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

by Gilbert, Morris

  When she went downstairs, Susanna saw at once the trouble that lurked in her granddaughter’s eyes. “What’s wrong, Rena?” she asked.

  Rena stared at her with tragic eyes and began to tell Susanna what she’d done. By the time she’d finished, her voice was trembling and tears were brimming in her eyes. “I was so mean to him, Grandmother! He was right, and I was wrong!”

  Susanna remembered how small things were enormous to the very young. She’d seen that the young man had been good for Rena, and now she saw that the girl’s affection for Josh ran deeper than she’d thought. Putting her arms around the girl, she murmured, “It’ll be all right.”

  “I’ve got to find him…tell him I was wrong.” She looked up and saw that her grandmother had an odd look in her eyes. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Josh has gone home for a little while, Rena,” Susanna said, pity in her tone. “He told David he had to help his father with the work there.”

  Rena’s face turned pale, and she whispered, “He’s mad at me! And he’s right!”

  Susanna stood there trying to comfort the weeping girl but knew that there was little she could do. When you’re sixteen, a thing like this is as big as a mountain, she thought. Aloud she said, “Rena, he’s hurt, but he’s a good young man. He’ll get over it, and you two will be friends again.”

  “No, he won’t come back,” Rena said, shaking her head. “You don’t know how shy he is—but I knew it! He’s so ashamed of his stutter that he doesn’t make friends, Grandmother. And…and I was his friend!”

  Rena tore loose from Susanna’s hands and ran out the door, disappearing around the corner of the house, shaking with the sobs she tried to hold back.

  Susanna stared after the girl, then picked up the tray of food and made her way to Mark’s room. “I’ve fixed you one of those omelets you like, Mark,” she said, setting the tray down.

  Mark Rocklin knew this woman very well. One glance at her and he demanded, “What is it, Susanna? Bad news about the boys?”

  “Oh no.” Susanna hesitated, then sat down and related the problem to him. When she had finished, she sighed and looked at him, weariness in her eyes and in the lines of her face. “She thinks it’s the end of the world, Mark.”

  “The young always think that.” He toyed with the omelet, then looked at her with a tired smile. “You carry so many people on those small shoulders, Susanna.” And then he added, “You’ve always been the finest woman I’ve ever known.”

  His praise shocked Susanna Rocklin, bringing a tinge of red to her cheeks. “Why, Mark—”She started to protest, but he cut her off.

  “It’s true. I should have told you years ago. And Rena’s like you,” he added. “She’s had a pretty bad knock, but she’ll make it.”

  “I think she will, but it’s good to have someone else tell me.” Susanna leaned over and stroked Mark’s hand, noting with a sudden fear how frail it was. The two of them sat there speaking quietly, and somehow they both felt a closeness that had been gone for years. Neither of them knew how to speak of it—and neither did. But when Susanna rose to take his tray back to the kitchen, she gave a sudden sigh of relief. “You’ve made me feel better, Mark.”

  “I’m glad. Good to be of some use.” He caught himself, saying, “That sounds like self-pity, and there’s nothing I hate worse than that in a man!” He hesitated and for one moment seemed on the brink of telling his sister-in-law something.

  Susanna caught the look on Mark’s face and asked, “What is it, Mark? I’ve thought for some time you’ve wanted to tell me something. I’d like to hear it.”

  Mark Rocklin had spent his life alone for the most part. Only a few times had he been able to speak his mind and heart to another, and he longed to speak now. But the habits of a lifetime were strong, and he found no words to express what was in his heart.

  “Sometime I’ll tell you, Susanna,” he said and then wearily lay down and turned his face to the wall.

  Susanna stared at him, then shook her head and left the room without a word. Going to her sewing room, she closed the door and sat down in the worn rocking chair. She began to rock, and the motions of the old chair were as even as the tides or the spinning of the globe. She picked up the worn black Bible but did not open it. Holding it in her hands, she closed her eyes and her lips began to move. “Dear Lord, hear my prayer.…”

  CHAPTER 22

  “JINE THE CAVALRY!”

  Some officers were so colorless that they could pass through a crowd without being recognized. General Ulysses S. Grant was one of these. He wore the uniform of a private at times, the only mark of his rank being the stars pinned to his coat. Grant was so plain in appearance that once when he was boarding a gunboat, smoking a cigar, the guard, a new private in the army, stopped him and addressed him roughly: “You—throw that cigar away!” Grant had smiled, tossed his cigar away, then passed by, saying, “I like to see a soldier who does his duty.”

  General James Ewell Brown Stuart was definitely not one of these drab officers! The general—better know as Jeb Stuart—would never be overlooked in any crowd. His uniform consisted of a pair of thigh-high black boots, tan breeches, a flowing cape with scarlet lining that rippled in the wind as he rode his horse at a full gallop, and a black ostrich plume crowning his rakish hat. Stuart surrounded himself with men only slightly less colorful than himself, and his entourage included one man called Sweeny, who had been a professional minstrel. Wherever Stuart camped, one could hear the lively plunking of the banjo and the laughter of his men.

  As Lowell guided Midnight through the ranks of tents that practically surrounded Richmond, he was seized by a sudden tension. I must be crazy doing this! Every young fellow in the South with a horse wants to ride with Jeb Stuart. He can get all the men he wants with two legs. No reason for him to take me.

  As he moved past the line of tents that marked the camp of the infantry, he heard the tinny, plinking sound of a banjo. Drawing closer, he heard a fine tenor voice singing:

  We’re tenting tonight on the old camp ground;

  Give us a song to cheer

  Our weary hearts, a song of home,

  And friends we love so dear.

  Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,

  Wishing for the war to cease;

  Many are the hearts looking for the right

  To see the dawn of peace.

  Tenting tonight, tenting tonight,

  Tenting on the old camp ground.

  Rows of small tents framed the background of the cavalry encampment, but Lowell made his way to a large Sibley tent set out in front. The conical canvas shelter could accommodate twenty soldiers, but by the ensign flying from the polished pole beside it, Lowell knew that it housed General Jeb Stuart.

  Pulling Midnight to a halt, he spotted the general at once. Stuart was in the midst of a circle of officers who were being served a meal by two black servants. Lowell noted at once that there was a holiday air about the group and decided that all he’d heard about Jeb Stuart’s ability to draw men and hold them was true.

  “I’m Lieutenant Collins. What can I do for you?”

  Glancing around with a start, Lowell looked down at a tall, long-legged lieutenant who had advanced from his left and now positioned himself directly in front of Midnight. He was wearing a heavy Dance revolver, a Confederate copy of the Colt .44 Dragoon and the favorite weapon of Stuart’s troopers. “Why, I’d like to speak with General Stuart, Lieutenant.” He fished an envelope out of his pocket and extended it to the officer. “I have a letter from Colonel Benton of the Richmond Grays.”

  “Wait here,” Collins replied, then eyed Midnight with a practiced eye. “Better keep your eye on that hoss. Some of our folks might decide to requisition him.”

  Lowell grinned and nodded, then watched as the long-legged officer approached Stuart. He saw the general glance at him, then tear the envelope open and scan the single sheet of paper inside. He nodded and waved Lowell forward. The officers surro
unding the general watched the new arrival curiously, and Lowell felt a moment of awkwardness. I can’t ride Midnight through the middle of them, but if I get off, they’ll know I’ve got a wooden leg.

  Setting his teeth, he slipped off Midnight and moved forward. No matter how much practice he’d put in, he was acutely aware of the halting gait he was forced to use. He was also aware that Stuart was watching his progress thoughtfully. But the general smiled, wide lips almost hidden behind his ferocious beard and moustache. “Well, Sergeant Rocklin, we meet again!”

  “I’m surprised you remember, General.”

  “I might have forgotten you, but I never forget a good horse.” He put his bright blue eyes on Midnight, then shot at Lowell directly, “I’ll buy him from you, Sergeant—name your price.”

  Lowell shook his head. “Sorry, General, but I couldn’t sell him.”

  Stuart nodded his approval. “I’d have been disappointed if you had.” He put that thought aside, then studied Lowell carefully. “Too bad about that balloon getting destroyed.” He glanced at his staff and gave them a brief history of the balloon. When he finished, a chunky young major eating from a tin plate said, “I wish we had some of those things. They’d come in handy.”

  Stuart nodded absently, still engaged in some sort of thought. “That’s right, Major Malone.” He studied Lowell, then said, “You took a pretty bad wound. General Able told me about it.”

  “Yes, sir, I lost a leg,” Lowell said instantly and was aware of the scrutiny the staff officers gave his legs. He knew that this would be the issue and wanted to get it into the open. He had hoped to see the general alone, but there was no chance of that now.

  “Your colonel writes that you want to jine the cavalry.”

  “Yes, sir, more than anything!”

  “Well, Sergeant, I admire your grit, but we’re a pretty rough bunch.” Stuart hesitated, seeking for the best way to put what was in his mind. Finally he shrugged and said bluntly, “Lots of men with two legs can’t stay up and take the punishment we have to take. It would be difficult for a man with only one.”

  “If I fall behind, take my horse and leave me!”

  A mutter of approval went around the circle, and Major Malone observed, “A man can’t say fairer than that, General!”

  Lieutenant Collins put in slyly, “Be a good way to get another good hoss, sir.”

  Stuart looked over Lowell’s shoulder at the fine lines of Midnight and hesitated. Then he shook his head firmly. “I’m mighty tempted, but it wouldn’t be fair. I’m sorry, Sergeant. I admire your spunk, but—”

  Sensing rejection coming, Lowell said quickly, “General, I can give you two reasons why you should take me.”

  Stuart had already settled the matter in his mind, but Lowell’s statement caught at him. “And those two are?”

  “The first is that I can play a harmonica as well as Mr. Sweeny there can play a banjo.”

  Sweeny was a short man with a bushy head of black hair and a pair of bright black eyes. “Why, let’s have a sample, Sergeant! If you can do what you say, I’ll be on your side. Some of these so-called musicians in this troop can’t tell one note from another!”

  Lowell had learned to play the harmonica from Box. He had a great deal of natural ability and had spent long hours making up tunes and acquiring new skills. Knowing of Stuart’s love of music, he’d stashed his harmonica in his pocket, hoping for just such a chance as this. Pulling it out, he put it to his lips and began playing a lively tune, employing the trills and half notes he’d learned. Sweeny listened critically for the first few notes, then nodded gleefully. “The man can do it!” he cheered; then his hand began to move across the strings of his banjo.

  The two instruments formed a wonderful harmony on the stillness of the air, and Stuart, Lowell noted, enjoyed the duet. He beat his thigh with a hard hand and moved his head in time with the music. When the two reached the end, giving a run of staccato notes as a final flourish, he led the loud applause that went up and said loudly, “Never heard better mouth organ playin’ in my whole life, Sergeant!” Then he added regretfully, “But a man’s got to be more than a musician to ride with me. What’s your second reason?”

  Lowell knew his last chance had come. “Why, General, I don’t see how you can turn down a man who can beat anybody in your whole cavalry in a horse race!”

  “Ho! That’s pretty big talk!” Stuart blinked. Memory came to him, and he said, “As I recollect, we settled that awhile back. Me and Skylark beat you and that black horse right smartly!”

  Lowell suddenly grinned. “No, sir, all we settled was that any private should have enough sense not to beat a general in a horse race—or anything else!”

  A shout of laughter filled the air, and Major Malone’s voice rose over it. “He’s got you there, General! Why, even a major knows better than to win against his commanding officer!”

  Stuart’s genial expression gave way to a sudden flare of anger that brightened his eyes. “That’s the squeal of a loser!” he exclaimed, his pride touched. “Man that can’t win has to blame it on something!”

  Lowell said carefully, “Sir, I don’t suppose you’d give me and Midnight another chance?”

  Stuart understood at once what the sergeant was up to. He could not suppress a grin. “I can guess the stakes,” he shot back. “If you beat me, I let you into the troop.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What do I get if I win?”

  “Why, you prove to your staff that you’ve got the best horse, General.”

  “Don’t see how you can refuse the man, General Stuart,” Major Malone urged slyly, winking at his fellow officers.

  “Well, by George, I’ll have to show you clodhoppers again what a real horse is!” Turning his head, Stuart yelled, “Turner, saddle Skylark!”

  The officers all ate hastily, and in the background Lowell could see the troopers had gotten word of the race. He stood talking with Major Malone, who asked about his background and then listened intently. “I’ve met your father,” he said, nodding. “Fine officer!” Then he glanced at Stuart, who was swinging into the saddle. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Make the race half a mile or more. Skylark can beat anything on four legs for a quarter of a mile, but that black gelding of yours looks like he’s got more bottom!”

  “Thank you, sir!” Lowell nodded gratefully. He stepped into the saddle, aware that eyes were taking in his actions critically. When Stuart rode forward, the two of them moved together along the line of tents into the large open field where drill took place. It was occupied now by a lieutenant drilling his company, but when he saw Stuart and Lowell followed by the staff—and by many of the troopers who hurried to see the race—he called out loudly, “Let’s take a break, men. We can watch them imitation soldiers play with their hosses!”

  Lowell grinned, for he himself had made fun of the easy life of the cavalry. Then Stuart pulled up to say, “Now I don’t want any excuses after we get this thing done, so you can pick the distance and the route, Sergeant.”

  Lowell was prepared and lifted his arm. “How about to that big tree and back, sir?”

  Stuart blinked at the choice and gave Major Malone a hard glance. The major returned his stare blandly, and the general nodded shortly. “That’s half a mile to that tree.”

  “We can make it shorter, sir,” Lowell said, “if that distance is too much for your horse.”

  A muffled laughter ran around the men who watched, and Stuart glared at them furiously. “That will be fine—to the tree and back. Major Malone, you can give the start. We go on the count of three!”

  Lowell guided Midnight forward, and the big horse knew as well as his rider what was happening. He quivered with eagerness, the powerful muscles bunching as the two horsemen brought them side by side. Lowell held the eager animal in check as Malone’s voice rang out, “One—two—three!”

  Midnight shot forward, but Skylark was faster. As Lowell had expected, by the time they had reached the tree, the
smaller bay was four lengths ahead of the big gelding. Stuart rounded the tree and shouted as the two passed, “Too bad, Sergeant!”

  Lowell leaned into the turn, and when he faced the crowd of cheering men across the field, he leaned forward, shouting, “Midnight, get him!” He felt the surge of power that pulled him back as Midnight lunged forward, and he let out a wild cry as he saw the gap begin to close.

  General Stuart cast a look over his shoulder, a startled expression crossing his face as he saw the big black coming up fast. Whirling, he began to lash his horse with the reins, but it did no good. As Lowell pulled up even, Stuart’s face was swept with chagrin.

  Lowell urged Midnight on, but as he approached the starting point he was tempted to pull the animal back. No, I’ll beat him as bad as I can! When he shot into the gap left by the spectators and glanced back, he saw that he’d beaten Stuart by three lengths. Pulling Midnight to a stop, he slipped to the ground, where he was surrounded at once by a group of admiring troopers who beat his shoulders in congratulations.

  Major Malone took Skylark’s reins as Stuart came to the ground and tossed them to him. “A good race, General,” he stated. “The boy has a fine animal.”

  Stuart stared at him accusingly. “Did you give him any advice, Malone?”

  “Why, yes,” the major confirmed. “I told him that he’d better choose a long distance because no horse alive could beat Skylark in a quarter of a mile.”

  “Why, you…you scoundrel!” Stuart almost stuttered, anger in his flashing blue eyes. For one moment Malone thought he was about to be transferred to the infantry, but then Stuart’s good humor won out. He stared at the group of admiring troopers and officers who surrounded the big black horse and laughed aloud. “Well, he’ll be your responsibility, Major. See that he keeps up—or I will have that black horse!”