Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (71 page)

“You must stay and raise our son.”

Andrea lifted her head, thinking perhaps he was
hallucinating with his pain. “You must have a sudden power of foresight unknown
to me.” She gazed into eyes that appeared perfectly lucid.

Alex smiled and repeated words that were once
spoken to him. “Some things are meant to be. And not even you in your folly can
you keep them from happening. Remember?”

Andrea stared at him thoughtfully.  “And this
son,” she said, playing along since it brought a smile to his lips, “what shall
be his name?”

“Daniel,” was the ready reply.

“Very well.” She kissed his cheek. “Daniel
Alexander Hunter it shall be.”

Alex’s face radiated a look of magnificent
trust, a look that implied he knew he had fulfilled his mission in life. He
closed his eyes and sighed, a strangely peaceful expression upon his face as
the lengthening shadows enveloped them.

“Oh, Alex, I wish we could stay like this forever,”
Andrea whispered, snuggling against him again. “Our time is too short.”

“How much time would be enough, Andrea?”

She fell silent for a moment, her chest rising
and falling in unison with his. “Never enough here,” she said quietly and with
new resolve. “But what escapes us in this world, surely awaits us in the next.”

* * *

Andrea sat and watched the lamplight flicker in
the night and then gazed at the gray morning crawling over the hills.
Instinctively she knew the day she had dreaded had arrived.

Alex’s strength had vanished over the past few
days, the effects of the infection noticeably consuming his vitality now. Most
of the time he knew her and his dull eyes would follow her every move. But
sometimes his gaze would lock in an unfocused stare and confused mutterings of
orders and commands would ensue. The fire that love of liberty had lighted
within him remained burning despite his deteriorating physical state.

“He grows restless without you,” Mattie said
when Andrea entered the chamber after a brief absence.

“I am here, Alex.” Andrea stroked his brow to
calm his murmuring. “I will not leave again.”

His cheeks were rosy with fever, but when he
opened his lids and saw her, he seemed to rally and refuse more fervently to
give in to the inevitable.

“Andrea.” He tried to smile. “I was dreaming, I
think. I heard bells.”

Andrea looked up at Mattie who stood on the
other side of the bed. “No, dear. You were not dreaming.”

“It is,” he paused and swallowed hard, “over
then?” He turned his head slightly toward her and gave a dreary stare.

Andrea nodded and squeezed his hand.

“The Cause is lost?”

Andrea did not want to answer. She had left his
bedside to receive word from Carter that Lee had surrendered the Army of
Northern Virginia at Appomattox Courthouse. “The struggle was valiant,” was all
she said.

Alex’s fingers closed around the blankets on the
bed as if a surge of pain passed through him. “Then I shall die on a glorious
day.” He took a deep breath. “I suppose.”

Andrea bowed her head, knowing he would have
preferred to die on the battlefield than live to witness such an end to the
war. She placed her hand on his shoulder and answered his next question before
he asked it. “Major Carter disbanded the men. They did not choose to
surrender.”

He gazed up at her and a peaceful look crossed
his face. “No,” he said, closing his eyes, “my men would never surrender.”

“They wished you to have this.” She placed a
small fragment of cloth in his hand and closed his fingers around it. “It’s a
remnant of your battle flag. Each man of the Command has a piece.”

“They are good men,” he murmured. “Tell them—”

He never finished the sentence. Andrea watched
his chest rise and fall with each breath, and could not resist pressing a kiss
of love upon his feverish lips.

Slowly he opened his eyes. “A gloomy peace this
morning with it brings,” he said weakly.

“The sun, for sorrow, will not show its head,”
she responded, softly touching his cheek as a lone tear spilled down her own.
She could feel his pulse weakening, knew his heart was wearying of its
mission—while hers writhed in its cage, revolting against the hours and years
that lay ahead.

Andrea stared at the shadows on the wall cast by
the rising sun, and listened sullenly to a clock ticking with merciless
persistence in her ears.  She kept a vigil on his restless sleep in voiceless
agony, suffering as he suffered, and waiting as he waited. Her eyes roamed the
room as she forced her thoughts to the joyous and passionate moments of her
short marriage, trying to ignore the smell of medicine and suffering and death.

When again Alex opened his eyes some hours
later, they were no longer burning with the gray intensity Andrea remembered.
They reflected a helpless look of acknowledgment that he knew his physical
strength was giving out. Andrea knew she was gazing upon a life losing a
valiant endeavor to combat death.

“I won’t… be far… Andrea,” he murmured, barely
moving his lips. His face was calm as his gaze rested longingly upon her.
Andrea leaned forward, her very life depending on hearing every word. She held
her breath and waited for him speak, waited for him to take another breath.
Waited for what seemed a lifetime before he did.

“You are all to me, Andrea.”

Despite his physical weakness, she could still
hear the adoration in his voice. New tears welled in Andrea’s eyes, but she
forced them away. Though she yearned to scream and hold him and beg him to
stay, she nerved herself to endure these last painful moments bravely. She did
not wish him to suffer any longer. She must let him go.

Alex took a deep, quivering breath and gazed
directly into her eyes. “I will … wait … for you there.”

Andrea knew it was the last time she would hear
him speak, knew it was the last time his knightly hand would clasp hers. His
pulse began to stagger and fade. She felt him sliding away from her, though
through it all he wore an expression of utter calm.

“As promised, Alex, I give you to Virginia and
God,” she whispered, pushing a dampened curl from his forehead. “Until we meet
again—”

Only a few moments later she felt his life leave
him. Although she held him tighter and tighter, trying to shield him from the
Angel of Death, it was not to be.

In her arms, he yielded his life without a
struggle, without fear, his precious gray eyes fixed on hers to the end.

* * *

Andrea sat motionless on her husband’s bed after
the funeral, tearless now, yet sobbing in hopeless agony.

How could but the span of a week bring with it
so much joy and so much pain? Be so phenomenally good and miraculously bad?

How could a woman be a blushing bride one moment
and a grieving widow the next?

How could she be here and he not?

Already she missed him; missed his strong
presence, his reassuring voice, his gentle hands and comforting strength.

Her eyes drifted to the gray coat that lay folded
over a chair by the bed. Her empty stare lingered on it long before she leaned
over and touched it. She picked it up then, and ran her hand across the
battered cloth before bringing it to her face and inhaling deeply the manly
scent that lingered there. She felt somehow closer to him holding the material
under which his heroic heart had throbbed for four long years. Beneath this
mere collection of fibers his blood had surged in victory and defeat, and
clinging still to its gray threads was the very spirit of Him. He was a
magnificent man in uniform; even more magnificent in soul. Courageous.
Dauntless. Gallant. Bold. Surely too grand to be mortal. Yet he was gone.

Thrusting her arms into the coat, Andrea pulled
it closely around her, and slumped down to the floor, crying again, though she
had thought she had no more tears to shed. “Oh, Alex,” she whimpered, clutching
it around her and burying herself in its folds. “Come back to me!”

As her hand passed over a pocket, she felt a
small lump. Blinking through blinding tears, she withdrew an envelope and
recognized his writing: To my wife. She trembled as she unfolded the paper and
read:

My dearest Andrea,

How my pen trembles as I picture you in your
pain and vainly seek the words that will console you now and in the journey
that lies ahead.

She hastily wiped the tears from her eyes that
she might see more clearly.

Please do not weep, my darling, for I smile
as I write these words! Every precious moment with you is one I treasure fondly
and remember only with the greatest pleasure. Can you not do the same? Can you
not remember me with a smile and not a tear, knowing that my spirit will ever
be entwined with yours?

Even now, though my strength is quickly
draining, sweet memories of our times together stir my heart with their
vividness and bring a smile to my lips. Do you know how much you taught me dear
wife? Of strength? Of devotion? Of honor? Of love?

Think back, Mrs. Hunter, to when first you
graced the halls of Hawthorne, (Camp Misery I believe
it was called then).
Did you guess one day you would become her mistress?

Andrea paused a moment and realized that her
lips had curled into a smile at the thought, and that that was his intention,
and then her heart broke all over again. Was there ever a man more noble?

And what a wonderful mistress you shall be!
Andrea, darling, you must be strong—that is my desire (and did you not vow to
obey me?) I gave you my name, and know you will bear it honorably, and carry on
my legacy, and Hawthorne’s legacy, with the strength and courage that is
distinctly yours.

The next lines seemed to be written at a later
date, appearing to be in a more scrawling hand, making the writing more
difficult to read.

I fear my time has come. Wife of my heart, my
soul, my strength, never forget how much I love you! And know that I honored
and respected your spirit with a depth of affection that cannot die. Andrea,
whatever else you do or feel or believe, never for one moment lose your abiding
faith in my love for you! And know as I know, that two hearts, so joined as
ours, never part, even if separated through time and space.

Dear wife, I have done what I can for my
country, and now I turn to my God—and wait for my love.

Alex

Andrea opened a second envelope and removed a
beautiful gold locket engraved with the letter H. With trembling hands, she
opened the clasp and gasped at the image of Alex in uniform, his skin bronzed,
his eyes penetrating hers from beneath the glass, just as she had remembered
them. On the opposite side was a lock of one of his brown curls. She turned the
locket over and ran her finger across the engraved words:

To Andrea from her husband

You are all to me

1865

Although Andrea had thought they had said all
they could say to one another, Alex’s words from beyond the grave moved her.
Now, when her grief turned inconsolable, as she knew it would, there would
forever be his words on paper to comfort her, and his loving keepsake to soothe
her.

Mattie knocked on the door and entered. “Is you
all right, Mistis?”  She knelt down beside Andrea.

“Yes, Mattie.” Andrea held the letter and locket
close to her heart and whispered a thank you to her husband. “I think I’m going
to be all right.”

Epilogue

 “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.
 Love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

– From a headstone in Ireland

Andrea Hunter stared at the back of the
boy—young man really—as he leaned against the white column on the porch,
sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in his pockets, left leg crossed over
right, so much like his father it was uncanny.

“Angelina’s coming,” he said to no one in
particular.

Andrea watched the small blur in the distance
turn into a horse and rider.  They approached from the east, through the
pastures, jumping any obstacle in their path before sliding to a stop in front
of the house.

Andrea stood from her rocking chair on the porch
and eyed the heaving horse and rider. “You shouldn’t ride like that young
lady.”

“You did.” Angelina exchanged a mischievous
smile with the young man.

“Who told you that?” Andrea turned to her son.
“Daniel Hunter. What nonsense are you telling Angelina?”

“It weren’t him, Mistis Hunter,” Angelina
answered, dismounting and tying the horse. “Mamma tol’ me. She tol’ me back
during the war that you—”  

“Well, it was different back then.” Andrea watched
the two smile like they shared a secret joke. “Remind me to tell Gabriella to
mind her own business.”

The topic of war caused Andrea’s thoughts to
wander back through the mist of time. In many ways the scenes she recalled
seemed more like a dream to her now, vague and shadowy—like the stuff of
fantasy or myth. But sometimes the vividness of the memories would come rushing
back—names, faces, scenes of war. Things she would always remember. Things she
could never forget.

Her gaze drifted to the hill, to the two
tombstones standing as monuments to the manly forms that once walked the earth.
She thought of their noble lives, and their heroic deaths, and then looked back
at her son and Angelina together. It seemed a hundred years ago that Angelina
was born a slave child here, perhaps a thousand years ago, so distant did that
time seem to be.

Now, Angelina and Gabriella were free, living on
twenty acres on the other side of the hill. And Angelina and Daniel were like
brother and sister, the existence of the institution of slavery existing only
as stories from their elders—not as memories.

“Mamma ran out of sugar.” Angelina came striding
up the steps, still out of breath.