Sentence of Death
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August 20, 1862, 7:45 P.M. Near Ashby's Gap, Virginia
I am behind Union lines, near the enemy camp, hiding in John Kline's circuit cabin. I am momentarily safe from peril. I am sitting up for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. The aroma of dried beef grilling in the skillet, the skillet that saved my life, fills the air.
At the conclusion of the Battle of Manassas, as the Yankees were in full retreat to Washington, I followed a straggling brigade of Rebel infantrymen north along Sudley Road through the cloying July heat. When I was a youth my father brought my brother and me up this very road every Sunday morning to Sudley Church. Now the road is worn deep by the feet of soldiers and horses, the wheels of cannon, the wagons of war. Above me, tall irregularly shaped clouds moved steadily across the sky; suddenly their peculiar forms struck me, coldly, chilling me to the bone. What did I see behind those behemoth conformations? Did my eyes play tricks on me? Were they clouds or dark, angelic armies maneuvering toward another bloody contest for the souls of men? Filled with trepidation, I was compelled forward by the Spirit of God. I approached the building where my young voice had so often joined with others in praise. Now I heard only the dirge of men in agony. Screams, moans, and shrieks pierced the walls of this infirmary that was once a sanctuary. Two ragged soldiers wheeled a cart toward the church's front door. A wounded Confederate soldier lay on his back in the bouncing cart, writhing in pain, his legs twitching uncontrollably. A Union Minie ball had struck him in the neck and torn a gaping hole in his jaw. I trudged forward, crossing the bloodied threshold into the rectangular, one-room structure. The bustle of soldiers and doctors and the moans of the dying nearly overwhelmed me. I gasped in horror as my eyes beheld the communion table where my father, once a deacon, had often helped the pastor to serve the body and blood of our Lord. Surgeons were using the table for amputations. In the corner where my prayerful father once sat on the deacon's bench, the bloody limbs of soldiers were piled five or six deep. A rancorous odor filled my lungs. I knew I could not escape my responsibilities. My medical training in Philadelphia had been ordained by Providence for this occasion. The next three days were indeed the most traumatic of my life. I took upon myself the grisly task of removing the severed limbs and expired bodies of soldiers, stacking them in neat piles along the exterior wall behind the church. God also granted numerous occasions for me to serve when one of the surgeons grew faint from exhaustion. I have carefully detailed the amputation procedure in the Rebel Heart Journal and in articles submitted to Mr. Pitkins. I had never wielded a surgeon's saw on a living man before, and once the ordeal was over, I prayed that God would not require it of me again. Such a profitless petition!
What lessons can be learned from the blood on the table of the Lord? Is such bloodshed the price for our national guilt? Was it You, Lord, "trampling out the vintage where Your grapes of wrath are stored" and was it You "loosing the fateful lightning of Your terrible swift sword?" Is this really, as Julia Ward Howe's Battle Hymn of the Republic claims, the glory of Your coming? How can one know the answer? Perhaps there is another principle at work. James 1:14-16: "But every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." Is not war yet another bloody facet of unde malum?
Following the fight at Kernstown, Mr. Pitkins reassigned me to Major General Stonewall Jackson's army. I rode with Stonewall as a reporter for the Observer and an assistant to the field surgeons through many campaigns. I saw battles in Winchester, Harper's Ferry, Port Republic, Richmond, Cold Harbor, and Malvern Hill. The detailed accounts of our many campaigns are well documented in the Rebel Heart Journal, and the Observer. Following the Malvern Hill campaign, we received orders to Gordonsville, a town near my Culpeper rendezvous with John Kline. Revival came to our camp. On the evening of August 15th, we gathered at our campfire to meet with God. A full moon lit the clouds as they danced across the sky, reminding me of my experience at Sudley Church. I pondered in my heart if they were unseen spiritual forces arraying themselves once again against God's people. The deaths of many friends had softened hearts. Our time of fellowship consisted of Rebel fight songs followed by Christian hymns. We ascended into the presence of God, carried upon the sweet offerings of praise and prayers for the families of those who had died. We were about to begin our time of testimony when unexpectedly, a strong tenor voice audaciously sang forth.
Rebel is a sacred name;The song disrupted the spirit of our meeting, pulling men's attention away from Christ and onto themselves and the false belief that their hearts were right and that this bloody war was justified. But even as I sought to halt the chorus, the voice leading them suddenly rang with a certain familiarity. I rose to my feet and turned to see if my suspicions were correct, but as I did, the soldiers followed my lead and stood up! The familiar voice faded as the chorus ended. The sense of God's presence departed. After a few weak attempts at another hymn, the group dispersed. Our meeting concluded and the troublemaker escaped unseen. Discouraged, I returned to my tent and sought the Lord with great fervor. I sat upon my bedroll, knowing that the voice that led the chorus had belonged to none other than Seth Beaumont. During my time in Charleston with Victoria, Seth had attended the same church we did, often occuping a seat in the pew directly behind us. I struggled to combat my rising anger and fear. Beaumont had come to the Shenandoah. He was somewhere in this camp seeking to undermine my work. I considered this a dangerous turn of events. Why had he come? The next morning, before dawn had broken, I discovered the reason for Beaumont's presence. Awakened from a restless slumber, I was curtly informed by Captain Pendleton that Beaumont had a warrant for my arrest. I was accused of stealing General Lee's orders and passing them northward. I followed Pendleton out of my tent. Burly, sandy-haired Beaumont stood imposingly before General Jackson. He wore his nefarious grin and displayed a cunning cock of his eyebrow. It was then that I noticed Beaumont's companion, standing twenty yards arrear beneath a copse of trees. He was as I remembered him from the dream: thin and wiry with a ruddy scar. Formal charges of treason were laid upon me. His evidence: testimony from Captain Pendleton that I had rendezvoused with a Northern sympathizer, a circuit rider by the name of John Kline, the very day that Lee's orders were stolen. It did me little good that John had been arrested several times on foundless charges of spying. Beaumont continued his accusations, further claiming that I was also wanted in Charleston for the brutal murder of Miss Elkin, a boardinghouse owner. I was dumbfounded as these gross misrepresentations and lies were leveled against me. It was with Captain Pendleton's permission that I had visited John Kline, a man who had no allegiances, North or South. But Beaumont knew that Jackson had no jurisdiction over civil affairs in South Carolina and on this charge alone he could assassinate my character. No one in camp could challenge Beaumont's testimony; as a high-ranking member of Jefferson Davis's Secret Service, his wartime powers were immense. I did not doubt that I would be tried and found guilty. After a half an hour of this madness, Captain Pendleton escorted me back to my tent. I sat on my bedroll and closed my eyes. Why did he want me dead? What threat did I pose? I sat for several hours in prayer and meditation, calling upon the Lord for His intervention. Yet with each passing hour in the darkness, the inevitability of my fate became increasingly certain. I reflected upon Christ in the garden, the night before His death. He, too, wanted to live, yet He possessed a heart that was willing to face death. "If it be Thy will Father, let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, not my will but Thy will be done." The answer to my prayers came miraculously and unexpectedly. Before dawn, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up, startled. I had heard no one enter my tent. Standing above me was a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped blond hair. He wore a Confederate officer's uniform and identified himself as Major Michaels, a name I had not heard before. Like Jackson, he possessed a most commanding presence. I rose to my feet. "Samuel MacDonald, your death is imminent, yet you shall not die. The enemy's testimony against you will not succeed. I have been ordered to make arrangements for your escape." I stood silently as he handed me a set of traveling papers. "Should you be stopped, these documents provide you with free and unquestioned passage." He handed me the uniform of a Confederate Lieutenant. "Your horse is saddled and ready to go, along with your books and other personal items. Change your clothes. Rest assured, the guard will not be looking when you leave your tent. Even so, do not look to your left or your right." He then announced, "You must head north, Samuel MacDonald. To the west, south and east, you will surely be captured. Armies on both sides are maneuvering for a major battle. Take your civilian clothes and change immediately upon reaching Union lines and most of all, place your trust in God." Was this an answer to my prayer? Or was I being led like a fool into a trap? I mused on the possibilities and soon realized that it made no difference. If I stayed, I was a dead man for sure. I followed his orders and, true to his word, my escape was uneventful. Within a few brief hours of certain death, my horse, James Madison, and I were on the road north out of Gordonsville, my guitar strapped to my saddlebag, with my two army medical knapsacks and journals secured across his back. The Long Knife hung from my belt in its sheath, and my orders identifying me as Lieutenant Elijah of the Confederate Secret Service were tucked in my jacket. I should have paid greater heed to Major Michaels' words. Knowing that I was in a precarious position, I decided to proceed to John Kline's cabin in contradiction to my rescuer's warning. I spent the night traveling toward the upper portion of the Shenandoah Valley. By morning I was no more than an hour from the cabin. As the rising sun sent its first yellow rays peeking through the treetops, sounds of intermittent cannon fire began off to my right somewhere beyond the forest. Less than an hour later, after crossing a shallow creek, a cluster of birds broke noisily from a stand of trees, slashing upwards into the sky directly above my head. As I glanced up, the loud bark of a pistol pierced the air. James Madison buckled beneath me. As I tumbled to the ground, I heard a second clap and a round ripped through my left arm, spinning me onto my back. I heard the gallop of hooves as the barely distinguishable colors of Union blue emerged from the dusk lighted edge of the wood. The Union scout dismounted. My fate was now certain. I was either a dead man or a Union prisoner. I laid helplessly in the road, knowing that each breath might be my last. As the scout approached, he yanked his pistol from his holster. I found myself eyeball to eyeball with the barrel of a Union pistol. He drew back the pistol's hammer with a click--which was followed immediately by a dull thwack. The soldier's eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled to the ground beside the main road. Soul, did not the hand of my Maker dispense grace and providence upon me? Was I not tempted to disbelieve the familiar figure standing behind the fallen Union soldier? Before me stood an old friend, Toby Sikes, the free Negro from Mrs. Sheppard's boardinghouse. He wore a huge smile on his face and held an oversized skillet in his hand. Toby served as a cook in one of Pope's regiments. He told me that we were ten miles behind Union lines and dangerously close to roving Union Cavalry units. He'd been cleaning his cooking utensils when he saw me ride by, asleep on my horse. At first he didn't recognize me, but then, catching sight of the guitar, he remembered our time at Mrs. Sheppard's Boardinghouse. Glancing at my bloody Lieutenant's uniform, I realized the careless mistake I had made. While recounting his story, he bound my wound, then transferred my many belongings to the Union officer's horse, helped me up into the saddle and tied the skillet to my pack. "Sam, I don't know what you're doin' here but someone heard them shots. They'll be comin'. You best be movin' quick." "Why the skillet?" I asked, clutching my arm. "So you won't ever forget how God used Toby Sikes to save your life. Strange thing is, I've got a feelin' he's gonna have us meet again! Now get on outa here!" The infection in my arm continues to spread. I am in poorer condition now than when I first arrived. I must resume my trek. The sound of cannon tells me the conflict is moving slowly northward. But the real war is not one between men in blue and gray. No, it is between forces of Good and of Evil, between angels of light and principalities of darkness. Both North and South were swept up with pride and made captive by the Serpent, the Devil. Now he freely stalks the land, seeking to complete his plan to destroy the Nation, as Father Gibault so clearly forsaw. The Devil aspires to extinguish the torch of freedom held forth for nearly a century by its guardian and defender, the Church. John Ezra's farm is less than a hundred miles away, but it is far behind Union lines. I will be safe there and able to escape Beaumont's crazed pursuit. May Your grace go with me. If this is my last journal entry and I should expire on the road, I request the finder to please forward my possessions to my brother: John Ezra MacDonalnd
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