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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Rooney had managed to keep her identity and her poor background a secret, but she lived in fear that she would be found out. Buck had been puzzled by her long absences, and she had not enlightened him. Studs Mulvaney had interrogated her, but she had told him only that she was helping with the wounded men at Chimborazo. This satisfied the big man, for he knew the hotel wasn’t a place for a girl such as her. But he had given her a warning: “Better take a stick to Buck. He’s running with some pretty tough boys.”

  Now as Rooney sat surrounded by the colorful silk dresses, she thought of her brother. I’ve got to stay home more, spend more time with him. She spoke her thoughts to Lowell, saying, “I’ve got to stay close to home for a while.”

  “Your aunt’s not doing so well?” he asked at once.

  “N–no,” Rooney stammered. She had always hated lies and deceit, and it hurt to be dishonest with Lowell. She had come to know the Rocklins enough to know that they were people who put a great premium on truth and honor. But she could not think of another way. It’ll only be for a little while, she thought. Then he’ll get his balloon made, and he’ll never see me again.

  This thought hurt her, and she turned to the dresses, saying, “I’ll have to take all the stitches out of all of these. It’s going to be slow, but I’ll do the best I can.”

  “We’ll have to get you some help.” A thought came to Lowell, and he said, “I know. We’ll get Rena. She’s due home this afternoon. Been on a visit with Melora Yancy.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “What’s wrong with me? We’ll ask Melora and her sister Rose to come and help.” Reaching down, he pulled Rooney to her feet, saying, “We need a little vacation anyhow.”

  Rooney protested but was glad to get outside. Lowell took the big carriage, and Susanna was excited by the idea. As they drove out, Lowell said, “Grandmother needs more company. She thinks a lot of Melora and Rose.”

  “Who are they? Do they own a plantation?”

  “Oh no, just a small farm. Father and Buford Yancy are raising hogs together.” He hesitated, wondering how much to tell this girl about his father and Melora. It would not do to tell her about the tangled skeins of his family history. He had known of his father’s love for Melora Yancy for a long time, but he knew, as well, that his father had been completely faithful to his mother. The thought of his mother, Ellen, was painful, for she had been a weak woman. Finally he said, “My mother died nine months ago. And now my father and Melora are engaged.”

  Rooney asked, “Are the Yancys planters?”

  “The Yancys are poor, but proud as any princes. Most of the older boys are in the army. Only four left at home now. Melora, she raised the whole bunch after her mother died.”

  Just before noon they arrived at the Yancy place. Melora came out, and Rooney saw at once that she was much younger than Clay Rocklin. She had never seen a prettier woman, however, and as soon as she got down and was introduced, Melora smiled at her, saying, “I’m glad you’ve taken this young man in hand, Rooney. His father’s about to give up on him.” Then she laughed and gave Lowell a resounding kiss. “I guess if I’m going to be your stepmother, I’ve got a right to do that!” Then she turned to say, “Don’t you do that, Rose; he’s a ladies’ man.” Rose Yancy was a seventeen-year-old image of her older sister. She smiled shyly at Lowell, who laughed at her and gave her a hug despite her protests. Another girl of thirteen named Martha came to greet them, and a boy of eleven.

  “Where’s Buford?” Lowell asked Melora.

  “Down with the hogs.” A dimple appeared in the dark-haired woman’s face, and she added with a light in her fine eyes, “I think Pa’s prouder of any of those hogs than he is of us.” She motioned toward the rear of the cabin, saying, “Rena and Josh are with him. Why don’t you go take a look at the critters, Lowell? I’ll entertain Rooney.”

  Lowell set off for the hog pen accompanied by the children, and when he was out of hearing, Melora asked, “How is he, Rooney? His wound?”

  “Oh, not bad at all, Miss Yancy. It hurts some, but soon he’ll be good as new.”

  “That’s good news—and call me Melora.” She smiled and shook her head. “That young man has got you in on some wild scheme, Clay tells me. Come on in and have some fresh milk while you tell me about it.”

  Never had Rooney felt so at ease with a person as she did with Melora Yancy. There was something in the dark-haired woman’s manner that made her feel comfortable. At Melora’s urging, she related her experience in the hospital, including her care of Lowell and Mark.

  Melora had the gift of silence and sat across the table listening carefully, her full attention on the girl. Clay had told her about Rooney, and others had mentioned her, too, so she was pleased to find that they had not exaggerated the girl’s simple manners and fair beauty.

  Finally Rooney ended her tale. “And so we’ve got to make this balloon for General Longstreet, and Lowell’s come to ask if you and Rose can come and help with it.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t think that’s really the reason he wants you to come, though.”

  “No?”

  “I think he sees how lonesome his grandmother is since her husband died. She needs some friends around to get her mind off her grief. And since you will be family…”

  Melora smiled. “Did Lowell tell you how his father and I met?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Rooney answered. Her eyes grew big. “Was it romantic?”

  “Oh my, no!” Melora paused. “Well, not in the normal sense of the word. We met twenty-three years ago when I was just a little girl. He was real sick, and my family and I nursed him back to health.”

  Melora continued for twenty minutes, filling in the details of their lives from that first encounter to Clay’s troubled marriage, his life as a wanderer, and his prodigal return to Gracefield. “He joined the army to prove to Lowell that he wasn’t unfaithful to Ellen,” Melora said. Then she looked full in Rooney’s face. “I’ve been in love with Clay Rocklin since I was six years old, and I always will be. He’s the best man I know, Rooney. He and I have nothing to be ashamed of. We’re both Christians and have kept our friendship through a lot of trouble. You’ll hear gossip, of course, but I can come to Clay as his wife knowing that both of us were faithful to God.”

  Rooney was entranced. She’d never heard anything like what Melora had just told her. “I hope you’ll both be happy,” she said quietly. “Will you—” She broke off as voices came from outside and only had time to say, “Thank you for telling me.”

  She had a fine time, and as she and Lowell left in the late afternoon, they had Melora’s promise to be at Gracefield in two days. She smiled at Rena, who was standing beside Josh. “That is, if we can get Rena out of the pigpen. Josh has made a farmer out of her.” She added quietly, “Josh is smart—but he stutters so that he hardly says a word. Rena’s been good for him.”

  Rena Rocklin had come as a surprise to Rooney. She was like Clay, but still unique. They had spoken once when they’d gone to the well for water. Rena had asked about Mark, then had said, “Have you seen my father?”

  There was a note in the girl’s voice that caught Rooney’s attention. She’s very close to him, she thought. Guess she’s even a little afraid now that she doesn’t have a mother. “I haven’t seen him for a week, but Lowell said he’ll come when you get there.” She saw the relief wash over Rena’s face and knew her guess had been right.

  Lowell put Rooney in the carriage, and they pulled out, waving good-byes and nodding at the Yancys’ promises to be at Gracefield soon.

  “That was so nice, Lowell.”

  “The Yancys are the best there is,” Lowell answered. He kept her entertained for most of the journey by telling her tales of hunts and good times the Rocklins and the Yancys had enjoyed.

  When they were five miles from home, darkness caught up with them. Lowell stopped at a creek to let the team drink and then turned to her. “Are you tired, Rooney?”

  “Oh no. I never get tired.”

 
; They sat there, and the silence fell over them like a soft blanket. Far off a dog barked, and in the thicket next to the creek, something moved through the thick brush. Overhead the darkening sky was spangled with what seemed to be millions of cold, twinkling lights. Lowell looked up at them in silence, then said quietly, “God outdid Himself making all those, didn’t He?”

  “I’ve never seen so many!”

  They sat there listening to the faint sounds that floated to them. They spoke rarely, and finally Lowell said, “I’m glad you’re not one of those talking women, Rooney—one of those who can’t bear a minute’s silence.”

  She turned to him, and her large eyes caught the reflection of the moon. “I like it quiet,” she said and smiled at him.

  He put his arm around her and gave her shoulders a squeeze, much as he might have done with a young male friend. “You’ve helped me a lot, Rooney. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “Why, I haven’t done anything, Lowell.” She was acutely conscious of the pressure of his arm on her shoulder, but felt strangely safe with this young man.

  “Yes, you have,” he contradicted her. “You took care of me in the hospital, and of Uncle Mark. And you came up with the idea of dresses for the silk. And you’ve been good to my grandmother.” He nodded and squeezed her arm, adding, “That’s a lot, Rooney!”

  “I like doing things that please you, Lowell.”

  Her face, glowing in the silvery moonlight, filled his sight—and he became aware that the shoulder on which his hand rested was firm and rounded and warm—not at all like that of a hunting companion. Her face was only inches away from his, and he thought of Rooney Smith as an attractive and desirable young woman, not as a helper in a scheme!

  Her hair was fragrant with soap, and her body lay firmly in the simple dress she wore. A vitality came from her, and her smile had a warmth that had some sort of promise. It was not the easy manner of some young women, for there was a virginal freshness about this girl that was very attractive in his sight. He’d not been much for girls, partly because most of them he’d courted had been too casual and even easy.

  But not Rooney. She faced him with open eyes, and he put his free hand on her arm, pulling her around to face him. She watched him with surprise dawning in her eyes, but there was no fear. He drew her in and kissed her, his mouth resting lightly on her soft lips. He felt her innocence, yet there was a response in her lips that told him that she was a woman who had love to give.

  When he drew back, he watched the expression pass over her face; he saw the generosity of her mouth, the glow of her eyes, and since he was a young man keenly aware of beauty, he found it hard to speak.

  “You’re a sweet girl, Rooney,” he whispered finally. He released her at once as she drew back, and he asked, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No—never of you.” Rooney’s voice was gentle and warm in the night air, and though she said no more, Lowell knew that she had been stirred by the kiss—as he had.

  Speaking to the team, he drove down the silver ribbon of road, and when he let her out at the front door, she smiled at him, saying, “Good night, Lowell. Thank you for taking me.”

  He nodded, said good night, then put up the team. It was late, and his grandmother was in bed. His wound hurt, but that was not what kept him awake. He thought for a long time about that moment at the creek—and knew that he would never forget it.

  President Jefferson Davis had proclaimed March 27, 1863, to be a national day of fasting and prayer. When that day came, all over the South men and women met in groups or sought a place of solitude to seek God. Never had the people faced such a crisis, and they responded by calling on God with fervor.

  Lowell had found the streets of Richmond relatively bare and was told that most people were home praying. He went at once to Chimborazo, where Matron Pember welcomed him into her small office. When he asked about Rooney, she said, “Why, I can’t say, Mr. Rocklin. She hasn’t been in for three days now.” A slight frown crossed her brow, and she added, “It’s not like her. She’s always been so faithful.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Why, I don’t really. She’s never spoken of her home life. I thought you might know.”

  Lowell shook his head. “All I know is that she lives with an invalid aunt. And I don’t even know her last name—Aunt Lillian is all I’ve heard Rooney call her.”

  Mrs. Pember was sympathetic and even worried. “Your uncle misses her greatly, as do all the men in the ward.”

  “Maybe she told him her aunt’s name,” Lowell said hopefully. He bid Mrs. Pember good-bye, urging her to get in touch with him if Rooney came back to the hospital. He went at once to see Mark and found him sitting up in a rocking chair. “Well, you’re looking spry as a spring chicken,” he said at once.

  “I’m better, I guess. But still not able to get out of here.”

  “Do you know where Rooney lives?” Lowell burst out. “I haven’t seen her for nearly a week.”

  “Why, no, Lowell, I have no idea.” Mark’s face was drawn with pain, and when he moved, it was slowly and with care. “Do you think something’s happened to her?”

  “Oh, I’ve got no reason to think that, but it’s got me worried.” His uncle, he saw, was concerned, too, and he put the best face he could on the problem. “Maybe Aunt Lillian needs some extra care at home, and Rooney can’t get away.…” Lowell visited for an hour, then left the hospital.

  All the next day he roamed the streets, visiting old friends and always asking if they knew a sickly woman named Lillian. He had no success and on the second day gave up. He was preparing to go back to Gracefield and carry on with the work, but before he left, he ran across an old friend, Dan Whitter. Whitter was a reporter for the Richmond Examiner and insisted that the two of them have dinner.

  “Got to go by the court first, Lowell,” Whitter explained. “Got a big case comin’ up, my first time to cover one. Won’t take long, though; then we’ll go eat.”

  Lowell agreed, and the two of them made their way through the streets of Richmond. It was a crowded, bustling place filled with soldiers on leave, businessmen, and workers from the factories. Whitter led Lowell to the courthouse, which was not as crowded as the bars and saloons.

  “Wait here, Lowell.” Whitter nodded at one of the many empty seats in the courtroom, where a small scattering of visitors watched the processes of the court. “Won’t be but a few minutes.”

  “Sure, Dan. Take your time.”

  Lowell settled down on one of the worn benches, pulled a copy of the Examiner from his pocket, and began to read. It was filled with stories of the war and little else. Jefferson Davis, he saw, was under attack—which was not unusual; the president of the Confederacy was a man who made firm friends and hard enemies. Vicksburg continued to resist Union naval attacks. Lowell thought, As long as Vicksburg stands, we still can get supplies. If it falls, the Federals will have control of all of the Mississippi River—and cut our Confederacy in half.

  A woman’s angry voice interrupted the stillness of the courtroom, and Lowell looked up to see a hard-faced woman with dyed hair being brought in forcibly by one of the officials. The judge said angrily, “You just behave yourself, woman! You’re in trouble enough.”

  The woman screamed an obscenity at the judge, who shouted, “I hold you in contempt of court and sentence you to pay a fine of ten dollars! Now set her down and gag her if she don’t shut up!”

  The bailiff took the judge’s words literally, forcing the woman to sit down and stating loudly enough for everyone to hear, “If you don’t shut, I’ll shut you!”

  Lowell shook his head, for the sordid scene displeased him. He had lifted his paper and was about to begin reading when another bailiff entered with two prisoners, a young woman and a small boy.

  The world suddenly seemed to stop—for the young girl was Rooney Smith! Lowell had been stunned no more by cannon fire at Malvern Hill than he was by the sigh
t of Rooney! He dropped the newspaper, and his face grew pale as the judge began to read out the charge of attempted homicide. Clara Smith had been involved in a knifing at the Royal.

  After reading the charges, the judge asked, “Do you have a lawyer, Clara Smith?”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Well, the court will have to appoint one.” He looked at the young people. “Who are these children?” he asked. The bailiff coughed and said, “Children of the accused, Your Honor.”

  “Well, the case is put off until a lawyer can be found. Put it down for two weeks from today. The woman will remain in custody.”

  Clara Smith began shouting but was taken out at once by the heavyset bailiff. Rooney turned to follow her, but the bailiff said, “You can visit her in jail, miss.”

  Rooney turned and spoke to Buck, and the two of them walked slowly down the aisle toward the door. When they were halfway there, Rooney saw Lowell—and stopped dead still. Her lips began to tremble, and her eyes were tragic.

  Lowell stared at her but could not bring himself to say a word. He was shocked so deeply that all he could do was stare at the two. He saw her waiting, and for one instant he was on the verge of going to her. She looked so tiny and so vulnerable! Then he thought of what it would seem like to the citizens of the court, and word would get back to his family. Of course his unit would hear of it—there was no secrecy in this sort of thing.

  Rooney saw the struggle going on in Lowell, saw his face draw with shame and anger. Her heart beat faster as he seemed almost ready to come to her.

  But he dropped his head—and Rooney knew it was over. “Come on, Buck,” she whispered and led him away. She held her head high, and her eyes were dry—but sorrow and shame were cutting her inside like a razor!

  “And you didn’t go to her? You let her walk out of that courtroom without speaking?”

  Lowell blinked his eyes in shock as Mark Rocklin’s words slashed at him. He went to Chimborazo the morning after the trial, and when he reported the event to his uncle, fire burned in Mark Rocklin’s eyes. Scorn dripped from his pale lips as he gave Lowell Rocklin a tongue-lashing such as that young man had never received!