The Dixie Widow (11 page)

Again Wilder passed his hand over his brow; then his lips tightened and he burst out, “It was that Wickham woman—the Dixie Widow!”

Pinkerton whispered something that Wilder couldn’t hear.
He went on. “But how could the woman have gotten to the papers if you didn’t give them to her?”

“I—she was a guest in my house,” Wilder gulped. Finally he said, “I may as well tell you, sir—she’s a woman of no morals. She’d been chasing me for some time, and I finally asked her out a few times. Then, one night, she asked if we could stop by my house for a drink. Well, frankly, I was suspicious of her from the beginning, so I thought it might be possible to find out what she was like. So we went to the house and I tried to get something out of her.”

“You didn’t believe her story about being a converted Rebel?”

“Of course not!” Wilder shook his head emphatically, allowing a downcast expression to show. “But she’s clever! Oh yes, I’ll give her that.”

“How so?”

“Well, sir, we were having a drink, and she asked for a glass of water. I went to get it, and she drugged my drink!”

“Did you taste the drug?”

“Why, no, sir, but it had to be that way . . .” Wilder hesitated. “I was out in no time—I mean just passed out!”

“You’d been drinking. You were just drunk.”

“No! I’d only had a couple of drinks, I swear it! And I have a good head for liquor—ask any of my friends!”

“We have,” Pinkerton spoke up dryly. “And they agree with what you say. So you were drugged. When you woke up, was the woman there?”

“No, sir!”

“Did you check your papers?”

Wilder hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “They were all there—but I know now that she must have copied them and passed them on to the Rebels.”

“Why didn’t she take the papers themselves?”

“Why, then I’d know that she had done it. I suspect she wanted to get more information out of me.”

Abruptly the bright lights dimmed, and with a shock
Wilder saw the secretary of war standing beside Pinkerton. He was glaring at Wilder with an angry look. “What a fool you are, Wilder!”

“Sir, I—”

“Pick up the woman at once,” Stanton commanded.

“What about the colonel?” Pinkerton asked.

“He’ll have to testify against the Wickham woman.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that with great pleasure,” Wilder agreed, relief flooding him. “I’ll nail her for you, sir!”

“And after the trial, you can have what you’re always complaining you never get!”

“Sir?”

“I’m having you assigned to active duty under Grant,” Stanton stated with a hard look in his eye. “The average life of his company officers is about two months. Sorry there won’t be any women down there in the lines at Vicksburg for you to dally with.” He turned on his heel, ordering, “Keep him under house arrest until after the trial, Pinkerton.
And get that woman!
”

****

Less than an hour after Pinkerton left Colonel Wilder, who was reduced to a fit of hysterical pleading, he walked up to the home of Captain Whitfield Winslow and rapped on the door. Soon a woman dressed in black appeared. “Yes? Did you wish to see Captain Winslow?”

“Are you Mrs. Belle Wickham?”

“Why, yes, I am.”

Pinkerton pulled a paper from his inner coat pocket, handed it to Belle, who stared at it uncomprehendingly. “What is this?” she asked.

“It’s a warrant,” he said, keeping his narrow eyes on her face. “I arrest you, Belle Wickham, on the charge of treason. And I warn you that anything you say may be held against you!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOME TO RICHMOND

The
Calcutta
docked at New York at dawn, and Davis Winslow was the first passenger to step off the gangplank. He shouldered his way through the crowd waiting to meet the ship, tossing his bag into the first cab he saw. As they drove through the city, he paid no heed to the cherry blossoms filling the air with its fragrance. He had left England the day he got the news of Lowell’s death, and had made record time on the fastest ship making the New York run. Now arriving at his destination, he was reluctant to enter the house. He went up the walk with a heavy heart and gave the brass knocker a solid rap.

The door opened, and his mother cried, “Davis!” He dropped his bag and held her, shocked at how thin she was and at the ravages that had destroyed the smooth lines of her face since he had last seen her. She clung to him as never before. Finally she lifted her face and kissed him. “Come in, dear!” she whispered.

His father came down the stairs at that moment, pulling on his coat. The jaunty assurance in his manner was gone. Robert had always greeted his sons with a firm handshake, but this time he put his arms around Davis and held him close. “My boy—I’m glad you’re home!” His voice was husky.

It’s just about destroyed them both!
Davis thought. He tried to break the emotional atmosphere by saying, “It’s good to be home. How about a little food for a hungry traveler? Then we’ll talk.” He didn’t feel like eating, but they needed
activity to get over the awkwardness of the moment. They moved to the kitchen, where Davis told them about his trip as his mother bustled around getting the food ready.

“The Prime Minister came to Oxford, Father—Mr. Gladstone. I got to speak to him.”

“You did? What did you say?” Robert asked intently.

“Well, I was the only Yankee in the party, and he wanted to know my views on the rebellion. I turned it around and asked him if the British government would recognize the Confederacy as an independent nation.”

“And?”

“He said no!” Davis shrugged. “Oh, he weaved it in with all kinds of political language, but that’s what he meant.”

Robert fired questions at him about the event, while Jewel was more interested in what the man wore. She set the food on the table, and they ate, mostly picking at the light lunch.

Finally Davis put down his coffee cup and said simply, “I grieve over Lowell—more than I ever thought I would. I didn’t realize how I loved him—until he was gone.”

That brought tears to their eyes, and they began discussing the tragedy. As his parents spoke of their loss, Davis knew he had been right about coming home. Lowell had been their favorite, but Davis had never resented that. Now they needed him as never before.

“How’s Grandfather?” he asked.

“Better than your mother and I,” Robert replied. “He’s tougher than we are. Always has been. The hardest thing, of course, was
that
woman.”

Davis had wondered at the rumors. “Is it true? Was she a spy?”

“Of course she was!” Robert snapped bitterly. “The trial’s still going on, but she’s guilty as Judas Iscariot!”

Davis looked down, then lifted his eyes. “Does Grandfather believe she’s guilty?”

“Oh yes. He’s accepted that,” Robert answered. “He
had
to, Davis. She told him she was.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She’s admitted it all. You must not have read the reports of the trial. But I guess you couldn’t on the ship. The trial’s gone on for two weeks, and from the first the woman has confessed her guilt.”

“It’s dragged on because Stanton wants to make an example of her,” Jewel added. Her mouth moved in agitation. “How I
hate
that woman!”

“Nobody loves a traitor,” Davis said.

Robert frowned, puzzled. “You don’t know what she did, Davis. She was
directly
responsible for Lowell’s death.”

His words sent shock waves through Davis. He stared at his father, incredulous. Robert gave him the full account, and when he was through, he said, “I’ve been a hard man at times, Davis. Politics and law—it’s difficult to be gentle when you’re in those things. And I’ve done some things I wish I could change—but this woman!” His face flushed with rage as he got up and walked to the window, staring blindly out until he could control himself.

Davis was stunned, and for the first time he hated Belle—so intensely that his hands began to tremble. His parents had never seen such fury in him before. After what seemed an eternity, Davis raised his head, and for the first time in their lives, they heard him curse—he cursed Belle Wickham, and he cursed the Confederacy.

He spewed out his invectives for several minutes, gradually quieting down. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that,” he said, getting to his feet. But there was a hard light in his eye that disturbed them. Neither had ever felt close to Davis, partly because he seemed to have so little drive. Unlike Lowell, Davis had been easygoing; and for two ambitious people such as Robert and Jewel Winslow, that was a serious character flaw. They had despaired of his ever making anything of himself, blaming that gentle side of his nature.

But now the deep rage in his brown eyes frightened them. Robert said quickly, “I know you’re upset. Your mother and
I—we’ve had time to adjust. I hate the woman, but we can’t let our feelings get out of hand.”

“Your father’s right, dear,” Jewel added, patting his arm. A thought flashed through her mind.
This is the only son, the only child I’ll ever have. Will I lose him, too? Will this bitterness destroy him?
She spoke gently to him. “We must put this behind us, Davis. We can’t let our feelings for that woman ruin our lives.”

“I need to get away,” Davis said abruptly. “I’m going to see Grandfather.” His mother clung to him, extracting a promise that he would be back that evening—even his father seemed anxious to have him there.

Davis didn’t go directly to the captain’s house. Instead, he went to the downtown newspaper office and bought copies of the last two weeks. Sitting in an outer office, he pored over the accounts of the trial. As he read, he realized his mother’s analysis had been true: the trial was a showcase for the prosecution. The evidence was clear-cut—but the prosecuting attorney had kept Belle on the stand day after day, driving at her with every bit of power to expose her to the nation as a vile representative of the Southern woman—the Rebel who had no common decency.

Colonel Henry Wilder had stated under oath that Belle was little more than a prostitute, becoming his mistress for the sole purpose of gaining military secrets. Davis had some doubt about the colonel’s testimony, for his own defense was that he was
used
by Belle Wickham. Davis could not understand why Belle’s lawyer did not explore Wilder’s role in the matter.

Belle’s testimony was given word for word. When asked by the prosecuting attorney, “Did you prostitute yourself to Colonel Wilder to gain access to his papers?” she had replied, “Yes.” When he demanded details, she said only, “I have told you I am guilty; I will say no more.”

She admitted everything and made no defense for herself, Davis saw. The one thing she would not do was disclose the other Confederate agents who were working with her.

Davis felt dissatisfied, and left the newspaper office to attend the trial. The room was packed, but he bribed a guard and slipped in at the back, next to a thick-set Union major, who nodded at him. “Guess we’ll get the thing over today, don’t you reckon?”

“I suppose so,” Davis replied, wishing the man would leave him alone.

The major continued to discuss the case, but fortunately the judge soon entered and the trial began.

There was an hour of legal maneuvering; then Belle was put on the stand. Davis stared at her unwaveringly. She was wearing black, had lost weight, but was no less beautiful—only more so. Her face was thinner, which made her large eyes seem even larger, giving her an aesthetic appearance.
She looks like I’ve always thought a woman poet should,
Davis thought.

But her beauty did not mitigate his fierce hatred. He had been shocked at the intensity of the rage that had risen in him when he heard of her part in Lowell’s death, for he had never hated before. Now he realized that it was not going to leave—this white-hot anger that made him rigid as he continued to stare at her.

He listened as the prosecuting attorney addressed the jury in his closing remarks, asking Belle to verify her vile deeds over and over. She answered each question quietly, admitting her guilt with no sign of emotion in her wan face. Only once did she break, and that was when she was asked, “And did you feel no guilt when you used an old man who loved you—who had, in fact, offered you the hospitality of his home—when his grandson, Captain Lowell Winslow, died as a result of your perfidious betrayal?”

Davis leaned forward as Belle dropped her head. The court grew very quiet, and finally she raised her eyes and suddenly met those of Davis! She had not seen him before, and her hand quickly went to her heart and her lips parted. In that moment, it seemed to Davis that the court faded from his
sight, and all he could see were Belle’s eyes. He tried to read her expression, but his anger welled up—and she saw it. Through numb lips she said, “Whether I feel guilt for what I have done is not a matter for this court.”

The answer angered the crowd, and the prosecutor kept hammering on that issue for twenty minutes. Finally he stopped and wiped his brow, saying, “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

“The defense may make its closing statement.”

The defense lawyer was a seedy-looking man named Hankins. He spoke in a mumbling voice, addressing none of the points brought up by the prosecution. Davis could scarcely hear the man as he murmured something about the sanctity of womanhood, and how, after all, she was only a weak human being, and it would be good to show mercy. He finished by saying simply, “The defense rests, Your Honor.”

The judge said, “The jury will retire to consider the evidence and bring back a verdict.” Then he instructed them, which he did so quickly that it would be impossible for them to bring back anything but a verdict of guilty.

As Davis turned to leave, the major warned, “Better not lose your place. They won’t take long on this one!”

Davis walked slowly to the captain’s house, trying to shake off the anger generating from somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t know how to handle anger, but he knew that such rage was dangerous, apt to make a man do foolish things.

By the time he arrived at the house, he was under control, though only superficially. Deep down he seethed like a boiling volcano in the center of the earth, waiting only for some signal to burst forth, spilling the blistering lava that would scorch everything in its path.