Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  Gid Rocklin was a hard man to shock, but Clay had succeeded in doing just that. He had imagined his troubled cousin saying all sorts of things, but nothing like this! He tried to collect his thoughts, getting up to face his cousin. Instinctively he felt Clay was making a mistake, but he saw the stubborn pride on Clay’s handsome, sensitive face and knew he must not fail the man standing before him.

  “I think it’s a mistake, Clay—” He saw the hurt and anger begin to form in the eyes of the other man, then added with a smile, “But I’ll do what I can.” He threw his arm around Clay’s shoulders, adding with a laugh, “It’ll be good to have two Rocklins in the company!”

  Clay trembled slightly, the warmth and weight of Gid’s heavy arm feeling good to him. “I—I won’t let you down, Gid! I swear it!”

  “Of course you won’t!” Gid saw emotion building up in Clay and wanted to break the tension of the moment. “Let’s go tell the family that you’re going to be going along to keep an eye on me, Clay. They’ll be happy to hear it!”

  “Gid—thanks!”

  “No thanks to it.” Gid smiled. “You’ll wind up hating me, I expect. Most new recruits don’t love their officers too much. But I’ve got a job in mind for you that you’ll be good at.”

  “What job, Gid?”

  “I’ll put you on a horse.” Gid smiled. “Make a courier out of you. You were always the best rider in Virginia, so we’ll put that talent to work for the U.S. Army. Look out, Santa Anna!” he added.

  The idea fired Clay, and at once he felt the tension running out of him. It’s going to be all right! he thought. I knew Gid wouldn’t let me down.

  The next two weeks were exciting for Clay. He spent every day with the Sixth New York Calvary, learning the rudiments of military drill. He was careless about most of the restrictions, which displeased the sergeant in charge. But he was such a fine rider that his lax disciplinary habits were overlooked. He was popular with the men, too, being likable and, as a Southerner, an interesting specimen.

  Still, though he enjoyed his time with the Sixth, he felt strangely restless when at “home” at the Rocklin mansion. He knew, of course, that the cause of his unease was being around Melanie—but he would never have admitted it. He simply kept his distance from her, physically and in every other way. Melanie realized what was happening, but she seemed to be the only one. Gid and the rest of the family seemed oblivious. Once Melanie tried to bring the subject up to her husband.

  “Do you think it might be best if Clay stayed with the unit?” she asked one night after they had gone to bed.

  “With the men?” Gid had been thinking of the day of his departure—dreading it—and the question caught him off guard. “I don’t know. Do you think he’s unhappy here?”

  Melanie hesitated, then said, “He’s a restless man, Gid. He’s going to be unhappy wherever he is.” She tried to find a way to say what had been troubling her but could not find the words.

  “What is it, Mellie? Something’s bothering you.”

  “Gid … Clay still feels something for me.”

  A brief silence, then, “He hasn’t—”

  “Oh, nothing like that! It’s the way he doesn’t say anything to me, Gid. He barely speaks to me. If he were over being in love with me, he’d be more natural.”

  “Poor fellow!” Gid lay there thinking, then sighed. “Well, we’ll both be gone next week. He’ll just have to get over it. I was hoping he and Ellen would make a better job of it.”

  “They were never suited. Oh, Gid, I hate to see you go!”

  “I’ll be back soon. This war won’t last long.” He reached for her then, and they forgot about Clay and the war and everything else but each other.

  A week later, the two cousins were on their way to join General Scott’s army at Tampico, a staging point for the invasion of Vera Cruz. As the train pulled out of the Washington station, Gideon threw himself down in the seat beside Clay. He had just endured a painful farewell with his family, and his mood was definitely gloomy. “This is the worst part of being a soldier, Clay,” he muttered, staring blindly out the window. “Leaving your family.”

  Clay felt the pinch of guilt, for he felt like a young boy off on a hunting trip. He missed his children, but not much. The idea of a new challenge was like wine to him, and he said only, “It’s hard, Gid. But we’ll come back with chests full of medals.”

  Gid gave him a sudden hard stare. “Get that idea out of your head, Clay. War isn’t like that. It’s not romantic and thrilling. It’s an ugly, painful business that no man in his right mind could enjoy. I just pray we get back alive and not maimed!”

  Clay agreed at once, but he was thinking of the sound of guns, the waving of banners. When I get back with a medal or two, he thought, things will be different. I may even get a promotion to second lieutenant. He had a sudden picture of himself wearing the blue uniform of an officer, being met at Richmond by a brass band and everyone cheering his name. I’ll show the folks who the real soldier is! Maybe Gid has a medal or two, but I could always outdo him! His thoughts went back to the night he’d spent at the Yancy cabin, and a smile came to him as he remembered Melora and her idea about knights. She had mistaken him for one—well, he’d be one for her sake. Surely there was a dragon somewhere waiting for him in the dusty land of Mexico!

  So the two men went to war—together physically, but far apart in every other way.

  CHAPTER 11

  DEATH AT CERRO GORDO

  Clay’s dreams of cavalry charges with flags flying did not last long. When he and Gid got off the ship near Brazos Santiago, they were separated at once. Gid was thrust into the job of whipping K Company into fighting trim, while Clay was given the responsibility of grooming horses. At first he went at the task cheerfully enough, but there was no challenge to it—nothing but dirty work. By the end of the first week, he was sick of it.

  A young lieutenant named George B. McClellan arrived at the Brazos Santiago, having made the move with his command from Taylor’s force. He and Gid had been classmates at West Point, and the two of them had a good time over supper. McClellan, a small, erect man of a dapper appearance, spoke of his journey. “There was some hardship, Gid, but we made our own fun. You never saw such a bunch! We sat around and criticized the generals, laughed and swore at the mustangs and volunteers, and it was a nice outing.”

  “When you get to be a general, George,” Gid laughed, “you’ll know from experience just what the men are saying about you.”

  McClellan laughed in response—but years later, he would recall that remark with some chagrin. “You say your cousin is here with your company? Not an officer?”

  “No, Mac. To tell the truth, he’s running away from troubles at home. I got him in for a short enlistment. He would never make a career soldier. Too independent.”

  “Well, Gid, I don’t know what sort of trouble he’s running from, but he may have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. I hear Vera Cruz is bristling with cannon. Beats me how General Scott thinks we can take it with ships. Those shore batteries have thirty-pound cannon, some of them capable of firing hot shot. If a ship takes just one of those red-hot balls, it’ll go up like tinder!”

  “Well, we’ve got to get there first,” Gid said. “With this weather, I don’t know if the ships can transport this army to Tampico, much less Vera Cruz.”

  His words proved prophetic, for of the forty-one ships that Scott had requisitioned to ferry his troops and munitions to Vera Cruz, seventeen were delayed for a month by terrible weather. Another ten ships that were to sail to Gulf ports and embark troops for the expedition were canceled by mistake. Other ships simply never appeared. Despite these factors, by the first of March—eight weeks later than he had hoped—Scott concluded that he would never be readier.

  There were seasoned men in his army, including two regular divisions—one headed by General Worth, who had led the attack on Monterey—and the robust old cavalry commander who would fight a circular saw. Sprinkled
through this army were some familiar faces: Ulysses Grant, the reluctant quartermaster; a newcomer worth watching—a middle-aged junior officer named Robert E. Lee; and Lieutenant P. G. T. Beauregard, a swarthy soldier from Louisiana.

  If Clay had known action was immediate, he might have avoided the problem he found himself in just before the invasion. While Gid spent much of his time with the officers, Clay was thrown into a rough company—a profane, hard-drinking bunch of volunteers who were looked down on by the regulars with barely veiled contempt. One of the volunteers, an Englishman named Rodney Hood, was a remittance man—which meant that his family in England paid him to stay away from them! Hood was a hulking man, twenty-eight years old, black-haired, and beetle-browed. He organized gambling among the enlisted men, scrounged liquor to sell to them, and pretty much did as he pleased among the enlisted men. Being an expert gunner, he was tolerated by the officers, particularly since they were not overly concerned about the volunteers.

  Hood had run head-on into Clay in an argument over cards. The larger man started for the thin young Southerner to pound him into the ground with his massive fists. He had awakened sometime later with a lump on his head. Clay had simply pulled out his heavy Colt and brought it down on Hood’s head.

  “Well, want to try it again, Rod?” Clay asked, smiling as the big man struggled to his feet.

  Hood touched his head and stared at Rocklin with admiration. “No, bucko,” he said, grinning. “I admire any man who can put me down. Let’s shake on it.” The two of them became friends, making a strange pair indeed! It was Hood’s influence that kept Clay involved in constant drinking and gambling. And in an indirect manner, it was Hood who eventually led Clay into more serious trouble.

  The pair of them, at the insistence of Hood, had slipped off into a Mexican cantina for a night’s carousing. When they returned, they were hailed as they stumbled to their tents. Hood, wise in the ways of the game, slipped off into the darkness, but Clay was caught.

  “Hold it!” It was Sergeant Boone Monroe coming out of the darkness, a lantern in his hand, his eyes hard. He had been instructed by Lieutenant Rocklin that no exceptions were to be made for his cousin, and he said, “Left the camp without permission? Well, you’ll be sorry for that, I reckon. Come on, soldier.”

  Clay was just drunk enough to resent Boone’s hand on his arm, and he swung, catching the tall soldier on the neck with a wild blow. The next instant he was driven to the ground by a tremendous hit that caught him in the temple. Lights flashed before his eyes, and he grew sick from the bad liquor. When he had finished vomiting, Monroe pulled him to his feet with an iron grip. “Come along and take your medicine.”

  Gid and McClellan were together in the tent they shared when Monroe called out, “Lieutenant!” They both stepped outside, and Gid kept the shock that ran through him from showing on his face. “One of the men, Lieutenant. I caught him sneaking back from the saloon. Private Rocklin, it is, sir.”

  McClellan took the situation at once. Rocklin had told him enough about the cousin from Virginia to let him know how touchy the situation was. He stepped forward before Gid could speak, saying, “All right, Sergeant. Put him in the guardhouse for three days, bread and water. Give him lots of exercise, though. Let him clean up after the horses.”

  “Yes, sir!” Monroe hauled Clay off at the end of his long arm, and Gid stood there silently staring after them. Finally he turned and gave McClellan a smile. “Thanks, Mac. I was in a pretty tough spot.”

  “May be what he needs, Gid,” McClellan said with a shrug.

  “I hope so. He’s a good rider, I guess, but a courier has to be dependable. Better have a little talk with him, off the record.”

  Whether or not McClellan’s advice would have been effective, Gideon never knew, for the next day he was ordered to take a patrol out to screen Scott’s action from the enemy. The order came so suddenly that he had no time for even a brief visit with Clay. It troubled him, but he thought, It will only be a few days. Clay will be more reasonable when I get back. We’ll talk it out then.

  But the patrol lasted a week, and Clay had other counsel during that time. Rodney Hood smuggled liquor in to him for the three days of his confinement. When Clay was released, Hood welcomed him like a lost brother.

  “You see how these officers are?” he said angrily. “Your own cousin, and he lets you rot in that filthy sty of a guardhouse!” Ordinarily Clay would have had nothing to do with a man like Hood, but the shame of his confinement with drunks and deserters cut into him deeply. Hood’s constant tirades concerning officers and the army in general had sunk more deeply than Clay realized into his spirit. And when Gid finally returned from patrol, his cousin was in a vile temper.

  “How’s my cousin doing, Sergeant?” Gid asked Monroe the morning after his return. He was worn thin, and his wound was giving him some trouble, enough so that he was weary of spirit and not as sharp as usual.

  “No disrespect to you, sir,” Boone answered bluntly, “but he’s poor stuff! Been hanging around with Hood and the others who cause most of the trouble in the outfit, acting like a snapping turtle, ready to bite anything that moves.”

  Gid soon discovered for himself the accuracy of that description. He found Clay brushing a tall bay and tried to joke the thing away. “Well, how’s the veteran doing? Ready for the invasion?”

  Clay looked up, his eyes cold with resentment. “I’ll hold up my end, I reckon.” He took a swipe at the horse, then turned to face his cousin. “I didn’t sign up to clean stalls, Gid. And I thought you’d do better than to have me put in the guardhouse.”

  Gid stared at him, trying to find a way to get inside the man. Clay had always been touchy, and the discipline of army life was no place for that. “Clay, if Lieutenant McClellan hadn’t spoken up—and he did it to save me embarrassment—you’d have gotten more than three days in the guardhouse! Sergeant Monroe told me you hit him. For that alone I’d have nailed your hide to the wall!”

  “Sure you would!” Clay shot back. “You’d do anything to keep me from showing you up!”

  Gid struggled to keep his own temper in check. “That’s not so, and you know it, Clay. I want to see you do great things, and I know it’s in you. But I’m an officer, and you’re an enlisted man. Do you think the whole company’s not watching to see if I give you special treatment?” Gid hated the scene and wanted to cut it short. He tried to smile. “Let’s put this behind us, Clay. There’s a big job ahead of us. You’ll be needed, and I’ll do all I can to help you.”

  Clay could not get the resentment out of his system. He ignored the frank words, saying in the same cold voice, “I’ll take care of myself, Lieutenant.”

  It was useless. Silently Gid stared at his relative, wishing he knew how to do better with him—but there was no way. He was locked into his rank, and his responsibility to his men and to his superiors made any concession to Clay impossible. “Very well, Clay,” he said evenly, then walked out of the stable.

  For the next few days the invasion was poised, and finally after a risky voyage through rough weather, Scott’s armada arrived offshore from Vera Cruz. Scott surveyed the coast; from what he could see of Vera Cruz, the defenses were impregnable from the sea. The city was enclosed by walls fifteen feet high, and on the land side they extended from the water’s edge south of the town to the water again on the north. A massive granite seawall protected the waterfront, and more than a hundred pieces of heavy artillery—most of which had been cast in an American foundry across the Hudson River from West Point—were aimed seaward.

  Every man on the transports was dreading the moment when they would have to row ashore in small boats and face those terrible guns. But on March 9, when the invasion began, a minor miracle took place. The nine-mile ride to the beach began, the tall ships of war sailing along under their topsails. The ships’ decks thronged in every part with dense masses of troops whose bright muskets and bayonets were flashing in the sunbeams, and bands played loudly.

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p; Gid, standing in the stern of one of the flatboats that was to deliver the troops through shallow water, expected the huge cannons to fire at any moment. He turned to George McClellan, saying, “No reason why we can expect to get ashore alive, is there, Mac?”

  “None that I can think of,” McClellan answered jauntily. At that moment a shot whistled overhead, and he added, “Here it comes! Now we’ll catch it!”

  But the shot had come from the other direction. An American ship was having a go at scattering a few Mexican dragoons who were visible on the shore. And there were no more shots from the land batteries! History would never explain why the Mexicans did not blow the American ships out of the water. Whatever the reason, the landing was made without a shot being fired, which pleased the general very much—but puzzled him and his staff, as well.

  When the troops were all disembarked, Gid was in a small group of junior officers directing the placement of the mortars. He looked up to see General Winfield Scott approaching, accompanied by some of his staff. Scott spotted McClellan and said, “Lieutenant McClellan, how does it look, the lay of the mortars?”

  “Fine, General Scott,” McClellan answered. As he pointed out the spots on the wall that would be the best places to attack, the dark-haired officer who stood close to the general walked around to survey the walls of the city from a different angle. When McClellan finished, the officer came back and Scott said, “Captain Lee, you’ll be glad to meet a fellow Virginian. This is Lieutenant Gideon Rocklin, from Richmond.”

  Lee was the handsomest man Gid had ever seen. He had perfect features, and his form was tall and erect. “From Richmond?” Lee said with a smile. “I expect we have mutual friends, Lieutenant. I have many acquaintances there. Do you know the Chesnuts?”

  “Yes, sir, very well.” Gid nodded. “Fine people.”

  Lee stood there speaking quietly, and before he left, he faced Gid directly. “Lieutenant Rocklin, I read the report from Monterey. As a matter of fact, I submitted General Taylor’s recommendation for decoration to General Scott. It gave me a great deal of pleasure that a man from my state performed so well.” Lee’s quick eyes saw that his remarks embarrassed Rocklin, so he said only, “I’ll be seeing you, I expect. My congratulations, sir.”