The Last Confederate (7 page)

“What did he
say?
”

“Oh, I heard him tell Papa last week, ‘I don’t care if Martha Grimes
is
prettier than Belle, Mr. Winslow—her father doesn’t have half as many acres of good cotton land as you do’!”

Belle’s face was crimson with fury! Pet stared at her sister’s expression, then fell into a fit of laughter. Belle ran to the bed and began beating Pet with both fists. “I’ll kill you—you little beast!” she cried.

“Miss Belle, you gwine ruin dat dress! Now stop dat messin’ round, you hear me?”

Belle straightened up and glared at Pet. “I’ll get even with you for that! I’ll tell Papa not to let you go to a ball until you’re an old woman!”

Pet rolled over and smiled at Belle. “I don’t care. Papa said I could go on the big coon hunt when the snow melts—and he said I could shoot one too. That’ll be more fun than any old dance!” Then she jumped off the bed and ran to kiss Belle. “I was just funning you! You’re always the prettiest girl at the ball. Beau said so, and so did Vance Wickham.” She smiled at the sudden effect her words had on Belle, and whispered, “I’ll bet they’ll
fight
over you one of these days—maybe even a
duel!
”

Belle shivered with pleasure, but said, “Oh, that would be just dreadful, Pet! You mustn’t even say such things!” She tried to look shocked, but her eyes gleamed. Assuming a prim frown, she picked up her evening bag, saying, “Well—I must go. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” She pecked Pet’s cheek, then dashed out of the room. Pet heard her greet the other young women who had come for the ball.
They sound like a bunch of silly chickens!
she thought.

Downstairs the men were gathered around a large table set at one end of the ballroom in front of the huge bay window. It was a large room, thirty feet wide and nearly sixty feet long, composing half the first floor of Belle Maison. The other half of the house was across a wide hall—the kitchen, the small dining room, the library, and a parlor. The ballroom was kept closed most of the time, being used only for large groups or for dances such as this one.

As many as a hundred people had attended dances there, though that was too crowded for comfort. Only about half that number were gathered for this night’s celebration—which was an informal New Year’s Watch Party. It had been a tradition at Belle Maison for several years, and the cream of the aristocratic young people of the neighborhood maneuvered for invitations with cut-throat determination.

Around the table, lifting glasses in the first toast of the evening, were three older men—Sky Winslow, the host, and his guest, Seth Barton. Barton was the richest man in the county and looked the part. He was a tall man dressed in a fawn-colored frock coat and a snowy French dress shirt. The single diamond on his finger winked in the lights, and another shone in his dark blue cravat. He had the look of a man so assured of authority and power that it never occurred to him to accept anything less than the most prominent place. The other man was sixty years old, but looked older. He was Oscar Toombs, lieutenant governor of Virginia—a close friend of Barton’s.

All the other men were very young, most of them twenty or
less. Mark Winslow stood beside his best friend, Beau Beauchamp. Beauchamp was the largest of the younger set—six feet tall and bull-chested, but swift and fleet of foot, nonetheless. His eyes were light blue and glinted with quick emotion in the lamplight nearby. Vance Wickham stood across from Beauchamp and smiled at the larger man, his dark face in sharp contrast to Beauchamp’s. He lived west of the James River, but was much involved in the affairs of the county. It was rumored that he intended to move to Richmond. Some had even guessed that his frequent visits to Belle Maison were part of a campaign to marry Belle.

The group also included Tom Winslow, Shelby Lee, a nephew of the famous general, and the Hardee twins, Gil and Robert, the best horsemen in the state. Next to the twins stood Will Henry, a pale young man, hopelessly in love with Belle, lost amid six or seven other young men who crowded close to the table.

The musicians had begun tuning their instruments, so as the men raised their glasses of sherry for the first toast, Sky Winslow raised his voice above the noise. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast—here’s to the fine young men of our beloved South; there are no finer on the planet!”

Toombs and Barton added “Hear! Hear!” and they all drank.

“And to you, sir!”—Beau turned to Winslow as they refilled their glasses—“to you and your generation who have made our land an Eden! I give you the South, gentlemen!”

“And destruction to her enemies!” Gil Hardee cried out. After they had drained their glasses, Mark announced, “Here come the young ladies.” He waved his hand languidly toward the broad double doors that seemed to erupt in a blaze of color as the brilliantly dressed young women entered. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t cause us as much trouble as the Yankees.”

“Why, you’re not courteous, Mark,” Vance Wickham reproved sternly, but with a gleam of humor in his gray eyes.
“I refuse to admit that any true southern woman could be anything but a joy.” He looked directly at Beau with a mocking smile. “I’m sure Beau will say amen to that.”

Beau swayed his heavy shoulders and bowed slightly. “I must concede to your superior knowledge of women, Vance.” It was a dangerous speech, for Wickham’s reputation as a womanizer was well known but never alluded to in his presence. It had been mentioned once, but in the duel that followed, the poor chap had taken a bullet in his chest, and no man since then had dared speak ill of Wickham. Beau, however, was a person who loved danger, and in his contest with Wickham for Belle’s favor, he stared at the other man fearlessly.

Shelby Lee stepped forward, saying quickly, “Ladies, you are lovely,” and the mood changed as Beau smiled and took Belle’s hand, kissing it gallantly. “I believe the first dance is mine,” he smiled. He was an intensely handsome man and confident in his own skills as he guided her out on the floor to the fast tune the musicians were playing.

“I declare, Beau,” Belle said, “you’re holding me too tight!”

He only grinned and held her closer. “You’re beautiful tonight.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” She smiled up at him, pleased as always with a compliment. Then with a mischievous gleam in her eyes she asked, “What were you and Vance talking about when we came in? Was it about the war?”

“You’d hate to think so, wouldn’t you?” Beau grinned. “No, Vance and I were about to go outside for a duel to see which one would get you.” He knew she loved to be pursued, and his white teeth gleamed under his light mustache as he swung her around on the floor. “Tell me, sweet, which one of us would you rather have get the ball in the brain, me or old Vance?”

“Oh, don’t be so
awful,
Beau!” she gasped, gripping his hand tightly. “You mustn’t fight over me—it would be wicked!”

“But you’d forgive the winner, wouldn’t you, love? I mean, you’d be honor bound to marry the survivor.”

He laughed and they moved across the floor, conscious that they were the center of attention.

Mark glanced at them, and said to Rowena Barton, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Beau asked Belle to marry him pretty soon. He’ll have to hurry to get ahead of Vance, though.”

“Which one do you think would make the best husband, Mark?” Rowena asked. She was a tall girl, like her father, and had his piercing eyes. Her mother had died at Rowena’s birth, and she had practically ruled their home since her teens. She was nineteen now and could have her pick among the bachelors of the county, but apparently had set her sights higher than the locals.

“Neither of them,” he said dryly. “Sooner or later they’ll shoot somebody in a duel—or get wiped out in this war.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t like to think of it, Mark.” She hesitated, and there was an arch light in her eyes as she commented, “I met one of your kin when I was in Boston last month.”

“My relation?” Mark asked in surprise, then smiled. “He’s not the rich Yankee you fell in love with, is he?”

Rowena glanced at him quickly, noting that he was only half serious, and it displeased her. “No, that’s another man,” she replied. “I didn’t know my affairs were talked about so much.”

“Tell me about
your
young man.”

“Oh, he’s the son of one of Father’s old friends. His name is Steven Williams. He’s at West Point, and he came to a party with another soldier—Lowell Winslow.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He knew about
you,
though—at least he knew about your father. He comes from the Boston branch of the Winslows, he said.” Rowena gave him a pointed look. “He’s
much
better looking than you are, Mark—and he’s quite a soldier, too.”

“Guess I’ll be taking a shot at him pretty soon, won’t
I?” Mark shook his head, depressed by the thought, then shrugged. “Well, if he’s a Yankee, I guess he’s no competition for me—for you, I mean?”

Rowena’s eyes snapped with anger. “You’re not in competition for me with anyone, Mark!”

He nodded. “That’s right. Until the war is over, no man has a right to ask a woman to marry him.”

“Oh, Mark, that’s not so!” Rowena put her hand on his arm, her anger replaced by a soft light in her eyes. “We can’t stop living because there may be a war, can we? There’s always been danger in front of people. There always will be.”

But he was sobered by the thought of a relative he’d never heard of who would be in the Union Army. “I wish the South had never gotten chained to this slavery business, Rowena. I hate it—but I’m tied to it. We all are. It’s going to be a hard war.”

She stared at him in surprise, for all the other men of the South were saying quite the opposite. She saw that the fatalism in him ran deep, and said quietly, “There’s no rich Yankee I’m in love with, Mark. That’s just gossip.” Then she pulled him onto the dance floor and tried her utmost to drive away the gloom that creased his brow.

Three hours later there was a break in the festivities. The dancing stopped and the ladies retired. The men threw themselves into chairs pulled up before the fire, and talked while sipping their drinks. The huge fireplace that dominated the north wall had blazed all evening, but now the fire had dwindled down to a bed of glowing coals. “Lewis—have some logs brought in,” Winslow said. “It’ll get cold in here before midnight.”

“What time is it?” Mr. Toombs asked.

Pulling a heavy gold watch from his pocket, Mr. Barton peered at it. “Going on eleven. I thought it was later.”

“Shall we wait for the new year, Seth?” Sky Winslow asked. “Or are we getting past such things?”

“Certainly not!” Barton shot back. “Why, you and I are in
the prime, Winslow! We’ll have to show these young fellows what it’s like when the company is formed.”

“Are you really going to do it, Barton?” Toombs asked instantly. “I mean, have you actually decided?”

“Certainly! There’s going to be a war. No man can doubt that, so we must move at once.”

“Are you thinking of a command yourself, Mr. Barton?” Mark asked with a wink at his father. Every man in the room knew that the command of the company would settle firmly on Seth Barton.

“We’ll have an election, of course,” Barton informed him. “If I am elected, I will do my best to fill the post.”

“Why, there’s no doubt of
that,
sir!” Robert Hardee exclaimed. “With your military experience, who else
could
be chosen?” Barton had served briefly with the army in Mexico, a fact he managed to publish quite often.

The room began to buzz with talk about the political situation. Finally Mark remarked, “Well, Lincoln has already said he intends to free the slaves.”

“He can try!” Beau retorted. His face was flushed with anger as he went to refill his glass. “I can’t say that I’m of the opinion that the Yankees will fight at all.”

Will Henry had remained quiet, but now he spoke up. “Maybe there’ll be some way out of it—I mean, maybe we can work out a compromise of some sort.”

“Compromise!” Beau snorted. “I’ll give them this compromise: I’ll promise not to shoot any Yankee that stays in his own land! But the ones who come here and try to tell us how to live—they’ll get a bullet!”

“That’s the way, Beau!” several of the young men shouted, and a hum of approval drowned out Will’s protest.

The outer door opened, and Beau looked up to see someone come in carrying a huge red oak log for the fire. He supposed at first it was one of the slaves, but now he noticed it was the young man Mark had pointed out earlier. Beau’s eyes narrowed as he watched the boy stagger to the fireplace and
dump the log on the coals, sending the sparks flying wildly. Beau suddenly grinned and intercepted the boy as he started for the door.

“You the Yankee who came in on the
Dixie Queen?
” he asked, placing himself between the boy and the door. He glanced at his friends, winked broadly at Mark, then demanded, “Well, are you the Yankee or not?”

Thad stood there, confused and a little frightened. He had been asked by Mr. Winslow to keep close to the house during the party in case he was needed. He had listened to the music, and peered in through the windows for a time, then had settled down in the kitchen, talking to Lewis, the butler. He had eaten quite a bit of the rich food, and the warmth of the kitchen lulled him into a torpid sleep. He had been awakened when Lewis passed along Mr. Winslow’s order for a log, and had brought it in. Now he looked around at the group of men who all seemed to be laughing at him.

Finally he saw Mr. Winslow nod, and he said, “Yes, sir. I came on the
Dixie Queen.
”

“And are you a Yankee, boy?” Beau demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know! Well, where did you come from?”

“I came from New York.” Thad tried to edge away, but the large man blocked his path.

“New York? Well, that’s Yankee enough, wouldn’t you say, fellows?” The group vocally gave assent, and Beau deliberately looked Thad up and down, then turned to face his friends. “Well, there he is, gentlemen—a real live Yankee! Anyone here afraid to face up to him in battle?”