The Last Confederate Read online

  Strangely enough, the piercing voice of the preacher did not keep Thad awake. Instead, he became accustomed to it and sat with his eyes half open, fighting to stay alert. The room grew hotter and he felt very sleepy, but knew he must hold his head up. Suddenly he was aware that something was wrong. He forced himself to focus on the preacher and was startled to find the man’s fat forefinger pointed directly at him! The voice was screaming, “And you, no doubt, are the worst! All these men are from our town—poor unfortunate wretches that they are. Yet they are true men, good southern men! But you . . . !” He walked over to Thad and stabbed his thick forefinger at the boy’s chest as if he wished to penetrate that region clean to the heart. “You,” he shouted, “would ruin our southland! You are a benighted Yankee—and that is the worst of all sinners!”

  Thad leaped to his feet, his head swimming with the effort, and cried, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  An oily smile spread across the round face of Rev. Tate, and he sneered, “You don’t know anything about the North, do you? Oh, no. You’re not from there, are you, boy?” He jabbed Thad’s chest again and again as he continued to shout his questions, until the boy trembled beneath the heavy hand. “You aren’t from that nest of vipers, are you? You have no knowledge of that godless place, which is reserved for the pit, have you?”

  He would have continued his tirade until his victim lay prostrate at his feet if Thad hadn’t jerked away and lurched toward the door. There he turned and consigned Rev. Josiah Tate to the lowest section of that region the minister had spoken of so harshly. He also told Mr. Tate exactly what he could do with the food and the cot for the night. Then as the man’s pursed fat lips made a shocked round O, Thad laughed, threw open the door, and plunged out into the freezing air, slamming the door with such force that the lantern rattled against the wall.

  Thousands of tiny flakes glittered in the light of the lantern. Thad’s face ached with fever and from the heat of the room, and the falling flakes seemed to soothe his burning cheeks. Pulling the thin coat closer around his skinny frame, he walked unsteadily toward Cherry Street. At this hour most of the crowd had gone indoors or returned home, and Thad avoided the few left by crossing the street. He halted uncertainly, peering into the darkness where he thought the river lay, then made his way down a side street until he came to a break in the buildings. The snow had papered the ground with a thin layer, making the surface slippery underfoot. But Thad did not stop until he came to a broad road over which the dark form of the levee loomed. Must be the River Road, he thought, and turned to follow it southward.

  There was just enough light from the crescent-shaped moon to reveal the ground if he bent forward, and he saw in the distance the light of a house beside the road. When he approached it, he almost stepped up on the porch to ask for shelter, but then he wavered and plunged on toward the next house. This, too, he passed, saying out loud, “Reckon I can walk twelve miles any day.”

  He began to call out the name of the place Dooley had mentioned, repeating it by syllables in cadence with each step:

  “Belle—May—zon. Belle—May—zon.”

  The words had no meaning for him, but they kept his mind off the razor-sharp wind that whipped across the road, stiffening his face and numbing his feet. He passed a few more houses, but did not stop; instead, he plunged on, calling out “Belle—May—zon!” over and over again until he reached the end of town toward the open fields of the delta. The road wound with the meanders of the river, so he concentrated on keeping inside the perimeters of the white strip.

  Time soon ceased to have meaning, and distance became the space between one step and another as he walked doggedly through the snow, now falling heavily.

  After a while he could not feel his face; even his eyelashes were stuck together with snow crystals. From time to time he had to brush them off with his hands, which seemed to belong to someone else.

  Finally he slipped, falling full length into the snow. He lay there, thinking very slowly and with great effort: Gotta get up. Can’t stay here. He realized he might freeze to death, but his mind was so dulled he could not remember which way led back to town.

  He tried to get up, but it took three attempts, and then he began to run, clumsily with flailing arms, but plunged into a shallow ditch beside the road. He couldn’t stand up, so he pulled himself out by grabbing the thick weeds beside the road. Again he tried to get to his feet. I can’t do it, he thought.

  A strange sense of warmth began to flow through him as he lay there holding on to the weeds like a drowning man to a life preserver. He tried to rouse himself, but the warmth crept up his body and into his brain. He mumbled, “Just—a few—minutes—just—”

  He drifted off and seemed to be resting in a warm feather bed. But someone was trying to get him to leave it! Someone was pulling at him, and he resisted, hating to leave the warmth that had surrounded him. He began to fight, crying out, “Leave me alone!”

  Though he struggled, a strong hand grabbed him, forcing him out of the feather bed. Then he came out of his dream to see a black face not two inches from his own, the thick lips forming the words: “You cain’t stay heah, white boy! You freeze to death!”

  The man pulled Thad to his feet, and he felt himself being pushed against something hard. “I boost you inter da wagon—watch yo’self!” Suddenly Thad was hoisted high and fell onto a hard floor, striking his head. Sparks seemed to fly in front of his eyes, and warm blood trickled down his cheek.

  “You wrap up in dis heah blanket,” the man ordered, pushing the rough covering around Thad. He began drifting off to sleep at once, but a voice said sharply, “Wake up! You go to sleep now, you ain’t nevah gonna wake up!” Then he called to the horses, “Git up!” The wagon lurched down the rutted road, throwing Thad from one side to the other with such force, he lost all thought of sleep!

  Finally the rocking motion stopped, and he fell back, totally exhausted. He felt strong arms lifting him, and said, “I won’t go to sleep!”

  A deep bass laugh shook the heavy chest Thad lay against. “Dat’s all right, white boy. Now, heah we goes!”

  Thad drifted off, but knew that the black man had carried him out of the cold into a small room not much bigger than a closet. A cheery fire burned at one side. He managed to open his eyes, and his gaze fell on faces staring at him by the light of the tiny fire—they were all black! He smelled greens cooking, and someone made him swallow the stuff. Then he lay back and was plunged into the warmth of a smooth black darkness—safe from the icy storm raging outside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BELLE MAISON

  As always, the first thing Pet Winslow did when she awakened in the morning was to look out the window. She waited until the maid finished building up the fire, driving out the chill; then she threw back the covers and ran to the mullioned window. “Lucy—look!” she cried with delight. “It’s like a fairyland!” As far as she could see, the earth glittered as the bright sun struck the unbroken snow. Dressing quickly in the clothing Lucy had laid out for her, she said, “Maybe we can build a snowman. And we can have snow cream!”

  “Humph! It’s jes’ a big mess—thas all it be!” Lucy snapped. She was sixteen—one year older than Pet, and the rich food that the house servants ate had plumped her out until she was bursting out of her blue gingham dress. Her speech was slurred and lazy, but much clearer than that of the field hands. She had grown up as a maid to Pet and her sister Belle, and her ear was quick enough to pick up the diction of the white folks in the big house. “You wait right where you is!” she ordered as Pet made a dash for the door. “Whar you goin’ widout no coat on?”

  Pet snatched at the garment, drew it over her shoulders, then skipped down the winding staircase, passing through the large foyer into the smaller of the two dining rooms.

  “Good morning, Papa—Mama,” she called out cheerfully, running around the large oak table to kiss both parents. Then she sat down and spoke to her brothers in a general greet
ing. “Hello—pass me the biscuits, Mark.”

  As she speared two of them, Mark Winslow, her oldest brother at the age of twenty, grinned and winked at his other two brothers sitting across from him, saying, “Pet’s going to be late for the resurrection.” He was the darkest of the brothers, and his high cheekbones revealed more of his Indian ancestry than was visible in Dan and Thomas. In fact, he looked much like a younger edition of his father, whose mother was a half-blooded Sioux. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, and he was the largest of the three boys.

  Tom Winslow at eighteen was more like his mother, having her clear hazel eyes and fair skin. Dan, at sixteen and the youngest of the boys, was fair as well. He alone of all the boys had the bright blue eyes that Sky had said most characterized the Winslow men. All three of them were outdoorsmen, expert riders and all good shots.

  “Papa, can we go out for a sleigh ride today?” Pet asked, speaking around a mouthful of sorghum-soaked biscuit she had crammed into her mouth.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her mother chided instantly. “You’re going to strangle yourself one of these days, Pet.” Rebekah Winslow didn’t look her age. At forty-two, she seemed little different than when Sky had married her—and he often said so. Her figure was still slender, despite the six children she had borne, and her hair was the same bright auburn it had been when she had crossed the plains on a wagon train in 1839. All the children had heard the story—how she’d been deceived by a man, so their half sister, Mary, had been born out of wedlock. Sky had adopted her after he married Rebekah. Mary had married a businessman six months earlier, and they now lived in St. Louis. Joe, Sky’s son by his first wife, was a successful lawyer in Richmond, Virginia. Every year he brought his wife Louise and their two boys to Belle Maison for a two-week visit. There had been a foster son, Tim Sullivan, but he had died of cholera at the age of sixteen.

  Rebekah gave a half-whimsical look at Mark, saying, “You can’t use the sleigh, Pet. Mark’s going to take Belle over to the Bartons.”

  Sky Winslow caught the glance Rebekah gave Mark, and smiled at his oldest son. “Are you taking Belle or yourself over there?”

  Mark flushed slightly under his coppery tan, and affected indifference. “Oh, I suppose it would be nice to see Rowena again.”

  “Oh, Mark Winslow, you are a sly one!” Pet grinned. Her blue eyes sparkled as she loaded her plate with eggs, sugar-cured ham, fresh butter, sorghum, grits and a heap of steaming mush. “You’d get mad enough if Vance Wickham beat you over there!” She shoveled a big forkful of eggs into her mouth, giggling.

  “You’re going to choke if you don’t take smaller bites,” Mark snapped. He was very fond of Pet, but he hated to be teased about his stormy courtship of Rowena Barton. “Mother, can’t you teach this child some proper manners? She eats like a hog!” He was frowning, and swallowed a cup of scalding coffee so quickly that he nearly gagged, his face turning crimson.

  “The way I hear it,” Sky Winslow said solemnly, “it’s not the local competition you have to worry about, Mark. I understand Rowena got herself a prize young fellow while she was away at school in Boston. Rich as Croesus—at least his family is.”

  Rebekah winked across the table at Tom and Dan, saying innocently, “You’d better start giving your big brother an extra prayer or two. It’s not going to be easy to take Rowena’s mind off a rich Yankee.”

  “Who cares about him?” Mark countered. “If she’s crazy enough to fall for a Yankee, I’m not interested in her.”

  “He’s in the army, isn’t he, Mark?” Sky asked.

  “Yes. I got it from Beau—but I ask you, Father, what kind of southern girl would get mixed up with a Yankee soldier when a war’s coming on?”

  “I pray there won’t be a war, Mark,” his mother said firmly.

  “Not be a war!” Dan sat back and stared at her in amazement. “Why, Mother, you can save that prayer!”

  “Dan’s right, Mother,” Tom agreed with a knowing nod. “There has to be a war. No way out of it now.”

  Rebekah looked at her three sons, and her eyes clouded. She saw Sky’s expression, and knew there was no way their three hot-blooded sons could escape the war fever that was sweeping the South like an epidemic.

  Sky shook his head, put down his coffee cup, and spoke slowly, regret in his voice. “I guess they’re right, Rebekah. Gone too far to settle this issue any other way.”

  “Is it over slavery, Papa?” Pet asked. Her quick eyes caught the distressed look in her mother’s eyes. “Why can’t we just let the slaves go? Then there wouldn’t be any war.”

  “If it were that simple, Pet,” he answered, “I’d free all our slaves in a second.” He had left the West Coast with a large amount of money made in the fur business fifteen years earlier. Land had been cheap in Virginia, and he had put his money in land, buying large tracts here and there, until now Belle Maison was one of the largest plantations in Virginia. All his neighbors owned slaves, and a large number of them had come with the original purchase of the land close to Richmond—but he had never liked the idea. He had often said to his wife, “It’s not right, Rebekah—one human being owning another. I’m going to get out of it some way or other.”

  Sky had tried, but cotton farming requires many workers, and there simply hadn’t been enough help to keep the plantation going. Winslow took some comfort in the knowledge that his slaves were treated better than any he knew of—pampered, his overseer called it—but he still had a guilty feeling.

  When he brought his attention back to the table, Sky heard Tom saying to Pet with a superior air, “Why, you little silly, who’d work the fields if all the slaves were free? You? You can’t even get to breakfast on time! Anyway, the North doesn’t have any right to tell us what we can do with our own property!”

  “They’re probably going to try,” Sky said sadly. “Lincoln won’t let the thing rest.”

  “Well, it won’t last long, Father,” Mark predicted. “Why, you can just imagine what would happen to a Yankee army of factory workers! Any good Southerner can whip three Yankees any time!” This was a current doctrine among the young men of his class, the number varying from three to ten, depending on the speaker.

  The conversation continued in this vein, with the three young men lightly speaking of the approaching war as if it were a fox hunt. Rebekah was glad when Belle came through the door, saying, “Hello, Mama—Papa. Sorry I’m late.”

  Belle Winslow was thought of as the most beautiful girl in the county. She was taller than her mother, and her figure was perfect—slim, yet fully rounded. Her hair was glossy black and straight. Large dark blue eyes with lashes that curled impossibly, lips that were full and red with no help from cosmetics, and a flawless skin—all well shaped, tidy and perfectly done. She had been the belle of every ball in the county since she was fifteen; and her father had once said in despair, “I’m going to have to charge room and board to Belle’s beaus if they keep cluttering up the house!”

  Pet glanced at her sister and smiled. That she was not in the least jealous of Belle was a minor miracle, but it was true. Her parents noticed that smile and looked at each other, thinking the same thought: What a shame that Pet isn’t as pretty as Belle, but isn’t it wonderful that she has so many other fine qualities? Not that Pet was plain, but next to her sister’s delicate beauty, Pet’s face seemed—well, strong. And as Sky watched her, he thought, She’s a strong child. In fact, in some ways she was like another son to him. She loved every aspect of plantation life, and was as likely to be seen riding the fields with her father as helping her mother with the housekeeping.

  Sophie, the oldest of the household slaves, came bustling in with an announcement. “That worthless Toby say he hafta see you, Massa Winslow.” Sophie was nearly seventy, but she had been in charge of the children since they were babies. Now her little black eyes snapped with anger. “I tol’ that worthless nigger to git—but he say you gotta speak to ’im.”

  Sky Winslow smiled. “
I’ve not finished breakfast, Sophie. Let him come in here.”

  Sophie sniffed as she turned to leave the room. “I don’t speck it mount to a hill of beans!” She stepped outside, and they heard her say shrilly, “All right, wipe yo’ big feet now—and keep yo’ hands offa things!”

  The Negro that entered the door was very large and powerfully built. He moved carefully, as if he were afraid of breaking something. Snow glistened in his wooly hair, and he twisted a shapeless cap in his massive hands. Glancing balefully at Sophie, he said in a deep voice, “I’s got a sick man in mah house, Miz Winslow.”

  “What’s the matter with him, Toby?” Mr. Winslow asked. It was not uncommon for sickness to strike in the slave quarters, but it was rather strange for Toby to make such a direct report; usually one of the women would come to Rebekah, and she would see to the remedy.

  Toby shifted nervously and his eyes rolled as he muttered, “Don’ rightly know, Mistuh Winslow. He awful sick, though. Mebby die.”

  With slaves selling for a thousand dollars apiece, this was serious. “Who is it, Toby?”

  The black man did not answer at first, which was strange. Finally he said, “I don’ know who he is, suh.”

  “Don’t know? Isn’t he one of ours?” Mark demanded. “Is he from around here?”

  “No, suh, he ain’t from no place round heah,” Toby replied emphatically. “I wuz drivin’ back from town last night wif de new plow, an’ I sees dis heah man. He wuz mos’ buried wif snow, an’ I almos’ don’ sees him. When I gets down, I sees he ain’t dead—so I load him in de wagon and Jessie puts him in de bed at mah house.”

  “Well, he must belong to somebody,” Mr. Winslow said. “All right, Toby. I’ll come by and have a look at the fellow.”