“If Jesus ever comes, I’ll remember what you say. But I think Christianity doesn’t work for some of us.” Clay shook his shoulders, then asked again, “Why did you show me the letter?”
“Haven’t you guessed? I think you have.”
Clay stared at his uncle with a strange intensity. “I think you believe that I can rescue Gracefield and save the family.”
Stephen nodded. “I believe God has sent you here at just the right time. You need your family, and God knows they need you!”
“Why, my father would die before he’d take my help!”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe all this has come upon my brother to save him from the bitterness that’s been eating him alive ever since you left. He would never have given up on that bitterness as long as he had a choice, but now he has none. Or rather, he has one, and that’s you, Clay.”
Clay was half amused and half angry. “You think God is interested in all of this? With a universe to run, you think He cares about keeping track of a scoundrel named Clay Rocklin?”
“We’re all scoundrels, Clay. Some may put up a better front than others, but inside we’re all lost.” Stephen came around the desk and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “It’s your last chance, Clay, just as it’s your father’s last chance. Will you do it?”
A hammer was ringing on an anvil, a rhythmic, pleasant sound. The clock on the wall in Stephen’s office was ticking quietly. Neither man spoke, and the silence between them ran on. Finally Clay got to his feet, and there was a look of grim determination on his face.
“Uncle Stephen, I hope you’ve got faith in this thing—because I think it’s insane.” Then Clay suddenly brushed his hands across his eyes, and when he looked at Stephen again, he was as sober as a man could be.
“I’ll do everything I can. If it were just a matter of money, it wouldn’t be so bad. But you know it’s more than that.”
“I know, I know, my boy,” Stephen said, a great happiness filling him. “You’ll have a hard way. You’ll not be welcomed back. Your family won’t accept you. Your friends will all remember your failures—and they’ll be waiting for you to make more mistakes. You’ll be all alone.” Then he threw his thick arm around the young man’s shoulders, saying with a hearty voice, “But you’ll do it, Clay! I believe God’s in it, and when God gets in a thing and we let Him do what He wants, why, that thing is settled!”
“Well, all they can do is kill me, Uncle Stephen,” Clay said with a slight smile. “And since I’m dead already, that won’t hurt too much. Come on, let’s see what we can do with the Rocklin clan!”
CHAPTER 16
THE HOMECOMING OF CLAY ROCKLIN
It amused Clay that Harvey Simmons met him at the livery stable, just as he had twelve years earlier. But this time, Clay saw, Simmons had risen in the world, for the sign over the barn read Simmons Livery Stable, not Jacob Essen’s Livery Stable as it had those long years ago. Clay had taken the Orange and Alexandria Railroad from Washington, arrived at the station just after seven in the morning, and spent the morning walking around the bustling city.
He had expected the city to stay as he had left it, but since 1847, many changes had come, mostly commercial. New construction was sprouting up everywhere, and the streets were alive with people going to work. Couldn’t expect the old town to stay just as it was, he thought as he wandered along the side streets. And I guess I’ve changed even more than it has. Every street held memories, some of them good and some bad. He saw that the Blackjack Saloon had fallen into even worse disrepair. The paint was peeling and the windows were filled with cardboard, but the same sign with the ace of spades over the name still swung in the wind. He thought of the night that he, along with Taylor Dewitt and Bushrod Aimes, had tackled a gang of hoodlums over a woman, and all of them had come out of the scrap looking like raw hamburger. I expect that pair is respectable now.
He had taken lunch at the Harley House and recognized only one or two people. One of them was the manager, Nolan Finn. But Finn had not noticed him, and Clay did not speak to him. I’ll meet him soon enough, Clay thought as he left the restaurant and moved toward the livery stable.
He had spent the last month with his uncle Stephen—not at his home, for Clay refused to go there. He had taken a room at a hotel, and the two of them had kept the mails hot with letters to Warren Larrimore. It had taken a great deal of doing, for Thomas’s affairs were in such sad condition and so many creditors had to be satisfied that it took every effort on the part of the banker to achieve what Stephen and Clay had asked.
Stephen had written explaining the situation, asking him to keep Clay’s name out of any conversations with the family. He had requested that Clay be allowed to buy the paper mortgages, but this proved to be impossible. Some of the men who held the notes would not sell them back, for Gracefield was a good property and they didn’t want to lose their chance at gaining possession. Also, Clay didn’t have enough money to pay all the notes and finance another crop. In the end, Larrimore wrote, “We will have to agree with some of the demands of the creditors and, I might add, with my board. The creditors want the place, and my board will not renew the note we hold if Thomas is in control. I persuaded them to renew, and they agreed only on the condition that Clay be responsible for the financial end of the plantation. I don’t know how Thomas will take this, but it was the best I could do. “
As Clay approached the livery stable, he thought of the nights he had lain awake, dreading the moment when he would have to return to his home. More than once he had almost fled Washington, but Stephen Rocklin had sensed those times and had stayed closer than a barnacle until they passed.
Even now he wanted to go back to the station, get on the train, and put Gracefield far behind him. But he did not. Deep inside, he knew that this was the only chance in the world for him, and he hailed the owner of the stable with determination in his voice. “I need to rent a horse.”
Simmons stared at Clay uncertainly. The bright noonday April sun blinded him as he came out of the darkness of the stable, and he hesitated. There was something familiar about the tall man who stood there, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Know you, don’t I, sir?”
“You did once, Harvey.”
Simmons blinked, and as his vision cleared, he gasped. “Why, it’s Clay Rocklin!”
“What’s left of him. You’re looking prosperous, Harvey. Own the business now, do you?”
“Well, yes. Old Man Essen died five years ago, and Mr. Larrimore at the bank helped me buy the place.” He shook his head, staring at Clay in disbelief. “Most people think you died, Clay.”
“Have to disappoint them. Let me have a good horse, Harvey.”
“You going out to Gracefield?”
“Yes.” Where else would I be going? Clay thought.
“Well, you don’t need to rent a horse, unless you want to. One of the niggers from your place is in town. Boy named Fox.”
“I remember him. His mother was Damis.”
“That’s the one. He come in early this morning for supplies. He’s coming back here to pick up Mr. Burke’s saddle any minute. You could ride back with him if you wanted to.”
Clay hesitated but then shook his head. “I’m in a hurry, Harvey.”
“All right. I’ll give you the best we got.”
Clay waited until Simmons brought out a tall buckskin, and soon he was riding through the streets of the city. The town had edged out, taking the countryside, and he was impressed at the growth. A huge building, the Tredgar Ironworks, had grown like a mushroom since he had left. Other businesses filled the busy streets. It was not Washington, of course, but it was impressive.
He passed into the countryside, enjoying the feel of a good horse much better than the rise and fall of the schooner. Traffic was heavy for a time, the road crowded with wagons bringing produce to market, farmers bringing their families into town, and a surprising number of people on foot making their way into Richmond.
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There was something about the journey to Gracefield that made him uneasy, and as he rode along, he decided that it was the fact that he was going over the same ground he had followed twelve years ago. That time he had come home drunk and half out of his mind over his failure at Cerro Gordo. Now he was on the same road, going to the same house. And if the guilt over the dead soldiers he had murdered in Mexico had been heavy, the scene of the slaves going overboard into the freezing sea to drown was much worse. Ever since he had left the Carrie Jane, he had experienced terrible nightmares, especially one that involved the young mother and her baby. Even now, with the sun shining overhead and the beauty of the Virginia countryside surrounding him, the sight of her face tried to form in his mind. He shook his head and galloped his horse for a quarter, driving the image away.
A strong urge took him as he passed the turnoff to the Yancy place. As always, the thought of the Yancys gave him pleasure, but he steadfastly refused to turn his horse in their direction.
At four he passed onto Rocklin land and felt strangely at home. Despite all that had happened, there was a mystic pull in this black soil that he felt at once. It had always been there, no matter how far he sailed to distant lands, and now it came back—along with memories of many things and many people.
He slowed the horse as he approached the drive leading to the house, uncertain even now of how to proceed. Most of all, he dreaded seeing Ellen and the children. The memory of the children had been strong in him all his years of wandering, but he knew from what little Stephen had told him that Ellen had brought them up to despise him.
No matter—or, more accurately, no cure for it now. As he turned down the curving drive, he had a sudden thought and pulled his horse off sharply, crossing into a grove of water oak that rose to the east of the house. Anyone approaching the house by means of the drive would be seen at once, but there was another way. One hundred yards into the grove, there was—or had been—a tiny house, a cabin really. Only two rooms, but snug and comfortable. The summerhouse, as it had been called, had been used for visitors and by the children for playing games.
He was pleased to find it still there and in fair condition. Stepping out of the saddle, he tied the horse and stepped inside. There was no lock, and he found that the inside was in poor shape. Evidently the roof had some leaks, for the furniture was warped and there was a decaying smell to the place. He turned and walked down the path, which was overgrown, coming to the side of the house. He glanced at the scuppernong arbor where he’d courted Mellie in the old days. The vines were still there, but thin and wilted in the heat. There was, he noted, a general deterioration about the place. Fences sagged and were patched just enough to hold together, and the sheds had not been whitewashed in some time. Even the Big House was in need of paint and some repairs—but it was not as bad as he had expected.
Coming to the side door, he hesitated, uncertain as to his next move. He wanted to avoid all the family except his parents, but if he stepped inside the house, he could encounter anyone.
Suddenly the door opened and he found himself looking at Zander. The tall black man stood stock still, his eyes sprung so wide the whites were enormous. “Marse Clay!” he whispered.
“Hello, Zander,” Clay said and moved closer. Zander, he noted, had grown white-headed and was overweight. But he was still sharp, for the brown eyes of the slave were studying him carefully now that the shock was over. Clay said quickly, “Zander, I need to see my parents—but nobody else. Are they here?”
“Yas, suh, they here. They both upstairs.”
“Anybody else in the house?”
“Everybody gone. Camp meeting over at Spring Grove, and a party at Miz Amy’s house.” Zander stared at Clay, questions in his eyes, but he said, “You want me to tell them you’re here?” Clay hesitated, then said, “I’ll go to the library. Go ask them if they will come down and meet me there, Zander.”
“Yas, suh.”
Zander went back into the house, and Clay walked around to the door that led into the hall. The library was stuffy, and he moved to open one of the windows. He could hear someone speaking down the hall and supposed that it was Dorrie or some of the other house slaves.
He forced himself to stand quietly, looking out of the window, but he felt his hands trembling. Quickly he slapped them together, then tried to make his mind stop fluttering. Never could he remember being so tense, and he was glad when the door opened.
His father came in, followed by his mother, and for one brief moment they all three seemed to be frozen. We could be a picture entitled “The Return of the Prodigal,” Clay thought. He was shocked at his father’s appearance. The black hair he remembered was sprinkled with gray, and his face was worn and etched with lines. He was still a handsome man, but worry and care had struck him hard. Clay’s mother, on the other hand, seemed little different than when he had seen her last.
Thomas said in a voice tight with emotion, “I thought I made myself clear about your presence here.”
“Very clear, sir,” Clay answered. He saw that his mother wanted to come to him, but knew that she would not do so—not with her husband in the room. “I would have respected your wishes, but I felt I had to come.” He hesitated, then got right to the matter. “I’ve been in touch with Warren Larrimore, Father. About the difficulties with the loans.”
“I’m surprised you’d find that of any interest!”
“You have every right to think that,” Clay said evenly. “I’ve given you occasion to think it.”
“I’ll ask you to leave, sir!”
Clay said quietly, “I will leave—if you will give me ten minutes.”
Thomas had been stunned when Zander had come with the news that Clay was in the house. He had thought at first the butler must be mistaken, but Zander had been adamant. His mind had reeled, and the bitterness that he had nursed over the years welled up. He had started for the door, but Susanna caught at him.
“Don’t go to him like this, Tom,” she whispered.
He had stood there, keeping a tight hold on his anger. Now he said, “Very well, you have your ten minutes. No more.”
“Yes, sir.” Clay had thought out what he wanted to say, and Stephen had helped him with how to say it. “We’ll arrange it with Warren,” his uncle had said. “Keep my part out of it. You just found out about the problem and wanted to help. If you mention me, it’ll just get his back up even more!”
Speaking slowly, Clay now said, “I’ve been out of the country for many years. But when I came back last month, I heard a rumor that you were having trouble with finances.”
“Who told you this?” Thomas demanded.
“Oh, just a fellow who knew the county. He said that quite a few planters were having trouble meeting their loans because of the low price on cotton.” He evaded the question easily and saw that his father was satisfied. That kept Stephen in the clear. If only the rest could be as easy.
“After I left here,” he said, “I went to the bottom. You wouldn’t want to hear about it. But I met a man who liked me. He taught me his trade and gave me every opportunity to rise. The venture prospered, and I made considerable money from it.”
“What venture?” Thomas demanded.
“Why, shipping. I owned half-interest in a schooner. But I never really liked it, so I sold out last month.” Clay hesitated, troubled by what was sure to come. But there was no way to put the thing except to come right out with it: “When I heard that you were having problems, I wrote to Larrimore, telling him I’d like to help.”
“He never said a word to me!”
“I asked him to keep it confidential. I wasn’t sure how the thing would go. But when he wrote and put all the facts before me, I made a decision. You won’t like it, I’m afraid.”
“What decision? And why should I be involved?”
“Larrimore said that you were going to lose Gracefield. I didn’t want that to happen. So I asked him if I could help with the notes.”
“You had
no right to do that!” Thomas was about to launch.
Susanna spoke for the first time. “What sort of arrangement did you make, Clay?”
Clay explained that he didn’t have enough money to get the place clear, but that he had worked something out with Larrimore. “He actually did all the work, of course,” Clay said. “I wanted to be able to get the place clear, then just leave the country. But Warren could only make the arrangements if I agreed to be responsible for the financial side of the operation.”
Thomas turned pale, and his voice was reedy. “So you’ve come back to be lord and master over us—is that it?”
It was the most dangerous time, and Clay said carefully, “Nothing was farther from my mind. The only way I could help was to take the bank’s offer. But I won’t be your master, sir! Never!” Then he lowered his voice, pleading as he never thought he would. “Let me do this thing, Father, please! Just let me stay until the place is clear of debt. Then I’ll sign it over to you, and you never have to see me again!”
Susanna looked quickly at Thomas and saw the rejection that he was forming. “Clay, leave us now. It’s too sudden, all of this. Come back tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, Mother.” Clay left the room at once, and when he got outside he discovered that his heart was thumping harder than it ever had in battle or in a storm at sea! He made his way at once to where his horse was tied but decided to sleep in the summerhouse. I might be making only one more trip to the house, he thought grimly.
Thomas and Susanna stayed up late, talking. At first Thomas was adamant—Clay would never come back to Gracefield! Not while he was there! But Susanna knew this man better than he knew himself. By the time they fell into bed, exhausted, she had won the day.
Thomas had agreed, but with iron terms. “He’ll be no son of mine, Susanna! He can stay, and he can help. It’s only right, for it’s been his family he’s hurt the worst. But I’ll never forgive him!” Later he said, “Ellen will never have him back. And she’s spent years drumming into the children’s heads that their father is the scum of the earth. They’ll never accept him, Susanna!”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 20
