© 1990 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7034-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Danielle White
To Dixie Lynn Morris
and Andrea Necole Smith
May you both grow up to be
handmaidens of the Lord.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE
THE YANKEE
1. Fugitive
2. Belle Maison
3. New Hand
4. Christmas Gift
5. New Year’s Ball
6. The Shooting Match
7. Possum Up an Oak Tree!
8. The Richmond Blades
PART TWO
THE FARMER
9. Yankee Relatives
10. The Victors’ Return
11. Camp Meeting
12. Toby
13. The Choice
PART THREE
THE SOLDIER
14. The Recruit
15. “I’m Afraid for Them!”
16. Trial by Combat
17. The Seven Days
18. A Matter of Blood
19. Bitter Homecoming
PART FOUR
THE PRISONER
20. The Lawyer
21. The Court-martial of Thad Novak
22. Pet’s Ride
23. “I Hate to Lose!”
24. A Minor Miracle
25. Belle of the Ball
26. Invasion
27. The Bloodiest Day
28. The Lieutenant
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
FUGITIVE
Captain Hubbard nodded with satisfaction as the Dixie Queen nosed into Richmond just as darkness fell on the James River. The ship was seventy feet long and thirteen feet eight inches deep, which allowed it to navigate the narrow river with few problems. Over the top of the levee Hubbard saw the yellow glow of the lantern lights on Cherry Street, and even over the drum of his pounding engines he heard the sound of a band playing a tinny marching song. Must be some kind of military shindig goin’ on, he mused. The war furor that had shaken the land all through the year of 1860 often resulted in such celebrations.
The captain’s eyes lighted on the large white sign with the black 3 on it. “Mr. Tyler,” he called out of the wheelhouse window, “there’s our dock—get your lines out and make fast!”
The ship bounced off a piling with a heavy thump, and the deckhands scurried around, attaching the lines to the dock.
“Lower the plank—lively now!” Tyler, the first mate, shouted. He looked up at the wheelhouse and bellowed in a bullhorn voice, “Cap’n, you want to unload tonight?”
“Wait till morning, but take that stowaway to the jail as soon as we’re anchored well.”
“Aye, sir!”
Tyler turned. “You there, Mason,” he called, “see that the ship is secure, then give the boys leave to go into town.”
After issuing the order the first mate walked along the deck until he came to a small iron-bound door near the port paddlewheel. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked it. “All right—come out of there!”
No one answered. Tyler lit a lantern hanging on the outer wall, and entered the small, dark room. It was a storeroom packed with rope, cables, paint, and gear of all sorts. He swung the lantern around until the light fell on a figure asleep on a coil of rope. The sailor grabbed the arm of the sleeper with his meaty hand and pulled him roughly to his feet, snarling, “You can sleep in the jail, boy!”
He held the lantern high, his piercing gaze checking the stripling before him. The boy stared at him with eyes strangely bright. The red splotches on his cheekbones indicated high fever. He was perhaps two inches short of the mate’s six feet, but so thin that his clothing hung like sacks. His jet-black hair was almost invisible against the shadows, and there was something foreign in the angular planes of his wedge-shaped face. When the vagabond had been discovered hiding in the small runabout the previous day, the captain said, “Looks too young to be much of a criminal,” but the mate insisted that the boy be locked up and turned over to the sheriff at Richmond.
Now Tyler felt sure he had been right, for there was a wildness in the boy’s face. The mate took a firmer grasp on the thin arm and jerked his prisoner out of the storeroom and down the deck, cursing him for dragging his feet. When he stepped off the gangplank onto the wharf, the sailor was pleased to see that the man sitting on a bale of cotton wore a star on his checked shirt and a gun in a worn holster.
“You the sheriff?”
Before the man with the star could answer, one of the young loafers leaning against the wall of a warehouse spoke up. He was a short man with an enormous walrus mustache that wiggled as he said, “Him? Not no way, sailor boy! This here’s jest ol’ Shippy Williams.”
“You keep yore mouth shet, Dooley!” Williams glared at the other, then said loudly to Tyler, “I’m William Shippy, deputy around here. “Whatcha got here?”
“Fugitive, I reckon.”
“Looks like a fugitive from the poorhouse to me,” Dooley said. He moved closer to examine the prisoner. “Why—he ain’t nothin’ but a nubbin’, sailor boy!”
“I tol’ you to keep yore oar outta this, Dooley!” Shippy snapped. “It ain’t none of yore business! Now, then, you want me to arrest this here feller?”
“I reckon,” Tyler replied. “He stowed away on the Queen. He’s probably running away from something—the law, most likely. Must be some kind of a wanted poster out on him.” He stared at Shippy carefully. “You sure you got the authority to take him in?”
“Authority! See that badge? And you see this hogleg?” Shippy pulled the old cap-and-ball Colt from the holster and waved it under the mate’s nose.
“Watch out with that thing!” Tyler snapped. He looked at the silent prisoner, then glanced over toward the lights of town; the music was getting louder and he wanted to get started on his own celebration. “Well, you got him, Deputy.” He shoved the prisoner toward Shippy, who took a sudden step backward and put the huge bore of the pistol on the boy’s chest.
“Watch yourself, Shipp!” Dooley hooted, following the pair down the wharf. “He’s a dangerous character, ain’t no doubt. Probably robbed a Sunday school picnic or some other such bad business.”
“Git on there, you,” Shippy said, poking the prisoner with the huge pistol. “An’ I don’t need none of yore help, Dooley Young. Best git on ’bout yore own business.”
But Dooley was not to be denied. He followed the deputy closely, giving him a constant flow of advice as they passed through the gap in the levee and walked down the incline to the south end of town. The jail was at the north end of Cherry Street. They continued on in the dark across the grassy field that led to the cobblestones forming the main street of Richmond, Virginia.
The prisoner stu
mbled and almost fell once, and it was evident that he could not go much farther. By the time they reached Cherry Street, the lights from shops and saloons cast their glow over broad avenues lined with buggies and filled with horsemen.
Ordinarily Richmond would have been relatively quiet at this time, but now crowds cheerfully jostled one another as they celebrated. A six-piece band was making its way up the street, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me” with more volume than accuracy.
Several times the trio passed by saloons, from which wafted out to the street a wave of raucous noise and the odor of raw whiskey. The restaurants were doing a brisk business, and the smell of cooking pork mixed with the smell of whiskey.
Several times Shippy stopped friends to explain importantly that he had arrested a man, while Dooley pointed out the dangerous appearance of the prisoner. Finally they came to a squat red brick building with JAIL written over the door, and Shippy shoved the prisoner inside. He tried to slam the door to keep Dooley out, but the little man was too quick. He slipped inside and grinned at the large man behind the desk. “Hidee, Shurf Bailey. Your deputy’s done made an important arrest.”
“Will you shet up!” Shippy yelled. “I’m the deputy, and I’ll do my own talking. Sheriff, I want to report—”
“You’d best put up that cannon before you do any reportin’,” Sheriff Bailey suggested softly. He was such a huge mountain of a man, made even bigger by the heavy fur coat he wore, that the soft voice seemed to come from someone else. He carefully watched as Shippy put the pistol away; then he continued peeling the large apple almost hidden in his big hands. He listened as Shippy rambled on for five minutes, carefully closed the gold-handled knife, slipped it into his vest pocket, and leaned forward in the cane chair.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked, taking in the pale face, the red spots on the cheeks, and the trembling hands.
“My name is Novak—Thaddeus Novak.” The boy looked up at the sheriff defiantly.
“How old are you, Thad?”
“I . . . eighteen.”
“No you ain’t,” the sheriff said, noting the slight hesitation. “Maybe you will be in a couple of years.” Then he asked abruptly, “You wanted for something where you come from, Thad, or are you a runaway?”
“Well, shoot!” Shippy broke in. “You don’t speck he’s gonna come out and admit it, do you, Sheriff?” He pulled at the handle of the pistol with irritation. “You want me to lock him up till we find out what he’s did?”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” Novak protested. “Nothin’ but steal a ride on that boat.” His eyes were black as night, but dull with fatigue as he stared at the sheriff.
Bailey carefully picked a choice spot on the apple and bit off a small piece. He chewed it slowly, tasting the flavor. The long silence that followed was interrupted only by the man’s soft munching. It seemed as if he had forgotten the youth before him. Then he looked at Novak and said mildly, “You know, I think that’s right.”
“What!” Shippy yelled. “You mean to tell me yo’re gonna turn him loose?” His face flushed with anger and his beady eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Ain’t no paper out on him that I remember, Deputy,” Bailey answered. “If we undertake to lock up every kid that stows away on a riverboat, we’ll need a sight bigger jail than this one. You just go on and do some more patrolin’.”
“What about him?” Shippy protested, as he edged toward the door.
Bailey took another bite of his apple. “Dunno,” he said, then smiled as Shippy slammed the door with a loud crack.
“What you want, Dooley?”
“Ah nothin’, Shurf,” Dooley replied, grinning. “Jest thought I’d see what this here dang’rous criminal might do.”
“Looks to me like he might keel over.” Bailey nodded toward the boy. “You sick, Thad?”
“I’m all right,” he said stubbornly, staring at the sheriff with distrust. Then he shrugged and added, “Guess I’ve felt better a time or two.”
“Got any money?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t have stowed away on that boat, would I? Can I go now?”
“I reckon so.”
Bailey turned to Dooley. “I’d say the best thing for him tonight is the Mission.”
“Ah, Shurf—not ol’ Pitchfork!” Dooley groaned. “If this kid ain’t sick now, he will be after a dose of that preachin’!”
“Won’t hurt him none,” Bailey shrugged.
“You go with Dooley, Thad,” the sheriff told the boy. “Looks to me like you need to get around some food and then into a warm bed.” He examined the thin face, wondering at his slightly foreign look. “Come see me tomorrow; maybe we can make some medicine.”
Dooley steered the boy out the door. “He’s a good shurf, Thad. Lots of that breed would of chucked you into the pokey on general principles.”
“What’s this mission thing?”
Dooley had to lean forward to catch the words, and he saw that the boy was almost out on his feet. Grabbing Thad’s arm, he said, “Aw, it’s jest a place where the Methodists git the drunks together and preach at ’em. But the good thing is that after you get preached at you get some real good grub. Ol’ Miz Hollis, she does the cookin’. And they’s some cots to stay the night on.”
“I don’t want—!”
“Oh, it ain’t all that terrible, Thad.”
Dooley guided the boy through the milling crowd to a side street. He noted that the stowaway wore only a thin coat and was shivering from the bite of the frosty wind that whipped around the corners. The young man made a mental note to bring one of his own worn but serviceable coats to him.
After they had walked a short distance, Dooley pointed at a frame building where the lamplight spilled through two windows. “That’s it,” he told Thad. “I reckon they put it this close to the saloons so’s they wouldn’t have to carry the drunks too far.”
The two approached the building and stood under the hand-lettered sign over the door: RESCUE THE PERISHING. “Good thing you ain’t got to stay out tonight,” Dooley remarked. “It’s startin’ to snow.”
He lifted the latch and pushed the door open, shoving Thad ahead of him into a room no more than twenty feet square. In one corner a large potbellied stove glowed like a huge ruby, around which six tattered men—all the worse for drink—huddled. A kerosene lantern hung high on each side of the room, casting a pale gleam on an assortment of battered chairs and a table with a Bible on it. Behind the table was a door, and Dooley nudged Thad. “That’s where you get the stew and the bunks—but you gotta put up with ol’ Pitchfork first.”
“Who’s that?” Thad murmured weakly. He was feeling very faint and lightheaded now, and Dooley’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, muffled and thin.
“Oh, he’s the local sky pilot—preacher, don’t you see? Now set down here, Thad. I gotta run and take care of some stuff. Jest set here and when ol’ Pitchfork starts in on you, think of that good stew and warm bunk! I’ll be back and check on you after a while.”
Recovering some of his strength, Thad asked, “You know anybody named Winslow living around here?”
Dooley’s eyes widened, and his mustache shifted as he grinned. “Boy, you better believe I do! Ain’t nobody in these parts who don’t know the Winslows. Why you askin’?”
“I . . . used to know somebody by that name. Worked in a mill with me. He said he came from around here. I thought I’d see if he’d come back here to his folks.”
“Well, if he worked in a mill, he wasn’t no kin to these Winslows, Thad. Mr. Sky Winslow is jest about the richest man around. ’Course, it might have been a poor Yankee relation.”
“I guess.” The boy stared into space for a moment, and finally asked, “Where’d you say these Winslows lived?”
“I didn’t say, Thad—but they live south on the River Road—that’s the one that runs alongside the levee.” He studied Novak’s face, then shook his head. “But they live twelve miles from Richmond, and
with it beginnin’ to snow, you ain’t in no shape to make it.” He slapped the thin shoulder and added, “I live down that there road myself, Thad. Tell you what—I’m headed home tomorrow. You can ride behind me. I gotta go right by Belle Maison—that’s what the Winslows call their place.”
Thad stared at the banty-legged young man. “Why you helpin’ me? We ain’t friends.”
Dooley laughed and his bright blue eyes sparkled beneath his bushy brows. “Why, shoot, Thad! Mebby we might git to be. Anyways, I been down on my luck a time or three.” He got up and walked toward the door. “Jest ride it out for tonight—and tomorrow we’ll see.” Then he was gone.
Thad felt more alone than ever before, even more than in the storeroom on the Dixie Queen. He slumped into a chair and watched the men around the stove.
The room was warm after the walk through the cold night, and Thad’s head soon dropped forward and he dozed off. He thought once, I ought to get away from here. But the rich aroma of stew from behind the door held him and he decided, I can stand it, I reckon.
He awoke with a start, confused and in a panic. A large hand was shaking him, and he opened his eyes to see that the chairs were all full.
“Wake up, boy!” A red-faced man, heavily larded, was pulling at his arm.
“All right—I’m awake!” Thad growled, pulling away from the man’s grip.
“Very well. See that you remain so!”
The fat man, obviously the preacher, straightened up and walked to the table at the front of the room. He picked up the thick Bible, surveyed the assortment of drunks before him, and drew his thick lips into a hard line. Shaking his head slowly, he began to moan in a blubbery whine: “Oh, Gawd! You see these miserable sinners!” He glanced upward, as if seeking for the Lord in the dusky ceiling, then continued his prayer in much the same manner, except that the longer it went, the shriller he became. By the time the man was finished, Thad’s head ached with the sheer volume of it all. Don’t see how I can stand much more of this—even for grub! he thought.
The Reverend Josiah Tate plunged into a sermon that was, if possible, even on a higher pitch than the invocation. He informed the wretches trapped in the cane-bottomed chairs that there was a hell, and that they were prime candidates for permanent residency. He reminded them that they had been elected for this fate (by some sort of divine process Thad didn’t understand) and that they were undeserving of anything else.
The Last Confederate Page 1
