The Yellow Rose
THE
YELLOW
ROSE
Also in
The Lone Star Legacy
Book 1: Deep in the Heart
THE
YELLOW
ROSE
A Novel
GILBERT MORRIS
THE YELLOW ROSE
Copyright © 2004 by Gilbert Morris.
Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc., 5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.
HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE
the
MANIFEST PRESENCE
of
GOD.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Scripture references are from the King James Version of the Bible (KJV).
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920.
Cover Design: The Office of Bill Chiaravalle,
www.officeofbc.com
Interior Design/Page Composition: PerfecType, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert.
The yellow rose / by Gilbert Morris.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59145-112-4 (trade paper)
1. Texas—History—Revolution, 1835-1836—Fiction. 2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 3. San Jacinto, Battle of, Tex., 1836—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Indian captivities—Fiction. 6. Women pioneers—Fiction. 7. Widows--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.O8742Y45 2003
813'.54—dc22
2004005455
Printed in Canada
04 05 06 07 08 TCP 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
DEDICATION
To Betty Jo Grant—A
real
southern lady with grace and charm to spare!
(And to all the members of her Wednesday group of crafters—bless them all!)
CONTENTS
S
pring had come to Texas in April of 1836, painting the plains with riotous colors. As Clinton Hardin walked steadily toward the house, he took no notice of the iridescent colors that spread out and dotted the landscape. The pale sunflowers raised their heads, making yellow dots across the land, and snakemouth, with their pale pink blossoms, added a delicate splash of color as Clinton strode by. He moved through the bright orange red of what he called “pleurisy root.” Farther off, the tall purple spikes of the heelaw, used by most people to cure wounds, added their sharp splash of color to the scene.
At the age of fifteen, however, Clinton was not particularly given to studying the natural beauty of wildflowers. His mind was much more taken up with important theological matters. Ever since he had been soundly converted during a revival meeting in Arkansas, he spent little time considering the minor things like the beauty of earth and food. Most of his thinking and his conversations with other people were focused on the more significant truths of religion.
The evangelist, a tall gangling man with a sunburned face and a voice like creaky thunder, had been named Edward Jardice. His theology had been simple—“Turn or Burn.” Jardice had scared the wits out of half the population of Clark County, and the baptismal service that had taken place in the Caddo River after his meetings had been one of the largest ever recorded for miles around. The river had been at almost flood tide, so it was a dangerous affair to be immersed. Reverend Jardice had sent out “feelers”—young, strong swimmers who entered the waters and probed the river for sinkholes. It wouldn’t do to lose a fresh new Christian to a mere river!
A pleasant memory came to Clinton as he shifted the sack with four rabbits on his shoulder and found a more comfortable position for the double-barreled shotgun he bore in the crook of his right arm. He knew he would never forget the moment when Reverend Jardice had slapped him under the chocolate brown waters of the Caddo River, and he had come up feeling like a new human being.
The memory warmed Clinton even more than the heat of the April sun overhead, but the pleasant memories were suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of a dry buzzing. Stopping at once, Clinton snapped out of his reveries to see a large rattlesnake coiled ten feet in front of him right in the middle of his path. The rattlers made a blur as the sound spread itself over the soft spring air, and the head was pulled back in the striking position.
Though Clinton had many fears, he was absolutely fearless where snakes were concerned. He could not understand why people acted as they did at the mere sight of a reptile. He took them merely as a minor irritation and disposed of them with whatever was at hand—a hoe, shovel, or a stick, and more than once simply by a kick of his heavy half boots. Once he had even startled his older brother Brodie by letting a five-foot rattler strike at his foot. He had reached down quickly and picked him up by the tail and beat the snake’s brains out against a tree. Brodie Hardin had a healthy fear of snakes himself and had turned pale and could hardly speak. Clinton had stared at him, then shrugged. “It weren’t nothin’ but a snake, Brodie.”
Now, almost casually, Clinton lifted the shotgun and dropped the sack of dead rabbits. The shotgun had a healthy kick, so he held it firmly and pulled the trigger. The explosive roar filled his ears and riddled the snake, driving him backward. With the ease of experience, Clinton cocked open the gun, removed the hull, and shoved in a new shell. Then he picked up the sack and continued walking, kicking the mangled carcass to one side. He stopped for a moment and stared at it, saying with immense satisfaction, “Well, devil, how you like that? I reckon that’ll take care of you.”
The devil occupied a great deal of Clinton’s thinking, and he saw every snake as simply an emissary of the evil one. He was totally convinced that the devil was as real and as corporeal as his brother Brodie, or his uncle Zane, or any other human being. As he stood staring down at the fragments of reptile that were left, he was filled with a desire to come face-to-face with the devil. “Well, Satan, you red-legged rascal,” he said with a touch of arrogance, “you think you got my family hog-tied, but I’m tellin’ you right now that you ain’t gettin’ nary one of ’em! If you’d just show yourself, I’d give you what I just gave that no-good creepy varmint.”
Clinton was totally convinced that one day the devil
would
appear, and the two of them would have it out, and he had not a shred of doubt about the outcome.
Moving on down the path, Clinton thought of his family with apprehension. Ever since he had been baptized, he had considered himself as the spiritual head of the Hardin household. A touch of sadness brushed his mind as he thought of them. He thought first of his father, Jacob. He had not known his father well, for Jake Hardin had been a wandering man and had spent little time with his family. He had, in fact, abandoned them, gone to the mountains, and married an Indian woman with whom he had two children. They were all dead now. His father’s Indian family had died of smallpox in the mountains, and Jake had been killed a month ago by the guns of the Mexicans at the Alamo. Clinton grieved considerably, for his pa had shown little sign of being anything but a sinner. His mother was different, though. He had some hope for her. True, she steadfastly refused to be baptized, but she, at least, said that she knew the Lord.
Brodie, who was four years older than Clinton, showed little interest in spiritual things, which bothered Clinton considerably. Brodie was so enamored with a young half-Mexican woman named Serena Lebonne that he had no time for thoughts of the devil or of God or of heaven or hell. As for Moriah, Clinton’s seventeen-year-old sister, the thought of her made Clinton shake his head. “She’s plumb given over to vanity,” he muttered and thought of the time when he had caught her putting powder on her face. He had rebuked her sternly about pride, and they had gotten into quite an argument. But he was at least satisfied with his baby sister Mary Aidan, who, at the age of four, had not yet come to the age of accountability, though Clinton was already sharing his faith with her whenever he could.
Walking over the crest of the hill, at the foot of which lay the Hardin house, Clinton picked up his stride. He had been thinking all morning of things he could say to his uncle and aunt, his mother’s brother and sister. Zane Satterfield and Julie Belle Satterfield were the targets of much of Clinton’s hardest preaching lately. Julie Belle had been a saloon woman and had announced without shame that she intended to be one again as soon as the war with the Mexicans was over. Zane Satterfield was a criminal. He had escaped from a prison and fled to Texas to avoid the law. “You’re not gonna get ’em, devil!” Clinton announced loudly and looked around as if he expected Beelzebub to be standing to one side grinning at him.
He hurried on toward the house, stopping long enough to hang the sack of rabbits on a tree far enough away so that the flies would not be drawn inside the house. He kept a loose grip on the shotgun, and when he stepped up on the porch, he found a huge dog lying squarely in his path on the threshold.
“Bob, git outta the way,” Clinton said impatiently. He had little hope that Bob would move. The dog was mammoth, weighing eighty pounds, and was an unusual brownish-red color with long, floppy ears and a tail strong enough to almost knock a person down when he wagged it. Bob had been rescued by Moriah, who took in any sort of injured animal, and so the hound had become part of the Hardin household. Bob spent a great deal of his time sleeping. When he went to sleep, he looked dead, for his mouth would hang open and he hardly appeared to be breathing. His other peculiar habit drove everyone crazy. He loved to sit on the feet of anyone he found standing still. Bob was awake primarily when it was time to eat or when one of the family was threatened. At a moment like that, he could be a frightening sight with a mouth somewhat like a shark.
