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

by Gilbert, Morris

  He thought he spoke guardedly, but he soon realized that this girl heard more than words. When he had traced his family for her, mentioning all of them briefly, he paused and saw that she was thinking hard. A single line appeared between her brows, and she asked quietly, “You don’t get along with your father?”

  Dent stared at her, for he had said nothing to indicate the conflicts he had had with his father. Then he realized that it had not been the words, but something else. She could not see his face, but she must have had heard some bitterness in his voice. It could be nothing else, and it troubled him.

  “You’re very quick,” he murmured. “No, my father and I don’t agree.” He intended to say no more, but somehow he began to speak, diffidently at first, tracing his father’s history. He mentioned how Clay had abandoned his family. As he finally came to the present, he said, “You and Father would get along. He thinks the war is wrong just as you do.” Then he shook himself and tried to laugh. “Good grief! I’ve talked you to death, Raimey! Sorry about that. I’m not usually such a chatterbox.”

  “It’s all right.”

  As he looked at her, he saw the sweetness on her lips and the goodness in her face. Her skin glowed in the sun with a diaphanous quality, fine and clear. “I’ve never talked with a girl like this.”

  “It’s because I’m different, Dent,” she said with no trace at all of pity. “You’re always on your guard with other girls, because they’re out to get you to marry them.”

  He stared at her with amazement. “Why, not all of them!”

  “Pretty much so,” she said with a nod. “It’s the only way for a young woman to live, doing all she can to find a good husband. It’s what all women study and train for.”

  “Good night! I can’t believe you’re saying these things!”

  Raimey smiled and picked a blade of grass. She tasted it, then turned her head to one side. “That’s sour,” she commented, then added, “Even if a young woman isn’t out to catch you, you think she is. I suspect all handsome young men feel that way.”

  “How do you know I’m handsome?” Dent was amazed at the play of their words and asked the question without awkwardness.

  “Leona said so.” Then she paused, a thought coming to her. “May I touch your face?”

  “Why—I guess so.” Dent sat still as Raimey leaned forward and touched his chest, then let her hand rise to his face. Her hand was soft—and her touch was the softest thing he could imagine.

  “You have a wide mouth,” Raimey murmured. “And a strong jaw.” As her hands moved over his features, she cataloged them all. “Broad forehead, deep-set eyes—very black, Leona said—high cheekbones, small ears. Very thick hair—black as night, she said.” Then she removed her hand and sat back.

  “Yes, you’re very attractive, Dent.” He was so speechless that she laughed at him. “Never had your face pushed and probed by any of your young ladies, did you? I’m sorry. But it helps. I know what you look like now.” Then she added, “But you’ve been so free with me because you feel none of that pressure with me that you feel with other girls. You’re safe.”

  Dent stared at her. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I am right,” she announced with a brisk nod. Then she said in a different tone, “I wish you’d make it up with your father. Even if he’s wrong, you’ll be sorry if you don’t.” A breeze lifted a lock of her hair, and she pushed it back with a quick gesture. “There are only two things on this earth that really matter, and your family is one of them.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Why, God, of course!”

  Dent nodded. “I know you’re right about that, Raimey, but I just don’t have it in me to forgive him. He’s hurt us all too much.” He expected her to preach at him, but she sat there quietly. She seemed to be listening to something he could not hear, and finally he grew nervous. “I guess that sounds pretty feeble to you. But I’m just a weak character, Raimey. You strong Christians can turn the other cheek, but fellows like me, why, we just can’t manage things like that.” A strong memory of his last argument with his father came to him, turning him sour. “I’ll go get the carriage,” he said. “Just stay here. Nobody will trouble you.”

  He left abruptly, and she stood up as he left her. She wanted to cry out to him, to warn him of the peril of hating his father—but it was too late.

  She waited until the carriage came back. Leona was put out with her, but Dent had calmed down. As he held Raimey’s hand and put her into the carriage, he said, “I’ll stop by tomorrow to apologize for letting you fall in the creek.”

  “Come for supper, Lieutenant, six o’clock sharp,” Leona said instantly. “And bring that handsome Captain Forbes of D Company with you.” Without waiting for his answer, she said, “Let’s go, Job!” and the carriage leaped ahead. Denton stood there, staring after it, then went over and picked up his jacket. As he put it on, he suddenly shook his head, a look of admiration in his dark eyes. “She’s some girl. I couldn’t handle a thing like that!”

  He returned to the camp, found Forbes, and the two of them made their plans to go into Richmond. When Dent asked Captain Taylor for permission, the captain gave him a careful look. “Better get your running around done quick, Dent. And get the men ready. Something’s happening. When orders come, we’ll have to move fast.” He drummed on the table with his fingers, then remarked, “Fine-looking girls, the Reed women. Too bad about the younger one.”

  “Yes,” Dent said, then left the tent.

  CHAPTER 11

  A HOUSE DIVIDED

  As May gave way to June, summer fell across the land, wrapping it with a mantle of blistering heat. The field hands at Gracefield endured the white-hot sun patiently, larding the fields with their sweat; but for Clay Rocklin the sultry heat was one more irritating factor he didn’t need. By nature he was a hard-driving man in the physical sense, and he had always been able to override any sort of trouble in his mind by hard work or play. Now, however, no matter how many hard, long hours he labored in the fields, when night came he tossed restlessly on his bed, getting up hollow-eyed and tired.

  “You don’t look well, Clay,” his mother said as he came to the big house late one night. It was after eleven, and she had found him in the kitchen eating a piece of cold chicken from the cellar. “You’re working too hard.”

  “I’m all right,” he said briefly, but his face was slack with fatigue as he chewed listlessly on the cold meat. “The black mare had her foal tonight, but she had a hard time. I thought Fox and I were going to lose them both for a while, but she had a fine colt. What are you doing up so late?”

  “Oh, I just couldn’t sleep.”

  Clay glanced at her sharply. “Father’s not doing well?”

  “No. I’m worried about him, Clay. He’s been poorly all winter and spring, and this heat seems to make him even worse.”

  “What does Dr. Medlin say?”

  “He doesn’t know.” Susanna brushed her hair back from her forehead with a weary gesture. The pressure of running Gracefield was heavy, and Clay noted that new lines had come to her face. “Those terrible stomach pains frighten me—him, too, though he won’t say anything. I guess we both are thinking of Noah, your grandfather. He had the same kind of trouble before he died.”

  They sat at the table, talking slowly, letting the time run on. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked on with a stately cadence and loudly struck one reverberating, brassy note to mark the half hour. Susanna felt close to this tall, sunburned son of hers, perhaps because—of all of her children—he was the one closest to God. Or perhaps it was because he had been lost for so many years, and when he had come back, she had received him as a gift from God. He was, she thought as she studied his aquiline features, a strong man—stronger than his father or any of the other Rocklin men. The genes of Noah Rocklin, her husband’s father, ran strong in Clay and were evident in the same streak of stubborn individualism that Susanna had so much admired in Noah.

  The
sound of a horse coming down the drive at a trot broke through to them, sharp and clear. “That’s Denton, I expect,” Susanna said.

  “What’s he doing away from his company?”

  “He took those Reed girls over to Brad’s to visit with Amy.” Brad Franklin was married to Amy, Clay’s sister. They lived twenty miles away on Franklin’s large plantation, and the two families were very close. Their sons had grown up together, even though Brad’s son Grant was older than Clay’s twins.

  “I wish Brad had stayed out of this war,” Clay said, frowning. “He’s not cut out to be a soldier—and he’s got plenty to do on that place of his.”

  “I know, but he’s caught up in it,” Susanna agreed. Then as footsteps sounded on the side walkway, she lowered her voice to say, “Dent’s getting pretty thick with those Reed girls. He’s been to their house two or three times, and now he’s taken them to Brad’s.”

  “Maybe he’s getting over Deborah,” Clay said, but then steps sounded on the porch and he fell silent until the door opened. “Hello, Dent.”

  Dent stopped at the sight of Clay at the table, but nodded at him briefly, then said, “Hello. You two are up late.”

  “How are Amy and her brood?” Susanna asked, listening as Dent gave a brief report. Dent was wearing his uniform, and he looked very dashing in the yellow lamplight. He was, Susanna saw, uncomfortable with his father. That grieved her, but there was nothing she could do about the situation. Finally when he paused, she asked, “When are you going to bring those young women by for me to meet, Denton?”

  “Oh, maybe day after tomorrow. That’s what Aunt Amy said, I think.” He hesitated, then walked over and got a drink of water from the pitcher. There was a restlessness about him that kept him in motion, and he said briefly, “I have to be back for drill. Good night, Grandmother … sir.” He left without a pause, and the echo of his horse’s hoofbeats came to Clay and his mother on the night air.

  “I’m sorry he feels as he does, Clay, about you.”

  “He thinks I’m unfair to Ellen. And he’s never really forgiven me for leaving you all in the lurch.” Clay’s expression turned heavy, and he got to his feet. “Better get to bed, I guess.” He moved over to Susanna, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mother.”

  “Good night, Clay.” Reaching up, she patted his cheek. “It’ll all come out. God is still with us.”

  “Yes, He is.” Clay turned to go, then hesitated. “I’m worried about Lowell. He’s restless.”

  “Most of his friends have joined the army. He feels left out.”

  “I know. Do what you can to keep him out of it.”

  “You know how stubborn he is, Clay.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Like me? Well, I’m going to spend more time with him. Maybe if he stays busy, he’ll be content. We’ve got up a hunting trip tomorrow. We’ll leave before dawn, so you’ll be asleep. May stay two or three days, but things are in pretty good shape here now. Good night.”

  He left the house and went at once to his own place, slept poorly until four in the morning, then rose and dressed. He walked to the Big House, entered the kitchen, and started coffee. Lowell was a heavy sleeper, so Clay had to go into his room and shake him thoroughly before the boy got out of bed.

  “I’ll fix some breakfast,” Clay said when he was sure that Lowell was really awake, then went downstairs. Ten minutes later Lowell stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed with sleep, and the two of them sat down and ate the bacon and eggs. The food brought Lowell out of it, and when they finished, they cleaned up the kitchen and left for the stables. Soon they were on their way down the road, leading two mules that would pack the meat back. The cool air lay across the earth, and fragments of gossamer clouds drifted across the pale moon. By the time they had reached Wilson’s Creek, the sun was up.

  As they moved westward, the flatland began to break up into small rises covered with scrub pine. By midmorning they were in the foothills and stopped long enough to eat some sandwiches and make coffee. The sun was hot, but Clay was glad to see that Lowell was enjoying himself.

  Should have done more of this with all my boys, he thought. If I had, maybe Dent and I wouldn’t be so cut off from each other. He resolved to throw himself into his family, and as they moved on toward the higher ranges, he drew Lowell out, trying to understand what was going on in his mind.

  Lowell was quite different from the twins, in both appearance and manner. He was shorter, more muscular, and had little of the darkness of the other men—the Black Rocklins—of his immediate family. His hair, darker in his youth, was now light brown, thick and full, and he had a set of clear hazel eyes. His complexion was fair, like his mother’s, and while he was no scholar like David and had little of Dent’s impulsiveness, he had a quick mind and always finished what he started. That had been clearly evident even when the boys were young. Clay had noted that when David and Dent gave up on a project, it was Lowell who forged ahead with a dogged patience until the thing was completed.

  As they rode through large stands of virgin pine, Lowell began to speak freely. At first he talked about his horses, for he was the best horseman of them all and had shown great perception in breeding good stock. But inevitably he spoke of the war. It came out as he spoke of his cousin Grant. “Grant’s going into the cavalry—did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, he is. Uncle Brad tried to get him to join the Richmond Grays, but Grant says he’d rather ride than walk.” A smile touched Lowell’s lips, and he shrugged. “Guess he’s right about that, but the Grays are a good outfit. Dent’s been telling me about how good they are.” When his father said nothing, Lowell gave him a quick glance. “I guess you know I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

  Clay nodded slowly, thinking of the best way to respond. If he turned the boy off with a curt refusal, he knew he would be closing a door that he’d not likely open again. Still, he yearned to keep Lowell out of the army. Finally he said, “Sure, I know. All your close friends are signing up, and you feel left out.”

  Lowell nodded quickly, a little surprised at his father’s understanding. “Yes, sir, they are. And I feel like a quitter—like I’m letting them down and letting my country down, too.” He hesitated, then added, “I know how you feel about the war, but what’s going to happen to us if the Yankees take over our place? We’ll lose everything!”

  Clay let Lowell talk, aware that the boy’s head had been filled with war talk and propaganda of all sorts. Some of it was true, much of it was not, but at the age of seventeen, Lowell was not going to be able to sort it all out. If men such as Robert E. Lee had trouble, how could a mere boy do better? Clay had had second thoughts himself—many times. He believed the war was an invitation to tragedy for the South. Still, he was a Virginian, and the idea of failing his own was a bitter one to him.

  “Nothing’s much worse than being left out, Lowell,” Clay answered thoughtfully. “And when you’re seventeen, to be on the outside is just about unbearable. I was a lot older than you are now when the Mexican War started, but I was itching to join. Gideon was in the army getting ready to go, and lots of my friends were rushing to sign up.” As he spoke of those days, the memories came back to him, and Lowell listened avidly, for his father never spoke of that time. “I couldn’t stand it, Lowell, so I signed up, too. And for me it was a bad decision.”

  Lowell listened as his father told of his time in the army. It was not a pleasant story, and Clay Rocklin did not spare himself. He spoke of how he had been weak and unsteady and far more interested in personal glory than in serving his country. Bitterness scored his lips as he related how he’d failed his unit at the most critical hour. He didn’t add that it was not altogether his fault, but shouldered the entire blame for the loss of life that had come when he failed his duty.

  Finally he stopped, and after a moment of silence, Lowell said, “Thanks for telling me, sir. I—I know it wasn’t easy.”

  “Never easy for a
man to talk about his failures,” Clay said evenly, then added, “I’ve not been a good father to you, Lowell. I wish I had been, but I’ve made many mistakes.”

  Lowell recognized instantly that his father was referring to his relationship to his mother and looked at him quickly. It had been difficult for him to accept his father when he had returned, but he had come to have hopes that his father and mother would be happy together. Lowell knew more about his mother than he would ever voice, for her reputation in Richmond was unsavory, and there was no way he could have failed to hear of her affairs. He loved his mother but was keenly aware of her shortcomings. Glancing at his father, he had a sudden insight into what a travesty his parents’ marriage had been.

  “We all make mistakes, sir,” he said quietly and was glad to see that his remark had pleased his father. “And maybe it would be a mistake for me to go into the army—but how’s a man to know what to do? Everybody is saying that it’s right, that we’ve got to defend the South. And you know better than most what happens when a man refuses to go along. You’ve taken a lot of abuse because of your views on this war. How do you know you’re right? Can you tell me?”

  “I wish I could give you a formula,” Clay said slowly. “It would be nice if everything were clear-cut, but most things aren’t that way. The North has been wrong for years, burdening the South with unfair economic policies, but the South is wrong, too. At least, I think so. Slavery has to go, Lowell. Men like Lee know that, but they’re part of the system the North has saddled us with. As for states’ rights, well, I don’t know. Most of us in the South say that if a state agrees to join the Union, it can decide to withdraw. But Lincoln and others like him feel that if that happens, this country will die; break us up into a lot of tiny nations and America will cease to be.”