The Last Confederate Read online

  He gave a sour glance at the crowd of uniformed soldiers and pretty girls attired in all the colors of the rainbow, then snorted, “I thought this was a war we were getting into—not a blasted tea party!”

  Rebekah bit her lip. “Let them have this time, dear,” she said quietly. Her smooth brow creased and the light went out of her eyes. “Some of them won’t be here for the next ball, I’m afraid.”

  He blinked in surprise. At her comment his keen eyes swept the yard, seeing it in a new light. The bright July sun beat down on the milling crowd, illuminating the scene with a brilliant intensity. Brass buttons, newly coined, flashed as the soldiers dressed in gray moved across the yard, and Winslow thought, They’re all as newly minted as the buttons they wear—and none of them have the slightest idea of the hell they’re walking into!

  Winslow well knew the horror of violence, for he had grown up in a savage world. Although his father had been a missionary, Sky himself had been thrust into the bloody wars that flared up constantly between the Indians. He had endured the screaming charges of his enemies, and he had dealt the death blow more often than he liked to think about. Now the memories flooded him, and he wondered how this group of perfumed, barbered, and cultured young men would react when they waded over a field with men literally blown to raw meat.

  There had never been any question about their conscription. They would have to go. Sky’s mind raced over the events of the last months—events that had brought these young men to Belle Maison. It was like a series of steel doors slamming on the South. It had started when Lincoln had been elected in November of 1860. His election had set in motion a swift reaction from the South; in February of the next year, seven southern states had met in Montgomery, Alabama, and formed the Southern Confederacy. Another fated door clanging shut. Their first act was to take possession of federal property—forts, arsenals, offices—within their boundaries. These were all bloodless takeovers until on April 12, the Confederates attacked Fort Sumpter—the first shots of the war. Another door shut—and the sound of the guns triggered a reaction, causing four more states to join the Confederacy.

  Even before Virginia withdrew from the Union, the patriots of the Old Dominion were being formed into a regiment. Sky looked around and saw that Colonel Barton was surrounded by his officers, which included Captain Shelby Lee of Company A, called the Richmond Blades, Beau Beauchamp, and his own son, Mark, wearing lieutenants’ uniforms. He shifted his gaze and saw his son Tom wearing corporals’ stripes, and then he looked quickly at Rebekah. Her face was still, but the pain in her eyes was not difficult to read. He put his arm around her protectively. “It’s hard. They’re so young.”

  She sighed and forced a smile. “Go for your ride, dear.” As he climbed into the buggy, she watched, thankful to God that he was not going with the Company A. When Jefferson Davis had asked Sky to come to Richmond as part of the staff, Rebekah had listened patiently as her husband protested to the hilt that his place was with the company. Finally he had agreed—but she was well aware that it would take very little to make him forget Richmond and ride out with the others. Thank God, he’s not going—and maybe it’ll be over before Dan has to go. Her youngest son had been wild to enlist, and only a stern command from Sky had kept the boy from joining up. Even now he was standing to one side, his face rigid with disappointment. Dan had pointed out repeatedly that many of the volunteers were only seventeen, a year older than he—but Sky had said adamantly, “The best thing that could happen to you, Dan, would be to miss the whole blasted war!”

  As Sky left later for the two-hour trip to Richmond, with Thad at his side in the buggy, he thought of how he himself would have reacted to such a statement when he had been Dan’s age. A wry smile touched his lips as he recalled how he had ridden out with a Sioux war party for a raid on the Pawnees when he was a year younger than Dan. Then bringing his mind to the present, Sky noted with pleasure how well Thad had mastered the skill of driving a team. An ironic thought crossed his mind: If the rest of the Yankees learn to ride and shoot as quickly as Thad, we’re in real trouble!

  The trip to Richmond went quickly, for the two talked of the plantation work—Thad with enthusiasm and Sky answering with a quiet smile. Finally as they rode into the edge of town, the older man said, “I’m right proud of you, Thad. You’ve learned more about farming in a few months than most people do in a lifetime.”

  Thad flushed with pleasure, and ducked his head awkwardly as he always did when Winslow praised him, but Sky went on with a touch of sadness in his voice. “I’m going to count on you to keep things together, you know. Everybody else has gone loco over this war—but they don’t understand that somebody’s got to keep the farm going while the war’s going on. The army can’t eat moonbeams!”

  “Lots of folks say the war’s gonna be over in a few weeks,” Thad remarked. “All your boys are scared to death they’ll miss it—especially Dan.”

  Winslow shook his head and didn’t answer for so long that Thad thought he had not heard. Finally Sky spoke. “They don’t have to worry about that, Thad. There’ll be enough battles to satisfy all of them before this thing’s finished.”

  As they turned down Cherry Street, a shrill yelping cry made them both turn, and Dooley Young, mounted on his fine-boned mare, wheeled and raced toward them. “Hey, Thad—hidee, Mr. Winslow,” he cried as he pulled the animal to a dead stop. “Come in to see the show?”

  “What show’s that, Dooley?” Sky asked.

  “Why, look around.” The banty-legged rider grinned, waving his hand at the milling crowd that pushed and shoved all along the crowded streets. “I been to three county fairs, six revival meetin’s, and a couple of snake stompings—but I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this!”

  “You two better stick together while I get my business done,” Sky smiled. “One of you will be in bad company, but I couldn’t swear which.” He stepped out of the buggy and moved through the crowd, saying over his shoulder, “You go on to Oliver’s and pick up the supplies, Thad. I’ll be pretty busy, so you and Dooley try to keep each other out of trouble until about three. Pick me up in front of the bank.”

  Dooley stepped off the mare and tied her to the rear of the buggy, then leaped up to sit beside Thad, chattering like a squirrel. As they made their way toward the west end of town he remarked, “Looks like the whole town’s gone crazy, don’t it, Thad? I ain’t seen this many folks in Richmond since they hanged Ramsey Tyler and his bunch.”

  Thad held the reins tightly, knowing the spirited matched set of blacks would bolt at any excuse. “Hold up there, Molly!” he commanded sharply as the sleek mare lowered her head and plunged forward, startled by the sudden cacophonic blast of a small band that was marching down the middle of the avenue. As he skillfully guided the team through the maze of horses, wagons, and a mass of careless pedestrians dressed in colorful garb, he shook his head. “Don’t see that going to war is all that much to shout about.”

  Dooley twisted around to stare at Thad, his pale blue eyes bright in the July sunlight. He could not explain the friendship that had sprung up between the two of them, for like most hill-country people, he was slow to form lasting friendships with outsiders. His friends had ragged him for spending so much time with a Yankee, but Dooley ignored them, realizing that Thad had a solid quality that was rare—even among Southerners! He considered Thad’s remark, then loosed a stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon, narrowly missing the boot of a dandy in fine array, who gave him an angry look. Then he replied, “Why, shoot, Thad, it’s jest natural to get excited when they’s a fight comin’ up. ’Course, it’s all new to you, but if you’d been here and had to put up with the way the Yankees been shovin’ us around, tellin’ us we can’t own no slaves . . .” Dooley spat again, and nodded vigorously.

  “But—Dooley, you don’t have any slaves, and I heard you say once you never intended to own any.”

  “Mebby not, but there ain’t no gorilla like Lincoln goin’ to tell me I can’
t!”

  Thad shook his head and gave up, for he had this argument often with his friend and knew it was hopeless. He could understand why the Winslows would go to war over slavery, but in his short sojourn in Virginia he had become aware that the majority of slaves were owned by a very small group of rich planters. Some small farmers owned one slave, but it was far different in their cases, for the owner and the slave had to work closely together because of economic necessity.

  He guided the team down main street to a large store with a sign reading “Oliver’s Mercantile Store” spanning the sidewalk high overhead. Thad led the way inside and stepped up to the counter. Len Oliver, the portly owner, gave him a quick look, then turned to wait on another customer. Dooley’s sharp eyes took in the slight, but said nothing. Thad waited patiently, though there was a flush on his high cheekbones. Finally Oliver moved to where Thad was standing and asked briefly, “Something for you?”

  “Mr. Winslow wants these things.” He handed the list to Oliver, who stared at it.

  “Ain’t got no help to load all this stuff,” Oliver said in a surly tone. “You’ll have to do it yourself.”

  Thad straightened to his full height, and his words carried over the store. “I’ll step on down to Miller’s. If you don’t need Mr. Winslow’s business, I guess that man can use it.”

  Thad wheeled angrily and left the store, ignoring Oliver’s sputtering “Now—just a minute there . . . !” As Thad and Dooley stepped into the buggy, the store owner rushed out, his face pale. Waving his finger in the air, he protested, “You won’t get by with this. I’m telling Mr. Winslow about this—and I’m also telling him what a mistake he’s making letting a Yankee run his business!”

  Thad ignored him, released the brake, and drove off, leaving Oliver in the street shaking his fist and cursing. Dooley stole a glance at the boy, then grinned and struck him a sharp blow on the shoulder. “If that don’t beat all!” he cackled. “It shore puts the hair in the butter, don’t it now?”

  “Guess I shouldn’t have done that,” Thad said unsteadily. He had taken Oliver’s slights for weeks, saying nothing, and he was shaken at the fiery gust of rage that had so quickly exploded in him.

  “Aw, don’t fret none about Mr. Sky, Thad,” Dooley grinned. “He knows ol’ man Oliver’s the tightest geezer in Richmond. He’s so stingy he breathes through his nose to keep from wearing out his false teeth! Mr. Sky’s had a round or two with Len Oliver his own self. I think he’d like an excuse to trade with Miller.”

  Thad drove the buggy over to Oak Street, where John Miller filled his order with alacrity. He was a small, fair-skinned man with bright blue eyes. “Appreciate the business, Thad,” he said as he loaded the last of the supplies in the rear of the buggy.

  “You get a lot of ragging, Thad?” Dooley asked as they walked down the board sidewalk. “ ’Bout bein’ a Yankee, I mean?”

  “Oh, some people are pretty short with me, Dooley.” He studied the street carefully, then added, “Guess it’s going to get worse.”

  “Aw, we’ll whip those Lincoln monkeys in no time, Thad,” Dooley boasted. “Anyways, you ain’t no Yankee no more. You’re a good ’ol southern boy now.”

  The pair wandered down the street, and it seemed that Dooley knew almost everybody in Richmond. He was constantly singled out, and by the time he had been pulled into half a dozen saloons to celebrate the war, his eyes were slightly glazed, and he said, “Thad, I’m gittin’ a little drunk. You gotta promise me I won’t enlist.” His speech was slurred, and he put his hand on Thad’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “These here recruiters got their eyes on me—but no matter what happens, don’t let ’em git me! You promise?”

  “But—how can I stop you, Dooley?”

  Dooley’s mouth turned up beneath the huge mustache. “Hit me over the head with a fence post and sling me over my hoss if you have to,” he said. “This here liquor is makin’ me downright patriotic—and I ain’t made up my mind which bunch I wanna be in—so you stick close and keep me away from them recruiters!”

  Dooley’s request seemed absurd, but Thad discovered that the small man had been prophetic, for more than once he had to pull Dooley away from an avid recruiter—or what was even more difficult, from some of his friends who had signed up and wanted Dooley in their company. Finally, Dooley stared at Thad through glazed eyes and mumbled, “Good ol’ Thad! Bes’ friend I got—in the whole—world!” But an hour later, when Thad tried to pull him away from a burly sergeant, he got angry and began to curse. “Mind your own business!” he yelled, and took the pen and was about to write his name.

  “Come on, Dooley.” Thad was relieved to see Mack Young, Dooley’s cousin, a huge man in his thirties, step up and remove the pen. Dooley cursed him, too, but Mack simply walked him off, saying, “Much obliged, Thad. I’ll take keer of him now.”

  Thad wandered around the streets; it seemed that the frenzied excitement of the people increased as the shadows grew longer. He heard snatches of songs improvised for the emergency—“Maryland, My Maryland,” “John Brown’s Body,” and a parody that ran:

  I want to be a soldier

  And with the soldiers stand,

  A knapsack on my shoulder,

  And musket in my hand;

  And there beside Jeff Davis,

  So glorious and so brave,

  I’ll whip the cussed Yankee

  And drive him to his grave.

  He paused to watch some boys who were keeping their patriotism warm by playing “Yank” and “Reb” in mock battles. At one time one of these groups had grown so feisty that the city authorities had been forced to break up the game. Thad crossed over to Church Hill where some boys had scattered and re-formed, beginning the battle again. Not to be outdone, a group of young girls showed their patriotism by filling their aprons with small chunks of coal from a coal house, then racing into the fray, shouting, “Kill them! Kill them!”

  The whole thing depressed Thad, and he was glad when three o’clock finally arrived. But he was in for a surprise. Mr. Winslow was flushed and out of sorts. “Thad, I’ve got to stay in town. Take the supplies back and give this note to my wife—and I want you to drive her and the girls here for the ball.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thad half turned, then stopped and wheeled back to face Mr. Winslow. “I got the supplies from Miller’s store.”

  Winslow knew more about the situation than Thad thought. Sky had observed the manner in which Len Oliver treated the boy, but had said nothing. Now he waited for Novak to explain, but he stood there quietly. Finally Sky said, “If you think that’s best, Thad, then that’s what we’ll do.” His brow creased and he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, saying, “I’m going to need all the help I can get, Thad.”

  Thad’s shoulder seemed to glow under the pressure of Winslow’s hand, and he said, “I—I’ll try to please you, sir!”

  ****

  As darkness fell on Richmond, the city glittered; thousands of lamps and lanterns seemed to reflect the brilliant stars overhead. By some sort of mystic communication, every patriotic citizen had his residence ablaze with a thousand lights, leaving the dark houses as suspect—those who lived in them being labeled “Yankees,” “Abolitionists,” and “Black Republicans,” and virtually ostracized.

  The Exchange Hotel and the Ballard House dominated Cherry Street. The Ballard House had a glass balcony stretching over the street, connecting the two hotels; and they lit up the darkness in a grand spectacle, glittering and reflecting the crystal lights. Both had large ballrooms, and on this night each was filled to capacity with newly minted officers, civilians with the weight of the new government of the Confederacy on them, and what appeared to be hundreds of women dressed in gorgeous gowns of every hue. Each ballroom had an orchestra, and music spilled out of the buildings, rising at times over the excited voices of the guests who spun about the dance floors and milled at the outer edges.

  Belle was being whirled around in a fast waltz by Vance Wickham, who was
wearing a new ash-gray uniform. A humorous light danced in his eyes, and he pulled her closer and whispered, “You really must choose me, Belle. After all, I’m the first lieutenant and Beau is second.” He laughed as she threw her head back, adding, “Of course, by that logic you ought to marry Shelby Lee since he’s the major.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Vance,” she said with a brilliant smile. She was wearing a light blue gown with a tight bodice, and two blue stones dangled from her ears. Her hoop skirt brushed against him, and the excitement of the evening made her eyes enormous. She leaned against him, whispering, “Vance, you look absolutely handsome in your uniform! The Richmond Blades just has to be the best company in the whole Confederate Army!”

  After Sumpter, Seth Barton had begun at once to raise a regiment, The Third Virginia Infantry, of which one company was The Richmond Blades. Its ranks had been filled immediately by young men generally of wealth, education and refinement. Wickham was first lieutenant, Beau second, and Belle’s brother Mark was third. None of them had the faintest idea what processes of thought had made those decisions since they had never served a day in the army. “I think they must have gone by intelligence,” Vance had teased Beauchamp and Winslow when they were notified of their respective ranks. Both Mark and Beau had laughed, but it was evident to Wickham that Beau’s laughter was forced. It had grated on Beauchamp’s pride to be under his rival’s shadow, and Wickham knew that every decision he made would be picked to pieces by the other.

  As if in echo to Vance’s thoughts, Beau appeared magically as the last notes of the waltz sounded. Vance smiled and handed Belle over to Beau. “I hope you’re as prompt in your military duties as you are in your ballroom ones, Beau,” he commented.

  Beau grinned rashly, and wheeled Belle away as the band struck up a new tune. She smiled up at him, thinking that the two men were as different in styles of dance as they were in everything else. Both were excellent dancers, but whereas Vance was smooth, polished and light with his direction, Beau went at the dance as he did everything else—with complete assurance and a forceful manner. At first she resisted his tight embrace and his domination, but as the dance went on she found herself enjoying it in a perverse fashion. She was a girl who had learned quickly that she could do what she liked with most men, and the strength of this one had been a challenge. Now with the martial spirit of the evening, the emotionally charged times of war, she shivered with excitement as he held her close, his light blue eyes shining in his strong masculine face.