The Last Confederate Page 5

  On Tuesday Sut Franklin gave Thad a rude awakening when he said, “Novak, guess you ain’t to blame for it, seein’ as you ain’t from around here—but you got to watch what you do on this plantation.”

  They were preparing to go to bed, and as usual, Franklin had been nipping at his bottle. His words were somewhat slurred, and there was uncertainty in his movements as he slumped to pull off his boots.

  “What’s wrong?” Thad asked in surprise. “Ain’t I been doing my work right?”

  “Guess that’s all right—but you been hangin’ around the niggers too much. You don’t know no better, so I’m tellin’ you; they ain’t to be trusted! That’s what I’m here for—to see they don’t get uppity! Got to make ’em do what they’re told.” He stared at Thad and added in a hard tone, “And you ain’t makin’ it no easier the way you been cuddlin’ up with ’em!”

  Thad was silent. He had never considered it wrong to spend time with Toby and his family. He had little choice, for the only two classes of people on the plantation were the Winslows and the slaves. He wanted to ask, You think I ought to go eat at the Big House? but held his peace. He liked being with Toby and somehow could not feel guilty about it. “Did Mr. Winslow say that?” he asked.

  Sut spat a stream of tobacco juice to the floor and cursed. “He ain’t said nothin’ because he’s got more to do than watch a dumb Yankee makin’ up to his niggers! I’m telling you, Novak—stay away from the niggers, or I’ll run you off the place. Ain’t you got no sense atall? Don’t you know there’s about to be a war over the slaves?” He spat again, then rolled into his bunk and mumbled, “You ought to be thankin’ me—but I don’t reckon you Yankees got enough manners for that!”

  Thad was miserable, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not feel guilty. Who else was he supposed to talk with? He slept little that night, but finally said under his breath, “He’s wrong! Even if he weren’t, Toby saved my life and that settles it!”

  The next day was Christmas, and the entire population of Belle Maison had a holiday. The smell of pies, cakes, baked meats, barbecue and other spicy aromas began to flow out of the Big House and from the slave quarters as well. Men and boys were run out of the kitchens with dire warnings, and they engaged in games and singing outside in the snow with a freedom Thad had not seen before.

  It was nearly three in the afternoon when the slaves gathered in the barn where planks had been placed across saw-horses to make tables. Lanterns were hung across the ceiling to break the gloom, and the food was stacked high!

  Hams, chickens, ducks, turkeys and wild game of every sort covered one long table. A variety of steaming vegetables in huge pots filled a second long table, while another table bowed under the weight of potatoes with thick gravy, yams dripping in syrup, mountains of hot biscuits, corn bread, and rolls fresh from the oven. Farther down, a line of desserts was placed full length on yet another table: peach cobblers, apple pies, tarts, blackberry muffins, taffy, and candy.

  Thad edged in close to Toby and Jessie for a time, then moved back into the shadows. Soon the master of Belle Maison entered with his family and the house servants. The slaves quieted down as Mr. Winslow raised his hand. “Let us thank God for the food.” Thad expected a long prayer, but it wasn’t. “Lord God, you are the source of all our blessings. We are unworthy servants. We know this good food comes from your hand, and we thank you for it—and for all the other good things that come to us. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen!” He lifted his head, smiled and said, “All right, now, let’s get at it!”

  There was a scramble, and Thad stood back, watching with a smile as the slaves piled their plates high with food. As they retired to an open area to eat, continuing animated conversations, Thad discovered that their slurred speech was becoming clearer to his ears. At first all the slaves had looked alike, but now he found he knew a great many, having encountered them in Toby’s company. Thad waited until the first rush was over before he went forward to get his plate. Some of the food looked strange to him, but having tasted Jessie’s cooking, he knew it would be good. He sat by himself, noting the goodwill among the slaves as they laughed and slapped at each other playfully. They sure don’t seem to be as bad off as Lincoln says, he thought. The whole matter of slavery had puzzled Thad ever since he had met Toby.

  When the meal was almost over, the Winslows began to pass out presents. Thad had often thought of the younger member, Pet. Now she sought him out with her eyes and gave him a smile, which he was too bashful to return. He nodded and forced his gaze away to the other members of the family. He knew Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, and he had supposed that the three young men were sons. The one he couldn’t stop watching was the beautiful girl with Pet. She was a Winslow, of course—the older daughter he had heard about. But he had not known that a woman could be so gorgeous! She was finely dressed and moved gracefully as she handed out gifts to the slaves.

  Every time one of the slaves would take a gift, he would cry out “Chris’mas gift!” and there was a constant stream of giggles and shouts of pleasure as gifts were unwrapped. Most of the gifts were clothes, but there were candy and other small favors as well.

  Thad was so engrossed that he was startled when a voice right beside him said, “Christmas gift, Thad!” He turned quickly to see Pet and the other girl standing there, each of them holding out a package. “This is my sister, Belle, Thad,” Pet said.

  “I’ve heard all about you,” Belle smiled. “You’ve got a mole on your left shoulder, haven’t you?” She laughed gaily at Thad’s puzzled expression and explained, “Pet told me!”

  “But, how—”

  “Why, who do you think washed you off when you were unconscious?” Belle teased. “It was Pet!”

  “Oh, Belle!” Pet’s face turned a bright red. “You’re awful!”

  Thad was speechless. He stood there struck dumb by Belle Winslow’s beauty.

  Finally, Pet asked, “Well, are you going to open your presents—or just stand there staring?”

  Glad for an interruption, Thad carefully removed the paper from Belle’s large package and found a heavy wool coat and a red wool cap. He stared at them, then said “Thank you” in a breathless voice.

  Pet thrust two small packages into his hands. “I made some cookies and knit some socks. I expect you won’t be able to chew the cookies or tell one end of the socks from the other—but Christmas gift to you anyway, Thad!”

  From across the room, Sky Winslow was watching the scene. He had just given Toby a pair of bright yellow suspenders that the black man had admired for some time. “Toby, what kind of young fellow do you make Novak out to be? Guess you’ve been around him more than anyone else.”

  Toby was donning the garish suspenders, but he paused to glance over to where Thad was standing in front of the two girls, looking very awkward. He snapped the suspenders into place, and said emphatically, “Well, I tell you one thing, Mistuh Winslow—dat Yankee boy is da mos’ fo’ work I ever seen!”

  “That so?”

  “Dat is de unvarnished truf!” Toby snapped the suspenders for emphasis. “He can almos’ put a good mule outta work when he git goin’!”

  Winslow nodded, as if it were something he expected to hear, then left Toby to drift over where Thad stood staring at the gifts in his hands. “Merry Christmas, Thad,” he said.

  The young man looked up and responded slowly, “Best Christmas presents I ever got.” He stroked the coat softly and looked at the crudely made socks.

  Winslow cleared his throat and studied the boy. “I’ve been talking to Toby. He says that if you could stay around and help, you two could fill the icehouse in a month or so. I’ll pay two dollars a day if you want the job—and if that works out, maybe we can discuss a permanent job.”

  Thad stared at him in astonishment. “You mean, you’d hire a Yankee?”

  Sky Winslow scowled. “Well, to tell the truth, Thad, being born in the South doesn’t necessarily confer sainthood on a man!” Then he shrugged his shoulde
rs. “Let’s just say I’ll take a Yankee who is ready to do a day’s work over some of our southern ‘gentlemen’ who are too good to get their hands dirty. How about it? Do you want the job?”

  Thad began to twist the button on his shirt. He seemed to have trouble speaking for a time. Finally raising his eyes, sparkling with new hope, he said softly, “I’ll try to please you, Mr. Winslow.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NEW YEAR’S BALL

  “Lucy—pull harder! I’ll never get into my new gown if you don’t hurry!”

  Belle’s maid heaved back on the strings of the corset, and Belle held tightly to the post of her canopy bed. She gave a gasp, crying, “That’s it! Tie it quickly!”

  Lucy finished lacing and tying the corset, grumbling all the time. “If you don’t hold still, I ain’t never gwine git you dressed! Now, hold up them hands and git this dress on.” She took the bright red taffeta dress from the bed and Belle wiggled into it, then twisted impatiently, trying to see herself in the mirror as Lucy laced up the back.

  Pet sat cross-legged on the bed, watching her sister curiously. She did not mind in the least that her parents felt Pet was too young to go to a ball—held this evening at Belle Maison. Next year when she was sixteen she could go—but watching Belle’s excitement and frantic preparations for the New Year’s Ball, Pet failed to understand what the excitement was all about.

  “Pet, be a dear and hand me my locket,” Belle purred. “Over there on the table—the gold one with the red stone.” She took it from Pet, held it against her throat and sighed. “It’s so tacky! I must have a new necklace before the ball at Deerfield next month. Papa will just have to understand that I can’t go around looking like a scarecrow!”

  “I think you look beautiful, Belle,” Pet said. “Anyway, you’re always the prettiest girl at the dances.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Pet,” Belle replied with a trace of smugness.

  Pet’s eyes twinkled. “I’m sure you’ll be the prettiest one there—unless Martha Sue Grimes comes.” She was delighted to see Belle’s head snap up, and added innocently, “‘Course, I think you’re much prettier than she is, but you know what I heard—” She stopped. “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t mean to tell you!” Pet clapped her hand over her mouth and pretended to be horrified.

  “Didn’t intend to tell me what?” Belle demanded. “Tell me!”

  “Oh, it was just Beau Beauchamp, Belle. You know how he is!”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, I heard him tell Papa last week, ‘I don’t care if Martha Grimes is prettier than Belle, Mr. Winslow—her father doesn’t have half as many acres of good cotton land as you do’!”

  Belle’s face was crimson with fury! Pet stared at her sister’s expression, then fell into a fit of laughter. Belle ran to the bed and began beating Pet with both fists. “I’ll kill you—you little beast!” she cried.

  “Miss Belle, you gwine ruin dat dress! Now stop dat messin’ round, you hear me?”

  Belle straightened up and glared at Pet. “I’ll get even with you for that! I’ll tell Papa not to let you go to a ball until you’re an old woman!”

  Pet rolled over and smiled at Belle. “I don’t care. Papa said I could go on the big coon hunt when the snow melts—and he said I could shoot one too. That’ll be more fun than any old dance!” Then she jumped off the bed and ran to kiss Belle. “I was just funning you! You’re always the prettiest girl at the ball. Beau said so, and so did Vance Wickham.” She smiled at the sudden effect her words had on Belle, and whispered, “I’ll bet they’ll fight over you one of these days—maybe even a duel!”

  Belle shivered with pleasure, but said, “Oh, that would be just dreadful, Pet! You mustn’t even say such things!” She tried to look shocked, but her eyes gleamed. Assuming a prim frown, she picked up her evening bag, saying, “Well—I must go. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” She pecked Pet’s cheek, then dashed out of the room. Pet heard her greet the other young women who had come for the ball. They sound like a bunch of silly chickens! she thought.

  Downstairs the men were gathered around a large table set at one end of the ballroom in front of the huge bay window. It was a large room, thirty feet wide and nearly sixty feet long, composing half the first floor of Belle Maison. The other half of the house was across a wide hall—the kitchen, the small dining room, the library, and a parlor. The ballroom was kept closed most of the time, being used only for large groups or for dances such as this one.

  As many as a hundred people had attended dances there, though that was too crowded for comfort. Only about half that number were gathered for this night’s celebration—which was an informal New Year’s Watch Party. It had been a tradition at Belle Maison for several years, and the cream of the aristocratic young people of the neighborhood maneuvered for invitations with cut-throat determination.

  Around the table, lifting glasses in the first toast of the evening, were three older men—Sky Winslow, the host, and his guest, Seth Barton. Barton was the richest man in the county and looked the part. He was a tall man dressed in a fawn-colored frock coat and a snowy French dress shirt. The single diamond on his finger winked in the lights, and another shone in his dark blue cravat. He had the look of a man so assured of authority and power that it never occurred to him to accept anything less than the most prominent place. The other man was sixty years old, but looked older. He was Oscar Toombs, lieutenant governor of Virginia—a close friend of Barton’s.

  All the other men were very young, most of them twenty or less. Mark Winslow stood beside his best friend, Beau Beauchamp. Beauchamp was the largest of the younger set—six feet tall and bull-chested, but swift and fleet of foot, nonetheless. His eyes were light blue and glinted with quick emotion in the lamplight nearby. Vance Wickham stood across from Beauchamp and smiled at the larger man, his dark face in sharp contrast to Beauchamp’s. He lived west of the James River, but was much involved in the affairs of the county. It was rumored that he intended to move to Richmond. Some had even guessed that his frequent visits to Belle Maison were part of a campaign to marry Belle.

  The group also included Tom Winslow, Shelby Lee, a nephew of the famous general, and the Hardee twins, Gil and Robert, the best horsemen in the state. Next to the twins stood Will Henry, a pale young man, hopelessly in love with Belle, lost amid six or seven other young men who crowded close to the table.

  The musicians had begun tuning their instruments, so as the men raised their glasses of sherry for the first toast, Sky Winslow raised his voice above the noise. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast—here’s to the fine young men of our beloved South; there are no finer on the planet!”

  Toombs and Barton added “Hear! Hear!” and they all drank.

  “And to you, sir!”—Beau turned to Winslow as they refilled their glasses—“to you and your generation who have made our land an Eden! I give you the South, gentlemen!”

  “And destruction to her enemies!” Gil Hardee cried out. After they had drained their glasses, Mark announced, “Here come the young ladies.” He waved his hand languidly toward the broad double doors that seemed to erupt in a blaze of color as the brilliantly dressed young women entered. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t cause us as much trouble as the Yankees.”

  “Why, you’re not courteous, Mark,” Vance Wickham reproved sternly, but with a gleam of humor in his gray eyes. “I refuse to admit that any true southern woman could be anything but a joy.” He looked directly at Beau with a mocking smile. “I’m sure Beau will say amen to that.”

  Beau swayed his heavy shoulders and bowed slightly. “I must concede to your superior knowledge of women, Vance.” It was a dangerous speech, for Wickham’s reputation as a womanizer was well known but never alluded to in his presence. It had been mentioned once, but in the duel that followed, the poor chap had taken a bullet in his chest, and no man since then had dared speak ill of Wickham. Beau, however, was a person who loved danger, and in his contest with
Wickham for Belle’s favor, he stared at the other man fearlessly.

  Shelby Lee stepped forward, saying quickly, “Ladies, you are lovely,” and the mood changed as Beau smiled and took Belle’s hand, kissing it gallantly. “I believe the first dance is mine,” he smiled. He was an intensely handsome man and confident in his own skills as he guided her out on the floor to the fast tune the musicians were playing.

  “I declare, Beau,” Belle said, “you’re holding me too tight!”

  He only grinned and held her closer. “You’re beautiful tonight.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.” She smiled up at him, pleased as always with a compliment. Then with a mischievous gleam in her eyes she asked, “What were you and Vance talking about when we came in? Was it about the war?”

  “You’d hate to think so, wouldn’t you?” Beau grinned. “No, Vance and I were about to go outside for a duel to see which one would get you.” He knew she loved to be pursued, and his white teeth gleamed under his light mustache as he swung her around on the floor. “Tell me, sweet, which one of us would you rather have get the ball in the brain, me or old Vance?”

  “Oh, don’t be so awful, Beau!” she gasped, gripping his hand tightly. “You mustn’t fight over me—it would be wicked!”

  “But you’d forgive the winner, wouldn’t you, love? I mean, you’d be honor bound to marry the survivor.”

  He laughed and they moved across the floor, conscious that they were the center of attention.

  Mark glanced at them, and said to Rowena Barton, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Beau asked Belle to marry him pretty soon. He’ll have to hurry to get ahead of Vance, though.”

  “Which one do you think would make the best husband, Mark?” Rowena asked. She was a tall girl, like her father, and had his piercing eyes. Her mother had died at Rowena’s birth, and she had practically ruled their home since her teens. She was nineteen now and could have her pick among the bachelors of the county, but apparently had set her sights higher than the locals.