As sleep took Dent Rocklin over, Alcott said, “He’s had it, hasn’t he, Sanders?”
“Gangrene.” The orderly uttered that one word, then moved away, fading into the darkness.
CHAPTER 21
DEBORAH FINDS A MAN
Your father wanted to see you, Clay, but he’s been feeling so weak I hated for him to make the trip.”
Susanna had met Clay at the front door, kissed him, then led him into the house. “He was taken bad last week but wouldn’t let me send for the doctor.”
Clay said, “I’ll go right up, Mother. I’ve got two days’ leave, so we’ll have lots of time to talk.” He turned and mounted the large stairway that divided in the middle, took the right section, then walked quickly to the door of his parents’ room. When he knocked on the door, his father’s voice came at once. Entering the room, Clay found Thomas sitting in a horsehide chair, a letter in his hand.
“Come in, Clay,” Thomas said. Letting the letter drop, he put his hand out, and Clay moved to take it. “Glad to see you, son.”
“I’d have come earlier, but I couldn’t get leave.” Clay was shocked by the fragile touch of his father’s hand but allowed nothing to show on his face. Every time I see him, he’s gone down, Clay thought as he pulled a chair close and sat down. “You’ve been feeling a mite low, Mother says.”
“Getting old, I guess.”
“Not so old as all that.” As a matter of fact, Thomas was only sixty-one, but he looked older. He had always been a handsome man, far better looking than his brother Stephen, but poor health had drained him of color and stripped away the flesh. There was an almost cadaverous look about him now, his eyes sunken and his lips seamed in the manner of the very old. He had the look in his eyes, Clay saw, of a sick person who is exhausted from fighting pain.
But he was glad to see Clay, and he smiled as he picked up the letter. “I got this letter from Colonel Benton three days ago,” he said. “Can you guess what’s in it?”
“No, not really. Is it about the regiment?”
“No, it’s about you, Clay. Let me read it to you.” He began reading, and Clay shifted uneasily as he went on. It was a letter of praise for Clay’s action in charging up the hill in the face of intense fire. It ended with, “I think I know how proud you must be of Clay, Thomas. It will please you to know that I have mentioned the matter to General Jackson, with a recommendation for an appropriate decoration. You have a nephew who has been decorated for valor, and now I trust that you will have a son, also.”
Thomas lowered the letter, and his lips trembled as he said, “I’m very much afraid I’m going to have to tell you what a good son you are to me, Clay.”
Clay’s face flushed, and for an instant he could think of no reply. He thought of all the grief and pain he’d brought to his parents, then shook his head. “Others did so much more, Father. And I don’t know if I’d have gone up that hill if it hadn’t been my own son who was in danger.”
Thomas studied him carefully, thinking of how different this man was from the younger Clay Rocklin. “I think you would. You’re like your uncle Stephen, Clay. More like him than you are like me, for which I’m thankful!”
Clay said at once, “I’m a Rocklin, sir, like you and Uncle Stephen both.” He changed the subject, for he saw again what he had always known, that his father felt inferior to his uncle. The two of them were very different, and Clay didn’t want his father to dwell on the matter. “Lowell is doing very well,” he said, and for some time he spoke of his son’s accomplishments in glowing terms. “He’ll be a general before he’s through, I’d venture.”
Thomas sat there listening carefully, then asked, “Is Dent improved at all? What about his arm?”
“No better, I’m afraid. I wish he’d let them take that arm off. It’s worse every day, and it could kill him.”
“Your mother thinks he’s afraid to face the world with such a terrible scar on his face. He’s always been such a handsome boy, Clay. Do you think he might be wanting to die so he won’t have to face the world?”
“It’s—possible, sir,” Clay agreed. “Dent’s in a deep valley now. He’s always had everything, and now he’s thinking he’ll only be an ugly cripple. He’s a man without any props, and my hope is that he’ll see how helpless he is without God—and that he’ll turn to Him.”
“I hope so.” Thomas thought about it, then asked, “What about Sam Reed’s daughter? Susanna tells me she visited Dent.”
“She’s a fine girl,” Clay said at once. “I never saw a finer. She’s a good Christian, and if anyone can touch Dent, I think she’s the one.”
For the rest of the day, Clay moved around Gracefield, accompanied by his daughter, Rena. She was delighted to have him there, and it was a keen pleasure for him to watch her riding beside him. Clay wished that her mother was more attentive to her, though he said nothing to Rena about that.
At supper that night, Thomas felt well enough to come down, though he ate little. David, Dent’s twin brother, was anxious for details about the battle. They all listened as Clay told about it, making much of the efforts of Lowell and the others and minimizing his own part.
The next morning, he mounted his horse and rode to see Buford Yancy and, in effect, was forced to tell the story again. Buford and Melora met him as he rode up, and when they all sat down to an early dinner, Melora said, “Tell us about the battle, Mister Clay.” She often called him that, for it had been her first name for him when she had been a child.
“Yeah, tell us about Bob,” Josh insisted. He was fourteen and frantic with excitement about the war. So Clay went over the story again, this time making Bob Yancy the hero of the piece. Finally he held up his hand. “You’ve done all the eating, and I’ve done all the talking.”
“Let him eat, you chirrun,” Buford said. “After you rest a bit, Clay, I’ll show you whut I done about the new pens.” He drove his brood outside, and Melora came over to pour fresh coffee into his cup, then got a cup for herself and sat down beside him.
“Tell me about Dent,” she said. The light came through the glass window, highlighting the planes of her face. She sat there, her head turned to one side, listening to him.
“Dent’s in bad shape, Melora. I’m praying for him.” He laughed ruefully as a thought struck him, adding, “I’m in pretty bad shape myself, come to think of it.”
“What’s wrong, Clay?” she asked. “Is it the war? I know you don’t believe in it.”
“I don’t for a fact, but that’s not why I’m in bad shape.” He looked at her and smiled crookedly.
She knew him so well that he didn’t need to say more. She was always happy to be with him but saddened by the way things were. She knew that Clay would be faithful to his marriage and that she would never be more than a good friend to him. Many had suspected that there was more to their relationship than just friendship, but they didn’t know Clay. He had emerged from his prodigal youth as a man with a sense of honor so strong that he could not even think of breaking it with a low deed.
The solemn ticking of the clock on the mantel counted out the time, and each of them thought long thoughts. Finally Clay looked at her, saying, “It’s hard, Melora.”
“Yes, it’s hard. But we have this much.”
“Not much. Seeing each other and talking once every three months. You ought to marry, Melora.”
“No, that’s not for me.” There was no sorrow or grief in her eyes. He knew she was not a grieving woman, but he wondered at the happiness in her clear eyes. “If I reached out and tried to grab happiness with you, Clay, it wouldn’t bring me anything. I think we have to take every little good thing God gives us—no matter how small—and treasure it. But if we try to grab for more than He intends, it goes bad, just like the manna the disobedient Israelites tried to hoard. God told them to gather only enough for one day, to go back for more the next day. Remember what happened to the manna some of them tried to hoard? It went rotten and was filled with worms.”
&n
bsp; Clay was always impressed with the way Melora used the scripture to live by. “Never thought of that,” he said. He sat there, holding on to the moment, for he knew that one like it would not come again soon. He spoke of it finally, saying, “I’ll be gone a long time, Melora. This isn’t going to be an easy war. And the South is going to be in a trial of fire.”
“I’ll be here when you get back, Clay,” she said softly, and then he rose and took her hands in his. She held to him tightly, murmuring, “We’ll be faithful to God’s law, Clay. This love I have for you, it’s from Him, and I will never dishonor Him with it. Don’t ever worry about me, and don’t ever doubt about us. God is going to bless us, even if we can never be together. He always honors those that honor Him.”
They stood there, knowing that the world was falling down around them but aware that somehow the fiery trial would be endured and they would not be lost in it. When Clay left that afternoon, Buford said quietly, “Might be a spell before we see Clay again, daughter.”
“He’ll come back, Pa,” she said firmly, and he saw that there was no doubt in her as she turned to her work.
Chief Surgeon Baskins studied the wound almost carelessly. He had seen so many wounds that a callousness had come over him—especially when the patient was a Yankee. He straightened up and said shortly, “Looks a little better. Keep the bandages changed, Branch,” then moved on down the line.
Pat Steele watched the surgeon leave. There was a sultry anger in his eyes. “He doesn’t care if we live or die!”
Jesse Branch finished slapping a bandage on Noel’s side, got up, and gathered his supplies. “He’s better than some, Blue-belly,” he said as he left. “But you won’t have to put up with him long.”
Pat stared at him. “He’s leaving the hospital?”
“Nope.” Branch gave him a sly look. “He ain’t—you are.” Branch loved to gossip and lowered his voice to add, “You’ll be leaving in a couple of days for a prison camp. And from what I hear, it won’t be no picnic. I ‘spec you’ll be crying for this hospital and this good grub in a few days!”
“Noel, too?”
“Nope. You and five more, I hear.”
Branch left, and Noel said, “I ought to go with you, Pat.”
“No, you need to be here. I’ll be all right.”
But either Branch had been wrong in his information or there was a change of plans. That same day after Jemmy had helped distribute the evening meal and while she sat beside Noel, talking with the two men, a Confederate lieutenant accompanied by two privates carrying muskets came into the room. “Price, Duggins, Steele, Anderson, Lyons, and Ochner,” he read from a list, then said, “Get your stuff and come with me. You’re being transferred.”
Pat began to gather his meager belongings. His arm was not healed completely, and Jemmy moved to help him. She caught at his arm, and in the shadow of the brim of her ever-present sun-bonnet, he saw that her eyes were damp with tears. “I wisht you didn’t have to go,” she whispered.
“Me, too, Jemmy.” Pat summoned up a smile. “You’ve been mighty good to all of us. Going to miss you.”
Suddenly Jemmy threw her arms around him, gave him a hard squeeze, then turned and stumbled away. Pat watched her go, surprise in his eyes. “Why, that’s funny!” he said. “The old lady’s really got a heart for us, Noel.” Then he turned and put his hand out. “So long, Noel. Hope this thing is over soon. Would you write to my people? Might not be a very good delivery service in the camp.”
“Sure, Pat,” Noel said. He came to his feet, grunting with the pain. “Guess I’ll be seeing you pretty soon.”
The two of them stood there, bound by the code that said men shouldn’t show any emotion. They had grown close during the past few weeks, and finally Noel leaned forward and put his arms around Pat, whispering, “By heaven! I’m going to miss you, Pat!”
Pat Steele was suddenly choked with emotion and could only say huskily, “Me, too, Noel!”
Then the lieutenant said impatiently, “All right, you men, let’s go!”
Noel moved to the window and watched as the prisoners were marched out and placed in an open wagon. Pat looked up, saw him at the window, and gave a cheerful wave. Noel returned the salute and watched until the wagon, accompanied by two armed guards on horseback, disappeared down the road. Then he moved to sit down on his cot, filled with apprehension.
Finally Noel was aware that someone had come to stand beside him, and he looked up to find Jemmy watching him. “Well, Jemmy, I’m going to miss him,” he said simply.
“He’s a nice young feller,” Jemmy said. “I’ll miss him, too.”
Noel examined her more carefully. It was hard to tell her age, for the bonnet she wore concealed the upper half of her face. She had iron-gray hair, but her hands were firm and strong, not wrinkled with age, and he asked curiously, “Why did you hug him, Jemmy? Did he remind you of your son?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh, I reckon I jist got fond of the scamp.”
“How old is your boy, Jemmy? You never talk about him.”
“Wal, he’s about yore age, I reckon.” She seemed uncomfortable and shifted the subject. “Whut about you now? You got a heap of purty gals back home, ain’t you now?”
Noel shook his head, smiling at her. “No, Jemmy, I guess not.”
“A fine-lookin’ young feller like you? Come on, now, you kin tell ol’ Jemmy!” When he continued to deny that he had a string of pretty girls waiting for him, she asked curiously, “Mebbe you ain’t got no bunch of gals, but I’ll bet my bonnet you got one, ain’t that so?”
Noel flushed slightly, then laughed self-consciously. “Well, in a way maybe I have, Jemmy. There is a girl back home—but it’s all one-sided. I think of her all the time, but she’s not for me.”
“And why not?” Jemmy demanded sharply.
“Oh, she’s out of my reach.” Noel shrugged. “She comes from a good family. Her father’s a wealthy man.”
“I don’t reckon she’d be marryin’ yore family, would she?”
Noel said soberly, “In a way she would be. When people get married, their families are part of it. That’s the way it is. And my family—”
“Well, whut about yore family?”
He hesitated but began to talk. Jemmy sat down on the chair, and after a while Noel forgot himself and told her the whole story of how he had met the young woman. Jemmy sat there silently, listening and watching him. Finally he gave a start, then smiled sheepishly. “Gosh, Jemmy, I didn’t mean to tell you all that.”
Jemmy’s voice was usually high-pitched. As she spoke now, though, it was lower and smoother. “This heah gal, this Deb’rah? Whut you thinking ‘bout her, Noel?”
Noel sat there, his face serious in the darkening room. He was not a man to say much about what he felt. His feelings were stronger than anyone had ever suspected, but he had kept them bottled up for the most part. But now he was far from home, and the wound had weakened him so that he said to Jemmy what he would not have let escape under ordinary circumstances.
“I love her, Jemmy,” he said simply. “It won’t ever come to anything. I sure won’t ever tell her. She’d be kind enough to me because that’s the way she is.” His face had thinned during his illness, but there was still a stubbornness in his strong chin as he spoke. “She’s a wonderful girl, Jemmy, but she’s not for me.”
He glanced at Jemmy, who sat so still that she seemed to have gone to sleep. Her upper face was hidden by the shadow of her bonnet, but Noel thought he saw her lips tremble. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “I reckon she’s got a right to know how you feel about her.” Then she rose, picked up his dishes, and left without another word.
Noel stared after her until she disappeared through the door that led to the stairway, then said slowly, “Now that’s a funny one!” Then he lay down on his cot.
Jemmy left the hospital without saying good-bye to Matron Huger. Neither did she speak to the guard at the gate as was her custom. Turnin
g to go down the road that led to her boardinghouse, she noticed a man standing beside a large oak. He was a large man and seemed to be watching the iron gate that she had just passed through. The darkness was falling fast, so she could not see his features clearly, and the slouch hat he wore was pulled down over his eyes.
Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the man, and Jemmy suddenly crossed the road. As she passed the man, he lifted his head and gave her a suspicious look. He was tall, about six feet, and had wavy dark hair that escaped the confines of the cap, and a pair of bold brown eyes. There was something about his stare, a wildness that flashed out at her, that almost frightened her. She walked by, her mind racing.
Then when she was six paces down the lane, it came to her. She stopped, turned, and moved back to the man who had been watching her. He turned his whole body to face her, alert and ready for trouble.
“What are you doing here, Bing?” Deborah asked.
Alarm leaped to Bing Kojak’s eyes, and he took a step toward her, moving on his toes, ready to leap as he said, “Who the devil are you? My name’s Jim!”
“The guard is watching us, Bing,” Deborah said calmly. “He’ll be suspicious, so come with me. Take my arm and lead me down the street.”
Bing stared at her, but a glance toward the guard revealed that she was telling the truth. He took her arm in a paralyzing grip and moved away. When they were out of sight of the guard, he growled, “Now who are you?”
Deborah had been thinking rapidly and knew that Noel’s brother could have only one motive in being outside the gates of Chimborazo. “I’m Deborah Steele, Bing. You’ve come to help Noel escape, haven’t you?”
Bing was so taken aback that he could only stare at her for a long moment; then he slowly nodded. “That’s it.”
“Come to my room,” Deborah said quickly. “We can’t be seen together. I wish that guard hadn’t seen us!” She led the way toward her boardinghouse but, when it was in sight, changed her mind. “No, this won’t do. I don’t want anyone there to see you. We’ll have to talk here.” She turned to face him, asking, “What brought you here, Bing? You never cared that much about your brother—or anyone else.”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 62