“Take me home? Oh, you’re clever! And they’ll lock me up in the crazy house in Richmond?” Again the wild laugh, and then the smile faded and the glitter in Ellen Rocklin’s eyes grew brilliant as she began to scream. “You’ll never have him! He’s mine, do you hear! You can’t take him—!”
She lifted the revolver and fired.
Melora felt a burning sensation on the left side of her neck as the bullet grazed her, but had no time to do more than throw up her hand in a futile gesture. Ellen’s horse, startled by the sudden explosion, suddenly reared, which threw the crippled woman back against the seat. As she fell, she pulled the trigger again, but this time the bullet struck the horse a raking blow on the side of her rump. Instantly the mare went wild, uttering a shrill scream and lunging forward, blind with fear.
The buggy flew into the rocky side of the bluff and then careened wildly toward the other side of the road. Melora spun around in time to see the buggy wheels drop off the sheer edge and hear Ellen’s scream: “Oh my God! No!” Then the buggy flipped over, and Melora watched with horror as Ellen was thrown from the buggy into the sharp outcroppings of stone. She hit on her neck and shoulders and then went rolling down the bluff, legs flopping loosely.
Melora ran to the edge, scrambled over the side, and plunged down the jagged edges until she came to the limp body. Ellen was lying on her face, motionless. When Melora rolled her over, she saw no terrible wounds. Ellen’s face was bruised, and blood oozed from a slight cut on her left temple, and she was unconscious. Melora checked to be sure the woman was breathing, then gently laid her back down and climbed up the slope. The buggy was gone, pulled away from the edge and dragged around the bend by the crazed mare, but Melora’s horse was standing nearby, his eyes fixed on her.
Got to get help! I can’t carry Ellen back up the slope!
Melora started to run toward her horse, then spotted the revolver lying near the edge of the cliff. She picked it up, stuck it in the pocket of her overalls, then mounted quickly and drove the roan at a hard run. She kept the pace up until she arrived at the road that led to Gracefield. By the time she pulled up in front of the mansion, the horse was white with lather. Melora fell off the mare, stumbled, and saw David come running out of the house.
“Melora!” he cried out, coming to her at once. “What happened?” His eyes widened when he saw the blood on her neck, which had soaked into the neckline of her dress. “You’re bleeding!” he said in concern.
Melora shook her head. “It’s just a scratch,” she gasped. “But your mother…sh–she’s had a terrible accident!”
Thomas and Susanna had come out of the house, and they listened with grim expressions as Melora went on. “She was on the plank road.… She asked me to meet her there.” She hesitated slightly, then said hurriedly, “The buggy went off a cliff. I’m afraid she’s badly hurt.”
At once David wheeled and began yelling orders. “Highboy! Hitch up the light wagon! Lucy, bring some blankets from the house! And tell Chester to ride like the devil to get Doc Slavins!”
Melora stood there, a tragic light in her eyes, and although no one asked, she knew she had to share what had happened. Susanna ordered the slaves to bring water and salve for Melora’s neck as Melora briefly told David and his grandparents about the note and the meeting—not mentioning the gun until David had run to ready a buggy.
Thomas watched grimly as Susanna quickly cleaned and bandaged the place where Ellen’s bullet had grazed Melora’s neck. Melora told them the rest of the story as quickly as she could, then said, “I’ll go back with David. I don’t think anyone except you two needs to know that she tried to shoot me.” She pulled the gun out of her pocket and handed it to Thomas. “She didn’t know what she was doing.”
Thomas looked at the weapon. “She must have taken it from my desk.” He shook his head. “But you’re right, my dear. Nothing to be gained by telling Clay or any of the children.”
Ten minutes later Melora was on the seat of the wagon, with David beside her and two strong field hands following on mules. “She wanted to talk to me alone, David. She was so determined! The…horse bolted, and when the buggy went over, she was thrown clear.”
David gave the young woman a strange look, and she knew that he was not sure of her story. But he did say, “She’s a very confused woman, Melora. And she’s had a lot of trouble.”
Ellen was alive when the men brought her back up the slope. Melora rode in the back with her, cradling the injured woman’s head while David drove as carefully as he could over the rough road. When they got back to the house, all was ready, and Ellen was put in her own bed. She remained unconscious through it all, even when Dr. Slavins came and examined her.
“How is she, Doctor?” David asked when Slavins came out into the hall.
“I can’t say. She’s in some sort of coma.” He studied David’s face and decided to add, “I’m afraid she’s in poor shape, David. Her condition was bad enough before this incident. And…she may never wake up. But on the other hand, we mustn’t give up hope.”
David dropped his head, unable to respond. After a few moments of silence, he lifted his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll send for Dad right away.”
“Might be best. And have Lowell and Dent come, too, if possible.”
Melora would not stay—she feared it would distress Ellen greatly should she awaken and find her there—so Thomas sent her home in a carriage. As she left, he said painfully, “You’re a generous woman, Miss Yancy. God bless you for what you tried to do.”
Melora could do no more than nod. All the way home she thought about the poor broken woman who lay like a stone in the deep feather bed at Gracefield…and could only cry out silently, Oh God! Help her!
CHAPTER 22
BEFORE THE BATTLE
General George McClellan glared across the table at the short form of Allan Pinkerton, anger in his stern eyes.
“You’ve failed in your assignment, Mr. Pinkerton,” McClellan stated bluntly. “You inform me that the rebels have over 150,000 troops, but you can’t tell me where they are. I can’t blindly commit this army to a battle!”
Allan Pinkerton clamped down his lips on the short cigar between his teeth. His nerves were on edge, but he kept them under firm control. “My agents are doing their best, General, but two things are against them. First, the security in Rebel territory around Richmond is very tight—so tight that I’ve lost four of my most trusted men, all hanged as spies. Second, the troops are being shifted around so fast that information that was good yesterday is worthless today.”
McClellan took a deep breath, then shook his head. “I know it’s difficult, but I’ve got to have at least a general idea of where Johnston’s troops are concentrated. Can’t you go yourself?”
“Yes, I intend to. Our best agents haven’t reported in. I’m going to go find them myself. They’re right on the inside, General, and if they haven’t been caught, they should have all we need to know. I’ll leave now, and if things go well, I should be back within three days with the information you need to make the attack.”
“Make it as fast as you can, Mr. Pinkerton,” McClellan said, a worried look on his drawn face. “I’ve got my forces split in two parts by the Chickahominy River, one corps on the north bank, the other four to the south. If the Rebels attack before I can pull the army together, we’ll be in serious trouble.”
He said a brief good-bye to Pinkerton, then returned to a study of his map. He was a careful, patient man and knew how to train and move an army, but something had gone wrong with his plan. Three things, in fact.
First, McDowell’s corps, which had been promised to him, had been kept in Washington. Stonewall Jackson’s spectacular success in the Valley, where he had defeated three Federal armies, had so alarmed Lincoln that he had kept McDowell’s troops to protect the capital. And although McClellan didn’t know it, Jackson’s small army was even now back at Richmond under Lee’s command.
The second disadvantage that McC
lellan faced was the fact that General Joseph Johnston had been wounded at the Battle of Fair Oaks, and General Robert E. Lee was now in command of the army. If McClellan had known what this actually meant, he would have gone back to Washington at once, for Lee was the most aggressive general in the war, on either side. Johnston was great at retreat, but Lee had the fighting instinct that only a few great generals have had. That, combined with the man’s knowledge of tactics, made him the most dangerous opponent the North ever faced.
The third obstacle was the weather. The rains had come with a vengeance, taking out bridges, flooding the bottomlands, and sweeping away the corduroy roads. The entire country was a bog, and the two parts of McClellan’s armies were helplessly separated by a sea of mud. The longer he stared at the map, the more worried the general grew. Finally he said aloud, “If Pinkerton doesn’t get me the position of the Rebel Army, we will be defeated!”
Even as General McClellan was studying his maps and trying desperately to make some sort of a plan, General Robert E. Lee was meeting with his staff with much the same intention. The difference was that Lee had accurate information on the position of the Union army. Initially he had gotten tips from farmers who had ridden in daily to give information about troop movements. He had followed this up by sending General Jeb Stuart on a scouting mission. Stuart, a brigadier at twenty-nine, was square-built, of average height, and had china blue eyes, a bushy cinnamon beard, and flamboyant tastes in clothing. Generally, he wore thigh-high boots, a yellow sash, elbow-length gauntlets, a red-lined cape, and a soft hat with the brim pinned up on one side by a gold star supporting a foot-long ostrich plume. In addition, he had a strong thirst for exploits.
When Lee ordered Stuart to scout the location of the Federals, the flashy general had taken his twelve hundred cavalrymen and, in three days, had ridden around McClellan’s entire Federal Army. He had returned to a hero’s reception, having lost only one man—and having brought back 170 prisoners, along with three hundred horses and mules. But more important than prisoners or mules was the information Stuart brought back, which pinpointed McClellan’s army. He drew the enemy’s locations out on a map, then handed it to General Lee, saying, “There it is, sir, Little Mac and his Bluebellies!”
Lee studied the map carefully, knowing that he would have to act soon. There was no way he could use his small force of fewer than eighty thousand men to drive one hundred thousand well-entrenched soldiers away from Richmond. He had but two choices: to retreat, thus abandoning Richmond, or to strike before his opponent got rolling. But he saw at once that he would have to take a tremendous gamble: He would have to pull most of his army away from the larger Union corps, leaving only a small force south of the Chickahominy to stand against the Federals. Then he would strike Major General Fitz John Porter’s corps on the flank beyond the Chickahominy. This would enable him to seize McClellan’s base at the White House. Once the Union commander was cut off from his supplies, he would be obliged to come out and fight on the ground of Lee’s choosing.
So it was that at almost the same moment as McClellan was looking at his maps, General Robert E. Lee was presenting his own map to four men who would fight the battle. All four were young men, though they disguised the fact with beards. James Longstreet was the oldest at forty-one; Ambrose Powell (A. P.) Hill, at thirty-six, was the youngest. Daniel Harvey (D. H.) Hill was forty, and Stonewall Jackson thirty-eight. Twenty or so years earlier, all had attended West Point.
Now they gathered around a table, bending over to study the map, listening as Lee explained what had to be done. “Here is the plan, gentlemen,” Lee said as he traced the part each would play in the battle:
“As you can see, I am leaving only Generals Magruder and Huger to hold McClellan’s main force in place. General Jackson, you will bring your men down from the north, keeping General Stuart’s cavalry on your left flank. The rest of you will cross the Chickahominy in sequence: General A. P. Hill first, then General D. H. Hill, and then you, General Longstreet. You will sweep the left bank of the river, clearing Porter’s troops as far as New Bridge, where you will cross the river and strike the main Federal force from the rear.”
The council broke up about nightfall, and the four generals went to their headquarters. Each of them had about the same thought: If we can push Porter out of the way and hit McClellan from the rear, the Federals will run like rabbits for Washington—just as they did at Bull Run!
Thus two mighty armies faced each other, each well aware that the next few days might bring an end to the Civil War. If McClellan could use his superior force to overwhelm Robert E. Lee’s thin gray line and take Richmond, the South would be lost. But if Lee’s plan worked and the armies of the North were whipped as they had been at Bull Run, McClellan would take them back to Washington—and the powerful Peace Party might well be able to force the president and Congress to simply let the South go its own way.
An air of destiny hovered over the rain-soaked fields outside of Richmond. Fate was about to move, to turn the course of the nation. The events of the next few days would determine the course of what some called the “War of Secession” and others called the “War of the Rebellion.”
While mighty hosts were gathering for the onslaught of battle and the nation was holding its breath over the future of the entire country, life went on pretty much as always in the lives of common people. War and destiny, powerful as they might be, did not set aside everyday living.
War, with all its banners flying, might shake the earth with a mighty thunder of guns, but it did not feed the pigs and chickens. The earth still had to be broken for planting; weeds still waited to be chopped out of the rows of cotton. Work went on, and love went on. Robert E. Lee and George McClellan might grow weary studying maps, but to Tabitha, the slave woman bringing her first baby into the world in a small cabin at Gracefield, all the armies meant nothing. Her world was no larger than the pain that tore her apart as she lay writhing on the rope bed, aided by Susanna Rocklin and one of the black midwives.
Likewise, the blacksmith, Box, paid no heed to the wild rumors that the Yankees might come across the fields of Gracefield at any moment. At the age of seventy-one, he cared little for such things. Let the Yankees free black people; he would keep right on making horseshoes for Thomas Rocklin. Ten thousand men might die that day in battle, but for Box, that was not reality. For him, reality was the ten-pound sledge he lifted, and the shoe he was making for the mare, and the hot sparks that flew as he dropped the hammer against the iron. The mare was real; the horseshoe was tangible. And so he beat the red-hot metal skillfully, his world no larger than the curving piece of iron on the anvil.
As for those who lived inside the Big House at Gracefield, they found themselves feeling strangely out of place. They had grown up inside the big mansion, but childhood days seemed eons away now—memories that slipped in from time to time, flashing images of activities and gatherings. Memories summoned on this day by Ellen Rocklin, though she was silent and still in her bed.
By some miracle, despite the impending battle, Clay, Denton, and Lowell had all managed to get emergency leave. Colonel James Benton, who was Melanie’s father, Gideon Rocklin’s father-in-law, and Ellen Rocklin’s uncle, had received the message about Ellen from David. Benton had then called Lieutenant Dent Rocklin into his tent at once, saying, “Denton, your mother has had an accident. I think it’s serious.”
Dent Rocklin’s good looks had been spoiled by the slash of a saber at Bull Run. One side of his face was as handsome as that of any man in the South, but the other side was marred by a scar that ran down his cheek, drawing one eye down in a seemingly sinister expression and marking the flesh with an angry, deep trench. But those who knew Dent Rocklin knew that his marred appearance was a poor reflection of the man, for he was good and honorable and did all he could to serve his country and his God.
Upon hearing of his mother’s accident, Dent had stared at his commanding officer, listening as the older man gave what informatio
n he had. “You know we’ll be fighting very soon,” Benton said, compassion in his eyes. “But I think we have a few days, perhaps a week. Get your father and Lowell and go home. I’ve made out passes for all three of you.”
Dent took the slips of paper. “Thank you, Colonel. This is handsome of you. We’ll leave at once, and we’ll be back as soon as…we find out something.” He had left the tent and gone to find his father drilling some recruits. Drawing him off, he said quietly, “Mother’s had an accident. You and Lowell and I are leaving as soon as I can get three horses.”
The three of them had ridden their horses almost into the ground on a flying trip to Gracefield. They had arrived at dusk and were greeted by Thomas, whose face was pale with fatigue. “Glad you all got here,” he said, embracing each one.
“How is she?” Clay demanded as soon as they were in the foyer.
“Very bad. Come into the parlor and I’ll tell you about it. Susanna is with her now, taking care of her needs. When she comes out, you can go in.”
Thomas had explained the accident carefully, leaving out only the matter of the gun. He noted that when Melora’s name was mentioned, Clay’s eyes sprung wide, and the two boys showed surprise. He ended by saying, “The horse got spooked, Melora said, and Ellen lost control. She was thrown down a steep slope, and Melora rode here and got David at once. He brought Ellen home, but she hasn’t come out of the coma.”
At that moment Susanna came into the room. She embraced Clay at once, then her two grandsons. “You can come in now,” she said quietly. She led the way, and when the men were inside the room, the three of them stared down at the woman in the bed.
“She…doesn’t look bad,” Dent whispered. “I was afraid.…”
When he halted his speech, Susanna spoke up. “Dr. Slavins can’t find any bones broken, and she wasn’t cut up much by the fall.” She hesitated slightly. “What he fears is that somehow the bullet that they couldn’t get out got pushed closer to the spine.”
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