Honor in the Dust

by Gilbert, Morris

  “What I wouldn’t give for Ned’s return!” The words rasped from his throat as he thought longingly of his horse. He had been forced to sell him the autumn past to buy food. There had been no choice after their pitiful summer crop failed. He’d bought a donkey—an old beast past his best years but still better than nothing—but he, too, had died, so now there was nothing except Claiborn’s muscles and a grim determination.

  As he pushed forward, he was remembering their arrival at this place, their initial excitement over the sweet, rounded hills, the expanse of rich soil, the tall stone manor—small, but respectable—at the top of the hill. At first, they believed with everything in them that God had made a special way for them, a path, a future. He remembered how they had been delighted with the emerald green of the land, the azure-blue skies overhead, and the sparkling brooks that ran through this particular part of Ireland. Truly, in the drier times of the year, it was a land of beauty.

  But as the months passed, they realized that this land was also a killing place, an estate that could only be managed with many servants and field hands. People they could not afford to hire. It only took a week to find out that there was no way adequately to heat the drafty house, which emanated cold from its very walls. A few more, and they knew that the stone walls bordering their property were in dismal repair. Their few sheep were soon gone, lost to thieves and other predators. Even the spring, their only source of water save the frequent deluges that poured from the skies, proved difficult, its position being more than a hundred yards from shelter. How weary was he, hauling every drop in buckets to the house!

  Claiborn’s feet sank deep into the mud and made ugly sucking sounds as he pulled them free, hauling him back to the present. He stopped, his breath coming short, and he thought again, I should not have brought Grace to this mudhole of a place! Claiborn placed his hands on his hips and stared across the bare landscape. An uncontrollable tremor shook his body as the freezing wind searched and numbed him. He turned his eyes away from the drab brown and colorless gray landscape.

  “Ireland, you’re a deceitful piece of ground,” he muttered, “and I wish I’d never laid eyes on you!”

  Claiborn recognized that his voice was dull, not his own anymore. He ran a hand through his hair and considered the difficulties of the past year, the struggle to stay ahead of the freezing cold and wrest a bare subsistence from the stubborn land. All his life at Stoneybrook he had watched laborers but had never once thought about the price they paid for bringing food from the earth. Well, he understood now; he would never be able to look at laborers in a field without feeling a keen sympathy for them. But he didn’t wish to be one of their number any longer. If only there was a way! Another path for them! He glanced at the house at the top of the hill and hauled the cart toward it.

  Soldiering had been hard but not all the time. Every day on this piece of ground was a struggle. He thought with longing now of those times he had enjoyed as a soldier, how easy it had been just to live and to locate good food one way or another. Good food, warmth, laughter.

  He struggled to haul the dead weight of the cart, loaded with peat, over a rock. He had grown to hate peat, but the Irish lived on it. They built their houses with squares of it, and it would burn, after a fashion. Since there was little natural timber, it was the only heat that the land would provide. Claiborn longed for a fire such as they had enjoyed in every main room of Stoney-brook—a roaring blaze coaxed from good, solid links of oak, waves of heat, bright light dancing over the walls.

  But that was not their lot. This was their lot. The faint, pathetic glow of Irish sod, burning reluctantly in the hearth, heating little more than a five-foot arc.

  Only thoughts of Grace, of cuddling with her before the fire as they did each eve, brought any warmth to his spirit.

  Reaching the front door of the house, he dropped the tongue of the cart and stood for a moment, preparing for his entrance. He had to make the best of things, never to let Grace see how discouraged he had become. He forced himself to play a role—like an actor, he supposed. When an actor came out on a stage, no matter what his sorrow, he had to laugh if that was the role.

  Claiborn shoved the wooden door open. It gave reluctantly, shedding bits of ice around the frame. He stepped inside, and then, even in the feeble light of the lantern that lit the interior, he saw Grace. The light on her face and in her eyes, as always, was a miracle to him. How could any woman, fine-born and accustomed to the best that servants could provide—good food, warm clothing, and roaring fires in the huge fireplaces of a manor house—keep such a cheerful spirit in such bleak surroundings? She came to him and circled her arms around his neck. He gratefully pulled her into his arms. She kissed him quickly and said, “You’re freezing, Claiborn. Come and get warm.”

  “A man can come home to you, Sweetheart, and just the sight of you warms his heart, his feet, and his whole body.” He was aware of the smell of cooked meat and was equally aware that was impossible; they hadn’t had meat to eat for months. Could she have somehow obtained a leg of lamb? His mouth watered at the thought, but he kept silent, not wishing to plant disappointment within Grace if he was wrong.

  “Why, you’re becoming a poet,” she said. “The next thing I know you’ll have a lute out there and start playing love songs to me.”

  “That would be a good idea, I think. You’ve had precious little of the fine things you deserve.”

  “I have what I need, Claiborn, in you. How many times must we go through this? Now come over and get those wet things off. Look, I put your other clothes out to dry.”

  Quickly Claiborn stripped off his soaked clothing. He pulled off his roughly made shoes and the woolen cloths he used for stockings, which were stiff with ice. He toweled off with a piece of rough sacking and quickly put on the warm garments. The warmth of the clothes and even the feeble light of the fire loosed his foul mood.

  “I found some good peat. I’ll bring it in so it’ll dry and burn better.”

  “That can wait. We must eat first. I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes.”

  Claiborn smiled. His stomach growled. “And what might that be, darling?”

  “I said close your eyes! Come.” She led him to one of the two chairs. Feeling his way, he sat himself down. “Don’t open them now,” she whispered. He heard her moving around, and finally she said, “All right. Open your eyes.”

  Claiborn blinked. There on a wooden platter was a large rabbit, baked and sending off a delicious odor.

  “A happy Noel, husband!”

  Claiborn slowly turned his eyes to his wife. He had forgotten that it was Christmas Day! He reached out and touched the rabbit and looked at her with wonder. For months they had existed solely on potatoes. “Where in the world did you get this?”

  “The dogs caught him and were going to tear him apart, but I got him first. I have another surprise.” She turned and out of the single small box that served as their food cupboard she brought a bottle. “Good beer. I’ve been saving it for our Christmas feast.”

  Claiborn’s conscience smote him. “I didn’t get you a thing. I—I forgot it was Christmas.”

  “I don’t want anything. We have a fine meal and each other. Now, the blessing.”

  Claiborn bowed his head but murmured, “You’d better say it. I’m too stunned to speak.” He kept his head bowed while she said a pretty little grace, and he marveled that her steadfast faith could rise above the terrible circumstances he had brought her to. His own had been steadily dismantled with each terrible week they had spent here.

  “Now, we eat!” She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.

  Claiborn picked up the single sharp knife that they had. He cut off some of the best part of the rabbit and put it on Grace’s plate, knowing she would protest.

  “Oh, that’s the best part. Take it for yourself.”

  “Not a bit of it, Sweetheart. You eat that. It’ll make you fat and pretty, as I am.”

  She giggled, picked up a bit of the me
at, and ate it.

  “You know,” he said, after he had taken his first bite, “the French have a new invention.” The well-seasoned meat was the best thing that he had ever tasted, he thought.

  “What kind of invention?”

  “It looks like a very small pitchfork, small enough to hold in your hand.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “Why, you cut your meat up into small portions with a knife, then stab a piece with this fork. Then you bring it to your mouth.”

  “Doesn’t it get dirty?”

  He laughed. “They’re washable, you know. I don’t think anything will ever come of it. A knife and fingers, that’s good enough for any Englishman.”

  They ate half the rabbit, saving the rest for a meal later on, and moved on to what they ate at every meal, baked potatoes. The savory white rabbit meat had filled him up for the first time in what seemed like a year. Well, not filled exactly, but as close as he was likely to come. As he ate his potato, wishing for more rabbit, he watched how daintly she ate. She had always been slender but lately had grown frightfully thin. How much longer could they make it here?

  He turned away from his foul thoughts, not wanting to ruin her Christmas. Once the trenchers were cleared, he pulled her down in front of the fire. They sat on some old sacks, and he held her tightly, pulling a blanket over them to preserve the precious heat. Staring at the smoldering fire, they grew sleepy, and Claiborn felt his wife relax in his arms, her breathing becoming slow and deep. He tried not to think of the next day, of fighting the gray earth again.

  Grace spoke, surprising him. “It’s been a good Christmas.”

  “Yes, it has. I wish I had gotten you something, though.”

  “You give me yourself every day, Claiborn. That’s a Christmas gift year ’round.” She lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were enormous in the dim light, it seemed, and she said, “I wonder if this house is anything like the innkeeper’s where Mary and Joseph sought shelter.”

  “Both his house and stable were probably warmer than ours.”

  Grace smiled at him and ran her hand across his broad chest. They sat there not speaking, and finally she said in a halting whisper, “I—I do have a gift for you.”

  “Oh, Grace, you don’t! It makes me feel terrible. I haven’t given you anything.”

  “Oh, but you have.”

  He stared at her. “What do you mean? I haven’t purchased any presents.”

  “You didn’t give it to me exactly today, and I can’t give yours to you until—well, until spring.”

  Claiborn had grown sleepy. He held her tightly as they soaked up the warmth. She did not speak again, and for a moment he was puzzled by what she had just said. “I can’t have it until spring? What in the world is it, woman?”

  “Can’t you think of a gift that takes a few months for a woman to prepare?”

  And then with a rush it came to him. It took his breath away as cleanly as when a fellow knight struck him in the solar plexus. He sat up, set her apart from him to get a better look at her, and saw that she was delighted. She squeezed his hand. “Merry Christmas, my darling. You’ve given me life, and I’ll be giving you our son when summer is upon us.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “For some time now.”

  He pulled her forward again and kissed her cheeks and then said, “How do you know it’ll be a boy?”

  “I just know. He’ll be as strong and handsome and good as his father.”

  Claiborn felt a surge of joy. He saw that she wanted to be told that he was happy, and he was, indeed filled with a happiness such as he had never known. Even in the cold, dank, murky interior of that sod house his happiness was like a living thing. A son. A boy who will be ours. He’ll be me, and he’ll be Grace too.

  He said these things to her, and he could see that she was reveling in their shared joy. Finally they rose and had another toast in the remaining beer. A toast for the son that was to come.

  But even as he spoke the words of cheer and joyous intention for Grace to hear, his mind was saying, I can’t let Grace have our baby in this place! He forced a smile and ran his hand over her hair. He was not a man of prayer, but desperation drove him to try. God, give my wife a better place than this to have our son.

  3

  Grace stared helplessly at the cupboard. There was only the end of a loaf of bread, an onion, and a small sack of dried beans. “There’s not enough even for Claiborn,” she whispered. A thought came to her. She picked up the bread and took a bite of it. She chewed it, and hunger gnawed at her vitals. There was never enough to eat, and it frightened her to think that she was not eating enough to feed her growing child. She tried to calculate when the baby would come, but could only guess that it would be late summer. She looked at the small store of food and smiled. “Well, now I won’t be telling a lie when I tell him that I’ve already eaten.”

  Quickly she put the beans in a pan to soak over the fire and sat down to wait. Claiborn had gone to town on an errand. He had not said what it was exactly, but she suspected that he had gone to bargain for something to eat. She knew that he felt terrible about not being able to provide for her or their baby, but what were they to do? She filled the echoing house with her prayers, fending off the spring cold and the fear with words of faith, as had become her daily custom. She prayed for the baby within her womb, for Claiborn, and for herself, of course. She pushed away thoughts of the life that she had had before she came to this place, begged God to banish them from her mind and heart. She knew that Claiborn was grieved and carried a burden because he had not been able to provide luxuries or even a simple livelihood for her. So she prayed again that she would never show her dismay. It had occurred to her more than once that he was doing the same thing, that both of them were pretending that the hardships, the hunger, and the cold did not matter.

  Hearing an unusual sound, she went to the door and pushed it open. She gasped in surprise, bringing her hand to her mouth.

  There was her husband atop a cart of sorts and driving a fine brown horse. She watched as he pulled the horse to a halt before the house, saying, “Whoa, there.” He jumped to the ground and came at once to the door. She stepped back and pulled him inside.

  “Where did you get the horse and cart?”

  He put his arms around her and kissed her, his eyes alight with excitement. “They belong to Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Well, then, what are you doing with them, Claiborn?”

  “Sweetheart, I have a found a way for us, a way to make things better for you. I’ve been trying for weeks now to think of a way to get you out of this place, and it came to me last night.”

  “Out of here? But where would we go?”

  “Well, you know Mr. Sullivan’s wife has been taken ill. He must attend to his business, and the poor woman can’t move. She can’t do anything for herself. You’re going to go and take care of her.”

  “All right. But what about you?”

  Claiborn hesitated for a moment, and then he said, “Let me tell you what you’ll get. I’ve seen the house. You’ll have a warm room, and you’ll cook for Mr. Sullivan and his family, care for his wife. You’ll have good food, Grace, all you can eat. You’ll be warm and safe, and Mr. Sullivan has told me that when it is time for the baby, he’ll see that a midwife attends you.”

  “Mr. Sullivan will see to it,” she repeated softly. Grace was watching his face carefully. “Where will you be, Claiborn? What is it you have planned?”

  “I had an offer, Grace. You know the Irish lords are having trouble with the Scots invading up in the north, or about to. There is one I’ve known a long while. We got along well. He’s a good man. He sent word, asking me to come to his aid.” He hesitated, then said, “He wants me to join his forces.”

  “Oh, no. You can’t do that, Claiborn.” Fear came to her then for the first time. “I can’t be without you, especially with the baby—”

  “Look, Grace, we can’t go on as we hav
e been. The baby needs nourishment, and you need a better place. I’ll be an officer. It pays well.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “It won’t be for long. These little wars never last. I’ll save my pay, and if we take prisoners, I’ll get a leader’s share of the ransom money.”

  He held her tightly and talked steadily, and she saw the hope that was in him.

  “It’s not what I’d like, but I can’t stand seeing you hungry and cold. It’ll help me, Grace, to know that you’re in a warm house. Mr. Sullivan is a fine, Christian man. He’s already promised me that he’ll see that you get anything you need. And it won’t be a hard job taking care of Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Won’t it look strange my being there with my husband gone?”

  “No, Mr. Sullivan is an older man, and his two boys will be there. So you’ll be housekeeper and cook. Not an unusual situation. He’s a good, solid, kind man, and he means to do well by you. And he needs you, Grace. Their family needs you. By spring, summer at the latest, I’ll return to you.”

  Grace grew fearful, but somehow she knew this had to be. The baby had to be cared for. “Your son will have a good place to be born. That’s what’s important. I’ll be all right. Don’t fret over me. Just care for yourself so you can return to us.”

  “With a fine boy coming and you awaiting me, I’ll take better care than ever. Now, let’s move your things, and tonight you’ll be eating at a real table with real food, all warm.”

  “You leave this night?” she asked in alarm.

  “I must report on the morrow, Grace.”

  “So soon,” she moaned.