The Last Confederate (16 page)

It was a stunning defeat for the Union, and the South was alive with hope. Now the troops were back in Richmond, and as Thad drove the wagon into the main district, he saw that it would be impossible to get the vegetables to the merchants. The streets were filled with riotous crowds, jamming the streets so densely that he said, “We’d better go to your house. They’re not thinking about tomatoes and greens in Richmond today.”

They found the house occupied only by Mary, who said, “Dey all done gone to town. Big doin’s, wid all dem solgers back.”

“Oh, Thad, let’s go try to find Mark and Tom!” Pet pleaded, and he agreed at once. Leaving the wagon, they made their way on foot across the town, and when they got to Cherry Street, they were just in time to see the regiment parade between the screaming throngs that lined the streets.

The gray-clad troops marched by, and suddenly Pet cried out, “Oh! there’s Mark,” and before Thad could move she darted out to throw herself into the arms of her brother.
Mark was caught off guard, and his dignity went with the wind as she glued herself to him. The crowd laughed, and Mark’s face turned red, but then he, too, laughed. “Go give Tom a hug, Sis. He’s right back there.”

She found Tom, who was marching along with a wide grin, and Thad noted that Pet was not the only one breaking into the parade. He caught sight of Belle Winslow in a snowy white dress. She detached herself from the crowd and ran to where Vance Wickham was marching behind Captain Sloan. She had a flag in her hand and gave it to him, then marched along with him, clinging to his arm. Other girls did the same, and soon the military gray of the Third Virginia was dotted with the vivid reds and blues of taffeta dresses.

Thad pushed his way along with the crowd until they got to the park at the west end of town, where the regiment was formed in front of a platform often used for band concerts and special speakers. The platform was shaded by a group of stately elms and decorated with red and white streamers. Seated in place were a group of dignitaries.

Eventually the crowd quieted, and Jefferson Davis came forward. He was a thin man, straight as a ramrod, and his face seemed almost cadaverous as he faced the troops and the massed crowd of civilians. His wife, Varina, stood to his left. She was a striking young woman, dark-haired and attractive. The President began to speak, and despite his austere manner, he spoke well, ending his speech with a promise: “When the last line of bayonets is leveled, I will be with you!”

A shrill, yelping cry erupted, and then soldiers and civilians alike joined in, filling the air with cries of victory. Thad felt out of place, alienated, standing there quietly when seemingly every other person was jumping and screaming. He moved his eyes over the crowd to his left and was surprised to see Captain Winslow and his grandson standing at the edge. They, too, were marked by their lack of enthusiasm. Davis was listening intently to the President. But the sharp eyes of the older man were locked on Thad, and for one brief moment,
the cries seemed to fade. It was almost as if the captain and Thad were alone. The two stood there in that strange manner until Thad dropped his head and moved back into the crowd, escaping the scrutiny of the other.

All day, the people milled around, but Thad made his way back to the house and sat in the swing on the front porch, listening to the sounds of laughter and joy that floated over Richmond. He was depressed. He wished he were back at Belle Maison. He longed for the silence of the woods, for the warm, dark laughter of the negroes as they worked in the fields.

Again and again, his mind went back to those eyes riveted on him.
I have to get away!
he thought. He got up and walked toward the fields lying west of town, going far enough to shut out the sounds of revelry floating over the city.

****

Every public room that would hold twenty people was packed that night, but the most prestigious celebration was in the large dining room of the Ballard House. Colonel Barton and his staff were the guests of President Davis, and the cream of the Confederate world was there.

Sky had pressed Davis and his grandfather into attending, and both of them felt out of place as speaker after speaker lauded the troops of the Confederate Army. Davis studied the cabinet members, especially the pale, emaciated Vice-President Alexander Stephens and the attorney general, a plump, seal-sleek Jew named Judah Philip Benjamin of Louisiana. He sat at the table next to Davis’s, masking his thoughts with a perpetual smile held before himself like a silk-ribbed fan.

After a while Colonel Barton arose. “You have heard much about our brave men and the victory they won. I want you now to hear from one of our own officers concerning the death of our beloved General Bee.” A hum went around the room, and Barton continued. “Lieutenant Winslow, I want you to tell our guests what happened at the Henry House.”

Mark stood up slowly, his uniform gray as ash, his boots shining like well-rubbed wood, and the tassels on the colored sash gleaming in the candlelight. Rebekah gripped Sky’s arm, for she could not stem the tears that spilled over. She thought how handsome he was—so vulnerable! One ball could bring this child of hers to a grave on some far battlefield! Yet, she was proud and hung on every word he said.

Mark spoke quietly and soberly, telling of the confusion that gripped both armies, and a hush fell over the room. Finally he got to the death of General Bee.

“General Bee’s brigade was broken by Burnside, and moved back to the Henry House. I had been sent by Colonel Barton to find General Beauregard, but the air was so thick with lead, I couldn’t get through. General Bee rode by, his loping black hair fluttering. There were about two thousand of our men trapped in a little ravine below the woods. Everything was in confusion. Nobody knew which way to go. I caught up to General Bee to ask if he knew where General Beauregard was, and he said he didn’t.”

Mark paused, then raised a hand to touch his forehead. When he looked out at the audience, his eyes were sad. “General Bee tried to stop the men from running. He stood up in his stirrups and waved his sword—then he saw Jackson’s brigade at the top of the ravine. General Bee called out: ‘Look, men, there’s Jackson’s brigade! It’s standing like a stone wall. Rally behind the Virginians!’.”

A burst of applause broke the silence, and most of the crowd jumped to their feet, faces aglow with pride and admiration. But when they sat down, Mark said, “Jackson’s brigade saved the day, but right after that, a ball knocked General Bee out of the saddle. He died before we could move him off the battlefield.”

Mark sat down, and Jefferson Davis stood to his feet and said, “I think we must now pray for our brave wounded—and for the families of those who paid the supreme sacrifice for their country. Chaplain Butler, will you lead us, please?”

A tall, strong-faced man with a shock of black hair prayed, and then the dignitaries at the head table left the room, while others stayed to talk. Davis would have left also if he had felt free, but he sat beside his grandfather, who was having an animated conversation with Stephen Mallory about their time of service together.

Soon only a very few remained. Davis fidgeted in his chair, bored and wishing to leave. His eyes swept the room and he saw Belle Winslow approaching with a group of officers around her. “You must meet my cousin Davis,” she said with a smile, and as he rose she detached herself from the arms of two of the officers and introduced the men: “Major Lee, Lieutenant Wickham, Lieutenant Beauchamp, and my brother, Lieutenant Mark Winslow . . .” She named off others in the group; then she turned to her cousin. “Davis has just come back to this country after getting his degree at Oxford.”

“I understand your home is in Washington, sir,” Beau remarked, smiling slightly. “I would imagine you feel rather uncomfortable here with all us rebels.”

“I must admit, it is a little thick for a Northerner, Lieutenant,” Davis acknowledged.

“We are glad to have you, Mr. Winslow,” Major Lee added, his manner indicating to his junior officers that they were to be courteous to the Yankee. “I know your brother Lowell. We were very close at the Point.”

“He has spoken of you often, Major,” Davis returned.

“I’m told you’re a writer, sir,” Wickham said. “Did you come here to gather local color?”

“No, sir. I came with my grandfather. He’s the writer, actually.”

Major Lee hesitated. “Would it be imposing on you, Mr. Winslow, if I asked about England’s feelings—concerning the South, I mean?”

Everyone was listening carefully, so Davis gave them as accurate a report as he could, ending by saying, “So there is much sympathy for your cause, Major Lee—but there are
many who are opposed to slavery, and would not be in favor of coming to your aid.”

“Ah, Captain Winslow,” Lee said, turning to the older man, “we are putting your grandson through a painful interview. Perhaps we might have your views? How will our victory at Bull Run affect your people? Will they give up?”

Captain Winslow shook his head. “Would
you
give up, Major Lee, if you had been defeated? I think not.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “If I may be permitted one observation as an outsider, I think your victory may do you much harm.”

“How so, sir?” Beauchamp demanded sharply.

“I have been a sailor for many years, some of them in hard battles at sea—and it always seemed to me that winning the first victory of a war tended to make us overconfident.”

“Why, that’s exactly what Stonewall Jackson said!” Mark exclaimed. “Others wanted to go on and take Washington, but Jackson said, ‘This will be a costly victory for us. We will be overconfident.’.”

Belle took Davis’s arm and smiled sweetly at the others. “I have a few questions to ask my cousin, if you gentlemen will excuse us.”

Davis followed her out of the main dining room into a small parlor used by guests. She sat down and patted the space beside her. “Sit down, Davis.”

He followed her instructions, saying, “I think I saw a jealous fire in the eyes of several hot-headed young Confederate officers, Miss Belle. Are you trying to get me killed in a duel?”

“Oh, Davis, you are foolish!” she laughed, then arched her eyebrows and leaned against him. “Would
you
fight a duel for a little southern girl?”

“I couldn’t hit that wall with a pistol,” he answered. “Anyway, Grandfather and I are leaving day after tomorrow, so I won’t have time to cut the lieutenants out of your favor.”

“Do you have to go?” she pouted. “If you’d stay just a little longer, you’d learn the truth about this war.”

“Don’t try to make a Confederate out of me, Miss Belle,” he replied quickly, his face suddenly sober. “I’m going back to England just as soon as Father permits it. My life is there.”

She stared at him a moment, and when she spoke her voice was edged in anger. “But this is
your
country!”

“Not really.” He saw the bewilderment in her eyes, and added, “I think after this war, there’ll be nothing left of what I liked best about this country. No, I’ll probably take citizenship in England as soon as possible.”

Belle stared at him, then rose to her feet, her face set. “I don’t understand a man who won’t fight for his country.” With that she spun on her heels and left the room. She was immediately met by the two lieutenants.
No doubt they were waiting in the wings for her!
Davis thought wryly.

He went directly to his room instead of returning to the table. When his grandfather came in, Davis asked, “How much more work do you have on the book?”

“Ready to go back home?” the captain responded quietly. “I guess the little rebel girl gave you a bad time.”

“Oh yes, but it isn’t that. I . . .” He hesitated. “I want to go back to England.”

“Yes, I know. But are you sure that’s what you really want, Davis?”

“I know what I
don’t
want—and that’s to get mixed up in this crazy war.”

They said little more to each other, and two days later Sky accompanied them to the railway station, with Thad driving. As they stepped down from the carriage, Captain Winslow walked around to Thad’s side. “Boy, where are you from?” he demanded, staring up into his face.

Thad’s eyes shifted to Sky, who stood there waiting for the boy’s answer, and finally said reluctantly, “New York.”

“Oh?” The captain studied Thad’s thin, dark face as a jeweler might study a stone he was about to cut. “I lived in New York once, after I retired from the Navy.” He stood
there so long that Davis nudged him. “We’d better get on the train, Grandfather.”

“All right.” The men moved away, and Thad waited for his employer to return. As they made their way back to the hotel, Sky said, “Captain Winslow is a smart man, Thad. He thinks he recognizes you.” When Thad remained silent, Sky added, “Anytime you want to tell me anything, Thad, I’ll listen—and I mean
anything.
”

Thad nodded glumly. “Yes, sir, I’ll remember.”

Sky knew he had come up against a locked door, so he changed the subject. “Tell me about the farm.” As Thad spoke enthusiastically about crops and field hands, Sky half listened, for his mind kept drifting back to Thad’s first appearance. Toby had said the boy was asking for “the Winslow place.” Since then Sky had grown to love the boy, and the secrecy troubled him, but right now he could do no more.

It’ll be up to Thad to tell me whatever it is.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CAMP MEETING

The year 1861 closed with a harvest that exceeded anything ever seen in Virginia. Cotton bales were stacked like fortress walls on every dock, waiting shipment to England, and the corncribs were overflowing. The ground had been a cornucopia, pouring forth its riches, and Sky Winslow should have been rejoicing. Instead, as he walked over the stripped fields with Sut Franklin and Thad, he was discouraged.

“Best we ever did!” Franklin nodded. “I never seen cotton grow like this—and the bugs musta gone somewhere else, ’cause they shore didn’t hit us like usual.”

Thad said little. He could tell by his employer’s face that he was unhappy. Finally, Franklin got his orders from Winslow and left the two walking alone through the fields. The cotton stalks were like ghosts, with shreds of white clinging to their skeleton arms, stirring in the sharp breeze. The keening of the wind added to the illusion, for it sounded to Thad like the cry of tiny phantoms calling from the ground.