Swan's Way (17 page)

“Channing, you
mustn’t
tell them before we’re married!” She clung to him, sobbing.

“We belong to each other, no matter what happens, Virginia.” He spoke quietly, trying to soothe her, but she could feel his heart thundering against hers. “Don’t ever forget that, darlin’. I love you, and that will
never
change.”

Nothing was yet resolved when Channing left Virginia. He had imagined that the day he slipped the engagement ring on her finger would be one of the happiest of their lives. Instead, it had proved a sad event. His heart heavy, he rode the short distance to Belle Grove. Always before, his homecomings had been joyous occasions. His parents and sisters had been waiting a long time to see him. He had not been home since the Christmas holidays. Yet he dreaded this reunion.

As his horse plodded along, in no hurry, since neither was its rider, Channing thought back to those happy days of his last visit home—parties and balls and the traditional Christmas Eve bonfire. Then New Year’s Day, when he had made the rounds to pay calls on all his friends. He had saved the best stop for last, eager to savor his time at Swan’s Quarter with Virginia and her family.

Together, Channing and Virginia had decided that the first day of the New Year was the perfect time to declare their intentions to their families. Melora Swan had long suspected what was coming. Jedediah Swan had long hoped. Their announcement had been greeted with enthusiasm and joy. Mrs. Swan had wept happily, as she embraced the man who would be her son-in-law. As for Colonel Swan, instead of the stern talk usually delivered by the fathers of young women, reserved for their young men, Jedediah had shown Channing into the library, closed the door, then bellowed delightedly, “By damn, son, I couldn’t be more pleased. I’ve hoped from the moment my Virginia was born that someday the two of you would tie the knot. With you siring them, I can count on fine, strong grandsons—at least a dozen, I vow. Join me in a toast to that happy thought, won’t you?”

Channing almost smiled at the memory of that glorious day, over five months ago. But even the ghost of a smile vanished when he thought about what lay ahead. He had grave doubts that Colonel Swan would offer him a drink when he heard this latest news. More likely, Virginia’s father would dash a pony of bourbon into her fiancé’s face. But surely Jedediah Swan would not demand that the wedding be canceled. Not that! It would be too extreme, even for these extreme circumstances.

The worry lingered, gnawing at his heart and his gut. Channing brightened a bit, as he turned into the wide, tree-lined lane that led to Belle Grove. The thought of coming home never failed to gladden his heart. The place held so many happy memories of his childhood. Every creek brought to mind long, lazy summer afternoons of dangling a worm at the end of his pole, while he lay in the tall, sweet grass drowsing under drifting puffs of cloud. Every tree recalled to mind a secret haunt, a hideout where he and the Swan brothers had planned mock battles to be fought in the peach orchard or among the tall rows of corn. How could he have known back then, in those sunny, carefree days of his youth, that eventually the battles would be all too real? There seemed no way to escape that pain.

Thoughts of the letter from his father brought a deeper concern to Channing. Thompson McNeal clearly expected his son to ride off to war with the men of Swan’s Quarter. Before Channing told another soul of his plans, he owed it to his father to explain his decision. He was the one person Channing had always been able to confide in. Thompson McNeal was a level headed, straight-talking Scotsman. He had given his only son good advice all his life. Now, as never before, Channing needed the opinion of someone older and wiser, someone he could trust.

Instead of dismounting and going into the house, where he guessed his mother and sisters would be waiting with open arms, happy tears, and a fresh-baked apple pie, Channing turned his horse toward the tobacco fields. This time of day, he knew that was where he would find his father.

Sure enough, Channing spied the battered old straw planter’s hat bobbing mid-field in the distance. As he drew nearer, the erect form of his solid Scottish father came into clear view. Channing noted with pride that the old man still sat his mount as though he and the animal were one.

“Hallo!” Channing hailed, rising in the saddle to wave.

McNeal turned to see who was calling. When he spied his son, the Scotsman’s leathery tanned face broke in a broad grin.

“So, you’ve come home at last, lad. Your mother’s no doubt taken to her bed by now with a wine-soaked cloth over her eyes from all the excitement.”

Channing and his father met at the edge of the field and dismounted. They first shook hands, then exchanged an awkward, rough embrace, as men will.

“I’ve seen neither Mother nor the girls yet, Father. I needed a word with you first.”

Quick to note the somber tone in his son’s voice, McNeal said, “There’s a problem then, is there?”

Channing nodded. “I’m afraid so. One that may have no solution.”

Thompson clucked his tongue. “‘He has a sliddery grip that has an eel by the tail.’”

An unbidden smile stole over Channing’s face. His father had an old Scottish proverb to suit every occasion. And this situation, he had to admit, was a
sliddery
one, indeed.

“So? Out with it, lad. Why the
lang
face?”

Channing made a loose fist of his right hand and held up his Academy ring for his father’s inspection. “This band of gold and the four long years at the Point that it represents.”

McNeal stared at his son’s West Point ring and nodded. “’Tis a fine symbol of your accomplishments, Channing my boy. ’Tis also, I’m guessing, a constant reminder of what the Military Academy stands for in your mind and heart. I can see your dilemma.”

“Not the half of it, Poppa.” In his emotional state, Channing reverted to his childhood name for his father. “I received your letter upon commencement day. I accepted your congratulations gladly, but some of your statements left me in a quandary. I have obeyed you as best I could all my life. For the first time, I may have to disappoint you.”

McNeal rubbed at the bristle of whiskers on his chin. “I cannot think of a way in which you could do that, son. You’ll have to tell me what’s on your mind.”

“This talk of war.”

“’Tis more than talk, I’m bound.”

“Then I must tell you of my decision—difficult as it is—right now. You won’t be pleased, Father, but a man must make his own choices.”

A long, silence followed before McNeal said, “’Twould seem a simple choice, son. North or South? Your country or your state?”

“You’ve guessed my problem.” Channing stared at his father, wondering if he had been born with a caul to give him second sight.

“What else could you be deciding at such a time as this? You’re not the only one hereabouts who finds himself faced with that choice. I can’t say I’m surprised, son. Either way, I’ll be proud that you bear my name.”

“I thank you for your understanding, Father.” Channing shook his head sadly. “But there’s much more at stake here, I’m afraid, than with which side I’ll cast my lot in the coming conflict.”

“Then spit it out, lad. Nothing was ever decided by chasing the problem to Glasgow and back.”

“It’s Virginia, Father. I want to marry her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I
will
marry her!”

“Aye,” McNeal nodded, agreeably. “He drives a good wagon load into his farm that gets a good wife, and there’d be none better for you than Miss Virginia Swan. You’ve no need to waste your time convincing me of that. Her folks feel the same toward you, I vow.”

“They
felt
the same toward me. But now . . .”

Thompson McNeal’s bushy eyebrows drew down like a snow-frosted hedgerow above his hawkish nose. “The Colonel’s withdrawn his permission, then?”

“Not yet. He doesn’t know of my plans.”

“And what exactly are your plans, Channing? Are you bound and determined to cast your allegiance with the Union, even at the cost of losing the woman you love?”

Channing replied quietly, but firmly. “I won’t lose her, but this country has been good to us, Father. Many’s the time you’ve told me about your poor childhood back in Scotland.”

McNeal sighed, a touch of moisture coming to his bright eyes at the mention of his Mother Country. “
‘A guid tale’s nane the waur o’ bein’ twice tauld.”’

“I’ve heard that good tale more than twice, Father. The crowded, thatched-roof cottage, where you and all your brothers and sisters were raised, where most of them died from the fever or starvation before they were near-grown. Your dear, long-suffering mother, working from dark to dark. Your own father, drifting from town to town in search of honest work. And then you came here, working for your passage across the Atlantic, hiring yourself out to other landowners, until you could save enough to buy a few acres and a few more.” Channing stood tall and spread his arms to encompass Belle Grove’s wide expanse. “And finally,
all this, all yours!
What other country in the world could have offered a penniless lad from Scotland such good fortune?”

The elder McNeal pulled off his straw hat and wiped his balding head with his linen handkerchief. “’Tis more than the strain of my back and the sweat of my brow that’s brought us this good fortune, Chan. ’Tis the sweet, good earth of Virginia—our land, our home, our treasure. We’ll not take kindly to invasion of our homeland, not we Virginians.”

Channing shied away from the staunch glitter of his father’s eyes. “Then, you’re saying my choice is wrong?”

“Dammit, lad!” McNeal exploded. “There is no right nor wrong to this! That’s the hell of it all. When the final shot is fired and the final battle is done and the final man has breathed his last, then and only then will we know who was right and who was wrong. The victor will shout ‘Huzzah!’ while the vanquished falls to his knees. And after the shouting is over, we will all be the worse for what’s happened. Mark my word, neither the state of Virginia nor the United States of America will ever be the same again. These are our final days of glory.”

“You paint a grim picture, Father.”

“Not near as grim as the war will be, son.” McNeal clamped a hand on Channing’s shoulder and bowed his head. “There’s nothing so grim as that.”

“Then there is no answer. Why fight for a lost cause?”

When Thompson McNeal looked up at his tall, fine son, his eyes were blazing. “Aye, you’ll fight, lad. I’ve no doubt of that. But not till your back’s to the wall. There’s an old Scottish saying,
‘The Scot will not fight till he sees his ain bluid.’
And I do believe that we’ll be seeing our own blood flow over this comely land in the first hours of battle. We are too close to Washington City to go ignored. They will want Virginia worse than a seaman fresh off a three-year voyage craves a woman beneath him.”

His father’s mention of a woman brought the main focus of his problem back to mind. He met the older man’s gaze, his own equally steely. “What if your own daughter—say, Hester-decided to marry a man who meant to fight for the North? What would you do?”

“’Tis not a fair hypothesis, I fear.”

“Of course it is, Father. Hester still plans to marry Auguste Fontaine, doesn’t she?”

“Aye, son, that she does.”

“All right, then. Should he decide to throw in his lot with the North, would you refuse to allow their marriage?”

“That will not happen.”

Channing broke into a broad smile. “I’m glad I asked. And I’m glad you feel that way, Father. If you would allow Hester to wed under these circumstances, then I’m sure Colonel Swan won’t stand in the way of my marrying Virginia.”

“You mistake my answer, son.” Thompson McNeal suddenly looked far older than his years. “That will not happen because they will be wed in France. Auguste has convinced our Hester to go to his homeland, until all this unpleasantness is over. Your mother won’t hear of a wedding taking place without our being there. I was instructed by the women of Clan McNeal not to say a word of this to you until after our celebratory dinner this evening, but it seems best that I tell you now. You will protect me from their wrath with your silence, I presume.”

Channing could only nod. His father’s confession of their plans left him numb and speechless. The whole family, transplanted to France?

“’Twould be a way out for you, as well, Channing. Come with us. Bring Virginia. No one could blame you for wishing her away from what is to come, least of all her own father.”

The full impact of his family’s plans hit Channing suddenly. He cast his gaze wildly about. “What about Belle Grove? Who will be here to look after our home?”

“Land needs little tending in time of war. Scorched earth yeilds finer crops after the fact. But there’ll be no loss of life on my land, I vow. My family will be safely away. As for the slaves, I have been quietly manumitting our people over the past years. The few who remain in bondage, I’ll free before I leave for France. They may stay or go, as pleases them. A few of the loyal ones will remain, I’m sure. They will see to safeguarding the place as best they can.”

“France?”
Channing muttered to himself, still unbelieving.

“Aye, Paris it is for Clan McNeal. We’ll see a bit of the world, buy your mother and sisters some fancy new gowns, and drink all the fine wines to be had.”

“While back here a nation is being torn assunder?”

Thompson McNeal looked sad for a moment, but then he smiled. “’vTis not my fight, lad, nor your mother’s and sisters’. Should I force them to stay, only to prove some obscure point?” He shook his head. “Nay! I wish them safe and happy—far away from what’s to come. You and your sweet Virginia would be a most welcome addition to our band of pilgrims.”

Channing felt cold, empty, and more alone suddenly than he ever had felt in his life. Slowly, he shook his head. “I can’t, Father,” he whispered. “My duty lies here.”

“So be it!” McNeal said. “I told your mother it would be so. She’ll be sore disappointed, but as for me, I’m proud of you, son. No matter which side you choose.”

Sadly, but with solemn resolve in his voice, Channing answered, “There’s no doubt which side that must be, Father.”

Thompson McNeal put his arm around his son’s shoulders and gave him a brusque, manly hug. “We’d best not keep your mother and the girls waiting any longer. We’ll talk of happy things at dinner and celebrate your return home and your coming wedding to Virginia. No
long
face at the dinner table, lad. Understood?”