“Looks like we’re about to butt heads with them greasers, don’t it, sir?”
Monroe’s twangy voice brought Gid back to the present, and he looked quickly across the line just as a bugle sounded. Gid thrust the letters back into the envelope, shoved them into his inside pocket, and licked his lips. “All right, Sergeant, let’s show the general what Company K is made of!”
“Mind if I go along, Gid?” Sam Grant stood before Gid, a dusty, insignificant figure, but with the light of battle gleaming in his dark eyes.
“Glad to have you, Sam,” Gid said with a grin.
The charge sounded, and the two lieutenants moved forward, Gid shouting commands. Colonel John Garland led the charge, striking down the center between the Citadel on the right and La Teneria on the left. They had not gone far before they were caught on the front and at both sides by a shower of canister that whipped and tore the long lines. The men ran forward, hunching over, shoulders drawn in, clutching their muskets. The wounded fell with screams; the survivors jumped over bodies, stumbling, falling, seeing iron cut the dirt in front of them.
Gid yelled out, “Colonel Garland, we’re taking a lot of hits!”
The colonel was a short, fat man with a red Irish face. Battle fury was on him, and he yelled, “Never will I yield an inch! I have too much Irish blood in me to give up! Forward, men!”
But he had not gone ten steps before a bullet took him in the stomach, driving him backward. Gid ran to him and held his head up, but Garland cursed him. “You’re in command, Rocklin! Lead the men to the cannon’s mouth!”
A gush of brilliant crimson blood spurted from his mouth, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Gid laid him down, called for two men to take him to the rear, then stood up and ran to where Grant was waiting. “Let’s go, men!” Gid shouted and without a pause moved steadily into the musket fire. The Mexican front flickered up and down the line, and it soon became evident to Gid that they could go no farther without support. A thin line of rock lifted in front of where they stopped, a lip of basalt no more than a foot or so high, but it was something. “Take cover!” Gid shouted, and the men dropped behind it.
“Looks like they’re moving toward us, Gid,” Grant said. He had picked up a musket and laid it on the oncoming line of Mexicans, then fired. He looked back over his shoulder. “Looks like we have help coming.”
Two pieces of artillery were on the way, and soon the fire of the light cannons drove the Mexican forces back. Then it was time to charge again. Four times Grant and Rocklin led the men forward over the field, until they finally were forced to retreat before the artillery of the Mexican forces.
The air was thick with smoke, and the K Company was pinned down. “Be suicide to charge into that kind of fire, Gid.” Grant shouted to make himself heard over the roar of musket fire. Then he stared at something to his right. “By the Almighty!” he said in awe. “Look! It’s General Taylor.”
Gid turned to look, but his attention was on something else. “Sam! Look out there!”
Grant turned to see what Rocklin was pointing to, squinted his eyes. “Why, that looks like Major Fields!”
“I thought he was dead,” Gid said. He stared at the tall figure in blue who had risen to his feet. “He doesn’t know where he is!”
“Must be hit pretty bad, Gid,” Grant said. He peered through the smoke and said in alarm, “Look, they’re coming!”
Gid saw the line of enemy troops at the same moment. And he knew, as every man in the company knew, that Major Fields was a dead man! The rest of the company had good cover, but Fields, standing tall in the sunlight, would be either shot or bayoneted within the next few minutes.
Gid could never remember what happened next. He remembered no conscious decision to get up and run through the hail of bullets that filled the air—but he found himself doing just that, leaning forward against the enemy’s fire as a man leans against a hard wind.
Grant and Sergeant Monroe were both shocked into silence for a moment, for there was no way a man could run into that kind of fire and live. Then Sergeant Monroe cried out, “Fire, boys! Give the lieutenant some help!”
It might have helped, for as Gid reached the major, who had slumped to his knees holding his side, he sensed that the line of Mexican infantry had faltered. He snatched the major up, throwing him up on his shoulders as if he were a rag doll. Just as he did so, he looked toward the enemy and found himself staring into the cold, black eyes of an enemy soldier. The Mexican had his rifle lifted, and Gid could see the creases on the man’s brow. He was that close! He tensed his body, waiting for the bullet that could not miss—and then a small black spot appeared over the soldier’s left eye and he went loosely backward, the shot he fired going into the air over Gid’s head.
Quickly Gid whirled and ran back to the line of K Company, thankful for the great strength he had been blessed with. He ran in long, jolting strides, expecting each second to be struck in the back by a bullet, but it did not happen—not until he was five yards from Lieutenant Sam Grant and Sergeant Boone Monroe.
He saw the looks of amazement on the faces of both and knew that he had been a dead man in their eyes!
And that was the last thought he had, for suddenly he felt something like a blow of a giant’s hand striking him in the back. He grunted, irritated at the blow, then fell forward, thinking, I almost made it! I almost …!
Within a fraction of a second, Monroe and Grant were at Gid’s side, Grant shouting, “You men, take the major back to the ambulance!” He and Boone picked up the limp form of Gid Rocklin and moved toward the rear.
Suddenly a man on horseback was in front of them. “How is he, Grant?”
Lieutenant Grant looked up to see General Zachary Taylor staring down with concern in his eyes. The general seemed to be oblivious to the heavy fire that rented the air. He asked quickly, “Is he alive?”
Grant had felt the strong beat of Rocklin’s heart. “Yes, General, he’s alive.” Then he gave Taylor a direct glance, a hard look that second lieutenants do not customarily give to generals. “If he doesn’t get a decoration for this, General, I’ll come back to haunt you.”
General Taylor’s lips turned up in a slight smile. He was not a man of much humor, but he found something amusing about Grant’s attitude. “You’re off your post, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Aren’t you supposed to be with the supply train?”
Ulysses S. Grant did not flinch. “Yes, sir,” he said loudly, his head lifted in a defiant attitude.
The general held his gaze, then looked down at the still form of Rocklin. “Write it up, Grant. Send it to me and I’ll put it through with my recommendation.” Then he rode on, calling out, “Let’s go see about taking Monterey!”
The long, ragged line of blue-clad infantry moved forward, following the general toward the low-lying hills that concealed the city of Monterey.
Sergeant Monroe and Lieutenant Grant delivered Rocklin to the ambulance, then walked back toward the line of battle.
“He’ll do to tote the key to the smokehouse, won’t he, Lieutenant?” Boone Monroe said, giving Rocklin as fine a compliment as any Southerner could give, for only the most trustworthy people were given a key to the smokehouse.
Grant stared at Monroe, nodded, and then the two of them moved across the smoke-filled battlefield.
CHAPTER 9
A DRAGON FOR MELORA
January 1847 was mild and benevolent. The year before, January had fallen on Richmond with all the ferocity of a half-starved timber wolf, freezing the rivers and drifting banks of heavy snow over the eyes of the houses. But Box, the blacksmith, assured everyone, “Gonna be nice and easy dis year. Shells on de acorns is thin as paper, and de woolly caterpillars ain’t hardly got no fuzz at all!”
Box himself was a high, handsome man, a mulatto with smooth skin and hair that was straighter than most and tinged with auburn. His wife, Carrie, was black as night, an attractive woman of forty-seven. They were seated in the kitchen, visiting with Zander a
nd Dorrie, helping with the preparation of the food for the birthday party of the twins, Denton and David, two of Clay and Ellen’s children. The smell of fresh gingerbread wafting through the kitchen was pleasant, and all four of them were drinking hot chocolate.
These four were the heart of Gracefield in many ways. Zander—the butler—and Dorrie—the lieutenant of Miss Susanna—controlled the house, far more so than the white people suspected. Zander at the age of forty-eight was tall and thin, with a rich chocolate complexion. He was a man of tremendous dignity, rarely angry or upset, but stern enough to make the other house slaves flinch when he raised his voice. Dorrie, his wife, was somewhat heavy, in contrast to her husband’s leanness. She had a pair of direct brown eyes and felt herself no less a Rocklin than any of the white people in the house.
If Zander and Dorrie controlled the house, it was Box and Carrie who stood first in the hierarchy of the field slaves. James Bronlin, the overseer, made a great deal of noise, but it was mostly sound and fury. The Rocklins had learned long ago that one word from either Box or Carrie would get more accomplished than a torrent of words from Bronlin.
“Dem chillun gonna catch dey death of cold,” Carrie remarked, looking out the window to where the children were playing a game out in the grape arbor. The party had been scheduled for three in the afternoon, but it was after four and the shadows were beginning to lengthen.
“No, dey all right, Carrie,” Box disagreed. “Lak I tole you all, we ain’t gonna have no bad weather dis year.” He picked up the cup in his massive blacksmith’s hand, sipped at the rich chocolate, then asked, “Marse Clay, he ain’t come back yet?”
It was an innocent question, but in some way it violated the unwritten code that existed in the world of the slaves of Gracefield. The white people were the main interest of all the slaves, but the house slaves felt a greater degree of sensitivity when the Rocklins were caught in some error. It was almost as though Zander and Dorrie were the protective parents of the Rocklins, quick to take offense at what they felt was any criticism of their “charges.”
“Don’t you be worried none ‘bout dat!” Dorrie snapped at Box, who blinked in surprise at her vehemence. “Marse Clay, he be comin’ back in time for de party.” She rose and went to the stove, opened the door to look at the cake that was baking, then slammed the door with unnecessary violence. She walked to the window, stared out, and said, “I reckon he got held up in Richmond.”
“I guess so, Dorrie,” Box said, understanding that he had violated one of the taboos of the little world he inhabited. To make his peace and show his good intent, he took a bite of gingerbread and commented, “Marse Clay is doin’ bettah.”
But this displeased Dorrie, too, and she gave Box an irritated glance. “You worry ‘bout Damis, Box,” she said, referring to Box and Carrie’s oldest daughter, “and let Marse Clay take care of his ownself!” She glared at the muscular Box and, seeing the embarrassment in his eyes, sat down abruptly, saying, “My mouth is too big. Don’t pay no attention to me, Box.” She saw the reference to Damis had hurt them both and suddenly reached over and patted Carrie’s hard, work-worn hand. “You know I didn’t mean nothin’, Carrie.”
“Dat’s all right, Dorrie,” Carrie said heavily. But it was not all right, for Damis was a burden to her and her husband—and to Zander and Dorrie, as well, for their friendship went deep. Damis had been a problem since she was fourteen years old and had turned into a truly beautiful child. Too beautiful, really, for by the time she was sixteen, she had every male slave on the place watching her. And Damis had learned early in life that it was not just the slaves who noticed her, but the white boys and men who came to Gracefield, as well. It had been inevitable that she would be introduced to the lower lusts of men, and it came as no surprise that she became pregnant when she was barely seventeen.
The shock was that the baby, a boy, was obviously fathered by a white man. Such things were not uncommon on plantations, but the Rocklins, aided by Dorrie and Zander, Box and Carrie, had exercised such strict control that it was almost unknown at Gracefield.
And the silence of the girl was unnerving, for Damis would never name the father of her child. Privately, all parties thought that was best. How would it help to know? Such knowledge could only shame the father—and the rest of his family. Damis had been hastily married off to a middle-aged slave named Leon, but the marriage had not stopped her from chasing after other men. Her son, a sturdy six-year-old whom Damis called Fox, was far more white in appearance than black. His most striking feature was his eyes, which were not black or brown but a shade of gunmetal gray that sometimes looked almost blue. He was a fine little fellow, but set apart by his appearance so that his peers in the world of slavery had little to do with him.
The air in the kitchen had been made uncomfortable by Dorrie’s unthinking remark. Box got up, and Carrie rose with him. Saying thanks for the treats, they left the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t have said that, Dorrie,” Zander said disapprovingly. “Dey can’t help what Damis does—no more’n Miz Susanna kin help what Marse Clay does.”
“I knows dat!” Dorrie said sharply, her face unhappy. “I’m jest worried ‘bout Clay.” She hesitated; then the words flooded from her lips. “When he gonna git ovah Miz Mellie, Zander? It’s been six years since she turned him down for Marse Gideon, and he still mad as a bear with a sore tail!”
“Well, he don’t talk ‘bout Miz Mellie, does he?”
“And so dat make everything all right?” Dorrie shook her head, a sadness in her dark eyes. “You men! You think if nobody says anything, why, dey ain’t nothing wrong. Jest cover it all up—and it’ll go away!” She got up, went to the window, and looked out. “Look at dat, Zander.” She waited until he rose and came to stand beside her, both of them looking at the group out in the yard. “Ain’t dey a good sight? All dem chillun!” She named them off fondly. “There’s Miz Marianne and Marse Claude with Marie. Ain’t dat child a beauty! Jes’ nine, but she gonna be a beauty! And Miz Amy and Marse Brad with them three fine chillun. Look like stair steps, don’t dey, Zander? Little Les is two, Rachel is ‘bout fo’, and Grant is six. Dey may be named Franklins, but dey is all three Rocklins!”
“Fine chillun, Dorrie,” Zander agreed. “But I reckon Marse Clay and Miz Ellen’s crop is jest as purty.” He named them with pride, having been active in their raising. “Look at dem twins, Dorrie! I nevuh kin tell which is Dent and which is David! Dis heah is their fifth birthday, and day bof big enough to be ten!”
“Well, dey may look alike,” Dorrie snorted, “but dey sho’ don’t act alike! Dat David is de sweetest thing! But if somebody don’t take a cane to Marse Dent Rocklin, he gonna be hung someday!”
“He is a mess!” Zander agreed sadly. “Take aftuh his daddy, I reckon. Look at Lowell, ain’t but one year younger dan them twins, and ain’t half as big! But look how he taking care of the baby. He do love that little Rena!”
They stood there watching the children, and finally Dorrie said, “You sees what it is! Dere’s Miz Amy wif her husband, and dere’s Miz Marianne and her husband. And where’s the daddy of them four younguns? I tell you whar he is—he’s drunk and wif some bad woman, dat’s whar he be!”
Zander could not meet his wife’s fiery glance, and his thin shoulders stooped. “Marse Clay, he’s gonna put his mammy and pappy in an early grave, Dorrie.”
“If Miz Ellen don’t shoot him first!” Dorrie snapped. “I’m jest glad Marse Noah didn’t live to see the way his grandson actin’!” Then she shook her head, saying, “Well, we ain’t gonna make things no bettah by talking about it. Go tell ‘em de cake and punch is ready.”
“All right.”
Ten minutes later, the dining room was filled with the treble sound of children’s voices underlaid by lower, adult voices singing “Happy Birthday.” The twins, Denton and David, sat at the head of the table, and when Dorrie brought in the three-layer chocolate cake with ten candles burning, they let out squeals of joy.
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As the boys blew out the candles and the cake was cut, Amy said quietly, “Ellen, I’m sure Clay will be here.” She was sitting beside Ellen, whose face was pale, and she tried to bring some assurance into her voice. “Perhaps the weather got worse.”
Ellen Rocklin was no less striking than she had been when she married Clay six years earlier. The pink silk dress she wore for the party set off her figure, for even the birth of four children in that short period had not destroyed the lush curves. But there was a discontent in her brown eyes as she murmured, “Don’t make excuses for him, Amy. I’ve done that long enough myself!”
“I know it’s hard—”
“How can you know about it, Amy?” Ellen said, keeping her voice under control. “You’ve got a family. Brad is home with you and your children, which is what a husband is supposed to do, isn’t it? And even Marianne, as sorry as Claude is with his liquor and women, doesn’t have to put up with what I have to.”
Across the room, Thomas and Susanna were very much aware of Ellen’s unhappiness. Indeed, they both felt Clay’s inconsistencies keenly. Thomas moved his lips close to Susanna’s ear, saying, “I never should have let him go to Richmond yesterday.”
“It’s not your fault, Tom,” she answered. “He gave me his word he’d be back early this morning.”
“His word!” Thomas said bitterly. “No such thing! Can’t be trusted to do a single decent thing!”
Burke Rocklin, at sixteen, was the youngest child of Thomas and Susanna. He resembled his mother greatly in appearance, and he could see no wrong in anything his brother, Clay, did. “He’ll be here,” he said boldly to his mother. “Wait and see!”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 12