After looking at the hogs, they walked along the edge of the woods beside the small stream until they came at last to a large pool, where they stopped and looked at the rippling water.
It was in these peaceful surroundings that he began to talk about the battle, and she listened quietly. Finally she asked, “Are you all right, Clay?”
He turned to look at her and was struck by the picture she made. Her hair fell over her shoulders, framing her face. Her eyes shone emerald green, and her clear complexion gave her face an almost translucent appearance. Clay thought her the loveliest woman he had ever seen, and he rested his gaze on her, knowing that she was asking about more than his reaction to the battle.
“You mean about losing Ellen?” he asked quietly. He had always been honest with her, and now he was no different. “I feel bad about it, Melora,” he said quietly, his eyes moody and tinged with sadness. “I should have been able to help her more.”
“You mustn’t feel like that, Clay!” Melora spoke firmly. “You stayed with her and were faithful to her for years, and that was more than any other man would have done. And at the last, she found God.” She reached out to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “Let her go, Clay,” she said quietly.
He studied her countenance, then slowly nodded. “I’ll have to learn, I guess. I made such a mess of the first part of my life, maybe I’m afraid of doing it again.”
Melora took his hand and led him along the stream, and there was nothing artful or seductive in her gesture. She was, he thought, not the kind of woman to practice such things. He was constantly amazed that she was as guileless and sweet as she had been the first time he’d met her, when she was but a child.
They walked for an hour, talking of small things; then he said, “I’ve got to get back, Melora. I just didn’t want Bob in the hospital. He’ll be out of action for quite a while, and he’ll be happier here.”
“Is your regiment leaving again right away?”
Clay shook his head. “I doubt it. We whipped the Yankees so badly they’ll do what they always do: run back to Washington and lick their wounds. Lincoln will probably get McClellan to pull them into shape.”
“And then what?” Melora asked quietly.
“Then they’ll hit us again.” A weariness came to Clay’s shoulders, and he shook his head sadly. “There’s so many of them! They lost twelve thousand men at Fredericksburg, but there’s ten times that many in the North ready to fill the ranks.” He shook his head in a hopeless gesture. “But who’s going to fill Bob’s shoes? Nobody! We’ll be stretched a little thinner, and we’ll have to fight harder.” He paused for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Melora didn’t push him. Finally he went on quietly: “But there will be an end to all of this, Melora. The South doesn’t have a chance unless the Peace Party in the North gets its way and calls off the war.”
They returned to the corral, and Clay hitched up the horses. “I’ll be back to see Bob,” he said with a smile. “Which means, I guess, that I’ll be back to see you.”
“I’ll be here, Clay,” she whispered. He held her eyes for a brief moment, then nodded and went into the house to say his good-byes. Within minutes he was climbing back into the seat of the wagon and driving out of the yard. Melora stood and watched him go, sending up a prayer for his safety.
By late afternoon Clay arrived at the camp where the Richmond Grays were stationed. He turned the ambulance over to a teamster at the quartermaster’s stables, then made his way to headquarters.
Only about half of the regiment had returned to Richmond, the rest being left on the Rappahannock to keep an eye on Burnside’s beaten army. Clay worked with the headquarters staff on reports for two hours, then said, “I’m going to the hospital to see Captain Dewitt, Sergeant. You can finish these reports, I think.”
He made his way into Richmond, where he found his old friend Captain Taylor Dewitt in Chimborazo Hospital—and in a bad humor!
“Clay! You’ve got to get me out of this place!” Taylor protested at once. He’d been hit in the side and in the neck by bursting fragments from a shell and was sitting in bed, his thin, handsome face twisted with displeasure.
One of the nurses, a tall, angular woman, turned from her position three beds away and came to stand over the patient. “You are worse than any child, Captain!” she snapped. “Now if you don’t lie down and rest, I have ways of handling you!”
Dewitt blustered but did as the nurse said. When she left, he grumbled and complained, but Clay was relieved. “I’m glad to see you’re all right, Taylor. When I saw you go down, it made me—” Clay broke off and shook his head, thinking of the moment. “It’s one thing to think about death, but it’s something else to see your friends go down.”
Dewitt nodded slowly. “Yes, and we lost some fine friends on this one, Clay. You’ll have to write some letters to their people—and you’ll have to train some new men.…”
For half an hour the two friends talked; then Clay rose. “I’ve got to go. Anything I can get you?”
“Send me some cigars. Good ones.”
Clay left the hospital and returned to the camp. For the next week he was buried in work, for Colonel Benton, who knew he was going to be gone most of the time, had told him, “Clay, you’ll just have to fill in. Make all the decisions you can, and hold off the rest until I get back.”
It was late on Monday afternoon when Clay looked up from the drill field where he was helping train new recruits and saw a buggy pull up bearing a short civilian.
“Clay—!” The man waved, and Clay recognized the Rocklin family physician, Dr. Kermit Maxwell.
Clay said, “Take over, Lieutenant,” and walked quickly to the buggy. At once he asked, “Is someone sick, Dr. Maxwell?”
“No. Can you get loose for the rest of the day?”
Clay blinked at the suddenness of the request. “Why…I think so. What’s wrong?”
“Get yourself loose,” Maxwell grunted. He was a short, heavy man of eighty-two, with a round red face and a pair of sharp blue eyes. He had no bedside manner to speak of, but had been setting bones, birthing babies, and patching up Rocklins for nearly sixty years. In addition, he was a stubborn man, Clay knew, and when he saw that he’d get no more information, he called the lieutenant over, gave him instructions, then got into the buggy.
They left the camp, and Clay waited for Maxwell to explain his abrupt actions, but Maxwell talked about the war and then filled Clay in on what had been happening in Richmond. The doctor seemed to know everyone and was a careful judge of people, so his commentary was rough and colorful.
Clay asked about his father, and Maxwell shook his head. “I wish I could give you better news, Clay, but your father is in bad shape. I’ve done all I know. You might want to send him to one of the big hospitals.”
“No, he’d hate that.” Clay shook his head. He said no more, but it brought a heaviness to him, for he’d learned to love his father. It had taken years, but he’d won his father’s love and respect in the fullest measure. Now, he knew, he didn’t have much time to spend with Thomas—and the war took most of it away.
Maxwell drove through the city to the James River, pulling up the team in front of Libby Prison. He got down, then said to Clay, “It’s pretty hard to find a doctor who’ll treat the Yankee prisoners. I’ve been helping out some.” He spat an amber stream of tobacco juice that splattered on bricks, then grunted, “Come along.”
Clay was mystified, but he followed the doctor without comment. Originally, Libby Prison had been the warehouse of Libby and Sons ship chandlers, so it was situated on the James River at the corner of Twentieth and Cary streets. It was a large four-story building that was used primarily for housing injured Union officers.
Once they were inside, Maxwell muttered, “You boys shot up so many Bluebellies, there’s no place to put them. We had to put some enlisted men in here with the officers.”
“Back again, Dr. Maxwell?” A smallish sergeant with a wiry mustache greeted the two men
with surprise but made no objection when Maxwell mentioned he wanted to make the rounds again. “Guess it’s okay.” He nodded and led them to a large room packed with beds so close that there was hardly room to walk.
Maxwell was greeted by several of the patients and stopped to look at a few. He was a gruff old fellow, but Clay noted how the Yankee prisoners followed him with their eyes. He kept close to the doctor, puzzled but saying little. One of the prisoners blinked at him, then whispered, “You just wait, Captain! We’ll be back.”
Clay smiled and reached into his pocket. He’d put a sack of candy there, a present for the niece of one of his sergeants. “I guess you will, soldier. Here, have a treat from the Richmond Grays.”
The soldier was surprised but took the sack. “That’ll go pretty good, Captain.” He smiled. “Thankee!”
Clay moved to where Maxwell was standing, bent over a still form. As he approached, the bulky physician suddenly moved aside and motioned for Clay to look.
The light was dim, and Clay, after giving Maxwell a quizzical glance, stepped to the cot and bent over the man. The patient had his face turned away and Clay could tell little, but then Maxwell reached down and turned the man’s head so that the light from the barred window across the room fell full on the lean face.
Clay sucked in his breath, gasping audibly. He blinked and leaned closer, studying the still features, then turned to face Maxwell, his face gone pale.
“Burke!” he whispered. “It’s Burke!”
Maxwell demanded, “Are you sure, Clay?”
“Sure? You think I don’t know my own brother!”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“But—!”
“I said let’s go!”
Clay grew angry and would have argued, but Maxwell gripped his arm, whispering, “Come on, you blasted fool!” And Clay suddenly understood his urgency. He nodded, not speaking until they were outside.
When they were in the buggy, Maxwell said, “I wanted you to see him without knowing who he was.”
Clay was staring at the grimy old building, trying to shake off the confusion that had sent his mind reeling. “He’s alive! Alive, Doc!”
“Yes—and wearing a Union uniform!” Maxwell said sharply. “It’s a touchy thing, Clay. If he is Burke, he’ll be shot for desertion.” He studied the face of his companion, then shrugged. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got to figure something out.”
“How sick is he?” Clay asked after they had driven a few blocks without speaking.
“Very bad,” Maxwell grunted. “If he doesn’t get better care, he’s not going to make it.”
“We’ve got to get him out!”
“Yes, but how?”
They drove along the streets of Richmond for an hour, then went inside a café, where they got a table by the back wall. Clay drank tea and Maxwell drank beer as they went over and over the thing.
“We’ve got to hear Burke’s side of it,” Clay said at last. “There’s got to be an answer. And we’ve got to get him out of that place before he dies.”
“The warden’s name is D. K. Templeton, and he’s a tough one,” Maxwell said. “He’s not going to let anybody out of Libby. We’ve got to find somebody with clout, Clay!”
Clay blinked abruptly, a thought forming in his mind. He was a systematic thinker and said nothing for a few minutes. The talk from the other patrons hummed softly as he sat there loosely; then he stirred his shoulders. “You’re right, Doc. We’ll have to have someone on our side with influence, and I think I know just the man.”
Maxwell stared fixedly at Clay, then muttered, “He’d better be someone with clout. Is this man a good friend of yours?”
“No,” Clay said thoughtfully, “he isn’t. But I’ve got a friend who’s a good friend of his best friend.”
Maxwell was skeptical by nature and a cynic by reason of a long life of observing the failures of human beings. He gulped down the last swallow of his beer, wiped his mouth, and muttered heavily, “I wouldn’t bet a dime on it, Clay, but if it’s the best you’ve got—why, have at it!”
Jefferson Davis was the president of the Confederate States of America, but he was a husband, as well. Despite the power of one office, he was as vulnerable as most men are when their wives decide that something must take place.
Davis, sitting in his study at his home, knew at once that his wife, Varina, was plotting something. As soon as she had entered the room accompanied by her little friend, Mrs. Raimey Rocklin, the signs were obvious. His wife was a beautiful woman and a romantic, Davis well knew. She had been captivated by Raimey, whose beauty was not in the least marred by the fact that she was blind. And when the dashing Dent Rocklin had begun to pursue the girl, Varina Davis had been thrilled. Truth be told, the Rocklin-Reed courtship seemed to have captured the imagination of all of Richmond—but no one seemed more pleased when they had finally married than the first lady of the Confederacy.
Davis himself was fond of Raimey and was fascinated by her courage and ability. He found a slight smile crossing his austere features as he watched the two women coming toward him. “Well, what are you two plotting? Last week you talked me into having a charity ball for the widows of our Confederacy. What now?”
“Sit down, dear,” Varina Davis said. “I want you to hear what Mrs. Rocklin has to say, and I know you’ll help her.”
Davis sighed but sat down. “All right, Mrs. Rocklin, what is this terrible problem?”
But if he was not serious at first, he became so very quickly. He was besieged by requests for leniency, and as soon as Raimey had laid the matter of Burke Rocklin before him, he knew he must be very careful indeed!
He studied the beautiful face of the blind young woman, his mind darting to and fro, in fine lawyer fashion. Finally he said, “Let me see if I understand this matter. This Federal captive is your husband’s uncle? And the brother of Captain Clay Rocklin of the Richmond Grays? And he was believed to have been killed in action at Second Manassas? But—how could that be?”
Raimey said quickly, “My father-in-law, Captain Rocklin, identified the body, but only by a ring on the dead man’s finger because he was—too mutilated to be identified by his face.”
“And now this man everyone thought was dead turns up as a prisoner wearing a Union uniform. That’s a serious offense, Mrs. Rocklin. If he really is Burke Rocklin, it would mean his death.”
“Oh, we know that, sir,” Raimey said quickly. “But we believe there must be some explanation. All we want is to give him the chance to defend himself.”
“Every man must have that chance, of course.”
“I knew you’d agree!” Varina Davis beamed at her husband, who stared at her with a confused look. Mrs. Davis lifted her eyebrows. “You do understand, sir, that the man is dying?”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, but—”
“Surely you must see that we can’t let him die like this? He must be nursed back to health so that he may clear his name!”
“I’m sure the doctors will do their best.”
“No, sir, I know you will want to do more than that.” Mrs. Davis smiled fondly at her husband. “What I would like to see is for you to parole this man into the custody of his people.”
Davis thought quickly. “That would be Mr. Thomas Rocklin, I believe.”
“Yes, solid supporters of your administration!” Varina smiled. This made a difference as she had known it would, and she quickly stepped up her attack. “There’s no danger of the man escaping. He’s completely helpless. After he recovers, a thorough investigation can be made, of course. I know you, my dear, and I know you are too compassionate a president to sacrifice one of our brave men or let him die unjustly accused.”
Ten minutes later Raimey stepped outside, where she was greeted by Clay. “Well,” he demanded, “did you get it?”
“Yes!” Raimey held out the slip of paper, and Clay threw his arms around her and lifted her off her feet.
“What a woman!” h
e cried, and he hugged her hard.
“Careful!” Raimey laughed. “Don’t hug me too tightly.” He released his grip at once, and she grasped his hand. “Does the prospect of being a grandfather make you feel old?”
“It makes me feel wonderful!” he answered. Raimey nodded fondly, and they moved to his carriage, talking excitedly of what had just happened.
He took her home, and when she asked what his plan was, he shook his head. “I’m taking Burke home in the morning.”
“Your parents…how will you tell them?”
“I’ll tell them that God has given Burke back to us, and we’ll have to pray that we find the truth so that we can keep him!”
The next day at one o’clock in the afternoon, Clay pulled up in front of the Big House, sweating from nerves. He’d had no trouble getting Burke released—not with the name of Jefferson Davis on the order! But all the way home, as he’d driven the same ambulance he’d used to deliver Bob Yancy to his family, he’d been praying for a way to break the news to his parents.
His father was in poor condition, and a sudden shock could be—well, it could be serious. As for his mother, she was the stronger of the two, but this was such a shocking thing!
Finally he gave the matter to God, and when he stepped down from the seat of the ambulance, he greeted the handsome black man who came to meet him, saying, “Highboy, I’m going to speak to my parents. Hold that team right there until I get back. Don’t let anybody go inside the wagon.”
“Yas, Marse Clay!”
Clay found his parents in the parlor, his father reading and his mother sewing. They were very surprised, and Thomas asked at once, “Have you bad news, son?”
“No, Father,” Clay said, thinking that it was the same reception he’d gotten at the Yancys. “It’s good news, but you must be very calm.”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 53