The Dixie Widow (28 page)

Suddenly she jerked away, whispering, “Beau! Let me go!”

As though not hearing her, he said, “Belle, I love you! Marry me!”

She shook her head, and pushed him back with a violent surge. She walked to the end of the porch and stood with her hands pressed to her lips, her back rigid.

Beau came to her, put his hands gently on her shoulders. “Belle, I’ve loved you all this time. Is it Vance? Is that why you draw back?”

She shook her head, and when she turned, the lively expression that had been on her face all evening was gone. Her mouth was drawn into a thin line, her eyes dull. He was alarmed and mystified by the transformation. “What in the world is wrong with you, Belle? Tell me!”

“It’s—nothing you can do anything about, Beau,” she whispered. The weariness in her voice that he remembered from the last time he’d been home was back.

His voice was ragged as he demanded, “Is it another man?”

“No. It isn’t that.” She moved around him, but he caught her.

“Why won’t you marry me, Belle? Maybe you don’t love me enough—but that’ll come. I’ll
make
you love me!”

She gazed at him, her eyes vacant, and said in the loneliest and most forsaken voice he’d ever heard, “I’m not fit to marry you, Beau—not fit to marry any man!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

TWO MEETINGS

“I’ve got to make a break for it, Thad,” Davis stated. “Sooner or later somebody from that Morgan’s outfit is going to come looking for me.”

The two men were standing outside the Winslow house speaking quietly. Thad had come for the evening meal, and while the women were washing the dishes, Davis had pulled him outside.

“That leg’s not healed yet, Davis,” Thad protested.

“It’s good enough. I can even get by without a cane now.” Davis flexed his leg carefully, and looked at Thad. “People are beginning to wonder, to talk about why I’m staying around here. No, I’ve got to leave.”

Thad nodded slowly, for he had been thinking along the same lines. “All right. We’ll look for a break. But they’re watching the lines real careful now. Checking everybody’s papers closer than ever—especially on the trains.”

Davis moved restlessly, shifting his shoulders. “I’d have gone before, but if I got caught, you’d be in trouble. They’d want to know why you brought a Union officer to Richmond dressed in a Confederate uniform.”

Thad raised his wide mouth in a grin. “Lightning don’t strike twice, I always heard. I’ve been tried for treason once, so I don’t reckon it’ll happen again.” He sobered and said, “I’ll think on it. We’ll come up with something.”

Pet and Belle burst through the door, laughing. Pet ran over to the two men and took Thad’s arm, saying, “We’re going to
Mary Lou Taylor’s house. She and Howard are announcing their engagement this week. And she asked especially that you two come along.”

“Oh, Pet—”

Pet ignored Belle’s reluctance. “It’ll be good for you—and you, too, Owen. Do you good to get your noses out of books. Besides”—Pet’s smile disappeared, and she shook her head sadly—“there won’t be many there, Belle. So many men are at the front, or . . .”

Belle knew Pet had intended to say “killed,” so she blurted out, “I suppose I could go for a quick visit. Are you able to walk that far, Owen? It’s only four blocks.”

Davis had no intention of going, but she took his arm, and he found himself walking with her behind Thad and Pet. They spoke little on the short walk, and the party itself was not a strain. But once when Davis and Belle sat watching the young people playing a game, Belle said, “They make me feel as if I’m a millon years old.” She looked around, and added, “I’d like to go home now if you’re ready.”

They said their goodbyes and made their way down the street in silence. A faint light in the west still lingered, and the air was filled with the sound of crickets. When they got to the house and mounted the steps, Belle said impulsively, “It’s so hot in the house. Let’s sit in the swing for a while,” indicating a place beside her. “Does your leg hurt?”

He hesitated, then sat down, replying, “Not much.”

He had wanted to say something to her, but had never found the right moment. Now he sought for a way to broach the subject. Finally, he began. “Belle, I always disliked having people thank me for anything—and I’ve noticed you do, too.”

She was surprised he knew her that well, and gave him a quizzical look. “It embarrasses me.”

“Then one of us is going to have to give in, because I’ve got to say something about the way you’ve helped me.” He avoided her eyes, adding, “For the sake of helping my own
feelings, I guess I’ll have to ask you to be generous and ignore your own.”

“Why, it wasn’t all that much, Owen,” she protested.

He turned quickly and without thinking took her hand. She was surprised, for he had never touched her, but she listened silently.

“Yes, it was. It was a great deal—at least to me. If you hadn’t fought for me, I’d be a cripple right now. You kept Dr. Stevens from amputating my leg.” He held her hand, and she felt the strength of it as he unconsciously gripped it tighter. “I don’t think I could have lived like that, Belle.”

“I’m glad it didn’t happen, Owen.”

“I was a dead man when I came to you, Belle,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what will happen from now on—but you’re the one who gave me life, and I—I thank you.”

She sat motionless, his hand tightening around hers. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

He suddenly became aware that he was gripping her hand, and released it instantly. He had always been nervous around beautiful women, and the sight of her face in the dusky light made him mute. In the silence, a truth hit him with lightning force:
I don’t hate this woman anymore!

He had lived with a fierce bitterness so long that the revelation left him breathless.
When did I stop hating?
His mind raced, and another thought came to him, and he asked, “Do you remember the sermon the minister preached in the ward about not hating?”

“Why, yes, I do.” She looked at him carefully, wondering what had brought that to his mind. “It was on the same day Lonnie died.” He was struggling with something, and she asked quietly, “Did it mean something to you, Owen?”

“I think it did,” he nodded. “I’ve been hearing over and over again one thing the preacher read from the Bible that day. Something about if we have ‘ought against any,’ God won’t forgive us.”

“That’s very hard, isn’t it? Most of us have some hard feelings we can’t get rid of.”

“I was carrying a deep-seated hate, Belle,” he went on. “It was eating me alive—and I didn’t even know it.”

“And—it’s gone now?”

He considered her question, and there was a shocked expression on his face as he turned to face her. Slowly he nodded, saying, “I don’t know why, or even when it happened—but it’s gone.”

She assumed he had been filled with hatred for the Union, and said quietly, “I hated the North when my husband was killed.” She looked down at her hands, then back up to him. “I was so filled with bitterness that I think I lost my mind for a time. Hatred can do that to you.”

He stared at her curiously. “How did you get rid of it, Belle?”

The question troubled her, and she rose to her feet and walked to the railing. He, too, got up and moved to stand beside her. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No!” She bowed her head, and when she answered, her voice was so faint he was forced to lean forward to hear her words. “I let my hate make me do something so evil—!”

Her voice broke into a sob, and she moved blindly away from him and entered the house. Bewildered, he wondered what could have broken her. “She’s hurting bad,” he murmured. For a long time he remained on the porch, trying to figure out how the bitterness and hatred had been purged from his own heart—and what brought such a terrible remorse into the once proud Belle Wickham’s life.

He didn’t understand his own deliverance, but he knew it had something to do with God, for he had never forgotten how shaken he had been when the preacher read the scripture.
Something happened inside me that day,
he thought, and he shook his head, determined to find the answer.

****

The company came back from the Tennessee front, and Pet immediately began a campaign to have a grand party at Belle Maison. “It can be my engagement party, Papa,” she wheedled. Unable to resist, Sky had given in.

He defended his actions that night to Rebekah. “We owe it to Pet and Thad. After all, a man doesn’t marry off a daughter every day in the week!”

Rebekah had needed little urging. “It may be the last chance we’ll have for a long time, Sky.” She smiled and said, “Let’s do it up right. Pet’s never given a bean for parties and dresses. We’ll make it a party people will talk about for years!”

Belle Maison came alive in its pride once more, swarming with grinning slaves who cleaned and decorated and cooked from early until late. Belle, yielding to Pet’s pleas, put off going back to Chimborazo, and the three joined to make preparations for the ball.

It was to be a two-day party, with some of the young people staying overnight, so the house was a whirlwind as bedding was aired and floors scrubbed. Hams were boiled in cider, and the last of the wine removed from the wine cellar. A blockade runner had made it through the line of Union warships to purchase silk for Pet’s dress. When Sky heard the price Rebekah paid, his jaw had dropped.

When Davis arrived with Thad at Belle Maison, he wondered at the excited smiles on the black faces. After the two were settled in a room, Thad took Davis on a tour. At the slave quarters, he was interested in meeting Toby, the giant black man whose freedom he knew had been purchased by Thad.

“Mistuh Thad!” Toby exclaimed as the two men entered the compound. At once Thad was submerged in a sea of smiling black faces. Davis stood to one side studying the scene, and as the hands reached out to pat the tall Confederate, Winslow could see no sign of the misery so often portrayed in the novels and papers of the North. The blacks were healthy and seemed to be far happier than many of the mill workers he’d seen in his own homeland. Their voices were rich with
laughter, the kind that erupts from deep within, and there was no mistaking the genuine affection the slaves had for Thad Novak. Davis thought perhaps that was because the young man had been kind to Toby. But he saw that same respect and affection shown toward the owners of Belle Maison.

Toby guided them around the farm, proudly pointing out the new improvements. They met Sut Franklin, the surly overseer, who shook Davis’s hand with a limp clasp and left abruptly. Davis had seen the flash of resentment in the over-seer’s muddy eyes as he looked at Thad. Later, when Thad left briefly, Davis asked, “Toby, what’s wrong with your overseer? He’s not very friendly.”

“He don’t lak Mr. Thad, suh,” Toby answered quietly. “He didn’t lak it when Mistuh Thad got Mr. Winslow to plant corn ‘stead of cotton. Reckon he’s skeered fo’ his job.”

Davis studied the dark face.”What about you? I understand you’re a free man. Will you stay here after the war—or go to the North?”

Toby shook his head firmly. “If de South win, I stay here and work fo’ Mistuh Winslow till I can buy my wife and boy free.”

“And if the North wins?”

Toby looked up at him quickly, and Davis realized that no white man had ever suggested such a thing—that the South might lose. He knew that an uprising of the slaves was the recurrent nightmare of the people of the South, and it was common knowledge that thousands of slaves had already been lost through the Underground Railroad.

“You is Mistuh Thad’s friend, he say,” Toby replied, “and I tell you, suh, de South ain’t nevuh gonna be de same, not lak it wuz befo’ dis wah.”

“How’s that, Toby?”

They were walking along in the fields where a group of field hands were working together, singing as usual in rhythm. Toby paused. “Listen to dat singin’,” he said, and Davis turned to hear what the slaves were singing.

“It’s just a spiritual, isn’t it, Toby? One of their religious songs?”

Toby stared at Davis—seeming to weigh him somehow, then nodded as if he had made up his mind. “Dat’s whut it use to be, but most of de slaves sing another verse. It goes:

Toby’s deep bass voice ceased, and he added softly, “Free-dom—it’s a funny thing, now. If a man don’ nevuh have it, why he don’ miss it. But evah slave in de South done heard ‘bout it now, suh.” He paused and added with a far-off look in his eyes, “Reckon dey ain’t nobody gonna evuh be satisfied without it no mo’.”

Thad came back and Toby said no more, but later on when the two soldiers walked back to the big house, Davis told Thad about the conversation, and asked, “Thad, do you think the South has a chance?”

“To win the war? Why, I don’t reckon so, Davis—though I’ve never said it to anybody else. We’re pinched in from all directions now. Grant’s army is getting bigger every day, and ours is getting smaller.”

That was Davis’s opinion, too. “Why don’t you give up? It would save so many lives!”

Thad replied quietly, “If it was up to me, I’d lay my gun down and never pick it up—but I don’t guess the South will quit, Davis. Too much pride in men like Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee.”

Novak’s words depressed Davis. He said nothing, but as they came back across the yard, which was already crowded with horses and buggies as the guests poured in, he pulled Thad to a stop. “I’ve been thinking about a way to get out of here,” he said.

“What’s your idea?”

“I’ll tell everyone I’ve had orders to report to my brigade. I’ll get on the train in this uniform, but someplace along the line, I’ll get off the train.”

“What then?” Thad asked. “If our people catch you trying to get across the lines in that uniform, they’ll think you’re deserting. And if the Yankees get sight of you, they might shoot you and ask questions later.”