The Last Confederate (14 page)

Davis shifted uncomfortably. “There’s a lot of sympathy for the South in England. If they support the southern cause, it’ll be a hard war.”

“So it would—just another reason why I believe it won’t be over in ninety days like some of the fools in Congress think!” Whitfield snapped. Then he turned back to his grandson and asked directly, “What will you do? Fight—or not?”

Davis sat there, trying to frame an answer. Finally he
replied, “No, I won’t fight. I’m not political, as you know. I guess I’m just one of those ‘fools’ who think it’ll be over quickly. Then I can go back to England and try to be a writer.”

The noise of the train changed as they crossed a bridge, leaving a lazy trail of smoke. Some of the coal smoke seeped into the coach and burned the older man’s eyes. He took out a snowy white handkerchief, wiped his face, then put it back into his breast pocket before speaking. There was a far-off look in his eye and he spoke so softly that Davis had to lean toward him to catch it.

“I pray you’re right—but these are grand, yet awful times, Davis. There’s some strange portent in the air—like a stillness before a gathering storm. This country’s been on a collision course for a long time, and as Mr. Lincoln said, we can’t endure half slave and half free. It’ll be one or the other, and I think we’re on the razor’s edge. You’ll probably have to make a decision sooner or later. There won’t be any disinterested spectators in this war!”

“I hope you’re wrong, sir,” Davis replied finally. The trees flashed by as the train sped south. “Because I can’t feel a part of it,” he murmured.

“Well, don’t fret, Son,” the old man encouraged. “We Winslows have a habit of being pulled into things against our will. You just smile and be agreeable while we’re in Richmond.”

A strange thought struck Davis and he asked, “What if I got converted to the southern cause, Grandfather?” He shook his head and laughed, “No, I’m the family eccentric, but I’m not crazy!” He chuckled again, but did not see the startled look on his grandfather’s face—a look of alarm.

They made the journey, changing trains twice, and got off at their destination at noon. Like Rome, Richmond sat on seven hills, a pleasant city on the James River. Its position as a railroad terminus and the industrial resource for the Confederacy made it the logical site for the capital in place of the earlier choice of Montgomery.

The Winslows departed from the train station and took a
carriage through the city. They were impressed by the activity they saw. “It’s like a beehive!” Davis exclaimed. It was grimy from the atmosphere of smoke, and the streets were filled with people jostling one another—all appearing to be on some mysterious business. Many of the buildings rumbled and hummed. Through windows Davis and his grandfather saw hundreds of women leaning over benches in the cartridge factories. Throughout the city there was a constant pounding and wheezing of foundries and lathes and wood-working plants.

“Looks more like one of our industrial cities than I expected,” Whitfield grunted. “But I expect it’s about the only manufacturing center they’ve got.”

The shops were numerous, and the windows displayed an air of plenty, the two men noticed as they walked toward their hotel. There was a plethora of French perfumes and wines, the finest hams, ducks, partridge, oysters, and terrapin. The French and English prints were reminders that lanes to Europe were still open. The streets were filled with men in uniform; on every corner busy recruiting sergeants were doing a brisk business. “They really seem to be serious about this, don’t they?” Davis remarked as they entered the Ballard House.

The older man only shook his head, saying as they approached the desk, “They won’t be so lighthearted after they bury a few thousand of their boys.” Then he turned to the clerk. “You have rooms for us?”

“Not very good ones, I’m afraid,” replied the clerk, a tall, skinny man with a bushy head of black hair. “I can give you a small room on the third floor.”

“That’ll do,” Winslow replied. “I need to find Mr. Sky Winslow. Do you know him?”

The clerk’s eyes opened wider, and he nodded vigorously. “Why, yes, indeed! Mr. Winslow often stays here with his family—but they’ve taken a house now, I believe.” He called to the other clerk who was sorting mail, “Harry, do you know where Mr. Winslow’s house is?”

“The old Nelson place.”

“Ah, yes, I can give you directions—but you’ll no doubt find him at the capitol at the session. Let me have your bags taken up, and I’ll get you a carriage to take you there when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.”

The clerk’s bright eyes fixed on the pair with an intense speculation, and he asked, “You are a relative of our Mr. Winslow, I take it?”

Whitfield nodded. “Yes—from Washington.” He enjoyed the shock that touched the man’s face, and said, “We’ll wash up; then you can get that carriage for us.”

They followed the black man who carried their bags upstairs; then when they were inside the room, Davis grinned, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you—told them we were from the North?”

“Save their detectives a lot of time,” the older man nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Now, let’s go find Mr. Sky Winslow. It’s time we met some of our rebel kinfolk!”

****

With Richmond bursting at its seams, Sky had been fortunate to obtain the white frame house on the outskirts of town. It was an old structure, but sound, and the three bedrooms were adequate since Mark and Tom both billeted with the company. Sky and Rebekah used the largest one, Pet and Belle the next, and Dan slept in the smallest. Though Sky was gone a great deal, he tried to be home for the evening meal whenever possible.

This evening he came home earlier than usual, and found Rebekah preparing supper with Mary, the single house slave they’d brought with them from Belle Maison. “Put some more beans in the pot; we’ve got company tonight.”

“From the President’s office?” Rebekah asked.

“No, this is kinfolk.” He smiled at her look of surprise. “You remember I told you about Whitfield Winslow?”

“Oh, the naval officer?” Rebekah tasted the cornbread dressing and then nodded.

“That’s him. He’s the one who is interested in the family—can trace the Winslows back to Adam, from what I hear. He came into the office today with his grandson. Says he’s come here to pump us dry about our side of the family.”

“It’ll be nice to meet them,” Rebekah replied, “and we have plenty to eat. Thad brought in a mountain of fresh vegetables from the farm—oh, by the way, I asked him to whitewash the servant’s quarters. Was that all right?”

“Sure. I want to talk to him about the crops. May be best if he stays overnight.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “You’d better say a word to the children. You know how they claim to hate the Yankees, and here I am dragging two of them home with me.”

“I’ll warn them,” Rebekah smiled. “What time will they be here?”

“I told them seven. Will Tom and Mark be here?”

“No. They’re on some kind of military exercise. You go get freshened up, and take a nap—if you can in this heat.”

By the time the meal was ready to set on the table all the children were home and Rebekah cornered them to give a stern warning. When she mentioned that two relatives from Washington were coming, their reaction was typical. Dan glowered and muttered something about “traitors,” Belle asked, “How old is Cousin Davis?” and Pet said, “I remember Papa telling about the captain. He sounded real nice!”

“Just you keep quiet about the war,” Rebekah warned. “They’re our kin and I won’t have any of you hurting their feelings.” Even as she spoke there was a knock at the door and she heard Sky’s footsteps as he went to answer it. “Let’s go meet our relations,” she said rather nervously. Despite her talk, she was apprehensive about the visit. She had heard so much talk about the cruelty of northern people that she dreaded to think there would be trouble within the family. True enough, the communication between the two branches
of the family had been little; still, she knew that Sky had an admiration for some of them, and she was fearful he might be hurt.

She and the children proceeded into the parlor where Sky was conversing with the two men. Sky introduced his family. “My wife, Rebekah, and this is my son Dan and my two daughters, Belle and Patience.”

Rebekah nodded, but the fine-looking older man stepped forward and took her hand, saying warmly, “I’ve always heard that Sky married a prize—and now I can verify it, my dear.”

“Why—thank you, Captain Winslow.” Rebekah thought she saw something of her husband in the stately carriage and direct gaze of the man, and she smiled into his eyes.

“Oh, this is my grandson Davis.” A twinkle glinted in his eyes. “If he talks funny, it’s not because he’s retarded. He just returned to America after three years in England.”

Davis flushed as they all scrutinized him like a specimen under glass. He nodded slightly, saying only, “Good of you to have us.”

Sky immediately asked, “What do they say about us there, Mr. Winslow? About our war, I mean?”

Rebekah put a warning hand on Sky’s arm and said disdainfully, “None of your politics, Sky! The food is on the table and I’m sure our guests are hungry after their long trip.”

Davis was relieved at her words, and although the distance from the parlor to the long dining room was only a few steps, he discovered somehow that the older girl, Belle, was at his side and that he had offered his arm to escort her. She was so beautiful that he was intimidated, for his experience with women was slight. Taking one glance at her flawless skin, sparkling teeth and raven hair drawn back from her brow, he could only answer her questions in short monosyllables as they entered the dining room. When she came to stand behind a chair, he did have sense enough to pull it out for her—then he went around the table to sit beside his grandfather across from her.

Sky bowed his head and without preamble prayed, “Our Father, we thank thee for this food. We thank thee for our guests, and we ask that you would prosper them with every blessing. Protect us from harm and cause us to love thee more every day. In the name of Jesus we pray.”

The sudden blessing had caught Davis off guard, for although his grandfather was a Christian, none of the rest of the family were church people. His own father was a thorough skeptic, calling himself an agnostic and admiring only the transcendental views of Emerson in the religious field. Davis himself had unconsciously adopted this attitude, and the obvious simple Christianity of Sky Winslow shocked him.

He had been his grandfather’s greatest ally in the matter of tracing the family history, and knew the story of Sky Winslow very well. Looking across the table, he saw the Indian ancestry that came to Sky through his Sioux mother—the wife of the famous mountain man, Christmas Winslow. His host, he remembered, had led Sioux war parties, been a guide for wagon trains across the Oregon trail, and had been something of a gun fighter in his youth. As a boy, Davis had loved to hear his grandfather tell those tales of the wild west, and now, looking at Sky himself, it was like a legend come to life.

The food was good, and both Davis and his grandfather realized that they were being studied openly by the family. The conversation stayed on matters of the family tree until the dessert came, and with the thick, bubbling blackberry pudding came a sudden shift.

“Captain Winslow,” Dan asked abruptly, his eyes fixed on Davis, “do you have any other grandsons?”

They all knew instantly what the question implied, and Rebekah could have pinched his ears off. Her eyes met Sky’s and he shrugged. But they need not have worried, for Captain Winslow leaned back and studied the young man with a calm gaze, a smile touching his lips.

“Yes, I have one more grandson, Mr. Winslow,” he replied, and the use of the title made the boy flush with pleasure.
“He’s a graduate of West Point. His name is Lowell; he’s Davis’s only brother.”

Belle asked quickly, “Mr. Winslow, you’ve been out of the country for three years—did you come home because of the war?”

“Well . . .” Davis hesitated, not knowing how to answer the question. The truth was that his parents had insisted on his return, but that made him sound like a weak sister. “I’d just finished up my work at Oxford and had always planned to come home after that.”

“What did you study there, Mr. Winslow?” Rebekah asked. Davis grinned. “Nothing important, Mrs. Winslow. Which is to say, I took a degree in literature.”

“You want to be a professor?” Sky asked, his curiosity spilling over.

“No, he wants to be a writer,” the captain interjected, looking fondly at Davis. “We’ve had horse thieves and governors in the family, but never a writer as far as I know.”

The tense moment passed, and as they ate the cobbler and drank coffee, Pet noticed that Belle was studying Davis carefully.
She’s got to size up a man—even if he is a Yankee!
she thought. She herself was much more impressed with the captain. Davis was overweight and looked soft, but his grandfather had the history of a hard life at sea written on his face. Those years had given him a mahogany complexion, and the lines around his eyes spoke of much time under the tropical sun.

After the meal they moved back to the parlor, and for two hours Captain Winslow told them the fascinating history of the Winslow family and his dream of putting it all in a book. Finally, he looked at his watch and smiled. “Never let a man loose with his hobby horse! I must ask your pardon for holding you captive.”

Belle said with a glow of intensity in her eyes, “Oh, Captain Winslow, I never knew we had such a family!”

“Well, I’ve told you mostly about the heroes, Miss Belle,
but we’ve had our villains as well—but on the whole we’ve done very well.”

“But with this war,” Belle asked, “isn’t our family going to be divided?”

“Not the family!” Dan burst out impetuously. “The
country
will have to be divided!”

An awkward silence fell across the room, and Captain Winslow looked directly at Dan, saying slowly, “It’s been nip and tuck with this country, lad, from the beginning. I’ve seen the time, more than once, when it looked as if we’d be swallowed up by France or England.” He paused and they could see that he was re-living the bygone days before they were born. Finally he said quietly, “I remember when Jefferson decided to cut back on the Navy. By the time he was done, there were only five light frigates and eight heavy ones. I had a berth as midshipman on the
Constitution,
a frigate 44, with Captain Edward Preble commanding. Well, the pasha of Tripoli decided that what he needed was a war with the United States, so he cut down the consul’s flagpole and demanded a payment of $250,000 to set it up again. Jefferson decided that compromise with those barbarians was impossible, so he sent five ships to Tripoli.”