Burke sipped his buttermilk, then said, “No, Lincoln finished him off in those debates. I hear the rail-splitter is about as homely as a man can get, but he does have a way with words! People listen to him. Why, I can quote you what he said about all the trouble we’re having in this country over slavery. ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand …. I believe this government cannot endure permanently half-slave and half-free …. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved—I do not expect the house to fall—but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing or the other.’” Burke had always had a fine memory, and he had recited the words with evident relish.
“If Lincoln means that,” Rena said suddenly, “we’ll have a war.” She was tall for a girl of thirteen, and her dark brown hair formed the perfect frame for her fine complexion.
“You don’t know anything about it, Rena!” Ellen snapped. “There can’t be a war!” Ellen was on one of her diets, struggling to keep her figure. She was an attractive woman, but her features had sharpened as her figure had grown fuller over the years. That she was here at all was unusual, for she spent more time in Richmond with friends on extended visits than she spent at Gracefield.
The argument went on for several minutes; then Lowell got up, saying, “I’m going over to the stable. It’s time for the new colt to come.”
He was caught when he was halfway to the door by his grandfather’s voice. “Lowell! Come back. I have something to tell you.”
Lowell at once showed a stubborn streak, going back to his seat and flinging himself into it. He was fifteen and a throwback to his great-grandfather Noah. He had all the good traits, such as kindness and generosity, and some less admirable traits—mostly a tendency to be bullheaded!
Thomas looked around the table, cleared his throat, then said, “I have some news for you. I’m sure you’ll not like it. I didn’t! But we have to face up to it.”
“What is it, Thomas?” Ellen demanded “Well, I’m afraid that we’re going to be leaving Gracefield.” He saw the blank looks with which they regarded him—all except Burke—and went on lamely. “Times have been very bad ever since Buchanan took office in ‘57. We’ve had a depression that’s shaken the whole country. And we’ve had poor crops for the last two or three years. So we’re going to have to sell out.”
“But—where will we go, Grandfather?” Rena was a quick child. She picked up on the uncertainty in Thomas at once, and her own voice had a thread of fear.
“We don’t know yet, Rena,” Susanna said quickly, “but God will take care of us.”
“Is it the bank?” Burke asked quietly.
“I’m afraid so, Burke.” Thomas tried to put a good face on it. “We’ll look around and find a nice place. Not as large as this, of course. Maybe we’ll move to the coast. You’ve all liked our vacations there.”
Susanna saw that all of them were frightened. Little wonder, for the one fixed point in all their lives had been Gracefield. Ellen, she saw, was pale, and her lips were trembling. Since Clay had left, Susanna and Thomas had provided for her—and Ellen had been far from inexpensive. Now she was faced with being a woman with four children and no income.
Dent was staring at his grandfather, speechless for once, and David looked stunned. He was the quiet one, the thinker, and Susanna knew he would not sleep all night. He would lie awake and think about the future—but then, she would do the same, she realized suddenly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Susanna said quickly. “We don’t have to move tomorrow. And God will take care of us.”
“Will God let us stay here in our home?” Dent said, his voice hard. “Doesn’t seem that’s too much for Him to do.”
“Don’t speak like that, Dent!” Susanna said with a direct stare. Then she said, “We’ll talk more about it later.”
They left the table, quiet and subdued.
For the next week, Thomas walked around the plantation like a man in a dream. They all talked, of course, but no one knew what to do. Finally on Saturday night, after they had gone to bed, Susanna said, “Tom, are you certain you don’t want to ask Stephen for help?”
Tom seemed to freeze, and she knew it had been the wrong thing to say. She had always known that Tom resented his older brother, but not until now did she know how deeply rooted that resentment was.
“I’ll never ask him!” Thomas said between clenched teeth. “I’d rather die!”
She hugged him tightly. “We won’t die, Tom. God won’t fail us. You’ll see!”
CHAPTER 15
A VISITOR FROM THE PAST
The tall man in the fawn-colored suit looked to John Novak as though he might be business. Novak had been hired by Stephen Rocklin years ago, when the foundry had occupied an old carriage house on the outskirts of Washington. A scrawny boy of fifteen with eyes that looked huge in his hungry, lean face, Novak had been thrilled to find a job, though it was only as a lowly clerk. He came from a family of fifteen, his parents still speaking English with a thick European accent. Novak always smiled when he recalled how, three mornings in a row, Stephen Rocklin had run him away. But persistence was a family trait for the young immigrant, and on the fourth morning, Rocklin had studied the lad carefully. “You want to work, boy?” he had asked.
“Yah, I work, mister!”
And Rocklin had believed him.
The boy had attacked work like a hungry dog attacks raw meat. Nothing was too hard, no work too dirty for him. Stephen admired the boy’s eagerness, and his belief in him became strong. He had paid for Novak’s schooling, and the boy soaked up learning like a sponge! As the Rocklin Foundry grew, John Novak grew with it, so that now Stephen often said, “No need to worry if I die. Novak would keep the place running without missing a day!”
Novak knew every job in the foundry, and his post as assistant to Mr. Rocklin required, in part, that he filter out visitors who wanted to see the owner. Gifted with a natural ability to discern a person’s intent and motives, John Novak turned many people away. But there was something about the man who had appeared suddenly at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning and asked to see Mr. Rocklin.
Novak noted the fine suit, the expensive black leather shoes, and the diamond that glittered on the visitor’s right hand. He noticed the hand, too; it was brown and calloused but well cared for. The man’s face was strong—more handsome than a man’s face should be, perhaps—and it was saved from any look of weakness by the tough line of the lips and the firm jaw. Novak considered a person’s eyes “the window of the soul,” and the visitor had a pair of the darkest eyes he had ever seen, with a direct gaze that took in the office and Novak carefully.
“May I ask your business, sir? Mr. Rocklin is quite busy this morning.”
“Tell him an old friend from the past would like to see him for a few minutes.”
Novak hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll tell him, sir.”
Novak entered the door behind him and found his employer engaged in studying a rifle that had been disassembled and carefully laid out on a pine table. He looked up with a trace of impatience, but his voice was even. “Yes?”
“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Rocklin. He won’t say why, but he’s top drawer.” Novak shrugged his thin shoulders. “Says he’s an old friend from your past.”
“Blast it, I don’t want to see anyone, John!”
“Might mean money,” Novak said mildly. “He’s got some.”
Suddenly Rocklin smiled. “I sometimes think you can smell cash, John! Well, show him in—but come back in five minutes and tell me I have to do something. Can’t waste much time on my ‘old friend.’”
Novak nodded but had already decided to do just that. He stepped outside and, holding the door open, said, “Please step in, sir.”
Stephen had bent over the rifle, having put on his glasses to study the fine work of the firing mechanism. He was aware that his visitor had entered but did not want to drop the screw that he was trying to put into the tiny hole. Finally he got it
started, laid the part down, then looked up, saying, “Now then, sir, what can I do for you?”
The sunlight from a window was in his eyes, and he saw only the outline of a tall man who stood quietly in the center of the room. He blinked, adding, “I’m Stephen Rocklin.”
“How are you, Uncle?”
Rocklin gave a start, then moved to one side so that he could see the man clearly. “Clay!” he said, blinking with surprise. “My Lord! Is it you?”
Clay smiled but did not offer his hand or move any closer. “I’m afraid it is. Bad penny turning up again.”
But the shock that had gone through Stephen passed, and he came forward at once to throw his arms around his nephew. He felt the lean body grow stiff, but gave him a hearty hug, then stepped back, saying, “By Harry, it’s good to see you, my boy!”
Clay’s face was stiff with the effort of concealing the emotion that had washed through him as his uncle embraced him. Stephen was older, thicker in body, and his face was lined.
Otherwise, he seemed to be unchanged in appearance. Clay slowly relaxed, saying quietly, “I’ve been here in Washington nearly a week.” His wide mouth turned upward in a faint smile. “Most of that time I’ve been trying to get up enough courage to come and see you.”
Stephen waved his thick hand. “Why, there was no need for that, my boy! You should have come at once!”
“That’s—kind of you, Uncle. But you were always that way.”
Stephen saw that Clay was uncomfortable and said briskly, “Well, by Harry, this is fine. Now first we’ve got to go out and have lunch. I’ve got the inside track on the best chef in Washington, Clay! He thinks I’m more important than I am, and I allow him to think so. Novak—!” He began to pull on his overcoat, and when the secretary came to the door, he said, “This is my nephew, Clay Rocklin. My brother Tom’s oldest boy. We’re going out to eat.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Rocklin,” Novak said, perfectly aware of Clay’s history but allowing no emotion to touch his smooth, dark face. “But you have an appointment with the board at one, Mr. Rocklin.”
“You meet with them, John,” Stephen said with a grin. “You always think you know this business better than I do.”
Novak protested, but Rocklin grabbed Clay’s arm, saying, “Come on, Clay. Let’s get out of here!”
An hour later they were finishing steaks at the Arlington House, the finest restaurant in Washington. Stephen had kept up a rapid-fire account of the family, including Gideon’s promotion to major and a detailed description of his grandchildren. He said, “It was hard, losing Mother.” Then he stared at Clay. “You didn’t know? She died about a year after you left.” Then, seeing Clay’s sadness, he said quickly, “Gid’s stationed here, Clay.
He’ll be glad to see you.”
Clay had said almost nothing, but now he set down the glass of sherry he had been sipping and looked at his uncle candidly. “You’re a clever man, Uncle Stephen. You’ve made me feel—well, like a man again. But I won’t be seeing Gid … or Melanie.”
His voice faltered as he pronounced Melanie’s name, and Stephen studied him carefully. He was not the same immature, rash man who had disappeared twelve years ago. He was thirty-nine now, but older in more ways than in years. A little heavier, but not much, and his olive skin had been darkened to a richer tone. He was strong and fit, and Stephen had noticed that he had a sailor’s walk, as if contending with a deck that rose and fell. Clay’s eyes bothered him, though—for in their dark depths he read a pain that ran deep. Now he said quietly, “I’m a fool to chatter on like a magpie, Clay. But I wanted you to feel at ease.” Leaning forward, he shook his head, adding, “Melanie would like to see you. She’s spoken of you many times. We all have.”
“Even after I attacked her?”
Stephen ignored the harsh, brittle tone. “Clay, that was one act. You don’t judge a man by one act, but by his whole life.”
“Like when I let Gid’s company down at Cerro Gordo? You think I could face Gid after that?” Clay’s face had grown hard, and the memories that came to him brought a torment into his face. “No, I just wanted to see you, Uncle.”
“Have you been in touch with your family at all, Clay?”
“I didn’t write for years. I pretty well hit bottom, but then after I got on my feet, I wrote to my father.”
When Clay broke off abruptly, Stephen asked quietly, “Did he answer you?”
“He—sent my letter back unopened.”
“That was a mistake. I’ve tried to talk to him about it several times.”
“I sent money, Uncle Stephen, and he sent that back, too. I did get one letter. A year ago I wrote again, asking if I could come and see them, but he sent back one line—’Don’t come to my house ever!’”
Just then a waiter came to say in a low voice, “Will you gentlemen have anything else?”
Clay looked up and, after studying the face of the man, said in a sardonic tone, “No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”
Suddenly a thought entered Stephen’s mind, an instant impression that seemed to grow into a full-fledged plan in a matter of seconds. It was what some call an epiphany, referring to a sudden insight that comes by something other than logic or even conscious thought.
Stephen was not accustomed to such thoughts, and it rattled him somewhat. He made an affair of lighting a cigar, and not until he got it going and sent a cloud of aromatic blue smoke in the air did he decide the idea was sound, even if it had come almost like a mystic vision.
“Come back to my office, Clay.” He saw a refusal forming and added quickly, “I have something there you should see. It won’t take long, and there’ll be no chance of meeting any of the family, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Clay stared at him curiously, then shrugged. “I have no place to go, Uncle Stephen.”
On the way back through the raw weather, Clay wondered what awaited them at his uncle’s office, but did not press for any information. Stephen told him about the factory—how it was booming, always behind in orders.
“I suppose,” Clay offered, “if the war comes that everyone’s talking about, you’ll make a lot of money.”
“I’d rather not make money off the lives of people,” Stephen said, and he happened to be looking at Clay as he spoke. He saw with surprise that his remark struck his nephew hard, for Clay’s face grew pale and his lips contracted into a thin line. I said something wrong, Stephen thought, but he had no idea what it was.
Novak met them in the outer office, saying, “The board voted—”
“Later, John,” Stephen said briefly and led Clay into his office. “Have a seat,” he said, going around to sit in his chair. He opened his desk drawer and took out an envelope. “I got this two days ago, Clay,” he said. “It’s bothered me more than anything has in a long time. I just don’t know what to do about it. It’s from Warren Larrimore. Do you know him?”
“The banker in Richmond?” Clay asked, opening the letter.
“Yes. He’s a good man.”
Clay read the letter indolently; then he drew a sudden breath. “Why, this is terrible!”
“It will kill your father, Clay,” Stephen answered grimly. “It’s the end of everything for him.”
Clay finished the letter, then lifted his eyes to meet the steady gaze of his uncle. “I don’t understand. What happened? How did things get in such a mess?”
“It’s the curse of the South, Clay, as Larrimore points out. A one-crop system is economic suicide. And cotton planting is tied to slavery. It takes an enormous number of low-skilled people to make the crop, and the price of slaves has gotten exorbitant. I know you’re from the South and feel differently, but in my mind slavery is an albatross around the neck of the Southern people! A damnable thing that’s not only financially ruinous, but morally wrong!” He cut his words off with a brief apology. “Sorry, Clay. I know you don’t want to hear that sort of talk from a Yankee.”
To Stephen’s surprise, Clay said slowly, �
��No offense, Uncle. As a matter of fact, I agree with you.”
Stephen blinked his eyes, surprised. “Well, that’s good to hear. But of course, your father and almost all the planters feel differently. And that’s why we’re on a collision course in this country!”
Clay was only half listening. “This can’t happen, Uncle Stephen! It must not!”
“I’d help in an instant. As a matter of fact, I’ve offered. But as Larrimore says, your father won’t take help from me.” He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “It’s been a grief to me, Clay, the way your father resents me.”
Clay said slowly, “You’re everything my father would like to be—and never can be.”
“That’s not so! Tom is one of the finest men I know!”
“He’s not a man to get things done, as you are.” Stephen didn’t answer, for he knew deep down that this was true. He was, however, surprised to hear Clay voice such a thing. Then Clay asked suddenly, “Why have you shown me this?”
Stephen leaned back in his chair, thinking about the matter. “I think a lot of your family, Clay. I love your father, and I’ve always been fond of you. You’ve gotten off on the wrong track, but that can happen to any man, my boy. I don’t ask what you’ve been doing for the past few years, but I am interested in the years that lie ahead of you.”
“I don’t have a life, Uncle Stephen,” Clay said. “Not in the past, nor in the future.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes half closed. “Some things a man can repair, but I’m past all that. I’m like Humpty-Dumpty. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Clay Rocklin together again.”
Stephen hesitated, then said, “God can put any man or woman together, Clay.” He did not press his argument, for he saw that Clay was not ready for it. He only added, “Jesus Christ will come to you one day. When that happens, promise me you’ll stop running and let Him have His chance with you.”
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