The Dixie Widow (17 page)

“She’s a beautiful young lady,” Beau remarked. “But Hood—why, he’s lost an arm and a leg! Surely she won’t have him?”

“I think she might,” Belle shrugged. “Mother says Sally’s in love with him.”

“If a man maimed like Sam Hood can win a young girl’s fancy,” Beau commented, his eyes boldly searching her face, “why, I guess there’s hope for the rest of us.”

“Beau,” she countered, “I can’t think of things like that anymore. I’ll never marry again.”

He shook his head. He carried the same bold, confident strength and assurance as always, so she didn’t argue. “Look, there’s Thad and Pet.”

Thad stood to his feet, and Belle recalled how he had looked when he first come to Belle Maison—almost dead, and skinny as a rail. Now he was six feet tall, strong and healthy. His dark face broke into a smile as she approached. “Hello, Miss Belle,” he said warmly. “We’ve been hearing all kinds of good things about you, the nursing and all.”

When they were seated, Thad whispered in awe to Pet, casting a glance at General Lee, in deep conversation with Colonel Chesnut, “I can’t believe I’m in the same room with General Lee. Just wait till I get back to the boys. Won’t they be jealous.”

“Not any more than when Lee pinned a medal on you—and made you an officer.” She patted his arm and smiled. “Let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

The meal was delicious, and as they were finishing, Mrs. Chesnut and Rebekah Winslow walked over. Mary Chesnut was a small woman with hazel eyes and straight black hair. “Belle, I got the supplies for the hospital you asked for, but they were dear!” She sat down beside them, and motioned Rebekah to a chair. “I got a barrel of flour, a bushel of potatoes, a peck of rice, and five pounds of salt—and I had to pay sixty dollars for them!”

“In the streets,” Rebekah said, “a barrel of flour sells for one hundred and fifteen dollars.” She smiled at Thad and Pet. “By the time you two get married, it’ll take all your pay just to buy a loaf of bread.”

“Guess we won’t mind the hard times,” Thad smiled.

The conversation turned to other news. Deep in discussion, they were interrupted by a pleasant voice.

“Mrs. Wickham?”

Belle looked up to see General Lee standing beside her. She flushed. “Yes, General?”

He spoke very softly, his eyes kind as he watched her. He gave no sign that he was the most idolized man in the country. “I’ve just been getting good reports of your work from Colonel Chesnut. We are all in your debt, and I offer my grateful thanks for the sacrifices you are making for my men.”

Belle nodded. “It’s my privilege, sir, to be of service to them. I only wish I could do more.”

“If you had been on the scene when our dear Jackson was shot, he might have lived.” The thought of Jackson brought sorrow to his eyes, and he added, “He was a strange man. Next to a battle, he preferred a long Presbyterian sermon, Calvinistic to the core.”

Then spotting Thad, he brightened. “Well, young man, you’re still with us, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” Thad replied breathlessly.

“He’s doing very well, General.” Sky Winslow had come up in time to overhear Lee. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “He’s a good soldier, and a good farmer. The food some of your troops have been eating is his doing.”

“Is that so?” General Lee seemed surprised. “How does that happen?”

“He convinced me to plant corn and vegetables instead of cotton,” Sky nodded. “When this war is over, this young fellow will show the South how to break out of the bondage of cotton.”

“That’s exactly what we must do!” Lee agreed. “Most of our planters are the real slaves, not the Negroes. They are held in serfdom by the banks in the East.” He smiled at Thad. “I think I made a very wise appointment, sir.” Pleased with the news about Thad, he nodded and moved away, leaving the room with Chesnut and Winslow.

Rebekah said, “That must make you very proud, Thad.” She looked at Belle, adding, “And you too, Belle. Your father and I are so proud of you!”

“We all are,” Pet said, going over to hug her. “You’ve done so much!”

Belle rose in agitation, her face pale. “Oh, I wish . . . !” Without another word she turned and left the room, with Beau following quickly.

“What’s wrong with Belle?” Mary Chesnut asked, puzzled.

Rebekah sought to find an explanation. “I don’t know, Mary. I think sometimes she’s too caught up in the Cause. Ever since she came back from Washington, she’s been different.”

“I suppose being sentenced to hang would make one a little different,” Mary conceded. “All the stories in the papers about the Dixie Widow! It’s a wonder it didn’t turn her head. Most girls couldn’t take that much adulation.”

“She hates it—all those stories,” Rebekah said.

Mrs. Chesnut looked toward the door thoughtfully. “That captain is so handsome. He’s an old beau of Belle’s, you say? Perhaps he can help. They do make quite a handsome couple.”

“She says she’ll never marry,” Pet put in. “That’s why they call her the Dixie Widow. Married to the South and all that.”

Outside, Beau assisted Belle into the buggy, then jumped in and took the lines. As they drove along the snow-packed streets, he thought about their past, but didn’t speak until they pulled up in front of her small house. “Do you remember the New Year’s Eve party—the one where Vance and I almost fought over you?”

She looked at him, took a deep breath, and pleaded, “Beau, you
must
understand—I’m not that girl anymore.”

He leaned forward to peer into her eyes, and was surprised at the profound sadness. “Belle, we’re both older, but for me nothing has changed. I loved you before you married Vance. That hit me hard—but I still care for you.”

He put his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers, and for one brief moment she was passive.

“No!” she cried, wrenching herself away. The bitter cry erupted and she leaped from the buggy. “You don’t want
me, Beau! You don’t know me—not anymore!” She ran to the house and slammed the door behind her.

Beau was stunned. Finally he shook his head and drove down the street. “She couldn’t have changed
that
much,” he argued quietly, and set his jaw with determination.

CHAPTER TWELVE

LIBBY PRISON

“Davis! Look what I got for you!”

Holding a round object in his hand, Ezra Lee bent over the still figure under the blanket. There was no response, so he threw the cover back and began to pull the unconscious man to a sitting position.

“Look, it’s an apple, Davis! A real honest-to-God apple!”

In the feeble light falling through the high, dusty windows, the cadaverous face bore little resemblance to the red-cheeked countenance of the man who had lain down for the first time on that same straw ticking in July. The eyes that blinked open were now sunken in the sockets and dull with fever. A thick reddish beard covered the emaciated cheeks that had once been round and rosy with health. Davis’s full lips were shrunken to thin lines covered with sores. He slowly lifted a skeleton-thin hand to the fruit.

“Wha’ you say?” Davis’s head swam as he tried to grasp the apple. He blinked against the yellowish light, and would have fallen back had not Ezra held him firmly. Davis had been dreaming of riding in a carriage through a park in New York. Now to be recalled to the dank cell of a thousand rank stenches angered him. He tried to strike at Lee, but was too weak to make any impact.

Lowering Davis to lie on the hard pad, Lee stood up and said to a man nearby who had been watching, “Perry, he’s in a bad way. I thought maybe the apple would make him feel better.”

Hale looked at the twitching face of the sick man. He himself had lost thirty pounds since the three of them had arrived at Libby, but was still strong looking, though his face was as pale as theirs. He shook his head, adding, “I guess we better have another shot at gettin’ him into the infirmary.”

Ezra Lee had been lanky and rawboned in July when he had been captured, but the scanty diet at Libby had pared away every excess pound. Even though his face was shrunken, he was still relatively healthy. Hale’s remark disgusted him. “What good will that do? LeCompt’ll just laugh at us.”

They stood over Davis Winslow, frustrated and angry—as they had been for the last six months of their imprisonment. Many times they had been told, “Thank God you’re not on Belle Isle.”

At first they were thankful—all three of them. They had heard from former prisoners about the Confederate prison called Belle Isle, a tent city on an island in the James River. According to every report, Belle Isle was a place horrible beyond human comprehension. Though they had fresh water, the men were so crowded that disease swept through the camp. The small island made adequate sewers impossible, and a cholera epidemic killed many prisoners. Corpses were daily hauled off by boat to be buried—there being no room on the island. Reports said the food was practically indigestible. Scurvy, acute diarrhea, dysentery, and gangrene all took their toll. The three men knew that being sent to Belle Isle was tantamount to a death sentence.

So in comparison, Libby was not as bad as those or their counterparts in the North, but the officers crowded into the old warehouse suffered many of the same conditions as the men at Andersonville—overcrowding, poor diet, lack of medical care, sicknesses that swept through the prison like wildfire.

Perry Hale had lived through them all, filling him with a seething bitterness. As he looked down at Davis, a dull hatred burned in his eyes. He had formed a special bond with Lee and Winslow, forged in the agony of Libby’s dark, lethal cells. He
was somewhat older than the other two, and of superior rank, so it had been natural that he would be the leader. Over the months, it was Hale who had been able to gain a few special privileges that had kept them from losing hope altogether. He had managed to sneak letters to their people, informing them of the men’s whereabouts. And he had, by a means he never revealed, come into possession of enough gold to buy the three of them a few small comforts. In civilian life, Hale had been a wealthy manufacturer, and in prison had somehow gotten the gold through bribing the guards.

But now the money was gone, and Hale was frustrated to the core, trying to think of some way to help Davis. “We’ll have to try it, Ezra,” he decided finally. “Let’s get him to LeCompt.”

Lee shrugged, “All right,” and bent over the unconscious man.

“You take him under his shoulders and I’ll take his legs,” Hale said. “We’ll have to be real careful. There’s not much left of him.” The fever had raged through Davis for weeks, draining him of all vitality. His legs and arms flopped life-lessly as Lee and Hale carried him out of the cell into the large, packed room. They had to call out warnings, and in some cases shove their way through. The prisoners cursed and would have added blows, but Perry Hale’s bulk and the captain’s insignia kept the opposition down to mere curses.

Some of the men sat on the floor playing cards, some stood around talking, and others just slouched against the wall, staring dully at the floor. There was a hum of voices from the large gathering of skeleton-like men in blue suits. How long each man had been incarcerated in Libby could easily be discerned by the way his uniform fit. Though every prisoner had on all the clothing he possessed, he still resembled a scarecrow.

Lee and Hale had to go to the third floor to get to the infirmary, and by the time the two had navigated the crowds and struggled up the stairs, they were both winded. They
staggered along the corridor until they came to a set of double doors marked with a sign INFIRMARY. “Get the door, Ezra,” Hale said, taking Davis’s inert form.

Lee opened the door and the two men entered a large room with over thirty men waiting on the benches that lined the walls. A sharp-featured man with narrowly spaced eyes looked up as they approached. Glancing carelessly at Davis, he asked, “Winslow again?”

“Yes.” Hale answered, and straightened his back. “He’s got to have some help, Coulter.”

“You know the rules, Hale,” the guard returned. “First come, first served. You’ll have to wait your turn.” He picked up a pen. “What’s his first name—and his number?”

“Davis Winslow. Number 3320,” Lee replied. No more information was necessary, so the two men turned and bargained for a spot to lay the emaciated form down. They sat down with a sigh of relief, and Lee wiped his face with a ragged piece of cloth. “This won’t be no good,” he observed, “but at least it’s warmer in here.”

“Not warm enough,” Hale said. “Remember how we griped about how hot it was when we first got here? Judas! I’d like to have a little of that heat now!”

Lee grinned. “Perry, you’d complain if they hanged you with a new rope!” He glanced down at Winslow and his face sobered. “Shore has gone downhill, ain’t he? Remember what a fine, big feller he was when we got here?”

“He wasn’t as tough as most of us, Ezra. You and me, we’d had to tough it out, but Davis is a rich man’s son, and studying at Oxford—that kind of life doesn’t get you ready for Libby.”

Two hours passed. Finally Coulter called, “Hale, you can take Winslow in now.”

They rose stiffly and picked up Davis, carrying him awkwardly through the single door.

Harry LeCompt looked up at them, then said briefly, “Put him on the table.” LeCompt was thirty-two, a slender man
with black eyes and straight black hair that hugged his skull. He was not a doctor, but a former medical student. No one had ever determined how far he had gone in his medical studies; some said a few weeks, but others swore he’d done almost the entire course.

He had one leg that was conspicuously shorter than the other, so he limped as he came across the room to examine Davis. The limp had kept him out of the army, of course, but it had embittered him as well. Hale had talked to LeCompt on several occasions, and had discovered that his one goal in life was to leave Richmond and finish his medical studies. He had hinted that he would like to study in the North when he got the money.

“His leg looks worse,” Lee observed.

“Let’s see.” Davis had taken a deep, tearing cut from a rusty nail two months earlier, and it had become infected. Nobody healed well at Libby—some very minor cuts went septic, some caused amputations—even death.