new uniform, spotless and crisp. A great heavy sword, the hilt bejeweled, was at his side. He stood erect, his bearing as always dignified and grave, but deep sadness was written on his face. His eyes went out over the fields and valley below, where his army waited for him to speak to them for the last time. He mounted Traveler, his beautiful, graceful gray horse, and settled his hat on his head. As
he rode through the silent gray ranks, he said, “Go to your homes and resume your occupations. Obey the laws and become as good citizens as you were soldiers.”

Clay stacked his musket, setting it upright alongside Armand’s. “I hope I never have to raise my hand to another man again,” he said wearily. “All I want is a quiet life, a simple life, with Chantel.”

Armand laid his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “My friend, your life might be simple, yes. But with Chantel I doubt it will be quiet. You got the prize, my friend. Never forget that.”

“Never,” Clay repeated firmly. “I never will.”

He could see his house, up on a rise, with a small green valley below it. It was almost a mile off the main road. He rode slowly, for Lightning was weary. Clay himself had grown thin and was a much weaker man than he had been before wintering in Petersburg. But as he drew nearer to his house, he suddenly felt a surge of energy that somehow translated itself to Lightning. The horse raised his lowered head as in the old days when he had caught the scent of battle, and with the slightest touch of Clay’s heels, he began to canter and then to gallop.

Chantel was sitting on the veranda, sipping tea and knitting. At the first distant sounds of hoofbeats, she looked up alertly. Then she jumped to her feet, lifted her skirts, and took off down the road at a dead run.

Clay slid off Lightning even before he stopped. Chantel threw herself into his arms. For a long time they stood there, clasped in each other’s arms, saying nothing. Finally Clay put one finger under her chin, lifted her face, and kissed her. The kiss, too, lasted for a long time.

Lightning stopped for a moment, but as they stayed clasped in their embrace, he unconcernedly trotted past them and went to the shade trees on the side of the yard, where there was a watering trough.

Arm in arm Clay and Chantel walked toward the house. “It’s
over,” Clay said, marveling. “It’s over, and I’m home. And the biggest miracle is that you’re here. My wife. I love you dearly, my wife.”

“I love you dearly, too, me,” Chantel said, laughing. “It’s good that you’re home. You’re too skinny, you. Maybe I catch an alligator and cook it, fatten you up.”

“Even alligator sounds good right now,” Clay sighed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten a good, solid meal.”

They went up onto the veranda, and Clay started to go in, but Chantel pulled at his arm and said, “Sit down here for a minute with me. I should get to see my husband alone for a little while when he comes home from this war.”

They sat down in two rockers, Clay pulling his so close to Chantel’s that she couldn’t rock. But she obviously didn’t care. They held hands and looked out over the peaceful valley.

Clay said, “On the way home, I thought a lot about what I would like to do, Chantel.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, first I want to be the best husband who ever lived,” he said lightly. Then he sobered a little and continued, “I’m sick of fighting. I’m sick of killing and hurting men. I want to do something good, something to help people instead of hurting them. I think I’d like to be a doctor.”

With delight Chantel clapped her hands. “Oh Clay, you would be such a good, such a fine doctor! And you can get rich and buy me lots of pretty dresses!”

“I surely will,” he said, grinning. “All you want.”

“But that’s not the only reason I would be glad you’ll be a doctor,” she said firmly. “There is another reason. You must hurry, Clay, and start studying right now.”

“What? Why?” he asked, bewildered.

“Because,” she said slowly, “around about September I’m going to need a doctor.”

He stared at her wide-eyed. Then his gaze fell to the knitting on the little low table by Chantel’s chair. Slowly he reached down,

lifted it up, and saw with shock that Chantel was knitting a pair of baby’s booties.

“This—we’re going to have a baby?” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“In—in September?”

“Yes.”

Clay jumped up, Chantel jumped up, and he put his hands on her waist and held her high in the air and whooped like a madman.

They were just like a young couple who had lived in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, in 1855.

They could have been Flora and Jeb Stuart.

A
ward-winning, bestselling author Gilbert Morris is well known for penning numerous Christian novels for adults and children since 1984 with 6.5 million books in print. He is probably best known for the forty-book House of Winslow series, and his
Edge of Honor
was a 2001 Christy Award winner. He lives with his wife in Gulf Shores, Alabama.