The Last Confederate (4 page)

His thoughts were interrupted when a voice called from behind, and they turned to see Pet running lightly across the snow. “I’m going with you, Papa. Maybe I can help nurse him.” She fancied herself a nurse, and Rebekah often said that Pet was good with sick people, so Winslow nodded, and she walked along with them.

“There’s Toby,” he murmured, and kept a tight grip on Rebekah’s arm as they crossed the hard packed snow. Toby stepped back and let them in without a word, then followed and shut the door.

It was dark inside, but the tiny windows and the cheerful flickering light of the fire allowed them to take in the form of Jessie, Toby’s wife, leaning over the single bed in the room. Their son Wash clung to her dress, hiding his head from the white people.

“Well, let’s have a look at him,” Winslow said, stepping forward to the bed. He gasped in surprise, “Why, this is no slave, Toby!”

“No, suh.” Toby’s face was impassive, and he added, “I nevah said he wuz, Mistuh Winslow.”

Rebekah moved to stand beside Sky, and the two looked at the face of the sick man, for Jessie had wrapped him from head to foot in a ragged quilt. He appeared very young, and in spite of his covers, the outline of his body indicated an extremely slight frame. His cheeks were flaming red and his dark eyes were half open. They were large eyes, set in a wedge-shaped face that was planed down to a bone structure that had a foreign look. His hands were outside the cover, and though very large, they were thin and wasted.
His hands look like those of a worker,
Sky thought. The face itself, he noted, was hammered into a hardness only hardworking men have.

“Why, he’s only a boy!” Mrs. Winslow cried. She put her hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up with fever.”

“Yassum, he is,” Jessie nodded. “An’ gittin’ worse all de time!”

Pet crowded in beside them and stared down at the boy. “Is he going to die?”

No one answered, and then Winslow asked, “What do you think, Rebekah?”

“I think you’d better stop by Dr. Wright’s on your way to town.”

“Well, he may not be sober.”

“Sober him up then! Now, take a wagon and have Toby bring him back, drunk or sober.”

“All right. Toby, hitch up the light wagon.” Then looking at the sick man, Sky asked, “Did he ever say who he was?”

“No, suh.”

They moved away from the bed, Rebekah warning, “Jessie, better not give him anything more to eat before the doctor comes.”

“He won’t eat nothin’, Miz Winslow.”

It was nearly three in the afternoon before Toby pulled up in the circular driveway with the doctor drooped beside him on the seat. Rebekah and Pet went out and rode with them to the slave quarters.

Dr. W. G. Wright slumped in the seat, obviously in the last stages of a fierce hangover. He was seventy-one years old, and had been a large man in his youth. Now his bulbous nose was the fleshiest thing about him, for drink had burned the flesh off his body. He had gone through three wives and a sizable fortune, and now was the joke of the local medical profession. Rebekah Winslow did not agree. She knew that despite the ruin of his life, there was more ability and shrewd knowledge in the aged drunk than in all the fine doctors in Richmond. It gave her some pleasure to let them know she thought so, too.

They stopped in front of the cabin, and Toby jumped out to help the women down. Then he took Dr. Wright by the arm, as the old man nearly slipped getting down.

“I’m all right—get your hand off me!” he snapped. “Let’s get inside before I freeze! Go on in, Rebekah; you too, Pet. What in the name of common sense and the twelve apostles are you two planning to do here?”

He took over at once when they were inside, going immediately to the bed and yanking the cover down to get a good look at his patient. The young man was wearing an old shirt of Toby’s, and it was soaked with perspiration.

“Looks like a plucked chicken,” Wright muttered angrily, as if it were a personal affront. He began to poke at the boy’s chest, then listened to the heart. Finally he threw the covers back over the boy, and said abruptly, “Well, Rebekah, what do you want me to do?”

“Why, treat the boy, of course!”

“Rebekah,” he said in disgust, “you know as much as I do about fever. You can see he’s got pneumonia—or almost, anyway. If you leave him here, you’ll bury him inside two or three days.”

“What about the hospital?”

The old doctor coughed and went to spit in the fireplace. Turning his watery eyes on her, he grunted, “You know my opinion of that butcher shop. He can die as well there as here, I suppose.”

“Dr. Wright,” Pet cried, “
you
must stay here and take care of him!”

“Got no proper place, Pet,” he said. “Too crowded in here. Not enough air. What he needs is a quiet place with lots of air—and most of all, good care. Might make it with that.”

“Mother, we can put him in the old storehouse next to the larder,” Pet said eagerly.

“But—who’ll take care of him?”

“
We
can! We have house servants all over the place gettin’ in one another’s way. And you’ll stay and help, won’t you, Dr. Wright?” She saw a refusal forming on his lips, and smiled sweetly, “I do believe I can find you some of that pecan pie you liked so much.”

Dr. Wright stared at her for a long time, and finally a light of humor appeared in his red eyes. “Pet Winslow, you are
bad!
Bribing an old man with food is a sin, isn’t it, Rebekah?”

Rebekah saw that he would stay, and asked, “Toby, do you need any help to take him to the house?”

“No, Miz Winslow. He don’t weigh no more’n a bird!”

“All right, you give Pet and me about an hour to get the room ready; then you bring him up. You want to go with us, Doctor?”

“No, I’ll stay with him. Pet, you find that pie while your mama’s gettin’ the bed ready.” He looked down at the still figure and added sourly, “Better get a lot of it. Looks like this boy is going to be a real problem. Maybe he’ll last out the week. If he does, he’s got a chance.”

It was late in the afternoon by the time Toby brought the unconscious boy into the room. The doctor looked with approval at the clean bed, the table beside it with the medicines he had ordered—and especially the generous slice of fresh pecan pie on an elegant luncheon plate.

Wright reached into his coat and brought out a small bottle of brandy. He uncorked it, lifted it to the light, licked his lips, then paused. With a gesture that was almost violent, he corked the bottle and banged it down on the table, addressing it in a hard voice: “Not one drop till this boy is either well or in his grave!”

CHAPTER THREE

NEW HAND

Sometimes it was very dark and all he could see were the coals in the hearth, gleaming like red eyes at him. The light would flare so brightly that it made him shut his eyes and turn away. Faces would come and go, seeming to float so close he could see them clearly; then they would slowly dissolve as he drifted off again. Two faces he saw more than any others—one was old, with lines like a spider’s web, and eyes dim and yellow in their deep sockets. The other was a young face, pale as ivory and framed by hair drawn up into a soft halo. He associated the old face with a rough touch and flinched when it appeared, but the young face always meant a soft voice urging him to drink, and a gentle hand holding his head up.

Other sounds would come to him as he tried to burrow out of the warm darkness that seemed to hold him like quicksand. Thick, dark voices spoke in a manner so odd he could not understand them. Then he would drop back into a heavy sleep, and all the noises would fade like the tide going out.

He finally rose out of the heavy sleep with an abruptness that confused him, like a swimmer who rises from the depths of dark waters, breaking through into a blinding sun in one instant. One moment he was groggy and confused; the next second his eyes opened and he saw the familiar old face not six inches away from his own.

“Well, it’s about time you decided to wake up, young fellow!” the old man said. He shook his head in wonder, adding,
“For a time there, I thought you were going to wake up with a set of wings—or maybe in a hotter climate!”

Thad opened his mouth to ask where he was, but his lips were so dry he could not speak.

“Here, boy, drink some of this.” The old man placed a glass of cool water to Thad’s lips, and he gulped greedily.

“Take it easy, boy, and drink slowly. I’m Dr. Wright, in case you’re wondering.” He sat back, observing Thad. “Now I don’t want you to talk too much, but you should say a little, I guess.”

“Where am I?”

“This is Belle Maison—Mr. Winslow’s plantation. Do you remember how you got here?”

Thad thought about it, then answered weakly, “I was on a boat, and then I got off, and then—well, I remember being in some kind of a church. I remember walking in the snow—but that’s all. Can I have another drink of water?”

Dr. Wright gave him another drink, then asked, “Are you hungry?” He smiled at the look on the boy’s face. “I reckon you are. All you had for days is what little chicken soup we could ladle down your gullet. I’ll go have some grub sent in—then maybe you can talk a little.”

The doctor left the room stiffly, for he had spent long hours in the chair. He had remained at Belle Maison ever since Toby had brought him, and the effort had been draining. He walked outside, following the brick path toward the kitchen door. The snow was still on the ground, but it had been cleared from the walk, and the steps had been dusted with sand to give safe footing.

He climbed the steps, entered, and saw Pet and Sophie up to their arms in flour at a large table. Pet looked up and asked quickly, “Did he wake up?”

“Just now. Where’s your mother?”

“She went over to the Taylors’ early this morning. Mrs. Taylor’s sick.”

“She’s always sick—or thinks she is,” Wright responded
grumpily. “The boy needs something solid to eat. Battered eggs, maybe.”

Pet went to the huge fireplace and dragged a massive black skillet away from the coals. Lifting the lid, she said, “There’s lots of scrambled eggs here left over from breakfast.”

“That’ll do—and maybe a biscuit with butter.”

She piled the food on a plate and covered it with a cloth. “I’ll take it to him,” she offered.

“All right,” the doctor replied wearily. “I’m going to drink a gallon of coffee; then I’ll be there. Let him have all he wants, I guess—just don’t let him founder himself.”

Pet left the kitchen, and when she got to the door of the small room she balanced the tray on one hand and entered. She walked over and looked down at the patient, who watched her steadily.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Pet Winslow. Dr. Wright said you may eat as much as you wish.” She didn’t give him a chance to talk, but set the plate on his lap and pulled the cloth off. He began wolfing the food down so voraciously that she was afraid he might choke. She had never seen anyone attack food like this young man. Though weak, he brought the plate to his lips and raked the yellow eggs into his mouth, seeming to swallow without chewing! From time to time he picked up a biscuit with a trembling hand and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, adding more eggs. Finally he washed everything down with a large glass of milk.

“Well, you
were
hungry, weren’t you?”

Only then did Thad realize how crude his manners must have appeared as he wolfed down the food, and he flushed in embarrassment. He had never been in the presence of a young woman of this class. Her clothes were finely woven of delicately dyed material, not the cheap cotton the girls of his acquaintance wore. She was, he saw, not even as old as he. He noted the oval face surrounded by light brown hair that came down in an odd point right in the middle of her
forehead. The dark blue eyes were large and well-set, and she seemed very much at ease.

He shifted nervously in the bed, trying to think of something to say. Her voice was not thick and mushy like those he’d been hearing in his sleep. Hers was softer and much slower than he was accustomed to. He sat up straighter and handed her the empty plate. “That was real good, miss.” He looked at her more closely and asked cautiously, “I’ve seen you before, ain’t I?”

“Oh yes. We’ve been taking turns nursing you.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Nearly a week. Toby brought you in on the second—and this is the seventh.” She looked at him curiously. “What’s your name?”

Just at that moment, Dr. Wright came in, followed by her father. “Well, I see you got it all down,” Wright said, then added, “This is Mr. Winslow.”

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Winslow acknowledged. “Maybe you can tell us who you are.”

“I’m Thaddeus Novak, Mr. Winslow. They call me Thad.”

“Where are you from, Novak?”

“New York, sir.”

“Bad time to be coming south, Thad,” the doctor remarked. “Where are you headed?”

Thad hesitated. “Well, I was trying to get west—but I got sick.”

Winslow asked, “Who are your people, Thad?”

“Ain’t got no people.”

“You must have someone,” Pet said quickly.

“No, ma’am.”

Winslow saw the stubborn line in the boy’s jaw. “You know there’s going to be a war, don’t you, Thad?”

“Heard some talk. Don’t know nothin’ about it, though.”

Winslow studied him for a minute. “Dooley Young said he met you in town. He told me you asked for the Winslow place.”

A sudden flush touched Novak’s cheeks, but he shook his head. “I was outta my head, I reckon. Don’t remember nobody named Dooley.”

It was obvious to Winslow and to the doctor that the boy was lying, but there was nothing to be gained by pressuring him.

“Guess if you’ll give me my clothes, I’ll be heading out,” Thad said.

“You wouldn’t go far, boy. You better stay here until Mr. Winslow gets some meat on your bones.” He saw the boy frame a protest, so he added roughly, “Go to sleep, boy! I got too much invested in you to bury you
now!
”

They left the cabin and went back to the kitchen. Wright settled himself in a chair and said, “Pet, you wouldn’t happen to have baked any more of that pie, would you?” He waited while she brought him a slice; then he lifted a huge forkfull to his lips. “Ahhhh! This is the best pie this side of Richmond, Sky!”