The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Yes, they do.”

  As Sky answered the questions, Belle noticed that the banker’s friendliness had been replaced by abruptness. The former president had been a warm, personal friend of Sky Winslow’s, and most of their business was conducted in a casual manner—but that was not the way it was going to be with Asa Moody.

  After checking the figures, jotting down several numbers on the sheet of paper in front of him, Moody looked up. “It’s a serious problem, Winslow. Very serious.” He rocked back in his chair, considered the sheet again, and frowned. “There’s no way we can continue in this fashion.”

  “What do you propose, sir?” Sky asked quietly.

  Moody spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I came here to save this bank. In order to do that, I must be firm. Many will call me a hard man—but if the bank goes under, ninety percent of the planters in this county will lose their land. Slavery is the culprit, of course.”

  “I’ve always said that.”

  Moody gave him a hard look. “Strange that a man high in the Confederate government would have those sentiments. But, be that as it may, I am forced to stick to a certain line. It may seem harsh to you, but my board and I see no other way to save the bank—and the economy of the state.”

  “What do you propose?” Sky asked again.

  “Basically, two things. First, all notes must be paid off in six months. Second, loans will be advanced only on money crops—which means primarily cotton.”

  Anger washed over Sky. “You couldn’t have found a better way to ruin the planters if you’d spent your life thinking about it!”

  Moody was not offended, and sat with his eyes fixed on Sky. “It’s hard—but there’s no other way. The strong will survive, and the weak will go down.”

  Belle spoke up. “I thought the Christian way was to help the weak, Mr. Moody.”

  Her quiet question broke through the banker’s cold facade, and he lifted his head, a touch of color rising in his heavy cheeks. “That’s theologically true, Mrs. Wickham, and I wish we could always do so—but in business we have to act in the best interest of the institution.”

  “Cotton got us in debt in the first place, Moody,” Sky said. “It takes a lot of workers, and with the slaves gone, that means hiring white labor and freed slaves. We would have to borrow large sums—and then the crops might fail. It’s little better than a slow way to bankruptcy. As for paying the notes off in six months, why, there’s not five men in this county who can do that!”

  Moody sat there shaking his head stoically. “As I say, it seems harsh, and I know I’ll be vilified. But the board has spoken, and I must carry out their instructions.”

  Both Sky and Belle were sure the board would do exactly what Asa Moody told them, and not vice versa, but Sky realized it was useless to argue. He rose to his feet, took Belle’s arm and said, “Thank you for you time, sir.”

  “I’m sure a man of your character will be able to weather this, Winslow,” Moody told him, then slipped out of the role of banker. “We’ll see you in the services this Sunday? Fine! I’m looking forward to our fellowship. When the new pastor comes, it seems likely we’ll have to help support him.”

  As Sky and Belle left the office, Max Wayne gave them a sharp look, but said nothing.

  “What did you think of him?” Belle asked when they got outside.

  Sky shrugged, his face filled with doubt. “He’s not going to bend one inch, Belle—not that man!”

  “How can he be so amiable one minute, and so hard the next?”

  “Guess he’s learned how to throw up a shell. Maybe bankers have to be that way.” He made an effort to smile. “But God is able. We’ll be all right, Belle.”

  She gave him a quick hug. It hurt her to see the heaviness on his face. She smiled roguishly. “Mother and I will go to the ladies’ meeting. We’ll charm Mrs. Moody so completely she’ll make that old husband of hers do exactly what we want him to do!”

  Sky laughed. “Come out for supper this week. Spend a couple days if you can. Pet’ll like having you help plan her wedding. It’s still set for December, but she’s tried every trick in the book to get Rebekah and me to move it up.”

  “I’m happy for them,” Belle said. “They won’t have much, but they love each other so much it won’t matter, will it?”

  Sky hesitated, for Belle rarely talked about marriage. Her own had been so brief that she had not had time to build a home. She seldom referred to her husband, and Rebekah had once confessed to Sky that Belle’s marriage had been too hasty—which had been his own thought. Now he said carefully, “Beau still coming around trying to get you to marry him?” He knew very well he was, but wanted to get his daughter’s reaction.

  “Oh, I see him pretty often,” she said, and bit her lip nervously. “He ought to marry one of those Huger girls. Both of them are madly in love with him.”

  “He doesn’t seem interested,” Sky replied. He peered quizzically at her. “What about you, Belle? Do you care for him at all? He’s waited for you a long time.”

  The question disturbed her, and she shook her head. “It’s all I can do to take care of my patients—and you!” she added. She turned and walked away, calling back, “Tell Pet I’ll be out tomorrow.”

  Late the next afternoon, Belle went as promised and was surprised—and a little suspicious—to find Beau there. But he greeted her casually as she came into the house. “I didn’t know you were coming, Belle!”

  “Hello, Beau,” she smiled. “I have to come home once in a while to get a good meal. How have you been?”

  He shrugged. “Why, pretty well, I suppose. I get sick of my own company and inflict myself on my friends. An old bachelor can wear his welcome out in no time.”

  “Nonsense!” Sky exclaimed. “Always glad to have you. But I’ve got some bookwork to do before supper. Belle, Pet’s out feeding those black chickens. I doubt if you’ll be able to get her into a dress for her wedding, but you’ve got to try!”

  Belle laughed, “Let’s go see the chickens, Beau—and the blushing bride.”

  He joined her, and as they walked toward the barn, his eyes shifted across the field. “Looks like Tom and Dan fixing the fence over there. Where’s Mark?”

  “He’s with Thad somewhere out looking for pigs and calves to buy.”

  Beau grinned ruefully. “Funny, isn’t it, Belle? Six months ago we were all giving orders. Now we’re building fences and hunting for pigs.” He looked down at his own hands and sighed. “Guess I’m not cut out to be a planter.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Are you in trouble, Beau—with your plantation?”

  “Isn’t everyone?” he shrugged. “Your father told me about the visit to the bank. I got about the same story.” Beauchamp was a volatile man, his emotions rising and falling like a yo-yo, and the mention of the bank sobered him. They walked along silently for a time as they made their way past the barn and turned toward the chicken yard where Pet was broadcasting feed to a flock of small black chickens.

  “I’ve been thinking of selling out,” he blurted out, adding, “This country is like a cemetery, Belle! Everything we used to love is dead.”

  “What would you do, Beau?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Head for California, maybe. I hear San Francisco’s a lively place.” They were almost to the wire fence and Pet looked up and waved. “Belle,” he said, his words rushed, “Haven’t you ever thought of leaving here? Making a brand new start?”

  “I’ve thought of it,” she replied, and then seeing the hope leap to his eyes, added, “But I have my work—and this is my home.”

  “Not much left of it,” he uttered dolefully.

  “Look at my chickens!” Pet exclaimed as the couple reached them. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Kind of smallish, aren’t they?” Beau remarked. “Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted a genuine Black Winslow,” Pet challenged. “They go all the way back to one of our ancestors—Miles Winslow. I’m going to get ric
h from them!” she announced proudly. “You just wait till supper, Beau Beauchamp. You’ve never eaten fried chicken until you’ve eaten Black Winslow!”

  Turning to Belle, she said, “I hate to leave the little flock, but I want to show you the pattern for my dress—and some samples of material we just got. Sure is a lot of fuss. Wish we could just run off and get married.”

  “Pet! Be sensible!” Belle admonished.

  “Oh, I am! I just hate to wait.”

  They spent the next hour talking—Belle mostly listen-ing—studying patterns, looking at material, and planning the wedding reception. In spite of Pet’s desire for less “fuss,” she was filled to the brim with details and jumped from one subject to the next almost without pausing to catch her breath. When Rebekah stuck her head in the door, calling out “Time for supper,” they couldn’t believe the time had flown by so fast.

  “Gosh, Belle! You must be deaf, listening to me rattle on!”

  Belle hugged her. “I’m happy for you, Pet. It’ll be the most beautiful wedding ever held in these parts. Now, let’s go downstairs.”

  They ate in the small dining room, and for once the entire family was present. Sky prayed a short simple grace, as was his habit, then said, “Pitch in. Beau, see what you think of this Black Winslow breed of chicken.”

  Beau tasted it, smiled and said, “Why, it’s delicious, Pet! You may get rich after all.” He grinned at Thad. “How’d you like to be married to a rich woman, Thad?”

  “Wouldn’t bother me a bit!” Thad announced readily. “I was reading in the Bible last week that in the Old Testament days when a man got married, he didn’t do any work for a whole year.”

  “What did he do?” Beau questioned.

  “Bible says all he did was please his wife.” He grinned at Pet and asked slyly, “How’d you like that?”

  Pet made a face at him and laughed. “I’m pretty hard to please, I’ll have you know.”

  Rebekah looked around the table. “I doubt if there’s another family in the country who’s been as blessed as we have,” she said. “Three sons—no, four, counting you, Thad! And all of you came out of the war alive and whole.”

  “That’s right,” Sky nodded. “I know so many who had only one son—and lost him.” The thought sobered him and he looked at his family. “God be thanked, for it’s His doing.”

  Tom asked quickly, “What did the new banker say, Pa?”

  Sky told them the conditions Moody had laid down, and Tom exclaimed, “Why, that’s crazy!”

  “We can’t make that much money in five years, much less in six months!” Mark added heatedly. “Nobody can meet terms like that.”

  “You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Beau spoke up. “He’ll foreclose on us, and then his friends from the North will buy our land cheap through the bank.”

  “I don’t think he’s planning that,” Sky countered mildly. “He’s a hard man, but I don’t believe he’s dishonest.”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” Beau argued. “It’s not illegal for him to call our notes—but it’s not right! You mark my words. The next few years the buzzards from the North will swarm all over Virginia, all over the South! They’ve already started. I’m not saying Moody’s that kind. But there’ll be plenty of crooks who’ll take everything they can get.”

  “If Lincoln had lived, it would have been different,” Sky said regretfully. “John Wilkes Booth did his best to ruin the South when he shot the President.”

  “Maybe,” Beau nodded, his face sullen. “Andrew Johnson is a different sort. Never went to school a day in his life—and he’s made it clear he hates Southern aristocrats. He’ll wipe us all out if he can.” He looked around and added in a different tone of voice, “We’ve got to take care of ourselves. Nobody else gives a pin about us!”

  Mark leaned forward and asked curiously, “You’re talking about the White Knights, Beau?”

  Beau nodded emphatically, and struck the table with his fist. “Yes! It’s the only way we’re going to stay alive in the South. And I think you all ought to join us as soon as possible.”

  The White Knights was a secret organization that had sprung up throughout the state almost as soon as the war had ended. It was composed of young white men, almost exclusively ex-Confederate soldiers. Their meetings were secret, as was the identity of their members, but everyone had heard of their activities. They met at night and donned white hoods and capes, then rode throughout the area to leave warnings for those who broke what they considered the code of the South. For the most part, this seemed to mean Negroes who were “uppity” and demanded their new rights, but it also included whites who showed any favoritism for the former slaves or for the federal government.

  Sky considered Beau, conscious that his family was waiting for him to respond. Many of his friends had already asked him to join the knights, and he knew that sooner or later he would have to make a decision. “I guess we’ve all heard about that organization, Beau,” he said slowly. “Some of the thinking sounds good—but I won’t join the White Knights.”

  “Why not?” Beau demanded.

  “For one thing, I couldn’t be a part of any movement that has to hide its face. If a cause is good, it’s not necessary to hide one’s identity. I was proud of the Southern Confederacy, and I never kept it a secret.”

  “I was proud, too, sir,” Beau argued. “But this is different. The North is in control. Any man who acts against the laws will be arrested at once. That’s why we wear masks. We’ve got to fight—and we can’t do it if we’re rotting in a Northern jail!”

  Mark spoke up quietly. “Beau, we lost the war. Now we’ve got to make a place for ourselves back in the Union.”

  “Not me!” Dan snapped. He gave a defiant look around. “I think Beau’s right. We’ve got to fight for ourselves.”

  “Dan sees it,” Beau insisted. “And sooner or later you all will. Just wait until they start this reconstruction they’re talking about! Why, there’ll be laws you won’t believe, Sky! I know!”

  Sky stared at him, a hard clear light in his dark eyes. “I won’t ever be a party to night-riding with a hood over my face, Beau. That’s final.”

  Beau’s face flushed. “Not speaking for myself, of course, but you may make some enemies. People look to you, and they’ll expect you to support them.”

  “And if I don’t, they may come calling on me some night?”

  “I didn’t say that, sir!”

  “But it’s the way it works, Beau,” Sky countered. “When a group looks for power, they draw a little line around themselves and say, ‘Come in with us—or you’re the enemy.’ Everybody is either a sheep or a goat—no middle ground. Beau, I’d advise you to stay out of it.”

  Beauchamp set his jaw stubbornly, but he said no more.

  Rebekah broke in. “Pet, have you and Thad got all your wedding plans made?”

  “Not much to do!” Thad said before Pet could speak. “She’s going to have the dress and I’ll have the ring, and the cake and refreshments will be there, but . . .” He grinned at Pet and jibed, “We’ll have everything except a preacher to marry us!”

  “Better elope and find one,” Tom grinned. “The way I hear it, the preacher’s the one indispensable element in a wedding.”

  “Well, you can set your minds at rest about a preacher,” Sky offered, relieved at the change of topic. “Moody told us that the bishop promised him we’d have a new pastor within a month.”

  “And who will it be?” Rebekah asked.

  “Moody didn’t know. But if I’ve got the banker’s number, he’d order a preacher the way he’d get a suit from a tailor! Right, Belle?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Belle agreed. “He’s that sort of man, I think.” She smiled and added, “I can see his order now: ‘Send one Methodist preacher. Conservative in views, stuffy in private life, willing to live on pittance. Ship C.O.D. to St. Andrew’s Methodist Church. Merchandise may be returned if not satisfactory!’ ”

  Th
ey all laughed, but she warned, “Wait and see!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  NEW PREACHER

  With the wedding only a week away, and no preacher in sight to perform the ceremony, Thad took quite a bit of ribbing. “Maybe you could get the Baptist preacher—or even the Episcopalian priest to tie the knot,” Tom suggested to him and Pet.

  “No, Pet’s a pretty strong Methodist.” He grinned at her. “She’s not real sure a wedding’s legal without a Methodist spouting the words. But I aim to be married even if I have to kidnap the governor to do the job.”

  Asa Moody had been promising the church the new pastor would arrive before Christmas, and on Sunday, December 11, he stood up in church and waved a letter. “Bishop Taylor’s letter came yesterday. He’s got the field narrowed down to two men, and the one he selects will be in our pulpit next Sunday morning!”

  The congregation spent all week discussing the new preacher. As Max Wayne put it, “If that poor preacher could hear what’s expected of him, he’d turn tail and run to the cannibals in Africa!”

  Sky agreed. “Sounds as if they expect him to preach like John Wesley, work like a mule, and live on air.”

  The next Sunday, the church was almost full. It was cold, and the two wood-burning stoves glowed with heat as the congregation filed in much earlier than usual. People who hadn’t been to church in months were there to evaluate the new pastor, and Moody said with some satisfaction to Sky, “Well, now, this is the way I like it! A good crowd!”

  “I guess for some it’s the first time since last Christmas. The preacher come in yet?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “How’d he strike you?”

  “Haven’t met him yet. He pulled in late and went to the hotel—but he sent word he’d be here for the morning service.” Discontentment spread across his face. “This thing hasn’t been handled right, Winslow. I told the bishop the minister ought to go before the leadership of the church first; then if they didn’t approve, it wouldn’t be so awkward getting another man.”