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

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Is he alive?” Clay demanded as he ran back to where the officer lay.

  “Yeah, but gut shot.”

  Clay saw that Brad Franklin was conscious, but he saw also the pool of blood that poured through his fingers. “They…got me this time, Clay!” Brad gasped.

  “You’ll be all right,” Clay answered. Both men knew the chances of surviving a belly wound were almost nil, but Clay said, “We’ll get you to the surgeon.”

  “Clay…tell Amy…I’ve always loved her…just in case, you know.”

  Clay nodded but was filled with a sudden birth of faith. “Brad, I’m no prophet, but I think God’s giving me a promise. I believe He’s telling me you’ll make it.”

  “Is that right, Clay?” Franklin stared through pain-filled eyes at his brother-in-law, whom he trusted greatly. He gasped, “Then I’ll just go on your faith.…”

  Clay directed the men as they picked Franklin up and carried him off to the hospital. Then he turned and walked down the line to where Bob Yancy was helping a wounded comrade. “Bob?”

  Young Yancy glanced at him, and his face grew pale. Rising, he came to stand before Clay. “Is it Lonnie?”

  “Yes, Bob.” Clay put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, adding gently, “He’s gone, Bob. Gone to be with Jesus.”

  Tears sprang to Bob Yancy’s eyes. They had always been close, and the war had brought them even closer together. Memories of childhood and hunting trips flashed through his mind. But he dashed them away and cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I can go on without him here in the company.”

  “We’ll all miss him, Bob,” Clay said. “And we’ve got each other to lean on. Remember that.”

  Bob Yancy gave Clay a grateful look, then said, “I’ll take care of him.”

  At that moment General Jackson came riding up, his eyes pale. The soldiers called him Old Blue Light because of this. “Major Franklin is wounded?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve had him removed from the field,” Clay answered.

  Jackson wore an old forage cap pulled down over his eyes. He paused for one moment, then said, “I will pray for his recovery. You will take his place. I appoint you brevet major. Take the field, sir!”

  The Grays saw little action the rest of that day. And the second day of battle was spent mostly marching through the wilderness to get into position. At twilight Jackson struck General O. O. Howard’s Eleventh Corps on the extreme left of the Federal line. Howard’s men broke in confusion. Except for the falling night and an agonizing misfortune, a complete rout would have followed.

  The misfortune came as Stonewall Jackson rode forward on the turnpike toward Chancellorsville followed by several of his staff. He surveyed the enemy’s position, then headed back toward his own lines.

  As he rode near to the Confederate troops just placed in position and ignorant that he was in front, the nervous soldiers opened fire on Jackson’s party. Two of the number fell from their saddles dead. Jackson spurred his horse forward where he was met by a second volley. The general received three balls at the same instant. One penetrated the palm of his right hand, a second passed around the wrist of his left arm, and a third ball passed through the left arm halfway from shoulder to elbow. The large bone of the upper arm was splintered to the elbow joint, and the wound bled freely.

  Jackson reeled in the saddle and was caught by his aide, who laid him on the ground. Dr. Hunter McGuire came at once and saw to the general’s removal. As he was carried away, Jackson called out, “General Pember, you must hold your ground, sir!”

  At midnight Jackson’s left arm was amputated near the shoulder. He made a good recovery at first, but pneumonia struck him and he weakened. On May 10 he died, a smile on his face. He said quietly and with an expression of relief, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”

  The day after Jackson was wounded, the battle resumed. Hooker lost control of himself and never was able to strike a hard blow at his enemy. By the end of the fighting, he concluded there was no chance of success. Once again a much stronger Army of the Potomac had been vanquished by a smaller force under a superior general.

  After the battle Clay walked beside the wagons loaded with wounded, some of them begging to be killed as they were jolted on the rough roads.

  We’ve lost so many men, he thought, and the faces of the men in his company who had fallen rose in his mind. This army will never be the same. I just don’t see how we can win.

  The promotion to major meant nothing to him. He thought of Lonnie Yancy, buried in a shallow grave, far from the Southern fields he loved so well, and bitterness at the waste of it all rose in his throat. He thought of Brad Franklin, alive but just barely, and could only pray as he trudged along.

  He saw in his mind more clearly than he had with his eyes the shattered forms on the field, the gaping wounds, the scattered arms, feet, and legs outside the surgeons’ tent, the blood-soaked ground, the staring wide-eyed faces turning black and bloated almost before they could be buried.

  He had always hated the war, but now he despised it with an intensity that shook him. But he could not turn back and so swept it from his mind, going from man to man to give what encouragement he could.

  CHAPTER 18

  TO BE A ROCKLIN

  The Army of Northern Virginia came home, and Richmond once again was filled with wounded men, for the wagons daily unloaded their bloody bodies at the doors of the hospitals. Chimborazo overflowed, and Mrs. Pember worked night and day caring for the shattered remains that were often dumped unceremoniously at the front of the ward. She longed for the help of people such as Rooney Smith, but knew that the young woman had her hands full at Gracefield.

  Clay had come to Chimborazo to visit the members of his squad and, after spending time with each of them, went to Brad Franklin and his sister, Amy. Brad had amazed the entire staff by not dying from the worst type of body wound, and he had shown such improvement that he clamored to be sent to his home. Amy patted his hand as she pleaded with the doctor for this. She won her case, and Clay had volunteered to drive them to the Franklin plantation. He borrowed a wagon and took Brad and Amy home.

  Before he could return to Gracefield, Clay had to stop at the Yancy place, for he knew he had to tell the family about the death of Lonnie. When he drove up, he was greeted with enthusiasm by the children, but with restraint by Buford and Melora. Clay said nothing about the death for a time, but finally when the three of them were alone in the cabin, he broached the unpleasant topic. He left nothing out, and the two listened intently. Finally he said huskily, “He was the best soldier in the regiment, Buford. Always up front, never shirked a duty. We’ll all miss him greatly.”

  Buford Yancy sat loosely in a cane-bottomed chair, and his sharp face grew tense. He had watched Clay’s face during the recital, and now he said softly, “Lonnie was always a dutiful boy. Never was a better son.” He said no more, and it was Melora who came to stand behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. The two of them were so still, Clay thought they looked like a portrait.

  Then Melora looked at Clay, pride and sorrow mingled in her eyes. “Thank you for telling us, Clay.”

  That was all. He left soon afterward, promising that he’d give Bob a furlough as soon as he got back. “He’s taking this hard, and I think you all need each other right now.”

  Melora had walked to the wagon with him, and when he got in, she looked up and asked, “Will you be leaving soon for another battle, Clay?”

  “Not right away,” Clay said. “The army’s not ready. I’ll be at Gracefield for at least two days. Will you come and visit while I’m there?”

  “Yes. I’ll come.”

  Just the promise was enough to lift his spirits, and he smiled, saying what had become a familiar refrain to them: “Soon I won’t have to go away, Melora!”

  “Soon, Clay,” Melora echoed and stood there long after the wagon had jolted away down the rutted road and disappeared behind the line of trees.

/>   When she went back inside, she found her father still seated in the worn chair. He gave her a peculiar look; then when she poured two cups of sassafras tea and brought them over, he asked unexpectedly, “Are you happy to marry him, Melora?”

  Melora looked up quickly, aware that the pain of his loss was sharp. He’s worried about me, she thought, and then she nodded. “Yes, I am, Pa.”

  Buford took in the clean sweep of Melora’s cheek, the erect figure, and the air of sweetness. He’d lost a son, and now there was an emptiness in him. Nobody could ever take Lonnie’s place. Vaguely he was stirred with a desire to see more of the Yancy line, not to take Lonnie’s place, but…He couldn’t explain his feeling but finally made an attempt of sorts. “I hate to see things wasted,” he murmured. “God put everything on this earth to be used.…”

  He broke off, unable to find words to frame the emptiness inside him. But Melora understood. She was a woman of great discernment, and now she put the teacup down and put her hands over his.

  “I know, Pa.” She waited until his eyes came to meet hers, then nodded. “Don’t fret about me. I’ve had a good life, and I know I’ll be happy as the wife of Clay Rocklin.”

  “I should of made you marry a long time ago.”

  Melora smiled, and a dimple appeared on her cheek. “Cut a switch to me?” she asked.

  Buford smiled at her. Melora could always make him smile. “I guess that wouldn’t have worked. But you’ve give up your girlhood to raise these younguns.”

  “It’s what God wanted me to do, Pa,” she said simply. Then she squeezed his hands hard, saying, “But they’re about raised now, and Clay is free.” Her eyes suddenly grew warm, and she whispered, “One day, Pa, you’ll have another boy child to hold—mine and Clay’s.”

  She had never spoken like this, but somehow the thing had come to her—not in fragments and bits, but whole and entire. She was as sure of this as she was sure that the sun was in the sky, and the knowledge burned in her with a holy fire.

  Lowell tried to force himself to be pleasant to his father. Clay had come home as soon as he could and for two days had moved about the plantation, mostly outside with Josh and the hands going over the work. But several times he’d come to sit with Lowell, and it had not been easy, for Lowell’s reticence was like a stone wall.

  Finally on the second day, Clay said to Rooney, “I can’t break through to him, Rooney. It’s like he’s crawled into a deep cave and won’t come out.”

  “I know,” Rooney replied. She and Josh and Rena had tried everything to get Lowell to open up, but nothing had worked. Rooney had accepted Lowell’s harsh remarks meekly, never answering in kind, but even that response seemed to anger him. Looking up at Clay, she said suddenly, “Maybe if we could get him to go to just one thing, it might get him out of that cave.”

  Clay stared at her, the idea taking root. “You have an idea, Rooney? About someplace to take him?”

  “Well, he got a letter yesterday. It was from a soldier named Jimmy Peck.”

  Clay’s eyebrows went up. “Why, Jimmy’s the drummer boy of our company! I saw him at the hospital before I came here.”

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  Clay nodded, pain in his dark eyes. “I’m afraid so, Rooney. He’s only fifteen years old, an orphan lad. He took some bad wounds, and Mrs. Pember told me he wasn’t going to make it.”

  A cloud crossed Rooney’s face. “Poor boy!” she whispered. “Only fifteen. That’s younger than Josh and Rena!”

  “What did the letter say?”

  “He didn’t write it himself. One of the women did. He asked Lowell to come and say good-bye to him.”

  Clay stiffened, and he shook his head, asking at once, “What did Lowell say?”

  “He didn’t say anything—not to me, anyway,” Rooney admitted. Then she looked at him hopefully, adding, “But he didn’t say he wouldn’t go, Mister Clay. Up until now, nobody could even mention his leaving the house without making him mad.”

  “He and Lowell were great friends,” Clay said slowly, thinking back. “The two of them were always into something together. Jimmy was such a fun-loving boy. Lowell looked on him as a younger brother, I think.”

  “Why don’t you offer to take him, Mister Clay?”

  “I will!” Clay’s jaw grew tight, and he nodded emphatically. “I’ll put it to him that he owes it to Jimmy, which he does.” Hope came to him and he said, “You come along, Rooney. You’ll have to drive him back home.”

  Clay went at once to Lowell’s room, and as soon as he was inside, he said, “I just heard about Jimmy wanting you to come and see him.”

  Lowell gave him a startled look. He was sitting up in bed, reading a book, and for one moment couldn’t answer. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

  “Why can’t you?” Clay demanded. He put his black eyes on Lowell, adding, “You’re able to travel.”

  Lowell turned pale, and Clay saw that the fear of going outside of the room was torture to the young man. He ached for this son of his but knew that the greatest kindness he could show was to force him out of the self-imposed prison Lowell had designed. “You’re going, Lowell,” Clay said evenly. “Make up your mind to it.”

  A flash of anger leaped to Lowell’s eyes. “I’m not a child! You can’t make me go!”

  Clay said softly, but with a trace of iron in his tone—a tone that Lowell had encountered in the past—“I can’t make you behave decently toward Jimmy, but you’re going to face him, son.”

  “I can’t do it!” Lowell’s face contorted with fear, and he grabbed at the first excuse that came to him. “My wound! It could start bleeding! I could die!”

  This sort of thing had worked with Susanna, but Lowell saw at once that it meant nothing to his father, especially since the wound was mostly healed now. Clay Rocklin’s eyes drew half shut, and he said, “Son, I’d rather see you die than go on being the sort of man you’ve become! You’re a Rocklin! I know you lost a leg. Well, I’m sorry for that. But it doesn’t give you the right to curl up like a whipped dog and whimper about how pitiful you are!”

  “I don’t—”

  “Lowell, you’re going to that hospital and saying good-bye to Jimmy. Now do you want me to help you get ready?”

  Lowell glared at his father with hatred, but he saw that the tanned face was set. I’ve got to go, he thought with a sickness in his stomach. If I don’t, he’ll pick me up and throw me into the wagon like I was a sack of meal!

  Lowell knew his father, knew the iron will that had carried him through half a lifetime of difficulties that would have killed most men. He’d seen him set his jaw in just the manner he saw now, coming back to face shame and disgrace and never once turning back. He’d seen his father maintain a marriage with his mother when almost any other man would have broken free from her. And he’d seen that expression in battle when Clay Rocklin had stepped into the hail of fire as though bullets were soft drops of summer rain!

  “I–I’ll get ready,” Lowell whispered.

  “Fine. I’ll go get the wagon hitched. We’ll put the wheelchair right in the wagon bed so you’ll be comfortable.”

  Clay turned and left the room, aware that his fingers were trembling, and there was a nausea in his stomach. He had hated the scene! He hated to speak like that to Lowell, yet at the same time he felt a surge of hope. When Rooney came to face him, he nodded. “Get ready, Rooney; Lowell’s going to say good-bye to his friend.”

  “All right, Lowell, hold steady now.”

  Lowell grasped at the arms of his wheelchair, and his father and a thick-bodied hospital attendant rolled it over the back edge of the wagon. He had made the ride in comfort physically, but the dread of being thrust into the busy world had so possessed him that he could not think. Now as the wheels touched the ground, he wanted to flee, but he was helpless.

  “Thanks,” Clay said to the attendant.” We can handle it from here.” Clay stepped behind the chair, saying, “It’s getting dark. I’ll put you two insi
de, then go find us a room someplace.”

  “We can stay at the hospital,” Rooney volunteered. She was acutely aware of Lowell’s silence, and a feeling of dread had come over her as she thought, Won’t he ever say anything?

  Lowell’s throat was constricted, and he found it difficult to breathe. As his father tilted the chair back and placed the front wheels on the sidewalk that led into the ward, he gripped the chair arms so tightly that his fingers cramped. Rooney stepped ahead and opened the door, and as soon as they were inside the long building, Lowell heard his name called!

  “Hey! It’s Lowell!”

  “Well, look at you. Got an officer to shove you around! What an operator!”

  “And got Miss Rooney waitin’ on him! Lowell, you ort to be proud!”

  Lowell felt the chair slow down, and as his father pushed him down the aisle, he saw familiar faces—men he’d fought beside in many battles. “H–hello, Ralph,” he managed to say to a small soldier who had no hands. He thought of how many times Ralph Prentiss had entertained them all by playing on his banjo at a hundred campfires. Ralph saw that Lowell was struggling to find something to say and grinned. Waving his stumps, he winked. “Got to learn to play with my feet, Lowell!”

  Lowell couldn’t answer but managed a small smile. He spoke to other members of his company, and finally the chair halted next to a bed where a man with his eyes bandaged sat, his head cocked alertly to one side. “That you, Lowell?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s me, Bailey.”

  “Well, I’m glad you come by, Lowell,” the soldier said. “How you doin’?”

  Lowell shifted uncomfortably in his chair but said quickly,

  “All right, Bailey.”

  “Heard you lost a leg,” Bailey remarked. “Now thet’s too bad, a dancin’ man like you.” Then he nodded confidently, adding, “But they make good legs fer fellers now, so they say.” He paused and then shook his head. “Wisht they could make a pair of eyes fer me, but thet’s past wishing fer!”