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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Rachel got up and managed to light both lamps. The yellow light flickered over the cabin, and she said, “I’ve never been in anything like this. It’s not like a storm on land.”

  “No. On land you can get under something or run. Not in one of these, though. There’s no place to hide.”

  The amber light gave her face an oriental appearance, and the shadows it cast brought her cheekbones into prominence and emphasized the greenish tint of her eyes, making her look even more Asian. Or perhaps, Hardin thought, it was her stillness, which was a characteristic of the oriental races, that brought that image to mind. But no, he decided, for he had seen Chinese coolies get frantic in a mild storm on the Mississippi.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked finally.

  She looked at him, wondering at his question, then nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “You sure don’t look it!”

  “No sense running and screaming, is there?”

  “Well, no. But sometimes in a spot like this, it’s hard not to do just that.”

  “We’re in a dangerous storm,” she said, and reaching up, she tucked a lock of honey-colored hair under a pin. It was a common enough gesture, but one that was somehow intensely feminine, or so it seemed to Jake. Most women, he reflected, wouldn’t be thinking of their hair at such a time. She shrugged, then went on to say, “We may die. That’s enough to make anyone afraid.”

  Jake lay there, wondering at her statement, for it didn’t seem to go with her calmness. He thought of what Vince had told him of his sister, that she was very religious. This knowledge had not impressed him greatly, for he had seen some poor samples of Christians from time to time. It suddenly occurred to him as he lay there: Well, I’ve been in a poor place to see Christians. Dealing poker in a floating saloon—it’s not like I worked in a store in town.

  The thought would not leave him, and he said finally, “I guess you’re so calm because you’ve got religion.”

  Something about what he had said displeased her. She gave her head a slight negative shake and clamped her lips together. “I’ll go get us something to eat,” she said, and she left the cabin, balancing herself like a tightrope walker.

  Why did that offend her? Jake thought, a puzzled expression wrinkling his brow. What was wrong with what I said? Maybe it wasn’t the sort of thing Vince would say. Got to watch it more closely.

  Rachel came back thirty minutes later with a small sack and a pitcher. “Just sandwiches and milk,” she said.

  “Not sure it’s a good idea to eat, anyway.”

  “Yes, you must eat.” She pulled a sandwich from the sack, handed it to him, then picked up a cup and managed to pour it half full of milk. She sat there holding it as he ate, despite his request that she eat her own sandwich. The sandwich was dry—cold roast beef flavored with mustard. “Cow must have been a hundred years old,” he complained, then took a drink from the cup she handed him. “What’s it like outside?”

  “I’ve never seen such waves,” Rachel said. “Like mountains. Too dark to see much. It’d be much more frightening in the day, I suppose. Now all a person can do is guess at how high they are.”

  Jake suddenly gave her a thin grin. “Rather see things than think about them.”

  Rachel considered his statement, then said, “You don’t really think that, Vince.”

  “Why don’t I?”

  She spoke evenly, without heat. “Because you’ve never been a man who’d look at things as they are. Even when you were a boy you’d never look trouble in the face. You’d always run away.” A thought touched her, and she gave him a sharp glance. “Remember when you and Les and I rode Daddy’s prize yearling?”

  “Well—”

  “You don’t remember?” Rachel lifted her head, surprise in her eyes. “Funny you’d forget that. I was so young I shouldn’t be able to remember, but I do.” Then she shook her head abruptly. “The calf stepped into a hole and broke his leg. I think we were all about as scared as we’d ever been. But you said, ‘Just don’t say anything.’ And Les said, ‘No, Daddy will find out, and I’d rather get it over with.’” The ship lifted, then fell, and she waited until the paddles caught. Then with a slight look of relief on her face, she said quietly, “Les and I went to Daddy and told him. He used the strap on both of us. But you got out of it. When Daddy asked Les if you were in on it, he lied about it. Said it was just the two of us.”

  Jake fingered the button on his shirt, then remarked, “No one likes a whipping.”

  “You certainly don’t,” Rachel said with asperity. “You’ve never faced up to anything unpleasant in your life! So don’t tell me you’d rather watch those big waves, Vince. You know better, or—” She broke off and gave him a glimpse tinged with contempt that she made no attempt to conceal. “Or maybe you’ve got yourself to believing your own lies. I guess that’s what all liars come to in time.”

  Jake had no idea how to answer but assumed that Vince would have given a bitter reply, so he said, “You’re no better! All that religion is just a coat you put on. That’s why you got sore when I asked you if it helped, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s drop it.” Rachel took the mug, put it down, then sat down on her bunk and ate half of a sandwich. The ship was rolling so badly that she was suddenly conscious of a certain queasiness. “Maybe you were right,” she said. “Not the best time to eat.”

  The storm raged all night. By the next morning, both of them were half sick with the rolling. Rachel said, “We’d better skip the shave today. But I’ll change your bandages.” She moved about carefully and, finally, after she’d gathered the supplies, came to his bunk. It took considerable art to change his bandages as the deck tilted abruptly, but she finished, then said, “I’ll go see if I can find out what’s happening.”

  Jake waited until she left, then managed to get out of his bunk and into the wheelchair. It gave him a perverse pleasure to do something for himself instead of having Rachel do it. He put on his glasses, then rolled himself to the porthole and stood up, balancing on his good leg and bracing his left hand against the wall. The world outside was gray soup, with great dark waves appearing out of it to slap the Jupiter as a man would cuff a small dog, and he felt the awesome force of the blows.

  He became so engrossed in watching the seas run over the deck that he didn’t notice that his wheelchair had moved toward the door. And then when the ship gave an unexpected lurch and he reached back to grab the chair, his hand encountered only air. He waved his good arm wildly, then was driven backward, which was a disaster. He twisted his bad leg and cried out with the pain, then fell sideways, his head catching the steel corner of his bunk. At once he felt the hot blood trickle down over his ear as pain tore at him.

  When Rachel returned ten minutes later, she found him sitting on the floor, his nightshirt drenched with blood. “What in the world—?”

  Jake, angry at himself and humiliated, snapped, “I fell down.”

  Rachel shook her head, then bent over. “Get into the bunk,” she ordered crossly. He leaned on her, and it took all her strength to help lift him. When he was in the bunk, she got her bandages out, washed the cut in his scalp, then shook her head. “Not quite bad enough for stitches.” She put a fiery antiseptic on it, ignoring his involuntary grunt of pain, then bandaged it. “Just what you needed,” she muttered. Then as she gathered her supplies, she asked, “How in the world did you manage to cut yourself?”

  “Wanted to see out the window,” Jake said defiantly. “What’s the captain say?”

  “I talked to one of the officers. He says if we don’t sink before the storm blows itself out, we might make it. He wasn’t,” she added wryly, “a very optimistic soul.”

  “Neither am I,” Jake admitted. “And it’s worse lying here like a sick baby.”

  She moved to the porthole, looked out for a long time, then sat down on her bunk. When she picked up her Bible and started reading it, he lay there for half an hour, then said with some irritation, “Well, read some of it to m
e, will you?”

  Rachel looked up, and the corners of her lips lifted slightly. “You want to hear some of the Bible?”

  “Try to find a good part,” he said morosely. “I don’t need to hear all about how I’m going to hell. I know that already. Isn’t there something in there about how to get out of trouble? Daniel in the lions’ den, maybe?”

  A thought came to Rachel, one that seemed to please her. “The twenty-seventh chapter of the book of Acts,” she said, finding the place, and began to read: “‘And when it was determined that we should sail into Italy, they delivered Paul and certain other prisoners unto one named Julius, a centurion of Augustus’ band ….’”

  Jake listened as Rachel read the story of Paul’s voyage on his way to Rome. He had never read the Bible, but the story was thrilling and Rachel was a fine reader. She read how the voyage was a difficult one; then she read, “‘But not long after there arose against it a tempestuous wind, called Euroclydon—’”

  “Wait a minute,” Jake asked. “You mean that the storm had a name?”

  “Yes. Euroclydon.”

  “Funny, a storm having a name, like a horse or something.” He glanced out the window, then said, “If I had to name that one out there, I’d call it Rita.”

  “Rita? Why Rita?”

  “Because I had a girl once who acted about as cantankerous as that storm.” He grinned, then said, “Go on—what happened to the fellows on the ship?”

  Rachel read on through the chapter, and when it was finished, he said, “Well, I guess it came out all right, but the ship sank.”

  “But nobody died,” Rachel reminded him. She ran her fingers over the page, then looked up. “I’ve always liked the part where in the middle of the storm—just when things looked the blackest—Paul told how an angel had come to him and promised that none of them on the ship would die.”

  “You think that actually happened?” Jake asked. “That there are angels and they talk to people?”

  “I believe it happens sometimes, not often,” Rachel said evenly. Then she smiled, “Paul said, ‘I believe God, that it shall be even as it was told me.’” The ship rolled, but she smiled, seeming to forget the moaning of the wind and the cracking of the ship itself. “More than anything else, I want to say that I believe God!”

  She spoke with such passion that Jake knew she had allowed part of that which she kept hidden to come out. Finally he said, “I guess you do believe it, Rachel. I hope you always do.” Then he realized that such a statement from Vince would be unlikely, so he growled, “But I don’t think God’s going to reach down and pull us out of this storm. That’s up to Captain Stuart and the crew.”

  “No, it’s not,” Rachel said calmly but then said no more.

  Finally the storm lost its force, fading away like a whipped dog. It was so sudden that the silence seemed hollow somehow. When Rachel took Jake up on deck at three that afternoon, the sun was shining and the water was a sparkling blue.

  “Well, it didn’t get us that time, did it?” Jake said.

  “No.”

  Her brief reply drew his attention, and he looked up at her. She was facing the bow, and the wind was pulling at her hair. Suddenly she reached up and pulled out some pins, allowing it to fall down her back. There was a smile on her broad lips and a look in her eyes that he couldn’t name. Peace, maybe, but more than that.

  “Look how still the sea is,” she said quietly. “Just like the rolling hills back of the house at Lindwood.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to get there,” Jake answered.

  “Will you?” she asked, and it seemed his statement had driven away the lightness of her mood. “What about Duvall? He’ll be there, still wanting to shoot you.” When he made no reply, she said, “I don’t suppose he can shoot a cripple. And that’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it?”

  He felt the pressure of her words and the obvious direction of her thoughts, but said only, “I guess so, Rachel.”

  The pleasure of the moment was gone, and though the weather was fine for the rest of the voyage, there was a barrier between the two of them. Rachel tended to his wounds and saw that he got his meals, but there was no warmth in her.

  Going to be a rough homecoming, Jake thought as the ship dropped anchor with a loud rattle at the wharf in Richmond. If she’s this tough, what will the rest of the family be like?

  CHAPTER 8

  HOMECOMING

  Rachel waited until the hard, bright October sunshine began to fade, then left the Jupiter. She went to Harvey Simmons’s livery stable to rent a wagon and, as she had expected, was questioned closely by the owner.

  Simmons, a talkative man of fifty-five, chatted steadily as he hitched a horse to the buggy, giving her a running commentary on the city until he finally got down to finding out her business. “Heard you went to New Orleans to pick up Vince, Miss Rachel.” His eyes were bright as a crow’s as he looked up, asking innocently, “He’s all right, is he?”

  “He got some injuries in a hotel fire, Harvey.” Her wry sense of humor came to her aid, and she rattled off the information Harvey was trying to pry out of her, including a summary of the fire itself and the hospital where Vince had stayed. Then she added, “He’s got a bad right leg, a bad right hand, some burns on his face, and his eyes are sensitive to light. But with good care, he’ll be fine. Just pass that along to anyone who might be interested, Harvey.”

  Simmons flushed, for he understood the irony in her voice, but he said only, “Well, that’s fine. Folks’ll be glad to hear it.” He stepped back, saying, “Here you are, Miss Rachel. This here mare is real gentle. Won’t give you no trouble. Lemme help you up.”

  Rachel accepted his hand and settled herself in the seat, saying, “Thank you, Harvey. I’ll have Tad bring the rig back in the morning.”

  But Simmons could no more resist speaking of a juicy rumor than he could help breathing. “I heard that Simon Duvall ain’t gonna let the thing drop—about Vince and his wife.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Well, no, but Leo Bates heard him say so. According to Leo, Duvall’s going to open up on Vince as soon as he sees him.” The man was as avid a gossip as ever drew breath, almost slavering as he probed at Rachel. “Whut you think Vince will do? I mean, he can’t live in this county for long without running across Duvall, can he now?”

  Rachel took the reins and spoke to the mare, and as the buggy left the stable, she called, “I’ll get back to you as soon as I find out what’s happening, Harvey!”

  Simmons cursed under his breath, then kicked at a stall, startling the gray gelding inside. “Well, ain’t she proud now! Like to take a strap to her!” Then he went inside the office and said to a long-legged man who was whittling a piece of cedar into a chain, “Leo, you know what? I think it’s gonna be a shootin’—yes, sirree, I think Vince Franklin is gonna get himself perforated!” He sat down and drew out the possible scenarios for the affair, and within two or three hours he had gotten the word out that Simon Duvall and Vince Franklin were sure enough going to have a gunfight.

  As she drove to the wharf, Rachel understood that putting a story of Vince’s return in the paper would not get the news around Richmond nearly as fast as the long tongue of Harvey Simmons could manage it. It was, she realized, inevitable, and she turned her thoughts from it as she pulled the buggy up in front of the gangplank of the Jupiter. Captain Stuart was waiting for her on deck and gave her a gallant salute. “Hoped to see you before you left,” he said, smiling at her. “I sent Smythe down to get Mr. Franklin all ready, Miss Rachel.”

  “Why, that was thoughtful of you, Captain,” Rachel said with a smile. Stuart was young enough to feel flattered and old enough to be concerned. He had picked up on some of the problems that her brother was likely to bring to her and was sorry to hear it. “It was a nice voyage, storm and all,” she said.

  “Well, it’s going to get a little more tricky as this blockade thing keeps going. You tell your father if he wants anyt
hing shipped out or brought back, he’d better take care of it.”

  “I’ll tell him, Captain, and you be careful. Don’t let the Yankees get you.” She had seen Smythe pushing the wheelchair, with two of the crew following with their luggage, and offered Stuart her hand. “Good-bye, Captain.”

  “I think we got everything, Miss Franklin,” Smythe said. He led the way down the gangplank, then said, “Give me a hand, men.” The three of them put the injured man on the seat, then loaded the chair and the rest of the luggage in the back of the buggy. “Good-bye, miss,” he said, then began to protest when she held out some bills.

  “You’ve been so good to us, Smythe,” she said with a smile. “I couldn’t have made it without you!”

  As the buggy drove off, Smythe said, “Now there’s a real lady, boys! The genuine article!” His eyes filled with admiration. He gave a bill from the cash Rachel had given him to each of the men, then added, “That brother of hers, he’s not like her at all. Too bad!”

  Rachel put the mare at a fast trot, and by the time they had cleared the city limits and were on the road leading to Lindwood, night had fallen. The stars were out and a silver medallion of a moon began to climb the skies, casting pale bars of light on the back of the mare.

  “Good to be off the ship,” Rachel said. “It was an adventure for me, but I’m not much of a sailor.”

  “I think you have to start in early for that,” Jake agreed. He was breathing in the odors of the countryside, savoring the smell of rich earth and trees and the sharp, acrid odor of wood smoke. “I always like fall best,” he remarked.

  “That’s not what you always said,” Rachel pointed out. “How many times have I heard you curse the fall just because it meant winter was coming?”

  Jake laughed quickly. “I suppose that’s so. But right now it’s pretty nice, especially after that little cabin—and after the hospital.”