“All right.” Rooney cradled the lolling head of the helpless man as they pulled him off, then carefully placed it down. She felt a wetness on her palm and knew it was fresh blood.
“Come on, sis—we got to get outta here!”
Rooney swallowed hard, then rose and followed Buck. As they stepped out of the alley, a voice cried out, “Hey! What you doin’ there?”
Glancing down the street, Rooney saw the form of a man emerging from the darkness. Panic ran through her, and she wheeled, crying, “Run, Buck!” But Buck was already fleeing, and she ran with all the speed she could muster.
“Stop! Stop right there!”
The voice broke the stillness, and doors began to open, but the man was heavy, and the youthful pair ran like rabbits, dodging through alleys that Buck knew as well he knew his own hand. They crossed two streets, then burst onto a street occupied by warehouses and other large buildings.
“I…can’t run any farther, Buck!”
“Me neither!”
They stopped and looked around the dark street. The windows of the warehouses caught the gleam of a few flickering streetlights. To Rooney they appeared to be opaque eyes staring at them. “Can you hear anything, Buck?” she gasped.
Buck listened hard, then shook his head. “No. I—I guess we got away.”
The two stood there holding their breath, listening hard. The silence of the street washed over them. Faintly they heard the sound of a wagon rattling over cobblestone, but it was blocks away. Fear and the hard run had drained them both, and now they felt a tremendous sense of fatigue.
“What’ll we do, sis?”
Rooney stared at Buck’s pale face, noting that his lips were unsteady. She was stiff with fear herself but managed to say calmly, “We’ve got to get away from here.”
His eyes grew wide with shock. “You mean…leave Vicksburg?”
“We can’t stay here. That man will have the law on us.”
“But where’ll we go?”
Rooney had no idea of how to run away. She had no money on her, and they had only the clothes they stood in. But she had to do something! “Let’s go see if anybody’s at the house,” she said finally.
“What for?”
“I have a little money, and we can get our clothes.” She saw him hesitate, then said, “We’ll look real careful, and if anybody’s there, we won’t go. But if the coast is clear, we can run in, grab our stuff and the money. Then we’ll see.”
It was not a good plan, and she dreaded going back to the house, but they had to have something. “After we go there, we’ll have to go and tell Ma what happened.”
“All right, sis.”
Her brother’s agreement came quickly, and she knew he was afraid. Putting her arm around him, she squeezed him. “It’ll be all right, Buck. We’ll get away.”
Rooney was a resourceful girl, but this assurance was for her brother. She felt hollow inside and dreaded to go back to the house. She also was terrified of what her mother would do, but she could think of nothing else. “Come on, Buck,” she urged. “We’ll make it!”
Alf Swanson, the bouncer at the Gay Lady, stepped out into the alley to catch a fresh breath of air. The smoke-laden interior of the saloon aggravated a hacking cough that had troubled him for days, and he coughed, hawked, and spat on the ground, glad for the relief. It was well after midnight, and he couldn’t leave until the place closed down.
“Mr. Swanson!”
The burly bouncer started, for the voice caught him unprepared, seeming to rise out of the ground. He’d thought the alley deserted, and he growled suspiciously, “Who is it? Who’s out there?”
“It’s me—Rooney.”
Swanson had thrown himself into a defensive position at the sound of the voice, but as the form of a young girl appeared out of the shadows to his left, he relaxed, dropping his fists.
“It’s you, is it?” he said, surprise in his gravelly voice. “What in the world are ye doing here this time of night?”
“Buck and me are in trouble, Mr. Swanson.”
Swanson stared at the girl, then looked over her shoulder and saw the boy. He was a hard man but had admired the way Rooney had fought to keep herself above the level of her mother. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Rooney hesitated, but she had learned to like the big man. He had always been roughly kind to her and Buck. He had never tried to touch her and had given her some protection from time to time. Swanson was not a man who liked the law, Rooney knew, and she had no other way to turn. “A man named Dement Sloan came to our house a little while ago.…”
Swanson stood there listening, saying nothing, but when the girl finished, he shook his head. “Too bad you got caught,” was his only remark.
“We have to get away from Vicksburg,” Rooney said quickly. “Can you get our mother to come out here so we can talk to her?”
“I’ll do that. Wait here—and keep out of sight.”
Swanson stepped inside the saloon and walked directly to Clara Smith. She was sitting at a table with a man who looked bored. “Clara, got to talk to you,” Swanson said.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” A harsh note was in the woman’s voice, but it was no harsher than her appearance. She had been an attractive woman once but had grown gross and hard. Her hair was dyed a brassy yellow, and any natural color her cheeks might have had was buried under a layer of paint. Her lips were a wide gash of scarlet, and her eyes were sunk back into her head, giving her an unhealthy appearance. She wore a low-cut green dress, but she had lost weight and looked thin and bony.
The man drained his drink and got to his feet, saying, “I got to leave anyway. See you next time, Clara.”
As the man walked away, Clara cursed Swanson, but he snapped, “Shut up and come with me.”
“Come where?”
But Swanson took her arm and piloted her out of the bar. When they were in the hall that led to the alley, he stopped and related what Rooney had told him. “And they got to get out of town, Clara—you, too.”
“Me? I ain’t done nothing!”
“The man was put down in your place. His name is Dement Sloan, a swell from uptown. He’ll have friends, the big people up there,” Swanson snapped. “You on such good terms with the law you can convince them you had nothing to do with it?”
Anger grew in Clara Smith until she trembled—and she began to curse and rave, her hands outstretched like the talons of a monstrous bird, her nails red as blood. “I’ll kill those crazy kids!” she cried, her eyes bright with rage.
“Shut your mouth!” Swanson took the woman’s arm, and his iron grip closed on it like a trap. “The fellow was attacking your daughter! Don’t that mean nothing to you?” But he didn’t wait for her answer. “Listen, you’re drunk, but not so drunk you can’t understand. The judge told you the last time you was up if you came before him again, it’d be the pen for you. You want to go there, Clara?”
Fear touched the woman’s sunken eyes, and she shook her head and shivered. “No! I’d—I’d die in that place!”
“All right, then you got to get away.”
“And go where?” Despair came into her thin face, and she began to cry. The tears ran down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the caked makeup. “I ain’t got no money!”
Swanson released his grip. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a roll of bills. Peeling off several of them, he thrust them into her hand. “That’ll be enough to tide you over until you can get another place.”
“But where, Alf?” She saw the look that crossed his face and asked, “What is it? You think of something?”
“Maybe I have.” Swanson was not a quick thinker. He took an idea and chewed on it before speaking it. Clara had learned this and waited nervously until finally the big man said slowly, “Richmond…that’s where you better go.”
“Richmond? Why’d I want to go there?”
“Because it’s the capital of this here Southern Confederacy, that’s why.” When Swanson saw th
e blank look on her face, he snapped with irritation, “There’s a war, ain’t you noticed? Richmond’s got thousands and thousands of men in the army there to protect her—a ton more than around here. And men is your business, ain’t they, Clara?”
Swiftly the thin face of Clara Smith changed, for she understood this kind of reason. “Lots of soldiers there in Richmond?”
“Be purt’ near a million, I guess.” The tough, battered lips of Swanson twisted in a humorless grin. “Get every one of them boys to give you a dollar, and you’ll have a million dollars, Clara.”
“Well, I dunno—”
Impatiently Swanson swore. “Clara, you ain’t young, and you’re sick. Time was mebbe when you could call your shots. But now…” He shrugged and said evenly, “You need to be where the men ain’t so particular.”
For one moment anger brightened the woman’s eyes—and then they dulled. “You’re right, Alf, but Richmond’s a long way.”
“I got a friend works in the boiler room on the Natchez Belle,” he said. “She’ll be pulling out at dawn. I’ll get him to stow you somewhere—no fare. She’ll dock near Memphis, and you can get a train from there to Richmond—as long as the trains are still running.”
“But I ain’t got no clothes—nothing!”
“All right, I’ll go to your place. If it’s clear, I’ll get your stuff.” Alf stared at her. “Now, you know—?” He broke off suddenly, thinking hard, then said, “Listen, Clara, I got a friend in Richmond—at least, he was there last I heard. Got a place, sort of a hotel and bar. About like this one, I reckon. His name’s Studs Mulvaney. Won’t be hard to find him and his joint. Look him up and tell him I said to give you and the kids a break.”
“All right, Alf—and thanks.”
“I’m doing it for the kids, Clara.” Turning, he led her to the alley, then called out, “Hey, Rooney!”
When the girl and boy appeared, he said, “You and your ma’s leaving for Richmond. Let me get my coat and gun; then we’ll coast down and see if we can get your stuff, Clara.”
Swanson left them alone, and Buck said, “Ma, I’m sorry, but I had to hit him.”
Clara stared at the thin face of the boy. For one instant she almost flared out at him, but she was too tired. She shook her head, saying only, “One place is as good as another, I guess.”
Several hours later, the ghostly form of the Natchez Belle slipped away from the docks. The smooth brown water of the Mississippi dropped in a shining waterfall from her paddles, catching the first rays of the rising sun. The engines throbbed, the drivers sending the huge paddle wheel into its rhythmic pattern, churning the water to a white froth.
Deep inside in a storeroom filled with flour, potatoes, and cans of food, Clara sat on a stool, her head down. Rooney saw that she was sick and came to stand beside her. Timidly she put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Ma.”
Clara looked up, despair in her eyes. “No, it won’t.” She shook off her daughter’s hand and turned her back to stare at the bulkhead.
Buck was staring out a porthole, entranced. “Look, Rooney!” he whispered. When she joined him, she saw the shoreline slipping by very rapidly. “We must be going real fast,” he said, his eyes large. “Wish we could stay on this ol’ boat for a long time!”
Rooney, filled with dread at the specterlike thought of the future, nodded and put her arm around him.
“So do I, Buck!” she whispered sadly. “So do I!”
CHAPTER 2
LOWELL MEETS A PAIR OF GENERALS
Clay Rocklin stood idly under one of the towering oaks that lined the driveway leading up to Gracefield. He could hear the sound of laughter from the big white house and had been thinking of how unlikely it was that the Rocklin family would ever gather in exactly the same way. The war is wearing us all down, he thought sadly. There’ll be empty places here by the time it’s over. He was happy for the lull that permitted the Rocklins to gather at Gracefield for a brief time before the spring campaigns drew the Army of Northern Virginia away.
He half turned to go inside and join the others when a rider suddenly appeared on the road leading from Richmond. At first he thought it might be a courier with a message from regimental headquarters recalling them to duty, and then he saw that it was a civilian. He waited until the rider turned into the circular driveway, then exclaimed in surprise as he recognized his uncle Mark Rocklin. Moving forward as his uncle drew up, he called out to him, “Mark!”
Mark Rocklin pulled the bay stallion to a halt, glanced around, and came out of the saddle. “Clay, how are you?” He wore an expensive black suit that suited his tall figure, and despite his fifty-two years, he was still lean and strong. Clay could not speak the thought that leaped into his mind as the two shook hands: The best-looking of the family—and he’s wasted his life! Mark had been the wild one of Noah Rocklin’s sons, leaving home at an early age and never returning except for brief visits. Clay knew he’d been a riverboat gambler—and worse—but had always felt a strong affection for Mark.
“You came just in time, Uncle Mark,” Clay said. “We managed to sneak a family reunion before the army gets goin’ full steam again.”
Mark studied the uniform Clay wore and remarked, “You’re a captain now. I didn’t know that. Are your boys all in the army?”
“Dent and Lowell are in my company. David’s taking care of the home front.” Something about Mark’s appearance disturbed Clay. Lines were etched around his lips, and a somberness in his dark eyes revealed some sort of tragedy. But Clay knew that he could not ask what had aged his uncle. He’ll tell me if he wants me to know, and wild horses couldn’t drag it out unless he’s ready. “Come on in. Everybody will be glad to see you.”
“The prodigal returns home?” Mark smiled slightly. He turned to Clay, saying, “I couldn’t get here for your father’s funeral.…”
Clay recognized that this was Mark Rocklin’s apology for many things and said, “I understand, Mark. We can’t always do what we’d like, can we?” Then, wanting to break the moment, he said, “Come on! Let’s join the crowd.”
When the two entered, Clay called out loudly, “Set another plate! We’ve got another Rocklin to feed!”
Clay’s mother, Susanna, was the first to get to Mark. She greeted him with a fierce hug, and the rest of the family waited for their turn. Clay watched as Mark smiled as he greeted each of them, thinking, Something’s wrong with Mark. There was always some sort of shadow over him, but it’s worse now.
After the greeting of Mark, the men were gathered in the drawing room while the women were in the kitchen. Food was the answer to many problems for women, and they gave themselves to it. The house was filled with the smells of fresh bread and pastries, and Dent said, “Raimey says there’s been enough food cooked to feed a whole company.” Glancing at his father, he said soberly, “I wish we could save some of it. We’ll need it when we go out to fight the Yankees.”
“Oh, Dent, we’ll make them run next time—just like we did at Fredericksburg!” Lowell Rocklin spoke up from where he stood beside the fireplace. He was shorter and more muscular than his father and his brothers and perhaps for this reason held himself very straight. He had brown hair and hazel eyes that reflected his indignation. Seeing doubt on David’s face, he lifted his voice, “Isn’t that right, Father?”
Clay shook his head. “Depends on a lot of things, Lowell. The Army of the Potomac’s got one hundred thousand men. We can’t match that.”
Lowell gave the classic Southern answer in a confident voice. “Any Confederate can whip five Yankees!”
Dent Rocklin grew sober, and he touched the scar that marred his face. “You don’t still believe that, Lowell? At Manassas those Yankees fought like wildcats when they were cornered. Every battle since then, too.”
The talk went on for some time, Lowell standing erectly, stating that the Yankees would turn around and run for Washington as soon as the action started. The others were less certain, and it
was Mark Rocklin who said, “Hope you’re right about it, Lowell.” He gave Clay a strange look, saying abruptly, “Can you use another soldier in your company, nephew?”
Clay blinked in surprise, caught off guard. “Why, I think we can find a place for you, Uncle Mark. The Major needs an aide, and you’ll look the part.”
“Meaning I’m too old to carry a Springfield along with the young fellows? Probably right.” Mark nodded. He saw the doubt in their faces and gave a brief explanation. “I guess you’ve all felt that I didn’t care about the South. I’ve given you cause enough to think that. I’ve been a pretty worthless fellow—but when a man gets older, he wants to be a part of something more permanent. For me, it’s this family. I–I’d like to join it…belatedly.”
“You’ve never been out of it, but now you’ll be right in the middle of the Rocklin mob!” Clay knew that his uncle would never say much about his past but that this was his appeal to be accepted. “It’ll be good to have you, Uncle Mark.”
David had said little, but now he spoke up. “And I’d like to join, too, sir.” He spoke to Clay, and there was an unhappiness in his eyes. “I can’t stay home and grow potatoes while the rest of you fight!”
“David, we’ve been over this,” Clay said slowly. “Somebody has to stay here and see that the food gets grown. The army can’t fight unless it can eat.”
“Anybody can run this place!”
“No, they can’t, David.” Dent spoke up. “I couldn’t. You were working and learning how to run Gracefield from the time you were twelve years old. And what was I doing?” He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I was out raising the devil!”
Mark kept quiet but was troubled over David. He’s always been the quiet one; Dent the colorful twin, Mark thought. Now he feels left out. I wish Clay would change his mind. The boy needs a chance. But he knew that he’d forfeited his right to direct the family by his own irresponsible behavior, so he said nothing.
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