The Last Confederate (33 page)

Winslow sat up, looked around wildly and saw that there was no movement among the troopers. “What’s the matter, Simmons?”

“You’ve got visitors, sir. A man and a woman, and they say they have to see you right away!”

Lurching to his feet, Winslow staggered to the washbasin and splashed his face with cold water. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled on his blouse and jacket, then said roughly, “Did you say a woman, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.” Simmons’ broad face broke into a sly smile. “And a rebel soldier.”

“Are you drunk, Corporal? No, you wouldn’t be that crazy.”

“They’re over here, sir. They came in with an escort from General Kearny.”

Winslow gave him an unbelieving scowl as he followed the tall corporal past the picket line. Then they passed around a line of thick-bodied oaks, and there standing beside two mounted Union soldiers were a man and a woman. Winslow straightened his back at the sight, and walked up to them, saying, “I’m Captain Winslow. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Captain. Could I talk with you, please?”

He sized up, first of all, the small Confederate private who stood to one side regarding him with a pair of bright blue eyes. Next he shifted his gaze to the young woman, noting the smooth oval face with the largest, most compelling gray eyes he’d ever seen—and he didn’t miss the youthful rounded figure that was attracting the gaze of every man in the troop. With an irritated glance toward the crowd that had gathered to observe the pair, he said, “I think we’d better go back to my tent, Miss—what’s your name?”

“The same as yours—Winslow. Patience Winslow.”

“Oh.” He stopped, then noticing with some annoyance that several men had overheard her answer and were passing the information to those farther off, he suggested, “Let’s get away from our audience, Miss Winslow.”

“I’ll jest wait here, Miss Pet,” Dooley offered. “Mebby I can git some of these here bluebellies to engage in a little game of poker.” As Pet turned to walk back toward the line of trees with the captain, she heard Dooley say, “Hey, why don’t some of you fellers come on to Richmond? We been waitin’ a long spell for you to come in.”

Pet heard a dozen voices cry out, “You just wait, Reb! We’ll get there soon enough!”

At Winslow’s direction, she turned the corner and walked beside him to his tent.

“Sorry I don’t have a chair to offer you,” he apologized as they entered the tent. “Can I have the corporal fix you some coffee?”

“No, Captain Winslow,” she replied. “I know you’re wondering why I’ve come. It must seem strange to see a Confederate soldier and a rebel lady come into the Union camp.”

“Doesn’t happen every day,” Winslow agreed, smiling. “You are a Winslow. Are we relatives?”

“Your grandfather says so.”

“Oh, I see.” He smiled again and shook his head. “The captain sent you, I take it? He’s always finding Winslows—but not usually such attractive ones. Once he found a genuine descendant of our family who’d been sentenced to life for some crime. I remember he went all the way to Pennsylvania to see the man—and the fellow wouldn’t even talk to him.”

She returned his smile, the dimple in her cheek deepening as she did so, and said ruefully, “You may not be inclined to claim kinship, Captain, when I tell you why I’ve come.”

He was intrigued by the situation, and replied quickly, “I can’t imagine such a thing, Miss Patience. Just try me.”

“All right. Do you remember capturing a Confederate soldier at the battle of Malvern Hill?”

“Why, of course!”

“His name was Thad Novak, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” He let his direct blue eyes rest on her for a moment. “I take it you and Thad are—acquainted?”

“You don’t have to be so delicate, Captain.” Pet smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “Several people have asked if he’s my lover.”

The frank words from the soft lips of the innocent-looking girl took Winslow by surprise, and he colored slightly. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Pet urged. “Thad has worked for my father ever since he came south. He’s been my best friend—and now unless a miracle takes place, he’s going to die.”

“He’s in a prison camp, isn’t he?”

“No, he was exchanged. But when he got home, he was arrested—for desertion and treason.”

“But—how can that be if he was a prisoner of war?” Winslow demanded.

Pet lifted tragic eyes and her lips trembled. “They say he deserted so he could lead your troop to attack our men. That’s not the way it was, is it, Captain?”

“Certainly not! We killed one of his patrol, the other escaped, and we were taking the young man in when we accidentally ran into the Confederate line.” He gave a chagrined laugh, adding, “
Led
us to the Confederate line! I reckon
not!
We were almost wiped out in that encounter!”

“That’s what Thad has said—but nobody believes him.” She bit her lip. “His court-martial has started, Captain. His lawyer says Thad doesn’t have a chance! He’ll be”—the word came hard, and she struggled over it—“he’ll be shot unless—”

“Unless what?” he interrupted.

“Unless you come to Richmond and testify to his innocence.”

“What!” Winslow literally leaped at her words, raising his voice in protest. “Go to Richmond! That’s impossible!”

She stood there—so helpless, so forlorn in the yellow
sunlight that pierced the foliage over their heads, falling on her face. It transformed the dark hair into auburn, highlighting the red glints. She seemed somehow very small and vulnerable as her gray eyes held his. She let the silence run on, then whispered, “No, it’s not impossible, Captain. All things are possible with God.”

“I’m not God!” he protested.

“No, you’re a Winslow!” she challenged. “And your grandfather told me about the Winslows—about Gilbert and Adam and your own great-grandfather, Paul. And he said
they all were men of honor.
I have to ask you, Captain, because a boy I love very much may lose his life: Are you a man of honor—like the other Winslow men?”

He flushed angrily, for her words stung, and he said with asperity in his tone, “I believe I am—however, Miss Patience, I’m a soldier. There are many lives at stake here.”

“But this one life you
know
is in your hands. General Kearny has given his permission—and this young man is of your blood.” Lowell’s face registered shock. Spurred by the urgency of the situation, she put her hand on his sleeve and whispered, “Oh, Captain Winslow, please save him—you’re his only hope! It may be too late already, but God has brought me this far. Don’t let him die!”

It would have taken a harder man than Lowell Winslow to refuse such a plea. She could see he was wavering, and she pressed in. “It will be dangerous for you to go to Richmond in the midst of your enemies. No one can guarantee your safety.”

She could not have said a better thing, she realized. His eyes brightened, and his jaw tensed. “Dangerous? You think I’m
afraid
to go with you? Well, I may not be as ‘noble’ as some of my fabulous ancestors, but I can face a bunch of rebels any day!” He strode outside and yelled for the corporal, who appeared instantly. “Corporal, have my horse saddled—at once!” He whirled and plunged back into the tent, almost knocking Pet down as she was leaving. After a brief absence he emerged with a pair of heavy saddlebags in his hands.
“Have to wear my best uniform when I ride into the den of lions,” he remarked.

The two walked back where Dooley was circled by a group of grinning Yankee soldiers, who were fascinated by the little rebel. Pet ran to him and cried, “He’s going with us, Dooley!”

“‘Course he is, honey!” Dooley grinned. “Wasn’t never no doubt in my mind ’bout that.” He turned to the blue-clad troops, and waved a hand. “Well, we gotta skedaddle, Yanks. Ya’ll better go on back to Washington ’fore Marse Bob and ol’ Blue Light Jackson gobbles you up.”

A yell went up, but Dooley swung into the saddle and followed Pet and the captain out of the camp.

“You better have that pass from the President handy, Miss Pet,” Young remarked as they cleared the camp and set off at a fast pace, headed toward the south. “They’ll shore be shocked in Richmond to see this here Yankee captain comin’ in like he owned the place.” The thought tickled him, and he laughed, “Whooee! Here General McClellan couldn’t git to Richmond with 100,000 men—and one leetle ol’ rebel gal takes one in all by herself! Whoooee!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I HATE TO LOSE!”

Monday morning Thad’s cell was flooded with a bright shaft of yellow sunlight falling through the window. The warmth of the beam touched his face, begging him to shake off his fitful sleep and open his eyes. Every morning since he had been imprisoned, he had resisted consciousness, trying to slip back into the world of sleep. But the brightness of the sun intensified, and slowly he rolled his head over to one side and opened his eyes. As the room swam into view, he felt the same cancerous hopelessness that had deepened every day, draining his spirit of all vitality. The crowded cell he’d shared with other prisoners at The Old Capitol had been far worse physically, but there he’d been imprisoned for a just cause. There he had deteriorated physically, but had clung to his hope; now as he lay on the bunk staring across the room, a heaviness in his spirit seemed to suck him dry, leaving him in a deathlike state.

Slowly he pulled himself out of the bed, took a sip of tepid water from the jug on the table, then went to stare listlessly out the window. Although it could not have been later than five o’clock, the streets were already occupied—women going to ammunition factories, soldiers beginning to stir, and here and there a farmer in a wagon rumbling into Richmond with a load of produce.

As he stood motionless watching the city awaken, Thad thought wearily of the days in court, and the bitter memory drew his lips into a compressed slit. Every day had been like
the first, and though at first he had been hopeful that Harrison Duke could sway the court—battling witness after witness who swore that the accused had ridden at the head of the Yankee cavalry—slowly he had given up. The faces of his judges had hardened, so that by the late Saturday afternoon session, when Colonel Andrews had dismissed the court until the following Monday, Thad seemed to see a prophecy of doom in every countenance.

Harrison Duke may have given up, but there was no evidence of it in his face or voice as he’d said Saturday afternoon, “We’ll start all over again Monday, Thad.” Then noting the despair in his client’s dark eyes, he’d added, “It looks bad to you—but you can’t ever tell with a jury. When you think you haven’t got a prayer, a jury will bring in a
not guilty
verdict. Never give up, Thad! Never give up!” He had added with a grin, “Lord, I hate to lose!”

The Winslows had visited Thad after church on Sunday and left a basket filled with fruit. They had sat beside him, talking of the sermon and of Belle Maison, trying to instill some hope. He remembered Rebekah’s words concerning the sermon: “Brother Lowery preached about Abraham this morning, Thad. Did you know that God promised Abraham he’d have a son when he was ninety years old—and his wife Sarah was almost that?”

She had opened her worn black Bible and read a verse. “It says in Romans four that Abraham believed God’s promise even when all hope was gone. Let me read it to you:

God . . . quickeneth the dead, and calleth those things which be not as though they were. Who against hope believed in hope (and the pastor said that means when hope was gone he kept on hoping), that he might become the father of many nations, according to that which was spoken, So shall thy seed be. And being not weak in faith, he considered not his own body now dead, when he was about an hundred years old, neither yet the deadness of Sarah’s womb: he staggered
not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God.

She had put her Bible to her breast and said, “Don’t turn away from God, Thad! He loves you!”

Thad thought about the words of the scripture as he stared down on the town, wondering how anyone could force himself to hope.
A man can’t hope just because he wants to, can he?
he thought. But as he stood there trying to free himself from the fear that rose up in him like a creeping tide, he remembered Sky Winslow’s last words the previous day. He had paused at the door, and with an intense stare in his penetrating eyes, he had said, “I guess we’re putting our hope in God—and in Pet, Thad.”

He was trying to think of that when the lock rattled and the guard stepped in. Another guard brought a plate of food, and behind him stood Harrison Duke. He waited until the guards were gone, then nodded at the food. “Try to eat some, Thad—and spruce up the best you can.”

“You think it’ll be over today?” Thad sat down and tried to nibble at the plate of cornmeal mush, but pushed the food away as it refused to go down.

“Could go that way. After a jury’s had a day off, they sometimes come back bound and determined to finish up so they can get on with their business. And I reckon they’ve got their minds on what Johnny Pope is up to over at Manassas.” Harrison talked for about an hour, most of it having nothing to do with the trial. He always did that with his clients before a critical hour, and he felt in his bones that the court would make up its mind before the day was over.
No way I can help him much,
he thought sadly. He had grown fond of the boy over the few days, and despite Duke’s firm habit of refusing to get emotionally involved with his clients, he had done so.
If this were a civil case, I could do it—but these officers have seen so much death, they’re more liable to hand out a death sentence than civilians would.

He glanced at his watch and said casually, “I expect they’ll put their star witness on the stand today. Abraham has been saving him for the cherry on the cake.”

“Studs Mellon?”

“Yes. He’s been making his brag about how he’ll nail us to the wall.”

“What if the court believes him?”

“We’ll see.” Duke rose to his feet, saying as the guard opened the door, “Keep your head, Thad—and remember, you got one thing going for you—I hate to lose worse than anybody in the courtroom!”