The Dixie Widow (12 page)

When his grandfather came to the door, Davis saw that the captain had been sorely hurt. “My boy, come in!” the old man said. Davis was aware that the wise old eyes of his grandfather were studying him. Finally, the captain commented, “You’re different. Changed inside.”

Davis nodded. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admitted. “I was crushed when I heard about Lowell’s death—but I came to accept that. It’s—it’s that I can’t—”

“You can’t forgive Belle?”

“Can
you?
” Davis shot back. “She misused
you
most of all! Can you still forgive her?”

“Yes, I can,” he replied. He leaned forward and his eyes pleaded with Davis to understand. “Son, I’m not far from the day when I’ll stand before God. When I do, how can I face Him knowing that I had not forgiven someone?”

“But—she’s evil!”

“Are we not
all
sinners, my boy?”

“Not like her!”

“Oh, not in the same way, yet we all have sinned. And the Scripture tells me that if I will not forgive those who sin against me, God will not forgive me.”

“I can’t, Grandfather!” Davis declared stubbornly. “It’s asking too much.”

“You must forgive
her
for her part in Lowell’s death, just as she must forgive
us
for our part in her husband’s death.” Winslow saw the blind rage in his grandson’s eyes, and he said with a voice that throbbed with pain, “My boy, I have lost one grandson. He died honorably, fighting for his country. But I will lose another if you continue this way, for it will make you bitter, and a bitter spirit dries up the bones. It makes the soul sterile and a man unable to give love or to receive it. You have always had a gentle nature, and I’ve loved you for it. Don’t throw that away for the sake of cherishing a blind hatred that will destroy you!”

The old man continued pleading for a long time. At length he realized it was useless. “I will pray for you, Davis. You may have to reach the bottom of all that you are and all that you love, but I’m asking God to do whatever He has to do to your body—so that your spirit may be preserved!”

****

Simultaneous with Captain Winslow’s words, the jury read the verdict: “We find the defendant, Belle Wickham, guilty of treason against the United States of America.”

The judge nodded. “Thank you for your verdict. The prisoner will please rise.” He studied Belle’s impassive face for a few moments, then said, “This court gives you the sentence prescribed by law. You will be taken from this place to Old Capitol Prison. From there, one week from this day, you will be removed and hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

A sigh swept the room, but Belle’s countenance remained impassive. She stood silently as the judge ordered, “Take the prisoner away.”

As Belle was ushered out of the courtroom by a side door, the reporters fought through the crowd and rushed back to their papers. The defense attorney left quickly by another door, while the prosecuting attorney received congratulations from the crowd with a pleased expression.

“Get her out and into the wagon quick!” the sergeant-at-arms commanded, “before the crowd mobs us.”

Belle was hustled down a dark hallway and almost pushed into a small courtyard, where a covered police wagon waited with two guards on the back steps and two on the driver’s seat. One of her guards opened the door, helped her up, then slammed the door and bolted it. “Get her to Old Capitol fast!” he commanded the driver.

“Yes, sir!” the driver, a tall man, answered. He spoke to the horses, and drove the wagon out through the opened gates—none too soon, for a crowd was already gathering. The driver slapped the reins hard across the horses and they broke into a run, scattering the mob as the wagon plowed ahead. A few tried to chase the patrol wagon, but it was useless, and they turned away.

Inside the wagon, Belle was thrown from side to side as the vehicle picked up speed. She braced herself by jamming her feet against the seat in front of her. Belle couldn’t possibly
keep track of all the turns they made. She just wanted to get it over with.

I’m glad the trial’s over!
she thought.
I only want a cell where I can be alone.
The drawn-out weeks under the cruel eyes of the spectators had been extremely painful. Her mind flashed back to the courtroom.
Davis was there—how he hates me!
That hurt, but the thought of Captain Winslow was like a keen knife piercing her heart.

Belle did not fear death—though she realized she probably would be afraid when the time came.
I hope the week goes quickly,
she thought.

Finally the patrol wagon slowed, and came to stop. She pulled herself together and waited. She could hear voices outside. Then the door opened and the sun struck her in the face as she stepped out, the tall guard holding her arm.

She looked around in confusion, expecting to see the prison, but saw they were in an alley. Just ahead was a buggy with a pair of bay horses stamping their feet.

“Belle!”

She whirled and looked up at the tall guard who had spoken her name. Ramsey Huger!

Her mind reeled, and her legs grew weak.

“Hurry, Belle. Get into the buggy!” Huger urged.

He rushed her to the buggy and lifted her in with one quick motion and jumped aboard. “Get out of here!” he called to the men who had watched them get into the buggy. They were all wearing street clothes. Ramsey himself had exchanged his guard’s uniform for a suit.

“Where are we going, Ramsey?” she cried as the buggy tore down the alley and turned east.

He flashed his familiar smile, and reached over and hugged her.

“We’re going home, Belle—home to Richmond!”

She shook her head. “Not there! They all hate me!”

“Not anymore, Belle,” he smiled. “Your trial has been in
every paper in the South—and you’re the greatest heroine we’ve had since Belle Boyd!”

“I—I can’t believe it!”

“You will when we get there.” He gave the horses a cut of his whip and they broke into a dead run. “We’ve got to get you into some different clothes, and do some dodging. But when we get to Richmond, you’ll see! The Yankees tried to destroy you, Belle, but they let the cat out of the bag when they told how you got the secret plans to our generals. Our men were able to use those plans to whip the bluebellies real good!”

“Ramsey, I wish I hadn’t done it.”

He looked at her, startled. “Don’t say that, Belle! The South needs a lift—and you’re the one who did it. The Dixie Widow—who outsmarted Washington and saved her nation’s armies!”

She didn’t believe it then—nor during the days they spent dodging the federal officers combing the country for the fugitive.

But a week later in Richmond, with her happy family at her side, a special ceremony was given in her honor. Only when Jefferson Davis pinned a medal of honor on her and she heard the wild cheers from the thousands who had gathered did the truth begin to sink in.

As she stepped into a carriage with President Davis and his wife and rode down the street, the cries of “Hooray for the Dixie Widow!” followed them. It seemed as if the whole city had turned out. But though Belle smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, there was no joy.

Her heart was heavy. Her mind in turmoil. For two visions were constantly before her: the face of Captain Winslow—and a Union soldier lying dead in Georgia.

CHAPTER NINE

“HE’S ALL WE HAVE LEFT!”

“I’d hoped that Davis would be a comfort to you and Jewel after we lost Lowell,” Captain Winslow said to his son Robert, “but it hasn’t worked out that way, has it?”

Robert ran a hand through his hair with an air of desperation. “What’s the
matter
with him, Father?” A frustrated note edged his voice. “He won’t talk, he disappears for two or three days at a time—Jewel and I are about out of our minds!”

The two men sat beneath a peach tree in Captain Winslow’s garden, where Robert had dropped by early one morning. It was May, when the peach blossoms were in full bloom, decorating the dusty blue sky overhead. During the past weeks, they had discussed Davis’s aberrant behavior several times. Robert seemed to have aged years, the captain noted. His face was lined and his hands jerked with ceaseless motions.

“We’ll just have to give him time, Robert,” he said.

“Time! Why, he’s getting
worse
as time passes, not
better!
Neither Jewel nor I realized how much Lowell meant to him.”

“It isn’t just that—though he was more devoted to his brother than any of us realized.”

“Then what in the world
is
wrong with him?”

“He’s angry, Robert—angry down to the bone!—and that’s something Davis has never experienced before.” Whitfield stood to his feet and looked down the street. “Here he comes now,” he said as he saw a figure in the distance.

“At last!” Robert exhaled. “He’s never had much starch, but at least he had common courtesy! Now, he doesn’t seem
to care what he does to his mother and me. She can’t quit crying, and I’ve looked everywhere for him since he disappeared yesterday morning. Said he’d be back for lunch—but not a word from him!” He shook his shoulders in anger, then seemed to remember his father’s words. “You say he’s angry? About what?”

“About the world, I’d say. Davis has always stayed apart, never letting himself get involved. That’s why he wants to be a writer—or thinks he does. A writer can stand on the sidelines and observe. He doesn’t have to take sides, you see? If people go wrong or if things don’t work out, why, he’s not been a part of it, so he can’t be blamed. I think Davis has done that all his life.”

Robert nodded, watching his son come slowly down the street. “I believe you’re right. And it would explain why he’s refused to take any position in this war. It’s as though he’s kept himself above it.”

“But now he can’t do that, can he? His Olympian posture won’t work anymore—because the war reached out and struck him down.”

“You mean when Lowell died?”

“Yes. There’s no way to be objective when you lose your flesh and blood.”

Robert lowered his voice, a shrewd look in his eyes, as Davis approached the walk leading to the house. “And he’s angry about that—and about the way that Wickham woman used us all?”

“Yes. He hates her. And it’s that hate that makes me ache for him. He can’t sort it all out. His brother is gone, and he has to blame someone, so he’s focused on the South. But Belle is the symbol for the whole Confederacy. And that bitterness will destroy him if he doesn’t get free.” The captain added hurriedly, “Don’t say anything about this, Robert, and don’t nag him.”

Robert nodded, and got up. “Well, there you are, Davis. I
just dropped by to see if Father would come over for dinner tonight.”

Davis halted, studied his father’s face, then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get back yesterday.”

Robert waited for an explanation, but seeing none was coming, said, “Oh, we figured you got tied up. I told your mother you’d probably been trapped by one of those young women she keeps shoving in your direction.”

“No. I just needed to get away and think for a while.”

“Of course!” Robert nodded, and got his hat from the chair. “Will you bring your grandfather over tonight?”

“Yes, of course. What time?”

“Early as you please,” Robert replied. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about your writing, and this would be a good time to do it.”

As he got into his buggy and moved away, Davis grimaced. “He’s never been interested in my writing before.”

“Give him a chance, boy,” the captain responded gently. “Your parents are having a pretty rough time.”

Davis was shamed by his remark, and said, “I know—we all are, I guess.” He sat down in the chair vacated by his father and stared up at the peach blossoms. His suit was rumpled as if it had been slept in, and his eyes dulled with fatigue. The captain studied him, but didn’t comment, knowing there was no way he could force the young man to open his mind.

After a few moments Davis spoke up. “I hope Mother wasn’t too upset with me. I just lost track of time. I was having lunch and ran into a friend of mine—Professor Joshua Chamberlain, one of my instructors at Bowdoin.”

“What does he teach?”

“He used to teach rhetoric. But he left to become a colonel in the Army of the Potomac—Corps V. Sure did surprise me,” he added with a smile. “The last time I saw him he was fussing around trying to get us to organize our stiff little speeches—now he’s trying to get me to join the Union Army!”

“Is that a fact? Are colonels doing their own recruiting?” the older man asked wryly.

“That’s about the way it is, I guess,” Davis nodded. “Colonel Chamberlain cussed Edwin Stanton—said he made a big blunder. Last spring he got the freakish impulse that the war was about over, so he closed down all army recruiting stations and stopped enlistments. He sure was wrong! With all the losses in the Shenandoah Valley, getting whipped at Richmond, and our heavy casualty lists, we’re running out of men. And even when he opened the recruit centers again, there wasn’t much business.”

“The romance is gone,” the captain nodded. “Always goes that way in a war. When the thing starts, it’s all lemonade for the boys, every pretty girl coming out to kiss them goodbye, with the flags flying and the bands playing. But—when the dying starts, that all changes.”