Suddenly he knew he had no choice—not really. He lifted his head and, in a husky whisper, said, “I’ll do it, Melora! I’ll follow Jesus as long as I live!”
Melora said, “Let’s pray, then, and you tell God that you want to receive the gift He’s giving you ….”
Three hours later, when Clay walked into the kitchen at Gracefield, he found Dorrie and his mother there, planning the meals for the next week. When he entered, the greeting on his mother’s lips died, and her face turned as pale as paper. Dropping the book she was holding, she ran to him, crying out, “Oh, my boy! My boy!”
As he held his mother, Clay saw Dorrie throw her hands into the air and heard her shout, “Glory to God! Glory to God! My chile’s done come home! He’s found de glory!”
And then she began to do an ecstatic dance of joy around the kitchen. It was not a graceful sort of dance, but it was the most beautiful dance Clay Rocklin had ever seen!
PART FOUR
Thunder over Sumter—1860
CHAPTER 19
THE WINDS OF WAR
Late in the afternoon of October 16, 1859, John Brown reached the Maryland Bridge of Harpers Ferry. Brown, looking much like an Old Testament prophet—and believing himself to be the chosen vessel of God for freeing the slaves—had come with a grandiose plan for a deathblow against slavery. For two years he had waited, raising money to set his dream in motion. Now the time had come. His lips compressed, his eyes shining like polished steel, Brown marched at the head of his “army”—which consisted of sixteen whites, four free blacks, and one escaped slave.
“Men, we will proceed to the Ferry,” he proclaimed, a fanatical light in his great staring eyes. He led the group through a cold drizzle, crossing the Potomac River on a covered bridge leading into the town; then the party moved toward the U.S. arsenal on Potomac Street.
It all went with remarkable ease. The watchman at the arsenal was taken by surprise; then the raiders captured the nearby Hall’s Rifle Works. Next, Brown sent a few of his men to seize some prominent hostages, particularly Colonel Lewis Washington, a prosperous slaveholder and a great-grandnephew of the first president. Following explicit instructions from Brown, the contingent brought back not only Colonel Washington, but also a sword belonging to him that had been presented to George Washington by Frederick the Great. Brown strapped the weapon around his waist and waited, expecting slaves by the thousands to rally to him. Once he had armed them from the arsenal, they would march on in his campaign of liberation.
But the slaves did not come. Instead the town roused up and began to fight, and soon telegraph wires all over the East hummed with exaggerated reports like “Negro insurrection at Harpers Ferry! Fire and raping on the Virginia border!”
Several militia companies formed, and when they got to the town, they pinned Brown and his men down in Hall’s Rifle Works. The raiders suffered the first casualty. Dangerfield Newby, a black, was killed. Townspeople dragged his body to a gutter and cut off his ears and let hogs chew on the corpse.
The battle went on all afternoon. At one o’clock, Brown sent two men out to negotiate under a truce flag. They were shot down. The battle went on, with several of the raiders shot or wounded. In the melee, the mayor of Harpers Ferry was shot dead, and in drunken rage the townsmen hauled out a raider whom they had captured that morning, killed him in cold blood, and used his body for target practice.
Word soon came that a company of marines from Washington was on its way. As the night wore on, Brown and his men spent a cold, hungry night in the engine house, listening to desultory gunfire and a drunken ruckus in the town. By then, Brown’s son Oliver had been wounded, and he lay beside his brother Watson, both of them dying in terrible pain. “If you must die, die like a man,” Brown replied in cold anger. Some time later he called to Oliver and got no reply. “I guess he is dead,” said John Brown.
“What is it, Gid?” Melanie came out of the bedroom, pulling a green silk robe around her shoulders. She had awakened at once when the banging on the front door came, but waited until Gid threw on his own robe and went to answer it. There was some muffled talk that she did not understand, and when she heard the front door close, she went to meet him.
Gid’s hair was mussed, but his eyes were wide open, and she saw that he was aroused. “I’ve got orders to go to Harpers Ferry, Mellie,” he said. “Help me get ready.”
As he shaved, she pulled his kit together, listening as he told her what little he knew. “Some maniac named John Brown has captured the arsenal at Harpers Ferry,” he told her. “That’s about all I know. I’m ordered to go with the marines to capture the raiders.”
Melanie always dreaded such moments. They had been stationed in Washington for over a year, and it had been a wonderful time for her, for both of them. But now he would be facing danger, and when he left her, she kissed him and held him with all her might, saying, “I’ll be waiting.”
“It won’t be long, I think. You’ll have to tell the boys.” Then he was gone, and she watched as he moved out into the darkness, his body strong and upright in the blue uniform. When she could no longer see him, she went back to bed—but not to sleep.
When Gid got to company headquarters, he received another shock. Colonel Barrington, his commanding officer, met him, saying, “You made good time, Major. Now come with me. I want you to meet your commanding officer.” He led Gid across the yard where men were running about in what seemed to be wild confusion, but was only the normal manner of men called into sudden action. Barrington led Gid inside the quartermaster’s building and moved to where two officers were leaning over a map on the desk.
“Colonel Lee, this is Major Rocklin. He’ll accompany you as an aide.”
Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee turned and faced Gid and at once recognized him. A smile came to his lips, and he nodded. “Well, Major, it’s been a long time since our venture in Mexico.”
Gid returned the smile. “Yes, sir, I’m glad to see you again.”
“This is Lieutenant Stuart of the First U.S. Cavalry, Major. He’ll be in our command.” Lee waited until the two men shook hands, then said, “We’ll move at once.” He hesitated, his eyes on Gid, and said, “Well, it’s always good to have a man who’s been decorated along.” When Gid moved his shoulders slightly, he said contritely, “I remember now. You never did like to hear anyone speak of your medal. But in any case, I’m glad to have you.”
Later as they rode rapidly at the head of the column, Lee mostly kept his silence. Once, though, he did ask, “I don’t want to bring up unpleasant things, Major, but what became of your cousin, the one we had to discharge?”
Gid explained briefly that Clay had led an unfortunate life, then added, “He’s back in Virginia now, helping his father with the plantation. I have hopes he’ll do well.”
“Men can change, sir,” Lee answered, and he said no more until they arrived at the arsenal. He took charge at once, spoke with the officer in charge of the militia, then sent Jeb Stuart under a white flag to demand surrender and promise protection for the raiders. Gid was standing slightly behind Lee and watched as Stuart talked to Brown at the door. After five minutes, Stuart jumped aside and waved his hat as a signal for the marines to charge.
It was soon over, but Gid always remembered the charge. He had led the way and heard the familiar sound of bullets singing in the air. He pulled his Colt and fired at the door and was with the first two or three men who crashed through to confront the raiders. The rifle shots rattled around the bricked-in engine room like firecrackers set off in a stone jug, and there was the harsh stink of sweat and powder.
Brown fired and missed, then fell to his knees, the sword in his hand bent double. A private snatched it from Brown and rained blows about his head.
From beginning to end, the charge took only fifteen minutes. Later as Lee, Stuart, and Rocklin stood watching the soldiers put irons on Brown, Stuart said, “Well, that was easy! But I’m glad it’s over.”
A shadow crossed Lee�
��s face. He said quietly, “It’s not over, Lieutenant. In fact, I’m afraid this is just the beginning.”
Lee was correct. Brown was hanged forty-five days later and promptly became a martyr to the abolitionist cause—and a dark omen to the South. He inspired the North, and the day would come when men would march off to fight, singing, “John Brown’s body lies a’moldering in the grave ….”
For over a year John Brown’s body did molder in the grave, but when the election of 1860 came, the cause for which he died was very much alive. The nation seemed to be poised on the brink of some climactic change, and when the announcement was made that Abraham Lincoln was the new president, both North and South reacted strongly. Springfield, Illinois, went wild, and there was dancing in the streets in Washington.
In the South, there was a strange reaction. The general populace felt a deep anger and a sense of being abused by the North. But there was also a sudden sense of release, a sense of some sort of bondage being lifted.
The Rocklins felt it as they drove to Richmond for a dress ball. The election was still in progress, though they were expecting to hear the results before the night was out. Clay drove Ellen and the children, and he was strangely oppressed as they drove through the crowded streets of the city. Ellen seemed oblivious to Clay’s mood, as did the children. There were bands on the streets and buildings were decorated.
Ellen said with satisfaction, “It’s so exciting! And Mr. Breckinridge will surely come to Richmond after he’s elected.”
“He won’t be elected, Ellen,” Clay said. He had explained to her twice that the Democratic Party had committed political suicide by its refusal to agree on a candidate. Instead the Party had divided into camps favoring three men: J. C. Breckinridge, John Bell, and Stephen A. Douglas. “Lincoln couldn’t beat any one of those, but when the party split three ways, he couldn’t lose,” Clay had explained.
But Ellen said, “If you were a true Southerner, you wouldn’t talk like that!” Then she began to talk to Dent, who agreed with her. She was wearing a new dress that was far too youthful for her and much too ornate. The fact that Clay was coming to the ball with her at all was some sort of a victory. Since his return, he had not shown any inclination to join the social life of Richmond. But she had insisted, and Susanna had said mildly, “I think it would be nice if you’d make an appearance with the family, Clay. For the sake of the children.”
So he had agreed, but as he helped Ellen down from the carriage and led her into the ballroom, he was wishing he had not. Since his return to Gracefield, he had been isolated completely from her—especially after he made his conversion known. Ellen had laughed at him, saying, “It’s just another of your fancies, Clay. It’ll never last!” But somehow, as the months passed and Clay worked away doggedly at restoring Gracefield—and slowly gained the respect of the community—she resented the change in him. It was as though she wanted him to fail, and Clay soon began to realize that was her true desire.
The ballroom was beautifully decked. Flanking its long sides were chairs of all descriptions and degrees of comfort, with scarcely an inch between them. Here and there the line of chairs was broken by stands of Boston ferns. The ferns had been washed to look fresher, and the stands were sashed in broad bands of colored silk tied with elaborate bows. Large branches of magnolias with dark brown limbs and dark green leaves were set in tin tubs that had been tinseled over and so gave back the light of the huge chandeliers and the two hundred candles that brightened the hall.
There were already people everywhere, and soon the dancing began, but only waltzing; the formal sets had not yet been called. There was a general air of coming and going, and spectators staked jealous claims to the chairs that would afford the best views of the dancing and flirting. The ladies did much traipsing up and down the stairs with the excuse of leaving wraps or repairing hair and faces.
Ellen proved to be very popular, which did not surprise Clay. She was still an attractive woman, if one liked the lush type. She was claimed at once by a man he didn’t know. As she floated off, he left the dance floor and made his way to the billiard room, where he found, as he expected, some of the men with whom he played poker. Bushrod Aimes was talking, as usual, waving one hand around wildly and holding a glass in the other. He spotted Clay and cried out, “Clay, come and wet your whistle!”
Clay moved forward and took a glass of wine from one of the white-jacketed waiters. He had learned long ago that it was easier to take one drink of the mild wine and nurse it along for hours than to fight off the constant demands of his friends that he join them in drinking.
Taylor Dewitt grinned at him. “You look pretty as a picture in that outfit, Clay. Now if you drop dead, we won’t have to do a thing to you, except stick a lily in your hand.”
“What’s that I smell?” Clay frowned, ignoring Taylor’s words.
“That’s me!” Tug Ramsey said proudly. “Ain’t it elegant?” He was as fat as a bear but still had the baby face he’d had at eighteen. Shy to excess with women, he had remained a bachelor, the only one of the old group who had done so.
“He got that lotion from a Frenchman on Bourbon Street in New Orleans,” Taylor explained, grinning.
“I did not either!” Ramsey protested indignantly. “I bought it at a fancy store right here in Richmond!”
The mood of the room was light, and Taylor Dewitt stood there thinking, Well, it took over a year, but old Clay has made it! Never thought it could happen! He, along with the rest of the close-knit world of wealthy planters, had expected Clay to do well for a time. But it had come as a pleasant shock when he had kept to the task of restoring the fortunes of Gracefield. Dire prophecies had gone forth, stating that sooner or later he would break out, as he always did. But it had not happened. And Taylor was convinced that Clay was over the terrible part of his life. Oh, he had no life with Ellen, that was plain, for Taylor knew that she was unchanged. He himself kept his distance from her, but one of his friends, a boastful fellow named Jake Slocum, had informed him that the Rocklins did not live together as man and wife. Slocum, a stallion of a man with bulging arms and legs, had nudged Taylor in the ribs and given a sly grin, saying, “Woman’s got to have a man, ain’t that right, Dewitt? If Rocklin can’t take care of his woman, reckon it’s all I can do for him to take the chore myself!”
Slocum had taken a savage pleasure in throwing pointed gibes at Clay on the rare occasions when they were in the same company. Taylor had been alarmed on the first of these occasions. He had taken Slocum aside, saying, “Jake, I wouldn’t take that line with Clay. He’s been known to plug one or two fellows who took liberties with him.”
“Rocklin! Aw, Dewitt, ain’t you heard? He’s on the glory trail! A good Christian like him can’t take a shot at a fellow, can he, now?” Slocum had taken every opportunity to push at Clay, and most of the crowd had been disappointed in Clay’s reaction.
“You want him to shoot Jake, Bushrod?” Taylor had asked the fiery Aimes, who had expressed his wish to see Rocklin put a stop to Slocum’s gibes. “That’s just what Clay needs, isn’t it? A duel! That’s what got him off on the wrong foot in the first place, you blockhead!” Then he had said thoughtfully, “I might call Jake out myself.”
Bushrod had stared at him. “What for, Taylor? He ain’t insulted you.”
“I may shoot him for being so stupid!”
The talk came around to the election, but Clay took no part in the heated discussion. He found a seat behind the wall, had the waiter bring him a cup of hot coffee, and relaxed. The sound of music drifted in from the ballroom, and for the next hour he sat and enjoyed the company. Though he refused to talk about politics, he did talk about farming. He shocked the small group that gathered around him by his remark that he was changing from cotton to corn, at least partially.
“Why, Clay, there’s not the money in corn that there is in cotton!” Devoe Tate exclaimed. He was a short, muscular man of thirty who had become friendly with Clay over the past few months. �
��And this is cotton country. Too hot for corn.”
“Tell you how it comes out next fall, Devoe,” Clay said with a shrug. But when Devoe pressed him, he finally said, “Not going to tell you your business, Devoe, but corn would really be even better for you than for Gracefield.” When Devoe pressed him, he went on to explain, a little self-conscious because several other men had gathered around to listen. “Well, you’ve got a smaller place, for one thing, and not nearly so many slaves. Cotton wears land out fast, which we all know, and it takes lots of hands to make the crop.”
“Well, I was thinking of buying more slaves and more land,” Devoe said, scratching his chin.
“You could do that, but do you know the price of a prime field hand?”
“About three thousand dollars, I reckon.”
“How much cotton would he have to raise before you make three thousand dollars clear?”
Devoe did some rapid calculation, then said, “I’d say about fifty bales, Clay, maybe more. But I’d have him for years.”
“If he didn’t die or get sick.”
Clay sipped his coffee, and Tug asked, “Are you against slavery, Clay?”
“I’m against losing money, Tug,” Clay remarked, turning the question away. Then he went on, “Devoe, you wouldn’t have to buy another acre or another slave to raise corn. Maybe you wouldn’t make as much cash. I can’t say about that.”
Devoe looked a little embarrassed. “You know, my folks moved here from Missouri. Know what they did there? They raised corn and fed hogs, then sold the hogs. Did real good at it.” He sighed, adding, “Pa told me the last time he was out of debt was back in Missouri. Said the first slave he bought put him in debt, and he’s never been out since!”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 25