The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Then what in the world is wrong with him?”

  “He’s angry, Robert—angry down to the bone!—and that’s something Davis has never experienced before.” Whitfield stood to his feet and looked down the street. “Here he comes now,” he said as he saw a figure in the distance.

  “At last!” Robert exhaled. “He’s never had much starch, but at least he had common courtesy! Now, he doesn’t seem to care what he does to his mother and me. She can’t quit crying, and I’ve looked everywhere for him since he disappeared yesterday morning. Said he’d be back for lunch—but not a word from him!” He shook his shoulders in anger, then seemed to remember his father’s words. “You say he’s angry? About what?”

  “About the world, I’d say. Davis has always stayed apart, never letting himself get involved. That’s why he wants to be a writer—or thinks he does. A writer can stand on the sidelines and observe. He doesn’t have to take sides, you see? If people go wrong or if things don’t work out, why, he’s not been a part of it, so he can’t be blamed. I think Davis has done that all his life.”

  Robert nodded, watching his son come slowly down the street. “I believe you’re right. And it would explain why he’s refused to take any position in this war. It’s as though he’s kept himself above it.”

  “But now he can’t do that, can he? His Olympian posture won’t work anymore—because the war reached out and struck him down.”

  “You mean when Lowell died?”

  “Yes. There’s no way to be objective when you lose your flesh and blood.”

  Robert lowered his voice, a shrewd look in his eyes, as Davis approached the walk leading to the house. “And he’s angry about that—and about the way that Wickham woman used us all?”

  “Yes. He hates her. And it’s that hate that makes me ache for him. He can’t sort it all out. His brother is gone, and he has to blame someone, so he’s focused on the South. But Belle is the symbol for the whole Confederacy. And that bitterness will destroy him if he doesn’t get free.” The captain added hurriedly, “Don’t say anything about this, Robert, and don’t nag him.”

  Robert nodded, and got up. “Well, there you are, Davis. I just dropped by to see if Father would come over for dinner tonight.”

  Davis halted, studied his father’s face, then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get back yesterday.”

  Robert waited for an explanation, but seeing none was coming, said, “Oh, we figured you got tied up. I told your mother you’d probably been trapped by one of those young women she keeps shoving in your direction.”

  “No. I just needed to get away and think for a while.”

  “Of course!” Robert nodded, and got his hat from the chair. “Will you bring your grandfather over tonight?”

  “Yes, of course. What time?”

  “Early as you please,” Robert replied. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about your writing, and this would be a good time to do it.”

  As he got into his buggy and moved away, Davis grimaced. “He’s never been interested in my writing before.”

  “Give him a chance, boy,” the captain responded gently. “Your parents are having a pretty rough time.”

  Davis was shamed by his remark, and said, “I know—we all are, I guess.” He sat down in the chair vacated by his father and stared up at the peach blossoms. His suit was rumpled as if it had been slept in, and his eyes dulled with fatigue. The captain studied him, but didn’t comment, knowing there was no way he could force the young man to open his mind.

  After a few moments Davis spoke up. “I hope Mother wasn’t too upset with me. I just lost track of time. I was having lunch and ran into a friend of mine—Professor Joshua Chamberlain, one of my instructors at Bowdoin.”

  “What does he teach?”

  “He used to teach rhetoric. But he left to become a colonel in the Army of the Potomac—Corps V. Sure did surprise me,” he added with a smile. “The last time I saw him he was fussing around trying to get us to organize our stiff little speeches—now he’s trying to get me to join the Union Army!”

  “Is that a fact? Are colonels doing their own recruiting?” the older man asked wryly.

  “That’s about the way it is, I guess,” Davis nodded. “Colonel Chamberlain cussed Edwin Stanton—said he made a big blunder. Last spring he got the freakish impulse that the war was about over, so he closed down all army recruiting stations and stopped enlistments. He sure was wrong! With all the losses in the Shenandoah Valley, getting whipped at Richmond, and our heavy casualty lists, we’re running out of men. And even when he opened the recruit centers again, there wasn’t much business.”

  “The romance is gone,” the captain nodded. “Always goes that way in a war. When the thing starts, it’s all lemonade for the boys, every pretty girl coming out to kiss them goodbye, with the flags flying and the bands playing. But—when the dying starts, that all changes.”

  “That’s what Chamberlain said.” Davis thought about the conversation he had just had with his former professor, listening as the officer talked about the war. Davis would not have been so interested if Chamberlain had been a career officer; it was to be expected that the Regulars would be caught up in the struggle. But he knew Chamberlain had been opposed to the war. Now the tall, picturesque professor with his grave, boyish dignity and the clean-eyed, naive look of a happy professor had changed.

  “I hate this war, Davis,” he’d said as he sat at the table sipping coffee the day before. “I stayed out as long as I could, hoping somehow we’d find a compromise on the slavery issue—but when I saw that we never would, I joined up.” He looked down humorously at his blue uniform and three-foot sword. “Never will look like a soldier, will I? But the Regulars can’t win this war! It’ll take men like me—and you, Davis. The South won’t quit. We’ll have to wear them down to the last Confederate before it’s over.”

  Captain Winslow searched his grandson’s face with intensity. But struck by an unexpected thought, said only, “I’d like to meet Colonel Chamberlain. Never knew a professor of rhetoric in the uniform of a colonel. I’ll bet he can play a mean game of chess.”

  “How did you know that? He’s a master at it!”

  “Game takes logic—and usually those professors have that quality. Bring him around if you can.”

  “Not likely, sir. The regiment is pulling out any day. But we’re supposed to have dinner tomorrow night, so maybe it’ll work out. He’d like you—and you’d like him a lot.” Davis stood up, saying, “We stayed up most of the night talking. He has a room at a hotel with two beds. That’s where I spent the night. But it was a short night; I need a nap.”

  He went into the house, took off his outer garments and stretched out on the bed, his eyes gritty, and sighed heavily. He could not sleep, but lay there trying to shut out the images that kept flickering across his mind. Mostly he thought of Lowell, of the good times they’d had together—and of his death in Georgia. When he first heard the news, his imagination was plagued by the unknown. But after talking with Colonel Taylor, he now could see the full picture. Lowell had been struck in the chest by a ball, the crimson blood pulsating over his uniform, running down to the ground—then his face had grown still. Davis reviewed the scene over and over. With a groan he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyeballs and tried to blot out the image.

  Finally he drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to dream again—this time of Belle, a dream he’d had several times. She seemed to be before him, as beautiful as ever, but always tempting, her face twisting with a demonic cruelty. She would hold out her smooth white arms, whispering for him to come to her. Then as he moved toward her, she would point to something on the ground beside her, laughing. And when he looked, it would be Lowell—gasping and dying.

  He woke up crying out “No! No!” in a choking voice. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he rolled out of bed and drank thirstily from the pitcher on the night stand. He paced the floor restlessly, stopping by the window to stare out. There he
remained for over an hour, his mind flooded with angry thoughts. Abruptly, as if to shake off the tormenting voices, he turned and threw himself across the bed face down, and soon fell asleep.

  He slept until noon, tried to write for most of the afternoon, but eventually gave it up. He found his grandfather reading in the parlor, and said, “Let’s go uptown and see if we can find Colonel Chamberlain. Maybe we can persuade him to have dinner with us.”

  “Fine! Like to meet the man.”

  They found Colonel Chamberlain at the recruiting office. When he was introduced to Captain Winslow, he said, “I’ve always wanted to meet you, sir. Davis talked about you often when he was my student.”

  “We’ve come to recruit you for a meal, Colonel,” the captain responded. “We’re having dinner with my son Robert and his wife, and we’d like to have you join us.”

  “I’d like that!” Chamberlain agreed, then laughed, “I’m like a Baptist preacher these days, sir—always ready for an invitation to a meal.” He rose to his feet, adding, “No business here today, so we may as well go. Take over, Lieutenant,” he nodded to the young officer nearby.

  The evening was a success, for the colonel’s presence brought Davis out of his shell, much to the joy of his parents. Chamberlain was aware of the loss of the younger son, and after offering his sympathy, he focused on Davis. He spoke with humor about a few clashes they’d had in the classroom, told of some of the minor problems that Davis had never mentioned—including an incident involving a yearling calf that had been hauled up to the second-story bedroom of the president. His eyes twinkled as he’d looked at Davis. “The culprit was never convicted, but the entire faculty agreed that Davis Winslow was the prime mover in the incident!”

  Robert looked at his son with fresh interest. “You never told me about that.”

  “Well, sir, it wasn’t my finest hour—besides, it was never proved.”

  They were relaxing around the table after a meal that Chamberlain had attacked with the energy of a soldier. “Haven’t had a meal this fine since just before Chancellorsville.”

  “Were you in action there, sir?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, sir, I was.” His brow puckered in a row of furrows. “It was a fiasco—again.”

  “We outnumbered the Rebels almost two to one, I understand,” Captain Winslow remarked.

  “Oh yes. We had about a hundred thirty-four thousand men at the beginning of the campaign—and we weren’t green recruits, either. The army had been at the Seven Days, at Antietam, and at Fredericksburg. Lee had no more than sixty thousand at any time. Hooker took us across the Rappahannock and the Rapidan about twenty miles northwest of Fredericksburg.”

  Chamberlain was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “We had it all—the numbers, the terrain, the guns, everything! But we lost.”

  “What happened, Colonel?” Davis asked. “I can’t understand it. Time and again we have everything in our favor—and we lose! It’s almost as if God is against us.”

  “I don’t know about God, but Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson were,” Chamberlain replied dryly. “Hooker made lots of big talk. Called us ‘the finest army on the planet.’ And just before the battle, I heard him tell General Couch, ‘It’s all right. I’ve got Lee just where I want him. Lee’s army is now the legitimate property of the Army of the Potomac.’ “ A strange expression lit Chamberlain’s blue eyes. “It happened as soon as the battle started. Hooker caved in—just as Pope did at Second Bull Run, and Burnside at Fredericksburg. It’s almost like black magic! As soon as our army meets Lee and Jackson, the generals become paralyzed.”

  “Well, Jackson was killed,” Robert replied with satisfaction. “There’s no one to replace him!”

  “Yes,” Chamberlain agreed. “He was unique, but don’t forget, we lost seventeen thousand men and were humiliated in the eyes of the country—and of the world.”

  Jewel spoke up. “That many, sir—seventeen thousand of our men? How awful!”

  “We’ve got to stop them!” Davis cried.

  Chamberlain’s head jerked up in surprise. Davis’s face was pale, his eyes bright with anger. In the ex-professor’s eyes, his former pupil’s one fault was that he was too bland. Now Chamberlain saw the rage burning in the young man. He nodded. “Yes, Davis, we do. That’s why I’m wearing this uniform.”

  “I’d like to line up every Rebel and blow them all to smithereens with cannon fire, Colonel!” Davis said between gritted teeth. “They brought this thing on because of that cursed slavery of theirs!”

  Shocked by the ferocity in his voice, the others sat stunned. Chamberlain broke in gently, “It’s easy to hate them, Davis, but I’ve found that I make a better soldier if I keep a steady head. I’ve had lots of hotheads in my command, and they usually don’t last.”

  “So I discovered when I was a fighting man, Colonel,” the captain said. “Oh, in the heat of battle when you’re in a death struggle, most men go into some kind of madness, but a person can’t keep living like that.”

  Davis set his jaw stubbornly, revealing the firm line of the Winslow look. He was still overweight, but he had lost some in the past few weeks. “I don’t see how you can be halfway about fighting a war,” he argued dogmatically.

  “Please,” Jewel begged quietly, “could we talk about something besides the war?”

  “Why, of course!” Chamberlain said. “I must apologize, Mrs. Winslow. We soldiers get so caught up in the war, we forget there’s another world.”

  “Why don’t you and Father have a game of chess?” Robert suggested. “Davis and I will cheer you on.”

  The rest of the evening was pleasant, for Chamberlain was a cultivated man who could speak informatively on many subjects. He beat the captain in a hard-fought battle, offering to give him a chance at revenge any time. It was nearly ten before he left, and the captain decided to stay the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Colonel,” Davis said. He had been very quiet during the latter part of the evening, sitting beside his mother and listening as the other men talked.

  “Well, it’s too late to look at your writing tonight,” Robert said. “But the colonel is an interesting man. Maybe tomorrow night, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” Davis replied vaguely, and said good night, retiring to his room.

  After he left, Jewel commented, “Davis was in a better mood tonight, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. I guess he needs bookish people like Chamberlain to draw him out,” Robert nodded. “We’ll have to work on that, Jewel—I mean, have people in whom he can talk with, like Colonel Chamberlain.”

  “I don’t think Chamberlain will be here long,” the captain said thoughtfully. “He seems to think the army will be moving out pretty soon.”

  “We’ll have to make the most of him then,” Jewel decided. “I’ve been thinking of having a special dinner, with some writers and professors. Davis would like that.”

  The captain didn’t respond, for he had sensed a restlessness in Davis that he knew could not be assuaged by parties. He retired to his room and lay reading the Bible for about an hour. Finally he laid it down, put his spectacles away, and blew out the light, feeling a heavy sense of oppression over his grandson. His prayer was mostly for the young man.

  For the next five days, Colonel Chamberlain was a frequent visitor, both with the Winslows and at the captain’s house. He actually had little to do, and enjoyed their company. Jewel and Robert were happy, and the dinner party she planned went off well. Davis seemed rather quiet, which wasn’t unusual. He spent a great deal of the day with Colonel Chamberlain, and often spoke of him to his parents and his grandfather with an admiration they had rarely seen.

  On Friday evening, the captain was again at his son’s house for dinner. He had come alone, informing them that Davis would be there by six. Six came—but not Davis. Not until five before seven did he make his appearance.

  When Jewel opened the door she saw both Davis and Colonel Chamberlain. As soon as the two men stepped into the parlor, R
obert and Whitfield knew something was wrong. Colonel Chamberlain’s face was intensely sober, while Davis’s jaw was set in the stubborn expression he wore when he was determined to do something he knew would displease others.

  Chamberlain said abruptly, “I apologize for this intrusion, but Davis and I have had some disagreement, and I wanted to—”

  “Father, Mother,” Davis broke in. “I’m enlisting in the army.”

  “No, Davis!” Jewel cried.

  Chamberlain hastened to say, “I wanted to come with Davis, because you’ll think that I talked him into enlisting.” He shook his head. “Such is not the case, I assure you! As a matter of fact, I’ve used every trick of rhetoric I know to persuade him to postpone this decision.”

  Robert and Jewel began imploring their son to change his mind, to reconsider, to realize the possible consequences. The captain listened to their pleading patiently, but knew they were wasting their time. There was a mulish stubbornness on Davis’s face, and his mouth was set like a trap. The longer they pleaded, the more obvious it became that he would not alter his decision.

  His mother dissolved into tears, and his father became angry.

  “You always nagged me to do this,” Davis reminded them. “Now that I am, I don’t see why you’re so upset.” Actually, he knew they were afraid of losing him, their last son, but he refused to let it influence him. “I’ve got to do it, so please be a little more reasonable.”

  Chamberlain spoke up. “As I said, it’s not my doing, and if you ask, I will refuse to enlist him.”

  “Then I’ll join another regiment,” Davis said.

  Chamberlain glared at him, then shrugged. “Well, there it is! If you would like, Mr. Winslow, I can make him my aide-de-camp. For whatever it means, I’ll do my best to see he doesn’t lead any foolhardy charges.”

  “That would be best—if he has to do it,” Robert said sadly. He straightened up, forced himself to smile, and went to put a hand on Davis’s arm. “Your mother and I—we didn’t mean to be unfair. It’s just—well, we’ll worry about you.”