The Last Confederate (13 page)

“Let’s get over by the statue. We can see better from there, Dan,” Pet suggested, pulling him along.

“Might as well get a good look,” he grumbled. “Probably be the closest thing to a battle
I’ll
ever see.” He pushed his way through one group and they came to an open space. Suddenly Dan paused so abruptly that she ran into him. “Hey, there’s Thad over there. Looks like he’s in trouble!”

Pet looked up swiftly to where Dan pointed, and saw Thad with his back to the base of the statue of Lafayette. “Come on, Dan!” she cried, and the two ran toward the group surrounding Thad.

There were at least six or seven young men, most of them in their teens—and they were town boys, the pair saw. One of them was standing directly in front of Thad, his fists doubled up, and he was saying, “You got a lot of gall coming into town tonight, Novak. But we’re gonna fix you so you won’t be comin’ to no more parties, ain’t that right, boys?”

“Sure is—fix him up, Studs!” A series of cries went around the group. Fear shot through Pet. She had seen an undersized coon once, trapped by the pack, and she still had nightmares
of the raging dogs finally tearing the small animal to fragments.

Dan pushed his way forward to stand beside Thad. “What’s going on here, Thad?” He recognized the larger young man as Studs Mellon, a local bruiser who did some prizefighting.

The one called Studs was taken aback for a moment. He was a hulking youth of eighteen, with a low brow and a broken nose. For one moment he regarded Dan, then sneered, “You another Yankee boy? We can take care of you, too.”

“He’s not a Yankee,” one of the onlookers said. “That’s Sky Winslow’s boy.”

Studs considered him, then smiled. “Well, Winslow, you probably don’t know it, but this here fellow is a Yankee spy—and I aim to see to it that he don’t do no more spying for a long time.”

“You’re crazy!” Dan snapped. “He’s worked for my father for months. Come on, Thad, let’s get out of here.”

“Easy won’t do it, Winslow,” Studs said harshly. “You just move on and we’ll take care of this bird!” He reached out to grab Thad, and at that moment the rebellious spirit that had been raging in Dan for weeks was unleashed. He drew back his fist and struck the bully square in the nose.

The blow caught Mellon off guard and he fell backward to the ground, but immediately jumped to his feet. Blood was streaming down his face, and an unholy joy shone in his eyes. “All right, you all saw it. Now I’m gonna have to bust you both up!”

He stalked forward with his left out and his right cocked. None of the spectators doubted the outcome. Lunging at Dan, Studs lashed out with a straight left that sent the boy reeling. Thad leaped at Mellon with arms flailing, striking the bully with a wild right that opened a cut over his eye, blinding him. Studs screamed in fury, swiped at his eyes and roared with a stream of curses as he dived straight at Thad, knocking him to the ground. Studs was so quick that Thad never saw the blow coming.

Mellon drew back his foot to kick Thad, but at that instant a pair of arms wrapped around his neck and a keen pain sliced through his left ear! He whirled around, but Pet, who had clamped herself onto his back, reached around and raked his face with her nails.

The crowd stared at the scene, for they knew that the Winslows were the children of a wealthy planter, but they knew as well that Studs Mellon had a wicked temper. Although some began shouting “Don’t hurt that girl, Studs!” nobody dared to interfere.

Mellon reached over his head, pulled Pet off and threw her at the crowd, but just as he turned Dan and Thad were up and at him like a pair of terriers. For the next few minutes the wild fray continued, each pitching with all his might. Suddenly a small figure materialized from nowhere with a shrill cry. A hard object struck Mellon on the top of his head, knocking him flat. His head throbbed, but he was up at once—face-to-face with Dooley Young.

“You stay out of this, Young!” he snarled.

“Aw, you’re not so mean as you like to make out, Studs,” Dooley grinned. “I bet you go to church when nobody’s lookin’.” He gave the heavy revolver he had used on Mellon’s head a twirl and said, “Now, you jest git along with your business, Studs.”

Studs stared at the small figure, and he heard the laughter that ran through the crowd. Enraged, he shouted, “I’m gonna git me a Yankee, Dooley; and if I gotta chaw you up to git him, I’ll do it!”

He was about to take a step when a shot rang out, and he stopped dead still. He raised his hand to his right ear, the one the girl hadn’t bitten, and felt the warm blood. He stared at Dooley in unbelief. “You shot me!”

“Jest wanted you to have a matched set, Studs,” Dooley grinned. Then he leveled the revolver and the humor dropped from his voice. “Now git your carcass outta here, Studs, or I’ll ventilate you sure enough!”

Studs stared at the muzzle, then into Dooley’s eyes. He whirled angrily. “You ain’t heard the last of this, Young!”

“Come any time, Studs; we never close,” Dooley called out as Mellon’s hulking form disappeared. Then he turned around, his eyes merry. “You boys all right?”

“Sure, Dooley,” Thad replied. “But I sure was glad to see you.”

“Aw, he’s jest the kind that gives us tough guys a bad name,” Dooley said. Then he peered at both boys. “We better git you two patched up or you won’t be fit to go to preachin’ tomorrow.”

Pet, who had stood by for the rest of the fight, asked Dooley as they all walked away from the crowd, “Would you really have shot him, Dooley, if he hadn’t backed down?”

“I’m a pretty mean feller, Miss Pet,” Dooley answered solemnly. “Never care to let myself find out jest how mean I be. Hey, looks like you got a little scrape in that fiasco!”

Pet felt her cheek and discovered blood from a cut. She stared in surprise at the stain on her hand, then laughed, “Well, Dan, looks like we got started on our war before Tom and Mark, after all.”

“Pa will scalp that Studs Mellon!”

Dan was not far wrong, for when they finally faced their parents with their cuts patched up, Sky Winslow looked like one of his Sioux ancestors, his eyes blazing and his mouth a slit. They were standing in the lobby of the Ballard House with a small group, getting ready to leave. “Guess I’ll have a talk with that fellow,” he said quietly. Too quietly Rebekah knew. She had seen the explosive Winslow temper flair out of her husband only on a few occasions. “It’s all over, Sky,” she reminded him.

“Leave him to me, sir,” Vance said with a knowing smile. “He’s signed up in Company A. I imagine when he finds out that his third lieutenant is the brother of the young people he roughed, he’ll quiet down a little.”

Sky reluctantly conceded, and it might have been over, but
Beau remarked, “This fellow Novak has put you in a bad light, Mr. Winslow. It’s well known that he’s a Yankee, and you ought to get rid of him.”

“On the say-so of trash like Studs Mellon? Not likely, Beau.”

“I know you’re a loyal man, sir, but we’re in a shooting war now, and anybody from the North had better declare themselves. Has Novak said anything about enlisting?”

“He’s too young,” Sky replied quickly, looking at Dan.

“We’ve got some his age in the Blades already,” Beau insisted.

A curious silence fell over the group, and every eye rested on Sky. He bowed his head, studied the floor, then lifted his eyes to meet those of Beau. “I know something about men, I think. I trust Thad. This may not be his fight, but he’s been loyal to me and I’ll stick with him.”

“It’s like you, Mr. Winslow,” Beau shrugged. “But before this is over, a lot of us may have to part with some we thought were friends.”

On that note, the party broke up, and the next day the Richmond Blades marched out of Richmond in formation, headed for their training camp. Sky stood watching with the rest of the town. When Company A marched by he couldn’t help the thrill of pride he felt at the sight of Mark and Tom. He shook his head and said quietly to Rebekah, “Beau was wrong about Thad, but it’s going to be hard on a lot of people like him.”

She put her arm around him, and they watched silently as the proud gray line disappeared into the distance, the shrill, martial music of the band fading like the last thin peep of birds as the sunset falls. And as the music faded, so did some of the hope that had always been strong in the hearts of Sky and Rebekah, for both of them knew somehow that the proud young men of Company A of the Richmond Blades would never be as whole and complete as at that moment.

CHAPTER NINE

YANKEE RELATIVES

“I still say it’s foolish,” Robert Winslow declared testily. “Here we are in the midst of a war, and you want to go into the very heart of rebel territory. At your age, you ought to know better! And right in the middle of the July heat!”

The last of the speaker’s words were drowned out by the shrill whistle from the steam engine, and he cast a look in its direction as if it were a personal affront. He was an impatient man and accustomed to obedience, having given orders all his life—as a naval officer, a lawyer, and now as a New York congressman in the House. But as the whistle sounded another warning, he shook his head in frustration, knowing that no matter how other men trembled at his temper, the old man who stood before him would not be moved. Yet Robert tried one more time, modifying his voice—even putting a hand on the man’s thin shoulder.

“Father, just wait six months and I’ll go with you. This rebellion will be over then. I’d like to work with you on the book, but I can’t do it now.”

At seventy-eight, Whitfield Winslow was not impressed with the effort. He grinned at Robert’s words. “You’ve tried threats all week, Robert, and now as a last resort, you’re attempting bribery—just like a good politician. But that won’t work either, so you just run along and take care of the government while Davis and I go mingle with our rebel kinfolk.”

The third member of the trio was a young man, large in stature, with bright red cheeks and crisp curly brown hair.
“He’s got your number, Father,” he grinned, looking at Robert Winslow. “There’s no way you can bully Grandfather.” There was a trace of an English accent in his voice, superimposed by three years at Oxford, and the English flavor was apparent in his dress as well. “Try to keep Mother calm, and we’ll be back in a few weeks.”

Robert shrugged and then laughed. “I knew it was hopeless the moment you decided to go, and I suppose you two
can
be trusted—but don’t do anything foolish. If the tempers down there are as fiery as I hear, a pair of Yankees could get into trouble.”

“Not with papers signed by Stephen Mallory,” Whitfield reassured him. “We may have a little trouble with our kinfolk, but with a pass from the Confederate Secretary of the Navy, we won’t be taken for spies.” He had obtained the pass by simply writing to Mallory, who had served under him as first officer when Whitfield had commanded the frigate
Courage.
Mallory had sent a pass with the warning:
I am happy to be of service, Captain, but be sure that you do no more than work on the history of your family while you are in our country. Feelings are running very high, and I cannot answer for the hotheads among us who see every man from the North as a traitor.

“All right, then, on with you,” Robert conceded. He took charge of getting them aboard the train and settled in their seats, giving advice constantly. Then the whistle blew two sharp blasts, and the train lurched into motion. Hurrying off, Winslow stood near their window and waved until they were out of view.

“He’s really worried about us, Davis,” the older man remarked as the train picked up speed. “Thinks the rebels will eat our drumsticks or something worse.”

Davis was looking out the window, taking in the sight of the unfinished Capitol on the small rise. Capitol Hill was a muddy, dreary, desolate spot—and the structure itself no less dilapidated, with a dome that looked as if it had been
guillotined. Unlike the centuries-old buildings of England, everything in Washington appeared raw and unfinished to Davis. He shifted his gaze to his grandfather. “He may be right, you know. They’re aching for a fight, if all we hear is true.”

“So is the North,” the old man returned grimly. “Both sides are demanding a battle, and neither one is ready.”

“You don’t think the South has a chance, do you, Grandfather?”

“In a war, Son, anything can happen. A lot of our people didn’t want this confrontation in the first place; and if the South wins a decisive victory, we could see an anti-war movement that would be the end of the whole thing.” A thought flashed into his mind, and he looked at his grandson with a strange expression. “You don’t care much about all this, do you, Davis? I think your heart’s still in England, and you resent having to come home.”

Davis flushed, for that was exactly how he felt. “I guess you’ve hit right on, Grandfather—but I haven’t said anything to Father.”

“He’s a pretty sharp man, and he’s got Lowell on his mind, too.”

Lowell was Davis’s brother; at twenty-three he was three years younger. The two were very close, but Lowell had chosen to go to West Point, while Davis had insisted on an academic career. It was natural that Robert Winslow, active man of affairs that he was, would look down on the choice Davis had made; and the relations between the two had been strained.