Irons said gently, “I realize you have heavy responsibilities, Ellen, but the scripture urges us to let the Lord bear our burdens.”
“The scripture teaches that when a man breeds children, he’s supposed to stay home and take care of them, too!” Without another word, Ellen whirled and walked angrily toward the house, slamming the door as she entered.
“I’m sorry, Brother Jerry,” Melanie said. “She’s not herself.”
“No word at all on Clay?”
“No. For all we know he may be dead.”
“Oh, I think it’s not that bad,” he said quickly. More than likely off on a monumental drunk, he thought to himself, then said, “But he can’t stay gone forever. He’ll have to come home sooner or later.”
Jeremiah Irons was no prophet, nor even the son of a prophet, but just as he had predicted, Clay Rocklin finally came home.
It was not the homecoming he had dreamed of. No medals. No crowd at the station to meet him. Which was just as well, since he made a sorry figure when he got off the train—his suit was torn and dirty, and he had not shaved in a week. His step was unsteady and his eyes were red-rimmed as he made his way toward the stable across from the railroad station. He kept his hat pulled down low over his eyes, fearful that he might be recognized, and when Harvey Simmons, the hostler, greeted him, saying, “Hello—something for you?” he realized that Simmons didn’t recognize him.
“I need to rent a horse, Harvey.”
Simmons leaned forward, peering at Clay more closely, and could not hide the shock as he said, “Why, Mr. Rocklin! I didn’t know—” He broke off quickly, saying, “I’ll saddle up the bay for you.”
Clay did not miss the furtive looks that Simmons gave him. He knew Harvey to be the biggest gossip in Richmond. Well, I won’t have to announce my homecoming in the paper. Harvey will see that the news gets out, he thought dryly.
He mounted the horse when Simmons brought him up, saying, “I’ll bring him back tomorrow, Harvey.”
“Sure, Mr. Rocklin.” Simmons struggled to contain his questions, but he’d had little practice doing such a thing. “What was it like, Mr. Rocklin? Down in Mexico in the war?”
Clay settled himself in the saddle, then turned to give the hostler a hostile glance. “It was dandy, Harvey. You ought to go see for yourself.”
As Clay rode out at a gallop, Harvey scowled. “Somebody ought to make that man give a decent answer!” Then he whirled and hurried down to the Hard Tack Saloon, announcing as he entered, “Hey, Clay Rocklin’s come back!”
The sun was hot, and the liquor Clay had drunk on the train brought the sweat pouring down his face, and the jolting of his horse made him sick. Pulling the animal down to a slow walk, he thought sourly about the weeks he had spent in Dallas—that was as far as he had gotten after getting off the boat—and none of his memories were good. Being a fair gambler, he had managed to stretch out his money and his stay for two weeks. Finally a bad night at cards had left him with barely enough for train fare, and he had reluctantly bought his ticket, along with a bottle to numb his memories.
He rode slowly, wanting to sober up before he got home. He finally decided to time his arrival after the family went to bed. He could clean up and make his appearance in the morning. To that end, he walked the horse at a slow gait all afternoon, almost going to sleep more than once. It was after four when he came to the cutoff that led to the Yancy place. He thought suddenly that he could go there and clean up before going home, and on a sudden impulse, he turned the horse down the narrow road.
The air grew colder as the sun went down, but he had a raging thirst and stopped once to drink from a shallow creek that crossed the road. He washed his face in the clear water, then tried to push his hair into place, using his fingers for a comb. Then he looked down into the shallow water, saw his reflection, and stopped dead still. He stared at the image—saw the hollow eyes, the sunken cheeks—and knew that if someone looking as bad as he did turned up at the back door of Gracefield, he’d send him down the road.
Despair filled him as he sat back on his heels. A bird was singing close by, a happy, joyous sound, and the rippling water over the stones was a merry note. But the happy world around him only amplified the unhappiness within him. For a long time he sat there, his face buried in his arms. Finally he got to his feet wearily, then mounted his horse, his face set. “They’ll probably run me off the place,” he muttered, but driven by some impulse, he made his way to the cabin.
Smoke curled out of the chimney, and he saw Melora at once. She was feeding some hens, throwing the grain with a graceful motion. As he rode up, she glanced his way, not knowing him, he saw. Then when recognition came, she came running to stand behind the horse. Her eyes were enormous in the gathering twilight as she looked at him.
“Mister Clay!” she whispered with a tremulous smile. “You came back!”
Clay’s lips trembled, for he saw that she was glad to see him. “Well, I didn’t kill any dragons, Melora.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I was afraid for you.”
Clay would have answered, but her parents had come out on the porch, and he looked at Yancy as he came closer. He saw the surprise in the man’s careful green eyes, but there was no condemnation.
“Why, Mr. Rocklin!” he said quickly. “Git off that critter! You’re worse than a preacher for gettin’ to a man’s house just in time for supper!”
Yancy, Clay saw, was trying to put him at ease, but he was sure that they all knew about his sorry part at Cerro Gordo.
“Like to wash up, Buford,” he said with an effort. “I’m dirty as a pig.”
“I’ll heat you some water, Mister Clay,” Melora said quickly. “We got a tub you can use.”
“Don’t want to be a trouble,” Clay mumbled.
“How could you be that?” Melora asked, then turned and walked into the cabin.
Clay still sat on the horse, the shame cutting him like a knife inside. “Buford, you may not want me in your home after I tell you what I’ve been doing.”
In letters, Buford Yancy was an ignorant man—but he was wise in things that mattered. He had heard about Clay’s discharge, but he came from a line of men who held friendship sacred. He said quietly, “Get down, Clay. You can use my razor.”
The simplicity of the rough mountain man’s acceptance brought a mist to Clay’s eyes, and he got down, trying to hide his emotions. He didn’t have to say anything, for with a natural tact, the family cared for him. He took a long bath in a tub placed on the back porch, shaved with Yancy’s razor, and put on one of Yancy’s shirts while Mattie washed his own. It dried by the stove as they ate a supper of roasted rabbit, collard greens, and freshly baked corn bread. The buttermilk, cool from its home in the springhouse, did more to cool Clay’s burning throat than anything he had tasted.
After supper, he and Buford sat on the front porch. Yancy did almost all the talking. Mostly he talked about hunting and fishing, about his children. He sensed that Clay needed to say little and took the burden of the conversation.
“You gotta see them books that Melora bought with the money you gave her!” He added proudly, “She’s done read every one of them!”
Finally Clay rose and went inside, where Melora showed him the books, and he commended her choices. But when he caught sight of the tattered copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, he grew silent.
Finally he put on his clean shirt, which was not quite dry. He looked fairly presentable, but he felt a reluctance to leave.
There was an ease, a happiness in the humble cabin that he knew would be lacking at Gracefield. And he also knew whose fault it was.
“Got to be going,” he announced. The family followed him out, and as he rode away into the darkness, they all called after him. And he was able to pick out Melora’s sweet voice as she cried out, “Come back soon, Mister Clay!”
In the years that followed, Clay Rocklin often wondered what would have happened if he had gotten home an hour later. It
was a fine point, but his life was changed by the fact that he arrived at Gracefield at nine thirty.
For if he had come just one hour later, he would not have encountered Melanie alone. He would have seen her in the morning at breakfast. If not there, then someplace else—but someplace where they would have been with other people.
Melanie wondered with grief much the same thing in the years that followed. She went over it a thousand times … how she stayed up late, which was very unusual for her … how she had gone downstairs to the library to read, not being able to sleep. She had never done that before, but that night she was worried about Gid.
She had put the children to bed fairly early, and being tired from a hard day’s play, they had gone to sleep almost at once. Then she had sat down and talked with Charlotte, who was much weaker these days. Melanie did not think the woman would ever recover, and she spent as much time as possible with her.
Charlotte Rocklin had gone downhill quickly after Noah died. It was as if there were an invisible cord between the two, and when that was snapped by Noah’s death, Charlotte lost her vitality and her will to live. She was feeble, and the thought of Clay was heavy on her heart. She had not been told of his behavior at Cerro Gordo, but still she was a wise woman and knew that things were ill with him.
“Noah worried so about him,” the sick woman whispered. “But he always believed that God would bring him back. There’s a verse in the Bible about it. Noah found it one day. I remember it so plain! He came running in where I was making a cake and said, ‘Look here! It’s in the Bible about our grandson Clay!’ He was so excited that day!”
“Do you remember the verse, Mother Rocklin?”
“Of course. It’s in Isaiah, chapter 54, verse 13. It says, ‘All thy children shall be taught of the Lord.’ And Noah never forgot it, Mellie! One of the last things he said before the Lord took him was, ‘Clay! Clay’s going to come to the Lord!’”
“That’s wonderful!” Melanie said, and for a long time she sat there as the old woman spoke of her children and grandchildren. Finally she dropped off to sleep, and Melanie tiptoed out of the room.
“You ain’t in bed yet, Miss Mellie?” Dorrie was in the kitchen, cutting up the last of a chicken as Melanie entered.
“I’ve been with Miss Charlotte.”
“Poor thing! She ain’t got long, has she? Jesus gonna come for her soon!”
“I think so, Dorrie. And she’ll be glad to go.”
“She been like a lost chile ever since Marse Noah was took.”
The two women talked for a time, neither of them mentioning Clay, and finally Dorrie finished and left.
Still not sleepy, Melanie went to the library. She chose a book, then sat down in one of the horsehair chairs and began to read. It was not a good novel, and she was about to put it down when she heard a horse come down the drive and go to the stable. She looked out the window, wondering who could be moving about so late.
She turned the lamp down and left the library. Then as she crossed the foyer, the door opened and a man stood there. Startled, she asked, “Who is it?”
The answer sent a shock running through her.
“It’s me, Mellie—Clay!”
“Clay!” Melanie went to him at once, holding out her hands. “I’m so glad!”
Clay took her hands, his mind reeling. It was like witchcraft, for he had been thinking of her as he rode from the Yancy place, of the days of their courtship and how sweet, how beautiful she was.
And now she had come to him, appearing out of the night like a phantom—a beautiful phantom, for she wore a light rose–colored robe of silk, and her eyes glowed warmly in the dark.
“Come to the library,” she said quickly. “I want to talk to you.”
He allowed her to pull him down the hall, and as soon as they were in the dim light of the library, she asked, “Clay, are you all right?”
“All right?” he asked in confusion. “Why, I guess so.”
“We’ve been so worried, Clay! Not a word from you since you left Mexico!”
Clay stood in the darkness, listening to Mellie’s voice, unable to think. For years he had kept his distance from Mellie, for he was still in love with her. Though bitter that she had chosen Gid, he could not forget her sweetness, and as they stood there whispering in the dim light, every nerve was painfully conscious of her beauty. She looked up at him, her lips rich and full, and he suddenly reached out and took hold of her.
“Clay!” she cried in alarm. “Don’t—”
But he was like a man who was caught in one of those terrible, vivid dreams in which reality and fantasy are so fused that he can’t separate the two. He clutched her in his arms, and his lips sought hers. She was so soft and fragrant, and he forgot his family, forgot that she was another man’s wife, forgot everything except that she was all he had ever wanted.
Melanie, shocked and outraged, fought against him, but he was far stronger. Her cries, though, did not go unheeded, for suddenly someone was standing in the door, and Melanie cried out, “Help me, please!”
Thomas had heard Clay’s horse approach and, getting out of bed, had caught a glimpse of the rider as he crossed to the stable. “I’m going down, Susanna,” he said to his wife.
“Is it Clay?” she asked quickly.
“Might be.”
Thomas struggled into his clothing and went down the stairs, leaving Susanna as she searched for a robe. When he got to the foot of the stairs, he was startled by a cry from the library. Not sure of what he would find, he picked up the iron poker that rested against the fireplace.
What he saw as he came in the door sent such a wave of rage through him that he could not control himself. He saw his son Clay forcing Melanie—his nephew’s wife!—toward the couch.
Years of frustration and rage suddenly spilled out, and with a hoarse cry, Thomas lifted the poker and brought it down twice on Clay’s unprotected head.
Melanie almost fell as Clay went to his knees, the sleeve of her gown ripping at the shoulder. She drew the gown together and, seeing Thomas raise the poker again, his eyes mad, ran to him and threw herself against him.
“No! Don’t kill him!”
“The dog!” Thomas cried out, trying to disengage her clinging hands. At that moment Susanna rushed in. Taking in the scene, she joined Melanie in restraining Thomas.
“You must not!” she said, holding him tightly. The two women were hard pressed to hold him back, and Clay got to his feet, blood streaming down his cheek. The first blow had taken him on top of his head; the second had caught him as he turned and had opened a cut from his eyebrow to his cheekbone. Stunned by the attack, he stood there, his eyes blank.
Slowly Thomas regained control. He took a deep breath, then tossed the poker to the floor. “I’m—all right now,” he said with a trembling voice. “It’s a good thing you were here. I would have killed him!”
Clay blinked, felt the blood running down his cheek, and raised one hand to touch it. He stared at the blood, then at the three who stood in front of him. He could not think clearly, but the look in his father’s eyes told him that nothing he could say would matter.
Then Thomas spoke to his son in a voice as cold and hard as his eyes. “Get out of my house! You are no longer my son!”
Clay licked his lips, trying to reply, but there was no mercy in those eyes. He shook his head, then turned and walked out of the library. As his feet sounded on the steps, Susanna clutched at Thomas, saying, “Oh, my dear, are you sure—?”
“He’s not our son, Susanna!” Thomas said in an iron voice. “He is dead—and I never want to hear his name again!”
Melanie, Susanna, and Thomas stood there, and soon the sound of a horse’s hooves came to them. They waited until the echoes died away, and to all of them the sound of it was like a death knell.
PART THREE
Prodigal’s Return—1859
CHAPTER 13
THE SLAVER
A fierce gale had torn the tops out of t
he Carrie Jane and—even worse—had snapped the mainmast ten feet above the deck. Ignoring the biting wind that numbed his fingers and stiffened his face, Clay Rocklin drove the deckhands aloft to set the new canvas. He would have gone up himself, but one of the first things he had discovered when he had come aboard the ship was that he had little head for heights. He had mastered every other aspect of seamanship, and it grated on his nerves that young Carlin, who was only sixteen, could scamper aloft into the swaying tops, while he himself was confined to the deck by some bad gene.
“Better get every inch on her you can, Mr. Rocklin.” Clay turned to find that Captain March had come from the wheel to look at the tattered canvas. He was a thick-bodied man, his white hair set off by a ruddy complexion. Though well over sixty years old, the captain could work any of the deckhands into a stupor. It had been the fact that he could not outwork Clay Rocklin that had drawn his attention to the young man.
Clay had been stranded in Jamaica, totally destitute and with no prospects. The Carrie Jane had glided into the harbor under half sail, beautiful in the sparkling sunshine. That night Clay had met Captain Jonas March, and the other man had gotten the outline of his story. “Never too late for a man to change,” he had said. “God can do what you can’t.”
Clay had resisted his preaching but had signed on as a deckhand for a run to Africa. “You know our cargo?” March had asked. “No? Well, it’s black ivory, mister.”
“Slaves?” Clay had asked in surprise. “That’s against international law.”
“It ain’t against God’s law! The pay’s good, but it’s the Lord’s work, too. It’s all there in the Bible, in black and white … the sons of Ham, bondservants, the sweat of their brow. We’re spreading the Lord’s seed, mister!”
Clay had soon discovered that Captain March held with the ideology of most of the planters he knew, that the black man was blessed by slavery. That his lot as a slave in the South was better than the life he would have had in a hut in Africa. Even more important, this new life would expose the black man to the gospel, which would save his soul.
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 17