Almost at once she became aware that this was not an ordinary composition. There was a roughness about it, to be sure. Some misspelled words and some awkwardness of sentence structure. But there was something else that seized her at once.
The story was about a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily who lived in the Swampoodle district. The plot was simple enough: A young girl longed to find a husband and have a good home. But there was such a graphic quality in the description that Deborah entered into the story fully. Noel had caught the essence of the poverty and hardship Deborah had seen during her days in the district. He had brought to life the coarse food, the barren houses, the dirt that never got cleaned up, the grinding labor that wore men and women out by the time they were barely out of their teens. All of this was there, in a simple prose that fixed everything on the page.
And the girl—Emily—was real. Deborah somehow sensed that Noel had known her and had liked her. She was no creature of fiction, for by the time Deborah finished the story, tears were in her eyes. The girl had struggled to keep herself pure, but the world she lived in had been inexorable. She had turned bad, going through the worst of her world, ending her own life in despair at the age of nineteen.
Deborah had read all the stories and now knew that Noel was the most gifted writer she’d ever met.
“Noel, you don’t know what you have,” she now said earnestly. “I’m no expert, but I’ve read a lot. God has given you a great gift.”
Noel stared at her, for such a thing had never entered his head. “Why, Deborah, you’re just being kind. I just write down stories that are in my head. I mean, I just write about things I’ve seen.”
“That’s what makes you different,” Deborah insisted. “People can learn to write, up to a point. They can learn the techniques, how to make chapters and things like that. But most of us can’t put any life into the things we write. Did you know your Emily?”
“Yes. She lived two houses down from us. I—liked her a lot, Deborah. Made me feel so bad when she went the way she did.”
“And when you put what you felt in your story, it made me feel the same way!” Deborah said. “That’s what great literature is, Noel. Great writers like Dickens and Cooper, they make us feel.”
Noel was struck by her remark. “You know, Deborah, I never thought of it until right this minute,” he said thoughtfully, his face broken into sharp planes where the yellow glow of a streetlight reflected on it. “But the times I seem to be most alive are when I’m writing about people.” Then he laughed shortly, adding, “But I could never be a real writer.”
“You are a real writer, Noel!” Deborah insisted sharply. In her desire to get through to him, she took his arm and held it tightly. She had the feeling that somehow she was responsible for the young man. He had a talent that the world needed and might never do a thing with it unless someone helped him develop it. “What you’ve done proves it,” she insisted. “You didn’t write to make money or to see your name in print. You write because it’s what’s in you, because you want to share what you think and feel with others.”
“Well, I guess the others are Ma and you. Nobody else has seen them.”
“But they should see them, Noel.” Taking a deep breath, she paused, then said, “Noel, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. You’re going to be a soldier. My uncle thinks this will be a long war, a terrible war. Who’s going to write about it, to let the world see it as it really is?”
“Why, the writers, I guess.”
“That’s right—and where will they be? Cooped up in their study in Boston! They’ll never hear a cannon fire or hear a young man gasping his last breath on earth, will they? But you will, Noel! You’ve got to write about it!”
Noel was stunned by Deborah’s intensity. He sat there in disbelief, then finally shook his head. “Even if I could write it, Deborah, who would read it? You have to be somebody big to get a book published. Even I know that!”
Deborah shook his arm, saying fiercely, “Noel Kojak, you are somebody! You’re a soldier in the United States Army! You’re a young man with a great talent! Don’t ever let me hear you say you’re a nobody, you hear me!”
Suddenly Noel smiled. “I hear you all right, Deborah—and I guess everybody else on this side of Washington hears you, too. Do you know you’re shouting at me?”
“Well, I don’t care!” Deborah lowered her voice, then sat there quietly. She had been waiting for the chance to talk with Noel ever since reading the stories, and now she feared she had done it badly. Finally she said, “I know all this is new to you, Noel, but you’ve got to let me help you. Would you let me take some of your stories to a man who can help? His name is Langdon Devoe. He’s a publisher right here in Washington.”
“Why, sure, Deborah,” Noel said. “What kind of books does he print?”
“Oh, all kinds. He did a lot of publishing for the movement, the abolitionist movement, I mean. He likes me and he knows good writing when he sees it. I’ll see him as quick as I can, but you have to promise me something.”
Noel stared at her in the glimmering darkness. “I’ve been wishing there was something I could do for you, Deborah.”
She looked at him sharply, hearing something in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Well, Noel, this is for both of us. You write all the time from now on. I know you’ll be busy and it’ll be hard. But make yourself do it. Write about the drills, the men in your company. The bad ones and the good ones. And make it honest. Don’t try to make it literary. There’ll be lots of people writing that sort of thing.” She thought hard, then added, “Write it like the one about Emily.”
“I’ll do it,” Noel said at once.
She put her hand out, and he took it readily. “It’s a bargain, then,” Deborah said. “You do the writing, and I’ll do the rest.”
He found her hand soft and somehow enticing—and he was suddenly totally aware of the beauty of the girl who sat beside him. He became so engrossed with admiring the smooth loveliness of her cheeks and the lustrous darkness of her eyes that he unconsciously held on to her hand.
Deborah, too, was suddenly aware of Noel for the first time as a young man who admired her, and she did not know what to do. She had, at first, thought of him only as an object of pity. Now as she looked into his face, she was aware that this was an unusual young man. There was a clean strength in his even features, in the sweeping jawline that denoted determination and the steady gray eyes that were warm and honest. There was, she understood, no trickery in this young man, and she suddenly felt very close to him.
“I–I’m glad we’re going to be good friends, Noel,” she said, and when he released her hand, she smiled at him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He got down and looked up at her. “It sure has been a strange time for me, Deborah. When I got up this morning, I never imagined I’d be here with you tonight. I—I know you said not to mention it, but I got to thank you for all you’ve done for my family.” He said no more, but she saw the gratitude in his eyes. Then he ducked his head, and when he lifted it, he grinned. “About me being a writer, I got to say that I’m doing it because of you. Good night, Deborah!”
“Good night, Noel.”
He turned and disappeared into the night, but as Deborah Steele watched him go, she had a premonition. She had never had one before, but as she sat there in the buggy, something deep within her seemed to tell her that Noel Kojak would play a big part in her life. It was very real, and as she drove homeward, the impression grew stronger. Finally she looked up into the stars, wondering what it all could mean. But the stars had no answer. They were impressive enough, winking like diamonds in the deep velvet sky, but they had nothing to say.
“We’ll see,” she said to the mare, who perked her ears, nickered twice, then picked up her hooves and started down the dusty road at a fast pace.
PART TWO
Richmond
CHAPTER 7
A SMALL ISLAND
The pearly morning
light that spilled over the distant treetops pleased Clay Rocklin. He had risen before dawn, saddled his gray gelding, and made his way to the fields where he now sat. The sight of the broad fields that made up Gracefield, his plantation, always filled him with pleasure. Sitting hipshot in the saddle, he achieved a moment’s stillness that was uncharacteristic of him.
He was a man of loose, rough, durable parts. Like a machine intended for hard usage, he had no fineness and little smoothness about him. He was one of the Black Rocklins, those of raven hair, olive skin, and dark eyes. His long mouth was expressive when he smiled, and he had the darkest of eyes, sharp and clear.
All of this made a face that, in repose, reflected the mixed elements of sadness and rash temper. A scar shaped like a fishhook was at the left corner of his mouth, the relic of a fistfight he’d had when he was younger and eager to indulge in action. Now, at forty-one, he had better control of himself.
Clay could only remain still for so long, and with an impulsive tug at the reins, he touched the gray with his heels.
The large animal responded by throwing himself into an enthusiastic gallop and following the edge of the mile-long field. The soft warmth of May had bathed Virginia, and by the time Clay had circled the edge of the field and made his way through a first-growth thicket of towering water oak, he was beginning to feel the heat. He pulled King to a halt at the edge of a sea of emerald sorghum and removed his light jacket, stuffing it into a saddlebag. Clay’s deep chest swelled against the thin white cotton shirt, and his considerable physical strength, gained through years at sea, was evident in his corded wrists and square, powerful hands.
Once again he paused, pleased by the fields. It had been his idea to plant sorghum. His father, Thomas, was adamantly certain that planting anything except cotton was a waste of good land. Clay was equally certain that planting only cotton was a sure way to ruin. He had seen the mountains of cotton bales on the docks and was sure the market was headed for a glut. Already the rumor was rife that the new president of the Confederacy favored an embargo against Britain. The hope was that the refusal to send cotton to England would draw the British into giving aid to the new nation being birthed in the South.
When Clay had first heard his brother-in-law Brad Franklin state this, he had stared at the man, saying, “Brad, we’re not the only country that grows cotton. Besides, England’s got a good supply in their warehouses. What we’d better do is ship every bale we’ve got to England right now, because you can bet the first thing the Federals will do is blockade our coasts. Then what will you do with your cotton … sell it to the Yankees?”
Brad had only laughed at him, saying, “Cotton is king, Clay. You’ll see!”
Ever since planting had begun, Clay had carried on the same battle with his father, the older man resisting every innovation his son tried to make. Clay had kept his temper for the most part, for he had no desire to anger his father. Actually, Gracefield belonged to Clay more than to Thomas Rocklin. Clay had returned two years ago after a long exile from his family, just in time to save the great plantation from financial ruin. It had been difficult for him to return.
The reason was perhaps natural, for Clay had abandoned his wife and children after a wild and misspent youth, leaving them at Gracefield to be provided for. As he sat now atop his horse and watched the sea of green shoots waving in the breeze, he thought of his youthful, rash love for Melanie Benton, who was now married to his cousin Gideon. Quickly he shook that off, for it was painful to think how he had allowed his raw passions for the beautiful young girl to drive him into ruin—and into an imprudent marriage to a woman he did not love. Saving Gracefield meant coming back to face all that he had run from … and that had been most difficult indeed.
Clay also struggled with guilt over the fact that he had made his small fortune in a dirty business: slave running. And it was that ill-made fortune that he had used to reestablish the plantation. Even now, two years after he had sold his share of the ship, he awoke at night crying out in fear and disgust at the thought of the terrible suffering the black men and women—and children—had undergone in the passage from Africa to the States. He still felt dirty and unclean at times. Though he knew he was forgiven by God, he wondered if the shame he felt would ever go away completely.
As the sun rose over the oaks surrounding the fields, Clay turned King’s head north and made his way slowly around the field. He was in no rush to get home for breakfast, so he let the horse pick his way slowly through fields still damp with dew. He passed a line of slaves, led by Highboy, headed for the fields. Highboy greeted him cheerfully as always: “Hi, Marse Clay!”
“Hello, Highboy. Better take care of that twenty acres over by the pond today.” Highboy gave him an indignant look, whereupon Clay smiled suddenly, his teeth making a white slash across his tanned face. “But you know that better than I do,” he said, knowing it to be true. The tall son of Box and Carrie knew every blade of grass on the Gracefield earth. “See you later, Highboy,” Clay said, touching his heels to the horse. The gray responded at once, breaking into an easy run. Clay let him go, enjoying the motion of the animal. As they covered the ground, the man’s eyes moved constantly over the fields, missing nothing.
Finally he rounded a cornfield and took a barely discernible trail through a small forest of loblolly pine, pulling the horse to a walk as he emerged into the wide clearing where the Rocklin mansion sat. The sight of the house always stirred Clay; the long years of alienation at sea had whetted his love for the place. Smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney, and though he knew that Dorrie would have breakfast waiting, Clay sat there for a moment, savoring the silence and peace of the morning.
Gracefield had been built by an Englishman who had incorporated in his creation more than a few of the characteristics of the fine homes of England. The house was an imposing Greek Revival plantation home, and it glittered white in the morning sun as Clay sat there admiring it. It was a two-story house with a steep roof adorned by three gables on each side. The most striking feature was the line of rising smooth columns, which ran across the front and down both sides, enclosing the structure within the imposing white shafts. The ground behind the house held the outbuildings. Large grape arbors flanked the main house on both sides. The front lawn was a flat carpet of rich green broken by a sweeping U-shaped driveway filled with oyster shells.
As Clay moved out of the grove and toward the house, he thought suddenly how similar Gracefield was to an island. The plantation, surrounded by others like it—as well as by hills, fields, and streams—was almost self-sustaining. Almost all the food the Rocklins ate was grown in their own fields, and up until recently, communication with the outside world had been tenuous. Riding down the sweeping driveway, Clay remembered how as a boy he had thought that Gracefield was all the world. Longingly he thought, I wish it was! There are worse things than being marooned on a desert island.
He dismounted and tossed the reins to Moses, Dorrie and Zander’s oldest son. The boy grinned at him, saying, “You better git in to brekfuss, Marse Clay, ‘fore Dorrie have her a fit.”
Clay grinned at Moses. Dorrie had been a house slave at Gracefield since she was six and was more or less the general of the mansion, second only to Susanna, Clay’s mother, in power and authority. And she did not look with favor on anyone who flaunted her well-orchestrated schedules, even “Master Clay,” who had always been a favorite with the dark woman.
Clay fished in his pocket and found a piece of hard candy wrapped in paper. Tossing it to the boy, he said, “Walk King for me, Moses, then let him graze in the meadow.” He left the boy sucking ecstatically on the candy and entered the house by the front door. Two of the house slaves, both young girls, were polishing the heart-pine floor, and he spoke to them as he passed by the massive stairway that led to the second floor. The family was gathered in the dining room, already eating as he entered.
“Whar you been?” Dorrie demanded, staring at him out of a pair of sharp brown eyes. “Y
ou sit down and eat ‘fore them eggs freeze!”
“Sorry, Dorrie,” Clay said contritely, taking his place across from his mother, just to the right of his father, who sat at the head of the table. “Good morning,” he said, taking the plate of eggs his mother handed him. “Sorry to be late.” He filled his plate with grits, eggs, ham, and biscuits, then said, “The sorghum looks good. We’ll be eating our own syrup next fall.”
“How do you make it, Father?” It was typical that David would ask, for he was the one of Clay’s sons with the sort of mind that had to know things. Dent, his twin, had never shown any interest in the workings of the plantation, nor had Lowell, the youngest boy. David, however, had put his nose into a book as soon as he could read and had poked into every nook and cranny of the place, insatiably curious about everything. At nineteen, he was the best student in his college, and Clay had to smile as he answered, “Don’t know, David. We’ll have to go over to the Payson place. They’ve got a sorghum mill over there. I guess you can draw a plan of the thing.”
“Yes, sir.” David nodded, brightening at once. “Then Box and me will make it.”
“Don’t see any need of such a thing, Clay.” Thomas Rocklin was shoving his food around on his plate. Clay glanced at his father and noted how ill he looked as he added, “We don’t eat much of the stuff, and we can buy what we need from Payson. We could get five bales of cotton off that land.”
“Why, Grandfather,” Rena said, “We can’t pour cotton over our pancakes!” She was the only daughter of Clay and Ellen and, at the age of fifteen, was caught in that awkward period between childhood and womanhood. She had deep blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a sweet expression.
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 43