They found a place to eat, across from Colonel Benton and Rev. Irons. Benton said, “This son of yours is a slave driver, Clay! The Yankees can’t be any tougher than he is!” A laugh went around the table, and Benton added, “Thomas, you ought to join my staff.”
“I’m a little old for that, James! Besides, all I know how to do is raise cotton. You can’t fight the Yankees with a cotton stalk!”
The colonel joined in the laugh but said, “Why, you’re no older than I am, or Captain Coldfax! As for that, the captain is the only officer we have with battle experience. I wish we had more like him.”
Suddenly a man in civilian clothes, a tall, dark, lean individual, spoke up. “Well, what about your son, Mr. Rocklin? He’s had military experience, I understand.”
The remark brought an end to the ease of the dinner. The speaker, whose name was Rafe Longley, was a close friend of Jake Slocum. He seemed to enjoy the discomfort he had created, and he added, “Of course, your service wasn’t of high quality, Mr. Rocklin—but perhaps you’ve matured a little since those days.”
Clay sat there pressing his feet against the floor. Longley was insulting him publicly, daring him to take up the insult. And there was a desire to do just that. But he suddenly caught the steady gaze of Jeremiah Irons, who shook his head very slightly. He had told Clay earlier, “You’re a sitting duck, Clay. As long as you don’t join in with the crowd, somebody’s going to take his shots at you. And if you fight them, you’ve dug your own grave.”
Carefully Clay said, “I’m not proud of that time, Mr. Longley. What I did in Mexico was dishonorable. It certainly wouldn’t qualify me to serve with these brave young men in the Richmond Grays!”
It was the right answer, and Colonel Benton said instantly, “It takes a strong man to face up to his mistakes. We’ve all made them, and I for one have been happy to see Clay Rocklin come back and make amends as best he can!”
The moment passed, but Thomas noticed that Clay ate almost nothing. Afterward, the three of them walked out of the hotel together. They found the women waiting beside the carriage, and when they got there, Susanna asked, “Was it a nice dinner, Tom?”
But Thomas had no time to answer, for Denton took an aggressive stance facing his father. His face was pale, but his voice was clear as he said, “How much longer are you going to keep this up, may I ask?”
Clay looked at his son and made no pretense of misunderstanding him. “I know I’m an embarrassment to you, Dent. But you’ll have to give me a little time.”
“Time for what?” Dent asked sharply, his lips thin against his teeth. “Don’t you know all our friends and half of Richmond are watching you? Do you have any idea what they are saying?”
“Probably that I’m either a coward or a traitor,” Clay said evenly. “But I can’t let public opinion force me to make my decisions. I would be a coward if I let that happen.”
“Dent, don’t make a scene!” Ellen snapped. “Haven’t you learned yet that your father’s a weak man? Don’t count on him for help!”
Thomas said at once, “Stop this! I won’t have it! It’s unseemly and undignified. Dent, if you have anything to take up with your father, this is no place to do it. We have a home, and you well know where it is. Come along and we’ll talk this out in private.”
But his words did not touch Dent. Standing straight as a ramrod, he said, “Sir, I apologize to you—but to you, sir,” he said evenly to Clay, “I have nothing at all to say. Except that it was a sorry day for the Rocklin family when you came back!”
He turned and left, leaving the family staring after him. “He’ll get over it, Clay,” Susanna said quickly, taking his arm.
“No, I don’t think he will,” Clay said, his eyes brooding. “Even if I join the Confederate Army and kill a thousand Yankees, Dent will never get over it.”
“Let’s go home,” Susanna whispered, and they got into the carriage and drove through the streets of Richmond. The sound of the band music playing floated on the air, and cheers rose as they left the city.
Clay knew at once that something was wrong. He was helping Box shoe his horse when David, Dent’s twin, came walking into the blacksmith shop, his face pale. At once Clay said, “I’ll finish this job, Box. Why don’t you go get some of the cool buttermilk Dorrie keeps in the springhouse. Bring me some, too.”
“Yas, Marse Clay.” Box could read faces as well as his master, or better. He’d been reading Rocklin faces before Clay was born, and he knew trouble when he saw it. Going to the kitchen, he said, “Trouble.” When Dorrie stared at him, he shook his head. “Gimme some buttermilk!”
Clay asked, “What’s wrong, David?” This boy was the bookish Rocklin, the thoughtful one. Identical to Dent in appearance, he was almost the opposite in his ways. He was easygoing, but because he accepted Dent’s leadership, he had not allowed Clay to come close to him.
He stood there, unable to find a way to say what had brought him to the blacksmith shop. He fumbled with the button on his shirt, as he always did when he was nervous, and finally said, “Sir, I—I don’t know how to tell you!”
“It’s never easy to give someone bad news, David. The easiest way is just to speak it out.”
Still the young man faltered. Finally he swallowed hard, then said, “It’s about—Melora Yancy.”
Shock ran along Clay’s nerves, but he let nothing show on his face. “What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”
“N–no, sir, not sick. But I’m afraid that Mother …” He paused and had a wretched look on his face. Clay saw that he was tremendously embarrassed. Taking a deep breath, David said, “Mother got the idea that—that you were having some sort of affair with the young woman.”
“David, I want you to know that’s not so,” Clay said evenly.
David gave him an astonished stare. “Is that the truth, sir?”
“With God as my witness, there’s nothing between us.”
David bit his lip. “That—makes what Mother did even worse!”
“What’s happened? Tell me.”
“Mother got to drinking, I’m afraid. And she went to the store where Miss Yancy works. She cursed her out in front of the customers, called her awful names, and then she started slapping her. Mr. Hardee pulled her off her and brought her home.” David closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of what he had witnessed. “The servants had to carry Mother into the house.”
Clay stood there until the anger that had blazed up in him ebbed. He was aware that David was watching him carefully, waiting for him to speak, to act. “Thanks for coming to tell me, David. Better to hear it from your own.” He saw a new light come to his son’s eyes and added, “Your mother is a bitter woman, son. We’ll have to be patient with her.”
David’s only thought until that moment was that his father hated his mother. Now he saw grief in the dark eyes that regarded him, but no hatred. “Yes, sir. Can—can I do anything?”
Clay said, “I’m going to ride over to the Yancys, David. Buford Yancy’s been a good friend to me. I want to look them all in the eye and tell them your mother was mistaken. I’ll make her apologies. Later your mother and I will talk.”
“Yes, sir, that would be best.” David hesitated; then he said slowly, “I’m sorry this happened, sir—but one good thing has come of it.”
“What’s that, David?”
“Well, sir—I’ve been wrong.” David dropped his eyes and twisted the button. “I’ve never given you a chance, not since you came back. I’m sorry for that!”
Clay’s eyes lit up, and he did what he would not have dared to do before. He put his arm around David’s shoulder, saying, “That means more to me than anything in the world, David!” Then he saw that the boy was shy, and so he said, “I’ll talk with you when I get back.”
“Yes, sir!”
Clay rode the black horse hard, and it was almost dusk when he got to Hardee’s Store. He swung out of the saddle, tied the sweating horse to the rail, and went into the store. Ly
le Hardee was behind the counter, along with his wife, Sarah. Lyle peered at Clay over his silver-rimmed glasses and said in the flat Yankee twang, “Mr. Rocklin, I wish you’d leave my store.”
Clay stopped, studied the pair, then said, “I apologize for my wife. She’d been drinking, I understand. What she said was wrong, and what she did was wrong. There’s no finer girl on this planet than Melora Yancy, and I’m on my way to speak to her family right now. I thought she might still be here.”
Hardee stared at him. He had been as angry when Ellen Rocklin had abused Melora as he had ever been in his life—but he saw the naked pain in Clay’s eyes and revised his opinion of the man. “Maybe I was a bit hasty, sir,” he said. “I don’t like to lose my temper, and your wife made me do just that. However, I can see you’re as upset about this as I am … probably more so.
Well, Melora left twenty minutes ago, walking.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hardee,” Clay said, then left the store. He mounted the black but went at a slower pace. Before long he saw her walking along the side of the road, and as he drew near, she turned and stopped to wait for him. As he dismounted he saw the scratches Ellen had left on her cheeks and fought down the rage that came to him.
“I thought you’d come,” she said.
“I’m going to talk to your father,” he said quietly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She was wearing a simple gray dress and a thin cotton jacket. Her hair was blown by the late breeze, and she tucked a curl in, adding, “It makes things hard for you, Clay.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He stood there in the failing light, looking at her face. He dropped the reins of the black, knowing that the animal was too tired to run away. “Let me walk with you,” he said.
“All right.” They began to walk, and for a time neither of them spoke. Overhead the purple martins performed their acrobatics, and from the woods came the sudden barking of a dog. The air was cool, and from the distant range of mountains, a line of light seemed to grow.
Finally he said, “Melora, I have to tell you something.”
She stopped and looked up at him, her green eyes wide. “I know, Clay.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” A smile touched her lips, and she reached up and touched his cheek gently. “You’re going to tell me that we can’t see each other.”
Clay set his teeth, his jaw clenched. Nodding, he whispered, “I can’t bring more shame on you, Melora. And I have a family.”
Dropping her head, she turned to look toward the distant mountains. Everything was still, except for the cry of a bird who made it back to her nest just in time, before the darkness caught her.
Melora said, “It’s getting dark, Clay. But after a while, the sun will come up again, and it’ll be a new morning. That’s God’s way, I like to think. Darkness and cold—and then the first streaks of light in the dawn. And soon the darkness disappears and the world is bright again.”
He knew she was telling him to be patient, and he suddenly wanted very much to believe her.
“Do you believe that, Melora? That despite all that’s happened—and all the darkness that lies in front of us—that somehow we’ll see the sun again?”
Melora nodded, whispering, “Yes, Clay. I believe it with all my heart! I don’t know how, but God will bring us through all this.”
“Then—I’ll believe it, too, my dear!” He hesitated, then slowly and with great care leaned down and kissed her lips. They were warm and soft, like a child’s lips.
“That was good-bye, wasn’t it, Clay?” Melora said evenly.
“Until the sun comes up again,” Clay answered simply.
Melora nodded; then she said, “Well, we’re not going to have a funeral service! Come on, Mister Clay! I want to read you some of my scribblings! Come on now.”
Melora laughed, and Clay smiled. “All right. Let’s see if you can stay on this horse behind me. I never could abide a woman who couldn’t ride!”
He mounted, and using the stirrup, she swung up behind him. “Here we are, the knight and his lady!” she said. “Remember those stories, Mister Clay?”
Clay Rocklin felt strangely happy. Nothing had changed outwardly, but the spirit of this woman had lifted him.
“Dragons, you all look out!” he called, then kicked the horse in the ribs. Melora clung to him, and a red-eyed possum scurried out of the way as the black horse trotted down the road in the moonlight.
GATE OF HIS ENEMIES
PART ONE
Washington
CHAPTER 1
MR. PRESIDENT
Washington was dark as Deborah Steele walked slowly down the street that led to her home. The clock in the belfry of the Congregational church her father pastored sounded out nine times, but the voice of the bronze bell seemed muffled by the darkness and the fog that enveloped the city like a thick mantle.
Deborah was tired. The news of the fall of Fort Sumter in South Carolina had brought a heaviness to her—as it had to Washington and the North. Some of her fellow abolitionists were celebrating the event, rejoicing that at last a blow could be struck that would set the slaves free. Most felt it would be an easy matter: Send a few of our fine Northern troops down and teach the Rebels a lesson! Won’t take thirty days—then we’ll have a land free from the awful bondage of slavery!
Somehow Deborah had sensed that the war would not be like that, and a heaviness had quenched her lively spirit. Though the April night was not cold, the dampness of the air and the thick canopy of fog sent a shudder through her. Finally she reached the walk that led to her home and paused for a moment, gazing into the darkness, remembering.
It wasn’t that long ago, only a few nights, that she had come home on a night very much like this one—and a man had moved toward her out of the shadows, calling her name.
Deborah remembered how the sudden appearance of the man had sent a startling fear through her. Washington, since the fall of Sumter, had been filled with crowds drinking and celebrating the beginning of the war. Deborah knew there had been several nasty incidents.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she had demanded. The reply had astounded her.
“It’s me, Deborah—Dent Rocklin!”
As she relived that moment, Deborah closed her eyes, feeling once again the shock that had rolled over her. Dent had moved toward her, telling her that he’d had to come, had to talk with her. Even in the murky darkness broken by a pale yellow gleam from the streetlamp, she had been able to see the tension in his lean face. He was the best-looking man she had ever known—tall, lean, with the blackest hair possible and strongly formed features.
That night, though, he had looked worn and tired. She had wanted so much to reach out to him … but had known she must not.
Deborah moved restlessly. She did not want to remember any more. Passing a trembling hand over her eyes, she wished things could have been different. But it had seemed, from their very first meeting, as though Deborah and Denton had been destined to fall in love.
She remembered vividly every detail of her visit with her uncle Gideon’s family, of her time in Richmond and at Gracefield, the Rocklin family home just outside of that city. She clearly recalled how startled she had been by the powerful attraction that had sparked between Dent and herself. Even the fact that Dent was a fiery advocate of slavery and secession while she had been active as an abolitionist hadn’t weakened that attraction. There had been some violent arguments between them, and finally, to avoid the strong feelings that Dent was creating in her own heart, Deborah had fled back to her home in Washington.
In a scene that could still tear her to pieces, she had said, “You’ll forget me, Dent—and I’ll have to forget you!”
She had left then and come home. Once back with her family, surrounded by all that was familiar and safe, she had been sure that was the end of her encounter with Dent Rocklin.
Then, a few nights ago, he had shown up, right here by the gate in front of her home.
She had sc
olded him, telling him he should not have come.
“I know that,” he had said wearily. Looking at him, Deborah had noted that he was changed somehow. He had lost his lighthearted air. Then he had spoken the words that struck her heart a fierce blow. “Deborah, I’m in the Confederate Army.”
Deborah breathed deeply, struggling with the tears that suddenly threatened to overcome her. The Confederate Army. Dent was in the Confederate Army. How could she love a man who would be fighting to destroy everything she believed in?
She had sent Dent away that night, but not before he had grasped her arms and leaned down, his eyes fierce. She could still hear his words ringing in her ears.
“Now you can tell me it’ll never work. Tell me 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 be together. Go on!”
Trembling in his grasp, Deborah had answered, “It’s all true! Everything you say is true!”
“I know it is, Deborah. But I know one thing more. Something you’ve overlooked.”
“What—”
And then he had pulled her close and kissed her, cutting off her words—and filling her with the same stirring that had shaken her back in Virginia. Despite herself, Deborah had responded to Dent’s caress.
When he had finally lifted his head, he had held her close, whispering, “That’s what you’ve forgotten, Deborah!”
Everything within her had longed to say, “I love you, Dent! We’ll make it somehow!”
But she could not. The obstacles were too overwhelming. There was more than just their love at stake. There was her family—parents, brothers, and all the others—and all that she had worked for, including the freedom of the slaves.
She had told him that, told him she could never turn her back on her family, told him that there were all kinds of love … and sometimes one kind of love works against another.
She had known Dent had wanted to take her in his arms again, but he had not. Instead he spoke to her simply with a great determination.
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 34
