“Can I get you anything, Mister Clay?”
“Why, I don’t think so, Melora. I’m stuffed like a suckling pig right now.” She half turned, but he stopped her. “I’d like to hear you read a little, if you’re not too sleepy.”
“Oh no!” Melora’s face lit up, and at once she moved to a rough bookcase on one wall. She came back with a book, saying shyly, “This is my favorite.”
He took the book, smiled, and said, “Pilgrim’s Progress. I remember this one, sure enough!” He saw that the pages were worn and the back loose. It had been in good condition when he had brought it to her. “Read me your favorite part,” he said, handing the book back to the girl.
Taking the book, she sat down at his feet, the pages illuminated by the flickering flames. “I like the part best where Christian fights with the fiend Apollyon.” She started to read in a clear voice:
So he went on and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold: he was clothed with scales like a fish, and they are his pride; he had wings like a dragon, and feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke; and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he came up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question him:
Apollyon: Whence come you, and whither are you bound?
Christian: I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion.
Apollyon: By this, I perceive that thou are one of my subjects; for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it.
Christian: I was indeed born in your dominions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, for the wages of sin is death.
As Melora read on, Clay was fascinated. She knew the book by heart, and as she read, she threw herself into each part. When she read the lines of Apollyon, she deepened her voice and frowned angrily; when she read the part of Christian, she spoke sweetly and firmly.
Finally she came to the section where the actual battle took place between Bunyan’s hero and the dragon:
Christian: Apollyon, beware what you do, for I am in the King’s highway, the way of holiness.
Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, “Prepare to die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou shalt go no farther; here will I spill my soul.” And with that, he threw a burning dart at his breast; but Christian held a shield in his hand, with that he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that.
Melora, Clay saw with wonder, was caught up in the old story, and he remembered suddenly that he had been the same when he was her age. When she was finished and looked up at him with her eyes alive, reflecting the fire, she whispered, “That’s my favorite part!”
“I think it’s mine, too, Melora.” He smiled. “I must have read it a hundred times when I was a boy.”
“Did you, sure enough?” she asked wistfully, her lips parted. “Ain’t that nice, that we like the same part! Do you want to hear my second favorite part?”
“Sure I do!”
“It’s the part about when Hopeful and Christian come to the Celestial City, but they can’t get to it without they go through the River of Death first.”
“I remember that part,” Clay said, nodding. “It always scared me a little.”
Melora began to read again, this time much more slowly, and her eyes were enormous in the firelight.
Now I further saw, that betwixt them and the gate was a river; but there was no bridge to go over, and the river was very deep. The pilgrims began to inquire if there were no other way to the City; to which they answered, “Yes, but there hath not any save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, been permitted to tread that path since the foundation of the world.”
Then they asked if the waters were all of a depth. They said, “No, for you shall find it deeper or shallower as you believe in the King of the place.”
Then they addressed themselves to the water; and entering, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, “I sink in deep waters!”
Then said the other, “Be of good cheer, my brother; I feel the bottom, and it is good!”
Melora lowered the book, and Clay saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I love Hopeful, don’t you, Mister Clay? When his friend was afraid, he stayed with him and made him believe it would be all right. Ain’t that grand!”
“Yes, Melora, it’s a wonderful thing to make people feel good.” He smiled suddenly, saying, “It’s a thing you do better than anyone I know.”
“Me!” Melora gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “Why, I don’t do nothing like that, Mister Clay!”
Clay leaned forward and reached out for her hand. When it lay in his own, he said, “I think you do. Like when I was brought here so sick I could hardly breathe. It was you who took care of me. And like tonight. When I came here, I was feeling very bad, Melora. But you’ve made me feel very good.”
Her hand was warm in his, strong and firm for a child’s hand. He could feel the calluses that had already formed, young as she was. Then he released it, adding, “Thank you for reading to me, Melora. Do you like any of the other books?”
She was staring at him, overwhelmed by his compliment. She remembered clearly every detail of every encounter with him, and she knew she would never forget this night.
“Yes,” she said. “Not so well as this one, though. But the ones about the knights and the dragons, I like them real well!” She ran to the bookshelf, and for the next hour, she read from the Arthurian romances that Clay had given her.
Finally she closed the book. “I like the part where the men go and kill the dragons that are killing the people, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve always liked those stories.”
She suddenly gave him an odd look, then giggled. “Know what, Mister Clay?”
“No. What?”
“When I saw you come down the road today, on your white horse and all, I thought you looked like a knight! I really did! And I pretended I was one of those ladies in the book and that you’d come to save me.”
Clay smiled. “I’m not much of a dragon killer, Melora.” Then a thought came to him. It drew his smile down, and the joy left his eyes. The thought of his life and its emptiness, and the futility of the years that lay ahead, laid its hand on him. He said quietly, “I’m not a good man like those knights, Melora. I’m a very bad man, as a matter of fact.”
Her response startled him. She dropped the book and seized his arms with both hands, shaking him with all her strength. “You’re not!” she cried, and he saw with absolute astonishment that tears were filling her eyes. “You’re not a bad man!” she cried again, then turned, put her arm on the stones of the fireplace, and cried against it.
Clay Rocklin had never been so taken aback. He stared at the girl’s slender form, shaking with a rage of weeping, and had no idea as to what it was all about. Standing there, however, a strange thought came to him. It was the most incredible thought he’d ever had, and at first he shook it off. But it came back even stronger. It filled his mind, and he told himself he was crazy, but it would not budge. Rather it grew into a full-fledged plan as he stood there staring down at Melora.
I’ll go away from Gracefield, he thought. I’ll throw myself into something that will take all I have. The war! I’ll join the army, go be with Gid. And if I’m any kind of a man at all, I’ll find out about it. If I’m not—maybe a thing like that will change me! I’ll do it, by the Lord!
When the thing was settled, wild and fantastical with a thousand perils, he touched the girl’s shoulder, turning her around. “Don’t cry, Melora.”
Tears left silver tracks down her smooth cheeks, and her eyes were half angry. “I don’t like it when you talk like that, Mister Clay!”
“Well, I won’t say it anymore.” He hesitated, then said, “Melora, I’ve got to go away for a while, but I want you to do something for me.”
“Me? What can I do?”
&
nbsp; He took out his wallet and removed all the bills in it. “I want you to go into Richmond. Get your father to take you. And I want you to spend all of this money on books.”
She stared at the bills, then looked up at him with bewilderment. “But what books?”
“The ones you like.” He smiled. “Get a library for you and for the other children. When I come back, I want you to read them to me—like you have tonight.”
Melora looked at him. “But—where are you going, Mister Clay?”
Clay took a deep breath, then smiled.
“Why, I’m going to slay a dragon for you, Melora!”
CHAPTER 10
THE NEW RECRUIT
The snow—not heavy and damp, but dry as dust—fell lightly on Washington, so lightly that it seemed the flakes played wild games, fluttering like miniature birds before coming to rest. Standing at the bay window, Stephen Rocklin felt a sudden unaccustomed twinge of fear as he watched Gideon playing in the snow with the boys. Stephen was not a man of great imagination; he spent little time speculating about the future. But as he watched his son make a snowball and toss it at Frank, the youngest grandchild, he suddenly was possessed of something like a vision. At least, it was as close to a vision as a man such as Stephen ever received. He suddenly saw Gideon lying dead on a battlefield in Mexico, his empty eyes staring blindly up into a merciless sky.
“What is it, Stephen?” Ruth had noted the sudden change of expression on his face. She was standing beside him, enjoying the sight of the children and their parents. “Don’t you feel well?”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. They were not an overly affectionate pair, though the years of marriage had molded them into a solid couple. He had often envied the closeness that existed between his brother Tom and Susanna, the almost mystic relationship that they seemed to have. But he was content with his marriage. So he put her off with, “Just dreading to see Gid go back to Mexico.”
Ruth’s lips tightened, for the same thought was never far from her mind. Gid’s convalescent leave had been so wonderful! His wound, not as serious as it might have been, had healed rapidly, and the house had been a happy place with him there. Ruth, for all her rather stiff mannerisms, had grown very close to Melanie, closer than she did to most people. She didn’t know that Gid had told his wife, “Mellie, I know Mother is sometimes difficult, with all her parties and social climbing—but see if you can get close to her. She needs a real friend. Someone to talk to about something a little deeper than the next party.”
Melanie had succeeded in this with little difficulty. She was a warm, outgoing young woman, and her years on the barren plains at Fort Swift had given her a desire to get closer to other people—and to Gid’s parents. She came through the door now, snow sparkling in her blond hair. Her eyes were bright, and she was laughing as she entered the drawing room.
“Oh, my hands are freezing!” She had Frank in tow and thrust him close to the fire that burned merrily in the fireplace, filling the room with a faint scent of fragrant apple wood. “You’re going to be a snowman yourself if you don’t thaw out, Frank!” She began stripping the mittens off the sturdy boy, who protested, “Not cold, Mommy!”
The door slammed and Gid came in, anchored with the other two boys. “What about something hot for these fellows, Mother!” he demanded. His face was paler than usual, and he moved carefully as he began pulling the wool coat from Tyler, who at the age of five was insulted and insisted, “I can do it, Daddy!” He struggled with the buttons while the middle son, Robert, submitted docilely to his father’s help. He was four, and already it was evident he would have his mother’s slenderness. Tyler, however, was blocky, like his father and grandfather.
Ruth laughed and left for the kitchen, saying, “I don’t think anyone could make enough chocolate to fill you all up!” She returned with a pot of frothy, steaming chocolate and a platter of sugar cookies, which the boys promptly fell on like small pigs. “Tyler, don’t stuff three of those cookies in your mouth!” Ruth scolded. “There’s plenty to go around.” Then she looked at her son and laughed. “No wonder he eats like a pig, Gid, when you’re stuffing yourself. Didn’t they teach you any better manners than that at West Point?”
“Well, I may have had some polish at the Point,” Gid said with a grin, licking his fingers and reaching for two more cookies, “but I lost them all in Mexico. No white tablecloths and polished silver there.” He told them how he had joined with his sergeant, Boone Monroe, in a raid on a Mexican farm, nearly getting shot by an irate farmer as they tried for his chickens.
The boys all listened avidly, but Stephen laughed. “We sent you to West Point to learn how to steal chickens? I’d have expected a little more for a decorated hero!”
Gid flushed—as he always did when anyone referred to his medal—and covered quickly by saying, “Sergeant Monroe has more sense than most of the officers down there. I got a letter from him yesterday. He says the company’s been sent to join General Scott’s force.”
The nature of the war had taken a sudden change during Gid’s convalescence. President Polk, displeased with what he considered the snail’s pace of the war, had named General Winfield Scott to command a force that would bring the conflict to an end. The plan called for General Taylor to simply hold on in the north and send most of his men to join Scott, who would land an army at Vera Cruz and penetrate to the heart of Mexico.
A shadow crossed Melanie’s face, but she quickly hid it. “Will you have to leave soon?”
Gid hesitated, then nodded. “Next week. My orders came yesterday.”
“Oh, son, you’re not fit to go back to the war!” Ruth cried.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Gid said, going to give her a hug. “And it means so much to me that you and Father are taking care of Mellie and the boys while I’m gone.”
His announcement dampened the joy of the day. Even the boys realized what was happening, and Tyler asked, “Daddy, take me with you. I can kill those old Mexicans!”
Gideon took the sturdy form of the boy, holding him close. “I hope,” he said quietly, “that you never have to kill anyone, Tyler.”
The family spent the day together, going out for a sleigh ride in the afternoon, and when they returned, Pompey met them as they came into the house. “Marse Clay is here, Mr. Rocklin.”
A look of surprise passed across Stephen’s face, but he said, “Well, where did you put him, Pompey?”
“In the library, sir.”
Gid caught his father’s glance and said, “Well, let’s go welcome him.”
Melanie took Gid’s arm, holding it tightly, and he felt the tension running through her. When they entered the lofty room where Stephen kept his books, they saw Clay standing at the window, staring out. When he turned, Melanie noticed that he was thinner than she remembered and that he seemed very nervous. That was unusual for Clay, and somehow she was sorry that he had come. She forced a smile, however, and noted that he didn’t look at her after his first glance.
“Clay! What a surprise!” Gid said, stepping forward to give his cousin a hearty handshake and slapping him on the shoulder. “You should have let us know you were coming.”
“Well, to tell the truth, Gid, I didn’t know it myself until two days ago.” He thought of the storm of resistance and shock at his announcement that he was going to join the war, then forced the memory out of his mind. “Everyone sends their best to all of you.”
Ruth’s social skills came in handy, for she bullied them all into the dining room for dinner as soon as possible. It was her notion that food could solve any problem—if properly served in the right setting. Or at least, it could put off any problem for a time.
The dinner went well, though Clay’s remarks about Grace-field held a significant omission: he spoke of everyone except Ellen. They all noticed that he was under some sort of strain, eating little and speaking too rapidly. After the meal, he said quietly, “Gid, I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Come to the library,”
Gid said at once. “Pompey, bring us some coffee.” He led the way and made no attempt to force Clay to speak. When the two men had their coffee and Pompey closed the door with a sibilant sound, Clay said at once with a grimace, “Sorry to bust in on you like this, Gid.”
“What’s wrong, Clay?” Gid asked at once. “Trouble at home?”
“Yes, but I guess the trouble is mostly in here,” Clay said, giving his chest a slap. He got up, striding back and forth, his face pale and his mouth grim. “I want to ask you for something, Gid—but before I do, let me tell you what’s been happening to me.”
Gid sat there quietly, listening to Clay’s rapid words. He had learned much about men from his tour at Fort Swift; he had been forced to deal with the problems of his men constantly. As a result, he had become a good listener, which gave men confidence in him. He knew now that if he said little and waited long enough, a man would finally wade through the minor problems and come to the big one.
As Clay spoke frankly—and with disgust—of his life and his failures as a parent, Gid listened. When Clay said, “I’ve made a mess of everything, Gid!” he knew Clay had left something out, but he did not force it.
“We all do things we’re sorry for, Clay,” Gid said. “But you’re a young man. There’s time to make it up to Ellen and the children.”
Clay shook his head stubbornly. “Not at Gracefield, Gid. I’ve got to get away and make a new start. Too many failures stare me in the face there.”
“Leave Gracefield?” Gid was startled. He knew the feeling that Rocklins had for the land, and he shook his head. “You belong there, Clay. Running away won’t solve anything.”
Clay stared at him, then flushed. “I’ve got to get away, Gid. For a while, at least. When I get some order and peace in my life, maybe I can go back. And that brings me to the favor.”
“Anything, Clay. You know that.”
Clay stared at him. “You really mean that, don’t you, Gid? Well, here it is—I’m going to enlist in the army. Can you fix it so I’ll be in your company?”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 14