Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  They drove by the Washington Monument, which was just a stubby base. Suddenly, for no reason she could think of, Deborah said, “I’ll bet George Washington would have hated all of this!”

  CHAPTER 2

  DEBORAH’S RECRUIT

  Kojak’s shack was squeezed between two other shabby frame buildings that were no better than his own. Living cheek-to-jowl with the Sullivans and the Millers created tensions that grated on his temper, but the battered three-room house he rented was so frail that it was kept from falling only by his neighbors’ shacks. Every time he paid the monthly rent of ten dollars, he cursed the landlord’s representative harshly, vowing that he’d move if improvements weren’t made. But they never were, and he never did.

  The landlord, a wealthy politician named Jennings, attended a large downtown church and kept himself and his family well away from the Swampoodle district. This section lay on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue and was composed of slums, brothels, gambling clubs of the worst sort, and a scattering of small, grubby shops and businesses. On the north side of the Avenue were the dwellings of the respectable people of Washington, along with the offices of government.

  Pennsylvania Avenue itself was a massive Sahara of dust during the dry seasons and a river of mud and filth during the wet days. It served not only as a street, but as a metaphysical line, as well—for those who lived on the south side in the Swampoodle district were as isolated from the well-to-do segment of Washington’s populace as if they lived on the moon. They might cross the Avenue to attend the presidential inauguration—as they had done by the thousands a few weeks earlier—but they turned back to their side of the Avenue when such things were over.

  A thin, pale light outlined the city at dawn on Friday, April 19, 1861, just as Noel Kojak, Will’s eldest son, appeared at the door of the house. The boy paused and admired the symmetrical rise of the skyline. He had come to get wood for the cookstove, but it was typical of Noel to momentarily forget his task in admiring something he considered beautiful. There was nothing in his appearance to attract attention, for he was no more than average height, and his features, though regular, were not handsome. His short nose and high cheekbones evidenced the European roots of his family, but the steady gray eyes and shock of light brown hair came from other roots.

  Old Red, the rooster kept in a small pen in the backyard, broke the silence of the morning with a shrill clarion cry, and the suddenness of it shook Noel from his rapt attitude. Walking over to a pile of wood, he picked up an ax and, with quick, economical movements, split the cylinders of beech into small wedge-shaped slices. It was a task he liked, for with each sharp blow of the ax, the short lengths of beech fell as splinterless as a cloven rock. Noel didn’t stop when he had enough for the first fire, but cut enough to last the day. He knew that his mother would have to chop the wood if he didn’t, and to help her any way he could was as natural to him as his habit of staring at things that seemed unusual or beautiful.

  Piling his arms high with wood, he went back into the house and deposited the load in the wood box. Quickly he built a small fire. When it was blazing nicely, he picked up a book and began to read by the dim light filtering through the single window that broke the wall on the east side.

  At once he was lost, unaware of anything except the words on the page. He had that sort of mind, one that gave him the ability to lose himself in books. Noel had never heard of Coleridge’s words about enjoying literature, that one must cultivate “the willing suspension of disbelief,” yet he was adept in applying the principle. In an instant, he could leave the shabby world of reality in which he was trapped, entering instead the world of the imagination. When he read Sir Walter Scott’s romances, he was in a world of romance and color, far away from the grubbiness of Washington with its dust and mud and poverty.

  The fire crackled, but Noel did not look up. If he had, he would have seen a bare room with rough planks adorned only with a few cheap prints. He would have seen Sarah, his seventeen-year-old sister, asleep on a shabby horsehair couch, and fifteen-year-old Grace swathed in a dirty blanket along one wall. The stove occupied a space on one wall, and a table and an assortment of patched-up and rickety chairs took up most of the space. There were two doors on the back wall, one leading to a small room where Noel slept with four brothers, and the other leading to his parents’ bedroom. There was no grace or comfort in the place, but Noel’s family seemed not to miss those things. Noel had realized that he himself was aware of the shabbiness of life in Swampoodle only because he had caught a glimpse of other things in the world of literature.

  A woman came into the room, pausing to look at the young man. Though she was only in her late thirties, her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her brown eyes had the look that chronically ill people sometimes have. Too many children and too little comfort had worn her down, though there were still faint traces of beauty in her worn face. She was thin and slightly stooped, but as she spoke there was no evidence of discontent.

  “What a nice fire!” she exclaimed; then she moved over to pat the shoulder of the boy, who lifted his head, startled. “You don’t know how nice it is to get up with a fire already made, Noel,” she said. For one moment she stood there, her worn hand on his sturdy shoulder, looking down on him fondly. There was a special bond between these two—always had been since he was a small child. Except for six-year-old Joel, her other children, for the most part, were not demonstrative. Anna Kojak received little thanks and few gestures of affection.

  Then, as if embarrassed by the scene, the woman laughed, saying, “Better get breakfast. It’s late.” As she began to prepare the meal, the two of them talked quietly. He spoke of the book he had been reading, and she listened, smiling as his face grew animated with excitement. The smell of the food began to fill the room, and one by one the sleepers awoke. “Better go get your brothers, Noel,” Anna said.

  Noel said, “All right, Mother,” then rose and went into the small room, where he found Joel awake and staring at him with enormous eyes made larger by the thinness of his face. “Breakfast, Joel,” Noel said, ruffling his fine brown hair. As the boy arose and pulled on his ragged clothes, Noel spoke to Peter and Holmes, ages sixteen and eleven. They occupied a double bunk bed and came tumbling out with sleepy protests. Ignoring them, Noel turned to the large bed where Bing lay, his face up, his mouth open, snoring loudly.

  “Breakfast, Bing,” Noel said loudly, but Bing only snorted, flopped over, and buried his face in the thin pillow. “Come on, boy,” Noel said, pulling at his brother’s thick shoulder. “Got to get moving. We’re going to have to hurry to get to work on time.”

  “Lemme alone!” Bing thrashed about, striking at Noel’s hand. When the older boy kept at him, he said angrily, “All right, all right! I’m awake.” He shook his head, which brought a streak of pain that pulled a groan out of him, then swung his feet to the floor. “Bring me a cuppa coffee, will you, Noel? I’ve got the granddaddy of all hangovers!”

  Noel said, “Sure,” then went to the kitchen and poured a cup of black coffee into a chipped mug. Taking it back, he handed it to Bing, who took it with an unsteady hand. Moving slowly, he swallowed the black liquid carefully, keeping his eyes shut. Noel watched to be sure his brother was awake. At nineteen, Bing was the most handsome one of the family. He was tall and muscular, with a shock of wavy black hair and a pair of large brown eyes set in a well-shaped head. “Better get to the table before it’s all gone,” Noel warned, then left the room.

  When he got back, his father came stumbling in, his eyes red, a tremor in his hands. He had been with Bing at the taverns until early morning and was in a surly mood. He slumped down at the table and grasped the coffee that Anna put before him, saying nothing to anyone. Nor did anyone speak to him, for he had a terrible temper when he’d been drinking.

  “Sit down and eat while it’s hot,” Anna said, and then as they found their places and waited, she bowed her head and said a brief blessing in a hurried voice. When s
he finished, Will Kojak stared at her with a hard look in his dark eyes, half inclined to belittle her. But his head hurt too much to bother, so he began stuffing the scrambled eggs into his mouth.

  The rest of the family ate hungrily, for there was never enough. Sarah was a dark-haired girl, already shapely and giving evidence of real beauty. She began begging her parents to let her go to a dance that was being held, but Anna said sharply, “No, you’re too young, and I know what sort of men will be there.” Sarah slammed her knife down, her dark eyes bright with anger, but one sharp word from her father brought her to a sullen silence.

  Grace, at fifteen, could have almost passed for a boy. She kept her dark auburn hair cut short and wore the cast-off clothing of her older brothers. Now she stuck her tongue out at Sarah, her dark eyes sparkling as she taunted, “Now poor old Jimmy Sullivan won’t have a girl, will he?”

  “Keep your mouth shut!” Will Kojak said harshly, then looked at Anna. “Any more eggs?”

  “Just a little,” Anna said, and she gave him what was left in the bowl. Noel looked at her sharply, knowing that she had given her own breakfast to his father.

  Will had just finished wolfing them down when Bing came in and sat down. He complained when his mother gave him two pieces of bread and some gravy, but his father said, “Get to the table if you want to eat.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good.” Bing dipped the bread into the gravy, put half of the piece of bread into his mouth, then said, “Guess we’ll get something to eat at the rally today.”

  “What’s a rally, Bing?” Joel asked, his head barely clearing the table.

  Bing grinned at him despite his headache. “It’s a meeting where the bigwigs try to get dunces like me to go into the army.”

  “You’re going to b–be a soldier?” Pete asked, his mouth open with surprise. He was a thin, gawky boy, so plain and awkward that his father often said he was worthless. He stuttered slightly, which embarrassed him so much that he usually kept quiet. Many thought he was slow of mind, but actually he was rather bright.

  “No, stupid, I’m not going to b–be a soldier,” Bing mocked him. “I’m not dumb enough for that. I can make more in one fight than a soldier makes in six months.” Bing, whose real name was Michael, had been a street fighter since he was twelve. Then he had been taken up by a sharp operator, and before long he’d had four professional fights and won three of them. His purses weren’t enough to live on, but he was certain that day would come.

  Anna stared at him, then asked her husband, “Will, do you think many of the men will volunteer?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Dumb dogs!”

  “Why are they dumb?” Sarah demanded. “Ain’t we got to go down and whip the Rebels?”

  “What do I care what they do down South?” Kojak snapped. “Let ‘em own all the slaves they want to. Most of them live better than we do.” The thought seemed to anger him, and he was off on one of his tirades. “Look at this swill we have to eat. Down there they got fresh vegetables and plenty of meat. Just work a few hours in a cotton field and then it’s back to a nice warm cabin. I say let Abe Lincoln go down and get himself killed if he’s got such a bleedin’ heart for the poor old slaves!”

  He raved on, then got to his feet, saying, “Come on. We ain’t gonna fight in no war, but there’ll be plenty of food and maybe a little whiskey at that rally!”

  As he put on his hat, Anna came up to him and asked nervously, “Will, I need a little money to buy some food—”

  He pushed her away so roughly that she stumbled and would have fallen if Noel had not caught her. A sudden flare of anger showed in Noel’s eyes, and seeing it, his father scowled. “You gonna do anything about it?”

  Noel hesitated, then shrugged. “No,” he said quietly, but after his father and Bing left, he reached into his pocket and found a few coins. Slipping them into his mother’s hand, he said, “Today’s payday, Mother. I’ll have more when I come home tonight.”

  She blinked back the tears, saying, “You never have a penny to spend on yourself, son.”

  He smiled easily, looking very young, then kissed her. “When I’m rich, I’ll buy you the prettiest blue dress in Washington,” he said, then turned and left the room.

  The three Kojak men joined the other men who were trudging along the dusty street, all headed toward the factory section. Bing and his father spoke of the fun they’d had the night before, but Noel kept silent. His mind was far away, reliving what he’d read before breakfast.

  “You’re looking lovely today, Miss Steele … or may I call you Deborah?”

  Colonel Laurence Bradford looked with frank admiration at his passenger. He was accomplished in the art of charming women, and as soon as he had handed Deborah into a carriage driven by a smartly dressed sergeant, he had begun his campaign. He studied the young woman as a soldier might study the terrain and measure the strengths and weaknesses of an opposing force. It was an old game with him, the only one—except for making money—that he truly enjoyed.

  What he saw sitting next to him was a young woman of nineteen who was dressed in a deep blue crinoline dress trimmed with pink satin ribbons. She had a heart-shaped face and a pair of eyes such as he had never seen before. Large, almond-shaped, and shaded by thick lashes, they were a beautiful violet color. Her lips were red and shapely, and her complexion was smooth and beautifully set off by thick blond hair. A beauty!

  Bradford had become satiated with the professional and slightly worn beauties of the stage. Now, as he glanced at Deborah Steele, he saw her as a refreshing change—as well as a challenge to his masculine pride.

  “Why, yes, and I’ll call you Colonel Bradford,” Deborah answered him with a smile. She was aware of the man’s charm, and equally aware that he was a man who had captivated many women. She had agreed to come at the urging of her uncle but was now looking forward to the rally. She gave Bradford a steady look as he protested that she should call him Larry, interrupting to say, “You must be very proud of your new life. I know you’ve been successful in business, but serving in the army is very different.”

  “Oh, I’m proud of my regiment, Deborah,” he said with enthusiasm. “It’ll be a refreshing change from business.”

  “Have you thought much about the danger?” she asked. “Men do get killed in wars, you know.”

  “You just don’t know how tough the world of business is!” he shot back, laughing. “It’s worse than any war.”

  “Oh, not really,” she objected. “On the battlefield men are going to be killed. Even officers.”

  “I fancy I can take care of myself!”

  “What about our men?”

  “Why, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, Deborah,” he said with a careless wave of his hand. “Some of the boys are going to take a bullet, but that’s to be expected.”

  As he went on, it seemed to Deborah that he took the war too lightly. Still, she did not argue with him.

  “There’s my grandfather’s factory.” Deborah pointed out a low brick building with tall smokestacks that belched huge puffs of rich, black smoke. “The rally will be around on the other side, Grandfather said.” She directed the colonel down a side street, noting that the large area next to the factory was already swarming with men. Bradford found a place for the buggy, got out, and helped Deborah to the ground.

  “There’s Grandfather over there with Uncle Gideon,” she said, and the two of them made their way through the crowd to where the men stood.

  “Well, granddaughter, you’re all dressed for the occasion.” Stephen Rocklin gave Deborah a kiss and smiled at her fondly. He was a thickset man of sixty-two, with a pair of steady gray eyes in a face characterized by blunt heavy features. There was something ponderous about him, not only physically, but in other ways. He was slow to make up his mind, but once his decision was made, nothing could stop him. He had come to Washington from Richmond as a young man, knowing nothing but how to grow cotton. From his first job as a janitor at a small fou
ndry, he had progressed steadily in the business world—and now the Rocklin Ironworks was one of the most profitable factories in the North.

  “This is my commanding officer, Colonel Bradford. Sir, this is my father, Mr. Stephen Rocklin,” Gideon said.

  Bradford took the strong hand that was offered, saying, “An honor, sir! Your son must have told you that I’m the most inept officer in the army, but he’s taking good care of me.”

  Stephen Rocklin studied the officer for a moment, as was his custom, then smiled. “Not at all, Colonel. Gideon is very pleased about your new endeavor. And I congratulate you on your spirit.” A shadow fell across his broad face as he added, “I’m afraid it’s going to be hard on all of us, this war.”

  “Oh, I hope for better things, sir!” Bradford smiled confidentially, looking very official in his dress uniform. “All we need are good men—such as some of these fine fellows here.” He waved his hand at the crowd milling around in the large open space. “Very generous of you to allow us to make our appeal to them.”

  “Well, the decision is theirs,” Rocklin said. “I understand it’s an enlistment for only ninety days. I’ve told the men that those who enlist can count on having their jobs back when their time is up.”

  “Splendid!” Bradford exclaimed. “We should have the Rebels properly thrashed long before that time.”

  Bradford did not catch the look that passed between the two Rocklin men, for he was looking out over the crowd. Deborah, however, saw that both her grandfather and her uncle were skeptical of the officer’s judgment. She herself had been reading the writings of Horace Greeley, the powerful owner and editor of the New York Tribune. Greeley was totally confident that the Northern military forces would crush the Rebels, and he was already printing large headlines that said “On to Richmond!”

  “Would you like to address the men now, Colonel? Or perhaps you’d rather let them get the eating and drinking out of the way?” Stephen asked.