Authors: Gilbert Morris
He carefully put the Testament in his pocket and asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Why did Thad bring you here?”
He told her the story, concluding with, “I didn’t know what he was doing. When I woke up in Chimborazo, I couldn’t stand the thought of being in a Confederate hospital. But Thad saved my life. Thad and Belle.”
“It’ll ruin Thad if you’re discovered.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m leaving right away.” He looked her full in the face. “Rebekah, you must believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt any of your family. I’ve got Thad’s horse outside. When you stopped me, I was on my way here to get my things.” He told her about the plan to make his way back to the North, and added, “I suppose someone will write
asking about Owen Morgan—but all anyone here will know is that he boarded the train and left.”
Rebekah’s eyes filled with tears. “Davis! I’ve been terrified!” She attempted a smile, partially succeeded, then stood examining him. “I—I thought all sorts of things.”
“That I was a spy? I don’t wonder. But Thad will tell you all about it.” He hesitated. “I came here filled with hate, Rebekah, but it’s gone now. I don’t understand it myself, but it’s all gone.”
“I’m glad, Davis,” she murmured, putting her arms around him. “Thank God! Thank God!”
He held her, knowing she had been tormented by fear of the disaster he might bring to her family. Finally he said, “I’ve got to hurry, Rebekah. The train pulls out at five o’clock—and I’ve got to be on it.”
“All right.” She stepped back and studied him silently. “Davis . . . I think you ought to tell Belle the truth before you go.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“I can’t put it into words, but part of it has to do with your brother’s death. She still blames herself for that. She never talks about it, of course, but I think she’s so filled with guilt that it’s killing her. If you could tell her you forgive her for your brother’s death, I think it would help her get over it.”
He shifted nervously. “It may backfire, you know. She could take me for a traitor and denounce me.”
“That’s possible.” Rebekah’s eyes had a poignant plea. “It might mean your death if that happened, Davis.” She paused. “Perhaps you could write her?”
“No,” he decided. “I want to tell her face-to-face.” He began to stuff his things hurriedly into his small bag. “I need to see her alone.”
“All right, Davis. She’s sharing a room with Pet and another girl, but I’ll send her out to the spring house.”
“I’ll be there.”
He moved to pass her, but she caught him and looked up into his face, saying, “God go with you, Davis!”
“And with you,” he said quietly, and left the room, slipping down the back way and around the house to the gelding. He strapped the small bag behind the saddle and led the horse to the spring house, which was behind the big house, off to the left under an elm tree.
He tied the horse and paced back and forth, wondering desperately if he were doing the wise thing. Belle was a strange woman—at times impulsive and quite capable of turning him over to the military if she thought it was the thing to do. He knew that her love for the Confederacy was strong, had been strong enough to cause her to give up her life to preserve it.
A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see her coming from the house. She hurried toward him, a question in her eyes. “Mother said I should see you, Owen. She says you have something to tell me.”
He made up his mind, and knew there was no easy way to say it. Yet he paused, trying to find the right words.
“What is it, Owen?” she urged, fear clutching her. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
He looked at her searchingly. “Belle, you’ve done more for me than any human being on this earth—except perhaps Thad Novak. You two saved my life—and now I think you may regret it.”
Belle’s eyes opened in disbelief. “Owen! What are you talking about? You look so strange.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please, tell me what it is.”
“All right. I’m not the man you think I am.” He watched carefully, looking for any indication she had been suspicious of him. He saw only confusion. Squaring his shoulders he dived in. “I was a prisoner in Libby, Belle.”
“Libby!” she whispered, her lips tightening. “But—that’s impossible!”
“Thad got me out of there, Belle. I was so near death I didn’t know much about it, but that’s what happened. He
bribed a medical attendant, and they took me out in a coffin. So far as Libby prison is concerned, I’m dead and buried.”
Belle touched her temple with an unsteady hand, and her voice rose as she asked, “But why would Thad do such a thing—for a Yankee?”
Davis paused, then said tonelessly, “He did it because my brother saved his life, Belle.”
His words seemed momentarily unintelligible to her, for she looked at him blankly. But as he watched, he saw the truth dawn—first in her eyes, then across her face as the enormity of it hit her. She cried out in unbelief, “No! No! It’s not so!”
She was shaking all over, and he urged, “Belle, let me tell you all of it. Sit down.”
Belle obeyed blindly. She sat motionless as he traced the story. He told her frankly how he had joined the Union Army out of blind hatred, and how even when he came to Chimborazo he had been little better. He told her how Lonnie’s death had affected him, and again how the hatred had left him.
“I don’t know when I stopped hating, Belle,” he finished, watching her face. “It had something to do with that sermon, as I told you before. But whatever happened, I don’t have any hate anymore—not for anyone or anything.”
The sound of laughter came to them faintly from the house, and he turned to look in that direction. When he faced her again, she was regarding him in a different manner. Not anger—but not gentle either. She said slowly and in an ultra-controlled voice, “Why did you tell me all this? Why didn’t you just go away?”
“Because—I wanted to be honest with you.”
“Honest!” she cried. “That’s a fine word for you to use!”
“You’ve got no reason to trust me. But God knows I wouldn’t hurt you or your family!”
She jumped to her feet, her face strained. She looked at him for a long moment, then breathed deeply. “I don’t know what you’d do,” she finally said. “I thought I knew you—and now I find out that everything’s been a masquerade.”
“Not all of it, Belle,” he countered.
“How can I ever believe anything?” she whispered. “I had just started to feel—something for you. And now I discover that it was all nothing!” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, why didn’t you just leave!”
He longed to touch her, to hold her, but he realized he couldn’t. He sighed. “I wanted to tell you something.”
“Tell me what?”
“I wanted to tell you not to spend your life grieving over the past. Don’t tear yourself apart over what’s done.”
That isn’t what I wanted to say!
shot into his mind. Suddenly he knew what had happened to him. It took him off guard, like the force of a hammer blow.
She eyed him carefully and shook her head. “Just throw off the past—as if it were a worn-out coat? Don’t you think I haven’t
tried?
It doesn’t
work
that way—not with me, anyway. I told you what I’ve done. Do you think all that will just fade away?”
Davis was listening quietly, but at the same time he was conscious of the truth that had just come to him. It was not a new thing, he realized, but something that had been building up for a long time.
Yet he knew it was hopeless. She was regarding him quizzically, waiting for him to speak. His lips seemed frozen. Never had he said anything that would cost him more—but he must speak.
“Belle, I’ve learned to care for you.”
Her lips parted in astonishment at the unexpected revelation. She stood transfixed as he continued.
“Yes, I hated you when I came—but every day I watched you. I never saw a woman who gave herself to others as I saw you do. Day after day, I watched you, Belle, hoping to see you fail! I remember when you cleaned up Tommy Hopper, and I thought,
Lord, how can she do it!
”
Belle dropped her eyes. “It was my job,” she murmured.
“No, the orderlies did
jobs,
” he said firmly. “It was more
than that, Belle. It was a calling. I think that’s what they call it.” He slowly reached out and lifted her face. “Belle! Belle!” he whispered, “I know you can’t believe it. I didn’t realize myself until this minute that I love you.”
“You
can’t
love me!” she argued, almost angrily. “You’re my enemy—and even if you weren’t a Yankee, I still wouldn’t believe you!”
She turned to leave, but he caught her, forcing her to face him. “I’ve got to go. But you listen to this. You may think I’m the world’s worse liar. I’ve given you no reason to think any differently. But I’m telling you that I love you. I know my brother is dead, and you blame yourself. I can’t sort out all the crazy things about this war. I guess God will have to do that; but think what you will, believe it or not—I love you, Belle!”
Her eyes mirrored her unbelief. “You love
me?
With the kind of love in that poem?”
He nodded. “ ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ “ He studied her face. “We Winslows are one-woman-sort of men, my grandfather says. I’ve never told a woman I loved her—and I don’t expect to tell another one.”
She drew away from him, and cried in a voice charged with pain, “Oh, Davis, go away! I don’t believe anything anymore! Please go!”
He nodded slowly. “I’m going, Belle. But this isn’t the end—just the beginning.”
“Can’t you see how hopeless it is?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “That’s not what
I
believe.” With one sweep he caught her to him and kissed her. Her soft lips were still under his when he stepped back.
“Goodbye, darling,” he said as he swung into the saddle. He lifted his chin, said “Goodbye!” again, then pulled the horse around and rode off.
Belle stood motionless for only a moment before running out to catch the last glimpse of him. Not until he was a distant dot on the horizon did she turn back to the spring house. She
paused to look at the spot where they had talked, her face damp with tears, her mind reeling.
She returned to the house without a backward look and went straight to her room. When she opened the door, Rebekah was waiting for her. “Mother . . . ?” she said and fell weeping into Rebekah’s arms.
Rebekah held her, rocking slowly as she had done when Belle was a child. And as she held her, she prayed fervently,
Oh, God! Don’t let her be lost! Bring her to yourself!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE HOMECOMING
Captain Whitfield Winslow stood up slowly and dusted the dirt from his knees. Straightening his back carefully to ease the protesting muscles, he grunted with satisfaction as he surveyed the line of roses he had been mulching. The flowers were two years old now, and had made it through the harsh winter. The captain smiled. Delving into the rich, black soil was one of his joys.
Not so many years left to do things like this, though,
he mused.
At eighty-one—the end’s not as far away as it was.
But the thought did not trouble him. When he had been on active duty, he had gone to battle with the knowledge that he might not be alive at the end of the day; now he faced a more certain fate with equal equanimity. He remembered a line Davis had read to him about death: “By my troth, we owe God a death, and he that pays this year is quit for the next.”
He liked that thought, and repeated the words as he moved down the row of roses set in strict military fashion along the front walk, stopping now and then to touch one of the crimson blossoms. He limped markedly, for the broken ankle had never completely healed. Entering the kitchen, he washed his hands and gulped down two glasses of cool water.
His back still ached, but he refused to lie down. Instead, he fixed a strong cup of coffee, picked up the latest newspaper, and returned outdoors to sit in the small courtyard on the east side of the house. It was merely a cubicle of space, large enough for a table and four chairs, but it was shielded from
the street by a lath screen and protected from the hot sun by a spreading elm that touched the eaves of the house.
Easing himself into the chair, he opened the paper and began to read, sipping his coffee as he scanned the war news. Not much had changed in the long months since Gettysburg. Finally he laid it on the table and closed his eyes. The bees he kept in two hives were busily flying about, singing in a high-pitched key as they passed. In the hedge to his right, the mocking birds chirped, and the colony of martins nesting in the two-story house he had built argued and bickered in their amiable way.
The captain was more tired than he cared to admit, and the warm sun, combined with the soft sounds of June, soon caused him to drop his chin on his chest. He dozed lightly until a faint sound of knocking aroused him.
He jerked his head up with a start and looked toward the front door. From where he sat, he couldn’t see who it was, but he had ordered some fresh beef from the butcher and assumed it was Billy McMannis, the delivery boy.
“Come round to the side, Billy,” he called. He picked up the cup, took a sip of the cold coffee, and turned toward the sound of footsteps on the walk, saying, “Put the meat in—Chamberlain!” he exclaimed as the tall blue-uniformed officer emerged through the narrow slit in the screen. “What are you doing in Washington?”
The sun was behind the man’s back, and Whitfield thought it was his old friend. But when the captain rose to his feet and took a step forward, he saw he was mistaken. It was not a general, but a lieutenant. The captain couldn’t see the face clearly because the sun was peeping through the trees from behind the man’s head, catching Winslow directly.
Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered at the officer and demanded, “Yes? What is it?”
No answer.
“Well, speak up, man!” he grumped. “What is it?”
The officer stepped forward. “It’s—it’s me, Grandfather!”
The world plunged into an eerie stillness. He stood as if transfixed, staring into the face he had grieved over every day for the last months. The silence rang in his ears and a dizziness swept over him, causing his knees to buckle.