Mark ate only a little but enjoyed the company. He said so later when he and Rooney went out for a short walk—orders of Mrs. Susanna Rocklin.
“I’m glad to get outside,” he said, breathing the fresh warm air. “Didn’t know how much I liked the outdoors until I couldn’t have it.”
“It is nice. I’ve always loved spring best of any time of the year,” Rooney said. “I grew up in the city, so I never really got to enjoy all the flowers and budding trees.” She thought briefly of those days, then said shortly, “I hope I never have to go back there again!”
They were passing the scuppernong arbor, and Mark was growing tired. “Let’s sit and rest here.” When they were seated, he said idly, “You didn’t like the city, Rooney?”
“Oh, I hated it! But there wasn’t anyplace else for me to go.…” Without meaning to, she began to speak of her life. She was not aware of how skillful the man who sat beside her was at drawing people out, and it was with a shock that she suddenly realized that she had told him more than she’d intended.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to go into all that!”
Mark smiled at her, saying, “I’m glad you told me about yourself, Rooney.” His cheeks had some color in them, and the pain was mild—for the moment. “It was a difficult life—for you and for Buck, too. And I’m sure you’ll never have to go back to that sort of thing.”
But his words caused Rooney’s brow to crease, and her eyes grew cloudy with doubt. “I worry about that,” she said quietly. She had not confessed this to anyone else, but somehow the man sitting beside her was so kind! “We can’t stay here always,” she added. “I love my mom, but when she’s out of prison, I don’t think we can go back to living the way we did. This place has been so good for Buck. Who knows what would happen if he started hanging around those bad men again. But I don’t know what else we can do.”
Mark began to offer her reassurance. “Maybe when your ma gets released, she’ll see how much better this place is for you than a saloon. And Susanna needs you, Rooney. Even after the war, she’ll need you. I think…”
He spoke quietly and was rewarded by seeing that his words were giving comfort to the girl beside him. But just as she seemed to be fully at peace about her future, the pain came to Mark. He was saying quietly, “And Buck will be able to go to school—”
Then it hit him, like a white-hot saber driven to the hilt into his side. He gasped and grabbed at his side, his face drained white as paste.
“Mister Mark!” Rooney saw him falling to one side and quickly leaped to hold him. At first she was afraid he was dying, but he managed to gasp, “Don’t…worry! Just a…bad spell!”
Rooney saw Highboy working on a window of the house and cried out, “Highboy, help me!” When he came galloping up, she said, “Help me get Mr. Rocklin to his room!”
Highboy practically carried the stricken man up the steps, and Rooney moved ahead, opening doors. When they got to Mark’s room, Rooney said, “Be easy, Highboy. Put him on the bed.”
The two of them eased him down, and Highboy asked nervously, “You wants me to fetch Miz Susanna?”
“No, Highboy. Thank you, but it’s all right now.”
The slave left, and Rooney pulled off Mark’s shoes, then began to loosen his clothes. Then she looked at his contorted face and turned at once to the washstand. Taking a brown bottle from the shelf, she poured a few ounces into a small glass, then returned and placed it to his lips. He swallowed it, and she replaced the bottle. She had grown efficient in taking care of large men and soon had his clothing off. Carefully she removed the bandage on his side and saw that his wound was draining an unhealthy stream of yellowish fluid. Quickly she cleaned the wound, dressed it, then sat down beside him, saying, “Are you feeling better, Mister Mark?”
The opiate was taking effect, and he moved his head slowly toward her. The searing pain had subsided, dulled by the drug, and his eyes were heavy lidded.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Thank you, Rooney!” He licked his lips, then shook his head. “That was…a very bad one!”
Rooney rose and got a pan of cool water and a cloth and bathed the sweat from his face. He lay still with his eyes closed, and she thought he had passed out. But then he opened his eyes and stared at her. She could not read the expression in his dark eyes, and finally she asked, “What is it, Mister Mark? Can I get you something?”
He didn’t answer but continued to examine her through drug-dulled eyes. Finally he whispered, “How old are you, Rooney?”
“Why, I’m seventeen.”
He found that interesting and after a long pause whispered, “Seventeen…and a fine young woman.”
The clock on the wall tolled the seconds, and once again he began to slide away into unconsciousness. But again the eyes opened, and his lips moved.
“I was in love with a young woman once.”
“You were, sir?”
“Oh yes.…” His eyes began to droop, and he forced them up with an effort. His lips were dry, and she gave him a drink, then put his head down.
Rooney knew a little of the Rocklin family history. She knew that Lowell had told her that Uncle Mark had never been married. Maybe he married her and kept their marriage secret from everyone, she thought. Rooney asked, “What was her name?”
“Her name was…Beth.” Mark gazed at Rooney through haze-filled eyes. “You…you remind me of her.… So beautiful.”
“What happened to her, sir? Did you marry?” Rooney asked quickly, for she could see Mark slipping away again.
“She…she…so beautiful.” And then Mark was unconscious.
Rising, she slipped out of the room and went to find Susanna, who was alarmed over the incident. “Oh, he’s asleep now,” Rooney assured her. She and the older woman spoke about the care he’d need, and then Rooney asked, making her tone casual, “Did Mister Mark ever marry?”
“No. We all hoped he would, but he never did.”
“That’s too bad,” Rooney said. “He would have made some woman very happy.”
CHAPTER 17
“LET US CROSS OVER THE RIVER”
General Robert E. Lee led the Army of Northern Virginia, determined to hit the Union Army such a blow that the Peace Party in the North would force Lincoln to end the struggle.
Clay Rocklin and the members of C Company of the Stonewall Brigade saw him as he rode by on Traveler. “Look at him. That’s Bobby Lee!” Lonnie Yancy breathed. “Ain’t he somethin’ now? And look at that hoss!”
The horse was iron gray, sixteen hands high, with a short back, deep chest, and small head. His delicate ears moved constantly as he bore his burden proudly. He was the jewel of his master’s hands, guided by word and not by rein.
The rider, too, was iron gray, his hair and beard now frosted. Lee had a broad forehead, deep-set eyes, straight nose, firm lips. He was all grace and symmetry, and unlike Stonewall Jackson, whose strength was hammered, his was beneath the surface. He was loved and idolized as no other general on either side, one of those men who can cause other men to follow him to their death. He was a firm Christian, believed in his country with all his soul, but he could not lift his sword against his native state. Virginia was home and family, and he threw himself into what he knew was a losing struggle because of his love for this land.
Clay watched Lee ride past with his staff, then turned to Lonnie Yancy, saying, “Yes, he’s something, all right.”
“Don’t see how we can lose,” Lonnie said, eyeing the general ride down the line of march. He was so much like his father that Clay thought of Buford. He had the same lanky strength and green eyes and the same determination. Lonnie had joined the army before Bull Run and had fought in every engagement. Clay had tried to get him to stay home and take care of his father’s farm, but Lonnie had said stubbornly, “No, sir, I’m gonna fight for mah rights!”
Now Clay looked at this tall man and thought how typical he was of the army that now wound around between two hills like a butternut-colored serpent.
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His rights? Why, Lonnie doesn’t even know what they are! he thought almost wearily. He never owned a slave and never will, but he’s going to war to fight for the right to own one.
But the Army of Northern Virginia was composed of men like Lonnie Yancy. It was an army of hunters, riders, walkers—men who lived close to the ground. They were rebels against the new age of the machine birthed in the North, loving the dirt of the South fanatically.
Clay’s eyes ran down the ranks of his own company, noting how different they were. His eye fell on Sam Griffin, who had come to war with nothing but his pants and shirt—and a rifle one of his ancestors had used at King’s Mountain in the American Revolution. His eyes moved to James Huger, who’d first come to the Grays with a haircloth trunk full of fine shirts and a body servant to mend them. Clay smiled at how Huger had been tormented until he’d shared the shirts and sent the slave home. Now he wore the same rough clothing and floppy hat as Sam Griffin.
“Think we’ll whip the Yankees, Clay?”
Turning quickly, Clay looked up at his brother-in-law, Major Brad Franklin, who was mounted on a fine bay stallion. He was dressed in a new uniform and looked every inch a soldier, his intense face smiling with anticipation.
Clay liked this man and nodded. Knowing that his men needed to hear him speak positively, he answered, “We’ll wear them out, Major. My boys are ready for a scrap!”
Franklin looked at the lean, tanned faces of the men of C Company and nodded. “I think we’ll do them in this time, Captain. Never saw the army so fired up.” His face grew serious. “Keep your head down, Clay.” He grinned, then spurred his horse and rode down the line, pausing to speak to the men from time to time.
“We got some good officers, Captain.” Waco Smith, the ex–Texas Ranger, had moved up to walk beside Clay. He was a tall man who still wore a .44 in a holster on his thigh. He had the most direct gaze of any man Clay had ever seen—and was a tiger in battle.
“Got the best noncoms, too,” Clay said fondly. “You mind what the major said, Waco. Don’t get yourself shot.” He added lightly to cover his concern, “Too hard for me to break in a new sergeant.”
Waco Smith shot a quick glance at Clay, then grinned. “I was fixin’ to say that about officers,” he remarked dryly. The two marched along, speaking quietly of the affairs of the company. For both of them it was, for now, the center of their worlds. The men who marched with them were their concern, and each knew that when the battle was over, some of the men who walked with them would not be there.
Thinking, perhaps, of this, Waco finally shook his head. “Bad about Lowell. But at least he won’t get killed.” Both of them knew of men who had shot their hands off to get out of going into battle, and Waco added, “Lowell’s going to make it, ain’t he, Clay?”
“Yes.” Clay’s voice was slow, and he added, “But he’s taking it bad, Waco.”
“Figured he would. Young fella like that, he wants to be best at things. But he’ll be all right.” Waco looked back over the line, studied it, then shrugged. There was a streak of fatalism in the Texan, and he remarked, “Guess we’ll lose some, Captain.” The thought stayed with him, and his eyes were half hooded as he finally asked, “Why do some of us get killed and some don’t?”
“No man knows the answer to that, Waco,” Clay responded. He had wondered himself about this but had come to believe that such questions had no answer. “A man can only do his best, and the rest is up to God.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Waco Smith, and as they moved along toward the north, he said, “Don’t seem to fit, Captain, but it’s shore the way things are.” He had the old soldier’s habit of putting such philosophical quandaries into some deep recess of his mind, and he became more cheerful. “How strong you think we are? And how many Bluebellies aim to stop us?”
“We’ve got about sixty thousand men, I think,” Clay answered. “Don’t know how many we’ll be facing.”
Smith looked through the clouds of dust raised by the feet of thousands of marching men. “Wal, there’ll be more of them than they is of us.” He spoke almost lightly, without concern. The veterans of the Army of Northern Virginia were accustomed to long odds. But they felt as Waco did as he dismissed the superior numbers, saying, “As long as we got Bobby Lee and Stonewall, I don’t keer how many of them we got to fight.…”
Neither Waco, Clay, nor even General Robert E. Lee could see into the future—no more than could General Joe Hooker, who was leading the Army of the Potomac to meet them. Hooker had replaced Burnside after the Union failure at Fredericksburg.
The new general, forty-nine years old, was a graduate of West Point and a veteran of the Seminole and Mexican wars who had served in the Regular Army until 1853. At the outbreak of the Civil War, he had been commissioned a brigadier general and had fought with distinction in several battles, earning the nickname “Fighting Joe.” He had a reputation for loose living, loose talk, and insubordination, but his bravery and aggressive spirit were beyond question. In Lincoln’s opinion, these qualities outweighed his defects.
Hooker waited until April of 1863 was almost over, and the men knew that as soon as the roads were dry, the new campaign would begin. After months of inactivity, they looked forward to it.
Lee’s army still occupied its defensive position overlooking Fredericksburg. Hooker knew from Burnside’s disastrous experience that a frontal attack would be fatal. Instead he planned a wide sweep around Lee’s left flank, leaving a third of his army to cross the Rappahannock and hold Lee in his entrenchments. The Confederate commander, with 60,000 men—compared with Hooker’s 134,000—would be in danger of annihilation if the Union movements succeeded.
The battle began on May 1. Lee, with characteristic audacity, divided his army and attacked Hooker’s advancing force. The Union commander, having heard that Lee had been heavily reinforced, faltered, and the day’s fighting ended inconclusively.
That night Lee and Stonewall Jackson decided upon a bold movement. Having found a guide who knew the way through the tangled wilderness, Lee sent Jackson with twenty-six thousand men across the front only two or three miles away to strike at Hooker’s exposed right flank. It was a terrible risk for the Confederate Army, for if Hooker struck Lee’s remaining force, he would destroy it.
The men of the Richmond Grays saw little of the overall strategy of the battle of Chancellorsville. When Clay awakened them just before dawn, it was still too dark to see, but they could hear firing, skirmishers in heated dispute with the Federals.
They ate a hurried breakfast, and at six o’clock they heard the first artillery fire. Soon rolling clouds of powder smoke rose slowly, and the furious ripping sound of small arms in volley ascended. Through the tangled wilderness, they saw balloons of smoke and points of muzzle blast from Federal gun positions.
Lonnie Yancy, standing beside Clay, stared at the blue forces that were gathering for the charge. “I didn’t know there was so many of ’em!” he whispered.
They could hear their shouts of command, see the froth coming from the hardworking artillery horses as battery after battery was wheeled up, unlimbered, and run out, muzzles toward the Confederates. The Union flags snapped in the breeze, and mounted staff officers in clusters watched the army prepare.
“You wanted Yankees,” Waco Smith said, grinning at the men. “Well, there they are—and hyar they come!”
The bugles sounded, and the blue carpet began to move, unrolling to the hoarse coughing of the cannons. They splashed across the small creek, some falling to turn the water crimson, but their places were filled by others.
Clay called out, “Fire by volley!” and he waited until the approaching wave of soldiers was fifty yards away before yelling, “Fire!”
The blue line suddenly was scattered and tossed by the hot lead. Clay yelled, “Come on, C Company!” He leaped forward, holding his pistol, and glanced down the line to see that Dent was leading his own men in the charge.
Lonnie Yancy had knocked
down a soldier with his first shot, then reloaded and scrambled into the line. He knew no fear. That came before the battle—or afterward. He heard the high-pitched wailing, sustained and carried through the other noise like the screaming of animals, and realized that he was yelling along with the rest.
A blue-clad soldier appeared—undulating, weaving in the smoke—and he felt the shock of the rifle butt against his shoulder without even being aware that he had raised it. He bit off the end of the next cartridge, rammed it home, hammer back and cap pressed onto the nipple, then fired again. The blue haze ahead took shape, showing faces and arms and bright brass belt buckles.
Beside him he was aware of Sergeant Smith, and ahead was Lieutenant Dent Rocklin, taking aim and firing as calmly as if he were taking target practice at home. Major Franklin rode by on his fine horse, screaming and waving them forward, and other officers joined him.
Clay sent his last shot at the blue horde, then turned and picked up a musket dropped by Zeno Tafton, whose face was shot away. He loaded, fired, then reloaded.
At that moment he saw Brad Franklin ride forward and then reel in the saddle. “Brad!” he shouted and saw him fall to the ground, the horse running away in terror. Clay wanted to go to him, but there was no time.
Wrenching himself away from the scene, he saw that the Yankee line had begun retreating and yelled, “Keep firing!” He kept them at it until the Federals were back across the creek, but even as he ran to Franklin, he heard a slight cry to his right. Wheeling, he turned to see Lonnie Yancy drop his rifle and fall to the ground.
Clay called out, “Lonnie!” but when he bent over the man, he saw that a musket ball had struck him in the temple, killing him instantly.
How will I tell Melora? He was her favorite!
“Captain, Major Franklin’s pretty bad!”
Clay looked up to see Waco standing over him, his face bloody and his eyes quick with anger. “We gotta get him to the hospital.”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 78