The Last Confederate (12 page)

Thad ignored him, released the brake, and drove off, leaving Oliver in the street shaking his fist and cursing. Dooley stole a glance at the boy, then grinned and struck him a sharp blow on the shoulder. “If that don’t beat all!” he cackled. “It shore puts the hair in the butter, don’t it now?”

“Guess I shouldn’t have done that,” Thad said unsteadily. He had taken Oliver’s slights for weeks, saying nothing, and he was shaken at the fiery gust of rage that had so quickly exploded in him.

“Aw, don’t fret none about Mr. Sky, Thad,” Dooley grinned. “He knows ol’ man Oliver’s the tightest geezer in Richmond.
He’s so stingy he breathes through his nose to keep from wearing out his false teeth! Mr. Sky’s had a round or two with Len Oliver his own self. I think he’d like an excuse to trade with Miller.”

Thad drove the buggy over to Oak Street, where John Miller filled his order with alacrity. He was a small, fair-skinned man with bright blue eyes. “Appreciate the business, Thad,” he said as he loaded the last of the supplies in the rear of the buggy.

“You get a lot of ragging, Thad?” Dooley asked as they walked down the board sidewalk. “ ’Bout bein’ a Yankee, I mean?”

“Oh, some people are pretty short with me, Dooley.” He studied the street carefully, then added, “Guess it’s going to get worse.”

“Aw, we’ll whip those Lincoln monkeys in no time, Thad,” Dooley boasted. “Anyways, you ain’t no Yankee no more. You’re a good ’ol southern boy now.”

The pair wandered down the street, and it seemed that Dooley knew almost everybody in Richmond. He was constantly singled out, and by the time he had been pulled into half a dozen saloons to celebrate the war, his eyes were slightly glazed, and he said, “Thad, I’m gittin’ a little drunk. You gotta promise me I won’t enlist.” His speech was slurred, and he put his hand on Thad’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “These here recruiters got their eyes on me—but no matter what happens, don’t let ’em git me! You promise?”

“But—how can I stop you, Dooley?”

Dooley’s mouth turned up beneath the huge mustache. “Hit me over the head with a fence post and sling me over my hoss if you have to,” he said. “This here liquor is makin’ me downright patriotic—and I ain’t made up my mind which bunch I wanna be in—so you stick close and keep me away from them recruiters!”

Dooley’s request seemed absurd, but Thad discovered that the small man had been prophetic, for more than once he had to pull Dooley away from an avid recruiter—or what was even
more difficult, from some of his friends who had signed up and wanted Dooley in their company. Finally, Dooley stared at Thad through glazed eyes and mumbled, “Good ol’ Thad! Bes’ friend I got—in the whole—world!” But an hour later, when Thad tried to pull him away from a burly sergeant, he got angry and began to curse. “Mind your own business!” he yelled, and took the pen and was about to write his name.

“Come on, Dooley.” Thad was relieved to see Mack Young, Dooley’s cousin, a huge man in his thirties, step up and remove the pen. Dooley cursed him, too, but Mack simply walked him off, saying, “Much obliged, Thad. I’ll take keer of him now.”

Thad wandered around the streets; it seemed that the frenzied excitement of the people increased as the shadows grew longer. He heard snatches of songs improvised for the emergency—“Maryland, My Maryland,” “John Brown’s Body,” and a parody that ran:

I want to be a soldier

And with the soldiers stand,

A knapsack on my shoulder,

And musket in my hand;

And there beside Jeff Davis,

So glorious and so brave,

I’ll whip the cussed Yankee

And drive him to his grave.

He paused to watch some boys who were keeping their patriotism warm by playing “Yank” and “Reb” in mock battles. At one time one of these groups had grown so feisty that the city authorities had been forced to break up the game. Thad crossed over to Church Hill where some boys had scattered and re-formed, beginning the battle again. Not to be outdone, a group of young girls showed their patriotism by filling their aprons with small chunks of coal from a coal house, then racing into the fray, shouting, “Kill them! Kill them!”

The whole thing depressed Thad, and he was glad when
three o’clock finally arrived. But he was in for a surprise. Mr. Winslow was flushed and out of sorts. “Thad, I’ve got to stay in town. Take the supplies back and give this note to my wife—and I want you to drive her and the girls here for the ball.”

“Yes, sir.” Thad half turned, then stopped and wheeled back to face Mr. Winslow. “I got the supplies from Miller’s store.”

Winslow knew more about the situation than Thad thought. Sky had observed the manner in which Len Oliver treated the boy, but had said nothing. Now he waited for Novak to explain, but he stood there quietly. Finally Sky said, “If you think that’s best, Thad, then that’s what we’ll do.” His brow creased and he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, saying, “I’m going to need all the help I can get, Thad.”

Thad’s shoulder seemed to glow under the pressure of Winslow’s hand, and he said, “I—I’ll try to please you, sir!”

****

As darkness fell on Richmond, the city glittered; thousands of lamps and lanterns seemed to reflect the brilliant stars overhead. By some sort of mystic communication, every patriotic citizen had his residence ablaze with a thousand lights, leaving the dark houses as suspect—those who lived in them being labeled “Yankees,” “Abolitionists,” and “Black Republicans,” and virtually ostracized.

The Exchange Hotel and the Ballard House dominated Cherry Street. The Ballard House had a glass balcony stretching over the street, connecting the two hotels; and they lit up the darkness in a grand spectacle, glittering and reflecting the crystal lights. Both had large ballrooms, and on this night each was filled to capacity with newly minted officers, civilians with the weight of the new government of the Confederacy on them, and what appeared to be hundreds of women dressed in gorgeous gowns of every hue. Each ballroom had an orchestra, and music spilled out of the buildings, rising
at times over the excited voices of the guests who spun about the dance floors and milled at the outer edges.

Belle was being whirled around in a fast waltz by Vance Wickham, who was wearing a new ash-gray uniform. A humorous light danced in his eyes, and he pulled her closer and whispered, “You really must choose me, Belle. After all, I’m the first lieutenant and Beau is second.” He laughed as she threw her head back, adding, “Of course, by that logic you ought to marry Shelby Lee since he’s the major.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Vance,” she said with a brilliant smile. She was wearing a light blue gown with a tight bodice, and two blue stones dangled from her ears. Her hoop skirt brushed against him, and the excitement of the evening made her eyes enormous. She leaned against him, whispering, “Vance, you look absolutely
handsome
in your uniform! The Richmond Blades just has to be the best company in the whole Confederate Army!”

After Sumpter, Seth Barton had begun at once to raise a regiment, The Third Virginia Infantry, of which one company was The Richmond Blades. Its ranks had been filled immediately by young men generally of wealth, education and refinement. Wickham was first lieutenant, Beau second, and Belle’s brother Mark was third. None of them had the faintest idea what processes of thought had made those decisions since they had never served a day in the army. “I think they must have gone by intelligence,” Vance had teased Beauchamp and Winslow when they were notified of their respective ranks. Both Mark and Beau had laughed, but it was evident to Wickham that Beau’s laughter was forced. It had grated on Beauchamp’s pride to be under his rival’s shadow, and Wickham knew that every decision he made would be picked to pieces by the other.

As if in echo to Vance’s thoughts, Beau appeared magically as the last notes of the waltz sounded. Vance smiled and handed Belle over to Beau. “I hope you’re as prompt in
your military duties as you are in your ballroom ones, Beau,” he commented.

Beau grinned rashly, and wheeled Belle away as the band struck up a new tune. She smiled up at him, thinking that the two men were as different in styles of dance as they were in everything else. Both were excellent dancers, but whereas Vance was smooth, polished and light with his direction, Beau went at the dance as he did everything else—with complete assurance and a forceful manner. At first she resisted his tight embrace and his domination, but as the dance went on she found herself enjoying it in a perverse fashion. She was a girl who had learned quickly that she could do what she liked with most men, and the strength of this one had been a challenge. Now with the martial spirit of the evening, the emotionally charged times of war, she shivered with excitement as he held her close, his light blue eyes shining in his strong masculine face.

“We don’t have much time, Belle,” he said. “I expect the regiment will be leaving in a week or even sooner.”

“Now, Beau, I may be young and naive, but I know that kind of talk!” Her eyes were filled with laughter, and she smiled at his surprised expression. “All soldiers tell that to the girls: ‘I’m going away and I may get killed—so you have to love me right now!’ Isn’t that the way it goes?”

He laughed down at her, captivated by her beauty, and grinned, “You’re too smart for me, Belle. I’ll have to find another way to get you.” Then he sobered and said with a seriousness that was not characteristic, “But it’s true, all the same. We’ll beat the Yankees, but some of us will get a funeral out of it.”

“Oh, Beau, don’t talk like that!” she pouted. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you!”

He grinned more broadly, knowing that she had probably said the same thing to Wickham. He dominated her dances, keeping her away from the eager young officers who threatened him for being so greedy with the prettiest girl at the ball.

Pet had watched the competition for Belle, but it was an old story, so she walked over to Dan, who was sitting in a straight chair with a rebellious look on his face. He was her favorite, being close to her own age. Tom and Mark were grown men who treated her with a kind of condescension, but Dan and she had grown up roaming the Virginia woods together. She sat down beside him quietly, then reached over and put her hand over his, whispering, “Don’t feel bad, Dan. Your turn will come.”

“It’s not fair, Pet!” he burst out. “What’s a year or two when there’s a war on?”

She knew the impatience that was gnawing at him, but could not ease the matter. Instead, she patted his hand and said, “Look over there at Father, Dan. He’s getting mad about something.”

Dan looked across the room to where a group of men were gathered around Oscar Toombs, the lieutenant governor. “You’re right,” Dan replied. “I know that look. Come on, let’s see what’s got his dander up.”

They made their way to the small group and heard their father say, “It’s well enough to talk, but talk won’t keep the Yankees out of Virginia. We don’t have a single steel mill, and not even one rifle factory. What are we supposed to fight with, Mr. Toombs—hoe handles?”

Oscar Toombs had not risen to power in the state without learning how to handle men. He knew when to crush a man, and had no compunction when that time came, but he knew also when to smile; and to alienate a man like Sky Winslow would be foolish and bad for his political future. He nodded and said smoothly, “I know how you feel, Sky, but we’ll get the arms.”

“From whom?” Sky demanded bluntly.

“From England, of course,” Toombs quickly responded. “England is a country that lives on its looms. It supplies the world with cloth—and they
must
have our cotton! Without
it, their mills would shut down in a month. Why, there’d be a civil war in England!”

A murmur of approval went around the room, and Sky realized he was talking to a group that had made up their minds. He tried one more attempt, however. “We’re not the only country that grows cotton, Mr. Toombs. But even if what you say is true, how will we get our cotton to England? They’d be fools in Washington if they didn’t blockade the coast.”

“Oh, come now, Winslow,” Milton Speers broke in impatiently. “They don’t have enough ships to watch everywhere—and our schooners can outrun any warship afloat.” Speers was a wealthy planter, and he spoke what most of them felt. “Come now, Sky, don’t be so gloomy! We’ll send these fine young fellows out, give the Yankees a sound thrashing, and then we can get back to our way of life.” He waved his big hands expansively. “Actually, this war can be the best thing that’s ever happened to the South, gentlemen. Once the North has learned it can’t run roughshod over us, we can get something done in Congress!”

Sky stared at him, then shrugged and moved away, saying only, “You better be right, Speers. We’re betting everything we have on it.”

Dan and Pet slipped away and hurried toward him. When they called his name, he turned. There was a set, angry look on his face, but his expression softened as the two drew near.

Pet asked, “Papa, can I go down to see the fireworks?”

He stopped and looked at them, his face relaxing. “What? Oh, I suppose so.” His eyes searched Dan, noting the rebellious set to his youngest son’s face, and impulsively put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You mustn’t hate me, Son.”

“Ah, Pa, you know I don’t hate you—but it’s not fair! I bet
you
didn’t have to wait until you were eighteen before you were treated like a man!”

Sky thought back to his boyhood, the days he had spent with his mother, White Dove, and smiled at the memory. “Before a Sioux could be a man, a real warrior, he had to
prove himself a thousand ways, Dan. They were just about as impatient as you, I guess. All boys want to grow up fast. I know you won’t understand this, but missing out on this war would be the best thing you could have!” Then he grinned. “Well, nobody can teach anybody anything, I reckon. Take your sister down to see the fireworks.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dan and Pet left the crowded ballroom and had to practically force their way through the crowds that pushed and shoved their way along the streets. There was no hope of getting a horse or wagon down Cherry Street, for a river of humanity seemed to flow first one way, then the other. The air was full of singing, and the smell of cigar smoke and raw liquor floated on the warm spring air. They finally made it to the end of Cherry and found a large crowd gathered around the courthouse where the fireworks were to be set off.