“But everyone in Richmond knows how I hate the Yankees. Surely that agent—what’s his name, Sloan?—he’ll know it as well. He’d report it, wouldn’t he?”
“He certainly would,” Huger nodded. “So you must change your story.”
“What?”
“You’d have to make an about-face,” he said evenly. “You’d have to convince everyone that you’ve changed your mind. You’re angry at the South for starting this war that killed your husband. You’d say that we’re doomed to lose, and the quicker we give up, the better off we’ll be.”
“But—nobody would believe me!” Belle exclaimed.
She expected Huger to argue, but he didn’t. He stood there staring at her carefully. Finally he said, “Then it’s a washout.” He studied her a moment and added, “Belle, it’s asking a lot. I think you could do it—convince everyone that you’ve changed. But if you did,” he warned her, “your own people would hate you.”
Belle nodded slowly. “Yes. I know how we all talk about traitors, people who turn from the Cause.”
“I couldn’t help you with that,” he said quietly. “Nobody could. You’d have to bear it alone. I can’t even urge you to do it—because I’m not sure I could go through with it. It’s a thing you’ll have to decide.”
Ramsey Huger was a good lawyer. He knew the danger of saying too much. He’d seen juries ready to vote not guilty, but when he’d said just a little too much, they’d been talked out of doing just what he wanted. So he stood quietly, admiring her face, but convinced she would refuse the proposition.
Belle sat silently, confused and afraid. One moment she was ready to rise and leave the room—for she knew what anger and bitterness would fall upon her if she agreed to Huger’s plan. But she was also forced to think of her duty. I’ve been nothing but a party girl all my life, she mused. How can I do this thing? She thought of Vance, her husband, and of the few precious days they’d had before he marched off to die at Antietam. Thad Novak had been with him when he drew his final breath, and she recalled his last words as Thad reported them: You’re the best thing that ever happened to me! She rose and walked to the window.
Staring into the murky night, Belle knew what she must do. She turned slowly and came to stand in front of Ramsey Huger, her eyes large and a tremor on her lips.
“My husband died for the Confederacy. If it comes to that, I can do the same. Tell me what I have to do!”
CHAPTER TWO
JUST ANOTHER SOLDIER
The three officers dismounted in front of the large white two-story mansion, handing their horses over to a tall, massively built black man who grinned broadly, saying, “Sho’ is good to see you gentlemen back to Belle Maison! Miz Winslow done say she gonna stuff you lak Thanksgiving turkeys!”
He spoke to all three, but his eyes were on the youngest, Third Lieutenant Thad Novak—for the young man had bought the black man’s freedom by joining the Confederate Army as a substitute for a rich man’s son. “Miss Pet—she say fo’ you to come ovah to de barn, Mistuh Thad. Dat new sow is havin’ her fust litter of pigs—and she say you gotta help.”
Mark Winslow, first lieutenant of the Richmond Blades, laughed at the look on Thad’s face. “Now, there’s romance for you, Beau! No moonlight and roses for this lover!” At twenty-two, Mark was the oldest of the Winslow boys, and the darkest.
Captain Beau Beauchamp was by far the largest of the three. He was a handsome twenty-one, six feet tall, and powerfully built. He gave young Novak a smile, his light mustache twitching. “I guess nobody will call you a Yankee now, Thad. No real Yankee would do his courting in a barnyard over a pregnant sow.”
Thad glared at the two out of an angular wedge-shaped face. His black eyes were set between high slavic cheekbones. “You gentlemen treat your women in your own way,” he said with a flare of humor. “Pet and I will take care of our own courtin’!”
He turned and walked away, and Beauchamp laughed. “I never thought I’d grow fond of that young fellow—but I have.” He thought of the early days of the war when he had been highly suspicious of Thad Novak, and had done all he could to get Sky Winslow to put the Northern boy off Belle Maison. He added as they went up the steps to the house, “He’s going to be a good officer, Mark—after he gets over the shock of his promotion.”
“Not many men are breveted from a corporal to third lieutenant by Robert E. Lee,” Mark remarked thoughtfully. “He earned it though, the way he saved the major at Antietam.” Thad had gone in under heavy fire and pulled Major Shelby Lee, a nephew of General Lee, to safety. That terrible day more men died than on any other single day of battle in American history.
As they entered the house, Beauchamp commented, “Too bad we couldn’t have saved Vance as well.”
The still form of Captain Vance Wickham as Mark had last seen him, slain by a sharpshooter’s ball at Antietam Creek, was ever in Mark’s thoughts. Not only had Wickham been his sister Belle’s husband, but he was much more than that. “I still can’t accept it, Beau,” he said as they took off their cloaks and handed them to Lucy, the housemaid. “I keep looking around expecting to see him.”
“And I’m supposed to take his place as captain,” Beauchamp frowned, and shook his head as a gloomy look swept across his face. “It just about wiped me out when Belle chose Vance instead of me,” he murmured. “But I never hated him—as I would have just about anybody—”
“Mark! Beau!” Rebekah Winslow ran excitedly down the stairway. She hugged Mark, and smiled at Beau. “Come now, Captain, don’t you have a kiss for an old woman?” At forty-four, Mark’s mother was an attractive woman. Her figure was still shapely, and her auburn hair had lost none of its curl over the years.
“No—but I’ve got one for you,” Beau grinned, and kissed her on the cheek and stepped back. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time—but that jealous husband of yours is always around.”
“I still am!”
Sky Winslow had entered unnoticed, and grinned broadly at the two men. “With all the other jealous men in the county, I’d have to get in line, Captain Beauchamp.” At sixty-one, Sky Winslow’s hair showed only a sprinkle of silver at the temples. His blue eyes still held that electrifying quality in his dark face. Being a quarter Sioux, he had been named for the unusual color of his eyes. He shook hands with both men and asked, “Where’s Thad?”
“Oh, he and Pet are having pigs in the barn,” Mark grinned. They all laughed. “It’s a good thing someone in this family has a little practical knowledge,” Sky commented. “Come sit down. I want to hear how you’ve been winning the war.”
They filed into the parlor and for the next hour, Rebekah scurried in and out, preparing supper while listening to the news from the front.
“We got cut up so bad at Sharpsburg,” Mark said sadly, “that we’ve been hard put to fill the gaps. It’s not as easy to recruit as it was in the beginning.”
“But we’re almost up to full strength, sir,” Beau added enthusiastically. “We’ll be ready to meet whoever Lincoln gives the army to.”
Sky Winslow listened intently, his face in repose, but he knew much more than the young officers were aware of. As a special assistant to President Davis, he was privileged to sit in many high-level meetings, often with General Lee and others. “I don’t want to be a prophet of gloom,” he said slowly. “But we’re going to be hit harder than ever in the next few months.”
“I suppose so,” Beau shrugged, “but we’ll be ready.”
“We gave it all we had the last few months—and it wasn’t enough.” There was a strain in Sky’s face as he spoke. “The plan was to launch a threefold offensive—invade Maryland, hit Kentucky, and roll up Grant’s army.” He held up his fingers and slowly ticked them off, saying, “The invasion of Maryland stopped at Sharpsburg, Bragg lost at Perryville on the eighth and had to pull out of Kentucky, and Rosecrans whipped us at Corinth.”
“But we hurt them, sir!” Mark interjected. “They say that Lincoln is trying despe
rately to find himself a general like Lee or Jackson.”
Sky smiled as Rebekah came back and sat beside him. “I’m too gloomy,” he admitted. “Let’s have a good supper and forget the war.”
“How’s Belle doing?” Mark asked.
Sky and Rebekah exchanged a look that both men caught.
Beau asked hesitantly, “She’s still taking it hard?”
“I—we’ve been dreading your return, Mark—and you, too, Beau,” Rebekah said sadly. “You know how we long to have you home, but—” Rebekah broke off in agitation and walked to the window.
“What’s wrong?” Mark asked in bewilderment. “Has she been sick?”
“No, not that,” Sky said. “But she’s broken mentally, Mark.”
Both men stared at him, and Beau asked incredulously, “She’s lost her mind? I can’t believe that!”
“Neither could any of us,” Sky answered. “But you know how she almost died over Vance’s death? Never smiled, and began saying she’d never rest until all the Yankees were either driven from the South or dead?”
“She was frantic,” Mark admitted. “I was worried about her.”
“So were we all.” Rebekah came back and sat down beside Sky, taking his hand. “But she wouldn’t listen to any of us. Everybody knew how she was. They called her ‘The Dixie Widow.’ ”
“We thought she’d get over it,” Sky spoke up. “But about two weeks ago she began to change.” He frowned at the memory, adding, “If anything, she’s worse off than she was hating the Yankees.”
“For goodness’ sake!” Mark burst out. “What’s the matter with her? Tell us!”
“She says now that the South is all wrong,” Rebekah replied. “She blames the government for starting the war that killed Vance.” Fighting back the tears, she whispered, “It started with a few complaints—but it’s gone far beyond that now!”
“We had to tell you—so that you wouldn’t be caught off guard,” Sky said painfully. “And Pet will tell Thad.”
“Maybe shes had—some kind of a nervous breakdown,” Mark muttered. “Has she seen a doctor?”
“No. She says there’s nothing wrong with her,” Sky answered stonily. “You’ll hear it soon enough if she comes in to dinner. Try to be patient with her. I—I’m more afraid for her than I am for you boys.”
He got up abruptly and left, with Rebekah following. “I’d better go with him,” she whispered. “He’s taking it very hard.”
“I still can’t believe it, Mark!” Beau got to his feet, his blue eyes reflecting helplessness. “Belle’s not that weak!”
“You have to remember,” Mark returned, “Belle never had to face anything difficult before. She’s always had everything she wanted. This is the first time she’s ever had to face hardship. And we’ve seen some pretty steady women collapse under this kind of grief.”
They sat silently, thinking of the vivacious girl who had reigned over Belle Maison since she was sixteen years old. Finally the men went to their rooms until Lucy’s call to dinner. As they came down the stairs, their hearts were filled with apprehension.
The table in the small dining room was set with silver, and the gleam of old china reflected the hundred candles burning in the chandelier overhead. Both men immediately looked for Belle, but she was not there.
“Hello, Pet,” Mark said, going to kiss her. “Did your pigs make it?”
“Oh yes!” she smiled happily. “Fifteen of them—and all little darlings!”
At seventeen, Pet Winslow would never be the beauty her sister was, but she didn’t mind in the least. She was a wholesome girl with a nice figure, and a face that was strong rather than pretty. A pair of large gray eyes, a small nose, together with a prominent dimple and a widow’s peak gave her a piquant look. She had fallen head-over-heels in love with Thad Novak and now took hold of his arm, saying, “It’s so exciting being engaged to an officer in the Richmond Blades!”
“More exciting than birthing pigs?” Thad grinned.
“Just slightly,” she teased. Then a shadow swept her face as she saw her sister enter. “Why, Belle, I thought I’d have to go and get you.”
Beau hurried forward to greet her, holding out his hand. “Belle! It’s so good to see you!”
The hand she offered him was limp, and her eyes dull, not alive and shining as he remembered. “Hello, Beau—Mark.” She allowed Mark’s awkward embrace, then went to her chair.
A silence fell over the room. “Well, I guess you young men are starved for some good home cooking!” Rebekah said nervously, trying to lighten the heaviness. “Sky, will you ask the blessing?”
They bowed their heads and Sky prayed, “Lord, we thank you for the good food, but we are more grateful for the safe return of our young men. Thank you for that in the name of Jesus Christ.”
When they raised their heads, Sky warned, “Don’t get your hand too close to Thad’s plate, Mark. It’s a good way to lose it!”
Thad blushed and the others laughed at his embarrassment. The meal went on as Lucy brought in platter after platter of food—chicken, chops, roast, followed by late vegetables, all eaten with gusto by the three officers.
While Pet kept them entertained with her plans for Thad during the brief furlough, Beau studied Belle covertly. She was as beautiful as ever. Even the harsh black dress could not hide that, but she seemed somehow harder. Before, she had always been happy and bubbly. Now she sat there eating only a few bites, her head bowed, except for an occasional glance around. When she did look at Beau, there was no warmth in her dark eyes. Instead, her expression was enigmatic and she seemed to be studying him as she would a stranger. It unnerved him, and he began to see what the Winslows had tried to explain.
As they finished the main courses and began enjoying the blackberry cobbler swimming in thick cream, the conversation turned to the war. It was inevitable, for their world was surrounded and formed by it, but even as Mark and Sky talked of battles and strategy, Beauchamp saw Belle’s face assume a cast of distaste. Her lips thinned and she stared at her plate in silence.
“Well, Beau, where do you think the next campaign will take place?” Sky asked.
“Most of the officers say the Yankees will mount some sort of drive on Richmond again,” he replied. “They’ve lost so many men, though, that the Northern newspapers are calling their generals ‘butchers.’ I guess most of them are, the way they feed their troops into deathtraps—”
“Well, aren’t all generals ‘butchers’?” Belle broke in bitterly, her lips twisted with anger. “How many of our Southern men have died needlessly?”
A thick silence invaded the room. Finally, Mark spoke. “Nobody likes war, Belle. But we’ve got to fight—and some of us will have to die for our Cause.”
“And what good does the Cause do Vance now?” Belle demanded sharply as her eyes swept the room. “We’ll never win this war. And who’s dying in it? The best men! They rush to join the fight, while the cowards lag behind. I’ve heard you say so yourself, Father. And after all of our best are killed and our worst are left, what will remain to build on?”
“Belle!” Sky protested.
But she brushed his words aside and went on. “Richmond is doomed. Every day the ring draws a little tighter. They’re digging up old outhouses now to get nitre to make gunpowder! We’re out of weapons, and can’t get any from overseas because the blockade is strangling us!” She jumped to her feet, and in a voice edged with hysteria she cried, “My God! The South is dying, and you all sit here and talk about going to fight as if it were a picnic!”
She whirled and ran to the door, stopping to turn and face them, her eyes wild as she whispered, “Well, I lost my husband to this war—but I’ll not lift a finger for your precious Cause! Never!”
She fled up the stairs, leaving them white-faced and ashamed, as though they had observed something obscene.
“Now you know,” Sky said heavily. Then he got up and left the room, and the rest followed as quickly as they could.
Beau stopped short, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “I’m going back to town, Mark. I can’t stand this.”
Beau departed immediately and Mark returned to the house, where he found Rebekah standing at the window looking out.
“Mama, do people know about Belle?”
“Yes, they do,” Rebekah answered and came to stand beside him, reaching out her hand for support. “She’s made her views known all over Richmond. Not only that, there was a journalist who took it all down. He did a story in the Richmond paper—all about how one of our greatest heroes has been disgraced by his widow’s behavior.”
“Mama, no!”
“She’s leaving, Mark.”
“Leaving! To go where?”
Rebekah’s gentle eyes showed the pain she felt. “She says she’ll not live in a country that’s bent on suicide. She’s going to the North.”
Mark stared, incredulous. “She’s insane, isn’t she?” A wave of bitterness swept over him. “She’d be better off dead!”
“Mark! Don’t say that!” Rebekah clung to him, and finally regained control of her voice. “We must pray, Mark! God will have to help her!”
****
Belle had met Ramsey Huger only twice since she had agreed to become an agent—once at a deserted house just outside of Richmond on a dirt road and once on the platform of the railroad station at dusk. Each time he had been impressed with her determination, telling his superior, a short man named Les Butler, of the girl’s progress. “She’s a natural actress, Les,” he had said. “And with the story in the paper about her Union sympathies, word will seep into the North right away!”
“I take credit for that, Ramsey,” Butler smiled. “The writer was my man!” Then he had said, “Get her in place as soon as you can—but it’ll have to be done right. The Yankees are a little harder to fool now than when Mrs. Greenhow and Belle Boyd first got to them.”
The Dixie Widow Page 2