Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells
Page 18
The crew of the Carrie Jane was a poor lot, but March had some education. He invited Clay to his cabin often, and they had become friends by the time the ship touched on the African continent. March had said, “You’re young and strong, Rocklin, and you’re smart. Now let me tell you, if you apply yourself, you can make something of your life. I’m no spring chicken, you know! And I been keepin’ my eye out for a good young man. Don’t see why you can’t be him. I’ll teach you the sea and ships, and you work hard. Sooner than you think, you’ll be a fine seaman, and you can buy an interest in the Carrie Jane.”
As the wind whipped across his face, Clay studied the face of Jonas March. Things had happened exactly as the old sailor had predicted that night in his cabin. Clay had applied himself, discovering that he had a natural gift for the sea. The years had gone by swiftly, and now he owned one-half of the ship and had a large bank account besides.
The pay was good, as Jonas had said—but life had not been easy. Even now, Clay could hear the moaning of the blacks below deck. He always heard it these days, even in his sleep. The years had hardened him to the sight of men, women, and children being chained and packed below deck like animals. He had learned to block what he was doing out of his mind. He had even reached the point where he could ignore the awful smell of filth and disease that clung to the ship. After he had become master’s mate, he simply concentrated on counting his money, dreaming of the time when he would leave the ship.
The land summoned him, for—despite his abilities—he was not a sailor. He longed for the fields, the trees, and the rivers of Virginia. More than once he had almost taken the plunge, but then he would think, Where would I go? Back to Gracefield? I can’t do that! They’ve written me off forever.
Clay looked toward the stern, noting that the sails of the British frigate were slightly closer. “She’s gaining on us, Jonas.” He spoke loudly over the sound of the keening wind. “I don’t think even with the topsails repaired we can outrun her. Not with the mainmast down.”
“Try it.” As he said this, Captain March stared at Clay, a thought in his head. But he decided the time was not right and simply said, “Get the canvas on her, Clay!”
An hour later, the topsails were all in place, but it was obvious that the frigate was not going to be shaken off.
“What’ll happen if they catch us, sir?”
Clay looked around to see young Carlin staring at the warship, his eyes big with fear.
“They’ll confiscate the ship and throw us all in a rotting prison for the rest of our lives,” he said harshly. “That’s what you were told when you signed on. It’s the risk you take on as a slaver.” Then he said in a softer tone, “Maybe she’ll lose some of her sails. Ordinarily we could run away and leave her, but not without a mainmast.”
Clay had no hope, for he was seaman enough to know the truth—they could not outsail the frigate with the sails they had. He knew another truth, too: He would never go to prison, not as long as he had a pistol in his cabin. Life was bad enough, but he knew enough of the English prisons to know it would be better to die than go to one.
He was standing on the deck when Captain March joined him. “She’ll be up with us in two hours, Jonas,” he remarked.
“Aye, she will.” A strange look was on the face of the old captain, and he said in a tight voice, “Get all the blacks up on deck.”
“On deck? What for?”
“Just obey the order, mister!”
A thought crossed Clay’s mind, but he put it quickly away. Captain March had been a slaver for many years; perhaps shifting the slaves around would give the ship another knot or so an hour. He obeyed the order, and twenty minutes later the deck was packed with the captives. They were terrified, of course, as they always were from the time they stepped on board.
What must it be like, Clay wondered, not for the first time, to be snatched from your village, from your home? To be chained and whipped and driven away from all you’ve ever known? And then to be put on a ship, taken thousands of miles to a strange land where nothing is familiar. No wonder so many of them just give up and die!
The wind was rising as Clay stood there staring at the pitiful captives. There were mothers with babies, and children so young they could barely walk. And there were the men, whose bodies were striped by the whips of the slavers who had brought them to the ship. He saw one young woman, a beautiful girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen. She had a child, and she clung to it fiercely, her arms around him to cut off the cold wind. She was dressed in rags, as they all were, and the cold January wind must have chilled her to the bones.
Then he heard Captain March say, “Over the side with them, Mr. Rocklin!”
Clay’s mind seemed to turn to ice. He stood absolutely still, refusing to believe that he had heard the captain’s order correctly. The young woman with the child was staring at him with huge eyes, and he could hear the keening of the child, a thin cry that seemed to tie his stomach into knots.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Rocklin?” Jonas March’s face was fixed in a flinty expression. “Quick! You know what will happen if that frigate takes us with this cargo!” The hand of Captain Marsh grasped Clay’s arm, and his voice was harsh. “We have no choice!”
Still Clay stood there, transfixed, his mind reeling. It was like a terrible dream, the face of the young woman growing larger and larger, the sound of the child’s crying thin and faint.
Then Jonas yelled at the second mate. “Over the side, Jenkins!”
As Clay watched, the burly Jenkins lifted the man on the end of the chain and flung him over the side. The man screamed, and the weight of his body jerked the slave next to him over the side. Immediate horrible screams rent the air, drowning out the wind whistling in Clay’s ears.
The young woman had her eyes fixed on him when the chain around her waist caught her, dragging her to the rail, and she clutched her baby tightly. Her eyes were filled with panic, but she didn’t scream. She stared at Clay as if she expected him to do something, but he stood there unable to move.
Just as she went over, her body striking the rail, she took one hand from her baby and lifted it in a strangely eloquent gesture for mercy, and her eyes were fixed on him as she disappeared from his sight. He took one horrified glance toward the stern and saw the line of writhing bodies sinking into the churning wake of the Carrie Jane.
Then he whirled and ran to the bow, where he vomited so violently that he thought his rib cage would be torn apart.
The rest of the voyage was strange. The British frigate finally overtook the slaver and boarded her. The British captain knew what they had done, and in his cabin he excoriated Captain March and Clay, cursing them with every invective he could manage. But he had no evidence, and in the end he had to let them go.
March said little for the next two days. It was clear that his partner was in bad shape. Finally he sought Clay out, saying, “It was unfortunate, my boy, and we both grieve over the loss.”
“How much money did we lose, Jonas?” Clay’s voice was harsh as a raven’s caw, and he stared at the captain with haunted eyes. “How many dollars went down to the bottom?”
Jonas March stood there, his eyes hurt. He was not a dishonest man. He lived according to what he thought was right—but the sight of those black bodies had shaken his theory, and now he said, “I—I wasn’t thinking of dollars, Clay.”
Clay stared at him, his body tense; then he saw the pain in the eyes of the old man. “I’m sure you weren’t, Jonas,” he said wearily. “But this is the end for me.”
And so it was at the end of the voyage that Jonas bought back Clay’s half-interest in the ship. The two men parted at the bank where they had settled the legal side of the business.
“Jonas, I thank you for your goodness to me. You’ve been more than generous.”
March waved his hand. “No, my boy, no more than just. You’ve done more than I expected.” He paused and asked before turning to go, “What will you do, Clay?”
CHAPTER 14
THE END OF THE TETHER
Mr. Warren Larrimore sat back in his tan leather chair, framed a steeple with his fingers, and stared at the man across the desk from him. Larrimore was a lean man with a large head and a full black beard that concealed most of his features. In fact, that was precisely why he wore the beard—as a banker he had to make hard decisions, decisions that sometimes went against his own desires. As a young man he had allowed his naturally generous nature to dictate his business decisions, but a lifetime of dealing with men and money had taught him something.
“Tom,” he said quietly, his mild voice more like that of a choir director than a banker as he spoke, “we’ve been over this before. Although I hate to remind you of it, you’ve gone against every bit of advice I’ve ever given you. I’m accustomed to that, for most men think they know more about their business than a stodgy banker. But I like to think that our relationship has been a little more than just banker and depositor. I’ve considered you a friend for a long time.”
Thomas Rocklin sat across from Larrimore, his face pulled tight and his heart beating too fast. He tried to smile but made a bad job of it. “Certainly, Warren! I feel that way, too.” His collar seemed too tight, and he pulled at it nervously, trying to find a way to say what he hoped would change Larrimore’s mind about the loan. “And you’re right about the rest. I should have listened to you. But I thought the price of cotton would go up—and I still think it will. Where else is England going to buy cotton for her mills?”
Larrimore shook his head with a sharp impatience. “Tom, you’re like all the rest of the planters. You think the world runs on cotton!” The blindness that Southern planters had developed about cotton was an old story to the banker. He had explained the problem to Rocklin before, but he tried once again. “It’s always an evil to be tied to one source of income, Tom. You’re bound to it and helpless in the long run. What can you do if the price goes down? Hold your cotton? No, because almost every planter I know borrows to the hilt to get the crop raised. So you’ll take whatever is offered. And if there’s a war, what will you do with it? You can’t eat it, and you can’t make cannon or shells out of it.”
“England will buy it,” Thomas said stubbornly. “She has to.”
Larrimore gave up, and though nothing showed in his face, he was sickened over what he had to do. But there was no way out—a fact he had known from the beginning. Drawing his eyes down to a stare, he said, “Tom, I’ve got to call your loans. It’s not my decision, you understand. I have a board of directors to answer to. When the loan committee met, I tried everything I could think of to get them to extend the loans, but they voted me down unanimously.”
“But, Warren, there must be something you can do!” A cold sweat appeared on Rocklin’s brow, and he clenched his hands to control the tremor that suddenly came to them. “I’ll lose Gracefield!”
“I think I can maneuver the thing so that you’ll come out with something, Tom,” Larrimore said. “Not much, but enough so that you and Susanna won’t have to worry.” He tried to put a good face on the thing, saying in an encouraging tone, “After all, it’s time you took things easy. You can travel some, maybe buy a little place in town, just big enough for you and Susanna and for the grandchildren to visit.”
Thomas blinked his eyes nervously. The thing he had dreaded had finally come, and he felt as though he were in a terrible nightmare. More than anything in his life, he wanted Warren Larrimore to suddenly laugh and say, “Now, Tom, I was just trying to give you a scare! Cheer up! You can have the loan!”
He knew, though, with a sickening certainty, that no such thing was going to happen. He sat there trying not to let the fear that clutched him show, but Larrimore saw it. A Christian man, Larrimore had more compassion than was prudent for a banker. “Tom,” he said, “I’ve told you before, there’s one way out of this. Ask your brother to help you. Stephen is a wealthy man. He’s your older brother. I think he’d be glad to help you.”
“No!” The banker was shocked at the vehemence in Rocklin’s answer. “I won’t do it!” He got to his feet, picked up his coat, and started for the door. He stopped abruptly, turned back, and added, nodding, “I’ll find a way out of this, Warren. There are other banks!”
As the door closed, Larrimore sat at his desk, grieving over the tragedy of the Rocklin family. None of them was fitted for the world of business—except Stephen, of course. Burke Rocklin, Thomas’s younger son, was no help. He had hated farmwork from the time he was ten years old. Thomas had spent a fortune educating him, and at the age of twenty-nine,
Burke was still “trying to find himself.” Then there was Clay Rocklin …
The door opened and a tall, heavy man with a smooth face and a pair of direct gray eyes came in. George Snelling was chairman of the board. He asked at once, “You tell him, Warren?”
“Yes,” the other replied heavily. “He didn’t take it well.”
“Too bad! But it’s been inevitable. You did all you could to help him, Warren. But a man’s got to stand on his own two feet.” He went to the window and watched the traffic, then asked, “He understands that he’s got to vacate at once?”
“I gave him a month, George.”
Snelling frowned. That was not what the board had instructed Larrimore to do. But then he smiled. He was a hard character himself, but he had learned to trust the small man sitting at the desk. “Well, you know best, I suppose.” He studied Larrimore, then said again, “Too bad,” and left the room. Larrimore did not move for more than five minutes. He sat there staring at the wall until, in a rare gesture of anger, he suddenly raised his fist and struck his walnut desk an angry blow that sent papers flying. Then he took a deep breath, shook his head, and began to gather them up in a logical fashion.
Susanna knew that something was wrong with Tom the minute he returned. She saw him from the kitchen window where she was helping Dorrie. “Finish the rest of these potatoes, Dorrie,” she said and went at once to meet him, but he came in through the side door and went upstairs. When she went into her room, she was shocked to find him sitting on the bed, his face twisted as though he was having some sort of attack.
“Tom! What is it?” She rushed over to his side, and he suddenly reached for her. She held his head against her breast, fear beginning to rise in her. In all their years of married life, she had never seen him like this! “Is it your heart?”
“No!” He pulled himself back and stared at her, his dark eyes blinking. She saw that he was on the verge of losing control.
She said nothing but put her arm around him. He clung to her until, finally, he grew calm. He took a deep breath. “I’ve been to see Warren Larrimore,” he said.
Susanna understood. “He’s not going to renew our loans?”
“He said he wants to, but the loan committee turned us down.” He bit his lip, then broke out, “Susanna, we’re going to lose everything!”
Susanna knew at that moment that she was stronger than her husband. But then, she had always known that. “We’ll be all right, Tom,” she said evenly.
“All right? How can we be ‘all right’?” he demanded, his control slipping. He stopped, put out his hand, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m just not myself.”
“We’ve seen it coming for a long time.”
“I know—but I thought something would happen!” He groaned and pulled at his hair nervously. “How am I going to tell the children?”
“Just tell them,” Susanna said practically. The thought of leaving Gracefield was a sharp pain in her bosom, but she would never let Thomas or anyone else see it. “A family is more than a house, I do hope,” she said. “The Rocklins have good stuff. We’ll be all right.”
Tom shook his head. “I talked to Brad yesterday. I thought he could help, but he’s had a bad year, too. Oh, he offered what he could, but it wasn’t ne
arly enough.”
“We can’t take the money from Brad and Amy,” Susanna said at once. “They’re in debt as deeply as we are. Brad expanded too fast.” After a while, she got Tom to sit down and talk. It was, Susanna thought with some bitterness, the first time they’d talked so long in years. It takes a tragedy to get us together for an hour, she thought. But all she said was, “We’ll tell the family tonight, after supper.”
“All right. It’ll have to be done.”
That night Thomas ate almost nothing. Susanna looked around the table at each face, wondering how they would take the news. She sat at one end of the table, Thomas at the other. To her right sat Ellen with the twins, Dent and David. On her left Burke sat next to his father, and beside him, Lowell and Rena. Four out of the eight are Clay’s, she thought suddenly, then resolutely closed her mind to the image of her oldest child.
The talk at the table centered on the strain between the North and the South. As usual, Dent and Burke were the loudest. Burke was not more than five feet ten inches tall and looked remarkably like Susanna; he was the only one of the children who resembled her. He had a round face, smooth brown hair, and gray-green eyes. Actually he cared little for politics, but he loved to tease Dent, who was easily stirred. They were arguing about a series of debates that had taken place a few months earlier between two politicians in Illinois—Stephen A. Douglas, a man of national prominence, and Abraham Lincoln, a lesser-known figure.
“Steve Douglas is our man, Burke!” Dent said, waving a fork with a large chunk of roast beef impaled on it. “He’s got the right idea—popular sovereignty!”
“And what’s that?” Burke prodded.
“Why, the right of a state to tend to its own business!
You just wait, Burke,” Dent said, his dark eyes burning. “Steve Douglas will be the next president of the United States!” Dent, at the age of seventeen, looked so much like Clay had at that age that it pained Susanna to watch him. He was like Clay in more than looks, too ….