The Last Confederate (3 page)

“Humph! It’s jes’ a big
mess
—thas all it be!” Lucy snapped. She was sixteen—one year older than Pet, and the rich food that the house servants ate had plumped her out until she was bursting out of her blue gingham dress. Her speech was slurred and lazy, but much clearer than that of the field hands. She had grown up as a maid to Pet and her sister Belle, and her ear was quick enough to pick up the diction of the white folks in the big house. “You wait right where you is!” she ordered as Pet made a dash for the door. “Whar you goin’ widout no coat on?”

Pet snatched at the garment, drew it over her shoulders, then skipped down the winding staircase, passing through the large foyer into the smaller of the two dining rooms.

“Good morning, Papa—Mama,” she called out cheerfully, running around the large oak table to kiss both parents. Then she sat down and spoke to her brothers in a general greeting. “Hello—pass me the biscuits, Mark.”

As she speared two of them, Mark Winslow, her oldest brother at the age of twenty, grinned and winked at his other two brothers sitting across from him, saying, “Pet’s going to be late for the resurrection.” He was the darkest of the brothers, and his high cheekbones revealed more of his Indian ancestry than was visible in Dan and Thomas. In fact, he looked much like a younger edition of his father, whose mother was a half-blooded Sioux. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, and he was the largest of the three boys.

Tom Winslow at eighteen was more like his mother, having her clear hazel eyes and fair skin. Dan, at sixteen and the youngest of the boys, was fair as well. He alone of all the boys had the bright blue eyes that Sky had said most characterized the Winslow men. All three of them were outdoorsmen, expert riders and all good shots.

“Papa, can we go out for a sleigh ride today?” Pet asked, speaking around a mouthful of sorghum-soaked biscuit she had crammed into her mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” her mother chided instantly. “You’re going to strangle yourself one of these days, Pet.” Rebekah Winslow didn’t look her age. At forty-two, she seemed little different than when Sky had married her—and he often said so. Her figure was still slender, despite the six children she had borne, and her hair was the same bright auburn it had been when she had crossed the plains on a wagon train in 1839. All the children had heard the story—how she’d been deceived by a man, so their half sister, Mary, had been born out of wedlock. Sky had adopted her after he married Rebekah. Mary had married a businessman six months earlier, and they now lived in St. Louis. Joe, Sky’s son by his first wife, was a successful lawyer in Richmond, Virginia. Every year he brought his wife Louise and their two boys to Belle Maison for a two-week visit. There had been a foster son, Tim Sullivan, but he had died of cholera at the age of sixteen.

Rebekah gave a half-whimsical look at Mark, saying, “You
can’t use the sleigh, Pet. Mark’s going to take Belle over to the Bartons.”

Sky Winslow caught the glance Rebekah gave Mark, and smiled at his oldest son. “Are you taking Belle or yourself over there?”

Mark flushed slightly under his coppery tan, and affected indifference. “Oh, I suppose it would be nice to see Rowena again.”

“Oh, Mark Winslow, you
are
a sly one!” Pet grinned. Her blue eyes sparkled as she loaded her plate with eggs, sugar-cured ham, fresh butter, sorghum, grits and a heap of steaming mush. “You’d get mad enough if Vance Wickham beat you over there!” She shoveled a big forkful of eggs into her mouth, giggling.

“You’re going to choke if you don’t take smaller bites,” Mark snapped. He was very fond of Pet, but he hated to be teased about his stormy courtship of Rowena Barton. “Mother, can’t you teach this child some proper manners? She eats like a hog!” He was frowning, and swallowed a cup of scalding coffee so quickly that he nearly gagged, his face turning crimson.

“The way I hear it,” Sky Winslow said solemnly, “it’s not the local competition you have to worry about, Mark. I understand Rowena got herself a prize young fellow while she was away at school in Boston. Rich as Croesus—at least his family is.”

Rebekah winked across the table at Tom and Dan, saying innocently, “You’d better start giving your big brother an extra prayer or two. It’s not going to be easy to take Rowena’s mind off a rich Yankee.”

“Who cares about him?” Mark countered. “If she’s crazy enough to fall for a Yankee, I’m not interested in her.”

“He’s in the army, isn’t he, Mark?” Sky asked.

“Yes. I got it from Beau—but I ask you, Father, what kind of southern girl would get mixed up with a Yankee soldier when a war’s coming on?”

“I pray there won’t be a war, Mark,” his mother said firmly.

“Not be a war!” Dan sat back and stared at her in amazement. “Why, Mother, you can save
that
prayer!”

“Dan’s right, Mother,” Tom agreed with a knowing nod. “There has to be a war. No way out of it now.”

Rebekah looked at her three sons, and her eyes clouded. She saw Sky’s expression, and knew there was no way their three hot-blooded sons could escape the war fever that was sweeping the South like an epidemic.

Sky shook his head, put down his coffee cup, and spoke slowly, regret in his voice. “I guess they’re right, Rebekah. Gone too far to settle this issue any other way.”

“Is it over slavery, Papa?” Pet asked. Her quick eyes caught the distressed look in her mother’s eyes. “Why can’t we just let the slaves go? Then there wouldn’t be any war.”

“If it were that simple, Pet,” he answered, “I’d free all our slaves in a second.” He had left the West Coast with a large amount of money made in the fur business fifteen years earlier. Land had been cheap in Virginia, and he had put his money in land, buying large tracts here and there, until now Belle Maison was one of the largest plantations in Virginia. All his neighbors owned slaves, and a large number of them had come with the original purchase of the land close to Richmond—but he had never liked the idea. He had often said to his wife, “It’s not right, Rebekah—one human being owning another. I’m going to get out of it some way or other.”

Sky had tried, but cotton farming requires many workers, and there simply hadn’t been enough help to keep the plantation going. Winslow took some comfort in the knowledge that his slaves were treated better than any he knew of—pampered, his overseer called it—but he still had a guilty feeling.

When he brought his attention back to the table, Sky heard Tom saying to Pet with a superior air, “Why, you little silly, who’d work the fields if all the slaves were free? You? You can’t even get to breakfast on time! Anyway, the North doesn’t have any right to tell us what we can do with our own property!”

“They’re probably going to try,” Sky said sadly. “Lincoln won’t let the thing rest.”

“Well, it won’t last long, Father,” Mark predicted. “Why, you can just imagine what would happen to a Yankee army of factory workers! Any good Southerner can whip three Yankees any time!” This was a current doctrine among the young men of his class, the number varying from three to ten, depending on the speaker.

The conversation continued in this vein, with the three young men lightly speaking of the approaching war as if it were a fox hunt. Rebekah was glad when Belle came through the door, saying, “Hello, Mama—Papa. Sorry I’m late.”

Belle Winslow was thought of as the most beautiful girl in the county. She was taller than her mother, and her figure was perfect—slim, yet fully rounded. Her hair was glossy black and straight. Large dark blue eyes with lashes that curled impossibly, lips that were full and red with no help from cosmetics, and a flawless skin—all well shaped, tidy and perfectly done. She had been the belle of every ball in the county since she was fifteen; and her father had once said in despair, “I’m going to have to charge room and board to Belle’s beaus if they keep cluttering up the house!”

Pet glanced at her sister and smiled. That she was not in the least jealous of Belle was a minor miracle, but it was true. Her parents noticed that smile and looked at each other, thinking the same thought:
What a shame that Pet isn’t as pretty as Belle, but isn’t it wonderful that she has so many other fine qualities?
Not that Pet was plain, but next to her sister’s delicate beauty, Pet’s face seemed—well, strong. And as Sky watched her, he thought,
She’s a strong child.
In fact, in some ways she was like another son to him. She loved every aspect of plantation life, and was as likely to be seen riding the fields with her father as helping her mother with the housekeeping.

Sophie, the oldest of the household slaves, came bustling in with an announcement. “That worthless Toby say he hafta
see you, Massa Winslow.” Sophie was nearly seventy, but she had been in charge of the children since they were babies. Now her little black eyes snapped with anger. “I tol’ that worthless nigger to git—but he say you gotta speak to ’im.”

Sky Winslow smiled. “I’ve not finished breakfast, Sophie. Let him come in here.”

Sophie sniffed as she turned to leave the room. “I don’t speck it mount to a hill of beans!” She stepped outside, and they heard her say shrilly, “All right, wipe yo’ big feet now—and keep yo’ hands offa things!”

The Negro that entered the door was very large and powerfully built. He moved carefully, as if he were afraid of breaking something. Snow glistened in his wooly hair, and he twisted a shapeless cap in his massive hands. Glancing balefully at Sophie, he said in a deep voice, “I’s got a sick man in mah house, Miz Winslow.”

“What’s the matter with him, Toby?” Mr. Winslow asked. It was not uncommon for sickness to strike in the slave quarters, but it was rather strange for Toby to make such a direct report; usually one of the women would come to Rebekah, and she would see to the remedy.

Toby shifted nervously and his eyes rolled as he muttered, “Don’ rightly know, Mistuh Winslow. He awful sick, though. Mebby die.”

With slaves selling for a thousand dollars apiece, this was serious. “Who is it, Toby?”

The black man did not answer at first, which was strange. Finally he said, “I don’ know who he is, suh.”

“Don’t know? Isn’t he one of ours?” Mark demanded. “Is he from around here?”

“No, suh, he ain’t from no place round heah,” Toby replied emphatically. “I wuz drivin’ back from town last night wif de new plow, an’ I sees dis heah man. He wuz mos’ buried wif snow, an’ I almos’ don’ sees him. When I gets down, I sees he ain’t dead—so I load him in de wagon and Jessie puts him in de bed at mah house.”

“Well, he must belong to somebody,” Mr. Winslow said. “All right, Toby. I’ll come by and have a look at the fellow.”

As Toby left, Tom frowned. “Well, that’s strange. Toby knows everybody in these parts. Maybe he’s a runaway.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Mark commented as he got up. “Not with all the abolitionists roaming the country. He may have decided to cut and run for the North. Well, Belle, are you going to the Bartons?”

“I’ll be ready as soon as I finish my breakfast and pack a few things.”

Mr. Winslow laughed. “Well, you can read a book until noon, Mark. You know her—she’ll carry enough clothes to last through the Millennium!”

“I’m leaving in twenty minutes!” Mark announced firmly, and turned to leave the room.

“All right, Mark, take her over—and you might say hello to Rowena for the rest of us—if you can cut your way through her suitors.” Then Sky turned to Belle. “You be back by Wednesday, you hear me?”

“Oh, I will, Papa.” She smiled at his stern words, and rose to kiss him. “Pet, you’ll help me pack, won’t you? There’s a dear!”

After the children were all gone, Sky went to stare out of the bay window. After a time, he turned and said, “You’re worried, aren’t you, Rebekah?”

“Yes. I’m afraid of this war talk. And I don’t know about Mark. He’s serious about Rowena.”

“You don’t think she’d be a good wife?”

“Who can tell, Sky?” Rebekah sipped at a cup of coffee. “She’s never done anything but go to balls. After she gets married, she’s got to do more than that.”

Sky grinned, and came to put his hand fondly on her shoulder. “Well, that describes Belle pretty well, wouldn’t you say? She’d starve to death in a pie factory! Doubt if she knows where an egg comes from.”

“Oh, I know, dear.” She raised his hand and kissed it, then
got up, and he pulled her into his arms. She laughed. “Oh, Sky, I’m too old for that!”

“Like blazes you are!” He kissed her full on the lips. “You put all these young women to shame, Rebekah!” He held her close and said quietly, “Try not to worry. Let’s pray that the North will show some judgment.”

“Yes, because there’s no hope that our folks will show any.” Rebekah drew back, and her face was tight with apprehension. “Some of these hot-headed fools are acting like a war is some kind of Christmas picnic.” She shook her head, adding, “Well, I suppose Rowena is no more empty-headed than the rest of them.”

“Good thing we have Pet,” Sky smiled. “She’s got enough sense to make up for them all. If she can just decide to be a young lady and stop chasing around like an overseer.” He sighed, then changed the subject. “Need anything from town?”

“I’ll make a list for you, but first let’s go see that sick man Toby picked up.”

They followed the brick path around the house, walking past the smokehouse and several small out buildings. The slave quarters were almost a fourth of a mile from the Big House, but there was a beaten path in the snow leading to their lodgings. The quarters consisted of two rows of small cabins facing each other across a space of about fifty feet. Smoke spiraled upward from every cabin, mingling with the cold, crisp air. Most of the slaves were inside, for there was little work to be done during the winter.

I wonder how many factory workers have houses as warm as these?
Sky wondered as they made their way to Toby’s cabin. There were no finer quarters in the country, and Sky never looked at them without thinking how fortunate his slaves were. Most owners kept their slaves in leaky shacks, with gaps six inches wide that let in the wintry blasts.

All the cabins were the same: built of good pine lumber, with a brick floor and a small fireplace for heating and
cooking. There were two small glass windows in each, and Winslow had heard that many of his fellow planters felt he had gone too far, providing such luxuries for slaves.