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

  Land of the Shadow © 1993 by Gilbert Morris

  Out of the Whirlwind © 1994 by Gilbert Morris

  The Shadow of His Wings © 1994 by Gilbert Morris

  Print ISBN 978-1-60260-179-6

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-513-7

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-512-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A Covenant of Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Out of the Whirlwind

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  The Shadow of His Wings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  GENEALOGY OF THE ROCKLIN FAMILY

  GENEALOGY OF THE YANCY FAMILY

  LAND OF THE SHADOW

  To June Parsons

  I like old things—old cars, old books, old houses.

  Most of all, I like old friends.

  The new friends might not make it.

  Some are lost through geography—separation by space. Others find I do not wear so well, so they trade me in on a whole new model.

  Now, as I grow older, I find myself clinging more tightly to that little band I have known and loved for years. And when I make my list of dear, dear friends who have not failed me or turned aside (“We few—we happy, happy few,” as the poet says!),

  I always find you, June!

  Editor’s Note:

  This book begins shortly after the family reunion that takes place in chapter 15 of book 3, Where Honor Dwells.

  PART ONE

  The Outsider–November 1861

  CHAPTER 1

  RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

  Paul Bristol was an expert in three distinct areas: painting, horses—and women.

  It was the latter of these that enabled Bristol to understand exactly what had brought Luci DeSpain to the party at his parents’ house one November evening. He had descended the beautifully constructed curving stairway expecting to find only his own family, but his father met him, saying, “The DeSpains are joining us tonight, Paul.”

  Instantly a tiny alarm went off inside Paul Bristol’s head, a warning device that had enabled him, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, to still be single. He said nothing about this, however, and spent the evening never more than a few feet away from the beautiful and charming Luci. And somehow, between visiting with the DeSpains and dinner, he found himself alone with her in the long gallery, examining the family portraits. Luci, he knew, had seen all the portraits before, but she stopped to examine each one, sometimes touching Paul’s arm when one of them impressed her.

  It was when the couple paused under a fine portrait of Noah Rocklin, Paul’s grandfather on his mother’s side, that the tiny alarm began to ring more insistently. Luci was petite and had to look up to Paul as she said, “What a fine-looking man, Paul.…” She had not seemed to move, yet somehow her body pressed against Paul, and as she looked up, her blue eyes were bright and her lips softly pursed, saying, “All you Rocklin men are such tall fellows!”

  Ah, the chase was on.… Paul held back the smile of amusement that wanted to curve his lips and simply spoke his lines, as smoothly as any actor in a play: “And you DeSpain women are all beautiful.” He needed no stage direction to know what came next, and so he took her in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. It was a long kiss, and Bristol was somewhat surprised at Luci’s eager response. But only somewhat surprised.

  As the kiss ended, he knew she would pull away and rebuke him soundly, all the while giving him the impression that she was not really angry.

  “Paul—you mustn’t do that!” Luci cried, pushing him away. Paul almost applauded and said, “Bravo!” so well did the girl perform. Unfortunately for Luci, however, his attention had been drawn away from her by the image reflected in the full-length mirror just to Luci’s left. There Paul saw a fine-looking couple embracing—but it brought back memories of other images he’d seen in that same mirror. The same man but different girls…several different girls, all playing their parts beautifully, all determined to convince Paul he could not live without them.

  This has always been a good hunting ground, he thought sardonically. His gaze went back to Luci, who was watching him with a slight frown. He had missed his cue, and it would take some quick thinking to keep the girl from growing miffed. He smiled at her, a smile full of both apology and promise, and said, “I beg your pardon, Luci. But you don’t know what a beautiful girl like you can do to a man!”

  That ought to brighten her up, he thought and once again almost applauded when she lowered her lashes demurely, a slight smile playing at her beautifully shaped lips. “I do fear, Paul, that you’ve been spoiled by all those terrible women in Europe,” Luci said, pursing her mouth into a pout. “I’ve heard all about them, about how free they are with their favors.” She looked up suddenly and met his eyes. “Do you think so?” she demanded.

  Ah no, my dear, you won’t catch me in any careless admissions, he though
t, and he looked at her blankly. “Do I think you’ve heard about them?”

  Luci laughed. She did it so well—with a fine, tinkling sound—that Paul suspected she practiced the thing. “No, silly! I mean, do you think the women over there are…I mean, do they…?”

  Paul enjoyed Luci’s inability to ask straight out what was on her mind, and took full advantage of this opportunity to tease her. “Yes, I’m afraid they do,” he remarked rather piously. “I must say that it’s wonderful to be back in America with respectable ladies again—ladies such as yourself, my dear, who would never dream of employing such coquettish ways.”

  Luci paused for a moment, and her eyes narrowed just the slightest bit at the faint irony in Paul’s tone. Surely he wasn’t implying that she was the least bit like those loose women! What she wanted at that moment, more than anything else, was to go deeper into the “coquettish ways” of those women, but before she could think of a way to broach the subject, Bristol forestalled her.

  “I think I heard the dinner chime, Luci,” he said, extending his elbow gallantly. She had no choice but to slip her hand through it and follow as he led her out of the gallery and down the hall. As the two of them took their places, side by side, at the long cherry table, Luci had the distinct sense she’d just been bested at her own game. But, never one to give up too easily, she put on a bright smile and exclaimed at the beautiful setting before her, remarking over the fine white tablecloth and the way the table all but sparkled with crystal glasses and gleaming silver. From the corner of her eye, she caught Paul’s admiring expression. (She would not have felt quite so pleased by it, however, had she realized it stemmed not so much from his appreciation of her charm and beauty as from his appreciation of her ability to regroup so quickly.)

  Paul’s father spoke his usual rather oratorical blessing, and for the next hour the talk flowed around the table freely. There were only eight at the meal, including Paul’s parents, his sister, Marie, and his brother, Austin—plus Luci and her parents. They were all old friends and knew everything there was to know about each other. Paul, having been in Europe for a good part of the last three years, found himself feeling like a foreigner. He listened to Luci’s conversation and decided he’d be as surprised if she uttered a single brilliant and unusual speech as if his mare, Queenie, were to turn and speak to him on their morning ride!

  Not that Luci was an ignorant person, far from it. But her world was bounded by invisible strands that circled Richmond. If an event didn’t happen in Richmond, then—to Luci and her friends—it might as well take place on the moon!

  Paul’s lips thinned as he listened to the conversation so common in polite society. He could usually hold his own in such conversation by drawing on one of his three areas of expertise. However, the mere thought of doing so bored him to distraction. For all his well-developed social graces, only his experiences with fast horses had brought him much satisfaction. He was admired as an expert breeder and had made quite a bit of cash riding his own races. As for his other two areas of involvement, he had gained little money and only slight recognition as a painter…and his extensive success with women had made him slightly contemptuous of most females.

  Perhaps most people secretly despise what comes too easily, and Paul Bristol had experienced few rebuffs from the women of Richmond. The corps of mothers in that city—those with eligible daughters—had practically flung their female offspring at Bristol. As for the gaggle of perfumed, powdered, and polished young women, they themselves were more than willing to be flung.

  There was, of course, a sociological factor in this eager sacrifice: What else was a young daughter of Southern aristocracy to do except marry well? Women in the lower classes might become schoolteachers, but the daughters of high society were taught as soon as they were able to function that the acquisition of a husband was their single hope of happiness.

  Paul Bristol had the dubious distinction of being one of those young men who met every requirement of both hawk-eyed mothers and dewy-eyed maidens. His family was good, for the Bristols were of that part of the aristocracy that—though not rich like the Hugers, Lees, and Wainscots of Virginia—owned fine plantations and had exactly the proper number of slaves. That is, enough to be impressive and do the work, but not so many that they got underfoot or made the family seem showy. Claude Bristol, Paul’s father, was ornamental and fairly useless, but his wife, the former Marianne Rocklin, was capable enough to keep the plantation from disaster. She saw to it that enough cotton was grown to pay for her husband’s fine clothes, horses, and gambling losses—in addition, she made sure there was enough extra to enable her family to keep up the style of living demanded by the Southern aristocracy. This being the case, Paul Bristol easily met the requirements set by parents who sought suitable husbands for their daughters.

  Paul himself provided an enticing opportunity for the young women. He was handsome, witty, and wicked—that, combined with his family and money, made Paul an irresistible combination guaranteed to flutter a young woman’s heart. The trouble was, Paul had yet to find even one woman who stirred within him more than a passing interest. He glanced again at Luci DeSpain and sighed. Perhaps he was looking for something that didn’t exist.…

  The turkey had been devastated, and house slaves started carrying in freshly made pies—pecan, pumpkin, apple, and cherry. House Mary—so called to set her off from Field Mary—knew Paul well enough to bring him a wedge of cherry, his favorite. “You thinking this pie will get you a Christmas gift, House Mary?” Paul teased the servant. “Well, I think it might work.” He grinned as she protested, then hewed off the tip of the wedge, placed it carefully in his mouth, and chewed slowly. His mother was watching him with a smile, and he winked at her.

  “Mother, this piece of pie is worth the trip home from France!” Waving his fork in a salute, he added, “Nothing in Europe to beat it!”

  Marianne Bristol’s black hair showed traces of gray, but at the age of fifty-one she was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Her eyes were royal blue, and when she smiled, as she did now at her eldest son, dimples appeared on each side of her shapely mouth. “Tell us about the king and queen,” she said. Paul smiled at his mother, studying her for a moment. She was wearing a green silk dress and a pair of jade earrings, and Paul thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen—and perhaps one of ten women he’d ever known from the land of his birth who could discuss something besides cotton and new dresses.

  But as Paul started to repeat the story of his visit at Windsor Castle, his brother, Austin, interrupted. “Paul, never mind all that—what about recognition from England?” Austin was twenty-nine years old, short and strong with his father’s brown hair and eyes. He was caught up in the war that had begun at Fort Sumter in April 1861. Now he was staring defiantly at Paul and added, “England will have to recognize the Confederacy! Everybody knows England exists on her looms—and she can’t run her looms without cotton!”

  “I expect you’re right, Austin,” Luci’s father, Clarence DeSpain, agreed. “England can get along without the North, but not without King Cotton!” DeSpain was a tall, portly man, handsome in a florid way, and had been a secessionist for years.

  “Well, sir,” Paul said cautiously, “England does have many mills and has used American cotton for a long time.”

  “So they’ll have to recognize us, won’t they?” Austin insisted.

  Paul didn’t answer, preferring not to get involved in what he knew would be a less-than-satisfying discussion, but his father asked him directly, “Well, isn’t your brother right, Paul? If we don’t let England have our cotton, they’ll go broke! Isn’t that a fact?”

  “I’m no expert on British economy,” Paul protested, but when he saw that the others would not let him off, he shrugged. His mother was watching him carefully, and he saw something in her expression—a warning of some kind. As tactfully as he could, he began to speak of the situation as he’d seen it when in Europe, knowing all the time his vi
ews would find little approval from those who waited so expectantly to hear what he would say.

  “I was busy painting while I was in Europe, but what I heard from those who seemed to know the situation isn’t too encouraging for the South.” He picked up his glass, drank a few swallows, then set the glass down and looked at the circle of faces. “What they say is that England has been having a devil of a time financially, and many of the mills have been forced to close. One fellow who worked for the government told me that there are at least half a million bales of cotton on hand right now—enough to do the British for a long time. He also said that the government has gotten very interested in Egyptian cotton.”

  “They grow cotton in Egypt?” Paul’s sister, Marie, who was seated at his right hand, drew his attention. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, they do, and it’s long staple, better than our cotton.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Austin said heatedly. Paul listened quietly as Austin and Clarence DeSpain spoke at great length on how England would buy American cotton. Neither offered any evidence but spoke what many in the South considered to be truth as solid as the sun rising in the east.

  Marianne sat quietly, paying almost no heed to the arguments mouthed by DeSpain and her younger son. She had been somewhat embarrassed at first that her husband and son had had little interest in the war. Now, however, they seemed to grow more interested with each passing day—and to echo the sentiments expressed by so many in the South. Why, she had even heard such declarations once from the lips of Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States of America, himself. So none of this surprised or concerned her.

  Of more concern to Marianne was this youngest son of hers, Austin, who lounged across the table from her. She knew him better than he knew himself—for he was an openhearted young man, easy enough to read. And she was proud of him, for he had been a good son, hardworking and happy in making his life at their plantation, Hartsworth. He knew every foot of the plantation, knew the slaves, and was sensitive to the seasons—so much so that Wiley Otes, the overseer, paid him the highest compliment in his power: “Mister Austin, he knows when to plant cotton!”