The Last Confederate

by Gilbert, Morris

  “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?”

  They all stared at Thad as they would have stared at an unusual animal in a cage. He was not much to look at, Thad well knew. He had begun to pick up the weight he had lost during his sickness, but his clothes still hung on him loosely and his face was thin, making his eyes look too large.

  He glanced at Mr. Winslow for help, and got a nod toward the door. He tried to walk around Beau, but just as he passed, the large man caught him by the arm and held him in a vise-like grip, saying, “Look at this fellow, Mark! Why, I’d be ashamed to fight against a bunch of men like this!” He gave Thad a shove, and caught off balance, Thad stumbled and almost fell.

  “Now, Beau, that’s no way to treat a servant.” Sky Winslow moved quickly to stand in front of Beau. His voice was soft and he had to look up into the face of the younger man, but there was something in his eyes that made Beau freeze. He knew as well as any man in the room that Sky Winslow had been a mountain man in his youth, and in Oregon he had gone up against hardened gunmen—and lived to tell about it.

  The crowd fell silent, caught up in the confrontation. Beau was a fiery-tempered man—but there was something deadly in the still figure of Winslow. Though he was almost sixty, there was such strength in his face and upright figure that no one thought of him as being old. He was a smiling man, known to be mild and easygoing—but there was something of a carnivore in him just now—and Beau quickly dropped his eyes.

  “Sorry
, Mr. Winslow. I was out of order.” He reached into his pocket, and before Thad discovered what the man was doing, Beau put a coin in his hand, saying, “I apologize, young fellow. Take this and have yourself a good time. I see you’re not a fighter, but that’s not your fault.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not quite correct, Beau,” a voice said, and they all turned to look at Shelby Lee. He was the son of General Robert E. Lee’s brother and a second-year lieutenant at West Point, first in his class. He looked a great deal like a younger edition of his famous uncle, and his fine eyes were gentle as they fixed on Thad.

  “What do you mean, Shelby?” Beau asked in surprise.

  Lee shrugged. “There are some pretty poor specimens from the North—just as there are in the South. But there are some pretty good young men as well. And they’ll make good soldiers.”

  Beau did not dare contradict Shelby, but he would not back down. “Do you mean a first-class fighting man could be made out of this boy?” he asked with a look of disbelief. He turned to Thad. “Are you a good shot, boy?”

  “I ain’t never shot no gun,” Thad answered quietly.

  “There it is, Shelby,” Beau said with a broad smile. “Now you all just think—how many boys around here do you know who’ve never shot a gun?” They all recognized instantly that every boy, poor and rich, learned to shoot by the time he was able to hold a rifle.

  Vance Wickham spoke up. “You can’t be sure of what you say, Beau. Give this young fellow a gun and a little training and he might do pretty well.” His eyes lit with an odd smile, “Remember that old king in the Bible who went out to war, and it says, ‘A bowman drew a bow at a venture’—and it killed the king. Get enough fellows like this to throwing lead, and it could be pretty dangerous.”

  “Didn’t look for you to start quoting scripture, Vance,” Beau grinned slyly, then added with a frown, “But I don’t think this fellow could hit anything by accident or any other way.”

  “Wouldn’t put a little money on that, would you, Beau?”

  Beau stared at Wickham in surprise. “Bet on what?”

  “Well, you say this young Yankee could never be any kind of a soldier—that he could never learn to shoot. How much would you bet on yourself in a shootin’ match against him?”

  Beau threw his head back and laughed. He well understood that this was just a ploy of Wickham’s to make him look bad, so he said, “How much do you have to lose, Vance?”

  “How about two hundred dollars?” Vance returned quietly, and immediately the room grew still. They all had watched this pair come close to trouble several times—now it seemed imminent.

  “At what odds?” Beau asked. “And how would it be handled?”

  “I’d say let Shelby and Mr. Winslow arrange the match.” Then Vance smiled sleepily and said the one thing that was calculated to goad his rival into action. “I’d like to take something away from you, Beau.”

  Every man there realized instantly that Wickham did not mean cash, but Belle, and Beau’s face flushed. “Done!” he said in a harsh voice.

  The whole episode caught the fancy of the young fellows, and a yell went up. The older men tried to get the two to call off the bet, but the betting instinct was strong in the breed.

  Vance said, “I’ll have to have a little time to teach my man how to hold a piece.”

  “You’ve got until noon tomorrow, Vance,” Beau replied. “I have too much to do to wait around for you to work a miracle.”

  Wickham put his hand on Thad’s arm, saying, “Let’s have a word outside, my boy.” He led Thad into the foyer and turned to him. “Are your eyes good?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Thad nodded. “I can see real fine.”

  “Good! Now hold your hand out.” He took a gold knife from his pocket, opened it, and laid it across one of Thad’s knuckles. “Now, hold that steady, Thad. See that line of light on the blade? Try to keep it steady.”

  Thad concentrated and his hands were almost rock-like. “Very good!” Wickham said in surprise. “You can see and you have steady hands. Now, you heard the bet I made with Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, sir—but I can’t beat him!”

  “The odds are three to one, Thad. You’ll get three shots to his one. In the morning, you meet me in front of the house. I’ll teach you how to hit the target. Now don’t get worried. If you can’t do it, I’ll understand.”

  “But, Mr. Wickham—!”

  “Thad, those fellows laughed at you. I saw your face when they did that. Now, if you can do this thing, I’ll give you the two hundred dollars—and more than that, you’ll show those fellows you’re a man!”

  Thad looked at Wickham with glowing eyes. “Well, it’s your money. I’ve always been able to hit anything with a rock—maybe I can do it.”

  Wickham was a little hopeful—for the first time, really. He had started it all to give Beau a bad time, but as he looked at Thad’s face, he saw a look of such determination that he cocked his head and thought, He’s got spirit—maybe Beau will get a surprise in the morning!

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SHOOTING MATCH

  “Here’re the rifles, Thad,” Wickham said. “This is a Springfield .58—a sweet-shooting gun.”

  Thad shivered in the cold and fervently wished that he’d never gotten into the affair. He had risen before dawn and come to the barn far away from the Big House to meet Wickham. Then they had walked about a mile through the snow, carrying the heavy rifles. Now the first light splintered the darkness and the brilliance of the snow hurt his eyes.

  “To start with, I’ll show you how to load,” Wickham said. “Watch me carefully, because you’re going to have to learn. First, you put the powder in.” He pulled a paper cartridge from his side pocket and after biting it open, poured the fine powder into the rifle barrel. “Now put the bullet in.” He pulled a conical slug from his other pocket, wrapped it quickly in a small piece of cloth, set it in the muzzle, then pushed it down firmly with a ramrod he’d removed from a mounting under the barrel. Next he pulled a small cap from his shirt pocket and put it on the tube leading into the base of the barrel. Finally, he pulled the hammer back with a click.

  Carefully he handed the Springfield to Thad. “Ready to fire,” he said. “I can load a rifle in twenty seconds, and some can do a lot better. Now, you just raise the rifle and look down the barrel. Put the bead at the end of the gun right on that target. Then—and this is the most important thing of all—you just squeeze that trigger. Hold your body as still as you can. Don’t move a muscle except that trigger finger. All right—go ahead.”

  Thad looked down the long barrel of the rifle and put the tiny round bead on the piece of paper Wickham had put on a huge walnut tree fifty feet away. The bead wandered off, but he pulled it back and froze, holding the rifle steady for a moment—then carefully squeezed the trigger. There was a loud crack, a puff of smoke that got into his eyes and nose, and a kick of the Springfield to his shoulder.

  “A hit!” Wickham cried in delight. He gave Thad a glowing smile. “Here, try it again.” He passed him the other rifle.

  Thad raised the weapon and with more assurance let the shot fly, and this time he saw the round dot on the paper not an inch from his first shot.

  Wickham stared at the target, saying nothing. His face was a study, and he looked again at Thad with a strange expression in his eyes. Finally he said, “All right, let’s move back.” They retreated fifty yards. “That’s a pretty good distance. Load the gun and take your shot, Thad.”

  Thad could not explain it, but somehow the rifle felt natural in his hands. It had been the same with the slingshot he’d picked up when he was ten years old. He never practiced, but it seemed as if he couldn’t miss. In the gang fights that sometimes took place on the east side of New York, he had gained such a reputation that the older boys always took him along. After a time, just the sight of Thad Novak reaching for his slingshot was enough to cause the other gang to take to their heels. “How do you do it, Thad?” his friends
would ask as he popped bottles and cans without taking aim. But he could never explain; it was just like pointing his finger.

  Now that same feeling was in his hands. He simply swung the rifle up and pulled the trigger, almost in a single motion, and was not at all surprised when another hole joined the first two—this time touching the mark.

  Wickham took the guns and loaded them this time, speaking with excitement. “You’re a natural shot, Thad! I’ve seen it a few times. Why, you take the Hardee twins. Robert’s been practicing all his life, but he still can’t hit a mule from ten paces. But the first time Gil Hardee picked up a gun, he could hit dead center. We took him out squirrel hunting that day—and on his first time out, he shot seven times and brought home six gray squirrels! And that wasn’t with a shotgun but an old Enfield rifle!” He finished loading the guns and said, “I think you can beat him, Thad—but in a real match, there’s a lot of noise. Gil Hardee told me once that in a match he pretends he’s in a big glass jar that shuts out all the noise. He just gets in, closes the lid, and all he can see is that bull’s eye! Just try your best to ignore the crowd. I’ll load the guns for the match. Well, let’s get back.”

  Inside the Big House, the young people were finishing up a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and fluffy biscuits smeared with yellow butter and apple jelly. They had scarcely slept at all—the girls having stayed awake and talked; the men playing cards and talking about the war.

  Mark said as he finished, “You ladies will have to excuse us for an hour or so. We have a little business outside.”

  “Oh, we know all about the shooting match, Mark,” Rowena smiled. “You needn’t think you’re going to leave us out! Come on, girls, let’s get our boots!”

  “It’s too cold outside!” Dan protested. “And besides, it won’t be any fun for you.”

  “Why, I hear Beau is going to defeat the Yankee,” Belle laughed. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”