He watched Chantel. She was sitting gracefully, her face upturned, her legs tucked trimly under her. Her face was dimly lit, and her profile was stunning, with her wide dark eyes and straight nose and generous mouth.
She turned to him, her expression curious but with a trace of pity there that pierced Clay’s heart. “Is that your life, Clay? Is that what it’s been, gambling and saloons?”
He dropped his eyes. “Guess so. Told you I was wicked.” He was uncomfortable, so he asked quickly, “So what about your life, Chantel, before you saved Jacob and he became your grandpere?”
She picked at her breeches. “When I was little, life was good, with ma mere and ma pere. But then he died, and ma mere”—she swallowed hard—“she married a man. A very bad man.”
“Your stepfather,” Clay murmured. “So he was not good to you.”
“Not good at all, him,” she said vehemently, and then she drooped a little and said so quietly that Clay could barely hear her, “And then ma mere died. And I had to run away.”
“Oh Chantel,” Clay sighed. “No one should have to go through what you’ve been through. Especially a wonderful, lovely, giving woman like you.”
“Do—do you really think I am lovely?” she asked shyly. “I think I look like an ugly boy, me.”
“No, no,” he said. On impulse he put his arm around her, and she moved closer to him. “You try to look like an ugly boy, Chantel, and now I think I understand why. But you aren’t, and you never could be. I think that you may be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Inside and outside.”
She listened to him, so closely, her eyes burning on his face, so eager she was to hear this reassurance. A slight breeze stirred her heavy, glossy hair, and Clay smoothed it back then caressed her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. He leaned closer, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was soft, not at all demanding. He merely touched his mouth to hers gently, as if he were tasting her.
Chantel closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and she touched his face. Before he even realized what he was doing, he pulled her to him and kissed her again, with more urgency. For long moments she surrendered to him, her body soft and pliant beneath his hands.
But suddenly she stiffened, her eyelids flew open, and she pushed him away. “What—what are you doing, Clay?” she said with abrupt shock. “Stop it!”
“Chantel, please,“ he said gutturally, trying to pull her close again, so deeply was he filled with her sweet scent, the warmth and softness of her lips, the passion but yet the innocence of her kiss.
She slapped at his hands, her distressed expression turning to one of outrage. “Get your hands off me!”
He jerked back, suddenly appalled at what he had done. “No—Chantel, I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not,” she said, grimacing. She jumped to her feet and gave him a last glance, one of disgust. “You warned me, you. You told me you were a wicked man. And you are.”
She ran and jumped into the wagon and yanked the canvas flap closed behind her.
Clay pressed one hand to his now-aching head. She’s right. I am a wicked man. What’s happened to me? How did I turn into this—this—worthless weasel, to treat women like this? With Belle, at least she did know what she was getting into, even if she was drunk. But Chantel? A pure, innocent girl like that, and she saved my life, and this is how I repay her? By pawing her like some sweaty, greasy piece of trash?
Clay had never felt so badly in his life, even after the sordid situation with Belle. He thought that he should saddle Lightning and just disappear. But then he realized how cowardly that would be. He owed Chantel more than an apology. He had to face her and confess to her and beg her forgiveness. And he had to face Jacob Steiner, too, and ask his forgiveness as well, for betraying his trust.
He stayed up most of the night, feeding the fire, berating himself and rehearsing the speeches he would give Chantel and Jacob in the morning. Several times he tried to lie down, but he was so miserable he knew he couldn’t sleep. The self-recriminations going around and around in his head seemed so loud that his head ached almost as badly as when he had first been injured. So he jumped up and paced more. Finally he fell into an uneasy doze just before dawn and slept for about an hour, stretched out on the horse blanket with no pillow and no blanket. When the first cheerful rays of the rising sun caught his face, he woke up with a groan.
He would have made coffee and breakfast for Chantel and Jacob, but all of the supplies were in the wagon. They had camped just beside a small stream, so he went and hurriedly bathed in the cold water. After he dressed, he began saddling Lightning.
Chantel came out of the wagon and warily looked around for him. A question came into her eyes as she saw that he was already saddling up, but she merely said, “I’ll fix breakfast, me. Jacob will be up soon.”
“I’ll help you,” Clay said. “Since you’ve taught me how to cook so well.”
“No,” she said curtly. “I’ll do it myself.”
She had just gotten the pans and utensils and food out of the wagon when Jacob came out of the tent, blinking and yawning. He observed Clay saddling up Lightning and arranging his packed saddlebags and bedroll. He saw Chantel’s grim face and the shadows under her eyes. “It’s a beautiful morning for such mournful faces,” he observed, taking a seat on one of the cracker boxes Chantel had brought out of the wagon.
With the air of a man going to a flogging, Clay came to stand by him and Chantel, who was sitting by the fire, heating up the frying pan. “Chantel, I cannot express to you how very sorry I am for my behavior last night. You have been nothing but polite and kind to me, and I was very wrong in what I thought and what I did last night. All I can do is ask you to forgive me. Can you do that, Chantel?”
She had slowly risen as he spoke, watching him warily. For long moments, her face was hard and suspicious. Then the darkness in her eyes faded, though she still looked distant. “Ma grandpere has taught me this, that we can’t carry around bad things in our hearts, like being angry and upset at people for the things they do,” she said evenly. “I forgive you.”
“Th–thank you, Chantel,” he said awkwardly. He had been ready for her to berate him, to accuse him, to shout how terrible he had been to her. With a grieved sigh, he turned to Jacob. “I have betrayed your trust, Mr. Steiner,” he said simply. “And this is so much worse, so much more treacherous of me, because you and Chantel literally saved my life. Please forgive me.”
“I forgive you, my son,” he said gently. “It takes a very good man, a very strong man, to face the wrongs he has done and to honestly express his sorrow for them. It would be a sin indeed not to forgive you.”
A humorless grin twitched Clay’s mouth. “I’m the only sinner here,” he muttered.
“No,” Jacob said firmly. “We are all sinners. Our sins differ, that is all.” His eyes went to Chantel, who at first looked defiant but then dropped her eyes. His eyes went to Lightning, who stood saddled and already tossing his head, ready to go.
Clay saw his gaze and said, “I’ll be leaving you now.”
“Where are you going?” Chantel asked abruptly.
“I—I don’t know,” Clay said wearily. “I just think it’s for the best.”
“Why would you think that is best?” Jacob asked. “You have made a mistake, you have admitted it and asked forgiveness and received it. Whatever it is, it is over and forgotten. Stay with us, Mr. Tremayne, for I believe the Lord will tell you where you need to go and what you need to do. Don’t you think that’s right, Chantel?” he asked her gently.
“Yes, Mr. Tremayne, if Grandpere feels it is right, it is right,” she said quietly. “It would be fine with me if you will stay.”
He studied her, and she met his inquiring gaze directly. He saw cool courtesy, a distant gaze, with no hint of either welcome or censure. He noted, of course, the formal use of Mr. Tremayne. Resignedly he said, “Thank you, Miss Chantel, Mr. Steiner. That is more than I expected and certainly much bette
r than I deserve. I would be glad to stay with you, at least until I find out what my situation is in Richmond.”
Chantel fixed breakfast while Clay and Jacob sat talking, mostly about the town of Petersburg. It was a central terminus for the railroads, and though it was not a large city, it was always busy. They ate, and Clay felt the awkward silence between him and Chantel so acutely that it was a relief to him when they finally were packed up and pulling back out onto the busy road. Clay rode ahead a bit, attempting to put some space between him and these people he had treated so badly. These people whose treatment of him left him wondering about many, many things.
Jacob and Chantel rode in silence for a while. Chantel was driving, and she stared straight ahead, her eyes searching the far distance. Finally Jacob said, “He’s just human, you know. He’s just like all of us. He needs the Lord in his heart and spirit so that he can learn to be a better man.”
“I didn’t say he was a bad man,” Chantel said tightly. “I’ve known much worse, me. I don’t hate him, but I’m still angry at him. I know, I know, Grandpere. I will try to stop the anger in me. But one thing won’t change. I’ll never trust him.”
“I understand, daughter,” Jacob said sadly. “That is the thing about sin. It is a betrayal of God and a betrayal of others. Sometimes even of those we love most.”
Chantel shot him a strange look but said nothing more. She stayed silent until they reached the city.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As soon as they started down the main road of Petersburg, they knew something momentous had happened. Men rushed up and down the street, clutching newspapers, calling out to acquaintances. Boys ran, too, from sheer excitement, ducking among the crowds, yelling. Prosperous-looking men smoking fat cigars stood in groups of three or four, talking animatedly. Southern gentlewomen were never known to stand out on the street for any reason, but here and there were groups of them, dressed in their graceful wide skirts, poring over newspapers and talking among themselves with animation. Riders galloped recklessly up and down; the road was choked with wagons and buggies.
“I wanted to go to the newspaper office first thing,” Clay told Jacob and Chantel.
Jacob nodded. “We’ll drive on up to the edge of town and wait. Will you come and let us know what’s going on?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll find you,” Clay replied. Dismounting, he tied Lightning to a hitching post and began to thread his way through the throngs.
He found the newspaper office, but there was such a crowd that he couldn’t even get outside the building.
A tall rawboned man who was dressed in a farmer’s rough clothing was standing beside him.
Clay said, “Good day, sir. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Waiting for the next edition,” he answered succinctly.
“But—you mean the paper is putting out more editions than just the morning one?”
“Oh yes, as soon as they get more information by the telegraph they print it up,” he answered then looked at Clay curiously. “Haven’t you heard the news?”
“I guess not, sir. I’ve been—er—in the country for three weeks. We didn’t hear much news.”
The man’s pale blue eyes lit up. “U.S. Army tried to resupply Fort Sumter in South Carolina. Confederate forces fired on the supply ship, turned them away. Virginia seceded from the Union, and now the Confederacy is gearing up. There’s going to be a war, all right.”
Clay was shocked. Of course he had been aware of the political tensions ever since Abraham Lincoln had been elected, and seven Southern states had seceded in January and February. But other Southern states were hesitant, distancing themselves somewhat from the most voluble “fire-eating” states like South Carolina and Mississippi.
Though he had not closely followed all of the political maneuverings, Clay had thought, somewhat vaguely, that a compromise would be found. In particular, he had believed that Virginia, with her close ties to Washington just across the Potomac River, would not make such a momentous decision, even though she definitely depended on the cotton economy and had many slaves.
As he stood there brooding, a man came out with his arms stacked with newspapers up to his chin. The crowd started shouting and waving coins in the air. Clay pushed forward, paid his nickel, and grabbed the paper. Two-inch-high headlines read: LOYAL SONS OF VIRGINIA! ANSWER THE CALL! There were two small articles about some appointments to the Confederate States of America War Department, but most of the two pages were covered with advertisements of different units forming as volunteer companies, with prominent Petersburg men organizing them.
After the crowd had dispersed, Clay went into the busy office. A small, bespectacled man looked up from a littered desk and asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“I hope so,” Clay answered. “By any chance do you carry copies of any Richmond newspapers?”
“Oh yes, sir, we do. But they’ve been as hard to keep on hand as our own Petersburg Sentinel has been. Were you looking for any specific date, sir?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Do you have editions for the last two weeks?”
The man shook his head. “Oh no, I’m afraid those would be long gone. Or—perhaps we might have one or two, in the storeroom.”
“Would you mind just checking, sir?” Clay asked courteously. “It would be a very great help to me.”
“I don’t mind,” the man said. “Wait here just a moment and I’ll see what I can find.” He went to the back of the offices and through a door.
In only a few minutes, he returned. “As I said, it’s not as if there are stacks to go through. We’ve had a difficult time keeping any editions on hand. I’m afraid all I could find were two editions of the Richmond Dispatch, from just two and three days ago.”
“Thank you, sir, you’ve been most helpful,” Clay said. After paying him for the newspapers, he left. But he was so anxious to see if he could find some news about Barton Howard that he stopped on the plank sidewalk just outside the newspaper office and started to search through them. A small whisper went through his mind, Not an obituary, please, God, no notice of a funeral…
But on the second page of the newspaper from three days ago, he found what he was looking for. A sizable advertisement read:
MOUNTED RIFLES—The undersigned are engaged in raising a company of Mounted Rifles, the services of which to be offered to the State as soon as the organization is effected. Such persons in the country who are used to the rifle who wish to join will apply to us, at the office of the Virginia Life Insurance Company. Uniforms free.
Barton C. Howard
Charles Howard
Edward Howard
Clay threw his head back and closed his eyes with relief. “He’s alive,” he murmured to himself. “Alive.”
Passersby stared at him curiously, but he stood unmoving, muttering to himself for a few moments. Then he tucked the newspapers under his arm and walked slowly down the street to where he had hitched Lightning. As he walked, he collected himself, and his mind began to churn.
He patted the horse’s silky black nose then opened the newspaper again. Notices such as the one the Howards had placed were numerous. Also, there were a lot of articles about the organizations of the hospitals and the ladies of Richmond meeting to assemble small sewing kits for the men, to roll bandages, and to collect funds to buy pencils and paper for each soldier.
But two of the notices in particular caught Clay’s attention.
VOLUNTEER COMPANIES, now in Richmond, or men who intend to volunteer, will proceed at once to the Camp of Instruction, at the Hermitage Fair Grounds. All Captains and volunteers will report in person to Lieut. Cunningham, Acting Assistant Adjutant General.
And:
RESIGNATION OF A U.S. ARMY OFFICER—Capt. J. E. B.
Stuart, late of the U.S. Cavalry, has resigned his commission, rather than head the minions of Lincoln in their piratical quest after “booty and beauty” in the South. The officer in question arrived yesterday, and ten
dered his services to Virginia.
Clay had read of Captain—then Lieutenant—J. E. B. Stuart and Colonel Robert E. Lee in their involvement with John Brown at Harpers Ferry. The newspapers had been fulsome in praise of Lieutenant Stuart and Colonel Lee’s decisive and quick action in apprehending the raiders. For days they had written articles about John Brown, of course, but usually they included more praise of the two officers, and there had been much about Lieutenant Stuart’s exploits in the West, fighting Indians.
Staring at Lightning thoughtfully, he said, “Well, old boy, I think we’re bound for the cavalry. Captain J. E. B. Stuart sounds like the kind of man I’d like to serve with. And I’ll bet you can beat his horse.”
Mounting up, he made his slow way through the crowded streets until he reached the warehouse district north of town, close to the railroad junction.
Jacob and Chantel waited for him there, under some shade trees by a tin dispatcher’s shack.
“I brought some newspapers,” Clay said. “The South is going to war.”
Jacob nodded sadly. “Those dark clouds have been gathering for some time now.”
“And I found out what I needed to know,” Clay said, dismounting and coming to stand by the wagon. They were sitting in the back. He hesitated for long moments, slowly tying Lightning to the wagon, his head down. “I thought I might have killed a man. But I didn’t.”
Jacob and Chantel glanced at each other. “Why did you try to kill this man?” Chantel asked.
Clay stared off into the distance. “It’s a long story, and it’s not a story that I want to tell anyone if I don’t have to. He did take a shot at me first. But in a way he had good reason to.”
Jacob said, “Clay, Chantel and I already know you are a sinner. We know this because all men are sinners. We have no right to judge you and no right to demand that you confess to us. Leave your sin behind, and ask forgiveness from God, and He will save you from all of your sins. Simple.”
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