The Last Confederate (19 page)

“Thank you kindly,” the slave replied, but there was no smile on his lips as he took the sack.

“Let’s deliver the rest of this food, Belle,” Pet suggested, pulling her sister toward the cabin at the far end.

“Why are you rushing me so, Pet?” Belle demanded.

“Something’s wrong with Toby. Didn’t you notice?”

“Oh, you’re always worrying about the slaves,” Belle shrugged. “You and Thad would wrap them in satin if you had your way.”

Pet had read the big slave correctly, and as soon as the girls were gone, Thad asked directly, “What’s the matter, Toby?”

The muscles in the broad cheeks of the black man tensed, and his powerful hands clenched the sack of game. He said nothing, but ducked his head and stared at the ground. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong,” he muttered finally, and turned to leave.

“Wait a minute!” Thad exclaimed, grabbing Toby by the arm.

“Take yo’ han’ off me, white man!” The words flashed out, and quick as a coiled snake Toby jerked his arm free and drew back his fist to strike Thad. His eyes were bulging, making the whites stand out like those of a panic-stricken horse, and his thick lips were contorted with rage.

“Toby!” Thad cried out, and his voice seemed to drive the wildness out of the slave. The clenched fist dropped, and his body trembled. “Toby, what
is
it?”

“I gonna be sold,” he whispered. He swallowed hard. “One of de hands ovah at Speers place say Mistuh Speers done tol’ him dat he has bought hisself a top hand—and he named me. But he ask and found out dat Jessie and Wash ain’t gonna be sold wif me.”

The black face was gray with tragedy, and Thad found himself speechless. He stood helplessly in the heavy silence. Finally, he could bear it no longer and urged, “Don’t give up, Toby! We’ll think of something!”

Toby lifted his head, tears filling his eyes. “Mistuh Winslow evah say anything ’bout dis to you, Thad?”

Thad had an impulse to lie, but he choked it back. He nodded slowly. “He . . . said once that he might have to sell some slaves. But he was trying to find a way out of it.”

“I cain’t stan’ it, Thad!” The trembling increased in the
powerful hands, and he whispered, “I gonna run off, Thad—me an’ Jessie an’ Wash!”

“No! They’ll be watching you, Toby! They’ll kill you for sure! Let me talk to Mr. Winslow. He thinks a lot of you, I know.”

Toby stared blankly at him. “Guess it won’t do no hurt to talk.” He took a deep, ragged breath and said, “You talk fo’ me, Thad, but if he say no, I don’ think I can stan’ it!” With that he turned slowly and entered the door to his cabin.

Numb at the news, Thad walked quickly back to the house. The last hundred yards he took off, running like a deer. Reaching the veranda, he leaped to the top step and knocked on the back door.

“Come in, Thad,” Rebekah called. When he opened the door, she stared at his face and cried, “What’s the matter? Is someone hurt?”

“No, Mrs. Winslow—but I have to see Mr. Winslow. May I use one of the horses? It’s important!”

She saw he was tense with strain, and said gently, “Mr. Winslow isn’t in Richmond, Thad. He’s gone on a mission for President Davis.” She could tell her words disturbed him, so taking his arm she urged, “Come in and sit down, Thad. You’re shaking.” She poured him a cup of hot coffee, then asked, “Now, what’s wrong?”

He told her of Toby’s plight, and as he talked, he could not know how her heart went out to him—and to Toby. But when he finally finished, she said, “I’ll do what I can, Thad—but it may be too late. Mr. Winslow told me before he left that he’d signed some papers at the bank. He . . . he did say that some of the slaves would have to go, but I didn’t think it would be Toby.”

“Let me go find him, Mrs. Winslow!” Thad urged. “He can change his mind.”

Rebekah drew in her lips and made a hopeless gesture. “Why, Thad, he wouldn’t even tell
me
where the President
was sending him. But even if you did find Mr. Winslow, if he’s signed the papers, there’s nothing he could do now!”

A dark expression crossed Thad’s face, and a stubborn light touched his eyes. “It’s not right, Mrs. Winslow!”

She bit her lips, then put her hand gently on his shoulder. “I know it’s not right, Thad—none of it is. Everything about slavery is wrong!”

He looked at her, startled by her vehemence. He had not known she felt so strongly, and he pleaded, “Can’t we do something?”

She said quietly, “We can pray, Thad.”

He dropped his eyes, mumbling, “I don’t think so. Not me.”

She put her hand on his thick shock of black hair, just as she might have done with one of her own boys. “Nothing is impossible with God, Thad. You don’t know that now—but you will someday. Until then, I’ll pray for both of us.”

He stared at her with a hopeless expression, then got up and left the kitchen without another word.

****

“Mistuh Speers, there’s a young man wants to see you.”

Milton Speers looked up from his book with an annoyed expression. “Who is it, Caesar?”

The tall black slave shrugged. “I don’ know, suh. He sho’ ain’t no quality folk. He say his name is Thad Novak.”

The name wasn’t familiar to Speers. “Well,” he said after a moment, “show him in.”

“Yas, suh.”

Speers went back to his book again. After reading a few lines of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
he snorted and slapped the novel on the table. “Awfulest garbage I ever read!” He got to his feet, walked over to the walnut secretary, poured himself a generous portion of brandy, and downed it smoothly as the door opened and a young man entered. Putting the glass down, Speers stared at the rough dress and shaggy hair of his visitor. “Yes, what is it?” he snapped.

“My name is Thad Novak, Mr. Speers. I work for Mr. Winslow.”

Speers’ frown smoothed itself out, and he nodded. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of you, Novak. Mr. Winslow speaks highly of you. Is there a message from him?”

“No, sir. I . . . I came about Toby.”

“Toby?” A puzzled look washed across the planter’s face. “Which Toby is—oh, he’s one of the slaves I’m buying.”

“Yes, sir.” Thad tried to go on, but the impulse that had brought him here had faded. He had come out of desperation, with a germ of an idea in his mind. Now, staring into the sharp features of Milton Speers, Thad could not find a way to say what had brought him.

“Well, out with it, Novak. Is the nigger sick—or had an accident?”

“No, Mr. Speers; he’s fine. It’s just that—well, I came to make you an offer.”

Speers stared at him. “An offer? What kind of an offer?”

Thad twisted his cap in his hands, then blurted out the thought that had come to him after leaving Mrs. Winslow. “I want to work for you in place of Toby.”

Speers looked puzzled, shook his head, and said, “Why, I couldn’t hire you, boy. It wouldn’t be right for me to hire you away from a friend.” He paused and asked, “You’re not satisfied with your job? I know for a fact that Mr. Winslow is satisfied with you. Don’t want to give you the big head, young fellow, but he claims you’ll be the best overseer in Virginia in a few years.”

“I don’t want to leave Belle Maison, sir. It’s just that—well, Toby has helped me a lot. He’s taught me just about all I know about farming and horses.” Thad bit his lip, then added, “We’ve gotten to be real good friends, and I don’t want to see his family broken up—so I thought I could work for you for nothing until you got the price for him back.”

A silence filled the room, and Speer’s eyes searched the young face. He was a man of little experience outside his own
small world, and nothing of this nature had ever occurred. Suddenly his eyes fell on the novel he had tossed down, and he hardened. “You’re a northern boy, aren’t you, Novak?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve probably got your head full of wild notions about slavery. That crazy woman who wrote
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
—why, she ought to be locked up! The way she tells it, all our slaves are treated worse than dogs, and you know that’s not so.” Speers shook his head in anger and waved his finger in Thad’s face. “A good field hand is worth a lot of money, boy, and I’d no more ruin a good hand by beating him to death than I would a good horse! You don’t see Mr. Winslow mistreating his slaves, do you?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Well, I’m telling you that
I
don’t, either! The slave will be just as well off here as he is there.”

“But he’s got a wife and son, Mr. Speers!”

Speers lifted his hand. “Novak, you said something that tells me you’re all mixed up about slavery. You said about this Toby, ‘We’ve gotten to be real good friends.’ Now
that’s
where you’ve gotten your harness tangled, boy. If you’d been raised in the South, you’d know that no white man can be a
friend
with a nigger. Why, they’re not
like
us, Novak! Some of the finest theologians in the world have proven that they don’t have souls!”

“But, Mr. Speers—!”

“Novak, I better tell you this,” Speers said sternly. “I remember now what some folks are saying about you. There’s a lot of talk about how you’re a Yankee, pure and simple—and some even tell it that you’re some kind of a spy! Now, I don’t believe that, of course, but you better be more careful the way you handle yourself. You’ve got to keep these niggers in their places. No way you can be an overseer and be
friends
with them.”

Thad stood there, his face pale, and he made another
attempt. “Mr. Speers, what Mr. Winslow said about me being a good hand—do you believe that?”

“Why—certainly! Sky Winslow is a man of honor!”

“Well, if you’d let me take Toby’s place—let him stay with his family, I’d work for you for nothing until he was paid off. All I’d want is just a place to sleep and a little food.”

The planter’s face reddened, and he raised his voice. “Are you stupid, Novak? Didn’t you hear
anything
I just told you? Why, you’d have to work for ten years to pay off that slave—and if people heard about it, they’d think I was getting crazy ideas about slaves myself! You just get out of here, boy!” He took a step toward Thad and shoved him toward the door, shouting, “And after I tell your employer about this, I don’t reckon you’ll have any job at all!
Get out of here!
” As Thad stumbled from the room, Speers stuck his head out the door and screamed, “Go on back to the North where you belong! We don’t need your kind around here!”

Blind with rage, Thad swung onto his horse, calling out loudly, “Go, Blackie!” The stallion reared, then plunged in a headlong gallop down the dark road. By the time Thad pulled him up at the stable, he was covered with lather. Thad leaped to the ground, stroked the nose of the exhausted animal, and began walking him to cool him down. After about an hour the stallion was calm and the madness had seeped from Thad.

He stabled Blackie, then walked toward the cabin but stopped abruptly when he noticed the light was on. Rather than face Franklin, Thad turned away into the darkness and did not return until dawn. He felt empty and helpless, and when he heard the sound of stirring in the Big House, he couldn’t face the thought of talking to anyone, so he slipped into the cabin, picked up his gun, moving carefully to avoid waking Franklin, and left the farm.

All day he walked the fields, avoiding farms and all contact with the few hunters he saw, not caring that he had left no word of his whereabouts. He shot two rabbits and roasted them on a stick; when he was thirsty he drank from a spring.
That night he lay looking at the million points of light overhead until he dozed off. He got up stiffly at dawn, and with a set jaw made his way back to Belle Maison.

He went directly to his cabin and was met by Franklin, who demanded angrily, “Where in the blazes have you been, Novak?” He reached out and grabbed Thad’s arm, cursing, but was knocked back against the wall as Thad struck him across the chest with a forearm.

“Don’t put your hands on me, Franklin.”

Thad waited for the overseer to challenge him, but something hard in the dark eyes of the young man silenced the other; and without a word, Thad turned and walked out of the cabin. He was crossing the yard when he heard his name called.

“Thad!” He raised his eyes and saw Mrs. Winslow and Pet come out of the house. They ran quickly to him, looking anxious. “Thad, we’ve been worried about you,” Rebekah said.

“Where have you been?” Pet demanded.

Thad was weary to the bone, and too heartsick to care much about what he said. “I went to see Mr. Speers. Told him I’d work for him to pay for Toby.”

Rebekah nodded, sadness in her fine eyes. “He came this morning, Thad. He told us about it.”

“He said you wouldn’t want me anymore—me bein’ a Yankee spy!”

Rebekah shook her head. “He’s a pigheaded, stupid man, Thad. I know you did what you thought best.”

“It was noble, Thad!” Pet said, and her eyes glistened with tears.

Thad stood straight and asked directly in a harsh voice. “Did he take Toby?”

Rebekah nodded, unable to meet his gaze. She put her hand on his arm gently. “You’ll hear about it, Thad. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. Toby . . . fought them. I guess they expected it, because they sent four big men, and it took all of them to put the chains on Toby.”

“They were beating him with a whip!” Pet cried angrily. “And Mama ran in and made them stop. She said she’d shoot them if they didn’t quit!”

Thad blinked his eyes and glanced at the slave quarters. “But there won’t be anyone to do that at Speers’, will there?” He swallowed hard. “I thank you, Mrs. Winslow, for what you did. Excuse me, please. I’ll need to talk to Jessie.”

The two women watched him walk away, and Rebekah felt her heart grow cold and weary. She knew that something dark and tragic had fallen over the young man she had learned to trust and admire—but there was nothing she could do. Nothing any of them could do.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CHOICE

Although it was already the middle of April, everyone could still remember the last major happening in the war.

Twice during February that year the bells of victory had rung in every city in the North, and the name of Ulysses S. Grant had become known in the South. Spirits in Richmond plummeted when the first real victory for the North came with the fall of Fort Henry in Tennessee, just a few miles south of the Kentucky line. Two weeks later came the news that Fort Donelson had also fallen to General Grant. The people of the North shouted: “God bless old U.S. Grant—Unconditional Surrender Grant.” Newspaper headlines screamed that the end of the war was in sight, and victory was celebrated in every city of the North.