The Last Confederate (32 page)

Colonel Andrews had the words on his lips that would send Duke out of the room and off the case, but he was swayed by the sudden act of humility, so out of character for such a man. He looked swiftly at his fellow officers, then said gruffly, “Very well, sir. Very well! I will be very alert to see if your behavior is in line with your repentance.”

Duke replied, “I thank the court.” Then he turned to Mark Winslow and asked quietly, “Can you swear before God that the man you saw was the defendant, Thad Novak?”

“No, I can’t.”

The answer pulled Captain Abraham out of his seat, his face contorted, but he knew full well that he would get nothing out of Winslow. He cursed himself for a fool, but said nothing.

The morning dragged on endlessly. When they broke for lunch, and during the interim, Major Stillwell, with a twinkle in his blue eyes and creases of laughter in his pink face, commented, “McClain, that Jewish lawyer is fit to be tied. He never had a doubt about proving Novak’s identity as
the soldier who came riding in with that Yank cavalry. Now Duke’s made him look like a fool!”

“That’s right,” McClain nodded. “But the waiting room’s full of witnesses who’ll identify the man. After all, Jason, the entire Third Virginia saw him.”

“Maybe so, but we’ll be here until the war’s over if Duke keeps wiping the witnesses out.”

The afternoon went on much as the morning, with Duke coming as close to badgering the witnesses as safety would permit. Abraham fumed, but he said to his assistant, “He’s good, that
goy!
We’ll get him in the end, but he is a real
mensch!
”

Finally the day ended, and when Duke emerged from the court, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Winslow still waiting. Going over to them, he said, “Well, I stretched it out as long as I could. It’s going to be harder tomorrow, though.”

“How does it look?” Sky asked.

“It looks like that Yankee relative of yours had better get here soon.”

Winslow questioned him, but there was nothing of substance for Duke to say, and he got away from them as quickly as he decently could.

Sky and Rebekah rode back to the house in silence, for they had said all there was to say.

As they approached the house, Sky exclaimed, “There’s Toby!”

He pulled up the horse, and Toby came running to meet them. “Heah’s a letter from Miss Pet, suh.”

Sky opened it, scanned the contents, then said, “Rebekah—she’s gone with Dooley!”

“Oh no, Sky!”

“Toby—why didn’t you bring this before?”

“Suh, Miss Pet tol’ me not to bring it till today.” He looked worried, and asked, “Did I do somethin’ wrong, Mistuh Winslow?”

Sky shook his head, then sighed heavily, “No, Toby.” He
got out of the buggy, helped Rebekah down, and gave her the note.

Papa,

I am going with Dooley to find Captain Winslow. I don’t really think the note you wrote will be enough to make him come, but I can convince him. Don’t worry about me. And don’t hate me, please, Papa!

Your loving daughter,

Pet

Rebekah read the note, lifted her head, and broke into smiles. “I’m glad she went! If she gets her hands on the captain, he’ll
have
to come!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PET’S RIDE

By the end of their first day of travel, Pet realized that she could never have made the ride to the lines alone. She’d collected the passes from Major Lee, found Dooley at his home, and as soon as Young found out what she wanted, his eyes had brightened. He had produced three fast horses and stopped by Belle Maison long enough for her to change clothes and get Blackie. As dawn broke, they rode out, each leading a horse with a long tether.

It was her clothes, Pet discovered, that caused the trouble. She wore a well-worn pair of light tan overalls, a light blue cotton shirt and a pair of fine riding boots. She had another outfit much the same in the bedroll slung behind her saddle. It was the sort of clothing she had worn when riding around Belle Maison, but her slim figure had blossomed in the past year, so that the first two men they passed on the road gave her some bold looks, and one of them called out a crude remark. Dooley had wanted to go back and teach them proper manners, but she had urged, “We don’t have time, Dooley.”

All day long they kept up a hard pace, and by night they were camped beside the York River, west of Williamsburg. They cooked a supper of bacon, making sandwiches with thick slices of homemade bread, then washed it down with river water. When they had finished, Dooley leaned back against a tree, lit his pipe, and commented, “We made good time today.” He considered Pet as she sat across the fire, finally
asking, “I guess this here ride is for all the marbles, ain’t it, Miss Patience?”

She nodded, and hugged her knees to her chest. The stars were covered by low-flying clouds, and the trees beside the river moaned as the night wind stirred and shifted their branches. “The lawyer said so.” She raised her head and the yellow flames of the small fire made her eyes look golden as she stared at him. “We’ve
got
to do it, Dooley! We’ve just
got
to!”

Dooley nodded. “Guess you better be sayin’ an extra good prayer. We ain’t really got no show in the natural.” Then he added, “Best git to sleep. I aim to half kill them hosses tomorrow—and mebby us, too.”

He was not joking, for they rose at dawn, and stopped to rest the horses and snatch a quick meal at noon. By night they camped by a small spring, and Pet asked, “Where are we, Dooley?”

He picked up a stick and drew several lines. “This here is the York River where we was last night. Over here”—he drew a set of wavy lines to the left of the river—“is the Shenandoah Valley. We’re comin’ up to the top of it.” He poked a dot at the top, saying, “This here is Fredericksberg, and we’ll pass that tomorrow sometimes.”

“How much farther to the Union Army?”

“Well, as we don’t rightly know where they are, I can’t say,” Dooley replied and threw the stick down. “But from what the officers was sayin’, it looks like Pope will be linin’ up somewhere west of Washington—jest ’bout where we whupped the Yanks the first time—at Bull Run.”

They slept hard that night, but started out at dawn. At noon they stopped at a farmhouse, and Dooley arranged to leave the horses they’d be riding back so the animals would be rested on the return trip. “We’ll be back in mebby three days or less to pick ’em up,” he told the farmer. “Grain ’em and let ’em rest.”

They continued at a rapid clip, but were passing troops
now, all headed toward the north. “Them’s our boys headed to meet Mr. Pope,” Dooley said. Here again, Pet’s face burned as the soldiers called her “honey” and “sweetheart,” and a few things she didn’t understand. Dooley had been philosophical about it. “Can’t stop a bunch of lonesome soldiers from starin’ at a good-lookin’ gal, Miss Pet. Jest shut your ears and don’t pay ’em no mind.”

They made good time that day, but it rained that night and they were forced to find shelter in an abandoned barn. The next day as they rode out, Dooley said, “I reckon we might git some idees ’bout where the Yanks is linin’ up. Can’t be too far away now.” They came up to a line of infantry, and Dooley asked the sergeant, “Hey, Sarge, where’bouts you reckon I could find me a piece of Mister General Johnny Pope?”

The sergeant spat on the ground, nodded his head toward the north, and said, “Word is he’s over to the Warrenton Pike. We figure to catch up with him there and give his nose a pull.”

“What outfit?” Dooley asked.

“Stonewall Brigade,” the sergeant answered proudly.

“Whoopee!” Dooley yelped, then said, “Let’s git, Missy. If Ol’ Blue Light is on the march, we’ll find the Yankees not far off.”

They rode hard for the rest of the day and ran into a Confederate cavalry patrol at dusk. “You can’t go any farther this way,” the lieutenant said, staring at Pet. “The Yankees are building up just past that timber.”

“Who is your officer?” Pet asked.

“Why, General Sheridan.”

“Take us to him.”

“I can’t do that, miss!”

“I have a message here from President Davis. Do you want to explain to him why you refused to honor his signature?”

The lieutenant gulped, stammered, “Well—I guess maybe the general might want to see that.”

He led them past rows of campfires until they came to a tent on a low rise. An adjutant challenged them and took the
lieutenant aside for a brief conference. When it was over, the lieutenant rode rapidly away, and the adjutant said, “I’ll get General Sheridan.”

“Ain’t never met no generals,” Dooley remarked. “But I heard they wasn’t too fond of bein’ told what to do.”

He cut his words off, for a slight man with a general’s insignia emerged from the tent and came to stand before them. “I hear you have a paper with President Davis’s signature on it?”

“Yes, sir.” Pet opened the leather case, took the larger envelope, and handed it to Sheridan.

The general studied it by the light of his small fire. “Who is this Captain Winslow?” he asked, putting the letter back into the envelope.

Pet told him the whole story, shortening it as much as possible. He stood there, a small shape with a blunt face, and when she had finished, he slowly pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, lit it, then studied the pair through the haze of blue smoke. “This Novak, he’s your sweetheart?”

“Oh . . . I don’t . . .” Pet faltered, then lifted her head and said, “He’s a good friend, General, and my cousin.”

“I see.” Sheridan smiled and shrugged. “Well, if the President of the Confederacy says to do it, I’m not going to say no. But you’ll have to wait till morning. You’d get shot if you tried to go through their lines tonight. Tomorrow I’ll send you through with a white flag.”

The irrepressible Dooley said, “Well, if you don’t think it’ll give ’em funny idees ’bout us givin’ up, General.”

Sheridan smiled at the bandy-legged Dooley and responded, “I guess they’ll not make that mistake.” He puffed on his cigar for a minute. Finally he turned and said brusquely, “Be here at dawn. I’ll have you taken over.”

Dooley and Pet rolled up in their blankets far enough away from the soldiers so that they could not hear their talk. Dooley went to sleep at once, but Pet rolled on the hard ground for most of the night, wondering how she could convince her
distant relation to come to Richmond. Finally she prayed for a while, and as the stars came out overhead, she slept.

****

“A rebel and a woman?” General Phil Kearny stared at the captain who had come to the table where he sat looking at a map. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

“Well, sir, they just came in down the line under a white flag. They had an escort from General Sheridan.” The captain grinned. “They’re looking for one of Sherman’s men, a Captain Winslow, 6th Cavalry.”

Kearny got up and grinned unexpectedly. “Show them in, Captain. It ought to be more entertaining than anything else I’ve got to do.”

He stood waiting, and when the captain returned, the general looked at the pair as the introductions were made. “Private Dooley Young, Third Virginia Infantry, and Miss Patience Winslow.”

The girl smiled at him, revealing a dimple, and despite the fatigue that had drawn her face, the general saw she was a beauty. “I’m looking for Captain Lowell Winslow, General Kearny,” she said. “Could I tell you about it?”

Kearny nodded, and said, “Sit down, young lady.” He pointed at two canvas chairs and after she was seated, he took the other. “Go right ahead.”

Pet told the story, weariness revealing the tiring three days. Her reserves had weakened and her voice trembled slightly as she spoke of the young man who was in trouble. She dropped her eyes, trying to hide the sudden tears. “So, the time is almost gone, General,” she concluded. “Will you help me?”

Kearny studied the pale face. “Miss Winslow, I don’t think you know what you’re asking. I don’t know Captain Winslow, but it seems to me he would not be likely to go to Richmond—on any errand.”

She looked at him with steady gray eyes and whispered, “I have to try, General.”

Kearny looked down, then lifted his head. “I’ll give you an escort to Captain’s Winslow’s brigade. He may be out on patrol, or he may have been sent back to Washington. I’ll give him leave to go with you. That’s the best I can do.”

“Oh, General!” she exclaimed, and before she could catch herself, she had risen and taken his arm, her eyes alive and her curved lips smiling. “God bless you!”

“Ah, well, now . . . !” Kearny sputtered, retreating quickly to his desk, where he made a brief note, folded it and gave it to her. “My dear, I hope it works out.” He lifted his voice, “Captain Mitchell! See that this young woman and her—ah—escort are taken to the 6th Cavalry.”

As the captain was getting his escort mounted, Kearny gave Dooley a sharp look. “You’re in the Confederate Army?”

“Shore am, sir. Third Virginia.”

The general studied the thin, short, bandy-legged soldier, and wondered for the hundredth time how such ragamuffins could whip the well-fed Union troops with such annoying regularity. “You’ll miss this fight that’s shaping up, Private.”

“Aw, well, General,” Dooley shrugged, “I guess I had enough fun running you fellers off the Peninsula to do me for a spell.” He pulled at his mustache and added philosophically, “Feller can’t expect to have fun all the time, can he now?”

General Kearny grinned ruefully, shook his head, and said, “You take care of that young lady, soldier, and get my captain back to me in one piece.”

“Yessir,” Dooley nodded. “I’ll take care of both them chores.” He turned to where Pet was mounting her horse. “Well, General, when Marse Bobbie Lee comes a’callin, you tell ’im I was here to visit.”

Kearny watched as the pair were escorted down the line, and muttered to himself, “I must be gettin’ senile—turning my officers over to rebel hillbillies and romantic girls!”

****

Captain Lowell Winslow was taking a nap after an all-night
patrol. When Corporal Simmons had to shake his shoulder to waken him from the deep sleep, he pulled away and grumbled, “Go ’way!”

“Captain, please get up!” the corporal said. “It’s important!”