The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “It’s Toby!” Belle cried. Even as she did, she saw her father and the other men move down the hill toward the houses. She tried to get closer, but Rebekah held her back.

  “Hold it right there!” Sky’s voice rang out.

  The men dropped Toby abruptly.

  Sky moved into the space between the two lines of mounted men, holding his pistol. Davis was at his side, but unarmed. Sky’s sons and Thad stopped at the end of the rows, fanning out. Mark had a pistol, the rest rifles.

  Two hooded men on foot wheeled to face Sky and Davis, about ten feet away. One knight, dropping his hand to the pistol in his holster, yelled, “Winslow—get your people out of here!”

  Sky stood like a pillar, the high planes of his face outlined by the flickering shadows cast by the torches. He held the Colt loosely at his side, the careless ease of his body giving a sinister warning.

  “You’re on my land,” he said evenly; and although he didn’t raise his voice, it carried across the yard. “Let that man go and get off.”

  The large man shook his head and cried out, “You’ve been warned, Winslow! We aim to show you that this is a white man’s country!” He turned to the twin lines of riders, and the sight of them spurred him on, for he turned his head and said to the four men holding Toby, “Get on with your business!”

  They obeyed instantly, one of them jerking a length of rope around the post; the other, throwing a lashing around the struggling Toby.

  Sky said in almost a conversational tone, “If that man is not released at once, Henderson, I’ll put a bullet in you.” He had recognized the voice of Rance Henderson, a small-time local lawyer. He’d had dealings with him several times during the war, never pleasant. Henderson had not been in the army, though he had been an agitator to pull out of the Union.

  Henderson laughed, not seeming to care that he’d been recognized. He waved a big hand at the two lines of armed men and jeered, “I guess you haven’t counted how many men are here, Winslow. Now, you just move on back. This is just a warning visit.” He motioned with his hand, “Tie the nigger up.”

  Belle had often heard of her father’s youthful exploits, and knew his expertise with a pistol. But neither she nor anyone else in the crowd was prepared for what happened next. In a movement so smooth it was almost impossible to see, like the strike of a rattlesnake, he drew his gun and fired.

  Henderson screamed and swung to one side, sending the torch he held in his left hand cartwheeling. The bullet had struck with deadly accuracy. He threw the other hand up to ward off the next bullet, but Sky calmly lowered his gun, holding it casually at his side. “I could have put that bullet in your brain instead of the torch, Henderson,” he said. Then the anger he’d bottled up boiled over, and he lifted his voice as he looked over the mounted knights. “You men are wrong! I think some of you are my friends and neighbors—but I’m no friend of any man who covers his face and tortures helpless people. Now got off my land!”

  The echo of his voice had not died before one of the men called out, “Let’s give him a dose of the whip!” Several voices rumbled approval, and Mark warned from where he stood, “That one’s my meat when the ball starts.” The man who had spoken snapped his head around and spat out, “I ain’t afraid to die, you nigger lover! Let it start, Henderson!”

  Henderson half turned, facing Sky again. He was noted for his fits of rage, and had shot two men in duels. Every man there knew the Winslows had no chance whatsoever if Rance gave the signal—and most of them expected him to begin the action.

  But Henderson could not forget the unearthly speed of Sky’s draw, and shivered as he thought of the instant shot that had blasted the torch out of his hand. He hesitated, longing to kill the man who stood in front of him, but unable to shake off the knowledge that if he touched his gun, he was a dead man.

  The rider who had spoken called out again, “Well—what’s it going to be, Henderson?”

  Sky smiled thinly. “Your boss is trying to decide whether this is a good day to die.”

  He slid the gun gently at Henderson and saw the big man falter. Doubt rounded his shoulders, and in the end, Henderson dropped his head and moved to his left.

  “Bluffed out!” the rider who had spoken to Mark cried out, and then yelled, “Well, I ain’t!”

  Sky had kept his eyes fixed on Henderson, but Mark saw the angry rider lift his pistol. “Look out, Pa!” Mark shouted. But none of them were ready. The unexpectedness of it all caught them flat-footed.

  Even as Mark cried the warning, he knew it was too late.

  Davis had no gun, but he threw himself forward and caught Sky by the shoulders to push him out of the line of fire. But the shot came the exact moment he reached Sky and struck Davis high in the back. It drove the breath from his body, and sent a cold streak of pain through him as he fell to the ground. From seemingly far away, he heard another shot and the sound of a woman calling his name. He felt hands pulling at him—then he slipped into smooth, black silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  DAVIS GETS A SHAVE

  “Richmond! Richmond! All out for Richmond!”

  Robert Winslow had been gazing out the window of the coach, dismayed with the terrible devastation of the city. At the conductor’s announcement, he pulled himself up and began gathering the luggage, saying, “We made pretty good time.” He helped his wife to her feet. “It looks as if we might have a time finding a hotel room. From what I can tell, most everything’s been burned.”

  “We’ll find something, Robert,” Jewel assured him. “It doesn’t matter so long as Davis is all right.”

  Captain Whitfield Winslow cocked an eye approvingly at his daughter-in-law. He got to his feet and stretched his stiff leg. “You’ve handled this trouble very well, Jewel.” He smiled and patted her shoulder. “Davis will be all right. The telegram said the wound wasn’t mortal.”

  Jewel’s face was tense, but since the telegram from Sky Winslow telling them about Davis’s injury, Jewel Winslow, for the first time in many years, forgot her own ailments—real and imaginary. She had handled the crisis better than her husband. Robert had been so shocked that he was unable to make the instant decisions he was noted for. It had been Jewel who had announced adamantly as soon as the news came, “We’re going to Richmond!” Her determined response had galvanized Robert into action, and they were on the next train out of Washington.

  Now as they descended the coach to the brick pavement of the station, they were greeted by Sky and Rebekah. “Glad you’ve all come!” Sky said warmly.

  Rebekah put her arms around Jewel, which caught her off guard. She was not accustomed to gentle expressions of affection—particularly from strangers—and most particularly from ex-Confederate women.

  But Rebekah’s face was filled with such compassion as she said, “My dear! I’m so glad you’ve come!” that Jewel found herself relaxing. “Davis will be so glad to see you all!”

  “He’s awake then?” she asked, her hand at her throat. The telegram had been carefully worded to give no alarm, but Jewel had found herself unable to break free from the pangs of fear. She had been afraid to get off the train, thinking her son might have died before she saw him.

  “Oh, yes!” Rebekah smiled. “He gave us quite a fright—but after the first night he awoke with a clear mind. Actually, I’ve been feeling very bad about sending you the telegram. I knew it would frighten you, Mrs. Winslow—but the wound did look bad—”

  With relief Jewel broke in, “No, Mrs. Winslow. I—I’m so happy that he’s doing well, but I’d have come anyway!”

  Sky laughed. “Hey, everybody here has the same last name, so using it’s going to be a confounded nuisance. I move that we dispense with the formalities. Sky and Rebekah—Robert and Jewel, all right!”

  “What about Whitfield?” the captain demanded, but Sky shook his head firmly.

  “No, sir, you’re an institution—and I’m not about to call an institution by its first name.” He urged them along. “The carr
iage is over here.”

  Sky led the way, and when they were all aboard, he took the reins and urged the horses on. As they made their way along Cherry Street, Robert said, “I was in Richmond ten years ago.” He looked at the blackened shells of the burned-out buildings and exclaimed, “Terrible! Terrible!”

  “It’ll be rebuilt,” Sky replied.

  Robert was dubious. Changing the subject, he asked about Davis. “What actually happened? You said he was shot.”

  “There’s a group called the White Knights.” He told the story in full detail, leaving out none of the unpleasant ones, but stressed at the end that Davis had saved Sky’s life.

  “What happened to the man who shot him?” Jewel wondered.

  Sky paused. “He won’t be making any more midnight calls on folks,” he remarked. “He was killed as soon as he fired—and that discouraged the rest.”

  They continued down the road in silence. Noticing the countryside, Robert said, “Why—we’re on our way out of town, aren’t we? I thought we’d find a hotel before seeing the boy.”

  “No need of that when we’ve got plenty of room at Belle Maison,” Rebekah told them. She smiled at Jewel. “I knew you’d want to help take care of Davis, so your room will be just down the hall from his.”

  “Why—we can’t put you out like that!” Robert protested. But neither his nor Jewel’s protests swayed their relatives.

  “I’ll bring you back to Richmond tomorrow if you insist” was the only concession Sky would make.

  Both Robert and Jewel had come prepared to keep a formal air with their Southern relatives, but the frank, warm hospitality of Sky and Rebekah made that impossible. Neither Robert nor Jewel had been in favor of Davis’s decision to go into the ministry, but as they heard the enthusiastic praise from their hosts, they began to relax their views. It was, both had agreed, much better than being a writer!

  As they passed through the fields lining the road and were informed that they were part of Belle Maison, Robert was puzzled. “Isn’t it about time for spring plowing, Sky?”

  “Yes, it is.” Sky wondered how much to tell them. “Guess you’ll learn about it soon enough, so you may as well hear it from me.”

  He spoke briefly about the problems that beset them, including his refusal to go along with planting cotton. He concluded, “I don’t see any future in going back to a one-crop system. That’s what created the need for slavery in the first place. What I’d like is to diversify—but the bank won’t agree.”

  “Why, I think you’ve got the right!” Robert exclaimed. “Have you tried to find financing any other place?”

  “Sure—but there’s not a line of investors waiting to put their money into farming in Virginia right now,” Sky answered.

  Robert studied his relative with a new interest. He had been a hardliner on the war, but had not considered the South’s future. The burned-out ruins of Richmond, the fields gone to weeds, and the crisis of the planters were a graphic picture of the hardships that lay ahead. He said no more, but saw that his father was looking at Sky Winslow with a steady approval.

  “Here we are,” Sky announced. Both Jewel and Robert were impressed with the grace of the two-story white house, despite the fact that the fields around it were untended. When they all got out of the buggy, Sky said, “Rebekah, take them in, will you? I’ll be right along.”

  They entered through the large foyer, and down a hall to the left. “This will be your room, Captain,” Rebekah said. “And this is yours,” she added, opening a door across the hall for Robert and Jewel. Then she walked to the door at the end of the hall and peeked inside. Smiling, she nodded to Davis’s parents. “He’s awake. Go on in.”

  The two men allowed Jewel to precede them. Jewel’s first glance was at Davis in a big bed, with the sunlight falling on him. He was sitting up, getting a shave from a lady in a black dress. The woman immediately stepped back to a walnut washstand. Without a glance at her, Jewel rushed to her son’s side, unable to speak.

  “Mother!” he murmured when she straightened up. He was paler than usual, but his eyes were bright. “And Father—!”

  Robert took his hand. “Son—you’re looking very well!”

  As the couple bent over Davis, Captain Winslow glanced at the woman in black. He walked over to her, put his hand out and said with a warm smile, “Belle! How good to see you!”

  Belle saw Davis’s parents swivel in her direction, but she said evenly, “Thank you, Captain. You’re looking well.” Then she faced Robert and Jewel. “I thought I’d finish with Davis before you got here.” She put the straight razor in her hand on the washstand, and moved to leave the room.

  Both Jewel and Robert had been adamant in their refusal to listen to Captain Winslow’s defense of Belle Wickham. She was, in their minds, a perfidious woman who had abused their hospitality, and was to some extent responsible for the death of their youngest son. They had held this attitude despite the letters Davis had written, giving them full details of how she had helped with the school.

  Davis felt the awkwardness and said, “Wait, Belle.” She paused and he motioned to his half-lathered face. “You can’t leave a man in this condition! I look like something in a freak show!”

  Belle hesitated, then said, “I’ll come back later.” She gave his parents a steady look, but said nothing as she walked out, closing the door with a soft click.

  Davis picked up the towel she had left on the bed and wiped the lather from his face. “Well, Grandfather, you came along to inspect the damage, I expect?” He dropped the towel and grasped the captain’s gnarled hand in his.

  “I didn’t know being a Methodist preacher was such a dangerous occupation,” the captain voiced. “Not a lot safer than being in the army, is it?”

  “I guess I’m just accident prone,” Davis grinned. “Sit down, everyone! Mother, come sit by me.”

  “I don’t want to jar your wound,” she protested, but did as asked. She dabbed at some excess lather and laughed, “I’d finish shaving you if I weren’t afraid of cutting your throat.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it in a day or so,” Davis said. “The bullet didn’t hit the lung or break any bones—just sort of angled out. My right side is tender, though. Can’t move that arm very well. But tell me, how long will you stay?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert replied. “Your mother got us on the train so quickly that I don’t think we brought enough clothes for more than a day or two.”

  “Oh, you’re not getting away so easily,” Davis protested. “I’ll be in the pulpit a week from Sunday—and you’re going to hear me preach once at least!”

  They had talked for half an hour when Rebekah came in and said, “Time for the patient to rest—and you all may want to also.”

  Davis hated the idea, but Rebekah won, escorting Robert and Jewel out. The captain lingered long enough to say, “Boy, I’m proud you shed that bullet—and I’m looking forward to hearing a Winslow preach the gospel.”

  “Grandfather, try to talk to the folks—about Belle, I mean.”

  “I’ll try,” he promised.

  As Whitfield fell asleep, he thought, After coming so close to losing Davis to a war prison and a bullet, it’d be a shame if Robert and Jewel refused to accept the woman he loves.

  When the captain awakened later, Robert and Sky had left to tour the plantation. Rebekah was in the kitchen with Pet and Lucy, the house servant, fixing supper. “Belle’s gone down to the schoolhouse, Captain,” Rebekah told him. “It’s that big, whitewashed building over there beside the pasture fence. Why don’t you go let her show you the school she and Davis have worked so hard on?”

  “Like to see it,” he agreed, and ambled across the yard toward the building. Spring was in the air, and he stopped once or twice to look at the tiny flowers breaking through the black dirt, wondering what they were. The schoolhouse door was open, and he stepped inside. “Came to see your school, Belle,” he announced as she lifted her head from where she w
as washing the windows. He looked around and nodded, “Looks real good.”

  She came to stand beside him. “It’s been hard—but it means so much to the people here. They have so little—and they’re desperate for their children to have some education.”

  “How many do you have?” When she told him the number enrolled and their ages, he was surprised. “How do you teach them with such a big range in ages?”

  She appreciated his interest, and showed him the materials and books. As she explained how they operated the school, he watched her face. How she has changed, he thought. She is still beautiful, but there’s a serenity she didn’t have before. During her time in Washington, Belle had shown a restlessness she failed to conceal from him.

  “That’s about it,” she said.

  “You and Davis should be very proud, Belle. It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing.”

  “It’s Davis who did it,” she hastily replied. “I just help a little.”

  The captain had been known as one of the most aggressive seamen in the U.S. Navy, and he had not changed. “Belle, Davis is in love with you.”

  “It can never come to anything, Captain!”

  He saw the flush in her cheeks at his statement, and undaunted, bore right in. “Why not? Don’t you care for him?”

  “Oh—!” Agitated she walked to the window, and he followed. “Too many things have happened.” She smiled briefly as a memory came to her. “One thing you’ll be glad to hear, I think. Ever since I went to church with you that time—when the President was there—I’ve been running away from God. But it’s different now. I’ve found Jesus Christ.”

  “Wonderful!” the captain exclaimed. “I can see the change in you.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t give up, Belle. God hasn’t brought you this far to let you fail. My son and his wife—they’ll come around. You’ll see!”

  Belle had always been impressed with Whitfield’s calm faith in God. It bolstered her own, and she felt much better as they walked back to the house—until she saw Robert and Jewel. At the sight of them, the guilt returned, but the captain’s words sustained her. And she went immediately to check on Davis.