“Your master, he’s not too well, is he? Kind of strange he’d be making a hard trip all the way from the South to Pennsylvania, ain’t it?” When Zander allowed it was, Cotter asked directly, “Well, I guess you was a slave for quite a while, wasn’t you? How’s it feel to be free?”
“Free? I belongs to Marse Rocklin,” Zander said.
“Ain’t you heard, man? President Lincoln freed you. He put it all in a paper. It’s called the Emancipation Proclamation. You don’t belong to nobody!” Leaning closer to Zander, Cotter said confidentially, “I know you don’t want to go back South and be a slave. Maybe I can help you get away from Rocklin.” He had no idea how he would do this, but thought it best to test the Negro.
But Zander gave the white man a direct look. “I ain’t studyin’ no paper, sah. I been wif Marse Rocklin all my life, me and my wife and our chilluns. He been good to us, and I reckon as how I gonna die a Rocklin!”
Cotter stared at the dignified Negro in disbelief. He had read the horror stories of slavery and could not believe that there was another side to it—but though he tried his best, he could not shake Zander’s adamant statement that he’d die a Rocklin.
Disgusted, Cotter left Zander and presently saw Rocklin come down the street and give a sack to the slave. “Stubborn ol’ slave!” Cotter grunted to Grissom. “Ain’t got a lick of sense!” Then he added, “Try to find out what Rocklin’s going out to the Swenson place for, Pat.”
But Grissom, though he tried valiantly, could not discover anything of this nature. All the way to the Swenson farm, he asked questions, most of which the tall man beside him on the wagon ignored. Finally, in desperation, he asked, “You know the Swensons well, do you?”
The old man did not answer for a long time, so long that Grissom thought he’d chosen to ignore his question. But finally he said, “We have a mutual friend. What is the name of that tree, may I ask?”
It was a rebuff that even a man such as Pat Grissom could not ignore, and he drove the rest of the way in sullen silence.
Grace broke the skim of ice that had formed in the basin, washed her face, then dressed in a pair of heavy wool trousers and a red flannel shirt that had belonged to her father. She put on two pair of wool socks and a pair of thick-soled leather boots, then moved to the kitchen. Clyde and Prudence slept as late as possible—especially in the winter months—so she rekindled the fire in the cookstove, made a quick breakfast, then slipped into a heavy sheepskin coat, pulled on a broad-brimmed hat, and left the house.
Since both of the hands were gone for two weeks, Grace had taken over their chores. She went to the barn, milked the cows, then, after taking the frothy buckets of milk to the house, fed the rest of the stock. Clyde had made a halfhearted offer to rise early and do these chores, but Grace had said, “I like to get up early. You and Prudence might as well sleep.”
After the chores were done, she picked up her rifle and made her way across the pasture toward the woods. It was so cold that her lips and eyelids were stiff, but she didn’t mind. She loved the cold weather. A large rabbit, startled by her passing, leaped up and made a wild run for the thicket, his feet making a thumping sound on the frozen ground. Grace threw up her rifle and tacked him as he zigzagged frantically, then lowered it. She could have shot him easily, but they’d had plenty of rabbit meat lately.
Entering the deep woods, she made her way along the trail, alert and aware of her surroundings. She loved the woods and knew that she would be miserable in town. The pattern of her life had been tied to the rhythms of the sun, the clouds, the seasons. In towns, men and women organized their lives by clocks, but Grace was always aware of the faint urgings of nature, just as animals are. She always knew when it was time to plant, not by something she’d read in a book, but because some combination of weather and the skies and the earth told her so.
Coming to a frozen brook, she broke the ice, stooped, and dipped the icy water with her hand. It was so cold it hurt her teeth, but she liked the taste of it better than the water that came from the well. Blowing on her hand, she proceeded to a spot she often frequented. A stand of huge oaks stood sentinel over the small brook, and in the summers she came to yank the plump bream and bluegills from a deep pool formed by an S-shaped crook in the stream. Now the stream was frozen, and as Grace leaned back against a massive oak, she wondered about the fish, what they did in winter. How do they eat cut off from the bugs and life by the ice? They were still there, she knew, for she’d caught them by breaking the ice and fishing for them with bits of meat.
A quietness lay over the woods, and Grace soaked it up. Overhead the sky was silver-gray, and she knew snow would be falling very soon. The thought of snow reminded her suddenly of her rides in the sleigh with John Smith—and a shadow came over her face.
He had come into her life suddenly—and had disappeared without warning. She had gone to the post office day after day, yearning for a word from him, but finally had understood that nothing was coming. She had said nothing to Clyde or Prudence, and when others had asked of the tall man who’d filled so much of her life, she’d merely said she’d had no word from him.
She’d grown more silent, had become a recluse in the days that followed. More and more she threw herself into the open, leaving the house early and staying out until dark. After supper, she’d fallen into the habit of going to her room, reading her Bible for long hours, then going to bed for a restless night’s sleep.
Jacob Wirt had seen her restlessness. “You are not happy, are you, Grace? Ah, well, God knows our hearts. If the young man is for you, God will bring him back.”
But Grace’s spirit, which had been filled with the joy of an awakening love, grew still and sad. She sought God, but the heavens were brass, and finally she knew the anguish that comes with a lost love.
Now as she stood braced against the oak, she was attacked by a wave of bitterness. “God, why did Thee let him touch my life if Thee meant to take him away?”
Her words startled a doe that had come up on Grace’s left, and as the animal leaped into the air, Grace instinctively threw up her rifle. The bead was right on the deer’s heart, and all she had to do was pull the trigger. She tracked the beautiful, flowing motion of the fleeing deer but did not fire. Finally as the deer disappeared into the depths of the forest, she lowered the rifle and turned.
For two hours she tramped the cold woods, then returned to the farm. Prudence met her as she came into the kitchen, saying impatiently, “Grace, where has thee been? Thee was supposed to go look at the cattle Old Man Potter wants to sell.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Grace said.
“Well, Clyde went to look at them,” Prudence said with a shrug. “We talked about you last night.… What’s the matter, Grace?” She gave her sister a strange look, then shook her head. “Thee has got to forget about that man. He’s not coming back.”
“I know,” Grace said quietly. “I’ll ride over and see the cattle.”
She went to her room and changed her rough clothing for a dress, then stood for a while brushing her hair. Finally she put the brush down and left her bedroom. She had no desire to go look at the cattle and made up her mind to tell Prudence so. When she did, Prudence brightened up. “Well, if thee is not going, Grace, I’ll go and meet Clyde.”
“And go into town later, I suppose?” Grace ventured, then smiled. “You go on, Prudence. Tell Clyde to make the decision about the cattle. He’s got a good eye for stock. I’ll hitch the team to the light buggy.”
Prudence lost no time in shedding her apron. She rushed off to change and, when she came down, gave Grace a hug. “Now don’t wait up for us. We may be late.”
“All right. I’ll keep something on the stove in case you are hungry.”
After Prudence drove away, Grace listlessly performed the household chores. Finally she went into the parlor and sat down. Looking around the room, she saw a hundred reminders of her father, and loneliness came to her. Her thoughts returned to the days she’d spent at Armory Square Hospital, bu
t that brought to her mind the letters she’d received from Miss Dix, asking her to return to duty.
I’ll have to write her. It’s not fair to let her think I’m coming back. She had tried to force herself to return but somehow could not face up to it. Now she tried again to analyze what it was that seemed to loom before her like a wall when she thought of returning to Washington. Is it that I can’t stand to be reminded of John? No, because I’m constantly reminded of him right here. What is it, then? Something came to her mind, and she brushed it aside, but it came again persistently. Can God be keeping me here for some purpose? What on earth could it be? I’m no good to myself or anyone else—not the way I am!
She got up and was about to leave the room when she glanced out the window and saw a two-seated carriage emerge from the trees that blanketed the main road. Why, that’s Grissom’s carriage, she thought. He has no reason to come here.
But the carriage turned into their drive, and Grace hurried out to the front porch. Grissom pulled the carriage to a halt, touched the brim of his hat, and said, “Howdy, Miss Grace.”
“Hello, Pat,” Grace responded. “Cold drive from town.”
“Yes, right sharp.” He turned to the figure huddled beside him, saying, “Mister Rocklin, we’re here.”
Grace saw the man beside Grissom lean forward and say something quietly, and Grissom turned to say, “Miss Grace, Mr. Rocklin wants me to wait. Kin I put the team in the barn and grain ’em, let ’em warm up ’fore I start back?”
“Of course, Pat.” Then she smiled and said, “Then come inside and warm yourself up, too.” She watched as a tall black man stepped out of the backseat and helped Grissom’s passenger to the ground. The two of them made their way to the steps, and the passenger took off his hat, revealing a crop of gray hair and a face gray with fatigue. He seemed to be studying Grace’s face for a few moments; then he spoke in a low voice.
“My name is Rocklin, Thomas Rocklin. You are Miss Grace Swenson?”
“Yes.” Grace saw that the man was trembling and said quickly, “Come in, please. It’s very cold.”
She held the door open as the black man helped Rocklin up the steps. “Come right in, both of you.” As soon as they were inside, she said, “Come into the kitchen. It’s warm there, and there’s coffee on.”
“I want to tell you, Miss Swenson—,” Rocklin began, but she interrupted at once.
“Come and thaw out, sir. It’s a cold ride from town.” She supervised the thing easily, drawing out a chair, seeing that the old man was comfortable, then smiling at the black man. “What is thy name?” she asked.
“Why, it’s Zander, ma’am.”
“Zander, thee looks cold. Come and stand by the stove while I get something hot to thaw thee out.”
Grace quickly poured two cups of coffee, lacing them with sugar and thick cream. “Drink this, and I’ll heat some soup.”
As the woman busied herself with the food, Thomas exchanged glances with Zander, and they both nodded. The gleam in Zander’s eyes was a mark of approval, and Thomas relaxed in the chair, soaking up the heat from the stove. He sipped the scalding coffee, almost burning his lips, and when the young woman set two bowls of steaming soup and a roll of fresh bread before him, he realized how hungry he was.
“Would thee ask the blessing on the food, Mr. Rocklin?” Grace asked.
“Why, I certainly will.” Thomas nodded. He did so briefly, then said, “Zander, sit down and eat your soup.”
Zander looked scandalized. He had never sat at a table in his life with white people. But his master muttered, “Don’t be a fool. Sit and eat.”
“Yas, suh, Marse Thomas,” he said and sat down, eating carefully, keeping his eyes down.
The door opened, and Grissom entered, gratefully taking the steaming cup of coffee that Grace held out to him. He seated himself in a chair, and Thomas noted how he seemed not fully removed from the group, his eyes and ears taking in everything in the room.
Thomas ate most of the bowl of soup, saying nothing. The food warmed him, brightening his eyes and reviving him. He had had a bad time on the trip from town but now felt stronger. The young woman had sipped coffee, speaking casually of how bad the winter had been and the trouble it had caused with the stock. She was, Thomas realized, skilled at putting people at their ease, and he understood that she kept up her speaking to avoid a painful silence.
She’s a smart young woman, he thought with approval. Not many women would have that much tact.
Finally he was finished, and she said, “Now let’s go to the parlor. It’s more comfortable there.”
Rocklin cast his eyes at Grissom and nodded. She knows I’ve come to talk—and that I want some privacy. “Thank you for the meal,” he said. “It was delicious.”
He followed her down a short hall, and when they were in a small room with bookcases on one wall, she said, “Take that chair, Mr. Rocklin.” While he sat down with a sigh of comfort, she put two small logs on the fire, then came to sit across from him.
Rocklin said, “I must apologize for thrusting myself on you, Miss Swenson. I asked the driver to wait because I wasn’t sure if I’d be staying.”
“Thee is welcome, sir.”
“I—hope I will be more welcome, Miss Swenson, when you know my reason for coming.” The fire snapped, and a spark rose and fell on the stone hearth. Rocklin had tried to anticipate this moment, to plan what he would say—but now that it had come, he found himself in difficulty. “I don’t know how to put this to you,” he said finally.
“Perhaps I can help thee,” Grace said. Her face seemed to be rather pale, Rocklin noticed, and her lips trembled slightly. He was surprised, for she had been so placid until this moment. She hesitated, then asked, “Is it about thy son, Mr. Rocklin?”
Grace had fed the men, curious as to the nature of the visit, but it was not until the old man sat down in the chair that the answer came to her: He’s John’s father! Something about the planes of the older man’s face, the way he held himself—and the way it was an echo of how John had sat in that very chair—brought the truth to her.
Thomas stared at her in shock, then nodded. “You’re very quick, Miss Grace!”
“He is much like thee,” Grace said simply.
“They say so.”
Grace licked her lips, then spoke almost in a whisper. “Is he alive, Mr. Rocklin?”
“Oh yes!” Thomas rapped out at once. “Yes, indeed! I—I guess my visit does seem like a portent of doom.”
Grace took a deep breath, her hand on her breast. “I’m very glad,” she said simply.
“He’s alive but in terrible trouble. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Tell me,” Grace said quickly, leaning forward. And for the next twenty minutes, she sat still, asking no questions as Rocklin explained how his son had come to be in a Union hospital. He paused to say, “He’s spoken of you so much, Miss Grace, that I almost feel I know you.”
“But if his memory is back, how can there be trouble?” Grace asked.
Thomas hesitated, then said, “He was captured by Confederate troops, and he was wearing the uniform of a Union soldier. Do you know what that means?”
Grace grasped it at once. “He’s suspected of being a traitor?”
“Exactly! And if things don’t change, he’ll be hanged.”
Grace stared at him. “But—he didn’t know he was a Confederate soldier. And he was forced to join the Union Army.” She spoke rapidly, explaining how Colonel Drecker had given him no choice at all.
Thomas listened carefully, then nodded. “That’s exactly what Burke told us.”
Grace hesitated slightly. “His name is…Burke?”
“Yes.”
Grace stood up abruptly and began to pace the floor. Her knees were weak, and she clasped her hands tightly together to control the trembling that had come to them. She had always been a calm woman, but this had shaken her, and she had to wait and pray until peace came to her. Finally she came to stan
d before Thomas. “Thee is not a well man, Mr. Rocklin. Why did thee not send someone else to tell me about…about Burke?”
Thomas said simply, “I don’t have long to live, Miss Grace. And many of my family and friends told me I was a fool to make such a desperate journey in my condition.” He shook his head, but there was a brightness in his dark eyes and a note of triumph in his voice as he added, “I’ve failed my family so much, but if I could do this one thing—if I could save Burke—why, I’d feel my life was not in vain!”
Grace suddenly knew that God was in the room. There was no change in what she saw with her eyes or what she heard. Yet she knew that she was being dealt with by the Spirit of the Lord.
“What does thee want me to do, Mr. Rocklin?”
“I want you to come to Richmond with me. Our lawyer says that we have to have records from the Union hospital where Burke was treated, records that bear out what he claims about losing his memory. And he wants you to testify. If we can get those records, and if you will come and testify, Burke has a chance. If not, he will be convicted. And he will die.”
Suddenly Grace understood why she had felt unable to go back to Washington. God had been keeping her here so she might do all she could to save Burke!
“I’ll go with thee,” she said quietly.
Thomas whispered, “Thank God!” He took her hand, kissed it, then asked, “Grace, do you love my son?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, I love him. I’ll always love him.”
“And I love him, too,” the man said, tears glistening in his eyes.
The two sat there in the quiet room, speaking of what must be done, and as they spoke, a great joy came to Grace. He’s alive—and I can help him! she thought.
The next morning, three passengers boarded the southbound train, and it was Al Cotter who summed up the feeling of the town: “Well, Pat, that’ll be the last we see of Sister Grace! She’s gone to Richmond, and there ain’t no good can ever come out of a thing like that!”
CHAPTER 21
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 57