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

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I thought it might be about your uncle Mark or Lowell.” Both men had been taken to Gracefield for extended care. The hospital was so crowded and nourishing food so scarce that Mrs. Pember had suggested to Susanna Rocklin that they would get better care at home.

  “Well, Matron, I guess I really have come about them.” He took a deep breath, and Rooney could see how worried he was. Fine lines had appeared around his mouth and eyes, and he was keeping himself upright only by a concerted effort. “I think it was the right thing for both of them to come home, but it’s more than my mother can handle.” He shook his head, adding, “She’s not young anymore, and with the shortages and us Rocklin men in the army, it’s about all she can do to manage the home.”

  “What do you need, Captain?” Mrs. Pember asked quickly.

  “Well…” Clay hesitated, then turned to Rooney. “I guess I need Rooney Smith,” he said. Then he added, “I know you need her here, too—”

  “Of course we do,” Mrs. Pember broke in. “But your mother must have help, as well. As you know, Miss Smith is only a volunteer here, and I cannot force her to stay—or to leave.” She turned to Rooney. “Would you be willing to go, Rooney?”

  “I hate to leave you and the men here, Matron, but the Rocklins have done so much to help me and my brother. I just can’t say no.”

  Clay expelled a deep sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that!” he exclaimed, and Rooney saw that her words had indeed lifted a load from his shoulders. His smile lightened the heaviness of his drawn face, and he added, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a time with the company, but I can take you now—if that’s not too soon for you.”

  “I’ll get my things.”

  Clay spoke with Mrs. Pember for five minutes, expressing his appreciation for the fine treatment the men of his company had gotten from her, and then he and Rooney left the hospital and were on the road toward Gracefield.

  “Will there be more fighting soon, Mr. Rocklin?” Rooney asked. She glanced at him as he sat loosely on the seat beside her, thinking of how tired he looked.

  “I’m afraid so, Rooney.”

  “Will your company be in it?”

  “Well, nobody knows for sure,” Clay answered slowly. He was drowsy, but the cool air was like wine, and as they moved into the country, he felt the pleasure that always came to him when he was in the open. He turned and smiled at the young woman, adding, “Some regiments have gone through the whole war and never heard a gun fired. Others, like ours, have had so many losses they’re only a fraction of their size at Bull Run.”

  Rooney looked very pretty, the fresh air making her cheeks rosy, and her blue eyes were enormous—or seemed to be. She considered what he said, then shook her head. “That doesn’t seem fair,” she commented.

  “No, I guess not. But wars are never fair.”

  “I wish it were all over,” she said quietly, her lips growing tight. “One of my patients died this morning—Billy Rosemond. He was seventeen years old—the same age as me.” A brooding came into her expressive face, and her voice was tinged with both anger and grief. “His home was in Arkansas, in the mountains. He had a sweetheart there he talked about all the time. Her name is Sue Ellen Grantly, and they were going to be married when he got home.”

  A battery of field artillery came thundering down the road, sending up a cloud of dust. Clay drew the wagon off to the side of the road and waved a salute at the youthful officer who rode before the guns. He waited until the unit passed, then spoke to the team and moved them back onto the road. “That young fellow had better save his horses,” he commented.

  Rooney, however, was still thinking of the young soldier. “He won’t be going home now, Mr. Rocklin. They took him out and buried him in that big graveyard close to the hospital.” Dropping her head, she stared at the floor of the wagon, fingered the material of the brown cotton dress she wore, then looked at him to ask, “Will she remember him in five years—or twenty-five?”

  “I think so, if she really loved him.”

  Rooney was caught by Clay’s reply and pondered it as the wagon rumbled along. Finally she said, “She’ll be alive and she’ll marry—have children, maybe. But Billy’s missed it all. He’ll never be a husband or a daddy. In a few months he’ll be nothing but bones. He won’t ever have anything.”

  “He will if he was saved, Rooney,” Clay said gently. He had learned to love this young woman, admiring her courage and her steadfast determination to keep herself pure in a terrible world. “Death seems like the end of everything to us who are left. But to those who die, it’s not that way.” He sat in the seat, tired to the bone but suddenly anxious to bring some of the faith that was in him to the heart of Rooney. Clay Rocklin had been an impetuous young man, but time, grief, and experience had tempered him. He had passed through a crucible of hardship that had fashioned him into a mature man of wisdom.

  “You’re not the only one to think as you do, Rooney,” he said, his voice even and steady. “Most people do, I guess. I know I’ve spent a lot of my life wondering about God and trying to figure out how there can be a world that’s such a mess with God able to do anything. And I don’t have all the answers. Nobody does. But I’ve studied the Bible, I’ve listened to men and women of God, and I’ve come to understand that most of our grief for the dead is wrong.”

  “How can it be wrong to grieve?”

  “It’s not wrong like it’s wrong to hate or hurt someone,” Clay answered. “It’s—well, it’s more of a mistake, I guess you’d say. I’m talking now about grieving for those who died believing in Jesus Christ.” A frown passed over his face, and he shook his head sadly. “Those who die lost…well, I don’t know how to speak of that, Rooney. It’s the worst thing I can think of. But if a person is saved, what happens to him when he dies?”

  “He goes to heaven, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s right. And what is heaven?”

  Rooney shifted uncomfortably on the seat, for she had some doubts on that subject. “Well, from what I understand, it’s a place where there’s no pain and no problems—where people never die.”

  “That’s part of it,” Clay agreed, “but there’s more to it. I may get in trouble here, Rooney,” he said, smiling at her. “Don’t tell the preacher on me, but I’m not sure that heaven is exactly like most of them preach. I mean, most people take their ideas of heaven from the book of Revelation, and it tells about heaven like it’s a big city, full of gold streets and high walls with gates of pearl.”

  “You don’t believe that?” Rooney was shocked, for she had gotten the idea that good Christians believed all the Bible.

  Clay held up his hand quickly, saying defensively, “Hold on, now; don’t shoot!” He was amused at her reaction and assured her, “It may be like that, Rooney. I don’t really know—and don’t really care. The important thing to me about heaven is not what the streets are made of, but who’s there.”

  “You mean Jesus?”

  “Yes! If Jesus is there, I don’t care if the streets are made out of gold or dirt! He’s the center of that place, and He never made anything that wasn’t good, did He?” Then Clay waved his brown hand in an expressive gesture that swept the rolling fields and the low foothills. “As for me, I’d rather heaven looked like Virginia in the spring—like this! I wouldn’t give one spoonful of Virginia dirt for any big city in the world!”

  “Why, I never thought of that!”

  Clay laughed and suddenly reached out and grabbed Rooney’s hand, so that it was almost swallowed. “Don’t let me lead you astray,” he said. “Believe every word in the Bible, Rooney. It’s the Word of God without error. I believe that with all my heart; it’s just that I don’t understand all of it.”

  Rooney liked his ease in holding her hand. Once she would have fought like a wildcat if a man in this isolated spot had done that, but she had learned from Lowell and Clay Rocklin that not all men were evil. It was a good feeling to let herself trust the big man beside her, and when he released her han
d, she said thoughtfully, “I guess you mean that we’ll miss Billy Rosemond, but he’s in a better place.”

  “Have to think that, Rooney,” Clay said. “I’ve seen lots of good men die in this war, but I’ll see them again someday. That’s what it is to be a Christian.”

  “Then…Christians never say good-bye, do they?”

  Clay was struck by the words of the young woman. “Why, I never thought of that! But by heaven, it’s so, Rooney!”

  The two of them moved in a leisurely fashion all evening, stopping once to rest the horses, and then continued their journey. Rooney had never enjoyed a trip more, for she had a tremendous affection for Clay Rocklin. She had admired him for some time, but now she thought, He’s the best man I ever met! I wish every man in the world was like Mr. Clay Rocklin.

  Finally as they moved into the driveway of the Big House, she asked, “How are Mister Mark and Lowell doing?”

  “Not very well, either of them. Mark isn’t getting any better, and there’s nothing much a doctor can do.”

  “And Lowell?”

  “He’s doing well physically, Rooney, but…”

  Rooney glanced at him sharply, then said, “I know. He’s real bitter.”

  Clay noted how quick the girl was, then said slowly, “He’ll survive the loss of the leg, but I’m worried about him in other ways. I’ve seen it before, Rooney. Some men get so angry when they take a bad injury that they never have any joy or peace in them.” He bit his lip and added in a whisper, “I pray to God that doesn’t happen to Lowell!”

  Rooney, without knowing it, reached over and put her hand on his arm. “We won’t let him, Mister Clay! You and me and Miz Susanna, we’ll pray and pray for him!”

  Clay felt a warmth go through him, and his eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears. He’d seen so much misery and so much selfishness in his world—and now the gentleness of Rooney Smith touched him.

  “God bless you, girl!” he whispered huskily. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. And God will help us!”

  Melora came out of the house when she heard a team and wagon approaching. When she stepped onto the porch, she paused at the sight of Clay Rocklin driving up to her front door. She was a strong woman, but for years the very sight of Clay had brought her a peculiar weakness. She had loved him for so long! First as a small child, she’d loved him as children love some adults. Then as she’d made the passage from childhood into adolescence, she’d fought against the confusing emotions that had warred in her bosom, knowing that she could never have him, for he was married, and yet she was drawn to him in a powerful fashion. Finally, as a mature woman, she’d come to know that she’d never have another man. If I can’t have Clay, I’ll live alone. I love him too much, and I couldn’t rob another man of his right to a wife’s love!

  For years now, she had carried this love locked away from everyone. While Clay’s wife was alive, Melora and Clay had remained close friends, each knowing of the love in the other, but both aware that God would never let them have one another. Now that Ellen was dead and Clay was free, Melora was aware that he was now hers. The sight of him brought a pleasure to her, and she called out, “You must have smelled my pies baking all the way in Richmond.”

  Clay laughed, hauled the team to a stop, and leaped out of the wagon. For a big man, he was agile and light on his feet, and now he tied the team, then came to her, his face lightened at the sight of her. He had spent years mourning the fact that he’d thrown away the best part of his youth married to a woman he didn’t love and knowing that he could have had Melora. But he’d learned to accept that, and now he came to stand before her, admiration for her dark beauty in his face.

  She was twenty-eight now but looked no more than eighteen. Her large almond-shaped eyes were green, and her black hair hung down her back to her waist. As always, he wanted to touch her but refrained. “Well, you may have an exalted idea about those pies of yours, Miss Yancy,” he said. “A man might have other reasons for coming this way.”

  Melora’s eyes sparkled as she shot back, “Oh, you don’t want any pie, then? Well, I suppose Pa and the children can finish it off.” She smiled demurely, adding, “It’s only blackberry cobbler anyway.”

  Clay’s jaw dropped, and he held up his hand in alarm. “Wait, now—don’t be so blasted quick!” He nodded and tried to look unconcerned. “Maybe I could eat just a small portion of that cobbler!”

  Melora burst into laughter, a pleasant sound in the afternoon air. “You liar! I’ll never believe another word you say!”

  Clay shrugged his shoulders, looking crestfallen. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t blame you. I can resist anything except temptation—and Melora Yancy’s blackberry cobbler!” Then he grinned and put his hand out, taking hers and saying, “I’m a man in a poor condition, woman.”

  “Really?” She loved these games he played with her and waited for him to come out with the thought that was to be plainly seen in his dark eyes.

  “Yes. And you’ll never know if I love you for yourself—or for your pies!”

  Melora grew still, her form straight and her face clean and strong in the fading light. “I know already.” She spoke simply and without any reservation. It was the way with this woman to be so open with her feelings, and Clay loved her for it. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, and she came willingly. When his lips fell on hers, there was a wild sweetness in the kiss, and the touch of her strong body pressing against him brought strong hungers. Her hands pressed the back of his neck as she pulled him closer, and all of the years of waiting seemed to evaporate. Now there was nothing to keep her from loving him with all the ardor that she had repressed for so long. Melora had long known that there was a fierce side of her nature, and now she loosed it, clutching Clay with her strong arms, savoring the strength of his lean, muscular body and the roughness of his caress. Then she felt her control slipping and pulled her head away, whispering, “Clay—I want you!”

  Clay felt with Melora as he had never before felt with any other. “We’ll be married, Melora! I have to have you!”

  “When, Clay?”

  “I can’t say for sure, Melora. As soon as this war ends.” They stood there looking into each other’s eyes, thinking of what had passed—and what each knew was to come.

  “The others are in the field, but they’ll be back soon.” She spoke quietly, then asked, “Can you stay for a while?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ve got time for a walk. Let’s go down to the creek before supper.”

  They had their walk, Clay telling her of the family, she listening quietly. Always they had enjoyed each other’s company, even when she was a child and he a full-grown man. The years had ripened this union, so that now there was complete ease and trust in each of them. They both knew that the love of the other was so true that nothing could change it, and the security of this warmed them both.

  Finally they went back, and Clay was greeted by Buford and the children with enthusiasm. He was, to the children, more or less a favorite uncle, for he had always been good to them. To Buford he was a good friend, and the older man looked often at Clay over the supper table with affection in his greenish eyes. Most men, Yancy realized, would have taken advantage of a girl like Melora, but Clay Rocklin had been true as steel.

  Finally when supper was over, they sat around the cabin, Clay enjoying the time immensely. After the tension and rigors of battle and bloodshed, it was a haven where he could rest and forget.

  Finally the younger children left, but Clay said, “Josh, I’d like to talk to you.”

  Josh had turned to leave but now wheeled and asked, “M–m–me? Why, s–sure, Mister Clay.” The children all called him that, for it was what Melora had called him for years—still did on occasions.

  Buford and Melora turned to Clay, not knowing what to expect, and Josh looked startled.

  “Josh, we’re short of help at my place. I’d like for you to come and help—if your father can spare you.”

 
Buford said at once, “Why, shore, Clay! One of my nephews is coming to stay with us, my brother’s boy. He’s ’most sixteen now, and he can do the spring plowing while the others take care of the hogs.”

  Clay nodded, then looked at Josh. “I’ll pay you full-grown man’s wages, Josh. Our overseer is gone for a time, so you’ll have to work hard to fill in until he gets back.”

  “I c–couldn’t oversee n–nobody!”

  Clay laughed, then rose and clapped the boy on the back, noting the strong muscles that lay on Josh’s lean frame. “Didn’t expect that,” he said. “Just pitch in with the animals—you’re real good with that. And you can help Box with the blacksmith work.”

  “I’d l–like that!”

  “Thought you might,” Clay said, grinning. “Just don’t forget there’s other work to be done. You’d stay in there fooling with some invention or other the whole day long, I think.”

  Josh idolized Clay Rocklin and nodded his head. “I kin g–go right n–now, can’t I, Pa?”

  Buford gave his consent, and Josh scooted off at once to get his clothes. “Sorry to rob you of a hand, Buford,” Clay apologized.

  “Ain’t no never mind,” Buford replied with a wave of his hand. “Do the boy good to be there.” He got up then, saying, “I’ll git his tools from the barn.”

  When he left the room, Clay rose and went to Melora. “This was good,” he said simply. Pain came to his eyes, and he said briefly, “I wish I didn’t have to go back.”

  “Someday you won’t have to leave me.”

  Clay stared at Melora, then nodded. “That’ll be the best thing in the world, won’t it?” He took her hands in his, held them gently, studying her face, memorizing it, she knew, for the time ahead when he would be gone.

  Swiftly she lifted her face, and he kissed her. His lips were firm as he held her in his arms, and she felt again the desire in him. She felt it in herself, as well, but she had long ago learned that her longing for Clay Rocklin had this element. She was not ashamed of it but was proud that he was strong enough to release her.