The Last Confederate Page 4

  “I’m suspicious of that boy, Doc,” Sky frowned. “He’s not telling the truth.”

  “Well, who in blazes is, Winslow?” Wright demanded. “You’ve been caught up in this abolitionist scare. You reckon the boy is a Yankee spy?”

  “Well, no—but who is he?”

  “He’s only a boy, Papa,” Pet said.

  “I don’t think he’s dangerous—but he’s hiding something,” Winslow insisted. “How long do you think we’ll have to keep him—before he’s well enough to make it on his own?”

  “How should I know?” Wright asked sleepily. “Go ask them fancy doctors in Richmond. They claim to know everything.”

  “He’ll be well pretty soon, Papa,” Pet nodded. “He’s just weak.”

  “You take care of him, Pet,” Wright said, then turned to Sky. “Tell Toby to hitch up the wagon, will you? I’m going home to get drunk.”

  Sky shrugged. “I’ll tell Toby.”

  Thad spent the next three days eating and sleeping, getting out of bed only for short periods as his strength returned. Much of this time he listened to Pet Winslow, for she had taken Dr. Wright’s suggestion and had assumed the responsibility of preparing and bringing Thad his food. At first he was tense, but she never referred to his past or asked any questions about his personal life. From these conversations he learned a great deal about Belle Maison. Pet would sit nearby and tell him about the servants, the work, her family, the neighbors—all the things that made up her world. It was, however, a strange and foreign world to Thad! His life had been iron-hard, bone-deep in poverty, and a direct contrast to Belle Maison—the luxury of the food, the dress of the family, even of the house servants, was obvious.

  Late one Thursday afternoon Mr. Winslow came to visit Thad and found him sitting outside on a rock planter, enjoying the fresh air. Thad grew tense, but there was nothing threatening about the expression on Winslow’s face. “Well, you’re looking much better, Thad.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Mr. Winslow—and I sure do thank you for helping me out.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to give most of the credit to Toby. You’d have died in that snowstorm if he hadn’t pulled you out.” Winslow looked at Thad carefully, noting that the boy looked healthy. Thin, of course, but one day that frame would fill out. His hands were hard and calloused, and Winslow liked the boy’s face. There was a stubbornness in the dark eyes, but that was fine with Sky Winslow, who himself was a stubborn man.

  “Thad, I’d like to ask you a question, but don’t answer if you don’t want to. You’re from the North—are you in any kind of service for the Union?”

  “No, I ain’t, Mr. Winslow.”

  The boy did not protest, and Winslow liked that. “I believe you, Thad. Now, I’ve got an offer for you. You can’t go anywhere until this snow is gone, and you don’t have any money, I take it.”

  “No, sir. I’m plumb busted.”

  “Well, I think we can keep you until you get your strength back—not here, of course, but in my overseer’s cabin. He’s got plenty of room and an extra bed. You can rest up and put some meat on that skinny frame—then we’ll see.”

  The unexpected kindness was too much for Thad. He could only swallow and nod. Winslow saw this, and patted the boy’s thin shoulder, “Well, you take it easy, Thad, and we’ll be talking later.”

  Winslow went immediately to see Sut Franklin, his overseer. Franklin was a rough man who took little care of himself, a characteristic of most overseers. He was too hard on the slaves, and Winslow had to watch him carefully.

  Franklin listened, then shrugged carelessly. “He’ll have to take care of hisself, Mr. Winslow. I ain’t no nursemaid.”

  “He won’t require any care. See that he gets plenty to eat, Sut. Maybe we can use him around here.”

  “Not likely,” Franklin returned quickly. “He’s a Yankee, ain’t he? We don’t need his kind!”

  Later that day Franklin came for Thad, taking him to the small house. “That’s your bunk,” he said roughly, then added, “I won’t be here much for the next few days. Big poker game goin’ on in town. You can get fed in the kitchen at the Big House.” He was surly about it, and said nothing more to Thad until he left for Richmond that evening.

  For two days Thad ate huge meals and walked around the property. His strength flowed back, and late on the second day, he went to the slave quarters and asked an old man with snowy white hair where Toby lived. The man said something, but Thad didn’t understand a word. Thad could understand the house servants fairly well, but this old man sounded as if he had a mouth full of mush. Finally the man looked at him in disgust and pointed at a house right across from where they were. Thad went to the door and knocked. When it opened a large black man stood before him. “Well, look at you! Ain’t you jes’ all well, sho nuff!”

  “I guess you must be Toby,” Thad said, then hesitated, not knowing what to say next.

  Toby turned quickly and called, “Jessie, look heah who’s done come to see us.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in, now.”

  Thad entered and took in the single bed stuffed with shucks, the stone fireplace with pothooks and black utensils—then glanced at the woman and the small boy. “I . . . sort of remember you . . . but not much,” he apologized to Toby. “But I know you saved my life—so I came to thank you for it.”

  Toby nodded, grinning widely. “Why, you mighty welcome. I reckon you do da same fo’ me.”

  “I sure hope so,” Thad replied. “Well, I guess I better get.”

  “Wait a minute,” Toby interrupted. “You et yet? No? You is a Yankee boy, ain’t you?”

  “Guess so, Toby.”

  “Well, you set right in dat cheer, and pitch inter some of dis catfish. You ain’t nevah had no fish till you eats a mess of bullhead catfish!”

  Thad sat down awkwardly, but soon the tension left him. He felt more at home in the small cabin with the slaves than he had in the Big House. Jessie was quiet at first and the boy, Wash, was bashful, but after a time, the woman began to smile and the boy came to stare up into Thad’s face. The fresh catfish steaks had been fried in fat and were the most delicious Thad had ever put in his mouth. He allowed Jessie to fill his plate twice, then held up his hand, moaning, “No more! I’m plumb full!”

  He stayed at the cabin until it was so dark he had trouble finding his way back to Franklin’s. For a long time he lay awake thinking with a warm feeling of the friendliness of the black slaves, and wondering what it was like to be owned by someone. He thought of stories he’d heard in the North about slaves being beaten to death; then his thoughts drifted to Pet Winslow and how gentle she was. Finally he dozed off.

  The Winslows had just sat down to breakfast the next morning when the sound of an axe on wood floated into the room. Sky got up, walked to the window and peered out. “Well, I’ll be a—look at this, all of you!”

  Pet ran to him, followed by her brothers and her mother. “What is it, Papa?”

  “It’s that young Novak fellow. He’s cutting wood out there.”

  Rebekah watched the boy as he brought the axe down on a block of oak, cutting it cleanly in two. “He shouldn’t be doing that, Sky!” she protested.

  “I’ll go tell him to stop.” He hurried outside to the woodpile where Thad was lifting his axe. “Now, Thad, we can’t have this!”

  Thad dropped the axe, splitting the wood easily. “I’ve got to earn my keep.”

  “Plenty of time for that!”

  Thad shook his head stubbornly. “No, sir. If you won’t let me work, I’ll have to move on.”

  Winslow stared at the intent face, thinking, If all Yankees are as stubborn as this one, then heaven help the South! He reached out and took the axe from Thad, saying, “All right, you can work, but not splitting wood. We have to cut a lot of ice this week. You can help with that.”

  “Cut ice? What for, Mr. Winslow?”

  “Why, we cut it off the river and store it in our icehouse. Pack it with straw and it keeps thr
ough most of the summer. We sell it in Richmond, mostly. You go out with Toby tomorrow—but don’t overdo it.”

  “I’ll be careful, sir. I—I just can’t sit around and do nothing!”

  When Sky got back to the house, Tom asked, “What’s he doing, Pa?”

  “Says he has to earn his keep, Tom.”

  “He’s still a Yankee, though,” Dan insisted.

  Sky Winslow stared toward the woodyard, then said quietly, as if to himself, “I don’t think so, Dan. I don’t reckon he’s anything—not yet, anyway!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHRISTMAS GIFT

  The day following his talk with Mr. Winslow, Thad had risen at dawn and gone to the lake to cut ice with Toby in a wagon fitted with sled runners. As they prepared to get into the vehicle, Toby cautioned, “Now you listen to ol’ Toby. I didn’ pull you outta de snow to hep you kill yo’self cuttin’ ice. So you jes’ kinda set back and take it easy till you gits plumb well.” He grinned at Thad. “You know how to drive a team?”

  “Me? No, Toby.”

  “Well, git in an’ you can learn.” The two climbed up on the seat, and Toby gave him the lines. “Hold dis line like dat—an’ put dis ’un like dat. Now—jes’ say ‘Hup, Gyp!—Hup, Babe!’—an’ you see how easy it is.”

  Thad called out to the mules, and was delighted with the ease of the ride. He had been in a horse-drawn streetcar in New York once, but it could not compare to the joy of sweeping along the icy road with the green pines whipping by so fast they blurred in his sight. He called out again, and was a little alarmed when the sleek mules broke out into a dead run. “What do I do now, Toby?” he cried.

  “I guess you goes wif’ ’em, Thad!” Toby laughed. “Let ’em go. Mebby dey run some of dat meanness outta dere system!”

  Finally the mules slowed to a trot, and Thad began to look around at the landscape. “This sure is flat country, Toby.” As far as he could see there was no rise of ground higher than a five-foot knoll. The hardwoods that covered the horizon were bare, glistening with the casing of ice that loaded the smaller branches to the ground. The tall evergreens farther back from the river were topped with massive mounds of new snow. The fresh, clean air was like wine, bringing a crimson flush to Thad’s cheeks. His eyes sparkled with new life. “Is it this flat everywhere around here?” he asked.

  “Nooo, not ever’ place. North of Richmond dey’s some purty good hills—but dis is de Delta, Thad. Look, you sees dat little road up ahead? Turn da team dat way.” He watched carefully as Thad guided the mules down a small side road, and nodded his head. “You gonna be a good driver, I allows.”

  Ten minutes later they arrived at a narrow lake, actually a small oxbow lake that was part of an old riverbed. Toby explained to Thad as they drove up the bank and descended, “Ain’t much to it, cuttin’ ice. We jes’ take dis saw an’ cut off some chunks. Den we take ’em to de icehouse an’ cover ’em up wif straw. Next summertime we gets de ice and sells it in Richmond. Last July Mistuh Sky, he made nuff vaniller ice cream fo’ ever’ hand at Belle Maison!”

  He led Thad out on the ice to a squared hole, saying, “See whar I been cuttin’? Now you jes’ watch ol’ Toby and see how to do it.” He took the large bucksaw that had been shortened and fitted with a handle and put it in the gap. He drew it back and forth with his powerful hands until he had a straight cut, then picked up the hatchet he’d laid on the ice. “Ain’t no need to cut but one way,” he said, and gave the ice a hard blow. A rough square-shaped chunk of ice broke free. Toby reached down and flipped it to the ice, giving it a kick with his foot that sent the ice chunk skidding to the bank. “Dat’s all dey is to it. A sight easier den cuttin’ post oak wif a bucksaw.”

  “Let me try it.” Thad took the saw and was amazed to discover how easily the ice parted. “Why—this is easy!” he cried.

  “Humph! We’ll see ’bout dat when it comes quittin’ time,” Toby sniffed. He let Thad work for a while, then made him rest. They took their time, but by noon a large supply of frozen slabs lined the bank and Toby called a halt.

  They ate a lunch of cold chicken, thick slices of ham, biscuits with butter and peach preserves—all washed down with milk from a stone bottle.

  After they finished, Thad looked at Toby and asked with some hesitation, “Toby . . . can I ask you something?”

  “Reckon you can.”

  “Well, I ain’t never been around—” He halted, not knowing how to phrase the question that had pushed at his mind for some time. “Well, I grew up in the North, and . . .”

  Toby gave him a quick glance, then chuckled softly. “What you means is you ain’t nevah had nuffin’ to do wif no black folks. Dat it?”

  “Well—yes. All my life I’ve been hearing about how bad slaves get treated in the South. Lots of folks say some slave owners beat their slaves—and even worse.”

  Toby stopped smiling and gave Thad a sober look. “I tell you what I couldn’t nevah tell no white man from round heah, Thad. You thinks we is treated purty good heah at Belle Maison, ain’t dat so? And we is, fo’ a fact! But most of de talk you hears up North is so on mos’ plantations. I done seen some mighty bad things, Thad—an’ ask yo’self what would happen if Toby gits sold to somebody who ain’t so good to his hands like de Winslows. What if I gits sold to somebody like Solomon Spencer ovah in Louisiana? He done kill two of his slaves. Beat ’em to death wif his whip!”

  Toby’s voice got deeper, and a strange light fired his eyes as he whispered, “What you think happen to my Jessie an to Wash if I gits sold? I ain’t nevah raised my hand to no white man, Thad, but if dey do dat to me—!” Toby broke off abruptly, and his face was rigid as he turned to look across the icy lake. His hands were trembling, Thad saw, and he could not say a word.

  “Well, I reckon you want this war to come, then,” Thad commented. “That’s what they say will happen—all the slaves will go free. Lincoln says so.”

  “I don’ know, Thad. I don’ reckon dey’s any easy way to fix up dis mess.” Toby got up slowly and added, “I’s gonna be a good hand fo’ Mistuh Winslow ’long as I can. He’s mighty good to me—but dey ain’t all like him.” He shook his wide shoulders and forced a grin. “Come on, now, let’s git dis wagon loaded. Mebby we git back late ’nough so’s we don’ hafta make ’nother trip till tomorrow.”

  They drove back slowly, the mules throwing their strength to pull the heavy load, and all along the way Toby was pointing out different kinds of trees, animal signs, and the best places to hunt coon and possum. He seemed to Thad so gentle for all his enormous strength, and yet the boy sensed the potential for explosive anger in the black man.

  They unloaded the ice in a building such as Thad had never seen before. Only the roof was out of the ground, and a stone ramp led down to the chamber dug out of solid earth. Inside he saw rough-hewn chunks of ice stacked to the heavy rafters, and they guided their new store of ice into place, then covered it with straw. “Make good ice cream nex’ summer, Thad!” Toby said as he closed the heavy door.

  Every day they went early to the lake and cut ice, and by the end of the week Thad’s strength seemed to have been restored by the fresh air, work, and good food. “I always was quick to get well,” he said to Toby as they made their way back with a load. “Why, I bet I can work more now than before I got sick!”

  Even as Thad spoke, a man on a bay horse caught up with the wagon, gave the two a cursory glance and rode on. Suddenly he pulled the horse up sharply, wheeled, and spurred the animal back to them.

  “Well, I’ll be dogged!” he said in amazement. Throwing his scarf to one side he exposed a massive mustache that covered the lower half of his face. “I been wonderin’ what happened to you.” He gave Thad a quick look. “Guess you don’t remember me. I’m Dooley Young. Took you over to ol’ Pitchfork at the Mission.”

  “Sure, I remember,” Thad said. “Well, some of it, anyway. Never did get a chance to thank you, Dooley.”

  Dooley waved his thanks aside, and pulling
at his mustache, said, “Well, I reckon ol’ Pitchfork’s preachin’ was worse than I thought. When I went back to the Mission, you was gone, and all the preacher would say was that you wasn’t no fit candidate for a Methodist! Guess you hurt his feelings, Thad!”

  “I got sort of confused, I guess,” Thad smiled. “Got out on the road and would have died if Toby here hadn’t pulled me out of the snow.”

  “I remember you asked the where’bouts of the Winslow place,” Dooley nodded. “But you shore was temptin’ fate to start out walkin’ to it in that storm and as sick as you was. You stayin’ there now?”

  Thad saw the intense curiosity in Dooley’s sharp eyes, but said only, “I’m working for Mr. Winslow for a while. Long enough to get some traveling money.”

  Dooley knew better than to press the issue. “Well, that’s real fine, Thad. Say, we’re havin’ a little Christmas party next week. Now, it’d pleasure me a heap if you’d come over and shove your feet under the table! All right?”

  “Well, I’ll try and come if I can. It depends on what Mr. Winslow has for me to do.”

  “Shore,” Dooley nodded. He spurred his horse and wheeled her around with an expert hand. “We’ll be lookin’ for you, anyhow. You jest leave one little ol’ red-haired gal named Julie May alone, you hear? I got that claim staked out!” He lifted the reins and left on a dead gallop.

  “He sure can ride a horse,” Thad said with admiration. “Is he friends with the Winslows, Toby?”

  “Him? Not likely! Boy, you don’t know much ’bout da South!” Toby shook his head. “Dooley Young an’ his folks might git to set with the Winslows in heaven—but dey ain’t nevah gonna git no invite to Belle Maison!”

  Thad thought about that, then shrugged. “Guess it’s the same here as in the North. Rich and poor just don’t mix, do they, Toby?”

  They cut ice every day except Sunday, and it soon seemed the natural thing for him to drop by Toby’s house in the evening. Thad would play small games with Wash while Toby told tales of hunting and fishing.