A Bright Tomorrow (16 page)

Willie's cheeks were damp with tears. “Me, too, Amos!”

Rose put out her hands, and each of the men grasped them as she began to praise God. She began quietly enough, but soon the joy that rose up in her could not be contained. Other men, hearing her, came to gaze at the three. Before long, the small dining room was full, and Rose began to tell them all what had happened. “Amos, are you saved?” she asked unexpectedly. “Has Jesus come to your heart?”

Amos looked around at the curious faces and smiled. He nodded and his voice was full of the joy that kept welling up in him in great waves.

“Yes…I called on God right here at this table. I–I don't know how it happened, but I do know that everything in this world is different!” He turned to Rose and lowered his voice as he added for her ears alone, “
Everything
is different, all new and fresh!”

Rose stared at Amos, knowing that he was no longer the man he had been. There was a gentleness in his eyes that had been missing, and she knew that he was saying more than his words implied. She hoped that soon he would be coming to her as a man comes to a woman.

Amos did come to Rose, but not until several days had gone by. Not that he kept his distance, for the two of them had long talks as she taught him—along with Willie Summers—how to study the Bible. As word spread, the little group grew to ten, then fifteen.

Still, Amos said nothing personal to her, and Rose reluctantly put away her expectations.

They were both shocked, along with the rest of the compound, when Sir Claude called the leaders together and issued a grave warning. “We must attack the Boxers,” he said. His face was thin and etched with the pressure of the siege. “If we do not, they will be over the walls by tomorrow. We must prove that we are still a fighting force.”

“It must be done,” Dr. Morrison agreed, “and at once!”

That night seventy-five men gathered to make the attack, and Captain Meyers, an Englishman who had been given the command, faced them. “This is a desperate enterprise. We must drive the Boxers back if it costs us every man in the attempt. Now…follow me!”

Amos had joined the group, despite warnings from both Rose and Dr. Morrison. He himself knew his decision was because of Willie, for the two had grown very close. Now as the men moved forward, he whispered, “Stay close, Willie.”

“Sure, Amos!”

They hit the Boxers with all they had, taking them off guard, and the world seemed to be filled with explosions and gunfire.

Amos fired and reloaded as rapidly as he could and was glad to hear the captain cry out, “That's it, men! Now, back over the wall!”

Amos and Willie were among the last to retreat, and they had almost reached the wall when a blast of machine gun fire shattered the night.

“Duck, Willie!” Amos yelled, but even as he did so, he saw his friend's figure driven backward by the force of the bullets. “Willie!” he called again, and as the slugs flew around him, Amos dropped to the ground beside the boy. Amos didn't even hear Captain Meyers ordering the men to get the machine gunner, for he was gently holding Willie's head.

Blood was running from the young marine's mouth, and Amos could see that his friend's body had taken three or four slugs. There was no hope, he saw, and he thought Willie was already dead.

But the young man opened his eyes and whispered faintly, “Amos…good thing…I got saved—”

“Willie! Willie!” Amos moaned.

“It's okay, Amos.” The eyes opened wide and a smile curved the boy's bloody lips. “I'll see Jesus first. Don't ever…forget how we got…saved—”

Then his body jerked slightly, his eyelids closed, and Willie Summers died in Amos's arms.

At the funeral the next morning, Amos could barely hold back the tears as Lemuel Gordon spoke briefly. He heard little of the sermon and afterward walked the streets, thinking of many things. When darkness came, he found himself seeking the comfort of familiar faces. Rose was startled when Amos appeared at her door. “Come and walk with me, Rose,” he said, and something about him compelled her to agree.

He led her to the same bridge where they'd talked once before, and again they leaned on the rail, peering down at the rippling water. For several minutes he did not speak, and Rose wondered what he was thinking, why he'd brought her here.

Then he turned and cupped her shoulders in his hands. His eyes were filled with pain, yet there was a quiet joy in him, too. “Rose, I love you. I've never stopped loving you.”

“Amos—!”

“No, don't talk, just listen,” he said swiftly. “The past is over…for both of us. Everything starts all new and shiny when we come under the blood…that's what you taught me. So we're both new. Nothing in the past counts.”

She tried to speak, but he cut off her protest in the simplest way possible—with a kiss. He drew her close and lowered his lips to hers, and it was as if nothing else existed for either of them. She stopped struggling and returned his kiss, and in his arms, all her doubts fell away.

When Amos lifted his head, his eyes were shining. “Rose, I can't lose you again. Will you marry me?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, Amos!”

A frog on the bank below suddenly announced his presence with a deep cry, then plunged into the canal, sending circles over the face of the dark water…but neither of the two on the bridge heard him.

Two days afterward General Alfred Gaselee, in charge of the relief expedition, led his troops into the city. He came clattering in on a black charger, swung to the ground, and was met by Lady Claude MacDonald, who had by some miracle donned a lace-trimmed gown and broad-brimmed hat for the occasion.

Looking as if she had just come from a garden party, Lady MacDonald offered her hand, saying graciously, “General Gaselee, how good of you to come—!”

The legation was relieved—and the Boxer Rebellion was over.

A
mos and Rose disembarked from the train at Fort Smith just after dawn on a Wednesday in October of the year 1905. The steam engine had bulled its way through heavy snows for much of the journey from New York, but Amos was relieved to see that only white patches of old snow marked the hills that shouldered their way up around the town.

“I need to rent a rig for a few days,” he told the stationmaster, then added, “unless there's a stage going to Mountain View.”

“Nope, nothing that way.” The grizzled fellow shook his head. “You can rent a rig right across the street—Parsons' Stables. Tell him Fred Hoskins sent you. He'll give you good rates.” He peered over his steel-rimmed glasses, sizing Amos up. “You from the city?”

“Am now. But I grew up in Stone County.”

“Ho! You tell Parsons that! He's an honest man, but he does favor his own folks.”

An hour later Amos was driving a pair of spirited grays out of Fort Smith. “I'm glad you got a covered carriage, Amos,” Rose said, glancing over her shoulder at the children who were playing in the back.

As usual, it was Maury who was making up games and demanding she be allowed to change the rules. At three, she was a year younger than Jerry and had come into the world with a crown of flaming red hair and a temper to match. Jerry was sitting patiently, allowing Maury to have her way. He was dark, with his mother's crow-black hair and green eyes. Seeing her look around, he asked, “How long will it take to get to Grandma's?”

“A long time,” Amos spoke up. “If you get sleepy, wrap up in the blankets and take a nice nap.”

Both children spoke at the same time—Maury's defiant “I'm not going to take an ol' nap!” and Jerry's cheerful “Sure, Daddy.”

Rose and Amos exchanged rueful smiles. But in less than two hours, the carriage ride had lost its novelty, and the night's sleep they'd missed, along with the rhythm of the road combined to lull the children to sleep.

Amos was silent, and Rose didn't intrude on his thoughts. They knew each other so well, in any case, that she had no need to ask how he was feeling. The telegram that had come had been blunt, in the fashion of mountain people:
Come home. Mama is dying.

As soon as they had heard, they had bundled the children up and had caught the first train out of New York. Now, as they made their way through the foothills of the Ozarks, her husband, Rose knew, was berating himself for not having visited his people in over a year. She watched him covertly, though he was so lost in his world of thought he would not have seen her gaze.

Finally she could not keep still any longer. “Amos, don't blame yourself. Mr. Hearst has kept you so busy. You couldn't have gotten home when you were off all over the world.”

Amos turned to her, a deep furrow creasing his brow. He studied her, then found a small smile. “Know me pretty well, don't you?” He put his arm around her and drew her close. “How about a little kiss now that our chaperones are asleep.” He kissed her. Even after more than five years of marriage, Rose still felt like a girl when Amos embraced her. She pulled away, happy to have brightened his mood. “I'm praying for your mother,” she said. “We've seen God do great things, Amos.”

“Yes, we have.” He sighed and shook his head. “She's been sick so long, though. I wish I could have talked them into moving to a drier climate—Arizona, maybe.”

“She'd never leave the hills, Amos. You know that.”

They made good time, the children waking up at noon. Stopping at a country store, Amos bought crackers, cheese, and pickles, and when the owner said, “Got some of them new drinks—Coca Cola,” Amos ordered four of them. “You all headed far?” the storekeeper asked.

“Just north of Mountain View…over in Stone County,” Amos replied. At that, the four loafers who were sitting around the potbellied wood stove looked up curiously. “My people live on a farm…Will Stuart's my father.”

“Do tell…Will Stuart!” one of the loafers piped up. “I've played with your pa at many a dance. Let's see, you'd be Will's oldest boy, but I disremember your name?”

“Amos Stuart.”

“'Course! Well, now this is extra fine. Goin' home for a visit, are you?”

Amos glanced at Rose, then nodded. “Yes. I haven't been home in a year.”

“You watch out for that brother of yourn.” The man nodded knowingly. “That boy is a
hoss!
Plays the banjo better 'n any man in Stone County.”

“Does pretty good with the girls, too,” put in one of his cronies with a snort. “Him and Horace Wayfield had a rambunctious fight over to Baytown over that Perkins gal—the oldest one.”

“Wasn't her a'tall! It was the middle one—Trudy!”

The two argued that out, then the first speaker said, “Anyhow, Owen whupped the tar outta Horace! Didn't think there was a man in the hills could do that.”

Amos smiled briefly as the men jawed on about Owen's exploits, and he realized they were carefully refraining from mentioning his father's own adventures.

After lunch, Amos loaded his family into the buggy and drove the grays hard to make up the time. The roads were frozen, and the ruts caused the buggy to bounce roughly.

Finally, they pulled up over the last ridge. “There it is,” Amos said. Though the children were excited, he was dreading what was to come. His lips tightened. “I just hope we're in time.”

Owen was waiting for them as they pulled up to the cabin. He had been all day, and now he stepped forward, towering over Amos. He put out his hand, crushing his brother's hand in his massive palm. “Glad you got here, Amos,” Owen said. “And you, too, Rose.”

“How is she?” Amos was almost afraid to ask, but Owen nodded soberly. “Still holding her own. Come on inside.”

“Is Lylah here?” Rose asked as they moved toward the cabin.

“Not yet. She called Johnson's store. Said she'd be here in the morning. She was way out to California.”

The main room of the cabin was full to overflowing. His father wasn't in the room, but all of Amos's brothers and sisters came to greet him. He was shocked at how much they'd all grown. Logan, at nineteen, was the smallest of the boys. He had rich chestnut hair and his mother's dark blue eyes. The boy greeted them shyly, as always, then stepped back. At thirteen, Lenora had been a child—now at age fourteen, she was fast becoming a woman in the way of mountain girls. Gavin, twelve, was the “black” Stuart, a throwback to his father's grandmother, and Christie, eight, was as blond as Gavin was dark.

After Amos and Rose had greeted them all, Owen said, “Come on in. Ma's been asking for you.”

“The children—?” Rose asked tentatively.

“Bring 'em in.” Owen nodded. “Ma wants to see them.”

He turned and led the way to his parents' bedroom, followed by Amos, Rose, and the children. A single lamp burned on a walnut washstand, and Will Stuart got up at once and came to them.

“Amos—Rose—” He gave them an awkward embrace, then said huskily, “Glad you made it, boy!”

He was a fine-looking man, Amos thought, little changed despite his fifty-three years. His face showed signs of recent strain, but it had always been his wife who bore the brunt of the responsibility in the family.

“She's awake, Amos,” Will said and stepped back to let his son advance to the bed where his mother lay.

Beneath the quilt that covered her, her body seemed scarcely to make an indentation in the feather tick. Was she breathing? Amos could barely make out the slight rise and fall of her frail chest.

“Ma? It's me—Amos.” He saw her eyes open, and she smiled up at him. “I–I'm glad I got here, Ma.”

Marian Stuart should have died three days earlier, but she had told the doctor sternly, “I won't go until I've given my blessing to Amos and Lylah—and that's that!”

She reached out with a thin hand, the blue veins startling against the ivory skin, and stroked his face. “I knew…you'd come, son,” she whispered. Her hand was so light on his face, like a feather, and Amos bit his lip. “Tell me…are you still following Jesus?”

“Yes, Ma. He means everything to me and Rose.”

Rose came forward, still holding the children's hands. “Amos is the best husband in the world, Marian,” she said. “You taught him well. No man was ever more thoughtful of his wife and family than Amos Stuart.”

For one instant the sick woman's eyes moved to her own husband, and Will Stuart dropped his head, his lips trembling. But Marian's words were for the children. “You big people go away,” she said. “I have something to say to my grandchildren. Something private…just between us.”

Amos smiled, and they all filed out of the room.

“What is she telling them, I wonder,” Will asked, pacing outside her door.

Just as he spoke, Owen held up his hand to signal silence. “Listen!” They all broke off, listening hard. “It's a car coming, I think.” Owen had always had the keenest hearing of any man Amos had ever known. “May be the doctor. He's got one of them automobiles.”

Owen moved to the door, and the others followed him. An automobile was no novelty to Amos or Rose, but few of them had yet penetrated the hills of Arkansas. Automobiles were rich men's toys, for the most part. Still, it looked like a man named Henry Ford had come up with a way to make them less expensive. Just two years ago, in 1903, Ford had founded his little company, and Model A Fords were beginning to be seen all over the country.

“That's not the doctor,” Owen said as the machine crested the ridge and came chugging down the rutted road. It was almost dark, and only when the automobile was twenty feet away did he grin and shout, “It's Lylah! Drivin' that contraption her ownself!”

It
was
Lylah, Amos saw, and when the racket of the engine stopped and she got out, he joined the rush to greet her.

“Now don't eat me alive!” Lylah laughed, hugging them all—or trying to. “My lands, Pa!” she gasped, giving them an appraising look. “What have you been feeding this bunch!”

“Cold water cornbread and possum, Sis!” Owen put his hands under Lylah's arms and lifted her high, then spun her around as she squealed.

When he set her down, she looked up into his face and shook her head. “Owen, you'd better stay in these hills, because those city girls will grab you for sure!”

She let them lead her into the cabin. “You boys…bring the packages in. I missed your last two Christmases, so I brought presents enough to make up for it!”

But as soon as she stepped inside, Lylah turned to her father. “Did I get here in time, Pa?”

“Yes.” Will nodded. “She's…just been holding on to see you and Amos.” He stared at this flamboyant daughter of his, never quite able to believe that she was part of him. She had left home with a raw kind of beauty, but not like this!

Lylah had fought her way to the high ranks of the world of the theater—not that Lillian Russell and Maude Adams were worried. Still, Lylah had starred in two very good plays with long runs, and producers always mentioned her name when it was time for casting a play.

She stood out in the cabin like a peacock among yard chickens, her wealth of auburn hair and strange violet eyes taking their breath away. Even in New York, Amos knew, she commanded attention in any crowd.

But now the violet eyes were hollow from lack of sleep, and lines of fatigue tugged at the corners of her full lips. “Can I see her, Pa?”

“Sure, Lylah.” Will nodded. “She's with Amos's young 'uns right now. Sit down and rest for a minute.”

Lylah stretched her back. “I've sat down halfway across this country. My bottom's dead!” She saw the shock on the faces around her and laughed. “I see I'll have to watch my language around here.”

Will got her some coffee, and they all hovered around her. She told them about some of the exotic places she'd been, and Amos and Owen smiled at each other.

When she finally slowed down, Owen spoke up. “I remember when you left here to go to Bible school, Lylah. I caught you smoking a cigarette out behind the barn.”

A giggle rippled around the room, and Will smiled faintly. “Seems like a million years ago since you left here, daughter.”

Lylah gave her father an odd look. “Yes, it does, Pa.”

They stayed up all night, or most of them did. The younger children went off to the sleeping loft, and Amos and Rose were assigned the only other full-sized bed.

But Amos and Owen and Lylah sat beside the fire most of the night. Amos told of the war and the Boxer Rebellion, making little of his own role. Rose and Lylah moved to Marian's bedroom in shifts, taking care of the sick woman's needs.

Morning came and with it the neighbors. Amos and Lylah had forgotten how it was with hill people.

Amos shook his head. “They feud like cats and dogs…but when one of their own is in trouble, there's nobody like them!”

One of the first to arrive was a woman of no more than thirty, a widow named Agnes Barr. She came into the cabin with a great deal of energy, insisting on cooking a meal. “These children have to be fed, Will,” she said firmly. “Now you just sit down and let me take care of things.”

“Who is she, Owen?” Lylah asked quietly.

“The widow Barr,” Owen said, and both Lylah and Amos turned to stare at him, for there was a bitter edge to his voice. He said nothing more, but it was enough.

When Amos and Lylah were alone, she said fiercely, “She's one of Pa's women, Amos! I could
kill
her for coming here at a time like this!”

“You don't know that, Lylah,” Amos protested weakly. But he knew Will too well, and he'd seen the guilty look on his father's face.

“She's after Pa!” Lylah snorted. “I knew it as soon as I saw her!”