The Last Confederate Page 10

  “We don’t have much time, Belle,” he said. “I expect the regiment will be leaving in a week or even sooner.”

  “Now, Beau, I may be young and naive, but I know that kind of talk!” Her eyes were filled with laughter, and she smiled at his surprised expression. “All soldiers tell that to the girls: ‘I’m going away and I may get killed—so you have to love me right now!’ Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  He laughed down at her, captivated by her beauty, and grinned, “You’re too smart for me, Belle. I’ll have to find another way to get you.” Then he sobered and said with a seriousness that was not characteristic, “But it’s true, all the same. We’ll beat the Yankees, but some of us will get a funeral out of it.”

  “Oh, Beau, don’t talk like that!” she pouted. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you!”

  He grinned more broadly, knowing that she had probably said the same thing to Wickham. He dominated her dances, keeping her away from the eager young officers who threatened him for being so greedy with the prettiest girl at the ball.

  Pet had watched the competition for Belle, but it was an old story, so she walked over to Dan, who was sitting in a straight chair with a rebellious look on his face. He was her favorite, being close to her own age. Tom and Mark were grown men who treated her with a kind of condescension, but Dan and she had grown up roaming the Virginia woods together. She sat down beside him quietly, then reached over and put her hand over his, whispering, “Don’t feel bad, Dan. Your turn will come.”

  “It’s not fair, Pet!” he burst out. “What’s a year or two when there’s a war on?”

  She knew the impatience that was gnawing at him, but could not ease the matter. Instead, she patted his hand and said, “Look over there at Father, Dan. He’s getting mad about something.”

  Dan looked across the room to where a group of men were gathered around Oscar Toombs, the lieutenant governor. “You’re right,” Dan replied. “I know that look. Come on, let’s see what’s got his dander up.”

  They made their way to the small group and heard their father say, “It’s well enough to talk, but talk won’t keep the Yankees out of Virginia. We don’t have a single steel mill, and not even one rifle factory. What are we supposed to fight with, Mr. Toombs—hoe handles?”

  Oscar Toombs had not risen to power in the state without learning how to handle men. He knew when to crush a man, and had no compunction when that time came, but he knew also when to smile; and to alienate a man like Sky Winslow would be foolish and bad for his political future. He nodded and said smoothly, “I know how you feel, Sky, but we’ll get the arms.”

  “From whom?” Sky demanded bluntly.

  “From England, of course,” Toombs quickly responded. “England is a country that lives on its looms. It supplies the world with cloth—and they must have our cotton! Without it, their mills would shut down in a month. Why, there’d be a civil war in England!”

  A murmur of approval went around the room, and Sky realized he was talking to a group that had made up their minds. He tried one more attempt, however. “We’re not the only country that grows cotton, Mr. Toombs. But even if what you say is true, how will we get our cotton to England? They’d be fools in Washington if they didn’t blockade the coast.”

  “Oh, come now, Winslow,” Milton Speers broke in impatiently. “They don’t have enough ships to watch everywhere—and our schooners can outrun any warship afloat.” Speers was a wealthy planter, and he spoke what most of them felt. “Come now, Sky, don’t be so gloomy! We’ll send these fine young fellows out, give the Yankees a sound thrashing, and then we can get back to our way of life.” He waved his big hands expansively. “Actually, this war can be the best thing that’s ever happened to the South, gentlemen. Once the North has learned it can’t run roughshod over us, we can get something done in Congress!”

  Sky stared at him, then shrugged and moved away, saying only, “You better be right, Speers. We’re betting everything we have on it.”

  Dan and Pet slipped away and hurried toward him. When they called his name, he turned. There was a set, angry look on his face, but his expression softened as the two drew near.

  Pet asked, “Papa, can I go down to see the fireworks?”

  He stopped and looked at them, his face relaxing. “What? Oh, I suppose so.” His eyes searched Dan, noting the rebellious set to his youngest son’s face, and impulsively put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You mustn’t hate me, Son.”

  “Ah, Pa, you know I don’t hate you—but it’s not fair! I bet you didn’t have to wait until you were eighteen before you were treated like a man!”

  Sky thought back to his boyhood, the days he had spent with his mother, White Dove, and smiled at the memory. “Before a Sioux could be a man, a real warrior, he had to prove himself a thousand ways, Dan. They were just about as impatient as you, I guess. All boys want to grow up fast. I know you won’t understand this, but missing out on this war would be the best thing you could have!” Then he grinned. “Well, nobody can teach anybody anything, I reckon. Take your sister down to see the fireworks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dan and Pet left the crowded ballroom and had to practically force their way through the crowds that pushed and shoved their way along the streets. There was no hope of getting a horse or wagon down Cherry Street, for a river of humanity seemed to flow first one way, then the other. The air was full of singing, and the smell of cigar smoke and raw liquor floated on the warm spring air. They finally made it to the end of Cherry and found a large crowd gathered around the courthouse where the fireworks were to be set off.

  “Let’s get over by the statue. We can see better from there, Dan,” Pet suggested, pulling him along.

  “Might as well get a good look,” he grumbled. “Probably be the closest thing to a battle I’ll ever see.” He pushed his way through one group and they came to an open space. Suddenly Dan paused so abruptly that she ran into him. “Hey, there’s Thad over there. Looks like he’s in trouble!”

  Pet looked up swiftly to where Dan pointed, and saw Thad with his back to the base of the statue of Lafayette. “Come on, Dan!” she cried, and the two ran toward the group surrounding Thad.

  There were at least six or seven young men, most of them in their teens—and they were town boys, the pair saw. One of them was standing directly in front of Thad, his fists doubled up, and he was saying, “You got a lot of gall coming into town tonight, Novak. But we’re gonna fix you so you won’t be comin’ to no more parties, ain’t that right, boys?”

  “Sure is—fix him up, Studs!” A series of cries went around the group. Fear shot through Pet. She had seen an undersized coon once, trapped by the pack, and she still had nightmares of the raging dogs finally tearing the small animal to fragments.

  Dan pushed his way forward to stand beside Thad. “What’s going on here, Thad?” He recognized the larger young man as Studs Mellon, a local bruiser who did some prizefighting.

  The one called Studs was taken aback for a moment. He was a hulking youth of eighteen, with a low brow and a broken nose. For one moment he regarded Dan, then sneered, “You another Yankee boy? We can take care of you, too.”

  “He’s not a Yankee,” one of the onlookers said. “That’s Sky Winslow’s boy.”

  Studs considered him, then smiled. “Well, Winslow, you probably don’t know it, but this here fellow is a Yankee spy—and I aim to see to it that he don’t do no more spying for a long time.”

  “You’re crazy!” Dan snapped. “He’s worked for my father for months. Come on, Thad, let’s get out of here.”

  “Easy won’t do it, Winslow,” Studs said harshly. “You just move on and we’ll take care of this bird!” He reached out to grab Thad, and at that moment the rebellious spirit that had been raging in Dan for weeks was unleashed. He drew back his fist and struck the bully square in the nose.

  The blow caught Mellon off guard and he fell backward to the ground, but immediately jumped to his
feet. Blood was streaming down his face, and an unholy joy shone in his eyes. “All right, you all saw it. Now I’m gonna have to bust you both up!”

  He stalked forward with his left out and his right cocked. None of the spectators doubted the outcome. Lunging at Dan, Studs lashed out with a straight left that sent the boy reeling. Thad leaped at Mellon with arms flailing, striking the bully with a wild right that opened a cut over his eye, blinding him. Studs screamed in fury, swiped at his eyes and roared with a stream of curses as he dived straight at Thad, knocking him to the ground. Studs was so quick that Thad never saw the blow coming.

  Mellon drew back his foot to kick Thad, but at that instant a pair of arms wrapped around his neck and a keen pain sliced through his left ear! He whirled around, but Pet, who had clamped herself onto his back, reached around and raked his face with her nails.

  The crowd stared at the scene, for they knew that the Winslows were the children of a wealthy planter, but they knew as well that Studs Mellon had a wicked temper. Although some began shouting “Don’t hurt that girl, Studs!” nobody dared to interfere.

  Mellon reached over his head, pulled Pet off and threw her at the crowd, but just as he turned Dan and Thad were up and at him like a pair of terriers. For the next few minutes the wild fray continued, each pitching with all his might. Suddenly a small figure materialized from nowhere with a shrill cry. A hard object struck Mellon on the top of his head, knocking him flat. His head throbbed, but he was up at once—face-to-face with Dooley Young.

  “You stay out of this, Young!” he snarled.

  “Aw, you’re not so mean as you like to make out, Studs,” Dooley grinned. “I bet you go to church when nobody’s lookin’.” He gave the heavy revolver he had used on Mellon’s head a twirl and said, “Now, you jest git along with your business, Studs.”

  Studs stared at the small figure, and he heard the laughter that ran through the crowd. Enraged, he shouted, “I’m gonna git me a Yankee, Dooley; and if I gotta chaw you up to git him, I’ll do it!”

  He was about to take a step when a shot rang out, and he stopped dead still. He raised his hand to his right ear, the one the girl hadn’t bitten, and felt the warm blood. He stared at Dooley in unbelief. “You shot me!”

  “Jest wanted you to have a matched set, Studs,” Dooley grinned. Then he leveled the revolver and the humor dropped from his voice. “Now git your carcass outta here, Studs, or I’ll ventilate you sure enough!”

  Studs stared at the muzzle, then into Dooley’s eyes. He whirled angrily. “You ain’t heard the last of this, Young!”

  “Come any time, Studs; we never close,” Dooley called out as Mellon’s hulking form disappeared. Then he turned around, his eyes merry. “You boys all right?”

  “Sure, Dooley,” Thad replied. “But I sure was glad to see you.”

  “Aw, he’s jest the kind that gives us tough guys a bad name,” Dooley said. Then he peered at both boys. “We better git you two patched up or you won’t be fit to go to preachin’ tomorrow.”

  Pet, who had stood by for the rest of the fight, asked Dooley as they all walked away from the crowd, “Would you really have shot him, Dooley, if he hadn’t backed down?”

  “I’m a pretty mean feller, Miss Pet,” Dooley answered solemnly. “Never care to let myself find out jest how mean I be. Hey, looks like you got a little scrape in that fiasco!”

  Pet felt her cheek and discovered blood from a cut. She stared in surprise at the stain on her hand, then laughed, “Well, Dan, looks like we got started on our war before Tom and Mark, after all.”

  “Pa will scalp that Studs Mellon!”

  Dan was not far wrong, for when they finally faced their parents with their cuts patched up, Sky Winslow looked like one of his Sioux ancestors, his eyes blazing and his mouth a slit. They were standing in the lobby of the Ballard House with a small group, getting ready to leave. “Guess I’ll have a talk with that fellow,” he said quietly. Too quietly Rebekah knew. She had seen the explosive Winslow temper flair out of her husband only on a few occasions. “It’s all over, Sky,” she reminded him.

  “Leave him to me, sir,” Vance said with a knowing smile. “He’s signed up in Company A. I imagine when he finds out that his third lieutenant is the brother of the young people he roughed, he’ll quiet down a little.”

  Sky reluctantly conceded, and it might have been over, but Beau remarked, “This fellow Novak has put you in a bad light, Mr. Winslow. It’s well known that he’s a Yankee, and you ought to get rid of him.”

  “On the say-so of trash like Studs Mellon? Not likely, Beau.”

  “I know you’re a loyal man, sir, but we’re in a shooting war now, and anybody from the North had better declare themselves. Has Novak said anything about enlisting?”

  “He’s too young,” Sky replied quickly, looking at Dan.

  “We’ve got some his age in the Blades already,” Beau insisted.

  A curious silence fell over the group, and every eye rested on Sky. He bowed his head, studied the floor, then lifted his eyes to meet those of Beau. “I know something about men, I think. I trust Thad. This may not be his fight, but he’s been loyal to me and I’ll stick with him.”

  “It’s like you, Mr. Winslow,” Beau shrugged. “But before this is over, a lot of us may have to part with some we thought were friends.”

  On that note, the party broke up, and the next day the Richmond Blades marched out of Richmond in formation, headed for their training camp. Sky stood watching with the rest of the town. When Company A marched by he couldn’t help the thrill of pride he felt at the sight of Mark and Tom. He shook his head and said quietly to Rebekah, “Beau was wrong about Thad, but it’s going to be hard on a lot of people like him.”

  She put her arm around him, and they watched silently as the proud gray line disappeared into the distance, the shrill, martial music of the band fading like the last thin peep of birds as the sunset falls. And as the music faded, so did some of the hope that had always been strong in the hearts of Sky and Rebekah, for both of them knew somehow that the proud young men of Company A of the Richmond Blades would never be as whole and complete as at that moment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  YANKEE RELATIVES

  “I still say it’s foolish,” Robert Winslow declared testily. “Here we are in the midst of a war, and you want to go into the very heart of rebel territory. At your age, you ought to know better! And right in the middle of the July heat!”

  The last of the speaker’s words were drowned out by the shrill whistle from the steam engine, and he cast a look in its direction as if it were a personal affront. He was an impatient man and accustomed to obedience, having given orders all his life—as a naval officer, a lawyer, and now as a New York congressman in the House. But as the whistle sounded another warning, he shook his head in frustration, knowing that no matter how other men trembled at his temper, the old man who stood before him would not be moved. Yet Robert tried one more time, modifying his voice—even putting a hand on the man’s thin shoulder.

  “Father, just wait six months and I’ll go with you. This rebellion will be over then. I’d like to work with you on the book, but I can’t do it now.”

  At seventy-eight, Whitfield Winslow was not impressed with the effort. He grinned at Robert’s words. “You’ve tried threats all week, Robert, and now as a last resort, you’re attempting bribery—just like a good politician. But that won’t work either, so you just run along and take care of the government while Davis and I go mingle with our rebel kinfolk.”

  The third member of the trio was a young man, large in stature, with bright red cheeks and crisp curly brown hair. “He’s got your number, Father,” he grinned, looking at Robert Winslow. “There’s no way you can bully Grandfather.” There was a trace of an English accent in his voice, superimposed by three years at Oxford, and the English flavor was apparent in his dress as well. “Try to keep Mother calm, and we’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  Robert shrugged and t
hen laughed. “I knew it was hopeless the moment you decided to go, and I suppose you two can be trusted—but don’t do anything foolish. If the tempers down there are as fiery as I hear, a pair of Yankees could get into trouble.”

  “Not with papers signed by Stephen Mallory,” Whitfield reassured him. “We may have a little trouble with our kinfolk, but with a pass from the Confederate Secretary of the Navy, we won’t be taken for spies.” He had obtained the pass by simply writing to Mallory, who had served under him as first officer when Whitfield had commanded the frigate Courage. Mallory had sent a pass with the warning: I am happy to be of service, Captain, but be sure that you do no more than work on the history of your family while you are in our country. Feelings are running very high, and I cannot answer for the hotheads among us who see every man from the North as a traitor.

  “All right, then, on with you,” Robert conceded. He took charge of getting them aboard the train and settled in their seats, giving advice constantly. Then the whistle blew two sharp blasts, and the train lurched into motion. Hurrying off, Winslow stood near their window and waved until they were out of view.

  “He’s really worried about us, Davis,” the older man remarked as the train picked up speed. “Thinks the rebels will eat our drumsticks or something worse.”

  Davis was looking out the window, taking in the sight of the unfinished Capitol on the small rise. Capitol Hill was a muddy, dreary, desolate spot—and the structure itself no less dilapidated, with a dome that looked as if it had been guillotined. Unlike the centuries-old buildings of England, everything in Washington appeared raw and unfinished to Davis. He shifted his gaze to his grandfather. “He may be right, you know. They’re aching for a fight, if all we hear is true.”