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

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Is he really gonna marry Sister?” Jane asked, her eyes large as silver dollars.

  “I’d say he’s a man who’s used to getting his own way,” Timothy answered with a grin. “Better get used to it, Pa. She’s gonna rare a bit, but you can be sure she’ll have him.”

  Outside Frankie had walked rapidly until she came to a large oak, then turned and began, indeed, to “rare” at Paul.

  “You must think you’re really something,” she said coldly. “Marry you! Whatever gave you such an idea—”

  Paul took off his hat and let it fall to the ground. When she had first disappeared, leaving only that cursed note, he’d had a bad time of it. He’d had to struggle through feelings of betrayal and anger—he’d even wanted to hunt her down and make her pay for what she’d done. A spy! He could scarcely believe it. But since it had been there, written in her own hand, he’d had to believe it. Then, after too many sleepless nights had made him almost impossible to live with, his mother had taken him aside for a talk. It hadn’t taken long for the real source of his pain to come out: He couldn’t bear losing Frankie. He could live without a lot of things, but he’d discovered that he couldn’t stand the thought of life without her! He knew from her note why she had worked for Pinkerton—and he knew they would need to really talk things out someday—but right now, none of that mattered. All that was important was that he loved her—and he wasn’t returning home without her.

  He paid no heed to her protests. He simply waited until she ran down, then said simply, “Frankie, I had to come. I’ve told other women I loved them, but now I know it wasn’t so. I wish I’d never said those words before, because I want to say them for the first time to you.”

  Frankie grew very still, her eyes searching his face. He stepped forward and took her face gently between his hands. When her eyes opened very wide, he whispered, “Never be afraid of me, Frankie. I’d cut my arms off before I’d hurt you.” He lowered his head and kissed first her forehead, then her cheeks. “You must know that I love you, Frankie.” His breath fanned her face gently as he spoke. “And I’m not leaving here without you.” She shivered and closed her eyes, and he kissed her eyelids. “So you’d better agree to marry me, because I don’t think your father and I would do so well living in the same house for too long.” She gave a half laugh, half sob, and he covered her mouth with his, kissing her gently. She went completely still for a few moments, then, with a soft cry, threw her arms around him and held him fiercely.

  His arms went around her possessively, and he smiled as she said in a muffled voice, “I—thought I’d lost you!”

  Reaching down, he lifted her face. “You’re never going to lose me—never!”

  “I prayed that God would help you understand, that you wouldn’t hate me.…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Well, you gave Him a pretty tough assignment, at least at first. But you and God had a pretty effective tool in my mother. She helped set me straight one day.” He smiled at the memory of their conversation.

  “Paul Bristol,” she had finally said, “if you don’t go after that girl and bring her back, then I’ll know I’ve raised a complete fool!”

  He looked into Frankie’s eyes and went on. “She helped me see what mattered most to me, and so I came here to claim it…to claim you. So you might just as well marry me, Miss Aimes, because I’ll be hanged if I’m going to live without you!”

  Then he kissed her, letting the fierce emotions he’d been holding back spill out—and she kissed him back with equal fervor. They clung to each other, and finally Bristol said, “I’m too old for you, I haven’t got any money, and have absolutely no prospects. Will you marry me?”

  Laughter bubbled up in Frankie, and her eyes twinkled merrily as she cried out, “Yes!” He held her tight against his chest, and she snuggled close, feeling safe, protected, and cherished.

  After a few precious moments, they started back to the cabin, but Paul kept Frankie nestled close against his side as they walked. She glanced up at him and asked about his people. “They all hate me, don’t they?”

  “They don’t have anything to hate you for.” Surprise showed on her face, and he shrugged. “Only my parents and I read your note. We didn’t see any reason to tell anyone else about it. The authorities did suspect Tyler, and after talking to the hotel clerk, they believed he had an accomplice. But no one had any idea it was you. We were questioned about Tyler, seeing as we are family, but we could tell them quite honestly we didn’t know what he’d been doing or where he had gone.” He looked down at her, smiling tenderly. “It was wise of you not to write anything about him in your note. So nobody knows about your involvement except Mother, Father, and myself. My parents won’t say anything, because they understand…and because they happen to love you. They know you only did what you had to. And they want you to come home.”

  She laughed ruefully, and her eyes were green in the sunlight. “All the spying I did—and it didn’t do a bit of good! General Lee whipped the socks off Little Mac! I might as well have stayed at home!”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Paul said. He stopped and drew her close again. “You and I are different from most others, my love. Neither of us believe in the war. But I do believe that when it’s over, we may be able to help bring healing—to both sides.”

  “What will we do until then?” Frankie asked. She looked up at him, and he smiled down at her.

  “You’re a woman, Frankie,” Bristol said. “You’ll be that, and I’ll be the man who loves you.” He kissed her gently. “That’s good enough for me. Is it enough for you?”

  With a contented sigh, Frankie leaned against him. “Oh yes, Paul, it’s enough!”

  OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND

  To David and Audrey Coleman.

  God has blessed Johnnie and me

  with many fine friends.

  You two have been a blessing

  to us both!

  Editor’s Note:

  The Quakers are well known for their unique speech patterns, particularly their use of thee in place of you. This is especially true among the old-line Quakers. However, as with any tradition, we found that younger generations tend to use the two terms more or less interchangeably, depending upon circumstance and audience. We have attempted to adhere to this pattern in Out of the Whirlwind, making the old-line Quaker characters consistent in their use of thee, while the younger and more prominent characters will at times replace thee with the more common you.

  PART ONE

  The Spinster and the Prodigal

  CHAPTER 1

  A GENTLEMAN CALLER—AT LAST!

  March 1862

  When Clyde Dortch appeared at the home of Amos Swenson with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, Swenson at once assumed that the young man had come to court his youngest daughter, Prudence. “Come in, Friend Dortch,” Swenson said, stepping back. “Thee has come calling on Prudence, I take it?”

  Clyde Dortch, a trim young man of twenty-eight with crisp, curly auburn hair and bright brown eyes, stepped inside, but surprised the older man by saying, “Why no, sir, I’m calling on Miss Grace.”

  If Dortch had announced that he had come to burn the house down, Amos Swenson could not have been more taken aback.

  “Grace? Thee is calling on Grace?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dortch said, seeming to enjoy the older man’s confusion. “I should have asked your permission first, but I’m doing that right now.”

  Amos Swenson, at the age of sixty-nine, was broken in health but not in mind; he was still a sharp man. He knew every acre of his fine farm in detail, and his careful and judicious use of hired hands enabled him to keep it as up-to-date as any farm in Pennsylvania.

  In Amos’s youth, he had been a very tall man, but age and sickness had broken him down so that he was bent and stooped. His white hair was still full and thick, and his face wore the patient look of a chronically ill man. He was never sullen or resentful—he was too fine a Christian for that! Yet one could often see the p
ain he suffered reflected in his mild eyes. Now he fixed his light blue eyes on the young man as he quickly rearranged his thoughts.

  After Amos’s wife had died, he had never remarried. Thankfully, he had been gifted with enough wisdom to raise five girls, guiding three of them through courtship into successful marriages. With those three, it had not been a matter of enticing suitors, but of sorting through the numerous young men who cluttered up the house. It would be the same with his youngest daughter, Prudence, for at the age of seventeen, she was already drawing attention.

  But Grace…ah, Grace was another proposition entirely.

  Swenson became aware that Dortch was waiting for his response and said at once, “Well, come into the parlor, Friend Dortch.” Turning, he led the young man into the parlor, then said, “I’ll fetch Grace.” He hesitated, then attempted to probe the mystery of Dortch’s sudden appearance. “Is she expecting thee?”

  “I don’t think so, Friend Swenson.” Dortch was wearing a Sunday meeting suit of brown wool, which fit him superbly. He was a fine dresser—which made some of the old-line Quakers suspicious of him. However, he managed to stay away from the more colorful items of dress and was the envy of most of the young men of his acquaintance—not to mention the young ladies. “It just came to me that I’d like to pay a call on her,” Dortch added and smiled, exposing perfect white teeth. “Perhaps with the idea of seeing if she’d be receptive to my calling on a regular basis.”

  Swenson blinked with surprise. This was serious! Among the Friends, calling on a young woman “on a regular basis” was tantamount to an engagement! At the very least, it was a statement that a young man was prepared to advance toward the state of matrimony.

  “There’s a new tract from that evangelist named Finney you might like to read,” Swenson said quickly. “It may take Grace a few minutes to freshen up.”

  “Oh, tell her not to hurry, sir!” Dortch picked up the tract and settled himself firmly on the horsehair sofa. “I’ll just see what the minister has to say.” He began reading the tract, but as soon as Swenson left the room, he tossed it on the table beside him, then got up and wandered around the room. Had anyone looked in upon him at that moment, they would have noted that Dortch had the air of a man who’d made up his mind to do something difficult and was set to do whatever was necessary to accomplish the task.

  Swenson hurried out to the barn and found his eldest daughter forking hay out of the loft so that it fell to the floor in a great shimmering flow.

  “Grace, come down!”

  Grace Swenson paused and looked down at her father, who seemed strangely agitated. His hair was wild due to his running his hands through it—a sign that he was disturbed, the young woman knew. At once she tossed the hand-carved wooden fork aside and came down the ladder. She was wearing a pair of men’s trousers, a plaid shirt that had been her father’s, and a pair of heavy work shoes that had seen much service. It was her usual costume when she did the heavy chores outside the house, and usually her father paid no attention. Now, however, he eyed her with dismay.

  “Grace, get thee inside and put on something fitting.”

  Grace stared at him sharply. “What’s wrong, Father?”

  Amos Swenson shook his head, and there was wonder and hope in his blue eyes such as Grace had not seen for some time.

  “It is Clyde Dortch,” he said with a trace of excitement. “He has come calling.”

  “Oh.” Grace understood at once—or thought she did. “Well, didn’t thee tell him that Prudence is visiting over with the Williamsons?”

  “No, Grace, thee doesn’t understand!” Suddenly Swenson took a deep breath, for a sharp pain had come to him. He had felt it before, this pain. It made him feel fragile, like hollow glass about to shatter. Generally he had come to expect it, but now it came without warning, shooting into him, leaving him feeling a sick gray emptiness within, like a hole had cut clean through his body. He looked down to hide the pain on his face from Grace, waited until he could speak firmly, then said, “It is thee he has come to call on, not Prudence.”

  The announcement, he saw, was almost as much a shock to his daughter as it had been to him. She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then licked her lips. “To call on me, Father?”

  “Yes. Thee had better go clean up and put on a fitting dress.”

  Grace dropped her gaze to hide the confusion she knew must be showing on her face. As she struggled with her emotions, her father studied her with compassion and love. This daughter had always been his favorite, though he’d kept it hidden from her and from her sisters—or tried to.

  She’s like me, he thought, noting the tall, erect figure and the solid features. All the others looked like Martha—but Grace is like me. The other girls had been small and dark, like their mother. Grace alone had his height and Scandinavian ruddiness and blond hair. It would have been better if she’d looked like the others, he thought with a stab of regret.

  Yet as he kept his gaze on her, he could not keep down the surge of pride that came to him. He’d wanted sons, of course. When none came, he’d learned to love his daughters well enough, but it was Grace who had been most like a son—perhaps because she was so much stronger than the others, or perhaps because she seemed to have gotten that part of his blood that loved the land and the animals. While the other girls had been playing with dolls, Grace had been right at her father’s heels as he plowed or fed the stock. By the time she turned thirteen, she had become the equal of almost any hired man, making up in enthusiasm for what she lacked in physical strength.

  After Martha Swenson had died, during Prudence’s birth, it had been Grace who’d kept the house together. Shouldn’t have let her do it, Swenson thought suddenly. She should have been spending that time seeing young men and that sort of thing. Instead she was taking care of the others.

  His thoughts were interrupted when she looked up and said briefly, “I’ll go change clothes.”

  “Put on thy blue dress,” her father said, a smile coming to his thin, pale lips. “I’ve always been partial to that one.”

  “All right, Father.”

  Grace turned, and as she left, her father said, “It would do thee no harm to use a little of that rice powder Prudence is so fond of.”

  But she shook her head, saying, “That would not go well with the Friends, would it, Father? A preacher decorating her face with powder?”

  “It never hurt a woman to make herself look well, daughter,” Swenson retorted. He had never gotten accustomed to the fact that his daughter was a Quaker preacher. He himself was a faithful Friend, but it somehow never ceased to give him some sort of shock when she stood up to preach at meeting. Shaking his head, he went back to the parlor to entertain the young man.

  Grace left the barn, thinking not of her unexpected caller but of how poorly her father looked. He had failed badly since the spell he’d had the previous summer. It took all the strength he had, she knew, just to get out of bed some days. A stab of fear shot through her, and she lifted a short prayer as she crossed the barnyard and stepped into the house. Lord, look to my father. Let him have strength for this day.

  She had developed the habit of offering short prayers as she went about her work. No one had taught her this, but she was a woman who thought much about God, and it was as natural as breathing for her to speak to Him, sharing with Him her thoughts, wishes, and fears.

  Once in her room, she didn’t take long to get ready for her first suitor. She washed her face and hands at the washstand, using the heavy china basin, then turned to the pegs that held her clothing. Most of her dresses were gray or black or dark brown. She frowned. They worked very well for meeting time…but were not at all what a woman would wear to please a man!

  She regarded the dark blue dress her father had mentioned, the only silk dress she’d ever owned. She’d worn it only twice since her father had almost forced her to buy it on one of their rare trips to Philadelphia. Both times she had worn it to please him rather than
out of vanity.

  Slipping into a pair of cotton stockings and pulling a heavy, stiff petticoat over her head, she took the blue dress from the peg. For a moment she stood there, running her work-roughened fingers over the smooth material, then pulled it on. She tied the sash and picked up a comb and brush, but catching her reflection in the small oval mirror, she studied herself.

  She saw reflected there a woman of twenty-six years, who was tall and strongly built. The blue dress set off her figure well, for she was not fat—simply robust and more statuesque than her sisters. While a stranger viewing her would consider her fine indeed to look at, she turned from her own reflection with a regretful shake of her head. Her ideas of feminine beauty came from her sisters, all of whom were petite and slender as their mother had been—so much so that Grace had always felt outsized and awkward when she stood beside them.

  She had her father’s broad, well-shaped face, with a broad mouth and large eyes. But again, she had come to believe that her features were coarse and masculine. Had she been an only child—or at least been blessed with handsome brothers instead of petite, beautiful sisters—she would not have reached the age of twenty-six without having had a suitor.

  Not that Grace was homely. Far from it! But her facial structure was strong rather than delicate, and she was labeled plain and out of scale when weighed against the feminine prettiness of her four younger sisters. It was something that she had accepted when she was in her early teens, and others had sensed this in her. Particularly her sisters. It was not uncommon for one of these fair ladies to remark publicly, “Oh, Grace isn’t interested in young men.” And with the callousness of pretty young women who are told too often just how pretty they are, they spoke more freely in the privacy of the home. Such statements as “It’s a good thing Grace is so taken up with religion and being a preacher, because as plain as she is, she’d have a hard time catching a good man” were painfully common.