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

by Gilbert, Morris

  His words fell across the room, sobering them all. “Well, Father,” Tyler said, “it won’t be a long war. The South can’t last long.” At the age of nineteen, Tyler was already broad and strong, as his father had been at that age. He was also pugnacious and stubborn, and he thrust his chin forward, stating emphatically, “Why, it’s ridiculous! The South doesn’t have any factories, and wars are fought with weapons. And we outnumber them, too.”

  “That’s right enough, Tyler,” Gid said. “But they have some advantages. In the first place, they don’t have to win the war.”

  Deborah looked at him curiously. She looked very pretty in a red-and-black-striped dress. Her clear eyes, however, were troubled. “What does that mean, Uncle Gideon?”

  “Why, it means that they don’t want to invade us.” Gid shrugged. “They just want to be left alone. So they’ll be fighting a defensive war on their territory. We’ll have to invade them, and that means enormous supply lines in enemy territory. And we in the North are fighting for an idea, but they’ll be fighting for their homes.”

  “And they’ll have better leadership in the army,” Stephen added. Seeing the shocked looks on the faces of his grandchildren, he explained, “The best of the West Pointers have resigned from the United States Army to go fight for the Confederacy.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Father,” Gid said soberly. “General Scott practically begged Robert E. Lee to stay and take command of our army, but he refused. So have a lot of other good men.” He shook his head. “I don’t envy the general who has to attack Robert E. Lee on his own ground!”

  As Gid continued to speak of the difficulties of conducting a war against the South, Stephen was swept with a sudden sense of gloom. Looking around the table, he surveyed Gideon’s sons—Tyler, nineteen; Robert, eighteen; and Frank, seventeen. Then he glanced at the three sons of Laura and Amos—Pat, twenty; Colin, nineteen; and Clinton, seventeen.

  All so young! he thought sadly. The old men will bring the war on, but it’ll be the young men like these who’ll shed their blood. Then he thought of Clay’s sons, and Amy’s—all young men, the same as these around his table. “Have you heard from Clay since you got back from Sumter?” he asked when Gideon finished.

  “Yes, twice,” Gid answered, nodding. A frown crossed his brow, and he shook his head. “No good news, I’m afraid. Clay is against the war. He thinks it’s a lost cause before it begins. You can imagine how that goes over in Virginia right now! He doesn’t complain, but I know what such a thing can be like.”

  “But what will he do, Gideon?” Ruth asked. “Will he leave Gracefield? I wouldn’t think he could stay there.”

  “He’ll never leave his home.” They all turned to look at Deborah, who had spoken. “It’s all so sad! He’d made such a wonderful recovery—and then this awful war came along!” She got up suddenly and left the table, her lips pale and tense.

  “She was very disturbed by what she saw in Virginia,” her father said quickly. “The slave auctions and that sort of thing.”

  They all knew there was more to it than that, but were careful not to mention Deborah’s problem. A sense of impending gloom fell across the room, and they all hastily rose and left the table. The Steeles left as soon as they could, and when Stephen and Gideon spoke later, neither of them was optimistic about the future.

  “Are you pleased with your new assignment, son?” Stephen asked as they sipped coffee in the library. Gideon had been ordered to report to General Scott at once. The wording of his orders was vague, and Gideon shrugged pessimistically. “The general just wants me around to get my ideas on how the South is feeling—will they fight and that sort of thing. Mostly because I’m from Virginia, I think. But I won’t be with him long.” He smiled slightly, adding, “I’ve been doing a little politicking. A number of new brigades are being formed. They’re putting several older units together, and I’ll be joining them as soon as the general has pumped me dry.”

  “I suppose promotion will come quicker that way.” Stephen drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “I’m worried about Deborah. About Clay, too. About all of us.”

  Gideon looked at his father, noting with surprise that he seemed much older than usual. He’s only sixty-two, and he’s still strong—but he feels the same as I do, he thought. “It’s going to be a hard thing,” he said gently. “Wars are all terrible, but a war between brothers is the worst of all.”

  The dinner at her grandparents’ disturbed Deborah, though she tried not to show it. For the next three days, she threw herself into her father’s work, staying up late and accompanying him on two speaking engagements. Amos was pleased, but Laura was not. “She’s going on nerve, Amos,” she said to her husband. “She can’t go on long this way.”

  The next day was Friday, and Steele had an engagement in Philadelphia. He wanted to take Deborah, but Laura discouraged this, insisting that the girl needed rest. “Very well, she can work on the book,” Amos conceded, and asked Deborah to do so. She agreed, and when he left the next morning, she kissed him good-bye, saying, “I’ll have a lot for you to see when you get back.”

  All day she labored in the library, working from the notes she had made while in Richmond. More than once a note brought a memory before her that caused her hand to stop—but at once she would press on with vigor.

  “Deborah, you’ve got to rest,” her mother scolded that night. It was after eight, and Deborah had not eaten supper. “Now I’ve fixed you a late supper. You come and eat right now!”

  Deborah protested, but Laura was adamant, so she surrendered. She haggled the steak her mother had saved, eating a few bites, then sat with her mother briefly. Finally she said, “I think I’ll take a walk before I go to bed, Mother.”

  She kissed her mother, then put on a light coat and walked out of the house. It was a mild night, and the stars were putting on a glittering show overhead. The streetlights threw their gleam across the walk, and for an hour she walked the streets of Washington. She was not a moody young woman, and for that reason the black depression she had suffered since her return home had taken her by surprise. All her life she had been able to identify a problem, then attack it with all her might—and in almost every case she had been able to overcome the problem.

  But she could not seem to shake off the unhappiness that had come to her, and she knew that it was more than the war—terrible as that was. No, it was both lesser and greater than the war. In one sense there was nothing she could do about the war, except her duty, of course. For a long time she had fought with others against slavery, coming to believe that the evil would never be struck down except by force. But that was an idea, an abstraction. Now she was painfully aware of the flesh-and-blood element. Her great-aunt Susanna had grown to be very dear to her during her brief stay …. Her world would have to be destroyed. How do you destroy a person’s world without killing that very person? she wondered, turning finally down the street to her home.

  As she approached the house, she thought of the night all the Rocklins had met for Thomas’s birthday party. It had been a lighthearted, happy affair, with all the children and grandchildren gathered around the big table to celebrate the event. In her mind’s eye, she saw the older relatives and then the younger family members. And she felt despair close about her as she thought, They’ll never survive this war! Never!

  Then she turned into the walk that led to the front door, and as she did so, someone moved out of the shadows and called her name.

  “Who are you?” Deborah cried out, startled and suddenly afraid. Washington was not quite the place it had once been, and the man who suddenly appeared out of the shadows was not familiar.

  “It’s me, Dent Rocklin.”

  Deborah stood still, her heart beating as rapidly as a bird’s “Dent! What are you—”

  “I had to come, Deborah!” he whispered. He was wearing a dark suit and a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes. He took it off and stood before her silently for a moment. Then he said, �
�I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I was startled—but what are you doing here?” Deborah was taking in Dent’s face, noting even in the feeble, pale light of the streetlamp that he looked worn and tired. She wanted to reach out to him but knew she must not. “Have you been in the house?”

  “No. I was afraid your parents might not let you see me.”

  “Well, we can’t talk here,” Deborah said. “Come around to the side of the house.” She led him quickly to the small garden framed by hedge and then turned to face him. “Dent, you shouldn’t have come.”

  “I know that,” he said wearily. He was changed, she saw at once. He had lost that lighthearted air that had made him so attractive. The dim light cast his face into strong planes, his high cheekbones and deep-set eyes giving his face a sculptured look. “Deborah, I’m in the Confederate Army.”

  “Dent!” Deborah whispered. “You’ll be shot if they catch you here in civilian clothes! They’d say you’re a spy.”

  “I’m not carrying any papers they could shoot me for,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t even have a uniform. My company won’t be mustered for a week, and I had to see you, Deborah!”

  She was not thinking clearly. His sudden appearance had unnerved her, and she tried to regain her composure. The very sight of his face had brought back the memories of his kiss, and she said unsteadily, “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

  Dent suddenly grinned, his teeth very white against his tan. “Here I am going into the army to face shot and shell, and it’s ‘dangerous’ to come and see my girl.”

  “It’s not funny—and I’m not your girl!”

  “Yes, you are.” He suddenly grasped her arms and leaned down. “Now it’s time for you to tell me that it’ll never work. Tell me that I’ll probably get my head blown off. Your family would never agree. My family would never agree. Then tell me I’ll be fighting against your brothers. Give me a dozen reasons why we can’t have each other. Go on!”

  Deborah was trembling in his grasp. “It’s all true! Everything you say is true!”

  Dent’s face grew gentle. He suddenly put his arms around her, ignoring her struggles. “I know it is, Deborah. But I know one more thing. Something you’ve overlooked.”

  “What—”

  He pulled her close and kissed her, cutting off her words. Again she felt the stirrings that had shaken her when he had taken her in his arms in Virginia. There was a wild sweetness in his caress, and she lay in his arms passively at first, then added a pressure of her own to the kiss.

  He lifted his head but held her close, whispering, “That’s what you’ve forgotten, Deborah!”

  Suddenly tears came to her eyes, and she laid her face against his chest. Everything that was in her longed to say, “I love you, Dent! We’ll make it somehow!”

  But she could not. The obstacles were too overwhelming. She seemed to see a huge set of balances, the sort with two thin plates hanging from opposite ends of a hinged beam. In one of the plates she saw her family—parents, brothers, and others—and all that she believed in and had worked for, including the freedom of black people.

  In the other plate was Dent.

  And she knew that all the joy that she felt in his arms was not enough. She could not deny her family and her faith, not even for the love she felt for him.

  Drawing back, she forced herself to say quietly, “I can never turn my back on my family, Dent.”

  He stared at her, his face pale and tense. “You don’t love me, then.”

  “There are all kinds of love. Sometimes one kind of love works against another.”

  If it had been another man, Dent could have fought, but he was stopped by the look on Deborah’s face. He wanted to take her in his arms again but knew that she would not respond.

  Finally he said, “Deborah, I love you. And I know you love me.” A hardness came into his tone, and his jaw clenched. “I’ve got to go, but this isn’t the end. When the war is over, I’ll come for you.”

  “I can’t promise you anything, Dent,” she said, hiding the misery that rose in her at the sight of his anger.

  He seemed not to have heard. Looking up at the stars, he seemed to be lost in thought. Finally he put his hat on, then said almost harshly, “I’ll be coming for you. But first I’ve got this war to fight. And until it’s over, there’s no mercy in me.”

  Deborah cried, “You see what’s happening?”

  “I see that I’ve got one thing to do, and I’m going to do it no matter what it costs me or anyone else.” He whirled and walked away but paused and gave her one look, and his eyes were filled with regret. “Don’t forget me, Deborah. After it’s over, I’ll be coming for you!”

  Then he was gone. Deborah stood peering into the darkness. Overhead the full moon looked down on her, pouring silver bars of light across the arbor. And then a ragged cloud racing across the sky covered its face, and she turned and walked slowly into the house.

  “Oh, isn’t it exciting! I declare, Leona, that Denton Rocklin is the handsomest thing in his uniform I’ve ever seen!”

  A group of young ladies had pushed their way (in a most unladylike fashion!) to the forefront of the city square. All of Richmond seemed to be gathered there for the commissioning of the Richmond Grays, and the air was filled with the brave tunes played by the band and the smell of coffee furnished by the ladies of Richmond.

  Dent, in his ash-gray uniform, black boots that shone like a well-rubbed table, and a fine tasseled scarlet sash, was at the head of the formation, his second-lieutenant bars gleaming in the sunlight. He caught the eye of Lily Duprey, who had just commented on his appearance, and nodded, smiling slightly. “Lily! He’s watching you!” Maybelle Saunders whispered. “I hear that Yankee girl he was so taken with went back home. What Denton needs now is a good Southern woman.”

  Dent, however, was not thinking of a woman, but of his company. He called it “my company” to himself, for he had a queer possessiveness about the Richmond Grays. The unit took the place of Deborah in his mind, and in pouring himself into the company, he forced the images of her back into the secret part of his being.

  And he was content that fine June afternoon. Very content! Looking down the lines as the men waited for the president to come and address them, he was pleased with what he saw. The lines were straight, the uniforms sharp, and the men alert. But he realized that they should be impressive, for it was an elite body of men. As soon as James Benton had announced his intention of organizing and equipping a company of young men, there was virtually a stampede to enlist. Oh, there were other companies being formed all over the South, some of them with ferocious titles: Lexington Wild Cats, Yankee Terrors, Southern Avengers, and Chickasaw Desperadoes, for example.

  But the Richmond Grays were different. The ranks were filled with the cavaliers, sons of the cream of Richmond society. Choosing the officers had been most difficult, for there were only a handful of positions, of course, with dozens of young aristocrats who longed for the officer’s uniform. There were elections, and James Benton was the colonel. Brad Franklin was the major, which was no surprise, since he had borne half the expense of equipping the troop. The captain was a man named Brandon Coldfax, owner of a fifty-thousand-acre plantation north of Richmond. At the age of sixty, he was the only one of the officers with any military experience at all, having served in the Indian wars and under Zachary Taylor in Mexico. The lieutenants were Taylor Dewitt, Bushrod Aimes, and Denton Rocklin. Not all of the volunteers were wealthy, of course, but the flavor of aristocracy was strong in the Richmond Grays.

  “Look fine, don’t they, Dent?” Bushrod, standing to Dent’s right, had pride in his voice. “They’re ready to fight anything the Yankees send our way!” Aimes and Dewitt had been somewhat taken aback at the way that Dent Rocklin had thrown himself into the work of whipping the Grays into fighting trim. They both knew he had made some sort of trip, and though Dewitt had an idea it was to Washington to see the Yankee girl, there was n
o evidence of that.

  “Whatever happened, it sure did put gunpowder in his blood!” Aimes had exclaimed. True, Dent had made himself cordially disliked for his hard drilling sessions, but he seemed not to notice. Day and night he had been hard at work, and all the officers had given him full credit, especially Captain Coldfax, who had said, “That young man puts us all to shame, Colonel Benton!”

  Suddenly a hush went over the crowd, for a tall, erect figure on the platform had risen and begun to speak. Jefferson Davis, the president of the Southern Confederacy, looked like a hawk with his lean cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes. He spoke slowly at first, but at the last of what was a stirring speech, he cried out, “I am ready to march with you, shoulder to shoulder, to shed the last drop of my blood for our holy cause!”

  The crowd went wild, and the Richmond Grays lifted their rifles, cheering their leader. Dewitt noticed that Dent frowned at this breach of discipline, and he whispered to Aimes, “The boys will get it for that! Look how mad ol’ Dent is!”

  As Rev. Jeremiah Irons, the chaplain of the Grays, came to pronounce a prayer, Dent looked over the crowd. The men had all pulled their hats off, and suddenly he spotted his father standing with his mother. He frowned quickly, the joy of the event turning sour. When Irons pronounced the amen, the company was dismissed. “There’s a lunch for all heroes at the Dixon House, Dent,” Taylor said, grinning. “Let’s go show how well we can eat!”

  The dining room of the Dixon House was crowded, and the tables were laden with food. Thomas came at once to Dent, saying, “My boy, I am very proud of you!”

  Dent said, “We haven’t done anything yet, sir. But give us time.” He noticed that his own father was holding back, and he asked suddenly, “Did you think the company looked well, sir?”

  “Yes, I did. You’ve all done a fine job.”