Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  Parks shook his head. “I never try to think about what a woman will do, because I’m always wrong. But I do think you’d find a scripture to back you up if you had to.”

  “It was a good message,” Marianne said warmly. “You are one of the few ministers I know who hears from God. Too many get their sermons from other men. It’s good to know that my pastor has an audience with the Almighty!”

  Later, as Marianne and her daughter rode home, Marie spoke of her cousin Clay Rocklin with some hesitation.

  “And they say cousin Clay is in love with Melora Yancy. That’s not right, is it, Mama?”

  Marianne defended her nephew instantly. “I brought you up better than to listen to gossip, Marie. Clay has had a hard life, and he did great wrong to his family. But if ever a man tried to make up for his mistakes, it was Clay Rocklin. As for Melora, well, she is a fine girl. All the talk about the two of them comes from a bunch of gossips who’ve got tongues long enough that they could sit in the parlor and lick the skillet in the kitchen! If there is anything I cannot abide, it is people who try to make their own pitiful lives seem better by gossiping about others. The good Lord gave us enough to concentrate on in our own lives, so for heaven’s sake, let’s leave other people’s lives alone!”

  Marie was surprised at her mother’s sudden outburst. “Why, I don’t believe there’s anything wrong between Clay and Melora, Mama!” She sat there quietly, thinking suddenly of her parents. She was a bright girl and for years had known that they were not happy. It had broken her heart when she had first discovered that her father was a weak man who was unfaithful and prone to the sins of the flesh. If anyone had a right to complain or gossip, it was Marianne Bristol, but Marie had never heard her mother speak a word of criticism about her father. She shook her head slightly, wishing that things could have been better for her mother. Then she asked, “What do you think about Paul, Mama? When will he and his assistant start for the front?”

  “Didn’t you know? They’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Marie looked surprised. “Paul didn’t tell me he was going.”

  “He’s been working very hard. I suppose he just forgot to mention it.”

  “Is he going to the Valley where Jackson is fighting?”

  “No, that’s too far. He said this first trip would be sort of a trial run. He has to try out his camera and What-Is-It wagon under actual conditions.”

  They were within sight of the Big House now, and Marie suddenly said, “Look, there’s Paul now, Mama. Let’s go see what he’s doing.”

  “No, he’s busy. You can see him when he comes in to eat dinner.”

  “Mama…,” Marie asked tentatively, “don’t you think there’s something…funny about that girl he hired?”

  Marianne looked at her daughter at once. “What’s funny about her?”

  “Oh, Mama!” Marie said, tossing her head. “Everyone is talking about it.” She saw her mother winding up to deliver another sermon on gossiping and held up her hand quickly. “Now don’t start preaching at me again! And you might as well get used to people talking about Paul and Frankie, because they’re going to do it!”

  Marianne didn’t speak until she pulled up in front of the tall white house. Then she said, “I suppose so. She is a strange young woman, Marie, but Paul said he didn’t have any choice. Come on, now,” she said abruptly, “we’re going to be late with dinner.”

  Blossom, the cook and second-in-command to Marianne Bristol, already had the meal cooked, however, so all that the mistress of Hartsworth had to do was summon the pair working outside. Claude Bristol and Austin were in the library arguing about horses when Marianne called them to the dining room. When the four of them sat down, Claude asked, “What about Paul and his young woman? Aren’t they going to eat?”

  Even as he spoke, they heard the front door close, and Austin called, “Better hurry up, you two. You know how mad Blossom gets when people are late for her meals.”

  Paul sat down across from Austin, and Frankie took the seat next to him, opposite Marie. He smiled at his mother, saying, “Not a long grace, Mother. Frankie and I have a long way to go.”

  They all bowed their heads, and right on the heels of the “Amen” from Marianne, Claude asked, “You’re not starting at this time of day? It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  “We’re only going to the camps outside Richmond, Father,” Paul replied. “From what I’ve heard, they’ve really started to throw up some stout works.”

  “The soldiers don’t like it—all the digging,” Austin said. He stuffed a biscuit into his mouth.

  Paul slathered a flaky biscuit with yellow butter, tasted it, then called out, “Blossom, these biscuits are good!” He waited until Blossom’s voice came faintly: “Yassuh, Mistuh Paul!” Then he responded to Austin’s comment. “When the Yankees get here, those fortifications will come in handy.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Austin retorted. “The Yankees will never get to Richmond!” He began to explain in a dogmatic fashion how impossible it was for a Yankee army to whip the Confederate Army, informing everyone that any Southern soldier could whip six Yankees. Austin was a husky man of thirty and was very strong. And he was, much like his older brother, the despair of the mothers with marriageable daughters in the vicinity. He had been engaged twice but somehow had never made it to the altar. He was faithful in doing his work at Hartsworth but was more interested in hunting and social life in Richmond than anything else.

  Finally Marianne asked, “Didn’t my nephew say that you were some sort of sutler at one time, Miss Aimes?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bristol. I worked for a man named Sol Levy.” Frankie spoke carefully, hoping no one noticed how tense she was. Knowing there were weak spots in her story, she explained vaguely, “After he died, I didn’t have anything to do, but I’d always been interested in photography. I was quite fortunate that Mr. Brady took me on. Then when I heard from Major Rocklin what Mr. Paul was doing, I asked him to help me get a job here.”

  “But don’t you feel a little out of place?” Claude asked, not unkindly. “I mean, I’d feel that way if I were in the North.”

  “I—don’t really feel strongly about the war,” Frankie said, uncomfortably aware that they all were watching her. “I don’t care for slavery myself, but I think the South has a right to run its own business.” It was the answer that she and Tyler had decided was best, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw by the reactions around the table that it was a success.

  “Why, that’s the way many Southerners feel. General Lee, for one,” Marie said with a nod.

  “What did you think of the Yankee Army, Miss Aimes?” Marianne asked. “Everybody in the South seems to think since we whipped them at Bull Run, it’ll be easy to do it again.”

  Frankie shook her head. “I don’t know much about that, Mrs. Bristol. I just worked for Mr. Levy. We sold tobacco and supplies to the soldiers and passed out tracts and Bibles. But there’s a lot of them. Soldiers, I mean. After Bull Run, they were pretty well whipped and discouraged, but I guess General McClellan has pulled them together.”

  “They won’t give up,” Paul said with certainty. “This is not going to be a short war.”

  After the meal was over, Paul looked at his family. “Well, we’ll be leaving for Richmond. I think we’ll be back pretty soon. We’ll take lots of wet plates, then bring them all back and try to figure out what we did wrong.”

  After the good-byes were said and Frankie and Paul had taken their leave, the other members of the family sat at the table discussing the pair. Marianne listened more than she spoke, but as she saw the black, hearselike wagon roll out from the barn and head down the road to Richmond, she thought, What a strange pair! But Paul’s always been on the outside of what most consider normal, somehow. He never quite fit in anywhere. And now he’s hooked up with this girl, who doesn’t fit either.

  “I hope they don’t get too close to the bullets and shells,” Claude murmured.

  But his wife said,
“There are some things more dangerous than minié balls and cannons, I think.”

  “Wish we had Blossom here to do the cooking,” Paul said regretfully. He dumped the armload of dead branches he’d gathered from the woods on the ground and then began feeding them into the fire. “I hope you can cook better than I can, Frankie,” he said with a shrug. “Otherwise we’re in big trouble.”

  Frankie had pulled the cooking gear out of the compartment reserved for groceries and utensils and was cutting strips of beef from a large chunk of meat. She looked up and smiled, saying, “I like to cook, Mr. Bristol. Especially over a campfire.”

  Bristol sat down and watched her, noting how efficiently she worked. He had been so involved with the details of photography that he had thought little of such mundane things as food, but as the smell of hot coffee and cooking meat came to him, he said, “I’m glad you got the food. I’m hungry as a bear. Can I help?”

  “Not with the cooking. That’s my job.”

  Bristol grinned. “I won’t argue with that.” He leaned back against a tree, soaking up the warmth of the fire. It had been an easy day—easier than many would be, he knew, for he was soft and out of shape. The little fire made a beacon under the heavy timber, and he was pleased with the feeling of security. Soon he drifted off to sleep, coming awake with a start when Frankie said, “Come and get it!”

  “What!” Bristol jerked up and pushed his hat back, confused for a moment, then relaxed against the tree. He reached out to take the plate Frankie handed him, sniffing appreciatively. It was piled high with fried potatoes, roast beef with gravy, and biscuits. He ate hungrily, asking only, “How’d you make the gravy?”

  “Oh, I brought it from the house in a jar. The biscuits are Blossom’s, but I’ll make some fresh ones tomorrow. I brought my sourdough starter.”

  “You’re sure a fine cook, Frankie!”

  She put her plate down and filled a mug with coffee, handed it to Bristol, then poured one for herself. “Wait until you taste my black bug soup,” she said, nodding.

  “Your what kind of soup?”

  “Black bug,” Frankie said, a glint of humor in her eyes. “I cut up the cooked beef, add vegetables and spices, then put it over the fire to simmer.”

  “What about the black bugs?” Bristol demanded.

  “Oh, every once in a while a big black bug dives into it. Makes kind of a sizzle. But they make the stew tasty.”

  “You keep a lid on the pot, you hear me?” Paul ordered. “I’m not eating any bugs!”

  “Why, I heard that people in France eat snails. Did you eat any while you were over there?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  Frankie said emphatically, “I’d rather eat a bug than one of those slimy old snails anytime!”

  Bristol grinned at her across the fire. “I guess it all depends on how you’re brought up.” He finished his meal and sat back, taking a sip of the coffee. He grimaced slightly, for real coffee was no longer available, thanks to the blockades. The “coffee” Paul drank was actually a brew made from roasted and ground acorns. Still, it was hot and black.

  An owl was hooting deep in the woods, and he listened carefully. “Always thought that was a sad sound, the hoot of an owl.”

  Frankie nodded but said nothing. The silence ran on, and Bristol watched her, noting that she seemed totally aware of her surroundings. The flames made a flickering yellow play on her smooth face, throwing her features into stark relief. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, but her cheekbones seemed high and sculpted, as though cut out of some sort of smooth stone. She had a calmness about her that most women lacked…and Paul suddenly realized he was puzzled by her—had been from the first. Now he wondered how the experiment would turn out. For that was what this trip was, though he had not told her so. It was a test to see how she would do. If it went badly, he would just let her go. And he had been convinced that was exactly what would happen.

  Now, however, as she sat quietly, listening to the sibilant whisper of the wind and letting her eyes go from point to point seeking some movement in the darkness of the woods, he was not so sure. She was certainly efficient, not only in photography, but in the business of driving the wagon and setting up camp. Besides, it would be a relief to have a good cook, for he hated the job.

  Still, he was uncertain. There were too many factors involved that could not be planned, and the possibility of subjecting a woman to some of them made him frown in displeasure. He stirred, pulled his coat collar up, and said, “Cold tonight. I hope it warms up tomorrow.” It was not what he had planned to say, and he was irritated with himself. If it was a man here with me, he thought with some frustration, I wouldn’t have to manufacture conversation.

  He asked in an offhand tone, “Do you like the South?”

  Frankie had her mug half lifted to her lips. She paused and looked across the fire. “Oh, it’s all right. I guess the summers will be hotter than I’m used to.”

  “I mean the people, not the weather.”

  “I like your family.” A glow came to Frankie’s cheeks, and she added, “You’re lucky, having a family like that!”

  Paul moved uneasily. He let the silence run on, then shrugged. “Well, they’re not so lucky to have me.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  He looked up sharply, surprised at the force in her words. “Why not?” he demanded. “It’s true enough. I haven’t brought them any happiness.”

  “That’s not true. Your mother loves you very much, and so do the others.”

  “My mother would love Judas Iscariot,” Bristol replied with a shrug. “But yes, they do love me. Even so, I think it’s the kind of love families have for an outcast child…more pity than real love.” He saw the slight negative motion she made with her head and asked, “You don’t believe that?”

  “No, I think love doesn’t have anything to do with what a person does. It’s what he is that matters.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, but it doesn’t really hold true. Just look around you, Frankie. You see people all the time practically screaming about how they love each other, but most of the time it doesn’t last. A man loses his teeth and his hair, and suddenly the woman wonders what has happened to the fine-looking chap she fell in love with.”

  Frankie was not ready for such a debate, but something in her denied what Bristol was saying. She’d had almost no experience with the kind of love she’d referred to, neither had she read a great deal about such things.… Still, she was filled with some sort of strange certainty that real love had to be more than Bristol made out.

  “In the hospital in Washington, Mr. Levy and I used to go take gifts to the soldiers who’d been wounded. Some of them were in terrible shape…just awful!” The memory brought a sudden tension into the girl’s smooth lips. She halted as the owl called again, then continued speaking. “One of the patients was a young sergeant…only eighteen years old. He’d lost both hands and one eye, and his face was terribly scarred. He…showed me his wedding picture. It had been taken only a month before he left for the army.”

  Frankie picked up a stick and began poking at the glowing coals, her eyes half closed as she sat looking in the fire. “He was so afraid! He told me lots of times he wished he’d been killed instead of all cut up. He loved his wife so much, and he was afraid she’d turn from him. He’d been such a handsome fellow! I—I was afraid, too,” she whispered. “But she came into the hospital one afternoon. I was there and I saw it!” Frankie’s eyes glistened, and she smiled tremulously. “She was such a pretty girl…and she went right up to him and kissed his cheek, then kissed his stumps—”

  Her voice cracked with emotion, and she paused for a moment, then looked at Paul, meeting his eyes with confidence as she continued: “When he started to say how he wasn’t the same man she’d married, she smiled at him and kissed him again. And she said, ‘I didn’t marry your hands, Bobby; I married you!’”

  Bristol had listened to her carefully, and now he said quietly, �
�That’s a wonderful story, Frankie.”

  She saw the doubt in his eyes. “But you don’t think most people are like that, do you, Mr. Bristol?”

  Paul met her eyes and was forced to tell the truth. “I’m glad you believe people are good, Frankie. I hope you always do, but I’m too old and have seen too much, I guess, to think like that.”

  Frankie wanted to argue with him but saw that it was no use. They sat watching the fire in silence for a while, until Bristol turned the talk to technical matters. Finally he got to his feet, saying, “I guess we can go to bed. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.” He hesitated, then said, “Sure you want the tent? Be more snug in the wagon.” The matter of sleeping arrangements had troubled him, but Frankie had been quite practical: “If you’ll get me a little tent,” she’d said, “I’ll make out fine. And we can fix you a nice bed in the wagon. It’s the way Mr. Levy and I did it.”

  “No, I like sleeping in a tent. I’ll clean the dishes, then turn in.”

  Bristol nodded, then climbed into the wagon. He pulled off his boots, then shucked off his shirt and breeches. The air was sharp, but he burrowed under the warm blankets and dropped off to sleep at once.

  After cleaning the dishes and mugs, then scrubbing the frying pan, Frankie sat in front of the dying fire. She thought of her family and wished she could see them. Even her father. How long would it be before she saw them again? Then her thoughts turned to Tyler and to the kiss he’d given her. A disturbed wrinkle creased her brow. She liked Tyler very much, but something in his kiss had made her uneasy, and she could not get it out of her mind.

  The future was as uncertain as the wind, and though she did not fear the dangers of battle, an uneasiness began to fill her. She had come on this mission first because she’d had no choice, but even when an opportunity to avoid it came, somehow she had persisted.

  What am I doing here? she wondered, not for the first time. She looked up and saw the stars glinting far overhead like a handful of diamonds scattered by a mighty hand. She thought of Sol Levy and wished she could have his warm voice to encourage her—but that voice was stilled forever, and the thought saddened her.