The Valley of the Shadow of Death
“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of…” Martha stopped speaking to stifle a rising sob. She knew she had to stay strong for her children, but she could not get past that word. Another scream pierced the air and even the young Confederate soldier, guarding the door with his gun at the ready, flinched at the sound. Biting her lip, she swallowed past the lump of fear lodged in her throat, let her eyes fall shut, and started again.
“Lord, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.”
Emma hurried down the street. She was beginning to regret telling her father that she did not want to take the carriage into town. The letter tucked into her petticoats seemed heavier with every step she took. Even though her family was Virginian through and through, seceding from the nation had never set right with her father. It became a sore subject among their neighbors along the Elizabeth River, and their family received taunts and threats for being Union sympathizers. Her father eventually fell silent and learned to keep his opinions to himself. A new fire wasn’t lit in her father’s belly until Union troops captured the Navy Yard in Norfolk. He went out at all hours of the night and slept in small increments during the day. This morning he had looked so haggard Emma doubted if his head had made acquaintance with a pillow for several days.
Most disturbing, however, was when he was at home, he locked himself in his study and refused to speak with anyone. Until this morning, that is, when he had beckoned her into his study and had sworn her to secrecy. Although she did not understand why secrecy was so important—he didn’t tell her anything. All he did was give her a letter and ask her to take it to the blacksmith when she went into town. Above all else, he had made her promise not to let anybody know or see she had the letter and to go about her business as usual. When she asked what it was about, he tried to take it back saying it was too dangerous a job for her, but she stuffed it into her petticoats before he could stop her. Much to her mother’s consternation, the quickest way to get Emma to do anything was to tell her she could not. And so it was, with this scene replaying in her head, that Emma stepped into the general store. She had several shops to visit before arriving at the blacksmith’s.
A muffled scream rent the air, stopping Martha’s prayer once more, and then all was silent. Her resolve broke and she covered her face with her hands and started to sob. One of her sons broke free of his captor and, unhindered, knelt by his mother. Taking one of her hands from her face, he held it between his own and picked up the prayer where she had left off.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” The innocence of his voice reverberated through the room contrasting sharply with the sounds of his father being tortured in the kitchen below. He knew something, and the Confederate lieutenant who had come knocking so innocently that morning wanted it—badly. The lieutenant had said nobody needed to get hurt. Martha doubted the truth of that assurance when he first uttered it and now knew it to be a bald-faced lie. For the past hour she had listened as her husband was being tortured. Apparently the information that he divulged had been insufficient.
At first Martha had believed her husband brave. She was unaware what information he could possibly possess that was so important but was proud he was willing to endure bodily harm to protect it. It was only after she had been dragged in front of him and forced to watch her eldest son be shot that she saw what men referred to as bravery was actually bull-headed stubbornness, and she told him so. She screamed it to the rafters and fought against her captors to be able to hold her dying son and afford him what little comfort she could. She was denied her pleas and had to watch from afar as her son bled to death, his last breath producing a gurgle of blood that was the macabre twin of the spit-up her infant son produced on a daily basis. Despite the tears streaming down her husband’s face, he refused to satisfy the officer.
The lieutenant had begun to bark an order for the twin sons to be brought down when a man Martha had yet to even notice stepped forward and interjected.
“That won’t be necessary. Take her back upstairs, she’s of no further use.” The lieutenant shot daggers at the man with his eyes—whom Martha noticed was wearing the uniform of an enlisted man, not an officer—and was about to upbraid him when the man continued, “Take her upstairs and tell her to pray for the immortal souls of her family, because none of them are of any use to us anymore.”
As the weight of what the soldier said settled throughout the room, she screamed once more. Her husband began pleading with a fresh fervor and the lieutenant’s vitriol turned to humor as a wicked smile distorted his face, and a laugh that chilled her blood escaped his lips.
“Well, good mornin’, Miss Emma! What can I do for you? Another one of your father’s horses throw a shoe?”
Emma smiled. Ever since she was a little girl, Blackie had always been able to make her feel at ease no matter what was troubling her. He was a burly sort of man, who never wore a shirt when he was working, and therefore, was always covered in black soot and sweat. Much to her mother’s humiliation, the first time Emma had seen him as a child, she kept pointing and asking about the big white man who was all black, until he came over and introduced himself. He laughed off her mother’s apologies and let Emma nickname him Blackie, which had humiliated her mother all over again. More importantly, it had created a bond between Emma and Blackie that held firm to this day.
“No, the horses are fine, thank you,” Emma replied. She paused and looked around to make sure they were alone before continuing. “Father sent me with a message for you.”
The big man’s smile disappeared and was replaced by a frown that looked so unnatural on his face it brought her back to the seriousness of her task. He knew what her father’s messages contained and did not approve of his choice in messengers.
Before she could reach into her petticoats to retrieve the missive, one of the field hands from her father’s plantation came bursting into the blacksmith’s, fighting for air. He had run hard the full mile and a half from the plantation into town. He took a couple of deep breaths before he was able to speak.
“Miss Emma,” he cried, panting, “you gots to hide”—panting— “they be in the house, and” —big gulp of air— “the massa ain’t long for this world.”
The color drained from Emma’s face. Blackie sprang into action grabbing a barrel for the slave to sit on and some water for him to drink. As the slave sucked down the water, Blackie began to interrogate him: Who was there? How many? What did they want?
As she listened to Blackie’s questions and the vague answers from the slave, her terror grew. That was her family, her whole life back at the house. They were all home except for her. Her father had forbade all excursions off the grounds, with the exception of her weekly shopping trip. She couldn’t stay here helplessly and let herself be hidden away; she had to do something. She sneaked out the back of the blacksmith’s and, through sheer luck, found a horse already saddled. She realized her plan was ridiculous. Wearing a full skirt and petticoats, there was no way to mount, much less ride, a horse. She looked back into the blacksmith’s, then out toward her family’s homestead and clenched her jaw, steeling herself to her decision. She dug the letter out of her petticoats and tucked it safely into her décolleté, then in a most unladylike and unabashed fashion, set to undoing her hoop and other encumbering accoutrements.
A blush raced up her cheeks as she thought of the scandal that would result from a mound of women’s undergarments being found behind the blacksmith’s, but she pushed that thought aside as she mounted the horse—a daunting task. All she had left were her pantaloons and overskirt, the latter ridiculously large without the supporting understructure. After fumbling and falling into the side of the horse several times, she was forced to gather her skirt up in one arm in a most unseemly fashion to free her legs enough to mount. Mercifully, that same overabundance of material allowed her the maneuverability to sit astride the horse like a man, letting the voluminous skirt fall on both sides. Emma thanked the heavens her father had ignored the protests of her mother and allowed her to ride as a young girl—at least until her bloods came and her mother insisted riding would ruin her for her future husband. She was finally able to point the horse in the direction of home and dug her heels into the horse’s sides.
Henry smiled to himself as he finished deciphering the letter in front of him. The old man had finally told the truth and it was because of him. He couldn’t understand why people thought the only way to get information out of a person was to cause them pain. At least in his experience, a little fear was much better motivation than a lot of pain. He looked up at the bloodthirsty lieutenant waiting impatiently in front of him.
“The key is good,” Henry confirmed. “According to this letter, they have rerouted their supply wagons because the informant, NR, tipped them off that we were planning a raid. The same raid that came up dry two weeks ago.”
“Where does it say they rerouted them?”
“It says all new routes will be disclosed in future correspondence. It appears they follow the same guidelines as our coded messages in case they are intercepted: only one note of relevance per missive.”
“Well, damn it all to hell! How am I supposed to go back and report we got the key for the letters, but all we were able to reveal was that our failed raid failed because they knew about it ahead of time?”
Henry clenched his jaw in irritation. Shortsighted officers like this one made him wish he had disobeyed his father at the beginning of the war. Then he could have bought himself an officer’s commission. Instead he stayed out of the war until he was called up by the draft and forced to follow orders from men like this one.
Lieutenant General Longstreet had sent them out on a foraging mission. Originally, they were to skirt the edges of the Union’s occupation of the Navy Yard in Norfolk to see what could be commandeered for the Confederacy. However, when Henry stumbled upon a piece of intelligence about a Union spy, they abandoned foraging and traveled further south down the Elizabeth River where they did indeed find a spy at the O’Neal plantation. Mr. O’Neal himself. Once again, Henry had done all the work, and Lieutenant Radcliffe would take all the credit. But only after Henry took the time to explain to him why their information was valuable.
“The victory is in the key itself, now we know that we have the correct table for deciphering. These letters are weeks old. We had already assumed their contents would be of little help. Besides—”
“Don’t you talk down to me, boy! I’m not stupid! And don’t you ever interrupt one of my interrogations again either! I am an officer and you will respect that!”
Henry ground his teeth. He did not know why it surprised him how quickly it had been forgotten that his interruption is what had won them the prize. For the hundredth time, Henry reminded himself that he had made his bed, for better or for worse, and now he had to lie in it.
“I apologize; there was no disrespect intended.”
“Good.” The lieutenant made a show of shuffling the papers back and forth; at one point, he even picked one up to read it despite it being in code.
“Permission to speak?” Henry asked.
“Granted.”
“Word in town was that O’Neal had four sons. By my count, there are only three here. The one you killed and the twin boys being held in the nursery with O’Neal’s daughters. Perhaps you did not actually kill his eldest son.”
The lieutenant looked at him blankly.
“Perhaps the eldest son is out delivering messages for his father, which is why all we have here is old correspondence.”
Slowly Henry’s assertion sunk in, and the lieutenant got excited.
“Yes, yes!” The lieutenant pointed at a small man across the room. “You, Williams! There should be four sons! Take two men into town and find O’Neal’s eldest son. He’s there somewhere, and he’s got what we’re looking for. Go find him!”
Williams scampered off to obey orders.
The lieutenant looked back to Henry. “I knew that it was odd he let me kill that boy, but what father cares about his second-born son? Why didn’t I think of that sooner? The eldest son is working with the father. Of course!” The lieutenant slapped his hand down on the table, congratulating himself for coming up with exactly what Henry had told him.
Henry turned his attention back to deciphering the letters to distract himself from his fervent wish to express his opinion of the lieutenant’s intelligence.
Emma cut onto the road leading up to the plantation at a precipitous speed and almost bowled over the slave who jumped out from the trees. His appearance startled her horse, practically throwing Emma to the ground. Before she could regain her seat, the man grabbed her off the back of the horse and clamped his hand down over her mouth to silence the scream that had begun to issue forth. A second slave emerged from the side of the road and grabbed the horse’s reins, calmed him, and led him quickly into the trees. The first slave followed him, dragging Emma along with him.
“Miss Emma, shhhh. Shhhh! We not gonna hurt you, but you needs to be quiet.” She stopped struggling. Cautiously the slave removed his hand from her mouth.
She spoke in a breathless whisper. “Where is my family?”
“In the house with them men that came this mornin’.”
“Show me.”
The two slaves exchanged looks, afraid to disobey a command even now, and turned to pick their way through the trees. The big house was in sight in no time and strangely there was little activity. There were several men outside watching the horses. Otherwise all was still. The second slave stopped with the horse out of view from the house, but the first slave led Emma to the edge of the copse before stopping and beckoning her to crouch down in the underbrush to wait.
She did so and immediately began to fuss with her skirt—not in her normal meticulous way, but in complete frustration. Her ride followed by the short walk through the woods had rendered her skirt completely ruined. There were brambles and burrs caught up in it everywhere, not to mention she had fought with it every step of the way until she had finally given up and let it drag behind her and tear on the branches. If they had to run, she would be completely hindered.
A gunshot echoed across the eternity that lay between Emma and her family, sending a flock of birds to the sky. Without thinking, she stood and began to run toward the house. Before she was three steps underway the slave grabbed her once more and tackled her to the ground. She started to struggle when the folly of her actions became apparent by the attention the soldiers outside with the horses were now directing toward them. They had heard her movement and were now debating whether it was worth investigating.
Even though she was now perfectly still, the slave’s grip around Emma hadn’t loosened, and her arms started to throb where his fingers dug into her tender flesh. Despite this, she did not protest. She had no idea how long they waited for something, anything, to happen. The soldiers finally lost interest and went back to their posts. She was about to struggle to get free when a second gunshot fractured the air. The slave’s grip tightened in anticipation of Emma trying to run again, but she stayed down. She did not believe in the power of prayer like her mother did, but as the tears started to flow down her face, Emma prayed.
Disgusted, Henry followed the lieutenant out of the house and toward the horses. O’Neal had clearly told them everything, and the lieutenant knew that. So why he felt the need to shoot out both of the man’s knees he couldn’t fathom. Especially since the man was already so far gone that neither shot elicited much reaction. Even so, it provided the lieutenant with some sort of sick pleasure because he was now whistling happily as he pulled on his gloves in preparation to mount his horse. Before doing so he turned to Henry.
“Gather up all the Negroes and get them ready to march. We’re taking them with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then shoot the family and burn the house.”
“But sir, we promised to let them live if O’Neal talked! They’re children for God’s sake.”
Outraged, the lieutenant wheeled on Henry. “That is the last time you will ever contradict an order I give you! This is war, and you will obey my commands. If I want to make an example of traitors for all who may think to follow in their footsteps, then you will do it!” A twisted smile spread across his face. “In fact, you will do it personally.” He raised his voice to address the remainder of the men. “Gather anything easy to carry that is of value and what Negroes come willingly. Shoot those that do not. Henry here has volunteered to take care of the family. We ride out in five minutes.” The lieutenant flashed Henry a hideous grin, mounted his horse, and left to oversee the foraging.
Henry hated that man to the core of his being. He turned and began what now seemed like a long walk back to the house. The looks on the men’s faces he passed were equal parts horror and fear with the odd look of admiration and respect. They actually believed he had volunteered to dispatch a woman and her children. He would be afraid of himself, too. Entering the kitchen, Henry skirted past the semiconscious old man, who was still tied to the chair, and ascended the staircase one step at a time, each footfall a fateful premonition echoing throughout the house. When he reached the top, he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and entered the nursery where the family was gathered. One of the young boys was finishing a prayer while his mother and two sisters all sobbed quietly. He motioned with his head to the two men who were standing guard.
“Head out.”
They did not have to be told twice and ran down the stairs and out of the house.
Henry did not want to think about this, and he did not want to have to hear them plead or cry any more than was necessary. He had his orders, and he had to follow them. Before Martha could turn around to look at him, he pulled his pistol and shot her and the young boy sitting next to her. It jammed, rendering the weapon useless. Dreading the thought of having to clear the jam and reload his weapon with the two girls and the remaining son screaming and crying in front of him, Henry dropped the gun and pulled out his knife, deftly slitting the throats of the two daughters. He tried not to think of them as people. Instead of helping, that seemed to make it worse. The little boy had regained his senses enough to try to run away, but Henry caught him and snapped his neck with a small movement. It was no harder than finishing off a deer while out hunting back home. Slowly lowering the boy to the floor, Henry was sickened by the carnage before him; the work of his own hands. He swore the lieutenant would pay for this order.
Feeling as though his body was stuck in a vat of mud, he turned to pick up his gun and make his way out of the house when a small sound stopped him. Ever so softly, coming from the corner of the room, there was the gurgling sound of an infant, an infant who had inconceivably remained quiet throughout this ordeal and brought the count of sons to the previously discussed four. Henry doubled over and vomited, filth spattering his shoes.
Emma was by now openly weeping into the slave’s chest. He had drawn her near as the screaming from the nursery started. Whether he had done this to comfort her or out of self-preservation to try to muffle the sound, she did not know because he remained ever vigilant to what was still unfolding outside of the cover of the trees. Finally, all was quiet with the exception of the one remaining horse that was tied to a post. It nickered its displeasure at the smoke tendrils creeping out of the upstairs windows. The smoke increased quickly and Emma involuntarily jerked when a window shattered, unable to withstand the heat and pressure anymore.
“Miss Emma, look. He’s the only one left.”
Emma turned to see a soldier, who was splattered in blood and coughing, emerge from the house, carrying the bassinet from the nursery. He ran over to the stand of trees to their left, trying not to jostle the bassinet too much. He set it gently in the shade and collapsed next to it, wheezing and looking around to see if anybody was present. Emma yearned to go check the bassinet, but held still, fearing what the man would do if he saw her. His breath regained, he took one last look at the baby, saw he was secure, and crossed to his horse. Clearly agitated, the horse needed no encouragement to break into a run as soon as the man mounted.
Emma waited until he had rounded the corner in the drive and was out of sight before leaping to her feet. This time, instead of stopping her, the slave quickly outdistanced her and ran into the burning house. Emma ran to the bassinet and found lying, poorly swaddled in a blanket, her youngest brother. She could not understand why the man had chosen to rescue the baby. Perhaps he had tried to save the rest of her family as well, but failed. She pictured him waiting in the burning house for the rest of his company to leave, so he could sneak the one soul he had been able to save out to safety. Emma had no idea how she would ever be able to repay this man for his kindness.
She quickly inspected the boy to ensure he was indeed unharmed. Before she could pick him up and hold him close, the slave staggered out of the house, dragging her father. She left the baby in the shade and hurried over to where the slave was laying her father gently in the grass away from the burning house. He was barely alive. Emma’s tears flowed even more freely as she knelt down and took her father’s hand in hers.
He looked up at her through unfocused eyes.
“Father,” she was able to choke out before her emotions overtook her.
Immediately the bleary haze left her father’s gaze and his eyes bored into hers.
“Emma?”
“Yes, Father, I’m here. I’m right here.” She had thought that might give him some hope. He shook his head ever so slightly.
“Wild.” He coughed up some blood and groaned before he was able to continue. “Tell Wild they have the key.” He coughed and spluttered some more. “Tell him, promise.”
Emma was taken aback. After everything that had happened, her father’s dying words to her was a message for somebody she had never even heard of.
“But Father, who is—”
He cut her off before she could finish her thought. “General Wild,” he sputtered and tried to pat her left arm. “One, one…”
“He has one arm?”
“Yes! Find him, quickly. The field, go.” The energy it took him to bark out the order winded him terribly and he began coughing harshly.
Horrified, Emma stood. She was being sent away to leave her dying father and infant brother in the hands of slaves while she went to find a general who was probably out on a battlefield where she had no business going. She began to back away slowly, hesitant to leave, but the insistence in her father’s eyes made her turn and head back toward the trees. The second slave had emerged from his cover, tied the horse to a nearby tree and was tending to the baby. She walked up to them and grabbed the horse’s reins.
“You are to watch him and keep him safe until I get back.”
The slave looked up at her incredulously but finally nodded in response.
She mounted the horse, an easier task the second time around but no less cumbersome, and urged it down the lane.
Emma knew the skirmishes that had been dragging on for the past week were another mile away from town. By the time she arrived on the outskirts, her inner thighs burned, chafed raw from riding. Mercifully she discovered she was on the correct side of the field and that Brigadier General Wild’s tent was nearby. Clumsily she dismounted, garnering strange looks from all within eyeshot and limped over. When she reached the tent flap, a lower ranking officer immediately began to shoo her away. Frustrated, she called out.
“General Wild!”
All of the men stopped what they were doing and looked up at her.
“Brigadier General Wild, I have a message from my father, who is dead along with my entire family.”
It took every ounce of self-control in her body to keep her tears at bay. Whether it was what she said, or the presence of a bedraggled young woman standing outside his tent, she did not know, but the General broke away from his men and came to her.
In a hushed voice he asked, “Are you Daniel O’Neal’s daughter?”
She nodded her head, fearing she would be unable to speak without crying.
“What is his message?” His seeming lack of empathy flared a righteousness in her that she did not know existed.
She spat back at him, “He died at the hands of the Confederate soldiers who were torturing him, and his last words were to instruct me to tell you that they have the key.”
The general’s eyes momentarily widened before he turned and ran back into the tent. A flurry of activity broke out and she was forgotten.
A bitter bile flowed through her veins as she realized how inconsequential she was to all of these men. How little they cared for her father, for her family, for her. Their only concern was this war and this key whose price was apparently greater than the lives of her family. Hot tears began to stream down her face as she stormed away. She did not know where she was going; she only knew she couldn’t be by that tent and those men anymore. She tore through a small thicket of trees not caring that branches were raking their sharp fingers across her cheeks and arms and through the soft fabrics of what was left of her dress. When she emerged on the other side, she stopped dead in her tracks, paralyzed by the vista. Down in the valley below her, men were clashed in war. Gunshots rang through the air, but what took her breath away was that she couldn’t distinguish who was who. Who was friend and who was foe? They were a wild stewing pot of flashing blades, exploding gunpowder, smoke, screams, and blood. More blood than she had ever imagined could exist in one place.
She felt as though she were standing on some great precipice, looking out on what was now her uncertain yet inevitable future. She wanted to run, to cry, to hide, but somehow she knew she was a part of this now, and nothing she could do would allow her to escape that fate. She was inextricably linked to this horror that had so insidiously crept into her life until it had consumed her entirely. She had nothing left except the last words her father had ever written. She looked down and pulled the missive out of the front of her dress and opened it. It was unreadable— a page of numbers that formed words, saying nothing at all. Nothing without the key to decipher them. Acrimony fueled a rage inside of her as she refolded the paper and replaced it in the front of her dress. She knew her father wanted her to do what was right. The only problem was that she did not know what was right. Looking back over the battle, she realized she did not even understand what they were all fighting for, and she certainly did not understand where she fit into that landscape.