A Valentine’s Legend

We’ve been together, dear wife, for going on sixteen years and still there are things you don’t know about me, things you ought to know about who I am. Here’s one: my great grandfather was a soldier in the Civil War. He ran away from home to join the Union because his North Carolina family was loyal to the Confederacy. This is why my family tree extends only so far as the birth of Great Grandpa John. I too am a loyal Union man. But I digress.

My great grandfather John left home in 1864 to join General Grant in his struggle against Robert E. Lee. He served through to Appomattox Court House as an aide and messenger boy. In a letter written on the day of the surrender, he claims to have stood outside the McLean house as the Confederate General went inside to surrender. That’s the letter my brother has framed over the end-table in his living room. You’ve seen it a hundred times. Next time we’re over there, read the third paragraph. You’ll see.

But there’s much of this story that can’t be confirmed by document or photograph. Some of it was told to my father by his father, while other parts I’ve heard from aunts and uncles at family reunions and funerals. But, my dear, I have to admit that some of it is conjecture at best. All of this happened a very long time ago and so I have had to stitch the cloth together in places to make it whole. This is a story, a legend really, but it’s good. And none of my lies are too far off the mark.
We know for sure that Grant’s army was still in Virginia when John joined them. He was sixteen and was on his way back from delivering a message to Washington when a man in a carriage called to him. John noticed that two fine horses were tied to and following the carriage. He saw that the driver who had called him was a well-dressed gentleman. And seated next to the driver, John saw a young woman. We don’t have to imagine how he felt. Ask any schoolboy who has felt himself fall deeply in love with the girl across the room.

“Boy,” the driver said, “point me the way to General Grant’s tent.” John replied that he would lead. He had orders to report there on his return.

The man was Matthew McConnell. He was delivering two of his finest horses to the general who was one of the great horsemen of his time, of any time. Matthew wanted to help the cause and he was too old to be a soldier. He was however, quite wealthy and his horses would be a welcome addition to Grant’s stable.

Beside Matthew, Mary sat silently as they rode slowly behind John to Grant’s encampment. While the horses were attended to, John brought an officer, the identity of whom we do not know, to meet with Matthew. Mr. Grant was in the field and could not see him. The officer thanked Matthew for the horses and offered to meet with him about other matters Matthew wished to discuss. Seeing Mary still sitting in the carriage, the officer suggested that his aide see to it that a meal was provided for her and that she be entertained while the two men spoke. The aide in question, was John who stood nearby. John was filthy from the ride to and from Washington, but as Matthew looked him over, he stood erect and composed. After a moment of consideration, Matthew nodded his assent.

“Mary,” he called up to the wagon, “you will go with this boy.” With that, he and the officer departed.

I know that by now you’re wondering how everyone looked. I wish that I had a picture to show you, but I don’t. Instead you’ll have to imagine. Grandpa said that John had had black hair as a young man, that his shoulders were wide and square, and that his hands were large. He was never heavy. He was tall, almost six feet, and especially later in life his size was intimidating. His eyes, according to Grandpa, were hazel green like mine. In a picture taken long after the war his hair is parted to the right and he holds his head up so that he is looking down at the camera. In a picture my father has, John stands behind a chair in which Mary sits. His hand rests on her shoulder, enveloping it in a gesture that is protective, loving, and possessive.

Mary, according to a diary entry John wrote after Mary had passed, was rail thin with hair that fell down over her shoulders in dark red curls. Her skin, was smooth and perfect aside from one mole on her left cheek. He wrote that her eyes were brown and very wide, especially when she looked into his eyes. She was a full foot shorter than John. And her smile came from one side of her mouth more than the other so that it looked almost sly and, to John, irresistible.

These descriptions though are from later in their lives. At the time of this first meeting John was a boy of sixteen and Mary fourteen-year-old girl. They only children in a very large world.

John reached up to the carriage to help her down, but she assured him that she could manage and so he was denied the chance to hold her hand. As they walked together through the camp Mary asked questions about the war and life in the army. She was well informed about the war, well mannered, and she put John at ease though he had never spoken to a girl for this long. But when she asked about his home and family John explained that so far as he was concerned his life had begun when he joined the Union army.

“The rest of my life be damned,” he said. “If you’ll excuse my course tongue.”

John retrieved a meal for them and they sat on a hillside above the encampment to eat it. They talked more as they ate and Matthew learned that Mary’s family lived in northern Virginia, that they raised horses, that she loved to ride and could outrace any boy she knew. She was the youngest of eleven children and the only daughter. Four of her brothers served in the army, three worked in Washington, and three had died in the war. John didn’t know what to say to this and the talk of death stalled their conversation. They looked out together over the field of tents, the cooking fires, and the men moving about. They stared silently over the fields through which John would soon march and imagined all that would happen far away as the army moved south.

Without looking, they both reached for a piece of chicken from the plate between them. Mary grabbed the chicken leg and John wrapped his hand around hers. But once he knew what he had done, he was so glad to be touching her that he didn’t let go. She too was satisfied with the situation and didn’t pull away. So, for the better part of an hour, they sat still, not speaking, watching the sun move down the sky. John held Mary’s hand and Mary held a chicken leg and everything in their world was right.

As evening came on, John worried that Matthew would be waiting and that Mary’s hand might be soaked through in chicken fat. He said that he supposed they ought to get back. Mary agreed and they let go. Together they packed up the picnic and returned to the camp. Matthew and the officer were enjoying cigars by the fire, both of them laughing and clapping one another on the back, as John and Mary returned. They stood, shook hands and the officer departed.

Matthew nodded to John. “Thank you, boy, for attending to my daughter. I trust that she was no trouble.”

“No, sir. It was my honor,” John replied. He then bowed slightly to the older man, stood to attention and saluted.

The carriage was brought around. Matthew and Mary stepped up into it and, with a flick of the reigns, Matthew started them on their way home. John watched the carriage until it passed around the bend. Mary never once looked back. She rode silently all the way home. Three days later, General Grant gave the order and John marched south with the rest of the Army of the Potomac to win the Civil War.

But just after the carriage had passed out of his sight, John sought out the officer who had spoken with Matthew. He requested permission to write a letter on behalf of the officer and of General Grant thanking Matthew for the horses. The officer was happy to oblige and provided John with the address Matthew had left behind. John stood at the officer’s table and copied the address onto a scrap of paper which he folded in half and put safely in his pocket. He thanked the officer, saluted him, and went on his way to write the note which he sent off with the next messenger. He kept the square of paper with the address and carried it with him into battle.

I wish I had that piece of paper, my dear, to give to you this Valentine’s Day as a sign of my love. I imagine it as a small scrap of brown paper that is creased and nearly torn in half. The black ink has faded to a shadow. On the front is the name of a farm and a town in northern Virginia that no longer exist. I’ve looked. On the back, above the crease is Mary’s name. Below that is a small heart underlined two times. And the note, though it is just short of a century and a half old, is still whole, still in one piece, still complete. It’s as though it might just last forever.

I don’t have that piece of paper. I don’t know if anyone does. But I know that John carried it through the war, back to Virginia, to the front step of the Matthew’s home, and to the altar where he and Mary became husband and wife. I count as fact that they had seven children, that their second son was named Wilson John Fay and that he married Mildred. You know as well as I do that Wilson’s and Mildred’s third son was Lawrence A. Fay and that he is my father.

I am Larry’s son, Wilson’s grandson, John’s and Mary’s great grandson. Those are the facts of the matter. The piece of paper might be legend, but I believe in stories of true love and I carry the idea of that paper with me as surely as if the thing itself were in my pocket.

John rode north into Virginia asked Mary to be his bride and she agreed. I stood with you in Virginia, asked you to marry me, and we became one. A hundred years from now I suspect that our great grandson will find himself in Virginia with the woman who will agree to become his wife. One day he will tell her that there are things about him that she doesn’t know, things that she ought to know about who he is. “Here’s one,” he will say, and then tell her the story of his great grandfather falling in love with a woman named Stephanie. Some of it will be true and drawn from letters and photos left behind. Other parts he will make up just so that she will feel how much I loved you and how much he loves her. He will tell it so that she knows that his love isn’t something new. It has been going on for hundreds of years. And at the end he will say, so now you know, my dear. So now you know.