The Last Confederate (11 page)

“Why, I don’t think it’d interest you much, Miss Pet. I can’t remember my pa. He was killed in an explosion at the mill when I was four. I had one sister and two brothers. I was the youngest. After my pa died, it was sort of hard. We all had to work just to keep alive. Lived in a one-room shack in an alley.”

“All of you?”

“Yep—and we all worked. Ma worked in a spinning mill and my two brothers worked in a steel mill. When I was eight years old I went to work in a factory where they made medicine. I tied little strings that kept the tops on. I remember I would eat a piece of bread for breakfast when it was still dark. Then I’d work all day until it was dark again. I’d come home and Ma would have some soup, maybe. I’d eat it and go right to bed.”

He picked up a stick and poked at the fire, a bitter expression on his face. “Things got bad and there wasn’t no work. They said it was because Jackson had closed the banks, but I don’t know. We all lost our jobs, though. One day my oldest brother came home. He’d been out looking for work. Ma had his clothes tied up in a bundle. She met him at the door and gave him the bundle and a dollar—then said, ‘I can’t keep you no more.’ She kissed him and sent him off. Two months later, with my other brother, she did the same thing. Gave him his clothes and a dollar. Kissed him and sent him off.”

An owl hooted far off, and Thad lifted his head to listen. He said no more, so Pet asked, “What happened then?”

“I come home about a month after that, and Ma was waitin’ for me. She had my clothes tied up in a bundle, but she didn’t have no dollar for me. She said, ‘I can’t keep you no more, Thad.’ I waited for her to kiss me—but she never done it. I went on down the street—and just before I turned the corner, I looked back. She was leaning against the door, and I waved to her—but she never waved back. So I left. I went
back to see her a year later, but she had died of pneumonia and my sister was nowhere to be found.”

His shoulders slumped and his voice dropped as he added, “Took me a long time to figure out why she didn’t kiss me. She just couldn’t stand no more. Now, when I see folks who think they’ve got trouble, I think about her.”

He heard a small sound and looked up to see Pet’s eyes brimming with tears, her fists tightly pressed against her lips. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have said nothin’.”

“No, it’s all right.” She wiped her eyes, and asked, “Where did you go then?”

“Went to Boston and got a job for a while unloading ships—but that didn’t last long. So I went back to New York.” He poked the fire again and watched the sparks whirl wildly upward. Finally he said, “I got in with a wild bunch—and into trouble with the law. Nearly starved before I slipped away on a freight wagon. When I got to the river, I stowed away on the
Dixie Queen.
They threw me off at Richmond. Guess you know the rest.”

Pet could feel the hurt. “It’s been awful, Thad—but Papa likes you—I can tell. He’ll help you.”

“I ain’t fit for much,” he replied bitterly.

“You are so!”

In a gesture of frustration Thad tossed the stick to the ground. “I can’t even read or write!” He turned his back to hide the shame on his face.

Pet got up and went to sit beside him. “I can teach you to read and write, Thad!”

He turned to look at her, and she saw the tears of anger welling up in his eyes. But he refused. “Your father wouldn’t like it.”

She smiled and squeezed his arm. “It’ll be our secret, Thad!” Then she giggled. “I never thought I’d be a schoolmarm!” She picked up the stick he had been prodding the fire with, and made a letter in the soft earth.

“That’s an
A
. . .” she said firmly, and as the fire cast its
flickering shadows over their faces, they continued their first lesson until they heard the dogs coming back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RICHMOND BLADES

“Thad, hitch up the buggy. We need to make a trip to Richmond.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sky Winslow watched as the young man wheeled and ran for the stables; then he turned to his wife. “I’ve had about all the chatter I can stand, Rebekah. My head’s ringing like a bell.” The young men and women of the county had made a rendezvous at Belle Maison for two days, getting ready for the military ball at Richmond, and Sky was weary of it.

Rebekah smiled at him, patting his arm. “I’m surprised you lasted this long. Just remember, you’ve got to lead off the dance with me at the ball tonight.”

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!”