Dent came out of his chair and lunged at Slocum, who was waiting for just such a move. He brushed off the wild blow aimed at his face and drove his huge fist into Dent. The wicked blow caught the boy on the forehead and dropped him to the floor senseless.
At once Clay came to his feet, his face contorted with rage. He recognized what Slocum was doing and knew that he was falling into a trap, but for one instant the volatile temper he’d always had flared up. But as he moved toward Slocum, Bushrod caught him, saying, “Watch it, Clay! You know how Jake fights! He’ll gouge your eyes out! You can’t fight him with fists!”
“That’s right, Clay,” Taylor said instantly. “Let it be pistols!”
Fear came into Slocum, but out of the fear he managed to say the one right thing, the thing that would inflame Clay Rocklin.
“He can’t even take care of his own wife! He’s too busy chasing around after that Yancy girl!”
A coldness came to Clay then, and he shook off Bushrod and came to stand before Slocum. Something told him he could not shoot the man, and he knew that he could never beat him in a roughhouse fight. But he was ice-cold now, and with a sudden motion, he picked up a bottle of whiskey, almost full, and before Slocum could move, he brought it down over the man’s head, lifting himself on his toes to put more force into the blow.
Slocum was driven to the floor as the bottle struck his head. It broke as it struck, cutting a jagged slash across his skull. A muffled cry went up from his thick throat, and then there was a sudden silence in the saloon as every eye turned to watch.
The blow would have knocked a lesser man out, but Slocum had a thick skull, and he came to his feet, his eyes glazed and a bright river of crimson blood flowing down his cheek. He was confused, but still a formidable figure. His huge muscles bulged against his suit, and his neck was so thick that his head seemed to be perched on his broad shoulders. Some of the men watching looked at the frightening bulk and—remembering how he had nearly killed men in this sort of fight—shook their heads. “Clay ain’t got no show!” one of them said quietly. “Slocum will get him down and kick his head off!”
Clay Rocklin was the same height as Slocum, but lean rather than heavily muscled. He looked almost fragile against the hulking man. But there was a quickness about his movement, and he picked up a chair, raised it in the air, and brought it down over Slocum’s head. It was a frightful blow, smashing the chair and knocking Slocum to the floor. He moved slowly, thrashing his arms like a man underwater as he shoved at the broken fragments of the chair, but then he slowly came to his feet.
“That’s all right, Clay!” he said thickly. “That’s all right! I’m going to get you now!”
The endurance of the man was unbelievable! He should have been unconscious, but he was advancing with his great arms outstretched. Clay picked up another chair and drove it with all his force into Slocum’s face. One leg caught him in the mouth, knocking out teeth and driving his head backward. He staggered, spat out teeth and blood, then, with his eyes dulled, moved forward, saying, “That’s all right, Clay!”
“I guess we’re even now, Jake,” Clay said. He caught Slocum with a driving right that stopped him dead in his tracks. But Slocum was not out, and he caught Clay full in the mouth with a right hand that sent sparks reeling before his eyes. It was a disaster that shook Clay to his heels, and as he fell backward, Slocum cried out, “I got you!”
Clay sprawled flat on his back and saw the madness in Slocum’s eyes, and he knew … he knew if he fell prey to those massive arms, every rib he had would be broken. He was helpless, but as Slocum launched himself to fall on him, he did the only thing he could. He raised his leg and, with all his strength, sent his heel into the face of Slocum.
It caught the man full in the face, breaking his nose and driving his head back at an acute angle. He fell on Clay, who scrambled frantically to get free, but Slocum was out.
Clay stood there, his mouth bleeding from the blow he had taken, his breath coming in rasps. The saloon was absolutely still, and there was something like fear in the eyes of some of the men.
“Clay!” Taylor burst out. “I think you broke his neck!”
“I hope so,” Clay managed to say, then moved over to where Dent was struggling to get to his feet. Putting his hands under his son’s arms, he hauled him to his feet. “Are you ready to go, Dent?” he asked.
“Y–yes.” Dent had regained consciousness in time to see the last of the fight, but was still confused. He let Clay hold him up, and the two left the saloon.
“I never saw anything like that!” Bushrod said. He bent over Slocum, staring at the ruin of the man’s face. “He ain’t dead,” he announced. “But he won’t be a lady-killer any more. Not with that face!”
“Clay should have killed him,” Taylor said. “He’ll have to now, sooner or later!”
The two Rocklins got into the wagon, Clay helping his son. Then they left town, saying nothing.
Finally Clay said, “I wish that hadn’t happened, Dent.”
Dent took a deep breath of the cool air. It was all like a bad dream, and all he could hear was the taunt of Jake Slocum about his mother. He had long been aware that she was not a good woman, but to have her spoken about in such a way, in a saloon, made it unbearable. He was hurt and confused, and he struck out at Clay blindly.
“It’s all your fault! Why did you have to come back? You’ve brought shame on my mother!”
The unfairness of it struck Clay like a blow, but he said nothing. Hot words came to his lips, but he bit them back. There was, he knew, nothing that he could do to make peace with Dent. So he kept his hurting to himself.
When they reached the house, Dent fell off the wagon and lurched off blindly into the night, leaving Clay to stare after him helplessly. Finally he unhitched the team and went to his house. He was met by Buck, who had befriended him long ago. The dog whined and licked his hand, but Clay only spoke to him absently, then went inside and lay down.
He stared at the ceiling, despair welling up in his mind. He’d wanted to kill Slocum! He felt again the fury that had risen in him when the brute had spoken of Melora. He’d thought he had overcome his temper, and since becoming a Christian, he’d had little problem. Now he despaired knowing that word would get back to Melora, who would be scarred by it.
And Dent was in even worse shape. He was shattered by the experience. Finally, after walking for what seemed like a long time, he came back but could not stand to go into the house. Making his way to the scuppernong arbor, he slumped on one of the benches inside. He did not even see Deborah, who had been standing at one end, shaded from his view by a winter hedge.
She turned to go, not wanting to speak to him—and then she stopped dead still, for she heard the sound of sobs. Turning quickly, she saw in the moonlight that Dent’s head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking. The weeping came in great gasping sobs, and they went to her heart. She had struggled all evening with what had happened and had made Dent the villain of the piece, throwing all the anger and bitterness that had come to her on him.
Now as she stood there, amazed that the bold young man who seemed so hard and tough was weeping, something came to her. Deborah was a compassionate woman, tender of heart, despite the manner that she sometimes wore. And she had seen in the wild young Rocklin something of this side of his character. Now the great sobs tore at her, and she moved toward him.
“Dent—what is it? What’s the matter?”
He looked up, startled, his eyes staring and the tears streaming down his face. “Deborah!” he whispered. But he could say no more. He was ashamed at being discovered with his defenses down and could not say a word. Yet her face, he saw, was not filled with contempt for his weakness, as he had feared. Rather her expression was soft with compassion as she came to sit beside him.
She took his hands and asked softly, “Can I help, Dent?”
“No, there’s no help!” he said, unable to take his eyes from hers. Then he suddenly told her what ha
d happened. When he finished, his voice was unsteady. “I … love my mother, Deborah. I know she’s not … good.”
He paused, unable to go on, and she answered him out of a full heart, for his brokenness had somehow washed away her own pain and bitterness. “I’m glad, Dent. And you must love your father, too.”
Dent sat there, then said, “I love you, Deborah.”
“No, you mustn’t!” she said quickly. “We can never be together. You must know that.” She stood up, shaken by his simple statement. When he stood up with her, she touched his cheek, adding, “I—have to go home, Dent. This is good-bye.”
Dent Rocklin had led an easy life, with only minor problems. Now he was suddenly aware that without this girl, he would never be complete. A flash of desperation ran through him, and he caught her in his arms. She was sweet beyond anything he had ever dreamed, and he whispered, “I can’t let you go, darling! I can’t live without you!”
Deborah lifted her face to reply, but his lips fell on hers and there was such a desperate intensity in them that she felt her will grow weak. She felt her hands go behind his head, pulling it down, and for one moment she forgot all the mountains that lay between them. Then they came rushing back, and she pulled away.
“You’ll forget me, Dent … and I’ll have to forget you. Good-bye!”
Dent stood there, the silver moon washing the arbor with warm waves of light, watching her float away into the darkness. He had never felt so lost and alone in his life.
Finally he took a deep breath, looked toward the house, and said quietly, “War or no war, slavery or no slavery—I’m going to have you for my wife, Deborah Steele!”
CHAPTER 23
THE CANNON’S ROAR
On March 4, 1861, Abraham Lincoln took his oath of office as the sixteenth president of the United States. He had addressed the South in conciliatory tones. “We are not enemies, but friends.” He concluded with urgency in his voice, “We must not be enemies.”
But he was in office for only one day when the simmering Fort Sumter crisis boiled over. He received a letter from Major Anderson declaring that his position was nearly hopeless; that he needed twenty thousand more troops to hold the position in Charleston Harbor; that even if Sumter were not attacked, his dwindling food supply would soon force him to choose between starvation and surrender.
Lincoln had made a public pledge to defend Federal property, but members of his cabinet sabotaged his efforts to reinforce Sumter. On April 4, the president informed Major Anderson that a relief expedition was coming, but that it would consist of supplies only, no troops.
The letter reached Fort Sumter on April 9. Early that morning, Major Gideon Rocklin was standing on the parapet of Sumter speaking with Private Daniel Hough when his commanding officer received the letter. Gideon listened as Hough spoke of his home and family, but his eyes were on Major Anderson, who was tearing open the sealed envelope handed him by a messenger who had come on a small boat.
“So as soon as I get discharged, Major,” Private Hough was saying, “I’m going home and get married.” Hough, a towheaded young man of twenty-two, had a cheerful smile and was a favorite of officers and enlisted men alike. During the long months of siege, the young Michigan private had never complained of the shortage of food, even though he was so thin that his uniform hung on him. “Did I tell you I was getting married, Major Rocklin?”
Anderson was disturbed by the news, Gideon saw. He was staring at the message glumly, his mouth turned down. “No, you never mentioned it, Daniel,” Gideon said. He gave the thin young man a quick glance, wondering what he thought of what was happening. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with enlisted men. “What if the war starts? Will you still get married?”
“Why, sure I will, Major!” Hough said, his smooth face showing surprise. “Me and Carrie got it all planned. We’ve got us a little place my pa gave me, got a nice cabin, and we’ll be startin’ a family pretty soon. My enlistment’s up in two months, so it won’t be long.”
Anderson beckoned to him, but Gideon lingered to ask, “But if the war comes, you’ll serve your country, won’t you?”
Private Hough said, “Why, Major, didn’t I tell you? Carrie, my girl, she’s from South Carolina. Got a houseful of brothers, and all of them’s been real friendly to me.” His brow wrinkled in a frown, and he shook his head. “No, Major, I’m going to farm, me and Carrie.”
Anderson was giving him an impatient look, so Gideon said,
“Well, I hope you and Carrie have a fine marriage, Private.” He hurried over to the commanding officer, saying, “What is it, Major?”
“President Lincoln says he’s sending us supplies.” Anderson’s eyes were weary, for the three-month siege had worn him thin. He looked across the bay to Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island, adding, “Beauregard’s guns will blow any ships out of the water that try to relieve us.”
“They could do it, I’m afraid,” Gideon agreed, nodding. “My report is that he’s got some big guns in place. Five of them that fire twenty-four-pound shot, some long-range cannon, and some heavy mortars.”
“And he’s got plenty of firepower on James Island, as well. Not to mention about six thousand men to storm our base. To tell the truth, Rocklin, we’re in a tight spot.”
Anderson was right, for Sumter was in no condition to fight a battle. The fort was solid enough—brick walls five feet thick rising forty feet above the water, designed to carry three tiers of guns. Anderson had forty-eight guns in position, but some of them could not be brought to bear, and there were not nearly enough men to fire the guns. He had only 128 men, 43 of them civilians. Anderson and his officers had done what they could to get ready for an invasion. The wharf was mined and could be blown to bits at a moment’s notice, and various infernal machines loaded with kegs of gunpowder were ready to be dropped on the invaders.
“We’ll give a good account of ourselves, sir,” Gideon said. “The men’s morale is high.”
“Yes, and I give you and your lieutenants credit for that, Gideon,” Anderson said with a sudden smile. “You’ve done a fine job with them. But we can’t go on for long.” The food was practically gone, and they both knew that if the relief expedition didn’t arrive soon, they would have to surrender. “Well, we shall see,” Anderson concluded and left to go below.
The next day, April 10, at one o’clock, Gideon heard one of the guards call out, “Boat coming from shore, Major!” He turned to see the same boat that had brought Lincoln’s message coming across the choppy waters. There were several passengers but no women, which disappointed him. He had hoped that Mellie might come, but she had told him it was getting more difficult to get permission from the officers in charge. He walked along the stones, thinking of her, dismissing the boat from his thoughts. Every spare moment now, day and night, he was taxing his brain, trying to find a way to defend the fort. Over and over he thought of the difficulties, looking for solutions but finding few.
“Hello, Gid,” a voice said, and he whirled to see his cousin Clay Rocklin, who had come to stand beside the wall.
Gideon threw his head back, blinking with the shock of the meeting. But he recovered at once and moved forward. “Clay! By all that’s holy! I can’t believe it!” He gripped Clay’s hand and stood there taking in the face of the other man. “It’s been a long time, Clay,” he said finally.
“Maybe not long enough,” Clay said. He was searching Gideon’s face, looking for a sign of displeasure. Gid was older, weathered by sun and storm, but otherwise he was the same—thick-shouldered, solid, and with the same square face, which was as open and honest as ever. “Gid, let me have my say; then you can ask me anything. I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.” Clay’s expressive lips tightened, and he shook his head, saying sadly, “For all of it. For what I tried to do to Melanie, for killing all of your men in Mexico …” He paused, then added, “Ever since I became a Christian, I’ve wanted to come to you. And lately I’ve felt it more strongly. Then last week it came to me
that you could get killed in this place, and …”
Clay paused, his voice thick with emotion, and Gideon suddenly put his arm around his cousin. “Clay—I’m glad you’re here. For years I’ve wanted to see you. Prayed for you. Forgive you?” He gave Clay’s shoulders a mighty squeeze. “Why, I did that long ago! Long ago!”
The two men stood there, and some of the men watched with curious eyes to see their officer hugging the tall man. Clay smiled, saying, “That’s like you, Gid! But I’m only halfway home. With your permission, I’d like to go to Melanie. I want to ask her forgiveness, too.”
“She’s in the Foster Hotel, room 221,” Gideon said at once. “She’s been praying for you, too, Clay.” He looked suddenly across the bay, saying, “I’m worried about her, Clay. She wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to tell her it could be dangerous here. This thing is going to blow up any day now, and there’s some pretty wild Southern fanatics in Charleston. Anything could happen.”
Clay laughed out loud. “I don’t think Melanie would welcome me as a protector, Gideon.”
“Yes, she would. Soon as you leave here, go see her. Right away.”
Clay stared at him. “It’s not that close, is it? These South Carolinians are hotheads, but I’m still hoping it won’t come to a shooting war.”
Gideon lowered his voice. “I think it’ll come very soon. Lincoln is sending a fleet to relieve the fort. And the secessionists know it. Those leaders who want a war know about it, and they’ll never let it happen! I think they’ll begin firing in two or three days.”
“What will happen?” He listened as Gideon told him what he thought. The two men walked around behind the guns slowly, and by the time they had made a circuit, Clay was depressed. “It’s insane, Gid!”
“Yes. War always is. There haven’t been any sane, logical wars.” Gid suddenly said, “Mellie and I have been keeping up with you. Your mother’s told us how well you’ve done since you came home. My father’s more pleased with you than I’ve ever seen him!”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 31