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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Clay ducked his head, then smiled wryly. “I wish my father was as optimistic.”

  “He’ll come around!”

  “I doubt it, Gid. He was pleased, but when this war started shaping up, things changed in Virginia. Every man who’s not ready to grab a musket and charge to Washington to shoot the Yankees is a traitor! And that’s pretty well what Father thinks of me. And a lot of others think the same thing.”

  “What will you do, Clay?” Gideon asked quietly.

  Clay said gloomily, “I honestly don’t know, Gid. I hate slavery, but I love my state. Right now I’m in limbo.”

  “Well, so are lots of others—including Robert E. Lee,” Gideon pointed out. “I’ve made my choice, but then, it was easier for me. I don’t have the land in my blood—Virginia land—as you do.”

  “Everyone knows what your choice will be, Gid. And how can I pick up a musket and fight you?”

  Gideon was silent, and both men knew there was nothing they could say to make the terrible choice any easier. They walked for an hour, and then the boat handler called, “Passengers for shore!” Clay said, “I’ll see Melanie. And if she’ll let me, I’ll look out for her. Any message?”

  “Nothing very original,” Gid said, grinning. “Give her my love.” The two men parted with a final gripping of hands. “I’ll write your father, Clay,” Gideon said as the boat left the wharf. “He’ll come around!”

  Clay waved but didn’t answer, for he had little faith in winning his father’s approval. When the boat docked, he went at once to the Foster Hotel, but going into the lobby, he suddenly was struck by a fear that Gideon might be wrong. It was Melanie he’d attacked, after all, and a sensitive woman would not shake off such a thing easily.

  “It’s got to be now,” he muttered, straightening his shoulders. “I told Gid I’d watch out for her.” He walked resolutely up the stairs, paused one moment before room 221, then knocked on the door.

  “Just a minute!” He stood there bracing his shoulders, and then the door opened. She was as beautiful as ever, he saw as she opened the door. She stood there, her mouth open in surprise, her eyes startled. Then she said quietly, “Come in, Clay.” When he stepped inside, she closed the door, then asked, “Have you been to see Gid?”

  “Yes, I have.” Clay was nervous and began at once with his plea for forgiveness. She let him speak, listening carefully. He was far more nervous than he had been with Gideon, but this made her warm toward him all the more. When he had finished, she said, “Clay, when we do a wrong thing, there are two things we can do about it. We can cover it up. Keep it inside. When we do that, it grows. And that’s what’s happened. What you did was wrong, but you’ve nursed that bad memory in your mind for years. Of course I’ll forgive you! But if you’d asked years ago, you wouldn’t have had this on your heart all this time.”

  Clay wiped the perspiration from his forehead. His limbs were strangely weak, and his head felt light—but he felt free. He nodded. “Thank you, Melanie. You’re right, but I was too big a fool to do anything so simple as just asking for forgiveness in those days.”

  “Now that’s over,” Melanie said with a smile. “Please tell me about Gid. They wouldn’t let me go to the fort today.”

  Clay gave his report, passing along Gid’s final word, and the two of them sat there talking about the dangers. He saw that she was tense, and after what Gid had told him, he did not try to soothe her with false comfort. “I’m going to stay around for a few days,” he said. “Maybe I can get a room here. I understand the war fever gets out of hand.”

  “Gid asked you to take care of me, didn’t he? Well, to tell the absolute truth, Clay, there have been a few unpleasantries. The wives of the Union officers aren’t particularly popular in Charleston right now.”

  “I’ll go see about a room. Then maybe you can show me a good place to eat.”

  The room clerk, a tall, sallow-faced man with a fierce set of whiskers, insisted there was no room available, but when Clay let a twenty-dollar bill be seen in his palm, he suddenly remembered a vacancy. Clay checked into the room, washed his face, then walked around the city until suppertime. At six o’clock he returned to the hotel, where he found Melanie waiting for him. “It may be hard to find a place to eat,” he remarked as they stepped out on the street. “The streets are packed.”

  “There’s something in the air tonight, Clay,” Melanie said with apprehension in her voice.

  She was exactly right. The excitement and patriotic passions that had been building up since secession in December had reached fever pitch. Neither of them was hungry, and as they walked around the city that night, long parades snaked through the streets, drums rolled, horses’ hooves clattered, and the leaping flames of great bonfires made dancing shadows.

  Charleston that night was no place for moderation, no setting for trepidation. Charleston was in the hands of the fire-eaters. Clay and Melanie stood under a balcony, surrounded by a screaming mob, listening to Roger Pryor, a Virginian, speaking to the seething crowd.

  “You have at last annihilated this accursed Union, reeking with corruption and insolent with excess of tyranny. Not only is it gone, but it is gone forever. As sure as tomorrow’s sun will rise upon us,” Pryor shouted, “so it is sure that old Virginia will be a member of the Southern Confederacy! Strike a blow! The very moment blood is shed, old Virginia will make common cause with her sisters of the South!”

  Clay said, “Let’s get out of this crowd, Mellie.” She nodded, and with some effort they made their way down the street toward the hotel. When they arrived, she said, “There’s a balcony with some chairs. Let’s sit and talk for a while, Clay.”

  The balcony was small, and as they took two of the chairs, Melanie said, “I sit here quite often at night. It’s cool and you can smell the ocean.” For a time they sat there speaking idly; then Melanie said, “Your mother has written me several times. She’s very proud of you.” Then, being a very direct woman, she turned to face him. “How are you, Clay? Susanna told us about the fight you had with the man who insulted Ellen. Was there any more trouble with him?”

  Clay shook his head. “Not with him, Mellie. I carried a gun for a few weeks, but he never tried to take the thing further.” He hesitated, then said painfully, “Ellen blamed the fight on me.” He looked at his hands, and his silence told her much. Finally he began to talk, speaking of his life and the difficulties that had risen in the past few months. Finally he said, “I guess I’ve come to the end of the road, Mellie. My family doesn’t have much use for me. Can’t blame them much, for I’ve treated them shamefully.”

  “Not all of them, Clay. Susanna tells me you’ve become very close to Rena.”

  He smiled and nodded. “My one victory. But the others haven’t forgotten that I ran out on them. Especially Dent.”

  “He’s in love with Deborah, Susanna says. She’s a favorite of mine, you know. We spent a great deal of time together when we were stationed in Washington.”

  “A beautiful girl,” Clay said. “I like her very much. But she’s an abolitionist, and Dent’s just the opposite. They’d make each other miserable!”

  “What about Melora?”

  The question caught Clay off balance. His fists clenched, and he closed his mouth suddenly. When Melanie said nothing, he relaxed. “I guess Mother’s been writing you more than I knew.” He sat there looking down on the street, then began to speak of Melora. His voice grew gentle as he went over how he’d known her from childhood and how when he’d come back, he’d expected to find her married.

  “I wonder why she didn’t marry?” Melanie’s voice was casual, but she was watching Clay carefully. “It’s unusual for a beautiful young woman to stay single.”

  Clay made no answer to that but said at once, “Mellie, I’ve not said anything to a soul, not even to my mother. I love Melora, but it’s hopeless. Ellen is my wife, and that’s all there is to it. As a matter of fact, I’ve told Melora she ought to marry the minister who’s proposed to h
er. He’s a good man, and she needs a family.”

  Clay said no more, but Melanie sensed the heaviness of his spirit. She longed to encourage him but could not get around the truth that he had spoken. Ellen was his wife, though she brought him no pleasure and likely never would. Finally she said, “God knows our ways, Clay. You are doing the right thing—painful as it is for you. He won’t forget that!”

  They sat there listening to the cries of the people, and finally Melanie rose, saying, “I’m going to bed, Clay. Not that I’ll sleep, but I need the rest. Good night.” She suddenly leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. I feel much safer!”

  Clay sat there for hours, listening to the city, thinking of many things. Finally he went to bed, weary in body and mind, but also with a small feeling of triumph.

  At noon of the same day Clay had met with Gideon, three men had stood before Major Anderson and his aide-decamp, Major Rocklin. They were Colonel James A. Chisholm, Captain Stephen D. Lee, and Colonel James Chesnut. The two Union officers had been formal, as were the visitors, but they all knew that this was the ultimatum. Major Anderson withdrew, discussed the situation with his officer, then wrote out his response.

  The next day, Chestnut and his party came again at one o’clock. Anderson and his officers debated once more. At three o’clock in the morning, Anderson handed the envoys his response, which was not acceptable. When Anderson escorted the Confederates back to their boat, he shook hands with each one, saying, “If we never meet in this world again, God grant that we may meet in the next.”

  The bells of St. Michael’s in Charleston were pealing four o’clock in the morning as Chestnut’s party rowed up to Fort Johnson. Chestnut ordered Captain George S. James to fire the signal shell that would open the bombardment at four thirty.

  Everyone was waiting. Roger Pryor was offered the honor of firing the signal gun, but said, “I will not fire the first gun of the war.” It was Lieutenant Henry S. Farley who jerked the lanyard that sent the signal shell arching high into the sky over Fort Sumter.

  All day and into the night the crowds had gathered at the beach, looking out over the sea, waiting for something to happen. Clay and Melanie were there, and as the signal shell exploded, a great cheer went up from the crowd. But Melanie whispered, “Oh, God! It’s started! It’s started, and no one can stop it!” She turned to Clay blindly, and he held her while the crowd lifted great cheers. Then she pulled back and with her handkerchief wiped away her tears. “I mustn’t cry! It’s too late for weeping, isn’t it, Clay? Everything is out of control, and no one can stop it. Not Anderson or Lincoln or Davis. But God is still in His heaven!”

  Gideon Rocklin did not flinch when he saw that signal shell. Nor did he falter during the entire action. It was a strange, tentative, melodramatic fight that bore practically no resemblance to the cruel headlong battles that would come later. The first Confederate shot hit the wall of the magazine where Captain Abner Doubleday and one other officer had only a scanty supply of powder bags. For hours the shells fell on Fort Sumter, and no effort was made by the Union forces to answer the bombardment. At six, the men ate a meal of salt pork, and then Major Anderson directed the return fire. It was Doubleday, at about seven o’clock, who fired the first Union shot, which was a miss.

  For hours the duel went on, and noontime found Sumter withstanding the bombardment well. Gideon moved from gun to gun, directing the fire. Once he passed by Private Daniel Hough, and the young man gave him a smile. “Well, Major, I guess I’ll be telling folks what a hero I was when I get back to Michigan!” he said, then turned to his gun, whistling “Buffalo Gals.”

  The exhausted Federals slept as they could that night, and in the morning they breakfasted on a little salt pork and some rice. By now the Confederate gunners were firing hot shot, and fires were beginning to break out. By ten o’clock the fire was nearly out of control, and Gideon had the men move their small supply of powder. His eyes burned, and many of the men lay prostrate to avoid the smoke.

  Finally a Confederate shot knocked down the flagpole and Beauregard sent out three aides to give Anderson and his forces a chance to surrender.

  “We can hold out, Major!” Gideon insisted, his fighting blood aroused.

  “No, we must save our men, Major,” Anderson said quietly.

  At one thirty Major Anderson ordered his men to raise a white cloth.

  And that was it.

  Fort Sumter had fallen.

  The next day, April 14, 1861, the defenders of Fort Sumter were allowed by General Beauregard to fire a hundred-gun salute. Gideon had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find enough powder, but he found it. The salute began about two o’clock that afternoon. Thousands watched from boats in the harbor, among them General Beauregard.

  Gid was walking down the line of guns, watching as each one was fired. His heart was sick, and he wished that the whole terrible thing were done.

  Suddenly an explosion rent the air—not of a cannon being fired, but something else. Gideon turned to get a glimpse of men being lifted and thrown into the air like dolls!

  One of the gunners had rammed another cartridge into his gun before the sparks from the previous round were thoroughly swabbed out. The spark prematurely ignited the cartridge, and the explosion had blown the crew to the ground.

  One body fell not five feet from Gideon, rolled over twice, and came to rest almost at his feet. His face was black, and his right arm was missing. Scarlet blood pumped steadily from the raw wound. Gideon fell to his knees, pulled out his handkerchief, and, knowing it was useless, pressed against the gaping hole in the boy’s side.

  “Major—”

  Gid started and looked carefully at the blackened face. It was Private Daniel Hough!

  “Major?”

  “Yes, Daniel, what is it, son?”

  Hough’s lips were blistered, and his tongue was burned. He tried to raise himself, his eyes pleading. “Am I—pretty bad, Major?”

  Gideon bit his lip, then nodded. “I’m afraid so, Daniel.”

  The life was ebbing, and the voice faded so that Gideon had to lean forward to catch the words of the dying boy.

  “Tell—Carrie—tell her—”

  And then the body went lax as Daniel Hough died.

  He was the only casualty of the battle of Fort Sumter, but never did Rocklin forget that moment, nor the agonizing cry of the boy for his sweetheart. There would be others to die, many of them. But up until the moment that Daniel Hough died in his arms, the war had been abstract for Gideon.

  Now he knew.

  There would be thousands of Daniel Houghs dying. There would be many, many Carries weeping wildly for their men.

  Before the end came, the land would be red with blood—and perhaps some of it would be his.

  CHAPTER 24

  AFTER THE DARKNESS, THE DAWN

  Long shadows of a darkness that was just beginning enveloped the land as spring turned into summer. The untaught armies were gathering, small fights were erupting on the fringes like ominous flashes of lightning, and here and there people died. One of them was Stephen A. Douglas, the Little Giant and legendary opponent of Abraham Lincoln.

  Stephen and Ruth Rocklin were informed of his death by Amos Steele at supper. Ruth had brought the family together. Gideon and Melanie with their three boys were there, along with Laura and Amos and their four children. It was the irrepressible Pat, the oldest son of Laura and Amos, who looked around the table and grinned. “There are thirteen of us. That’s unlucky. We better send somebody away.”

  “Or get somebody else and make fourteen,” Gid said.

  And then it was Clinton, age seventeen, who put his foot in his mouth. He grinned at his sister, Deborah, saying impulsively, “Hey, Deborah, maybe you could send for that rebel cousin of ours!”

  It was a false note, and Clinton—who was very fond of Deborah—saw from the look on his sister’s face that his remark had given her pain. He fumbled with his napkin in the silence tha
t followed his statement, trying to find some way to cover up his awkwardness.

  Laura glanced at Amos, both of them still sensitive over Deborah’s behavior. She had come home from her visit pale and not herself. Both Amos and Laura had tried to talk with her, but she would say nothing about what had happened. Amos had said, “I think seeing the evils of slavery up close has been a shock to her, Laura. She’ll come out of it.” But he was mistaken, and finally Laura learned the truth from Susanna. She had gone at once to Deborah and discovered that her daughter was shattered, not over slavery, but over an attachment to Dent Rocklin.

  Now as Laura watched her daughter, she thought, It’s not getting any better, but it will have to. She can’t marry a man who’s likely to be shooting at her brothers!

  Amos Steele felt Deborah’s reticence keenly. The two of them had been very close, and he sensed that Deborah was pulling away from him. Looking at her, he saw that she was pained over Clinton’s thoughtless remark and said quickly, “I forgot to tell you. Stephen Douglas died last night.”

  Stephen said at once, “I’m sorry to hear it. He was a gifted man.”

  “Do you know,” Gid said thoughtfully, “he could have been president instead of Lincoln? Just a few votes the other way, and he’d have been in office.”

  “I wish he had been,” Melanie said. “He was more moderate on slavery and states’ rights than Lincoln. Maybe he could have kept us out of this war.”

  “No, he couldn’t have done that,” Stephen said sadly. “It’s been building up for years—decades even—and no one man could have stopped it.”

  “I think that’s right,” Gid agreed. He sat back in his chair, and Melanie noticed that he had gained back some of the weight he had lost at the siege of Sumter. “There’s a line of a song that keeps going through my mind—’We are living, we are dwelling, in a grand and awesome time.’ I think that’s true. Grand and awesome enough, but inevitable. We’ve had two nations here, headed in different directions. And now we’re going to have to fight a civil war to decide exactly what sort of country this is going to be.”