The Last Confederate Read online

  They quickly bundled up in warm coats and boots, and Sky said with a frown on his face, “Mark, I think this is a mistake.”

  “So do I, sir, but Beau and Wickham have gone too far to back down.”

  Beau came in at that moment with a rifle in his hands. He held it up, saying with pride, “Take a look at this, all of you—a new Whitworth!”

  They had heard about the English-made Whitworths, the finest long-range guns in the world, and rushed over to admire the weapon. Beau finally retrieved it, then said, “Let’s go whip this Yankee, boys!” And they rushed outside with a great deal of pushing and yelling.

  Pet Winslow ran to catch up to her father as he followed the rowdy crowd down the road to an old log cabin a half mile away. Noticing the frown on her face, Sky asked, “What’s wrong, Pet?”

  “It’s not fair, Papa!” she said, biting her lip. She looked up at him with anger in her eyes. “They’re making a fool out of Thad! Beau’s been shooting all his life—and poor Thad’s never even shot a gun. I think it’s mean!”

  Sky put his arm around her and gave her a quick hug. “Men do foolish things sometimes, Pet—and this is one of them.” He looked at her with affection. “You’re just the same as when you were a little girl—always taking care of every stray kitten or worn-out hound that showed up at the house—just like your mama, I reckon.”

  “Thad’s not a dog or a cat! I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  Sky said nothing, for he could not stop the match, but he resolved to make it up to the boy later. When they arrived at the old cabin, he saw seven or eight young fellows standing off to one side. “Why, that’s Dooley Young!” he exclaimed. “Wonder what that bunch is doing here?”

  They soon discovered that Dooley and his friends had finished a wild night of celebration in Richmond and had somehow heard of the shooting match. “They’re all drunk,” Beau said with disgust. He had no use for Dooley or for the small farmers that lived close to the river.

  “Well, I guess we’ve had a drop or two ourselves, Beau!” Gil Hardee laughed. “You been puttin’ away too much whiskey for a man who’s goin’ to shoot. I told you that last night.”

  “This isn’t a real match!” Beau snapped.

  “They think it is,” Gil replied soberly, waving toward the line of slaves that had come to lean on the fence close to Dooley’s crowd.

  Dooley was anticipating this match, and moved forward, his eyes bright above his swooping mustache. “Hidee, Mr. Winslow. We heard about this here match and sort of figgered we’d like to watch—if you don’t mind.”

  It was obvious that neither Dooley nor his friends cared a pin about whether they were welcome, but they appeared peaceful enough. “That’ll be all right, Dooley, but you’ll have to behave yourself.”

  “Me?” Dooley asked in obvious astonishment. “Why, Mr. Winslow, I am shocked! When did you ever hear of me doin’ anything else?”

  Winslow laughed, for he liked the feisty little man, and replied with a broad smile, “I do think I can recall a few times when you had to explain yourself to Judge Williams.”

  Sky turned from Dooley and walked over to where Beau was standing, and said, “They’ll be all right, Beau.”

  “You ought to run that trash off, Mr. Winslow!”

  Sky stared at him. “Beau, it won’t be long before you’ll be leading men into battle. Dooley is the kind of man that’ll save the South—if it can be saved. You’d better be willing to learn something about him.”

  Beau’s lips tightened and he shook his head. “We don’t need that kind in our army! Give me men like these”—he waved his hand proudly toward his friends—”and we’ll whip the Yankees!”

  Winslow considered him soberly before he spoke. “You’ll soon learn better, I hope.”

  Sky went back to stand beside Pet and Rebekah, calling out, “Shelby, state the rules and begin this thing.”

  Shelby Lee nodded and said, “I’ll ask all of you to stand on this line out of the line of fire. There’s been at least a little alcohol consumed lately, and I wouldn’t like a bullet in anything but the target!” He waited until the spectators moved back, then continued. “The rules are as follows: Seven volleys will be fired—the first from 40 yards, then at distances increasing at 20 yards until the final shots are fired from 160 yards.

  “The target will be these sheets of paper, six inches square with a cross to mark dead center. According to the bet, Mr. Beauchamp will get one shot; then his opponent will have three shots in which to do better. The first man to win four out of seven will be declared the winner.” Shelby paused, then added evenly, “In case of hits that are very close, I will ask Mr. Toombs, Mr. Barton, and Mr. Winslow to select the winner. Understood?”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Beau growled impatiently. He felt like a fool for getting himself in a match with a ragged boy, and wanted to settle the business. The only advantage he saw was an opportunity to get the best of Vance Wickham. He took his stance and looked at the white square fastened to the log house forty feet away.

  Shelby called, “Fire when ready,” and Beau fired instantly.

  “Dead center!” came the cry from several of his friends.

  Thad felt Wickham press him gently, and he came to the line and lifted his rifle, trying to remember all he’d been told. He was nervous, however, and sent his shot far to the right. He heard the jeer go up, but Wickham encouraged him quietly. “That’s not bad, Thad. Just a little case of buck fever. Slow and easy this time.”

  Thad took the rifle and this time did better. The slug hit the square, but high and to the right. There was a murmur of laughter from Beau’s supporters, but Thad caught a glimpse of Dooley and saw the little man wave encouragement. The third slug was again high and to the right.

  “First score to Mr. Beauchamp,” Shelby announced. “Move back to the next mark—sixty yards.”

  The second round was almost the same. Beau hit the mark dead center, and Thad sent three shots high and to the right. Wickham whispered to him, “The gun isn’t true. Next time aim lower and to the left of the cross.”

  Beau hurried his next shot, hitting the square, but three inches off the cross, and a groan went up from his friends. “Now you git yore licks in, Thad!” Dooley cried out, and his companions cheered loudly. The aristocrats gave them a shocked look, realizing that Dooley and his friends had chosen, for some reason, to champion the boy from the North. Dooley caught that look, and his mustache twitched as he shrugged. “Well, I got an interest in this boy, seein’ as how I sent him to ol’ Pitchfork and nigh got him froze to death. Anyways, I don’t figure he’s a real Yankee!”

  Beau ignored him, but Thad grinned for the first time. He stepped forward and fired—and a dot appeared exactly in the center of the cross. “Dead center!” the man who checked the target announced.

  “Beau, you better stop foolin’ around,” Robert Hardee frowned. “It won’t look good if you get whipped by that kid!”

  “The score is now 2 to 1, favor of Mr. Beauchamp,” Shelby announced, and the competitors moved back.

  As Beauchamp went to the line for the fourth shot, Belle cried out, “Beat him, Beau!” and all the young ladies echoed her cheer. Beau took careful aim and put his bullet in dead center, and a cheer went up.

  Thad stepped forward, and someone called, “You can do it, Thad.” He glanced toward where Pet stood with her head lifted high, ignoring the displeased look she got from the others. He saw as well that Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were smiling at him.

  The match had become more than a contest of skill. Beau Beauchamp, tall, powerful, and dressed in fine clothes, stood for one thing, and Thad stood for something else, he realized. Though he was not from the South, he was much closer to Dooley and his friends than Beauchamp was—and he was a million miles closer to the slaves! He saw Toby give him a huge smile and an encouraging nod, and knew that Beauchamp would never be able to make the slave do that!

  Toombs exclaimed in alarm, “We ought to stop thi
s, Barton!”

  “Too late,” Winslow said grimly. “We never should have let it start.”

  Thad put all three of his slugs close, but again Beauchamp was dead center. “Score is 3 to 1—Mr. Beauchamp!”

  Beau grinned, and Gil Hardee told him, “Just one more like that, Beau, and we can go to the house!”

  Beauchamp took careful aim, but just as he pulled the trigger, one of Dooley’s crowd—or Dooley himself, Thad thought—let loose an unnerving scream and Beau flinched, sending his shot to the left of the paper. “Clean miss” was the call.

  Beau’s face was crimson. “I’ll take that shot again, Shelby.”

  Vance Wickham remarked with a grin, “Think the Yankees will give you a second chance, Beau?” and a laugh went up from Dooley’s crowd. At a nod from Shelby Lee, Thad fired, and missed by two inches, but still beat Beauchamp’s clean miss.

  “Move back for the sixth shot,” Lee announced. “Score is 3 to 2—Mr. Beauchamp’s favor.”

  The factions grew much noisier now, and when Beau put his sixth shot only one inch from center, Thad’s supporters rent the air with their cheers. He could hear Pet above all of them, but did not look at her. He was feeling the pressure now, and did poorly with his first two shots. As he stepped forward for his next shot, he glanced at the crowd. Winslow’s sons looked worried, but not angry—though others did. Then he saw Pet, standing beside her parents. Suddenly she smiled brightly and raised her hands in a token of victory. He turned and lifted the rifle, sending the slug dead center.

  “The Yankee wins that round,” Robert Hardee said in disgust.

  “Score is tied at 3 to 3,” Shelby announced. “Move back to the last line; the winner of this volley will be the winner of the match.”

  The partisans of the two men were louder than ever, and Beau took his time, holding his breath and placing his shot. “Almost dead center!” was the verdict.

  “That’s all right, Thad,” Wickham murmured with a smile. “Get in that bottle now, and cork yourself in.”

  Thad heard the shrill shouts of the people. Then he deliberately tried to shut out everything except the white target—which now appeared very small. All at once it seemed as if the noise of the crowd was swallowed up in silence; he could hear only the heavy beating of his own heart. The target seemed to swell until he could see nothing else. He never remembered pulling the trigger, but he heard Shelby cry, “Almost dead center!” as the lookout pulled the sheets down and brought them at a dead run.

  Barton took them. “Gentlemen, we’ll adjourn to that grove to consider this matter.” Winslow and Toombs followed him a short distance to a stand of oak, and there they examined the target sheets. “They’re pretty close,” Winslow said. The others agreed, and finally Barton said, “Well, this one looks a hair closer—but I can’t be sure.”

  Barton was silent, then spoke soberly. “There’s more at stake here than two hundred dollars. Beau will be one of my officers. If he loses this match . . .” He did not continue, but the other two knew his fears.

  Toombs said quickly, “I think Beau has the best of it—slightly. What do you say, Winslow?”

  Sky stood there, still thinking that the boy had won—but he knew that Barton and Toombs were thinking of the problem of morale. He sighed heavily, handed the sheets back with a nod. “All right. Let’s get this mess over with.”

  They walked back, and Barton handed Shelby the target. “This is the winner.”

  Shelby raised his eyebrows, but said only, “Mr. Beauchamp is the winner.”

  Loud groans went up from Thad’s supporters, but Beau’s friends drowned them out. Belle threw her arms about Beau, and the young men joined in, beating him on the back and yelling his name.

  Perplexed by the outcome, Thad turned away. As he walked by Shelby, the man stepped in front of him, his hand extended. “Congratulations, young man,” he said warmly. “You did very well!”

  “Thank you, sir,” Thad replied, glancing in Beau’s direction. By the glare on his opponent’s face as he looked at Thad, the boy knew he had made a bitter enemy.

  Dooley and his friends were waiting to grab Thad. They pounded on his shoulders, and Dooley cried, “Boy, it’s our turn now! You got to come and help us celebrate—we ain’t even started good yet!” Thad was glad to get away, and looked back to see Pet give him a wave, then he left with the rowdy crowd, riding behind Dooley.

  Vance wasted no time walking up to Beau. “Congratulations, Beau. Here’s the two hundred.”

  Beau looked at the cash, then shook his head. “I hope you didn’t think I was serious about that bet, Vance.” He gave a hard look at the bunch of farmers riding out, saying, “That Yankee lied to us. He’s shot before!”

  Wickham was about to speak, but Shelby Lee joined them, saying quietly, “If all Yankees shoot like that one, it’s going to be a long, long war!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  POSSUM UP AN OAK TREE!

  April of 1861 was ushered in by a hot breath, melting the dagger-like icicles hanging from the eaves and dissolving the old snow. Frozen roads turned to a rich brown soup, and the wagons mired to the hubs.

  For Thad it was like the world coming to life. He had felt the pulse of Belle Maison the many long months he had cut ice with Toby, coming slowly to understand that the plantation was a little kingdom. The Big House was the palace, and Mr. Winslow, the king. Inside, the family ruled and the house servants scurried to meet the Winslow needs. Outside, a small group of slaves kept the grounds in order. The large open fields were ruled by Sut Franklin. He was responsible for the equipment, clearing the ditches, building fences, deciding when and where to plant, and giving the orders for the thousand and one details of getting the seed in the ground and the crops harvested. If Mr. Winslow was the king, Thad saw quickly, then Sut Franklin was the baron who carried out the king’s orders. Once Thad talked with Mr. Winslow about it. It was the first day of spring plowing, and the master had come to watch as the mules pulled the plowshares through the earth, turning up neat slabs of rich, black bottom-land.

  “Well, Thad, you’ve been at Belle Maison for four months. How do you like it?”

  “Oh, real good, Mr. Winslow!” he answered quickly. “Toby’s going to teach me how to plow.”

  “I hear good things about you. Hope you decide to stay on.”

  “I’d like it fine, sir.” He shook his head and added, “Sure beats working in a factory! But this is a busy place—something going on all the time. I don’t see how Sut gets it all done!”

  “He’s a good overseer.”

  “Yes, sir, he is, but . . .” Thad hesitated and finally blurted out, “But he is hard on the slaves.”

  Winslow shot a quick glance at the boy. “I know he is,” he said, regret in his voice. “I try to make sure he stays within bounds. What would happen to this place if the slaves weren’t kept in order?”

  “But—your slaves aren’t mean.”

  Mr. Winslow bit his lip, and when he spoke it was as if he were trying to convince himself more than the boy. “No—but they’re slaves, Thad. I guess you can’t blame anyone for being unhappy with being a slave.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at the plowmen following the teams across the fields. After a few minutes he turned and faced Thad. “One of these days, my boy, you yourself may be an overseer. And if you ever have the responsibility for a place like this—why, you, too, will become pretty hard.”

  Thad considered his words, then offered his thought. “I think they would do better if they were treated kinder, Mr. Winslow—not worse. That’s the way I am—and I figure the slaves are no different.”

  Sky Winslow said evenly as he turned to go, “Perhaps you don’t realize we’re about to fight a war to prove that they aren’t like us. If they are—God help us all!”

  An hour later when Thad had a chance to speak with Toby he asked, “Do you think Mr. Winslow is a bad man, Toby?”

  “He’s a mighty good man, Thad—but I reckon he’d like to be a better
one.” Toby took a drink of spring water from the bucket that Thad had brought, and gave the boy a careful look. He knew Thad was having a hard struggle with the problem of slavery. “He jes’ kinda caught in slavery—like we is. Slaves ain’t got no say in what dey is—but de man dat owns a slave, why he’s in a mess!”

  “How’s that?”

  “Why, don’cha see, boy—if a man can be bought and sold like a gun or a hoss, den a man ain’t no more dan a piece of property. Now, Mr. Winslow, he be a Christian man, and he don’ want to think dat—’cause it would mean dat no man was more dan a hoss—and he knows de Bible say different.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Thad nodded. The thought had never come to him like that, and he considered buying and selling people with a new distaste. “Would you like to be free, Toby?”

  Toby put his massive black hand on top of Thad’s. “Feel dat hand, boy? It’s warm—jes’ like yo’ hand. No different. I guess we all wants to be free, Thad.” He added with a sober look on his face, “I see a darksome time comin’.” Then he slapped his leg and started back for the plow. “Tonight is de night when we goes on dat possum hunt, Thad. Gets to stay fo’ two days and two nights! Whooeee! We gonna have us a time!”

  The subject of the possum hunt came up at supper in the Big House that night. Mark had followed Rowena to Richmond, and Dan, burning to learn more about the war, had gone along. Belle had joined them; leaving only Tom and Pet there with their parents. Sky said as he bit into his steak, “Rebekah, did you read that letter from New York?”

  “Yes, I did.” Rebekah sipped her tea, then asked, “Who is Whitfield Winslow, Sky?”

  “Oh, he’s one of the New England branch. I never met him—but I remember hearing about his father, Paul Winslow.”

  “Why, he’s the war hero, isn’t he, Father?” Tom asked. “The one who died in the War of 1812?”

  “That’s the one.” Sky paused, his brow furrowing. “Pa told me one time that if Paul Winslow hadn’t come and gotten him out of prison, I wouldn’t have been born.” They all knew the story of how Christmas Winslow, Sky’s father, had gone to prison over a shooting affair; it had been Paul Winslow and his father Charles who had gotten him a pardon.