Beans Melton was slowly dying, and there wasn’t much anyone could do. He refused to eat, even if Thad and Willis did their best to get some of the stew down the man. He never spoke, though L.C. tried to talk to him about the Lord. “He shouldn’t be let to die without gettin’ ready to meet God,” he said to Thad. For many hours Brown read to the dying man from the grubby New Testament L.C. carried, praying over him several times. Once Brown asked the others to pray, but only Willis responded. Peterson, Little, and Thad all stood back while the two men prayed.
On the third morning, after the new prisoners had arrived, when Thad woke up, Little said, “Poor old Beans—he was took last night. I guess he’s at rest now.” He informed the guards, and a pair of them came with a stretcher and removed the body. They left his things, and Little said, “He’s got a wife and baby in Georgia. Guess we ort to write an’ tell ’em ’bout Beans. I don’t write so good myself.”
“I’ll do it,” Thad offered when nobody else volunteered. He found it harder to write than he had thought, however. He tried to be as gentle as he could, and added a line that was not quite honest, but which he hoped would give some comfort. He went easy, and he died hearing the Bible read and with men praying over him.
After Melton’s death the monotony of life bore down. For the next three weeks, nothing varied for Thad. He read the two books in the cell that had been worn thin by many readings until he knew them by heart. One was an American history book designed for children; the other, a British novel The Royal Slave, a strange book about a slave who had been captured in Africa but rose to become a part of English aristocracy. It was a foolish book, but he found himself reading it out of sheer boredom.
He also read Brown’s New Testament all the way through during those weeks, then started over. Most of it was a mystery to him, especially the book called Revelation. He loved the Gospels, and spent many hours dwelling on the life and activities of Jesus.
But he was tormented by dreams of Belle Maison; and by the end of the third week, he was fearful that he would lose his mind. He was often seized with the impulse to throw himself at the guards when the prisoners were taken to the yard, although Thad knew that a bullet in the brain was the inevitable end of that.
He lost weight on the skimpy diet, and saw in the mirror that his eyes were larger in his thinning face, and held a glassy look he didn’t recognize. Once Little said to him, “Thad, you’ve got to settle down. You ain’t been here a month, and you’re already crackin’ up. If you don’t jest block out thinkin’ ’bout gittin’ out, you’ll be took out of here like poor ol’ Beans.”
But Thad found it impossible to think positively, and by the time August came he was worse. He had fits of trembling that he could not control, and once during the night he had suffered an uncontrollable crying spell. He was sure the others heard, but they said nothing about it. After that he prayed to die, for he could not endure the place any longer.
He was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling when the door opened and the guard called out, “Novak! You got a visitor!”
He got up quickly and followed the guard, his mind in a whirl. None of them had had a visitor, and he couldn’t think of anyone who would visit him. Following the guard down the narrow corridor, he was led down the stairs to another hallway, and finally the guard opened a door, saying, “In here.”
He went through the door and saw two men sitting at a table. He did not recognize them at first, for the bright sunlight from the high windows slanted into his eyes. Then he heard one of them say, “Well, Thad, we meet again.”
Both men got up, and Thad moved his head to avoid the sunlight. He stared at them blankly, unable to recognize either one. Then the older of the two stepped forward and Thad cried, “Why, Captain Winslow, it’s you!”
“Yes—and you remember my grandson, Davis?”
“How are you, Thad?” Davis asked and extended his hand. “Have a seat here—and we’ve got some fresh coffee. You might like it.”
Thad sat down, unable to speak. He took the cup of coffee in his trembling hands and drank it quickly. “That’s real good, sir,” he murmured.
The two looked at him, hardly recognizing the thin youth. He had been strong and brown with sleek muscles when they had seen him in Richmond, but prison had pared him down until there was an unnatural brightness in his eyes.
Captain Winslow said quietly, “Thad, I received a letter from my grandson—Captain Winslow of the Federal Army. He was quite surprised that you knew me, so he told me about your capture.”
“I—I was real surprised when I heard the other officer call his name,” Thad replied.
“Have some more coffee, Thad,” the older Winslow urged, and he poured a stream of strong coffee into the cup, then considered the face of the young man. Finally he said, “You remember the first time I saw you, Thad?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“I thought I recognized you.” The old man’s eyes searched Thad’s features and nodded, “And I wasn’t wrong.” He put his hand on Thad’s arm and asked gently, “We had met before that, hadn’t we, Thad?”
Thad dropped his eyes, and his voice cracked as he answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Your mother was Elizabeth Winslow—before she married your father; isn’t that right?”
Thad swallowed and nodded.
“Why are you hiding your past, Thad?” Davis broke in.
When the boy only shook his head, Captain Winslow said, “I found your mother when I was tracing the descendants of the Winslows, Thad. I remember coming to your house and talking to her several times. You must have been ten or eleven, but as soon as I saw you at Belle Maison, I recognized you.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. “This is the Winslow family tree, Thad. Our line in this country began with Gilbert Winslow who came over on the Mayflower. Now, you see, he had a son named Matthew born in 1642—and he had a son named Miles. Miles Winslow had three sons. One of them was named Charles. He was my grandfather. One of the other sons was named Adam, and he’s the ancestor of Mr. Sky Winslow. But the other son, whose name was William, moved to England—and he was your mother’s great-great grandfather. Her own father came to this country when your mother was only six, and then, of course, she married your father Stefan Novak. But you’re just as much Winslow as I am, or Sky Winslow.”
Thad looked up quickly. “I remembered everything you’d said about the Winslows. That’s why I went south when my folks died. You’d talked about Belle Maison and about Mr. Sky Winslow being part Indian.” He seemed embarrassed and then added, “I hated working in the factory, and I got into trouble.”
“So you decided to go see your southern relatives?” Davis prompted when Thad ceased talking.
“I—I dunno, Mr. Winslow,” Thad replied slowly. “I guess I was just runnin’ away from trouble. But it sounded like what I’d always dreamed of. Being outside—and hunting and fishing. And I always liked to grow things. Used to grow tomatoes in the alley, in cans, you know. And when I got to Belle Maison and Mr. Sky gave me a job working on the farm, why it was all I wanted!”
“Why didn’t you tell Sky you were kin to him?” the captain asked gently, though he thought he knew the reason.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Thad shook his head vigorously. “It wouldn’t be right. He’d think I was trying to—to bum him out of something.”
“I see.” The old man shot a look at Davis, who nodded at him with approval. “Well, I admire you for that, Thad. And if you want to keep your secret, Davis and I won’t violate your confidence.” After a moment he cleared his throat and continued. “But that’s not the only reason we’ve come.” He paused, then said, “I’ve arranged for you to be exchanged, Thad.”
“Exchanged?”
“Yes. You’ll be traded to the rebels for one of our men they’ve captured.”
Thad sat as if transfixed. He tried to understand what the old man was saying, but it did not seem possible. “I—I’ll be leaving here?
” he asked faintly.
“That’s right, my boy,” Captain Winslow replied. “And it’s all arranged. I have some small influence with the War Department, and when I found that an exchange was planned for this date, I made up my mind that you’d be one of the men to go.”
Thad stared at him and finally wiped his hand across his eyes in a hasty gesture. “I—I can’t ever thank you enough, sir!”
“Nonsense!” the captain snorted. “We Winslows have to stick together—even if we happen to be on different sides in this war.” He got to his feet and the other two rose with him. “You’ll be leaving this afternoon, Thad. Give my best wishes to Mr. Sky Winslow.”
“Thank you, sir!” Thad said, shaking his hand fervently. “Thank you!”
“Oh, now,” the captain said, somewhat embarrassed at the boy’s gratitude. “It’s a matter of blood—and I’ll put my faith in the Winslow line every time. You go all the way back to Gilbert Winslow, boy, and he came to this country with nothing but a sword and a dream.” The two men turned to leave, and when Captain Whitfield Winslow reached the door, he turned and said almost reverently: “That’s about what you’ve got—so be true to both!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BITTER HOMECOMING
Thad felt the envy of his fellow prisoners as he left the cell for the last time, and knew that he would have felt exactly the same way if he had been in their place. He shook hands with all of them and said, “Sure wish we were all going out together.”
“Go kill all the Yankees, Thad!” Little grinned. “Then we’ll all be outta The Capitol.”
He left hurriedly, and was marched down the same street he’d come in on just over a month earlier. The August sun was hot, but the whole world seemed different—the sky bluer, the trees greener, and the fresh air like wine after the stale odors of the prison. There were twenty other men who were also being released. This time they rode in a regular coach instead of the cattle car. They still carried the stench of the prison, and the brakeman who came through the car took one look and held his nose, saying loudly, “Phew! I always knowed rebels stunk—but these is worse than skunks!”
A tall soldier sitting beside Thad glared at the man and snapped angrily, “You yellow-livered son of nobody! I’d like to get you in my sights—but you’re the kind that lets other men do his fightin’ for him, ain’t you?”
The brakeman flushed angrily and started to curse the lot of them, but the guard, a stocky young man with a full set of black whiskers, shoved him from behind, saying, “Get on with your business, brakie.” He watched the fuming man disappear at the far door, then grinned. “You rebs still got the starch, ain’t you now? Musta been one of you that put a ball in my leg at Manassas.”
The men saw that he was friendly, and the tall soldier replied, “Wasn’t me, Yank. But I’ll be glad to oblige if you git back in the fightin’—if you can stop Little Mac from backin’ up after the whippin’ we give you at the Peninsula.”
The guard was not offended. He grinned broadly and nodded. “You shore put the skids under us, didn’t you, Reb? But we’ll get a bunch together and be back to call after a spell. Which general you boys work for?”
“I work for Stonewall Jackson.”
The guard’s eyes opened wide, and he shook his head. “By golly, you boys work for Stonewall Jackson?” He shook his head and asked plaintively, “I wonder what it feels like to work for a winning general?”
“I thought you boys all loved Pope and McClellan,” Thad said.
“Well, Mac, he looks after us boys—but where’s the success they promised us? We got good mounts, fine boots, clean drawers, and them fancy new Spencer guns—and we can’t even whip a bunch of ragged beggars like you boys.”
The guard talked about the war for most of the trip, and when they all disembarked, he said with a wave of his hand, “Reckon I’ll be meetin’ up with you again. Keep your heads down.”
“You know,” the tall soldier mused as they filed toward the crowd of Yankee prisoners that stood waiting behind the station under Confederate guards, “that’s not a bad fellow, him. Didn’t know they was any human bein’s in that Yankee bunch.”
“Guess they’re pretty much like us,” Thad answered.
They waited for a couple of hours until the two lieutenants in charge of the respective prisoners got their lists checked; then the Yankees headed for the train, and the Confederate lieutenant said, “All right, men, you’re back in the Confederate Army.” A ragged cheer went up, and some of the ex-prisoners did a little victory dance.
“Most of you are going back to Richmond,” the officer told them, “but I reckon you’ll all get a little furlough before you go back to your units. You could use a little fattening up.” He slapped his hand against his thigh, saying, “We’ve got a mess over yonder. Let’s eat.”
They were fed a good meal prepared by the ladies of the town, and given some clothes that, though worn, were better than the rags they had on. After the meal, they started for Richmond, marching down the road; but the pace was slowed to a few miles at a time because most of them were so weak.
The lieutenant left them in charge of a sergeant. “Do the best you can,” Thad heard him say as he left. “They’ll all be going home, I suppose, so if any of them are close to where they live, you might as well let them go.”
The next day it became apparent to Thad that it would take days to get to Richmond, so he went to the sergeant with a proposition. “I’m in fair shape—why don’t I go on ahead?”
“Suits me,” the sergeant grunted. “I ain’t got no papers to give you, but you can tell them to check with the lieutenant at the courthouse in Richmond. Like he says, most of you will probably be goin’ home on furlough. Wisht I was!”
Thad headed out and caught a ride almost at once with a freighter who clipped along at a rapid speed. He even shared his food, and when the man turned off the main road to Richmond, Thad told him, “You just about saved my life.”
“Got to take keer of you solger boys,” the teamster said. He reached into his pocket and gave Thad a bill, adding, “Buy yoreself a steak when you git to Richmond!”
The next two days he spent walking, but he managed to catch a ride with a liquor salesman named Plunkett on his way to Richmond. He was a jovial man and tried the entire journey to press his samples on Thad. When that failed, he commented, “Well, boy, you’re probably better off. Demon rum gets lots of folks in trouble.”
They pulled into the city limits at three in the afternoon, and Thad got down and thanked the man, then headed for the courthouse where the sergeant told him he could check in. Richmond was as busy as ever and he had to step quickly to avoid the wagons of supplies that rolled down the streets.
The courthouse was crowded with a mass of soldiers and civilians, and it took him until almost dark to find the right office. When he did, there was a line waiting, and by the time he got inside, he was dog-tired.
“Name?” the civilian clerk demanded when he told his errand.
“Thad Novak.” He thought there was a sudden jerk in the clerk’s neck when he heard Thad’s name, and then the man said, “Wait here, Novak.”
Thad slumped down in the chair wearily, and thought of going to Belle Maison. The clerk was gone a long time, and Thad had almost dozed off when the door opened and the man walked in followed by a captain and a corporal in uniform.
“That’s him, Captain,” the clerk said, indicating Thad with a wave.
“Your name is Thad Novak?”
“Why, yes, sir.”
The captain gave him a careful look. “I’m placing you under arrest, Novak. Come with me.”
Thad jumped up quickly, the drowsiness gone in a flash. “Arrest? What for?”
“Desertion to the enemy and treason,” the captain replied.
Thad stared at him blankly. “Why—there’s got to be some mistake.”
“You’re Private Thad Novak, Company A, Third Virginia Infantry?”
“Yes, but�
��!”
“I wouldn’t say anything more, Novak. It might be held against you. Come along now.”
Thad felt numb, as if he had been struck by a minie ball. He mechanically followed the officer, the corporal falling into step behind him. They went down the hall and out a side door, then took a path that led to a red brick building with barred windows. Thad followed the officer into a room at one end of the hall and stood there as the captain said, “Got a man for you, Laurence. Write him up as Thad Novak. Charged with desertion and treason.”
The man at the desk, a thin, close-shaven individual, looked up quickly at Thad, then nodded. “Guess he’ll be tried by court-martial.”
“Yes, but you keep him close until the court can be convened.”
He turned to go, and Thad said in a tight voice, “But—I’ve been in a Yankee war prison.”
The captain gave him a sharp look, and shrugged. “You’ll have your day in court, Novak—but you’ll find out pretty soon that the witnesses are pretty strong.”
“Witnesses? What witnesses?”
“Why, just about every man in your outfit—including the first lieutenant.” He studied the pale face of the young man who stood before him and added, “They all saw you clear as day guiding a Yankee cavalry patrol against our troops at Malvern Hill.”
Thad began to protest, but was cut off sharply. “You can save your story for the court, Novak—but unless you can convince about a hundred Confederate soldiers and at least two officers that it was somebody else riding with that Yank cavalry, you’re going to be shot dead in a week!”
Then he left the room, and Thad was put in a cell with no windows and no other prisoners. After the door closed, he sat down shakily on the single cot and tried to think; but as the hours passed he could only lie with his face pressed against the rough blanket and try to keep from losing control. He had been afraid of getting killed on the battlefield, and he had been terrified at losing his mind at The Old Capitol. But nothing he had ever known was like the thought of being shot like a dog for a crime he had never committed, and he cried out in a choking sob, “Oh, God, don’t let me die like this!”
The Last Confederate Page 22
