The Last Confederate (20 page)

“Do you think it’s about over, sir?” Thad asked Mr. Winslow late one Saturday evening as the two worked on plans for the week. They were in the parlor of the Richmond house, and the silence after everyone else had gone to bed made the men’s voices sound loud. Thad lowered his tone, adding, “Some people are saying the North has won.”

Sky put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. “It was a big win for the North, Thad, but the war is a long way from over.” He took a drink of water from the pitcher on his desk. “Look,” he said, replacing the pitcher, “I’m going to show you something.” Picking up a sheet of paper and dipping his pen in the inkwell, he motioned Thad closer. “Let’s have a history lesson together.”

He drew rapidly, sketching the outline of a block of states, adding lines to represent rivers and railroads and small squares for towns. “Now,” he instructed Thad, “this is the Confederate line, beginning over here in eastern Kentucky.” He studied his sketch and added a row of
x’
s to represent the Confederates. “Here it comes across the Blue Grass country; then it crosses the Mississippi about here; on it stretches across Missouri and on over here into Indian Territory—a line several hundred miles long. Now, all of this is under the command of our best general, Albert Sidney Johnston—you’ve heard of him?”

“I think I’ve heard Lieutenant Mark talk about him.”

“Well, here are two rivers, the Tennessee and the Cumberland. See how they run side by side and only a few miles apart as they come up toward the Ohio, and notice, too, that they are crossed by our line.”

Thad stared at the drawing and asked, “What if they
did
threaten it? Their gunboats couldn’t lick that long line of soldiers stretchin’ across the map, could they?”

“No, but look what they
could
do—what, in fact, they’ve already done. Notice how the Cumberland dips down into Tennessee and flows past these towns—Clarksville here and Nashville here. It’s from these towns that the Confederates have been getting their supplies; this line can’t move far or fight the bluebellies if it doesn’t have food, guns, or ammunition. These items have been coming up the river to us and this”—Sky made a small square on the line representing the Cumberland and labelled it
Donelson
—“this is the fort that the Confederates thought would be enough to keep the Union gunboats from cutting our supply line.”

“And was it the same on the other river?”

“Just about. See, this line represents a railroad; it comes up here from Memphis and crosses the Tennessee just below Fort Henry. Supplies have been coming up here by rail, probably every day, and reinforcements for General Johnston, too. As a matter of fact, that’s the way the Richmond Blades made
their trip up there. Now do you understand why Grant struck at these forts?”

“Yes, sir,” Thad said, studying the map. “But the North says it’s about over.”

“That’s just fool talk,” Sky replied. Putting his pencil down, he began to walk around the room, stretching his cramped legs. “Think for yourself, Thad. If the Union gets control of the Mississippi, the Confederacy will be cut in two. That would mean that our army in the west would be powerless, so we’d pretty much lose the war in the west. The North is in control of Kentucky right now, so Johnston’s men can’t get supplies. But look at how the Mississippi stretches through the states of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana. The North will have to take all those. Remember how hard the fighting was at a little place like Donelson. No, the North has misjudged us. It’ll be a bitter fight to the end, and the end won’t be soon.”

The two sat there, letting the silence run on, and as Thad studied the map, the older man took the occasion to study him.
He’s grown up to be a man in just a year,
he thought, studying the shoulders that had thickened with muscle, and noting the mature planes of the angular face.
He was just a skinny boy when I saw him in that bed, all burning up with fever. Now he’s doing a man’s work—despite all that’s happened.

He stirred at the thought of the past month. “Thad,” he asked, “I’ve never said much about Toby, but I hope you don’t hate me for selling him.”

“I could never hate you, Mr. Winslow!” The answer came back quickly, but there was pain in his eyes, and he added, “I know it’s not your fault.”

The boy’s words only increased the guilt Sky Winslow felt over his part in the transaction. “I’ve wished a thousand times I could have found another way to survive, Thad, but you know from the books how tough it is just to keep the bank from taking Belle Maison. Aside from just walking
away from the whole thing and letting them have it, there was no other way. Sometimes I think I’ll just
do
that!” Winslow looked angrily at the books with their long lines of figures, and pushed away from the desk in frustration. “But a man likes to give his children something. It would mean that Belle and Pet would have nothing.”

“I heard what you said to Mr. Speers—about being kind to Toby,” Thad replied, trying to ease the man’s agony.

“Oh, I did the best I could, Thad, but it wasn’t much. A man like Speers isn’t going to let another man tell him what to do.” He had gone to Speers immediately after learning of Thad’s mission there and had tried to buy Toby back, but he had never told Thad that. Speers had said,
‘Sky, once we start lettin’ personalities get into this thing, slavery will be dead.’
He had, however, promised to be extra careful with Toby—for business reasons, Sky had realized.

Thad hesitated. “He’s goin’ to try to escape, Mr. Winslow,” he informed him.

“He can’t make it, Thad!” Winslow bit his lip and asked, “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. Before they took him. I haven’t talked to Toby since he left. They won’t let me.”

Winslow shook his head. “It would be suicide. It’s almost impossible for a slave to get away under any conditions. And they’re watching Toby like a hawk, you can be sure. And no matter how valuable a slave, he would be beaten to death when he was returned—if he hadn’t already been killed when caught. Speers would see to that. He’d think that’d be the way to discourage others from running away.”

Thad stared at the floor, worry creasing his brow. “I know—but Toby’s not afraid of anything.” A feeling of despair touched him, and he stood up. “Guess I’ll be getting home if there’s nothing else.”

Winslow rose slowly and, in a rare gesture of affection, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know how hard it is for you, Thad, but we’re all in bad shape one way or another. In
a couple years you’ll probably be running Belle Maison. I’m counting on you.”

The words stirred Thad, and he lifted his head and tried to smile. “It’s all I want to do, sir.” With that he turned and walked out, leaving Winslow staring after him. Finally Sky closed the books and went to bed, hoping that he could shake off the grim feeling that gripped him.

****

Thad returned to Belle Maison and for the next two weeks buried himself in his work, trying not to think of Toby. Spring, he had discovered, was the critical time for a plantation because the quality of the crop rested on the planting. Choosing the time to plant, tilling the soil, judging the weather—all depended on a delicate balance hovering over the tiny grains of seed; for soil, weather, and seed had to come together in a catalyst that could not vary much if a good crop was to be produced.

Franklin was little help, for he was in a constant state of half-drunken rage. He was a man of no imagination, and planting cotton was the only thing he knew. He burned with resentment against Thad, being firmly convinced that the young man was somehow responsible for the new methods. He dared not challenge the owner, and he was sly about covering up his drinking; but day after day he abused the slaves and constantly harassed Thad with curses and predictions of failure.

Thad never retaliated in any way, but as Franklin became more and more abusive, the slaves inevitably turned to the young man. Thad knew little about corn farming, but the slaves did—especially old Jacob, a seventy-two-year-old whose knowledge of farming Thad cultivated. The old man had been relegated to small clean-up tasks, but had blossomed as Thad sought him out for advice about the corn crop. Jacob had been bought from a farm in Illinois and knew pigs as well, so he was doubly important. Thad took him all over
the county to buy a crop of piglets and yearlings, and soon the two developed a system that worked well.

Thad would look at the animals and appear to be evaluating their worth; actually, he was waiting for a sign from the slave. A nod from the old man or a shake of his wooly head gave Thad a lead, and he would begin to bargain on the price. Soon Belle Maison was alive with pigpens, and newly fenced pastures held a crop of fine yearlings.

Pet came out often and spent all day with the young animals, which she loved. She knew them all, and had named them before they had been there three days. Thad laughed at her one morning as she fed the squealing piglets. “You’re going to get too fond of these critters, Pet,” he teased. “They’re all headed for the frying pan, you know.”

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” Pet cried. She was wearing her faded overalls with a checked shirt that Dan had outgrown, and she looked fresh and filled with health in the morning sunlight. She picked up a black and white porker and put her nose to his while he kicked and protested vehemently. “You little sweetheart,” she cooed. “I could just kiss you!”

“Better save that for Tim Mason,” Thad said with a straight face. The young man was the youngest son of a wealthy planter who had been riding over under the pretense of spending time with Dan, but actually was mooning over Pet.

“Oh, don’t be silly!” she snapped, her face reddening.

“Well, he’s better looking than that pig, isn’t he?”

“Oh, you . . . ! Maybe he doesn’t smell as good, though.”

Thad was perched on the top rail of the fence watching her, and he appeared to be in deep thought. “I guess you’d know more about how Mr. Mason smells than I do, Patience. You were standing close enough together when I saw you over by—hey!”

Pet dropped the pig and in a swift motion lunged at Thad. He was caught off guard and went over backward, and she landed on his stomach, driving all the breath from his body.

“Well, how does this smell, Thad Novak?” She snatched a handful of bitterweed and crushed it into his face as he lay there trying to get his breath.

“Get—off me—!” he gasped, but she kept stuffing the ill-smelling weeds into his face; and when he rolled over, throwing her to one side, she yelled at him again and shoved him over, beating his chest with one fist. Wildly the two struggled in the dirt of the corral.

“Pet—stop it!” he protested. She was small but strong, and though he could have thrown her off, he didn’t use his strength as he might have if she had been a boy. “Blast it—get off me!”

She was laughing now, and as they rolled over and over, she said viciously, “You don’t smell too good yourself, do you?”

Thad suddenly reached out and captured her wrists, saying, “If you don’t quit, I’m going to throw you in the trough.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?” he demanded. In one motion Thad heaved himself up, and with an easy strength he picked her up and took three quick steps to a horse trough made out of cypress. It was covered with a thin green scum, and he held her over it, saying with a wide grin, “You’re the one who needs a bath—handling those pigs.”

She looked down at the scummy water and screamed, throwing her arms around his neck and holding him with all her power. “Don’t you dare!”

“Say
please,
” he ordered, and when she stubbornly refused, he pretended to drop her.

“No!
Please!
” she screamed, and held on tighter.

He laughed and stepped back, holding her. He was about to set her down when she drew her face back and yelled, “You’re terrible!”

“I’m not the one who’s going around smelling young men,” he said with a broad grin.

She shut her eyes and whispered, “You are awful!”

At the same instant both of them became aware of the
other. She was pressed so close to his chest he could feel her breathing. They looked at each other, speechless.

“You tryin’ to guess her weight, Thad?”

The sound of Dooley’s voice shocked Thad, and he dropped Pet so quickly she almost fell. He tried to speak, but the bright laughter in Dooley’s eyes kept him mute. His face flamed and he snapped, “You’re liable to get yourself hurt, Dooley, sneaking up on a man that way.”

Dooley glanced back at the mare he held and said innocently, “Yeah, when I go sneakin’ up on people, I always do it in broad daylight, out in the open and leading a twelve-hundred-pound horse—jest to be sure I ain’t bein’ noticed.”

Pet’s face was scarlet, and she whirled and ran blindly away. “Nice talkin’ to you, Miss Patience,” Dooley called after her.

Thad stared at the bandy-legged figure, but knew there was no way he could verbally get the better of Dooley Young. “We was just foolin’ around,” he said lamely.

Dooley took off his soft felt hat, picked an imaginary speck of dust from the crown, and remarked nonchalantly, “I wondered what it was you was doin’, Thad. Now I know.”

“Ah, you stupid fool! She’s just a kid!”

“You tell me so,” Dooley grinned. “Well, I didn’t come on a pleasure trip. If you’re through with your girlin’, I got a message for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. I took a couple of hosses over to the Speers’ place. He’s buyin’ ’em for his boys. After we made the deal, he looked kind of funny. Finally he asked me if I would stop by here and give you a message.” He reached into his shirt pocket and fished out an envelope. “This is it.”

Thad stared at it, then opened the note and read the single line:
If you will call on me, it may be I can be of help to you.

He put the note in his pocket and said to Dooley, “I think he’s changed his mind—remember I told you what I did. He wants to see me.”

Dooley stared at him. “Thad, that man wouldn’t go to the
funeral unless he could be the corpse. Better watch out what you promise him.” As Thad turned to leave, Young decided, “Reckon I better ride along with you—sort of advise you. Git yore hoss—we’ll show that feller where the bear sat in the buckwheat!”