“Yes, sir. He’s real sick. He’s got to be cared for, and I was wondering if you could get him a bed in the hospital here. That way I could take care of him and still keep the store open.”
“Why, of course!” Rocklin nodded. “It may bend regulations a little, but I think the army owes that man a great deal. Sergeant, go with this young lady. Get an ambulance and take Mr. Levy to the hospital. I’ll give you a note for Major Turner. See to it that Miss Aimes here gets whatever she needs to take care of Mr. Levy.” He turned back to Frankie. “Don’t worry, Frankie. We’ll see that he gets good care. Come and see me if you need anything at all.”
“Thank you, Major!”
Sol Levy found himself helpless in the hands of his employee. He tried to protest, but by noon he was in a bed, all washed and shaved, with an army doctor poking at him. Major Turner, the chief surgeon, was a muscular man of fifty with a thick mane of white hair. He was a rough sort, but said in a straightforward fashion, “Mr. Levy, you’re old enough that you should have come in sooner, but I think we’ll be able to fix you up.”
But when he spoke to Frankie alone, there was a somber look on his face. “He’s a pretty sick man, Miss Frankie. His age is against him, of course, and he’s pretty frail.”
“But…he’ll be all right, won’t he, Doctor?”
Turner hesitated. “I never make guarantees. Been wrong too many times. We’ll do our best, but…well, if he gets pneumonia—”
Frankie was frightened by Major Turner’s warning. She began at once spending much time with Sol, taking only as much time selling merchandise to the men as was necessary. For two days Sol seemed to hold his own, but Frankie noticed on the third day that he was having trouble breathing. When Major Turner came through, she asked him to look at Sol, and he complied. He was cheerful enough while speaking to Sol but took Frankie outside at once. “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” he said slowly. “His lungs are filling with fluid.”
“Pneumonia?” Frankie whispered.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
Turner gave the girl a compassionate look. “There’s not much we doctors can do: set a bone, stitch up a cut. Most of the time it’s the body that does the healing.” The surgeon knew a little about the young woman who stood before him, her face filled with fear, for Major Rocklin had told him some of her story. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Frankie. He doesn’t have much of a chance.”
“He’s going to die?”
“We all have to do that eventually.” Turner hated this part of his job, but he was a fine doctor and knew he had to be honest: Levy would die unless a miracle took place. He himself was not a Christian, so he could only say, “He’s a fine man. He’s done a lot for the men. But if he has any family close by, you’d better tell them to come at once.”
Frankie knew then that the doctor had given up hope, and when he left, she had to fight back the terrible grief that swept over her. She waited until she could smile, then went back to sit beside Sol. He was asleep, but he woke up later and peered at her. As sick as he was, he saw at once that she was disturbed and knew what was troubling her.
“The doctors can only do so much, daughter,” he whispered. His voice was weak, and it rattled in his chest. He lifted his hand, and she grabbed it blindly. It was so thin it felt like a bird’s claw, all bones and skin.
Sol lay quietly all afternoon, and when he drifted off to sleep, Frankie went outside. She was standing in the cold, tears running down her face, not even noticing that the men who passed were watching her. She tried to pray, but nothing came. Finally she went back inside.
Sol slept fitfully for most of the night, but at dawn he roused up. His eyes were clear, and he once again reached for Frankie’s hand. Nodding, he smiled at her, saying, “I don’t want you to grieve over me, Frankie. Will you promise me that?”
Frankie could not speak. She shook her head, then dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around the old man’s frail form. “I—I can’t help it!” she moaned. “You’ve done so much for me, and I never did anything for you!”
“Ah, you are wrong! Very wrong!” Sol seemed to grow stronger, and he pulled her tearstained face up so that he could see her eyes. “God gave you to this old man for a daughter, just for a little while.” He touched her cheek, and his eyes traced her face. “I must go now…to my Savior. But I don’t have to go alone, for you are here with me.”
They held on to one another, and for a while Sol Levy spoke quietly. He told her again how he had been so happy since finding Jesus. Then he seemed to fade away.
Frankie was alarmed and begged, “Don’t go! Sol, please! Don’t leave me!”
But Sol smiled—an easy, gentle smile. “It’s only…for a little while…daughter. You will find Jesus. God has told me that! Praise His name forever!”
Five minutes later he opened his eyes and whispered, “You have been…a blessing…my daughter.”
Thus saying, he took one shallow breath, and then Solomon Levy went to join the God of his fathers.
CHAPTER 11
A TASTE OF BLACKMAIL
By early December Tyler was walking with crutches—and driving his mother crazy.
“Gideon,” Melanie finally said one night when her husband was home for one of his rare weekend leaves, “what are we going to do about Tyler?” She was sitting on the side of her bed, brushing her long blond hair as he undressed.
“Do about him?” Gideon asked, throwing a puzzled glance toward her. “Why, he’s improving faster than any of us thought he might.” He pulled a flannel nightshirt over his head and turned the lamp wick down, then quickly got under the covers.
Melanie had only enough time to put her comb down before the light was dimmed, but as she turned to slip under the covers, she persisted. “Oh, he’s well enough physically, but you know how active he’s always been. Gid, he’s read every book in the house, and he follows me around all day long.” Gideon’s arms went around her, and she felt as always when he embraced her…like a young girl. She had heard of women who endured the intimacies of marriage with distaste, but she had never been able to understand how that could be. She loved Gideon’s caresses, but now she drew back, saying, “Tyler misses Frankie a lot. She was such good company for him. He can’t go back in the army for a long time, can he?”
Gideon was stroking Melanie’s long hair, not thinking so much of his son as he was of how nice his wife smelled and how soft, yet firm, she was. “Hmm? Oh—no, not for quite a while, Mellie. That knee’s got to have lots of rest.”
Melanie reached out and imprisoned his hand, which was tracing the smoothness of her neck. Holding it tightly, she said, “We simply must find something for Tyler to do, or he’ll go crazy. And drive the rest of us crazy right along with him! Maybe he could go to work at your father’s factory.”
Gideon smiled tenderly. “I’ll talk to him about it,” he assured her, holding her small hands in his big ones. His eyes regarded her warmly, and the love Melanie saw reflected in their depths touched her so deeply she felt a wave of emotion wash over her. How good God had been to let them come together!
“You know,” Gid went on, his voice soft, a crooked smile on his face, “I’ll be gone for quite a while when the army moves against Richmond. Sure hate to think of all the handsome chaps who’ll be left to guard Washington.… Maybe I’d better hire some sort of duenna to keep an eye on you.”
“You idiot!” she laughed and moved against him.
Only three days later, Tyler left the house for the first time since being brought there by the ambulance. He had Amos hitch up the family carriage and help him make his way down the sidewalk, which was icy and dangerous.
“Miz Rocklin gonna skin bof of us!” the tall black man complained as he hoisted the young man into the closed vehicle. He leaned in and arranged a blanket around Tyler’s knees, grumbling steadily. “Fust time you cotches her gone, you gits dis crazy idea to go rummaging ar
ound. It ain’t right! No, it ain’t!”
Tyler grinned at the man, saying, “I won’t tell if you won’t, Amos. Now let’s get going!” He sat back, enjoying the cold air, which was refreshing after the long weeks in the confines of the house. All around him the trees were heavy with ice and glittered like diamonds as the breeze shook them. Christmas was two weeks away, and he saw signs of the coming holiday in a few decorations already appearing in windows and on the fronts of houses lining the streets.
He moved his knee carefully, noting that it was less painful than it had been two days ago when Dr. Smith had tested it. “Stay off it for another week. Then we’ll see,” he’d said. But Tyler had endured being cooped up in the house for as long as he could. When his mother had left to go to the church and roll bandages for the troops, he knew that he was going to have a holiday, even if it killed him. Amos had argued and fussed, but Tyler had bribed him with a gold coin, and now as the carriage rolled along, Tyler’s eyes drank in all that was around him with a new appreciation. Life seemed fairer than ever.
Tyler had never been sick before, and the long convalescence had been hard on him. As long as Frankie had been there to read to him, to play chess and checkers, or just to talk, it had been bearable. But after she left, he had been thrown back on his own resources, and he had to admit that he had found himself a poor companion.
He sat back, enjoying the ride, and when the carriage turned off the main road toward the camp, he grew eager. Sitting up, he took in the long rows of tents that made up the camp. “Take me to the Washington Blues’ regimental headquarters, Amos,” he called out. The servant knew that place well, having brought his mistress there often. When they reached the area, Tyler called out, “Over there, where those wagons are.” When the carriage stopped, he threw the blanket back and carefully let himself out of the coach.
Amos said sharply, “Now will you wait jes’ a minute till I can get there!” He reached up and helped Tyler down, then fished his crutches out. “Now where at you goin’?” he huffed when Tyler started out.
“Not too far,” he answered. “You can come along, but if I nod at you, I want you to skedaddle!”
Amos stared at his young master, frowned, and shook his head. “You up to somethin’, Mistuh Tyler! I kin tell!”
Tyler only laughed at him and swung himself across the frozen ground toward an open area where three large canvas-covered wagons were set up about twenty feet apart, each with an adjacent tent. Tyler called out, and a man stuck his head out of the flap of one of the tents, asking, “Want to buy something, soldier?”
“Looking for Frankie Aimes.”
“Last tent down.”
“Thanks.” Tyler swung along, calling out when he got close to the third tent, “Hi! Any vivandiers in there?”
At once the flap opened and Frankie emerged. Her face lit up when she saw who was calling, and she ran to meet him. “Tyler! What in the world are you doing way out here?” She was wearing a pair of blue wool trousers with a shirt to match, and on her head was perched a blue forage cap. Her eyes were brighter than he remembered, and her hair redder.
“You look different,” he said, grinning. “First time I’ve ever seen you in uniform.”
“Come in where it’s warm,” Frankie said. “You, too, Amos.” She ducked inside the tent, and soon the three of them were drinking scalding coffee that she’d brewed on the small woodstove that warmed the tent. She gave them both some pie and plied Tyler with questions.
After the pie, Tyler sent a subtle signal to Amos, who rose from the wooden box he was sitting on and said, “I gonna look around for my friend Washington. He one of de cooks fo’ Major Gideon.”
As soon as the black man left, Tyler said quietly, “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Levy, Frankie. He was a fine man, and I know losing him was hard on you.”
Frankie dropped her eyes, fingered a button on her shirt, then looked up at him. “It’s still hard, Tyler. He was so kind to me!” She gave her head a shake and, pulling her shoulders together, came up with a small smile. “I’ll see him again—that’s the last thing he said to me, Tyler.” Then she began to ask him how he was doing, and Tyler knew she wasn’t ready to talk about her loss any further. He gave her his report on his knee, told her about his mother and his relatives, and regaled her with the antics of the cat, Lothar, who had been a favorite with Frankie.
He also told her about the Southern branch of the Rocklin family, for Frankie had grown very interested in them during her stay with Tyler’s family. After telling her about his uncle Clay and his family, he asked, “Did I ever tell you about my uncle Paul?” When Frankie shook her head, Tyler said, “I only met him once, but he’s really something. Artist type, studied in Europe. Came back all against the Rebellion.”
“Don’t guess his family likes that much, do they?”
“No, it’s been pretty tough on them, but he fell for a Southern belle, and he’s gone to work for the government, taking pictures of the battles.” Tyler shook his head, a thoughtful look in his brown eyes. “That’s a funny way to fight a war—taking pictures.”
“Will he marry the girl?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Frankie.” Tyler shrugged. “I suppose so. Her family has money, and she’s supposed to be a raving beauty. Now tell me about your family.”
Frankie pulled out some letters from Timothy and notes from her sisters and read parts of them to Tyler. When she finished, he asked hesitantly, “Nothing from your father?”
“No. I…I don’t think there’ll be anything.” Frankie changed the subject, and for the next hour the two drank coffee and finished off the pie. Just as the last slice was disappearing, a voice called out, “Any wayward soldiers in there with you, Miss Aimes?”
“It’s my father!” Tyler said and got to his feet, grabbing his crutches. He followed Frankie outside and saw his father with another man, a civilian. Amos eyed Tyler from a position at the wagon.
“You scoundrel!” Tyler called out to the servant. “Why, you’re nothing but a—a—”
“He did his duty,” Major Rocklin cut in with a grin. “Told me he wasn’t taking any punishment from your mother over this trip.”
Tyler looked crestfallen but faced his father, setting his jaw firmly. “I had to get out of the house,” he said. “I need the exercise.”
“Nice how you came straight to see your father.” Gideon tried to sound severe, but Tyler could see the smile that threatened to break out on his father’s face.
“I was coming to see you before I left,” he said lamely.
Gideon did smile then, and he shook his head indulgently. He glanced at the man standing beside him. “Mr. Pinkerton, this is my son, Private Tyler Rocklin. And this is Miss Frankie Aimes, one of our fine sutlers. Tyler, Frankie, meet Mr. Allan Pinkerton.”
“The detective?” Tyler asked, giving the man a startled look. He offered his hand. “An honor to meet you, sir!”
Though only of medium height, Pinkerton was powerfully built. He had a round, pleasant face and brown hair. His searching blue-gray eyes took in the young man, then shifted to Frankie. “Pleasure to meet both of you,” he said.
Tyler had read a story about the famous detective in the newspaper and had been impressed by it. Pinkerton had been a police officer before opening his own detective agency, and he had been called on by General McClellan to put his talents at the service of the government. So far, he had been instrumental in capturing several spies—including the most famous of all, Rose O’Neal Greenhow.
“I’m sending you home, Tyler,” Major Rocklin said firmly. “Your mother would skin me alive if I didn’t. And since Mr. Pinkerton has to go back to town, you can give him a lift.”
“Why, of course!”
Tyler said a hasty good-bye to Frankie, adding urgently, “I came to invite you to our Christmas party. Mother says if you don’t come, she’ll have Father arrest you and put you in the stockade. It’s on the twenty-fourth.”
“I’d like that,”
Frankie said, smiling.
Pinkerton walked with Tyler to the wagon, and when he saw the black man start to get down from the driver’s seat to help young Rocklin on, he said, “I’ll do it.” With surprising strength for a small man, he almost lifted Tyler into the coach, then got in himself. Leaning out the window, he said, “I’ll be back next Wednesday, Major. I’d appreciate it if you’d have your estimates ready.”
“I’ll have them.” Rocklin nodded. “See you tomorrow, son.”
As the coach pulled away and turned around for the trip back to the city, Pinkerton pulled out a cigar, bit the end of it off, and lit it. “Your father is very proud of you, sir.” He smiled at Tyler as the smoke ascended. “And I know you’re proud of him.”
Tyler shrugged. “He’s a good man—and a fine soldier, but it looks like I’m out of it. The war will be over before this knee heals up.”
“Wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Pinkerton replied. “Anyway, there are other things you can do while you’re waiting. They need men to run the War Department. Your father could get you into something along that line.”
“I’d be bored to tears!”
Pinkerton studied the young man, a critical light in his eyes. “You like adventure, eh? Well, most young men do.”
“Not very likely to have any, not with this knee.”
Pinkerton said nothing more about Tyler’s prospects but began to tell of a case he’d worked on once. When he got out in downtown Washington, he said, “Don’t get discouraged, Private. Something will turn up. Let me know if I can help.”
Tyler was quiet and thoughtful on the rest of the drive home. The next day he asked his father about Pinkerton’s business with the army.
“Well, it’s not to be talked about,” his father said, “but he’s organized a Secret Service. General McClellan has great confidence in him. As I understand it, Pinkerton will handle the spies and their reports.”
Tyler’s face had grown serious as he listened. “He’s a pretty smart man—and tough, too. I could see that.”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 13