The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  It’s just about destroyed them both! Davis thought. He tried to break the emotional atmosphere by saying, “It’s good to be home. How about a little food for a hungry traveler? Then we’ll talk.” He didn’t feel like eating, but they needed activity to get over the awkwardness of the moment. They moved to the kitchen, where Davis told them about his trip as his mother bustled around getting the food ready.

  “The Prime Minister came to Oxford, Father—Mr. Gladstone. I got to speak to him.”

  “You did? What did you say?” Robert asked intently.

  “Well, I was the only Yankee in the party, and he wanted to know my views on the rebellion. I turned it around and asked him if the British government would recognize the Confederacy as an independent nation.”

  “And?”

  “He said no!” Davis shrugged. “Oh, he weaved it in with all kinds of political language, but that’s what he meant.”

  Robert fired questions at him about the event, while Jewel was more interested in what the man wore. She set the food on the table, and they ate, mostly picking at the light lunch.

  Finally Davis put down his coffee cup and said simply, “I grieve over Lowell—more than I ever thought I would. I didn’t realize how I loved him—until he was gone.”

  That brought tears to their eyes, and they began discussing the tragedy. As his parents spoke of their loss, Davis knew he had been right about coming home. Lowell had been their favorite, but Davis had never resented that. Now they needed him as never before.

  “How’s Grandfather?” he asked.

  “Better than your mother and I,” Robert replied. “He’s tougher than we are. Always has been. The hardest thing, of course, was that woman.”

  Davis had wondered at the rumors. “Is it true? Was she a spy?”

  “Of course she was!” Robert snapped bitterly. “The trial’s still going on, but she’s guilty as Judas Iscariot!”

  Davis looked down, then lifted his eyes. “Does Grandfather believe she’s guilty?”

  “Oh yes. He’s accepted that,” Robert answered. “He had to, Davis. She told him she was.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. She’s admitted it all. You must not have read the reports of the trial. But I guess you couldn’t on the ship. The trial’s gone on for two weeks, and from the first the woman has confessed her guilt.”

  “It’s dragged on because Stanton wants to make an example of her,” Jewel added. Her mouth moved in agitation. “How I hate that woman!”

  “Nobody loves a traitor,” Davis said.

  Robert frowned, puzzled. “You don’t know what she did, Davis. She was directly responsible for Lowell’s death.”

  His words sent shock waves through Davis. He stared at his father, incredulous. Robert gave him the full account, and when he was through, he said, “I’ve been a hard man at times, Davis. Politics and law—it’s difficult to be gentle when you’re in those things. And I’ve done some things I wish I could change—but this woman!” His face flushed with rage as he got up and walked to the window, staring blindly out until he could control himself.

  Davis was stunned, and for the first time he hated Belle—so intensely that his hands began to tremble. His parents had never seen such fury in him before. After what seemed an eternity, Davis raised his head, and for the first time in their lives, they heard him curse—he cursed Belle Wickham, and he cursed the Confederacy.

  He spewed out his invectives for several minutes, gradually quieting down. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that,” he said, getting to his feet. But there was a hard light in his eye that disturbed them. Neither had ever felt close to Davis, partly because he seemed to have so little drive. Unlike Lowell, Davis had been easygoing; and for two ambitious people such as Robert and Jewel Winslow, that was a serious character flaw. They had despaired of his ever making anything of himself, blaming that gentle side of his nature.

  But now the deep rage in his brown eyes frightened them. Robert said quickly, “I know you’re upset. Your mother and I—we’ve had time to adjust. I hate the woman, but we can’t let our feelings get out of hand.”

  “Your father’s right, dear,” Jewel added, patting his arm. A thought flashed through her mind. This is the only son, the only child I’ll ever have. Will I lose him, too? Will this bitterness destroy him? She spoke gently to him. “We must put this behind us, Davis. We can’t let our feelings for that woman ruin our lives.”

  “I need to get away,” Davis said abruptly. “I’m going to see Grandfather.” His mother clung to him, extracting a promise that he would be back that evening—even his father seemed anxious to have him there.

  Davis didn’t go directly to the captain’s house. Instead, he went to the downtown newspaper office and bought copies of the last two weeks. Sitting in an outer office, he pored over the accounts of the trial. As he read, he realized his mother’s analysis had been true: the trial was a showcase for the prosecution. The evidence was clear-cut—but the prosecuting attorney had kept Belle on the stand day after day, driving at her with every bit of power to expose her to the nation as a vile representative of the Southern woman—the Rebel who had no common decency.

  Colonel Henry Wilder had stated under oath that Belle was little more than a prostitute, becoming his mistress for the sole purpose of gaining military secrets. Davis had some doubt about the colonel’s testimony, for his own defense was that he was used by Belle Wickham. Davis could not understand why Belle’s lawyer did not explore Wilder’s role in the matter.

  Belle’s testimony was given word for word. When asked by the prosecuting attorney, “Did you prostitute yourself to Colonel Wilder to gain access to his papers?” she had replied, “Yes.” When he demanded details, she said only, “I have told you I am guilty; I will say no more.”

  She admitted everything and made no defense for herself, Davis saw. The one thing she would not do was disclose the other Confederate agents who were working with her.

  Davis felt dissatisfied, and left the newspaper office to attend the trial. The room was packed, but he bribed a guard and slipped in at the back, next to a thick-set Union major, who nodded at him. “Guess we’ll get the thing over today, don’t you reckon?”

  “I suppose so,” Davis replied, wishing the man would leave him alone.

  The major continued to discuss the case, but fortunately the judge soon entered and the trial began.

  There was an hour of legal maneuvering; then Belle was put on the stand. Davis stared at her unwaveringly. She was wearing black, had lost weight, but was no less beautiful—only more so. Her face was thinner, which made her large eyes seem even larger, giving her an aesthetic appearance. She looks like I’ve always thought a woman poet should, Davis thought.

  But her beauty did not mitigate his fierce hatred. He had been shocked at the intensity of the rage that had risen in him when he heard of her part in Lowell’s death, for he had never hated before. Now he realized that it was not going to leave—this white-hot anger that made him rigid as he continued to stare at her.

  He listened as the prosecuting attorney addressed the jury in his closing remarks, asking Belle to verify her vile deeds over and over. She answered each question quietly, admitting her guilt with no sign of emotion in her wan face. Only once did she break, and that was when she was asked, “And did you feel no guilt when you used an old man who loved you—who had, in fact, offered you the hospitality of his home—when his grandson, Captain Lowell Winslow, died as a result of your perfidious betrayal?”

  Davis leaned forward as Belle dropped her head. The court grew very quiet, and finally she raised her eyes and suddenly met those of Davis! She had not seen him before, and her hand quickly went to her heart and her lips parted. In that moment, it seemed to Davis that the court faded from his sight, and all he could see were Belle’s eyes. He tried to read her expression, but his anger welled up—and she saw it. Through numb lips she said, “Whether I feel guilt for what I have done is not a matter for this cour
t.”

  The answer angered the crowd, and the prosecutor kept hammering on that issue for twenty minutes. Finally he stopped and wiped his brow, saying, “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

  “The defense may make its closing statement.”

  The defense lawyer was a seedy-looking man named Hankins. He spoke in a mumbling voice, addressing none of the points brought up by the prosecution. Davis could scarcely hear the man as he murmured something about the sanctity of womanhood, and how, after all, she was only a weak human being, and it would be good to show mercy. He finished by saying simply, “The defense rests, Your Honor.”

  The judge said, “The jury will retire to consider the evidence and bring back a verdict.” Then he instructed them, which he did so quickly that it would be impossible for them to bring back anything but a verdict of guilty.

  As Davis turned to leave, the major warned, “Better not lose your place. They won’t take long on this one!”

  Davis walked slowly to the captain’s house, trying to shake off the anger generating from somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t know how to handle anger, but he knew that such rage was dangerous, apt to make a man do foolish things.

  By the time he arrived at the house, he was under control, though only superficially. Deep down he seethed like a boiling volcano in the center of the earth, waiting only for some signal to burst forth, spilling the blistering lava that would scorch everything in its path.

  When his grandfather came to the door, Davis saw that the captain had been sorely hurt. “My boy, come in!” the old man said. Davis was aware that the wise old eyes of his grandfather were studying him. Finally, the captain commented, “You’re different. Changed inside.”

  Davis nodded. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admitted. “I was crushed when I heard about Lowell’s death—but I came to accept that. It’s—it’s that I can’t—”

  “You can’t forgive Belle?”

  “Can you?” Davis shot back. “She misused you most of all! Can you still forgive her?”

  “Yes, I can,” he replied. He leaned forward and his eyes pleaded with Davis to understand. “Son, I’m not far from the day when I’ll stand before God. When I do, how can I face Him knowing that I had not forgiven someone?”

  “But—she’s evil!”

  “Are we not all sinners, my boy?”

  “Not like her!”

  “Oh, not in the same way, yet we all have sinned. And the Scripture tells me that if I will not forgive those who sin against me, God will not forgive me.”

  “I can’t, Grandfather!” Davis declared stubbornly. “It’s asking too much.”

  “You must forgive her for her part in Lowell’s death, just as she must forgive us for our part in her husband’s death.” Winslow saw the blind rage in his grandson’s eyes, and he said with a voice that throbbed with pain, “My boy, I have lost one grandson. He died honorably, fighting for his country. But I will lose another if you continue this way, for it will make you bitter, and a bitter spirit dries up the bones. It makes the soul sterile and a man unable to give love or to receive it. You have always had a gentle nature, and I’ve loved you for it. Don’t throw that away for the sake of cherishing a blind hatred that will destroy you!”

  The old man continued pleading for a long time. At length he realized it was useless. “I will pray for you, Davis. You may have to reach the bottom of all that you are and all that you love, but I’m asking God to do whatever He has to do to your body—so that your spirit may be preserved!”

  ****

  Simultaneous with Captain Winslow’s words, the jury read the verdict: “We find the defendant, Belle Wickham, guilty of treason against the United States of America.”

  The judge nodded. “Thank you for your verdict. The prisoner will please rise.” He studied Belle’s impassive face for a few moments, then said, “This court gives you the sentence prescribed by law. You will be taken from this place to Old Capitol Prison. From there, one week from this day, you will be removed and hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

  A sigh swept the room, but Belle’s countenance remained impassive. She stood silently as the judge ordered, “Take the prisoner away.”

  As Belle was ushered out of the courtroom by a side door, the reporters fought through the crowd and rushed back to their papers. The defense attorney left quickly by another door, while the prosecuting attorney received congratulations from the crowd with a pleased expression.

  “Get her out and into the wagon quick!” the sergeant-at-arms commanded, “before the crowd mobs us.”

  Belle was hustled down a dark hallway and almost pushed into a small courtyard, where a covered police wagon waited with two guards on the back steps and two on the driver’s seat. One of her guards opened the door, helped her up, then slammed the door and bolted it. “Get her to Old Capitol fast!” he commanded the driver.

  “Yes, sir!” the driver, a tall man, answered. He spoke to the horses, and drove the wagon out through the opened gates—none too soon, for a crowd was already gathering. The driver slapped the reins hard across the horses and they broke into a run, scattering the mob as the wagon plowed ahead. A few tried to chase the patrol wagon, but it was useless, and they turned away.

  Inside the wagon, Belle was thrown from side to side as the vehicle picked up speed. She braced herself by jamming her feet against the seat in front of her. Belle couldn’t possibly keep track of all the turns they made. She just wanted to get it over with.

  I’m glad the trial’s over! she thought. I only want a cell where I can be alone. The drawn-out weeks under the cruel eyes of the spectators had been extremely painful. Her mind flashed back to the courtroom. Davis was there—how he hates me! That hurt, but the thought of Captain Winslow was like a keen knife piercing her heart.

  Belle did not fear death—though she realized she probably would be afraid when the time came. I hope the week goes quickly, she thought.

  Finally the patrol wagon slowed, and came to stop. She pulled herself together and waited. She could hear voices outside. Then the door opened and the sun struck her in the face as she stepped out, the tall guard holding her arm.

  She looked around in confusion, expecting to see the prison, but saw they were in an alley. Just ahead was a buggy with a pair of bay horses stamping their feet.

  “Belle!”

  She whirled and looked up at the tall guard who had spoken her name. Ramsey Huger!

  Her mind reeled, and her legs grew weak.

  “Hurry, Belle. Get into the buggy!” Huger urged.

  He rushed her to the buggy and lifted her in with one quick motion and jumped aboard. “Get out of here!” he called to the men who had watched them get into the buggy. They were all wearing street clothes. Ramsey himself had exchanged his guard’s uniform for a suit.

  “Where are we going, Ramsey?” she cried as the buggy tore down the alley and turned east.

  He flashed his familiar smile, and reached over and hugged her.

  “We’re going home, Belle—home to Richmond!”

  She shook her head. “Not there! They all hate me!”

  “Not anymore, Belle,” he smiled. “Your trial has been in every paper in the South—and you’re the greatest heroine we’ve had since Belle Boyd!”

  “I—I can’t believe it!”

  “You will when we get there.” He gave the horses a cut of his whip and they broke into a dead run. “We’ve got to get you into some different clothes, and do some dodging. But when we get to Richmond, you’ll see! The Yankees tried to destroy you, Belle, but they let the cat out of the bag when they told how you got the secret plans to our generals. Our men were able to use those plans to whip the bluebellies real good!”

  “Ramsey, I wish I hadn’t done it.”

  He looked at her, startled. “Don’t say that, Belle! The South needs a lift—and you’re the one who did it. The Dixie Widow—who outsmarted Washington and saved her nation’s armies!”

 
She didn’t believe it then—nor during the days they spent dodging the federal officers combing the country for the fugitive.

  But a week later in Richmond, with her happy family at her side, a special ceremony was given in her honor. Only when Jefferson Davis pinned a medal of honor on her and she heard the wild cheers from the thousands who had gathered did the truth begin to sink in.

  As she stepped into a carriage with President Davis and his wife and rode down the street, the cries of “Hooray for the Dixie Widow!” followed them. It seemed as if the whole city had turned out. But though Belle smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, there was no joy.

  Her heart was heavy. Her mind in turmoil. For two visions were constantly before her: the face of Captain Winslow—and a Union soldier lying dead in Georgia.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “HE’S ALL WE HAVE LEFT!”

  “I’d hoped that Davis would be a comfort to you and Jewel after we lost Lowell,” Captain Winslow said to his son Robert, “but it hasn’t worked out that way, has it?”

  Robert ran a hand through his hair with an air of desperation. “What’s the matter with him, Father?” A frustrated note edged his voice. “He won’t talk, he disappears for two or three days at a time—Jewel and I are about out of our minds!”

  The two men sat beneath a peach tree in Captain Winslow’s garden, where Robert had dropped by early one morning. It was May, when the peach blossoms were in full bloom, decorating the dusty blue sky overhead. During the past weeks, they had discussed Davis’s aberrant behavior several times. Robert seemed to have aged years, the captain noted. His face was lined and his hands jerked with ceaseless motions.

  “We’ll just have to give him time, Robert,” he said.

  “Time! Why, he’s getting worse as time passes, not better! Neither Jewel nor I realized how much Lowell meant to him.”

  “It isn’t just that—though he was more devoted to his brother than any of us realized.”