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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Clay watched numbly as the doctor examined the wounds. He was praying silently and did not know that he was crying. Lowell, pale as a sheet, came to stand beside Clay while Waco and Bob stood slightly back. “Kind of a family affair,” Waco murmured to Bob Yancy. “Sure hope that young fellow makes it.”

  After what seemed like a long time, Carter came to stand beside Clay and Lowell. “Two bad wounds,” he said abruptly. “May lose that arm and may lose his eye.”

  “Don’t take the arm!” Clay said instantly. “I’m believing God will heal it.”

  Dr. Carter knew the Rocklins well. He practiced in Richmond and knew the history of the trouble between Clay and his son. He had spoken harshly of Clay when he’d heard of the stand Clay had made against the war, but now he stood there, his eyes thoughtful. Finally he said, “I’ll leave it on—but he may lose it later. I think the eye is all right if the muscles aren’t cut.”

  “Do your best, Dr. Carter,” Lowell pleaded.

  “Certainly, but—”

  Clay saw that something else was troubling Carter. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well, I sewed up his face, but it’s a terrible wound, Clay. Going to leave a frightful scar. Nothing more to be done, though.” He turned away, saying, “I’ll do my best on the arm.”

  Waco came to Clay’s side, stood there for a moment, then said, “I guess Bob and me better get back, Clay. You and Lowell stay here until you find out about the lieutenant.”

  “Thanks, Waco—for everything.”

  As Yancy and the sergeant moved away, the younger man said, “Shore hope he makes it, Waco. I’ve knowed the Rocklins since Hector was a pup.” He chewed thoughtfully on his plug of tobacco, then added, “Mr. Dent, he was always the finest-looking feller in the county. Had his pick of all the good-looking girls. But I guess he won’t be so free to pick anymore—not with a face like he’s likely to wind up with.”

  Waco shook his head. “He’s alive, Bob. That’s more than some of the boys can say. I guess he’d rather be alive with his face cut up than still be handsome and dead.”

  Bob Yancy said only, “I dunno about that, Sarge. When a fellow’s got something, he don’t think about it much. But when he loses it, it can take the sap out of him. I seen that a lot, ain’t you?” Waco disagreed, and the two of them argued about it as they made their way back to the company.

  Clay and Lowell waited until Dr. Carter finished, then carried Dent’s still form out of the tent. “I used a lot of chloroform on him,” Carter said as they left. “Did the best I could with the arm. Keep it tied up tight; don’t let him move it.”

  The day ran down, and at about eight o’clock Taylor Dewitt came to stand beside the Rocklin men. His face was gray with fatigue and strain as he asked, “How is he, Clay?” When he got the report, he nodded briefly. “We’ve got a lot of wounded men and plenty of prisoners. Take four men from the company and take charge of the detail.”

  “Ought to be Sergeant Mattson, I would think,” Clay offered.

  “He’s dead,” Taylor said briefly. Then he lifted his eyes and studied Clay. “You’re a sergeant now. Need some kind of authority, and Waco says you’re the man.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you do it?”

  Clay nodded. “All right. I guess Lowell and Bob Yancy will do, and Leo Deforest.”

  “I’ll send them here right away. Dr. Carter wants to get these wounded men to a hospital as quick as he can.” He looked down at the still form of Dent Rocklin, then back to Clay. “That was pretty good, Clay, that ride up the hill. Colonel Benton said he was going to mention you in the report. You might even get a medal.”

  “I guess Dent deserves one more than I do, Captain.” Clay stood there, his eyes thoughtful. “Like the men who died on that hill … but they won’t get any medals.”

  “No, they won’t.” Taylor nodded. He saw that Clay knew the charge had been foolish, a waste of lives, but said only, “Take them to Richmond, Sergeant. Report to me when you get back.”

  Clay went back and sat down on the grass beside Lowell. The two of them had said little, but now Lowell began to talk. “I know you joined the army just to look out after me, sir.” He broke off, unable to say what he felt. The night was dark, with few stars in the sky, but Lowell could see his brother’s face swathed in white bandages and said, “I think it was for Dent’s sake, too. If you hadn’t led us up that hill, he’d probably be dead now. So it’s a good thing we came, don’t you think?”

  Clay knew the boy had been scarred by the death and terror of the day, that he was looking for his father to give some kind of an answer that would put the puzzle together for him. He sat there, thinking of what had happened, and finally said, “We’re sort of blind down here, Lowell. Most of the time we can’t see where we are, we don’t know why we’ve done what’s in the past, and we can’t even guess what’s ahead. Lots of people take a look at life and give up. They just live and never ask why things are like they are. But I trust you’re not one of that kind, for that’s foolish.”

  The night air was hot, and Dent suddenly stirred, moving his legs and making a small sound. At once, Clay dipped a cloth into the pan of water beside him and bathed the fevered face. He waited silently until the wounded man lay quietly on the blanket, then sat back and looked across at his son.

  “Lowell, God is in everything. We’re looking at things from a pretty narrow point of view, but God knows all about us. Something happens that we think is bad, and we think God’s gone to sleep or that He doesn’t care. But He does care. That’s why He made us, son, because He’s a God of love. And even our pain, that’s got something to do with God, with what He’s trying to make of us.” He took a sudden deep breath and added gently, “Guess you didn’t ask for a sermon, but all I can say, Lowell, is that I believe that our God knows about me and you and Dent. He’s working on us. And we’re so blind and hard, sometimes He has to use some pretty tough means to get us straightened out. But I believe God will help us through all this. Do you believe that?”

  Lowell nodded slowly, then said, “I do now. I guess I’ve been pretty careless with my life. But this war, it makes a man see things different—you know, what matters and what doesn’t. Charging up that hill, I learned more about how good life is than I’ve ever learned up until then.”

  They sat there, speaking quietly, until Lowell finally lay back and went to sleep. Clay kept vigil all night, dozing off from time to time but coming awake instantly whenever the wounded man moaned.

  Just before dawn, Dent awoke. He tried to cry out and ask for water. Clay held his head up and gave him sips of tepid water. It was hard, for Dent could not move his lips because of the stitches in his cheek.

  Finally he peered at Clay through his right eye and whispered, “What—what’s wrong with me?”

  “You took a couple of pretty bad wounds, son,” Clay said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”

  Dent was still foggy from the chloroform and lay there trying to think. Finally he asked, “Where am I hurt? In the head?”

  “Yes, and don’t touch the bandage. A bad cut on the cheek, another on your arm.”

  Dent turned his head and considered the shadowy figure beside him. “Who is this?”

  “Your father, son.”

  Dent grew still, then asked, “Was it you who came up the hill to help us?”

  Clay said, “I’ll tell you about it later. Take some more water and try to rest.” He gave the thirsty man another drink, and almost at once Dent dropped off to sleep. Thirty minutes later, the sun shattered the ebony darkness, lighting up the east, and Clay Rocklin got up to meet the day, knowing that the way ahead was not going to be easy.

  It’s just starting, he thought as he watched Dent’s face in the pale light. But we’ll make it, Lord. You’ve got to bring us through—because no man can win out in this thing if You don’t stand beside him!

  CHAPTER 17

  THE PRISONERS

  Who are those troops? They’re going the wrong w
ay; the battle is ahead, isn’t it?”

  Deborah Steele turned, pulled abruptly out of her thoughts by the words of Matthew Pillow. Pillow, a congressman from her district and a friend of the family, had pulled the buggy off the road with a jolt just in time to avoid a collision with a wagonload of Federal soldiers. The driver was whipping the horses up, and soldiers were stumbling along in the wake of the wagon, trying to keep up. Many of them looked over their shoulders fearfully as they moved down the road toward Washington.

  Pillow, a large man with a full beard and a foghorn voice, called out, “Here now, what’s happening?”

  The soldier sitting in the rear of the wagon lifted his head and called wildly, “Get back! The Rebs is coming—Black Horse Cavalry!”

  Mrs. Pillow grabbed her husband’s arm fearfully. “He can’t be right, can he, Matthew?”

  Pillow stared at the soldiers who came along the road in an ever-increasing stream, none of them carrying muskets, and shook his head. “I don’t believe it! Let’s go on a little and try to find an officer.”

  As he pulled the buggy back onto the road, Deborah sat up straighter. She’d been invited by Helen Pillow, the daughter of the congressman, to come and witness the battle. Helen, a tall, plain girl of twenty, had been excited. “You’ve just got to come with us, Deborah! We’ll get to see a real battle—and after our men whip the Rebels, there’s going to be a victory dance at Fairfax Courthouse! Isn’t it exciting? You must come, Deborah. We’ve got the picnic lunch and plenty of room. Lots of the congressmen are going out to see the battle.”

  Deborah had agreed, but as they drove down the road—which was growing more and more filled with soldiers who were obviously fleeing—she knew that the easy victory the North had been expecting was not going to happen. Pillow was a stubborn man, however, and kept driving the buggy down the road, dodging to avoid wagons and even a twelve-pound Napoleon howitzer that rumbled along, pulled by heaving white-eyed horses.

  An hour later Pillow pulled up, his face pale and perspiring. “I don’t know about this, Helen,” he gasped. “Something’s gone wrong!”

  At the moment he spoke, the bridge he’d just managed to get across, despite heavy traffic, was hit with a Confederate shell. It blew one side of the bridge to splinters, killing two horses that were pulling a wagon and blowing men into the creek below.

  At the same time, a lone rider, an officer on a sweaty-flanked black horse, came around a bend. He pulled his mount up abruptly when he saw the confusion at the bridge.

  “Captain!” Pillow shouted, waving his arms. “What’s happening? Where’s our army?”

  The captain gave him a sour look. He was a short, muscular man with a pair of muddy brown eyes. His mouth twisted with rage as he shouted, “Our army? Probably either dead or on their way to Richmond. Get your women out of here, man! The whole Rebel army is on its way!” He drove his horse toward the creek, forded the swift stream, then rode off at full speed.

  “Matthew!” Mrs. Pillow screamed, “We’ve got to go back!”

  Pillow nodded, his face ashen. Seeing that the bridge was going to be a bottleneck, he drove his team downstream and put them across, despite their reluctance. As the wagon bucked and plunged over the rough stones of the creek bottom, the lunch basket fell out, but no one noticed. It landed upside down, and the sandwiches came out and began to float downstream. A huge loggerhead snapping turtle, as big around as a washtub, rose slowly to the surface, opened his frightful jaws, and clamped down on a cucumber sandwich. Not forty feet away, men were raging and fighting to get over the ruined bridge, but the snapping turtle paid no heed. He closed his jaws, his wise old eyes yellow in the sun, then dropped back down to the ooze of the creek bottom.

  When Congressman Pillow let Deborah out at her home, she went to her mother and told her what had happened. The two of them soon found that Washington was ablaze with rumors about the battle. All day long the stragglers of the army came stumbling back to Washington, and Abraham Lincoln and General Scott made plans for a last defense of the city—they even went so far as to order the state papers to be loaded so that the capitol might be moved to another city.

  For two days the tension hung on, most citizens expecting the Rebel army to come charging into the city at any moment. Deborah and her family worried about Pat, and finally Gideon came to see them. Deborah and her father sat there wordlessly as he told of the defeat. “It could have gone the other way,” Gideon said bitterly. “If we’d hit them hard the first day, we’d have sent them reeling, but McDowell’s no fighter. He’s finished as a general, and that’s a good thing!”

  “Do you think the Rebels will attack?” Amos asked.

  “No, they took lots of punishment,” Gideon said. “But they won the battle, Amos. Now maybe people will stop that silly talk about a short war. Maybe they will finally see that the Confederates are tough—they’re fighting for their homes, and they’re not going to quit.”

  “What about Pat, Uncle Gideon?” Deborah asked. “Is he all right?”

  Gideon bit his lower lip. “I hope so, Deborah. I didn’t see him after the Confederates made their big push and drove us back. But one of the men in his company, a man named Jim Freeman, knew Pat was my nephew, so he came to me and told me … that Pat was captured.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Amos asked tightly.

  “Pat’s platoon was in a hot fight, and they got overrun by the Rebels’ charge. Freeman was off to one side when they hit, so he ducked into a ditch and hid. He said that Pat took a bullet in the arm, but it wasn’t a serious hit. His platoon was just overrun—and had to surrender.”

  “Did he mention Noel Kojak, Uncle Gideon?”

  Gideon had been dreading the question. He faced Deborah, saying reluctantly, “It’s bad news, Deborah. Freeman said that Kojak fought to the last, but he was shot down by one of the Confederate lieutenants. Freeman had to get away quick, so he didn’t know how badly Noel was hit.”

  Deborah’s face was pale. “It’s my fault. I was the one who talked him into enlisting!”

  Gideon shook his head, and his voice was kind as he answered, “You can’t take the blame, Deborah. The boy was a good soldier—the best in his company, his captain said. And he may be all right. If he was wounded, he’ll be taken to a hospital in Richmond. I’ll find out about him and Pat as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Gideon,” Deborah said evenly. She sat there quietly while the two men talked, but a heaviness such as she’d never known had come to her. She had not known until this moment how fond of Noel Kojak she’d become, and her heart broke as she pictured him dead on the field of battle, buried in a shallow grave.

  Noel Kojak was not, however, in a shallow grave. Even as Gideon Rocklin was telling Deborah and her father the bad news, Noel was being jolted along in a wagon, half conscious and racked with pain. But he was alive.

  He had first been taken to the same field hospital where Dent Rocklin, the man who had put the bullet in his side, was lying. A rough surgeon had looked at the wound and shaken his head, saying, “Too close to the spine. Can’t do anything for him.” Noel had been put on the ground with other wounded Federal soldiers and passed the night in delirium. The next morning he had awakened and found Pat beside him, his arm in a sling.

  “Hey, Noel!” Pat said when he saw the young man’s eyes open. “How are you?”

  Noel opened his mouth to answer, but as he shifted his body, an explosion of pain blossomed in his side, and he could only gasp. He lay there until the sheets of pain ebbed, then whispered, “Where are we, Pat?”

  “Prisoners,” Pat said, shrugging. He looked carefully at Noel’s face, not liking what he saw. “There’s some soup left. I’ll get you some.”

  “Just—water,” Noel croaked, suddenly aware of a raging thirst. He gulped frantically at the tepid water Pat gave him from a dipper, then lay back, the world spinning. He tried to speak, but he was slipping back into a deep, black hole with no bottom.

  Pat cove
red him up, knowing Noel had a fever, then sat there despondently. The doctors had worked all night and were still working. They had no time for anyone except the worst cases, so there was nothing to do but wait. All morning he sat there, giving Noel a sip of water from time to time, keeping the blanket over him.

  At noon several wagons pulled up and began loading the wounded. A strong-looking Confederate in his forties came down the line of wounded. The Confederate wounded had been taken earlier. Now, as the leader of the detail came down the line, Pat struggled to his feet. He saw that many of the wounded would have to be left and said, “Please, take my friend!”

  The Confederate stopped and looked down at Noel. “He hit bad? Can’t take any dying men, soldier. Only those with a chance.”

  Pat said quickly, “He’s got a bullet in him, but if he can get to a hospital, they’ll take it out and he’ll be all right.”

  “Well …” The sergeant hesitated; then something in Noel’s face seemed to touch him. “All right. But we can’t take you in the wagon.”

  “I can walk,” Pat said at once. “I’ll take care of him.” Then he said, “God bless you, sir!”

  Clay Rocklin gave him a quick look. “You’re a Christian?”

  “Yes. Not much of one, I guess,” Pat said. He watched as the Rebels loaded Noel into the wagon with the other wounded, then waited until the train pulled out.

  All afternoon Pat trudged along, several times almost ready to faint, but the pace was slow and there were frequent breaks. When they pulled into a grove of trees near a creek to camp for the night, Pat almost collapsed. He lay on the ground while the guards cut wood for a fire, then went to sleep while supper was being cooked. He came awake when a hand touched his shoulder and a voice said, “Better come and get some of this grub, son.”

  Pat opened his eyes with a sense of alarm, not sure where he was. Then he glanced around and saw the ground covered with the wounded—and it all came back to him. The smell of bacon and coffee hit him like a blow and was followed quickly by sharp hunger pangs. He struggled to his feet. “Your friend is over here,” Clay said, and he led Pat to where Noel lay. Pat knelt down and saw that Noel’s fever was high.