Authors: Gilbert Morris
Catching himself he whispered, “Davis . . . !” Reaching out in stark unbelief, he was enveloped by a pair of strong arms.
“I’m back, Grandfather!” Davis said thickly. He helped the old man sit down, realizing the shock had been almost too much. “I’m back,” he repeated. The pale cast of the strong old face of his grandfather alarmed him.
“Let me get you some water,” he offered, and started for the kitchen.
“No.” Winslow’s voice was unsteady, but he lifted his shoulders and pulled himself up straight in the chair. “I’m all right.”
Davis sat opposite him. “I wanted to send a wire to break the news, but I was afraid you’d be alone when it arrived.” He put out his hand and the captain grasped it, holding on as if he were afraid Davis would vanish. “Just sit there for a minute. Then I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Have you seen Robert and Jewel?”
“I just came from there. It was—hard,” he said, stumbling over the word. “I saw Father first, and then he went in and broke it to Mother. I don’t think either of them can believe it, though.” A smile touched his lips, and he added, “They almost refused to let me come over here.”
Whitfield Winslow had led an eventful life, but nothing had shocked him so much as the sight of his grandson’s appearance. He stared at him, his throat constricting. He put his other hand over Davis’s in a steel grip. “I know how they feel,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid if you leave, I’ll wake up and find it’s all been an old man’s dream.”
“I won’t leave,” Davis promised, squeezing the gnarled hands.
“Tell me about it—all of it!”
For the next hour Davis gave a detailed account of his escape from Libby. “I should have found some way to let
you know I was alive—but I was afraid it would get Thad in trouble,” he said.
“You did the right thing, boy,” Whitfield nodded emphatically. “That young man, he’s the Winslow stock—the real thing!”
“You’re correct about that,” Davis nodded. He went over his first days at Chimborazo, emphasizing Belle’s role. “I’d be either dead or a one-legged cripple by now if it hadn’t been for her.”
“You’ve forgiven her, I see.” The captain’s eyes lit up with approval. “That was what frightened me, Davis—your terrible hatred for her. It was killing you inside. But now it’s all gone?”
Davis hesitated, then said what he had not told his parents—what he had not intended to tell anyone—“It’s . . . more than that, Grandfather.” There was a note in his voice that made Whitfield look at him with surprise. “All the time I was in the hospital, I watched her. Later when the Winslows took me in, and she was there, we spent a lot of time together. We talked much about books, and—well, I got to know her.”
He found it difficult to say what he wanted, so his grandfather did it for him. “Are you trying to tell me you love the girl?”
Davis nodded. “Yes—but she doesn’t care for me.”
Whitfield studied Davis carefully. It had been less than a year since he had gone away, but little remained of the rosy-cheeked boyish look. Instead, his face was lean and marked with suffering—suffering that had made him into a man. His deep-set eyes were steady and filled with wisdom, the clean lines of his face, once hidden, now apparent.
“She’s suffered a lot, boy,” he finally stated quietly. “I’ve always felt she was a fine woman. But it may take some time.”
“It’ll take that,” Davis agreed. “It’ll take a miracle, too.”
“Well, there
are
precedents.” Whitfield’s face creased in a smile, and he gave Davis’s shoulders a hard slap. “There’s one sitting in my garden! Now, tell me how you escaped from the South.”
“That was sort of a miracle in itself, I think,” Davis
answered. “It was almost too easy! I boarded the train in a Confederate uniform, rode as close as I could to the lines, then got off. I put on civilian clothes, got rid of my uniform, and started walking. The first farm I came to, I bought a horse. From there I just eased around until I found an opening. Soon as I got through to our side, I asked for the Twentieth Maine. It was a two-day ride, but I made it.”
“I’ll bet Chamberlain got a shock at the sight of you.”
Davis smiled at the memory of how he had walked into camp to find Chamberlain in a staff meeting, wearing the insignia of a general, which he’d received in June. He had taken one look at Davis and shouted, “Good God! He’s come out of the grave!” Davis repeated this to the captain, and said, “For once that man lost his scholarly reserve!”
“How’d you account for being reported dead?”
“Oh, I just said I’d bribed a guard to let me go out in a coffin. I didn’t mention Thad, of course, so they think I’m somewhat of a hero.” He laughed. “He found a uniform and sent me away right off. My leg’s not all that steady, so you’ll have me on your hands for quite a while, I think.”
“My boy, I thank God for your safe return.”
Davis stared at the floor. “Well, Perry Hale would say God’s been in it all the way.”
“Hale’s a good man, and I agree,” the captain nodded.
“I’ve changed my views about God,” Davis stated abruptly. He told how the sermon he’d heard had affected him so powerfully, and asked, “Do you think it was God who took all the bitterness out of me? I didn’t call on Him, or make any kind of public profession.”
“Davis, only God can do a thing like that. It’s not in the power of man to change his own heart.”
“But—am I a Christian, then?” Perplexity creased his brow and he added, “Most of the Christians I know have some kind of experience. They call it ‘getting saved.’ You’ve told me about how you came to know God—and nothing like that’s happened to me.”
“God’s not in a box, Davis, though lots of people would love to put Him there. He’s an infinite God, and I think He deals with people in many ways. It’s a mistake to think that every man has to have the same experience in all the details. You’ve read the Bible. You know He didn’t deal with Abraham as He did with David. Paul had a spectacular experience with Jesus on the road to Damascus, while other people have a more simple conversion.”
Davis shook his head. “Something in me is different—but I still don’t feel—I don’t feel God, somehow.”
The captain smiled and nodded his approval. “Why, boy, most of us have to go through some sort of struggle to find God. I was miserable for two years, fighting God all the way. I know now He was after me, and I was doing everything I could to keep from being caught!” He studied Davis carefully. “I think God came knocking at your door in that hospital, Davis. And He gave you just a little taste of what He’s like by removing the hate. But that’s not the end of it.”
Davis mulled the words over. After a while he nodded, his face sober. “I’ve been thinking about that. It seems like I’m—well, sort of half finished. What do I do now?”
“You give your life to Jesus.”
“But—
how?
” Davis was disturbed, and his confusion was evident.
“I guess that’s what you and I will have to talk about, Davis,” the captain replied. “One thing I know for sure—when a man is ready for Christ to do something in him, it’s not a long affair. It doesn’t take God long to save a man—but sometimes it takes quite a spell for the man to get his heart
right
for God to do something. I think what you’ll be doing for the next few days or maybe months is getting ready.”
Davis looked doubtful. “Well, I’ve got the time—and I’ve got a good teacher,” he smiled. “Now, let’s get
you
ready.”
“Me? Ready for what?”
“Why, the prodigal’s come home!” Davis got to his feet. “Mother’s killing the fatted calf for me—and we’ve both
got to be there for the feast.” Then he amended his words. “On the other hand, I guess I’m sort of a cross between the prodigal and Lazarus, wouldn’t you think?”
“A little of both, my boy—a little of both!”
****
The rest of the summer sped by, and Davis stayed in Washington. He had no inclination to leave and was glad when he was assigned to a desk job—a job that in his opinion had no meaning or value, except that it allowed time with his grandfather and the family.
His stay with his parents was rewarding, for the breach between them was totally healed. They were so filled with joy over his miraculous appearance that nothing was too much for them to do for him. Sometimes it seemed a little smothering, the way his mother clung to him. Davis, however, never showed any displeasure. He grew close to his father also, and they spent many evenings together, often dining out or going to the theater.
But it was the visits with his grandfather the young man prized most. The two studied the Bible constantly, and Davis was astonished to discover how much he understood.
Attending church had always been a duty, but by the end of summer Davis was a fixture, along with his grandfather, in the Presbyterian church where the captain had taken Belle. He often saw President Lincoln, and once had shaken hands with him after the service.
But it wasn’t until late summer that he found the answer he’d been seeking—and it didn’t come as expected. For months he’d been examining his life, trying to find his way to God. At times he grew desperate, for nothing seemed to happen. Still, he had kept on, and one Sunday morning as the minister preached on the cross of Jesus, Davis was greatly moved. He said nothing to his grandfather, but walked the cold streets for an hour after returning home.
The captain had been surprised when Davis appeared at
three o’clock. His face was somewhat paler than usual, and as soon as he entered the house, he said in a tight voice, “I’ve found Christ, Grandfather!” He paced the floor as the old man waited, a broad smile on his weathered face. “I was thinking of the sermon, about the cross, and I’d just about given up on ever having any kind of real experience with God—like you had. As I was crossing Oak Street, all of a sudden, I just felt like God was there!”
“Even more than in church, eh?” the captain nodded.
“Yes, much more. And I just said, ‘God, I’m not sure about much, but I know that Jesus is the Son of God—and that He died for me—so please forgive me and make me what
you
want me to be.’ ”
Davis was alive with excitement as he went on. “And He did it! He did it, Grandfather! Oh, it wasn’t like Paul’s experience—not like yours either—but I
know
Jesus came to me there on Oak Street!”
Whitfield’s eyes were moist, his lips trembling, but he said firmly, “Davis—the devil is going to tell you in the days to come that you
imagined
it all. He always does! So what you better do is go back to that crossing and put an
X
on the spot where you called on God—and then when the devil comes, you can take him to the exact spot and tell him, ‘Right
there
is where it happened!’ “ He embraced his grandson, saying exuberantly, “My boy! I’m so happy for you! So happy!”
After that, the two spent even more time together, and when Davis was baptized in the church, his parents stood beside the captain. And for all his professed agnosticism, Robert wiped his eyes as he saw the happy smile on his son’s face.
The week after he was baptized, Davis received his orders to rejoin his company, which was being thrown into the final struggle around Richmond. Everyone knew, now that Grant had fought Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia to a standstill at the Wilderness, Spotsylvania, and Cold Harbor, that the war could have only one end. The South was fighting valiantly, but the massive armies of the North now encircled
the heart of the Confederacy. Hood’s Army of the Tennessee had been destroyed at Franklin and again at Nashville, so all that kept the frail fabric of the Southern Confederacy intact was the thin gray line Grant presently faced at Petersburg. When that fell, Richmond was doomed, and when Richmond fell—the war would be over.
“I’ve been called to join my unit at Petersburg, Grandfather,” Davis said. He stared at the summons and shook his head. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“God will be with you, Davis,” the captain encouraged. “He’s brought you this far, and He won’t let you down now.”
“I’m not afraid of dying—you know that,” Davis told him. “But I am afraid of killing other men. I just want to be a help to the people there. How can I fight against men like Thad?”
Davis left the next day, and the last thing he said was to his grandfather as the train pulled out of the station, “I’ll be back—but pray that God will use me!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE END OF IT ALL
Belle had ceased to notice the rumbling of cannons that had become part of Richmond’s existence. For almost ten months, Grant had hammered at the thin line of Confederates with little success. Belle had heard her father say, “If Grant knew how thin our lines are, he’d drive through them tomorrow!”
But Lee shifted men from place to place, often managing to strengthen a weak point minutes before the Federals attacked. Grant had grown desperate at one point during this time, and in July of the previous year had resorted to a wild scheme of Colonel Henry Pleasants’, a mining engineer in civil life. Pleasants was a member of the Forty-eighth Pennsylvania Infantry, composed largely of coal miners. They dug a tunnel over 586 feet long and laid a powerful mine directly under the Confederate position. The mine exploded, but when a poorly trained division, whose commander lay drinking in the trenches, tried to attack, hundreds died in what came to be called “The Battle of the Crater.”
On March 25, General Lee made a valiant attack on Fort Stedman, but was driven back by strong Union reinforcements. Six days later, Grant’s hard-driving general, Sheridan, won against the Confederates at Five Forks, and Grant immediately ordered a general assault at dawn of April 2. The night the attack broke through, the Army of Northern Virginia left Petersburg and Richmond and set out on the road to Appomattox.
****
Every bed at Chimborazo had been occupied for months, for the toll of the siege resulted in heavy casualties. When there were no more beds, men lay on the floor with blankets as cots. Even then there was not enough room. The pressure of Belle’s tasks had kept her from brooding on who was winning as she heard the rumble of the guns a few miles away, but on the morning of April 2, her routine was broken.