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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Lowell listened carefully, then sighed. “I don’t know what to do, sir.” Then he asked, “Would you agree to let me enlist, if that’s what I decide is right?”

  “If you decide it’s the right thing, Lowell,” Clay said, “I guess I wouldn’t stand in your way. But lots of men are signing up just for the thrill of it, some to get out of boring work, others because they’ve been shamed into it. I wouldn’t want to see you go unless you knew it was for a better reason than some we’ve seen.”

  Lowell was thoughtful as they went deeper into the woods, but said no more. Clay didn’t know if what he had said was a help to his son, but he had done his best. They made camp, hobbled the animals, then went hunting. The woods were stiff with game, and Lowell brought down a fat buck with one shot. Lowell’s youthful face was aglow with pleasure, and Clay enjoyed the kill as much as the boy. They dressed the deer, cooked up huge steaks over the fire, then sat back and enjoyed the night, talking until the stars glittered overhead. When they finally rolled into their blankets, Lowell went to sleep at once. Clay lay on his back, watching the opalescent gleam of the stars as they wheeled around in their old dance. Then, after saying a brief prayer, he dropped off to sleep.

  The next day they hunted the ridges all morning, taking small game, but at three o’clock, Clay said, “Let’s go over to Blackwell Peak. Your grandfather might like some fresh bear meat. He was always partial to it.” Lowell had never shot a bear, so he was eager to go. They broke camp, moved across the upper reaches of the Mogolla Mountains, and came to the foot of the Blackwell range late that afternoon. Clay knew the country well, and as they came into a small valley, he said, “Looks like somebody beat us to it, Lowell. But we can move on around to the other side of this ridge.”

  But as they drew near the camp, where a fire was sending a thin line of white smoke almost straight up in the still air, Clay smiled, saying, “Guess we won’t have to move on. It’s Buford Yancy.” As they rode in, he called out, “Don’t shoot, Buford! We’re friendly.”

  Yancy had been squatting at the fire, cooking a chunk of meat in a blackened skillet, and he rose at once, calling out, “Well, dang me, if it ain’t Clay Rocklin! Come and eat, you fellers! How are you, Lowell?” Without waiting for an answer, he commanded, “You, Bobby! Git them animals tied up, will you? Come and set, both of you.”

  Clay and Lowell dismounted at once and went to greet Yancy. “You located some bear sign, Buford?” Clay asked, then looked at the meat. “I see you have.”

  “They’re plum thick this year, Clay.” Yancy grinned. “And bold, too. Won’t even run from you. Feller could hunt ‘em with a good-sized stick.” He looked over his shoulder toward the tent. “Melora! Come outta there and wait on these fellers!”

  Clay looked startled as Melora stepped out of the tent. She emerged with a pleased look on her face. “How are you, Clay? And you, Lowell?”

  She was wearing a pair of worn jeans that had belonged to one of her brothers, a faded blue shirt of Buford’s, and a pair of low, worn boots. She looked trim, her full figure set off to good advantage by the rough clothing. Clay noticed that Lowell spoke briefly, and he felt a pang of regret.

  He’s heard the talk about Melora and me, Clay thought, but said only, “Came to load up on bear meat. Mother says bear fat makes the best soap, and Father likes a bear steak real well.”

  “Too late to go after bear today,” Buford announced. “Bob wants to go for coon after dark. That’s for young folks, fallin’ all over your feet in the dark.”

  “Come along with me, Lowell. We got some good dogs—a new one that can track a coon over runnin’ water.” Bob Yancy, at the age of seventeen, was a carbon copy of his father. He knew Lowell fairly well, though they came from different backgrounds. They’d met at church, and several times Lowell had gone hunting with the Yancys.

  “Sure, Bob,” Lowell agreed. “I promised Dorrie I’d bring her some fresh coon. She can sure cook it good, too. Let’s see that new dog.”

  The young men went off, talking dogs and guns, and Clay sat down, leaning against a tree. He watched as Melora moved around, putting a meal together. The two men spoke quietly, mostly of farming and horses. Finally the meal was ready, and Melora called the younger men to the fire. She served them all fresh bear steaks, sweet potatoes cooked in hot ashes, and black coffee. When the men were served, she fixed a plate for herself and sat on a blanket with her father. As they ate with gusto, Buford asked, “Why does grub taste so much better outdoors than in a house?”

  “Must be fresher, I guess,” Clay ventured.

  “If this meat was any fresher, it’d still be on that ol’ bear!” Bob Yancy said with a grin and spun out the story of how he’d tracked the bear and shot it. When he was finished with that tale, Buford told about a mountain lion he’d shot the previous week. For a long time they sat around the fire, drinking the strong black coffee and listening to the stories. Finally Bob said, “Let’s go for them coons, Lowell,” and the two young men got their guns, whistled up the dogs, then plunged off into the growing darkness.

  Melora cleaned the dishes as Clay and her father spoke of their venture with corn and hogs; then she came back to sit on the blanket again. They talked intermittently, pausing to listen to the dogs, whose howls scored the night with sharp crescendos. Buford nodded when one long, drawn-out note floated to them on the night air. “That’s Bess,” he said. “That dog is death on a cold trail!” Finally he asked, “Whut about this war, Clay? You still agin it?”

  Clay leaned back against the tree, and for some time they talked about the war. Both of them had sons who were vulnerable; in fact, one of the Yancy boys, Lonnie, had already enlisted in the Richmond Grays.

  Melora saw that Clay was weary over it all. She spoke little herself but listened carefully, as always treasuring any time in his presence. She was now twenty-six, ready for marriage and feeling a strong desire for children of her own. But she knew that her love for this tall man sitting across the fire would spoil her for any other man. She had often thought of marrying and had not lacked for suitors. Rev. Jeremiah Irons had long waited for her to turn to him, but Melora knew that she could never bring what she felt for Clay Rocklin to another man. And the thought of concealing her feelings for a lifetime from a husband she could never fully love was repugnant to her. She had called herself a romantic fool often enough, but still, there it was. She could not shake off what she felt for Clay as she would shake off an old garment. She could only choose not to act on her feelings—and this she had done.

  The night wore on, and finally the hounds’ clarion cries grew nearer. Buford, always the hunter, could stand it no longer. Rising and picking up his rifle, he grinned. “Them young fellers don’t know much about coons. I better go give ‘em a hand.”

  He disappeared into the dark shadows, and Melora laughed. “Pa’s never satisfied with anyone’s hunting but his.”

  “Best man in the woods I ever saw,” Clay said. Then he looked across the fire at her. “How have you been, Melora?”

  “All right,” she said, smiling. Drawing up her feet, she rested her chin on her knees and regarded him. “Tell me about everything, Clay.”

  “Big order—everything.”

  “Tell me about what you’ve been doing.”

  “Working, mostly.” He sat there, the firelight playing on his face, speaking slowly of himself. The peacefulness of the night was on him, and in Melora’s presence he relaxed—as he always did. He dropped his head, thinking of all the problems that loomed ahead of them, and then looked up. “Sometimes I wish life were as simple as the stories you used to love, about knights and maidens—where there’s always a happy ending. Seems like in real life, things usually go wrong.”

  “Don’t give up, Clay,” she said instantly. Her eyes were bright as she added, “Think how God has brought you home from all sorts of dangers. He’s given you so much!”

  “You still believe, Melora? With everything coming down around our heads, you still b
elieve that things will work out right?”

  “I think God knows we’re trusting Him, Clay.” Then she murmured, “I love you, Clay. That’s enough for me. You’ve been faithful to Ellen and to God. That’s what’s important.”

  They sat there in silence for a few moments; then a sound made Clay turn. He saw that Lowell had stepped out of the brush and was standing absolutely still, his rifle in his hands. His eyes were filled with hurt, and at once Clay knew that he was thinking of his mother.

  “Lowell—,” he said, but even as he spoke, he saw the hardness form in the boy’s face, so Clay said no more.

  “I came back for more ammunition,” Lowell said, and walking stiff-legged, he moved to his pack, filled his pockets with shells, then gave them one look before half running out of the camp.

  “I’m sorry, Clay,” Melora said.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Clay said, but he knew it would not solve anything. “Better go to bed, Melora.”

  “All right, Clay.”

  The next day Lowell got his bear, two of them just for good measure. But on the way home, there was a wall between the father and son, and nothing Clay could say could break it down.

  Finally they reached the drive to the house, and Clay abruptly pulled his horse to a halt. “Lowell, you’re wrong about Melora and me.” He hesitated, pain on his face, then explained, “Your mother and I—don’t get along. I can’t explain it or defend myself. I wish it were different. But before God, I have never been unfaithful to her with any woman.”

  Lowell sat on his horse, his face frozen. He wanted desperately to believe what he was hearing; he had always liked and respected Melora Yancy. But the sight of his father sitting cozily with the woman by the campfire, looking at her fondly, had pulled down the younger Rocklin’s defenses. He said in a tight voice, “I wish I could believe you. I’d like to. But I can’t.” He clenched his fists over the reins until his fingers were white. “I can’t believe anything anymore, not even what you say about the war. Maybe you’re just a coward! I’m joining up tomorrow, no matter what you say!”

  Clay sat stiffly in the saddle, longing to find some way to convince this boy that he was telling the truth. He loved Lowell, and it seemed as though the boy was about to step off his road into a deep and dangerous chasm.

  A thought came to Clay, which he rejected at first. Then it came back, so strong that he sat there considering it. Lowell, seeing his strange expression, asked, “What is it?”

  “Lowell,” Clay said, speaking slowly as the idea formed within him, “maybe there’s a way.”

  “A way to what?”

  “To show you you’re wrong about me.”

  “It’s too late.” Lowell spurred his horse forward, leaving Clay to look after him. Time ran on, and still he sat there until finally he slapped his thigh, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

  “It’s the only way!” he said aloud; then he touched King with his heels and rode toward the house, wondering if he was right in his intention. But right or wrong, he had decided that it was best to try anything to save this youngest son of his.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE LAST RECRUIT

  Dulcie glared with exasperation at Raimey. “You ain’t going to the ball like that, I hope!”

  Raimey was wearing a new dress of pale blue with a billowing hoop skirt that swept the floor. Graceful swirls of indigo velvet traced their way around the skirt, the dark blue almost an exact match for Raimey’s eyes. The bodice was trimmed with fine lace interwoven with a delicate ribbon that framed the girl’s graceful shoulders.

  “What’s wrong with this dress?” Raimey demanded. She had bought it on a shopping trip with her mother and had put it on by herself while Dulcie was helping Leona dress.

  “What’s wrong is that you ain’t got on your corset!” Dulcie shook her head with disgust and marched over to pick up the garment stiff with whalebone stays. “Now you come out of that dress and put this on right now.”

  “I won’t! I hate that thing, Dulcie.” Raimey shoved the maid’s hands away, stating flatly, “The dress fits me. I don’t need to be squeezed by that stupid thing.”

  Dulcie had to admit that the girl was right, for the dress lay smoothly on Raimey without straining at the seams, but she was adamant. “I don’t care. You’ve got to wear a corset. It ain’t decent to go to a party without one. What will your mama say?”

  “I won’t tell her until we get there, and don’t you tell either.”

  “I will, too!”

  Raimey knew Dulcie very well. “If you don’t tell, you can have my red dress and the petticoat that goes with it.”

  Greed struggled with indignation on Dulcie’s face, for she had long coveted that dress. Finally she said piously, “Well, if you want to go to that party looking like a hussy and if you want to deceive your poor mama, I guess I can’t stop you.”

  “I knew all the time you’d say that, Dulcie.” A smile came to Raimey’s face, and she said, “Now do my hair—and get some of that perfume that Leona uses.”

  Grumbling under her breath, Dulcie picked up a comb and began to coax Raimey’s thick curls into order. As she worked on the lustrous hair, she talked constantly. “What about that young Rhett boy? Is he going to marry with Miss Leona? That other man, the tall captain who’s been chasing after her, he’s better looking, but he ain’t got no money. Now I think Miss Leona better …”

  As Dulcie rattled on, Raimey sat impatiently, anxious to be gone. It was the Presidential Ball, in honor of the Davises, and she and Leona had talked of little else for a week. After their visit with the Franklins, the two sisters had come back to Richmond and found that everyone was certain the army would be called to march into battle at any moment. The ball had been scheduled for the middle of July, but Varina Davis had persuaded her husband to set the time for the twelfth so that the officers would be sure to be in the city.

  The visit with the Franklins had been, for Raimey, a splendid time. She had liked the Franklins, especially Amy, who was a cheerful woman, always happy to spend time with her young guests. She liked their daughter, Rachel, too, who was a beauty according to all she heard. The boys, Grant and Les, as expected, fell half in love with Leona—but then, all the men did.

  But it was her visit to Dent’s home, Gracefield, that had been the high point of the week’s visit. Dent’s mother, Ellen, had not been there, but his grandmother, Susanna Rocklin, had been delightful. Raimey had liked Clay Rocklin, Dent’s father, very much. He had been careful to spend time with her, and even from that brief visit, Raimey could sense the goodness of the man.

  Dent was there, of course, and he took the two girls all over the plantation. More often than not, however, Leona preferred to stay in the house, so Raimey went alone with Dent. He took her to the slave quarters and to the blacksmith’s shop, where an elderly slave named Box made her a ring out of a nail. She had rubbed the velvet noses of the horses in the pasture, sat beside the duck pond listening to the endless gabble of the ducks, and run her hands over the glossy sides of the wild-eyed new colt.

  Once she said to Dent, “I’m taking too much of your time,” but he had said, “Raimey, I’m the most selfish fellow you ever met. If I’m spending a lot of time with you, it’s because I want to.”

  They had been sitting in a sequestered nook set off by grapevines now thick with leaves, underneath a huge oak that dipped low over the pond. The afternoon sun had dropped halfway behind the distant hills, shedding golden rays that turned the pond crimson. Dent described some ducks that were making their way across the pond, saying, “They look like a small armada with feathers!” and the description had delighted Raimey.

  The two young people were drinking tea and resting after a brisk walk to the pond. Raimey turned her face to the man at her side and asked suddenly, “Why aren’t you chasing after Leona, Dent? She’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and the two of you surely agree about the war. I believe you could make her fall in love with you if you tried.”
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  “Too much competition,” Dent said with a smile. He sat there, sipping from his tall glass, studying Raimey. Indeed, he was puzzled at his own behavior, for he himself had thought how strange it was that he was not drawn to Leona Reed. Always he had been drawn to the most beautiful girl at hand, but he found that he merely liked Leona in a cheerful way.

  “No, that’s not so,” Raimey said. “You’re the sort of man who likes competition.” Her lips were pursed in a delightful way, and he had become accustomed to the fact that the blue eyes never focused on him. “I think you’re still in love with that cousin of yours, Deborah Steele.”

  A frown touched Dent’s brow, and he demanded, “Who told you about her?” Then he shook his head, half angry at her. “This whole county’s a gossip mill!”

  “You were in love with her, weren’t you? Everybody says so.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” The coldness of his tone made him ashamed, so after a moment he added, “I don’t know, Raimey. Deborah’s a fine girl, but she’s for the Union. Why, she’s a rabid abolitionist! The two of us would eat each other alive!”

  Raimey, he saw, was considering his words, which made him rather nervous, for she had an uncanny ability to sift through what he said and arrive at the thoughts his words covered. Now she said slowly, “I’m sorry, Dent. It must be hard to lose someone you care for.”

  Dent stared at her with a mixture of exasperation and amazement. “You know too much, Raimey,” he said with a wry smile. “The man you marry won’t have a secret in the world!”

  “I’ll never marry.”

  Her statement brought Dent’s head up sharply. “Of course you will!”

  “No.” Her voice was inexorable as she added, “A blind wife would be too much to put on any man.”

  She had spoken quietly, and he had found no answer.

  Dent never knew how to speak of Raimey’s infirmity. She was matter-of-fact about it, but he could not be. It made him feel awkward.