The Last Confederate (21 page)

Thad saddled up, told Mrs. Winslow he had an errand, and the two rode out at a fast pace. Dooley told him about the war news as they moved along. “They was a big battle, over to Tennessee, Thad.”

“That’s where the Richmond Blades are!”

“Shore is.”

“Who won?”

“Well, that’s hard to say. Happened at a place they call Pittsburg Landing—somewhere on the Tennessee River. Our fellers caught Grant off guard, they say, and we whupped ’em good the first day, but Grant come back and them Yankees held out.” Dooley hesitated before delivering the bad news. “General Albert Sidney Johnston, he got hisself kilt—and they say ’bout ten thousand Yankees bought the farm—and ’bout the same number of our boys.”

Thad stared at him. “Twenty thousand men killed!”

“Well, killed or wounded,” Dooley said soberly. He added in an off-hand tone, “Guess I’ll jine up, Thad. Been waitin’ till I got the farm in shape—but looks like the general’s gonna need me.”

Thad stared at him. “It’s a bad thing, Dooley. I bet the Winslows are near sick worryin’ about their boys.”

“Guess people all over the country are prayin’—North and South,” Dooley nodded.

The two of them said little more, and when they got to the Speers’ plantation, Dooley warned, “Don’t you sign nothin’ till you talk to me, Thad. With a feller as crafty as Speers, you gotta be cautious as a monkey on a barbwire fence!”

“All right.”

Leaving Dooley beneath the big chestnut tree, Thad walked to the front door, and was surprised when he was shown
directly to the same room he’d been thrown out of a few weeks earlier.

“Come in, Novak.” Speers was sitting at his desk as Thad entered. Getting up he came across the room and said, “I was a little rough on you the last time you were here.”

It was as close to an apology as the planter would ever come, and Thad responded, “I know you were upset, Mr. Speers.”

“Yes, caught me off guard—that proposition of yours.” He started to speak, but halted uncertainly before going on. “Well, I sent for you to find out if you still want to help that slave.”

“Yes, sir! I sure do. I’ll work for you until you get your money back.”

“Well—that’s not what I have in mind.” Speers gave Thad a peculiar look. “Have you heard of the Conscription Act?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, our Congress passed a law three days ago. It says that a man can be drafted—that is, he can be made to serve in the Confederate Army.”

Thad stared at him. “Even if he don’t want to?”

“That’s right. The North passed the same law about a month ago.” Speers added quickly, “You may not know it, but I have a son. James has got another two years before he gets his law degree. I want him to finish, and then he’ll do his duty to the Confederacy.”

“Well . . .” Thad couldn’t see what that had to do with him, so he just shrugged and waited.

“Now, there’s only one way I can be sure James gets to finish his schooling. The law says that if a man wants to, he can send what they call a ‘substitute.’.”

Thad looked up sharply. “And you want me to do that? Go in place of your son?”

“That’s it, Novak.” Speers looked uncomfortable and added, “It won’t be too easy for either of us. A man who employs a substitute will be criticized for not serving in
person—and the substitute himself will be looked down on by the man he serves with.”

“I can see that,” Thad nodded. Looking sharply at Speers, he asked abruptly, “If I go for your son, you’ll let Toby go free?”

“Well, not quite. He’s a valuable piece of property, Novak. I can get a man to go for James for a thousand dollars, but Toby is worth twice that.” He gave Thad a bland glance. “I’ll do this—I’ll sign the slave over to you on two conditions. First, you’ll only have a fifty percent interest in him. Then, when you pay me the other thousand, I’ll sign the other fifty percent over to you.”

“But Toby will still be away from his family.”

“No, I’ll let him go back to work for Mr. Winslow. His pay can go on the thousand.”

Thad’s head was reeling. The idea had caught him off guard, and he asked, “What if I get killed?”

“In that case, Toby will work out the other five hundred at Belle Maison. When I have it, he’s free. Until then, he’s back with his family—and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I—I guess so.” Thad tried to sort it all out, but could not think clearly. Finally he said, “But . . . I’m not a Southerner, Mr. Speers. You might as well know that I don’t believe in slavery. They wouldn’t take me in the army, would they?”

“If you keep quiet about it, they will,” Speers shot back. “That’s another reason why I’m retaining an interest in the slave. It’ll keep you from getting your hands on him—then deserting as soon as he’s clear.”

Anger flared in Thad’s eyes. “If I do it, you can bet your life I’d stay with it!”

Speers retreated quickly, “Well, I—I just have to be sure.” He stared at the boy and asked, “How old are you?”

“How old do you have to be to enlist?”

“Eighteen.”

“That’s what I am, then.”

“Will you do it?”

Time seemed to stop for Thad, and the room grew dim. He remembered the first time he’d seen Toby, as Thad lay freezing in the snow. He thought of the many kindnesses the black man had shown him—and what his friend would look like if he were caught trying to escape.

Speers stood there silently, not trying to rush the young man. He
had
told the truth when he said he could hire another substitute, but his plan was shady. He would say,
Both James and I were against hiring a substitute. James is anxious to go—but this young fellow, well, he begged so hard, we just couldn’t say no.

Finally Thad looked up and his eyes were hooded, but there was a set look on his dark face.

“All right, I’ll do it. But you’ll have to get Mr. Winslow to fix up the paper so I’ll know for sure Toby is all right.”

Speers agreed quickly. “That will be fine with me. When do you want to do it?”

“Today.”

The answer took Speers by surprise, but he stood up quickly. “Let me get my hat, and we’ll ride over to see Mr. Winslow.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Thad turned and walked out of the house.

When he reached Dooley, he told him simply, “I’m going to be a substitute in the army for Mr. Speers’ son. It’ll be enough to get Toby free.” He held up his hand as Dooley started to protest, “Don’t argue with me, Dooley. My mind’s made up!”

Dooley scanned the boy’s face and knew by his set jaw that there was no use to argue. “All right, it’s your say, Thad—at least we get to soldier together.”

The two got on their horses and rode back to the Big House. That day was never very clear in Thad’s mind. He could remember Sky Winslow’s look of shock, and how his wife had protested his decision. He could remember going into Richmond with Winslow and Speers, to an office where
he signed many papers. He remembered Winslow saying, “Toby is safe, Thad. My word on it.”

Finally it was over, and he went back to Belle Maison in the carriage with Mr. Winslow. They said almost nothing, and the next morning, Thad went with Dooley to Richmond where they took their oath of allegiance to the Confederacy.

The two were given uniforms, and that afternoon they boarded a train with other men to be rushed to Tennessee where the army was still struggling with Grant’s troops.

Thad would never forget the sight of all the Winslows at the station. Mrs. Winslow cried as she hugged him. Pet could not say a word, but clung to him fiercely for one brief moment, leaving his new uniform moist with tears.

As the train pulled out, Sky turned to his wife. “Rebekah, I feel as if another one of our sons has gone to war—but it’ll be harder for Thad because of this substitute business.” Then he put his arm around her and suggested, “Lets go by the church and have a time of prayer for all of them, Rebekah. Only God can help us now.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE RECRUIT

The Third Virginia had been in the thick of the battle at Pittsburgh Landing. Their baptism in fire had left gaps in their ranks, and the carnage had driven all romanticism about the glory of war from their heads. They had been part of the force that attacked the center of the Union line after the flanks had been rolled up—but General Prentiss rallied the Yankee troops by placing them in an old sunken road, which proved to be the center of the battle.

Mark Winslow had stared into that furnace of shot and shell, his heart beating. When Captain Lafcadio Sloan cried out, “Company A—let’s get the Yankees!” Mark had joined the charge; and after the first few seconds, he forgot his fears. Minie balls filled the air, and the sound of their own cannon was deafening. He had not gone fifty yards before Corporal Daily, the color-bearer, fell with several balls in his breast. A private he didn’t know picked up the standard, only to fall before he had gone ten steps. Mark learned later that six color-bearers died in the blazing fire which exploded in their faces.

The Third Virginia was never able to take the position, being forced to retreat after all efforts to take it by assault failed. Afterward Pittsburg Landing was called “The Hornet’s Nest,” and many veterans remembered it as the hottest, most deadly single battle of the war. Mark had led the remnants of the company back to a refuge after retreat was sounded, a place which came to be known as “Bloody Pond.” So many
of the wounded on both sides died that the water was stained red by their blood. When Mark got back to the main body, he heard that General Albert Sidney Johnston was down. Later they learned that his wound had not been mortal, but because he had insisted on staying on his feet, he literally bled to death.

The brigade was pulled back to care for the wounded, and for several days after the battle the gruesome task of burying the dead went on. The bodies swelled and their faces turned black under the April sun. The Third Virginia was composed almost entirely of men from the same county, and many of them were relatives. To Mark and Tom, who helped bury the dead, it was worse than the battle. Time after time a man would find the body of a brother, and twice men found the bodies of their sons on the bloody field. Tom, his face pale, said in a shaky voice to Mark, “I can’t take much more of this. I keep thinking what it would be like if I found you out there!”

Mark was hollow-eyed and every movement was an effort. The sight of his men going down like stalks of wheat under the scythe seemed to be etched on the inside of his eyelids; he could not close his eyes without seeing the carnage. Though groggy with fatigue, he urged his brother on. “We’ve got to do it, Tom. Thank God you didn’t get hit!”

Colonel Barton called a meeting of his officers that night, and it was a sober-faced group he addressed. Barton was not the same self-assured man he had been a year earlier. He had discovered that, unlike most officers, he was almost chronically afraid of battle, and his monumental struggle to keep this from his men had drained him dry. Now he said as cheerfully as he could, “I want to tell you how proud I am of you, gentlemen. The Third Virginia proved its metal.”

Vance Wickham, his left arm in a sling, commented ironically, “What’s left of it, Colonel. If we prove ourselves in another fight like that one, we won’t have enough men to mount a guard.”

Beau Beauchamp grunted his agreement. “Whoever sent us in against that fire ought to be court-martialed!”

Mark added, “Well, I guess it was our only hope, Beau. If we’d made it, we could have cut the Yankees off—and I still think we could have done it if Buell’s forces hadn’t got there just when they did.”

An argument broke out, and Shelby Lee, noting that the younger men were almost blind with fatigue, urged calmly, “Gentlemen, we mustn’t show any disagreement to the men. They’re in poor shape. Most of them have lost relatives, and they feel as if it was a defeat.” He went on talking to them in that vein and finally said, “We’ll be receiving reinforcements soon—and we’ll need them, for if McClellan’s army is half as big as our reports say, we’ll need every man we can get to whip him. Therefore, it’s important that we work hard to build morale. When these new men come, they need to find the Third in fighting trim.”

Colonel Barton agreed quickly, “That’s very true, Major. Now, for replacements, we lost Captain Sloan. Lieutenant Wickham, you will be appointed to his place, and Mr. Beauchamp, you will be first lieutenant of Company A . . .” He continued doing what he did best: making appointments and plans.

“Congratulations, Vance,” Beau said after they left the tent. “Any orders from the new captain?”

“Bring me an easy chair and a mint julep, will you, old boy?” Wickham grinned. Then he sobered. “Lee is right, isn’t he? I reckon we’ll be sent back to face McClellan straight off. And he’s right about the men. They’re in a bad frame of mind. We’ve got to work on that.”

When the first replacements came marching in, Company A got the first pick, but the company was
not
in a happy frame of mind. As the officers had indicated, the men were angry at their defeat and grieved over the loss of close friends and relatives.

The men of Milton Calhoun’s mess had a fire going, fueled
by rails from a farmer’s fence—which was strictly forbidden. Colonel Barton had ordered the troops to do no damage to local property. At one end of the group, Calhoun was frying ham on Sharp’s skillet; and at the other, Lafe Sharp was baking flour bread. The dough had been shaped into a loaf around the ramrod of Sharp’s Springfield rifle, like a fleece on a distaff. As he turned the mixture in his hamlike hands, he sang in a whiskey tenor, “Oh, Lord, Gals One Friday.”