Dorrie sighed, sipped her tea, then nodded. “I know, Jacob. Breaks your heart, don’t it? Might be bettah if dey hadn’t come. I doan lak whut’s goin’ on. Clay and Gideon chasin’ the same woman.” She lifted her eyes to Jacob and asked softly, “Do Clay really want dat girl? He done chase aftuh so many, I kain’t tell ‘bout him.”
Jacob thought of the two boys, then said, “Dorrie, you know Clay, how he is. Always been jealous of Gideon. Always tryin’ to best him at everything. I been thinkin’ he may be after Melanie Benton jest ‘cause Gideon likes her. I hopes she turns both of them down.” The two of them sat there talking quietly until the sound of voices rose from the dining room, and at once they began serving the meal.
The dining room was a large rectangular area, flanked on the outside wall by large windows. There was room at the huge table for exactly twenty people, and every seat was filled. As the soup was served, a pleasant low-pitched buzz filled the room, and Charlotte felt a weight leave her spirit. She had been worried about the dinner, wanting it to go well, not only for Noah’s sake, but also for the rest of them.
They progressed through several courses, with Jacob and Zander moving quietly and efficiently through it all, both of them tall and dignified in their uniforms. The maids, well trained by Charlotte and Dorrie, saw to it that no glass was empty for more than a few moments, and the food was delicious.
James Benton, a large man with a shock of white hair over a round face, beamed and said in stentorian tones, “Why, Charlotte, this is excellent! Excellent!”
“Thank you, James,” Charlotte said, smiling. “Not as fancy as your Richmond dinners, I fear.”
Benton held up his hand in protest. “Not true! Your table at Gracefield is legendary, my dear. Noah, may I propose a toast? To the master and mistress of Gracefield—the epitome of Southern culture!”
Noah tasted his wine, then said, “I offer a toast. To our family and friends from Washington. Though miles come between us, may no distance nor difference sever us.”
Murmurs of “Hear! Hear!” ran around the room, and after the toast, James Benton gave a quick glance at the man sitting between Mason and Gideon Rocklin. He had been introduced to the new pastor of the Baptist church before the meal, but a streak of curiosity ran through the planter. “Rev. Irons,” he said, “would it be proper of me to propose a toast to you? Or as a man of the cloth, perhaps you might object to the use of ardent spirits?”
Rev. Jeremiah Irons was of medium height and wiry build. He was not handsome, though his direct brown eyes and neat features were agreeable. From time to time during the meal, he had spoken with those seated close to him, particularly to Marianne and Claude Bristol, but also to Mark Rocklin. Now he looked at Mr. Benton and said with a faint smile, “Well, sir, the first pay I ever got for my services as a clergyman was a gallon of homemade whiskey.” A laugh went around the table, and when Mark asked, “Did you sample it, Reverend?” Irons shook his head and said, “I must remain silent on that subject, Mr. Rocklin.”
“You come from Arkansas, Brother Irons?” Marianne asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Bristol. From so far back in the woods I’d never been to a town before I was twelve years old.”
Marianne looked at the hands of Jeremiah Irons and saw that they were hard, brown, and calloused. It made her like him the more, and she said with an encouraging smile, “We are glad to have you, Reverend. Some of us have been praying for a revival at our church for some time.”
Irons studied them for a moment, then said, “I’m glad to be here—but I must warn you of two things. One of them you’ll discover as soon as I start preaching Sunday morning. I’m not an eloquent man. The other thing, I think you know, and that is that I didn’t bring a revival in my bag when I came to Virginia. Only God can give a revival.”
Amos Steele, Laura’s husband, spoke up at once. “Brother Finney would not agree with you there, Reverend.” Steele was a Congregational minister himself, a devout admirer of Charles Finney, the prominent evangelist. A tall man with a dark complexion and piercing hazel eyes, Steele was a striking figure as he leaned forward to peer down the table at Irons. “Mr. Finney insists that bringing a revival of religion is no different from bringing a harvest of corn. He states that there are ‘laws’ of the Spirit, and that if we do what God has commanded, the results must follow.”
Irons answered, “I’ve read Mr. Finney’s Revival Lectures. A great work, and he’s a powerful man of God.” He paused, then added, “He may be right, Rev. Steele. But even Mr. Finney says that no revival can come unless God’s people repent and turn to God with all their heart.”
Steele nodded his approval but made the mistake of saying, “I think if you can bring your church members to see the wrong in owning another human being, you might have a revival.”
At once the room was charged with anger. Laura put her hand on her husband’s arm, saying, “Amos, this is not the time to speak of that.”
Steele gave her a direct look, then ran his gaze around the room. “It is always time to speak of righteousness,” he said; then he seemed to brace himself, for the anger in the faces of those across the table from him was obvious. He felt a sudden regret that he had spoken, and indeed, he had promised Laura not to bring up the subject while at Gracefield. He was not a tactful man, but neither was he unkind. He had learned to admire and respect his father-in-law, Stephen Rocklin, as he did few other men. And he knew Mason Rocklin to be a man of high principle. But they had left the South—and presumably their Southern faith in slavery. Or so he had believed, but now he saw disapproval on Stephen’s face, and it caused him to say, “I apologize. It was wrong of me to speak of my beliefs at this time.”
Noah Rocklin said suddenly, “A man must hold to what he believes to be true, Amos.” His simple words took the pressure out of the situation—for the moment. The dinner ran on, and nothing more was said about slavery.
Noah ate almost nothing but watched the little drama going on at the far end of the table. He could not hear the conversation between Melanie, Clay, and Gideon, but he saw the tension in the two men. And he saw also that the parents of both men were conscious of it. Certainly the Bentons didn’t miss a word.
Alice Benton had said to Melanie before dinner, “I wish you wouldn’t get those two young men stirred up. Wait until we get back home. You’ve got enough beaux there, heaven knows!”
Her words made no impression on Melanie. She was a fine young woman at heart, but who could resist the pleasure of having two men such as the Rocklin cousins vying for her hand? She sat next to Gideon—which caused Clay’s eyes to burn with displeasure—and, as the meal progressed, showed her skill at handling suitors. Both men angled for the privilege of taking her to a party at a planter’s house the next day; she neither encouraged nor discouraged either of them.
It had been Mark Rocklin who had started the conversation that led to the contest. “I saw something in Memphis last year that would have interested you, Gideon. Fellow named Colt who makes firearms gave a demonstration of his work.”
“I met him, Mark,” Gideon said. “He tried to get the army to approve his new rifle, but they turned him down.”
Mark shrugged, saying, “Don’t know about the army, but the rifle he demonstrated beat anything I’d ever seen. He called it the Ring Lever Rifle. Had a cylinder that took six bullets. Colt didn’t do the shooting himself, but the marksman who did put six bullets in the bull’s-eye in ten seconds. Fired so fast you couldn’t even pick out the individual shots.”
“Wish the army had bought them,” Gideon said. “I’ll probably be sent to the plains to fight Indians as soon as I graduate. Be nice to have men armed with those rifles.”
“Better practice up on your shooting before you get there, Gideon,” Clay spoke up. He grinned, adding, “At the last contest, I beat you pretty bad.”
Stung, Gideon replied, “Yes, but I’ve had a little practice since then.”
Clay shook his head. “I don’t think practice hel
ps much with shooting. Either a fellow has the eye and the hand, or he hasn’t.”
“Can’t agree,” Gideon said at once. “I’ve seen some pretty bad shots come to the Point, and they learned to hit the center.”
Mark’s dark eyes gleamed, and he said idly, “Why don’t you two fellows shoot to see who takes the young lady to the party?”
Clay cried out, “Just the thing! What about it, Gid?”
“You’ll have to ask Miss Benton,” Gideon said at once. He thought she would put a stop to it and was surprised when she said, “Why, that would be fun!”
“I don’t think it would be proper,” Charlotte spoke up, seeing the danger of such a contest.
But Clay would not be denied. “Most of our crowd is coming here for breakfast tomorrow. We’ll have the contest after that.”
Mark suddenly said, “I shouldn’t have proposed such a thing, Clay. Let’s have the contest, but make the stakes a cash purse.”
“I could shoot better for the privilege of escorting a Southern belle to a party than for a few paltry dollars, Mark,” Clay said with a grin.
After dinner he said to his father, “I don’t have a uniform to dazzle the ladies, but I could always outshoot Gid.”
“Do him good to lose,” Thomas said, smiling. “I never had any use for West Point, anyway.”
The following morning brought a group of young men on horseback and young ladies in carriages. There were nine new guests in all, and the house was filled with laughter and high-spirited talk during the breakfast. They devoured mountains of pancakes, sausages, battered eggs, and biscuits, and as they ate, Susanna tried to get Thomas to persuade Clay to abandon the idea of the shooting match. “It will cause hard feelings, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense!” Thomas said. He himself was excited by the match and had made a sizable bet with James Benton. He loved to gamble, and more than that, he wanted to see Clay beat Gideon. It was more than the simple desire of a father to see a son win. There was something much deeper than that. He knew it had something to do with the fact that he himself had never been able to best his older brother. He patted Susanna on the shoulder, saying, “It’s just a bit of foolishness. The young people have to have their sport.”
The shooting match had been mentioned at the breakfast, and at ten o’clock there was a parade from the Big House out to the south pasture. Jeremiah Irons had stayed the night, talking into the early hours of the morning with Amos Steele, whom he liked but disagreed with heartily. Steele and Brad Franklin had been impressed as judges for the match. It was a beautiful morning, and not only the young people who had come for the holiday, but everyone moved out to where a line of huge oaks formed a boundary for a grazing pasture.
“Don’t either of you two hit one of my horses,” Claude Bristol warned. He was enjoying the whole thing, for like Thomas, he was a man who liked the excitement of gambling. His wife, Marianne, did not like it and said so.
“I wish Mark had never thought of this foolish thing. He ought to know how competitive Clay and Gideon are.”
“It’ll be all right,” Claude assured her. But Marianne saw that her mother was worried, and she wished that the whole incident were over.
Several of the young men had clamored to get into the match, and Clay had said magnanimously, “Come on. None of you can hit the ground with a rifle anyway.”
Jacob had brought a dozen rifles from Noah’s study, and there was considerable time consumed as the young men argued over them. Zander was sent to nail a board to a tree, then to fasten to it a piece of paper with a cross in the center of it.
Jeremiah Irons found himself standing beside Charlotte Rocklin as the men drew for turns. He saw that her eyes were worried, and he said, “It’s just a match, Mrs. Rocklin. Young people must have their fun.”
Charlotte turned and looked into his eyes. “And how old are you, Rev. Irons?”
He saw she had him and said sheepishly, “Well, I’m twenty.”
“The same age as Clay, and Gideon is twenty-one.”
Irons felt uncomfortable but defended his position. “I guess I’m older than my years, you might say. Missed out on most of the things young people do.” He looked down at his calloused hands and laughed ruefully. “Guess I was too busy working to learn how to play.” Then he said quickly, “Not complaining, sister. But truly, your grandsons are fine boys. They’ll be all right.”
Charlotte did not answer, but she liked the preacher very much. They both turned to watch as six of the young men took shots at the target. After each shot, Zander put a circle around the hole in the target with an initial showing whose shot it was. Tug Ramsey, the rotund nephew of the governor, never even hit the target, but Taylor Dewitt and two others besides Gid and Clay did.
Mr. Benton called out, “Move back twenty feet for the second shot.” In the next round two more dropped out, leaving only Dewitt and the Rocklins.
“Back another twenty feet!” Benton called out. They moved back, and it was Dewitt who dropped out that time. “Between you two,” he said with a grin, stepping back.
They moved back again, and for the next ten minutes Clay and Gid took turns, each of them having three shots at the target. They stayed neck and neck, and Irons saw that the pressure was beginning to tell on Clay. He thought he’d get an easy victory, Irons realized. I don’t think he likes the pressure.
It was true. Clay had expected an easy victory. He saw at once that Gid had improved a great deal, and the thought of losing to his cousin made him tense. At the beginning of the match, there had been a great deal of laughter and joking. When it narrowed down to Clay and Gid, most of that died away. A quiet fell on the field, broken only by the cries of the judges announcing the scores.
Gideon was heartily wishing that the thing had never begun. Blast that fool Mark for thinking of such a thing! he thought. He saw the pain in his grandmother’s face and wanted to deliberately miss, but he found that it was not that easy. He had never loved a woman, and as silly as the contest was, it came to him strongly that the whole thing had become some kind of a symbol. He had glimpsed Melanie’s face and saw that she was intent on the thing. So, calling himself a fool, he shot as well as he could.
The sun was hot, and the contest drew down finally to the last target. The scores were equal, and Mr. Benton said, “The man that comes the closest to the bull’s-eye this time wins the match!”
The two men shot carefully, taking their time, and after each shot, Zander marked the result. After Clay sent his last shot home, Steele and Franklin took the target off and examined it. Then Steele cried out, “It looks like a tie!”
Clay nodded, his face grim, but Irons had been watching the faces of Noah and Charlotte. They were standing together, slightly to his left, and there was something fragile about them. Irons knew that Noah Rocklin was not well, and he admired him tremendously. He had already discovered that Charlotte Rocklin was one of the finest Christian women he’d ever met. He had been told this, and his visit had proven it to his own mind.
He was not a man to dominate, this young preacher, but the tension in the air and the potential for disaster made him step forward, saying, “Just a minute.” They all turned to stare at him, and he took off his coat, saying, “I’m a little late to enter the contest, but I’ve got a good reason.”
“What is it, Reverend?” Benton asked.
“Well, Mr. Benton, I was afraid I’d be embarrassed. I thought Virginia men could shoot. But I’ve got a twelve-year-old brother back home named Toby, and he could beat anybody I’ve seen here.” He ignored the hard looks he got from the young men and added, “And I can beat Toby. So with your permission, Miss Melanie, I’d like to join myself to your other suitors.”
Melanie Benton had a quick sense of humor. She liked the young preacher, and the idea of going to a party with him suddenly amused her. “I wish you luck, Rev. Irons,” she said demurely.
“Put the target back up,” Benton called to the judges, then turned to say with a frown,
“I’m not sure it’s proper for a man of the cloth to participate in such an affair as this, sir!”
“Oh, Jesus ate with sinners, Mr. Benton, so I suppose I can shoot with a few.”
A tall young man named Bushrod Aimes nudged Taylor Dewitt. “He’s a blowhard, ain’t he, Dewitt?”
“Don’t know until I see him shoot.” A wicked light came into his eyes. “He better be as good as his brag. Otherwise he might get a ducking in the creek sometime or other.”
Jake had loaded one of the Hawken rifles, and as Irons took it, he said softly to the preacher, “This is Marse Noah’s personal rifle gun, suh. Pulls just a hair to the left.”
Irons flashed the slave a quick grin, then swept the rifle up and fired the instant it reached shoulder level. There was no hesitation, and when Steele looked at the target, he yelled, “Dead center!”
There was no need for a second shot, for he had bested the efforts of Clay and Gideon. Gideon came up at once, his hand out and a smile of relief on his broad face. “Fine shot!”
Clay nodded, but he was not smiling as he said, “Good shot, Reverend.”
Bushrod Aimes was staring at the preacher. “I guess he don’t get no bath in the creek, does he, Dewitt?”
“Nope. Matter of fact, if I ever got in a bad scrap, that preacher would be a pretty good fellow to have around!”
Irons handed the rifle back to Jacob, saying, “Fine shooting gun. It does pull a mite to the left, at that.”
Turning, he approached Clay, who was staring at the ground. “Clay, I’ll tell you what,” he said casually. “Why don’t all three of us take that party in? You, me, and Gideon.”
Clay looked up quickly at the minister. Disgust and anger marred his eyes, but when he saw the friendly expression on Irons’s face, he swallowed hard and forced a grin. “That’s decent of you, Preacher,” he said. “We’ll do it.”
Noah and Charlotte were watching as Clay suddenly seemed to lose his anger, and when the three men—Irons, Clay, and Gideon—went to Melanie, she laughed heartily and the tension seemed to dissipate. Irons left the others and moved to where the elder Rocklins stood.
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 5
