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Starlight Reflections
on a clear night in the winter of 1863
Jantallian
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The woman closed the door of the ranch house behind her and drew her bearskin coat tightly about her. The skies had cleared suddenly since the latest snowfall. It had not been particularly heavy but the wind had banked drifts around the buildings and made them almost unrecognizable, even to one who knew them so well. There was no moon, but almost no need for one – the stars were so thickly strewn across the depths of the sky.
She had no business standing out here on the porch in the bitter cold. But something drew her. Not fear or loneliness, although she was alone on the ranch. Instead, her heart went out to her man, to her son, and to the sons she would never know. So many women would be praying for their husbands, their sons, their brothers, on this cold night. And it didn't matter which side they were fighting on.
Mary Sherman lifted her face to the clear heavens and prayed. She prayed for her son, her eldest named 'Matthew' after the father he had parted from so unhappily. She prayed for her husband, for Matthew the fighter, the resolute, the just. And she prayed for her youngest, the gift-child Andrew, who had come and survived, so long awaited and after so many griefs. She prayed that he, at least, would grow up into a world where men held each other as brothers and strife between them would cease.
Above her the night sky was clear from end to end of the horizon and afire with lambent stars. All it needed to honor the holy season was a host of angels: she felt she could almost hear them singing. The winter world, no longer an unpredictable place where the skies were cloven by storm, was transfixed by the unheard harmony and lay in perfect solemn stillness.
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Transcript of parts of an undelivered letter from Sergeant Matthew Sherman to Matthew and Mary Sherman, Laramie, Wyoming:
… After being in the uncertain conditions of the field for so long, we are in winter quarters at Fort Sanders and comfortable for a while. Any shelter that is solid enough to keep out the wind is a blessing after months in tents. Rations are more easily obtained and we no longer have to struggle to find enough fuel to cook. So, Ma, you need not worry about my diet, although if I never have to get my teeth into hardtack again it will be too soon! But I should not be ungrateful. Many of the men we fought were starving, just reduced to sinew and bone. Where will they find shelter this winter in a land which war has torn to shreds? Here men are happy enough to be relieved of the immediate need to fight. Here they can snatch a little imitation of happiness in this false peace …
Despite the relief of being able to relax a little, I find idleness weighs heavy on me. I guess you brought me up to work hard and earn my times of rest. Well, I have labored in the field of battle and even gained promotion. It causes me to think of our work together on the ranch, Pa, and how your vision has driven you to build something worthwhile in the best country of all. And the thought of such labor reminds me that, being the only grown brother on our spread, I left you with more than your share of the work and I am sorry for it …
Making peace will be great labor too. I hope our leaders have a vision of brotherhood to labor for when this weary strife is over and man is no longer at war with man. There are times when this momentary hush in the noise of discord seems uncanny and I have a sudden feeling we are being called to peace by voices we cannot hear.
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The starlit world lay in peaceful silence, unbroken by any voice. Everything was completely still. Still and frozen. Rather like the four young men crouched in the inadequate shelter of a pile of boulders atop a rise above some nameless northern valley. Not so much as a whisper of wind stirred the drifts of snow or moved the ice-bound air. They were no strangers to hardship and privation, but the cold had them in a paralyzing grip so intense it was almost agonizing to breathe.
And their very breath could betray them, misting up into the air like a smoke signal saying 'The enemy is here!'
For they were deep in the enemy fastness, intruders into a territory of quiet and normality, where the weary world of war was only a distant rumor. The sad plains of the South were far behind. They were cut off physically from the brotherhood of their comrades, even though in spirit they were as close as those betraying breaths rising before their faces.
"At least they'll be warmer'n we are!" It was the youngest who spoke, missing the close companionship in which they had all huddled together against the cold that prevailed even in the South.
They had left the rest of the band holed up in a sheltered canyon, with adequate access to wood and game. It was only an unusual and urgent request for support which had resulted in Lieutenant Warwick, the senior of the four, leaving his men to fend for themselves. He was fully confident they could do so and that they would deal competently with any raids or reconnaissance which arose during his absence. The Ranulfiar were a brotherhood. They worked as one. They remained together. They would wait until their four comrades, sent far north of their natural territory, had returned or some word came from them. It was equally unusual that his Second, Callum Harper, accompanied him, although the same could not be said for Cal's cousin and inseparable shadow, Jess. But the request had been for their best scouts and, without doubt, Cal and particularly Jess, were among the best, almost rivaling the fourth member of the party, who, silent and inscrutable, missed nothing with those eagle eyes of his.
"You gonna tell us where we are," Cal whispered, "not to mention what the hell we're doin' here?"
Warwick shook his head. Orders were orders. Even though he trusted his companions utterly, according to the planners the only thing that was going to make this endeavor succeed was the total secrecy to which he had been sworn. And Warwick was uneasy, an unusual state of mind for him. He was quite confident he and his men could carry out the role required of them, but he had severe reservations about the irregular temporary band, drawn from several regiments, to which they had been assigned for this mission. Yet it was nothing he could put his finger on. Just an unidentified sense that all was not well and that they were being asked to participate in a venture which was ill-defined and unpredictable.
But his Ranulfiar had created a unique relationship with the unpredictable.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Never a sure way to predict conditions. Snow up here deeper than I thought. Moved half stock to lower slopes. Can find their own way down to shelter. Unlike me. Can't get back to ranch or even Dan Travers' place for night. Mary will worry. But she knows what we've come through together. What's a parcel of snow? Thank God we built the line shack while Slim was still with us. Could do with the boy's help now. My heart and soul say with all our boys who never … (blot conceals rest of sentence) ... So many sons being lost in this senseless struggle. Wish Slim understood. But he's got to do according to his conscience, else we haven't raised him right. Pray for a just end. Strife between man and his neighbor brings nothing but sin and misery, though what they seek is justice and mercy.
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The attack was silent, sudden and merciless.
The convoy had reached a narrow canyon where the road cut through a spur of the mountains looming down from the west. The wagons looked innocuous enough and no-one without specific and classified information would have guessed the value of their cargo. There were two officers in the lead, a driver and guard on each of the three wagons and ten soldiers riding behind. Wherever the convoy was ultimately intended to reach, there appeared to be little sense of urgency or belief in potential danger about its progress. It was small wonder that the escort was caught unawares and too soon overwhelmed by their implacable enemy.
Probably nobody in the Confederate force really relished such an ambush, where the enemy were annihilated silently, before they even realized what was happening. But every one of the Rebels bore in his heart the gaunt and barefoot comrades they had left behind - men starving for lack of supplies and slaughtered for lack of working weapons. The gold in the convoy would go to purchase precious and desperately needed food, medicine and ammunition. Every one of them had seen friends die for want of such essentials.
It was over very quickly. Cherokee Joe had found and led them to this particular place because it gave the attackers the advantage of height and an enemy constricted below them. Also there was only a scattering of snow reaching the floor of the defile to reveal signs of the attack. Once the wagons had been commandeered and the traces eradicated, they could be driven onward in the direction the convoy had been travelling as if nothing had happened.
The assault was silent because the Rebels had two expert bowmen among them, who picked off the leaders and those on the wagons. The rest of the escort could not see what was happening, even when the driverless wagons began to slow down. By the time they realized what was going on, it was too late - they were grappling in savage hand to hand fighting against superior odds.
Soon fifteen bodies lay in the snow, their blood bright against the pristine whiteness.
And there they would have stayed, if the treacherous Yankee informant had had his way: "Pile them up! The snow will cover them soon enough."
Admittedly the victors were plundering the fallen for coats and boots, but their need was desperate. And they were not totally callous. Warwick corrected him sharply: "But it cannot protect their bodies. I will not leave men to the crows and coyotes."
"Why should they be more than carrion to you?" the other retorted.
"They are all someone's son. Maybe someone's husband – or sweetheart – or brother. There are plenty of loose rocks. It will cost us little labor to cover them. Honor begins with the way we treat our fallen enemy."
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Such rage - in defense of an enemy! Thought the boy was going to kill that bastard. God forgive me, he deserves the name for his threats! Kid reacted like it was his own mother, his own home threatened with burning. Took two of them to pull him off and hold him down. There's nothing of him, either. Been starving too long. Mary'd … (page torn) … stopped the beating before too late. Said I wouldn't guide them if the boy died. So they left him at shack for his friends to find. Managed to slip page of this book into his hand. Told them how to get to … (rest of page illegible)
What are they doing here? Sure those three are not Confederates like rest of band. And three wagons to get over Summit. In this weather! They're mad. But gave my word. They left the boy and instructions for other scouts to hightail it south. Said they'd got local guide.
More storms brewing. Local guide sure of that! Snow above door height soon. Mountain is no place to stay, even in shack. Much less where we are bound. Bound by my word.
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There was a quiet knock at the door.
It had been snowing on and off all day. Only one or two isolated travelers had passed along the road in either direction for several days. There had been no sound of horses being hitched outside. Mary looked out of the window. The starlight was almost as bright as day and she could see no tracks on the snow-covered road in either direction. She picked up the loaded rifle from the gun rack. She was not inhospitable, but she was cautious.
She opened the door.
Standing on the porch was a tall man. He was lean, knife-honed to hardness, his form just a black outline against the snow beyond. His hat shadowed his face, but he hastily swept it off and accorded her a brief bow. Revealed, his hawk-like features had a chiseled beauty in every line of the bone; his long black hair was caught back with a leather thong, Indian-fashion, and his eyes were so dark they appeared black. His voice was courteous and almost unaccented.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I have an injured man. We're badly in need of shelter. If you could let us rest in your barn?"
Mary looked beyond him. There were three riders and fourth horse at the corner of the barn. In the clear silver light, she could see they were dressed in some ill-assorted uniforms and one of their number was slumped across the neck of an Appaloosa pony. They must have come down the track from the upper pastures, maybe from the mountainous eastern border of the ranch. Few people would come that way, for it led nowhere except to Sherman lands.
Her heart leapt into her throat. "Has something happened?"
She meant to her husband, but the man answered from his own need. "A head injury, bad cut and his ribs kicked in." He sounded grimly worried and yet resigned, as if this were not the first time.
Mary gathered her courage and her compassion. She could see that, despite the army greatcoat he was wearing, the man was suffering from the bitter cold and whatever rigors he had passed through.
"Come inside to the fire. Bring the others."
He shook his head. "No, ma'am. We can't do that. You must be able to say you did not take us in. Just let us use the barn."
"Nonsense!" Mary retorted briskly. "You can't tend an injured man in a barn and it's too cold out there."
"Not as cold as some places we're slept!" He sounded rueful, as if ashamed of his lack of northern hardihood.
"Very well. You go into the bunkhouse," she told him as firmly as she would have done with either of her sons. "My eldest moved out there when he got more independent and he fixed a stove."
Her voice faltered for a moment, as she thought of Slim and where he might be sleeping this freezing, starlit night. Surely some woman, some mother, would have pity on him if he needed it so far away? Then she found strength to go on: "You can say you broke into it. Fortunately – ," a conspiratorial smile crossed her lips, "my son is a very chilly person and left bedding enough for four!" She shooed him in the direction of the bunkhouse and went to get the blankets. As she did so, she reflected how easily four men could just have used the threat of violence against a lone woman. But they had not.
Inside the bunkhouse, two of the men were busy. As Mary entered, her arms full of bedding, one of them turned from the stove he was stoking and gave her an engaging grin of cheerful optimism, which did not reflect the seriousness of their plight. "With your permission, ma'am, we stole some of your wood," he told her. His hair was exactly the color of the copper flames in the stove.
"You're welcome," Mary told them as she deposited the bedding and opened the basket in which she had put various medical supplies. "Let me see."
The man who had been bent over the patient straightened up. She almost gasped in shock, for he was certainly nearly full-blood Indian and her experiences had not been good. He looked at her gravely for a few seconds before addressing her quietly: "Few herbs to be found on the mountain now. I brought birch bark and elder. You have – what d'you call it? – arnica, feverfew?"
"Yes. And other remedies. "
Mary bent in her turn over the man stretched out on the bunk. Her breath caught again. She had thought Slim was young enough when he rode away to war. This young man could give him several years. And someone had obviously beaten him hard. He was half-conscious, thick dark lashes fluttering restlessly, but his eyes never fully opening. Blood had dried or perhaps even frozen over a cut down his hairline and his hair was wild and shaggy enough to make it difficult to bandage. His breathing was obviously painful and when she loosened his coat and the rough butternut shirt he was wearing, she could see black bruises all down his right side. Like the others, he had the pared-down hardness of a life short on rations and long on endurance.
From their appearance, their wariness and their innate courtesy, there could be no doubt where these men came from. Why or what they were doing was less easy to guess.
Mary treated her patient and, when she and the silent Indian were satisfied, made her way back to the house, her hand automatically running along the rope strung from building to building. Presently the first man, who had been tending to the horses, came to the door again as instructed and she gave him food and supplies for the night and the following morning.
Attending her patient the next day proved unexpectedly hazardous.
When she arrived early in the morning, he was still in a deep sleep. She left the medication she had brought and was about to start the necessary tasks in the yard, but was given firmly to understand that the three older men would see to everything. Thankfully, she retreated to the ranch house to prepare what provisions she had into a decent meal for them all.
Around noon, Mary returned to the bunkhouse. She had barely opened the door when the patient struggled to consciousness of a sort. He sat up, wild-eyed, and his hand groped under his pillow with amazing speed.
"Wolf-cub!" The red-head hurled across the cabin and pinned the boy's arms to his sides in a ferocious hug. "You little idiot! You're safe!"
The thrown knife flashed through the air, its trajectory altered at the very last minute, and embedded itself in the door-jamb.
"Told you not to let him sleep with his knife," the dark man observed with calm resignation.
"He won't sleep without it, as you well know!" the other retorted.
The fourth man, meanwhile, had retrieved the knife as silently as he did everything else and handed it back to its owner. The youngster took it without a word. He rubbed an arm across his eyes and stared round the room, clearly puzzled and deeply wary. Mary was struck by the contrast between his fierce, reflexive skill and whatever harrowing experience made him so ready to use it
"You're safe," the man who was holding him repeated.
Seeing them right next to each other, their family likeness was striking. They couldn't be brothers – the coloring was too different – but they must be close kin. There was an unspoken, subtle bond too, not just between these two, but binding all four of them strongly. Indeed she would have taken them, impossible as it might appear outwardly, for brothers. In her heart she wished Slim had had the same chance of brotherhood, instead of being the lone eldest for so long. But there was a patient to attend.
"Lie back down!" she ordered firmly.
His kinsman released his hug and eased the boy gently down until he was flat out once more. As she bent over him, Mary heard a faint, hoarse whisper pass his lips: "Sorry, ma'am. Y' startled me."
He was barely conscious again, the exertion of a sudden awakening having taken its toll. Nevertheless, there was something troubling him, which made him clutch at the red-headed man and mutter feverishly, "Don't let 'em burn her, Cal!"
"Rest easy!" the man assured him. "That's all over now. Besides," a chuckle escaped him, "ain't nothing gonna burn in this snow 'cept the stove."
"Keep guard! You three. Promise me …" The faint thread of speech blurred into troubled breathing.
"Rest easy! You can trust us, y' know that, Wolf-cub."
Sleep came almost immediately and possessed the patient for the rest of the day. He did not wake again until late afternoon when Mary made her third visit, this time with a good savory venison stew, a tray of roasted roots and the last of her bread. It seemed little enough for four starving men.
Little indeed when the patient woke and recovered his appetite with a vengeance! Whether it was a tribute to Mary's healing touch or the power of sleep or just his own wiry resilience, he was definitely on the mend.
Mary was touched to see how much the simple meal meant to her guests. They ate in reverent silence, slowly savoring each mouthful as if it was a very long time since they had had a home-cooked meal. In this basic sharing there was no need for words and, under the circumstance, very little that they could have exchanged without opening themselves to dangerous charges of conspiracy. So they simply sat together in the golden glow of the lamp and the copper flicker of the fire and were glad for at least a little peace on the troubled earth.
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From Matthew Sherman's personal notebook, lost at Summit Pass:
Trouble – as I anticipated. Valley leads to pass. Trail of sorts. Bad for wagons. Barely half a day and wheels wrecked on one. Not surprising – loaded with strong boxes. Altercation between those three and the young captain. Something about a key and helping themselves? Southerners drove them off, made it clear they would shoot to kill. Now three men short and good riddance!
Boxes emptied. Bags – gold, I guess – into remaining wagons. Not for long. Horses on second foundered … (rest of page illegible) … deep snow, deeper, much deeper than last wagon and horses can manage.
Can't go on much longer. Storm sweeping ruthlessly up behind us. Men struggling under crushing loads. Bodies bent low. Toiling along the precipitous climbing way. No wagons now. Some horses collapsed, broken legs took others, some sensible creatures bolted back down the mountain. Now only human painful steps and so slow …
Is any gold worth this? Captain says yes - to save starving brothers without medicine or ammunition. Could be forgiven for such a motive. But Summit Pass is unforgiving. No rest on this weary road. Nor shelter. And precious little hope of success. If these were my sons, dying here, what would … (rest of page torn away) … The south calls them. They see the final cleft below the peak which should bring them back to their way home, so they will struggle on. But I am of no further use. We part willingly but with no certainty of shared brotherhood.
Just for a moment, the snow-clouds are riven like a great cleft in the sky and the stars are piercing bright in this savage cold. There are many stars above us, though they may be concealed. Many truths we should know, but they remain hidden. We are being called to peace by voices we cannot hear. My part is to give this country strong foundations on which to build when the present madness has passed, this weary strife is over and … (blot obscures rest of sentence) ... My way is clear. Pray God I do not meet those three renegades, for I do not believe them so easily dismissed. All I ask is to come once more to my own door and find my dear Mary … (notebook is blank from this entry).
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There was a quiet tap at the kitchen door.
Mary hastily tipped out the bread tin she was holding and deposited the last loaf onto the cooling rack. Wiping her floury hands on her apron, for she had also been in the middle of making apple pie, she hastened to lift the latch and open the door.
The boy was standing outside. The injured one. The one they called the Wolf Cub.
His hat was in his hand and the wind was blowing thick curls of rough, dark hair across his eyes. He pushed them back impatiently, but only succeeded in looking even wilder. A shy smile lit his face, lifting one corner of his mouth a little crookedly. She was caught again by the strange mixture of toughness and suffering. She wondered what he had been through to carve such experience into his face and bury such shadows in the brightness of his eyes.
"I've come to say thank you, ma'am." His voice was husky and deep, mature beyond his years, like his hard-worked body.
"It's Mary," she told him. It was a little thing to give, but it showed she trusted him.
"Mary."
He thought. Then he said. "A good name for the time of year. A good name for takin' in strangers."
"You're welcome. But I wish –"
"I know, but you'd put yourself in danger. We're grateful you saved us from the barn – unlike that other family!" An engaging grin crossed his face and Mary had a desire to giggle. Four young men, brothers in spirit though they might be, were not exactly in the same circumstances as Mary and Joseph.
"I wish I'd more to offer you," she said, glancing back at the warm kitchen and her preparations.
He followed her gaze. "You're makin' bread. I used to help my ma do that –" His breath hitched and he fought for a moment to bring his voice under control. "She said sharin' bread was the holiest and closest thing human beings could do for each other."
Impulsively, Mary reached out and touched his bruised cheek. "She was right. One day all men will be brothers and share bread equally."
He gave a little shiver. "One day." There was a long pause as the smell of new bread drifted from the kitchen and wrapped its comfort around them. "We're goin' now."
Mary nodded. "That's wise. There are more storms coming. More snow. Enough to block your road."
His eyes widened. "Y' can tell?"
Mary smiled. "I've lived here long enough. Now get along with you and saddle up. I'll come and see you off."
As he went back across the yard, his hand on the rope, she turned swiftly, picked up a couple of the new loaves and secured them in a cloth. Then, in her turn, she followed the rope, as if it was some surety which would guide them all to a safe future.
The four strangers were mounted, hats in hand as they made their goodbyes. Mary came up close to the Appaloosa and the youngest rider. She placed the warm bundle into his hands. "Bread for the journey. You've a long way to go."
He looked up, ahead, at the snow-covered road south. His eyes were set on the future which must be faced and he did not look back at the shelter they must leave. If they should be caught, it was safer for their rescuer if they were not to be able to identify where they had been. He clutched the gift to his heart for a moment, before stowing it in one of his saddle-bags.
"Thank you … Mary …"
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Transcript of part of undelivered letter from Sergeant Matthew Sherman to Matthew and Mary Sherman, Laramie, Wyoming:
Now there is no danger of us being caught in enemy territory, I am allowed to tell you that we have been far south, into the plains and almost, it seemed at times, to the edge of the world! It is a harsh and challenging country, like the men who inhabit it, but very beautiful too. At night the stars are so thick across the vast sky from zenith to horizon! It made me think of how I imagined as a kid - if you really listened, you could hear them singing like angels.
There was not much singing on our part; we were a secret mission and trying to stay so. But for silent stealth, we could not match our enemy, who seemed to rise up out of the earth they were born on and disappear into it again just as easily. Yet I have heard them singing – such singing – as they swoop down into battle. I have come to admire and respect their courage and their endurance. Indeed one of them has named me 'brother' and I wish I had other brothers of such quality. Maybe, when this weary war is over and its Babel sounds become sense again, such relationships may grow and heal us all. The encounter with my enemy has made me rethink some of the things I said before I rode away. I understand now, Pa, how dreadful it is to fight against your own family, although it has taken two strangers to make me realize this. Such a decision cannot be undone now, but as the season of peace draws nearer, I hope to snatch at least a little time with you and Ma. Mort and I have leave due and will try to ride home before Christmas …
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Mary closed the door of the ranch house behind her and drew her warm fur coat tightly about her. Standing on the porch in the bitter cold, she could see the ridge to the south, but not the track of the road, buried as it was under the snow. The skies in that direction were still clear, but the clouds of the next snowstorm were already looming to the north. A storm that would cover the tracks of four horses on the southern road, but which could so easily block it with deep drifts or even avalanches.
Mary lifted her face to the clear heavens and prayed without words, without names, just lifting her love and her fears and her hopes into the immense tranquility and power of the heavens. The circling years of human life were nothing compared with the vastness of the universe. The struggles and sufferings of the country and its people were just a tiny flicker upon the face of eternity. Yet, just as she had been conscious of the celestial harmony, so she sensed the enfolding presence of many wings, wrapping the world like a splendid mantle whose glories were not the cold crowns of victory and triumph, but the simple, golden warmth of peace, love and brotherhood for all men.
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This story raises questions, rather than answering them. I'm working on a longer version, trying to reconcile some of the anomalies in 'Last Battleground' and to create a reasonable narrative which makes sense of them and of the relationships suggested in this story. I admit to playing fast and loose with the weather!
The Ranulfiar appear in: 'Encounter in Shadows', 'Fortress of Darkened Stars', 'My Brother's Keeper' and 'Shirt Tails' (Tale 2, Wolf Brother's Farewell)
Acknowledgement:
Thanks to fellow writers and historical researchers for their advice on background. Full acknowledgements in longer version!
For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors.
The story draws on the imagery of a well-known carol:
IIt came upon the midnight clear,
that glorious song of old,
from angels bending near the earth
to touch their harps of gold;
"Peace on the earth, good will to men
from heaven's all-gracious King" –
The world in solemn stillness lay
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Still through the cloven skies they come
with peaceful wings unfurled,
and still their heavenly music floats
o'er all the weary world;
above its sad and lowly plains
they bend on hovering wing,
and ever o'er its Babel-sounds
the blessed angels sing.
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But with the woes of sin and strife
the world has suffered long;
beneath the angel-strain have rolled
two thousand years of wrong;
and man, at war with man, hears not
the love song which they bring; –
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
and hear the angels sing!
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And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
whose forms are bending low,
who toil along the climbing way
with painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing; –
Oh, rest beside the weary road
and hear the angels sing!
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For lo! the days are hastening on
by prophet bards foretold,
when, with the ever circling years
shall come the age of gold;
when Peace shall over all the earth,
its ancient splendours fling,
and the whole world give back the song,
which now the angels sing.
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Words: Edmund Hamilton Sears, in the Christian Register (Boston, Massachusetts: December 29, 1849), Vol. 28, #52, p. 206.