The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I don’t know when I stopped hating, Belle,” he finished, watching her face. “It had something to do with that sermon, as I told you before. But whatever happened, I don’t have any hate anymore—not for anyone or anything.”

  The sound of laughter came to them faintly from the house, and he turned to look in that direction. When he faced her again, she was regarding him in a different manner. Not anger—but not gentle either. She said slowly and in an ultra-controlled voice, “Why did you tell me all this? Why didn’t you just go away?”

  “Because—I wanted to be honest with you.”

  “Honest!” she cried. “That’s a fine word for you to use!”

  “You’ve got no reason to trust me. But God knows I wouldn’t hurt you or your family!”

  She jumped to her feet, her face strained. She looked at him for a long moment, then breathed deeply. “I don’t know what you’d do,” she finally said. “I thought I knew you—and now I find out that everything’s been a masquerade.”

  “Not all of it, Belle,” he countered.

  “How can I ever believe anything?” she whispered. “I had just started to feel—something for you. And now I discover that it was all nothing!” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, why didn’t you just leave!”

  He longed to touch her, to hold her, but he realized he couldn’t. He sighed. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I wanted to tell you not to spend your life grieving over the past. Don’t tear yourself apart over what’s done.” That isn’t what I wanted to say! shot into his mind. Suddenly he knew what had happened to him. It took him off guard, like the force of a hammer blow.

  She eyed him carefully and shook her head. “Just throw off the past—as if it were a worn-out coat? Don’t you think I haven’t tried? It doesn’t work that way—not with me, anyway. I told you what I’ve done. Do you think all that will just fade away?”

  Davis was listening quietly, but at the same time he was conscious of the truth that had just come to him. It was not a new thing, he realized, but something that had been building up for a long time.

  Yet he knew it was hopeless. She was regarding him quizzically, waiting for him to speak. His lips seemed frozen. Never had he said anything that would cost him more—but he must speak.

  “Belle, I’ve learned to care for you.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment at the unexpected revelation. She stood transfixed as he continued.

  “Yes, I hated you when I came—but every day I watched you. I never saw a woman who gave herself to others as I saw you do. Day after day, I watched you, Belle, hoping to see you fail! I remember when you cleaned up Tommy Hopper, and I thought, Lord, how can she do it!”

  Belle dropped her eyes. “It was my job,” she murmured.

  “No, the orderlies did jobs,” he said firmly. “It was more than that, Belle. It was a calling. I think that’s what they call it.” He slowly reached out and lifted her face. “Belle! Belle!” he whispered, “I know you can’t believe it. I didn’t realize myself until this minute that I love you.”

  “You can’t love me!” she argued, almost angrily. “You’re my enemy—and even if you weren’t a Yankee, I still wouldn’t believe you!”

  She turned to leave, but he caught her, forcing her to face him. “I’ve got to go. But you listen to this. You may think I’m the world’s worse liar. I’ve given you no reason to think any differently. But I’m telling you that I love you. I know my brother is dead, and you blame yourself. I can’t sort out all the crazy things about this war. I guess God will have to do that; but think what you will, believe it or not—I love you, Belle!”

  Her eyes mirrored her unbelief. “You love me? With the kind of love in that poem?”

  He nodded. “ ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ “ He studied her face. “We Winslows are one-woman-sort of men, my grandfather says. I’ve never told a woman I loved her—and I don’t expect to tell another one.”

  She drew away from him, and cried in a voice charged with pain, “Oh, Davis, go away! I don’t believe anything anymore! Please go!”

  He nodded slowly. “I’m going, Belle. But this isn’t the end—just the beginning.”

  “Can’t you see how hopeless it is?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I believe.” With one sweep he caught her to him and kissed her. Her soft lips were still under his when he stepped back.

  “Goodbye, darling,” he said as he swung into the saddle. He lifted his chin, said “Goodbye!” again, then pulled the horse around and rode off.

  Belle stood motionless for only a moment before running out to catch the last glimpse of him. Not until he was a distant dot on the horizon did she turn back to the spring house. She paused to look at the spot where they had talked, her face damp with tears, her mind reeling.

  She returned to the house without a backward look and went straight to her room. When she opened the door, Rebekah was waiting for her. “Mother . . . ?” she said and fell weeping into Rebekah’s arms.

  Rebekah held her, rocking slowly as she had done when Belle was a child. And as she held her, she prayed fervently, Oh, God! Don’t let her be lost! Bring her to yourself!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE HOMECOMING

  Captain Whitfield Winslow stood up slowly and dusted the dirt from his knees. Straightening his back carefully to ease the protesting muscles, he grunted with satisfaction as he surveyed the line of roses he had been mulching. The flowers were two years old now, and had made it through the harsh winter. The captain smiled. Delving into the rich, black soil was one of his joys.

  Not so many years left to do things like this, though, he mused. At eighty-one—the end’s not as far away as it was. But the thought did not trouble him. When he had been on active duty, he had gone to battle with the knowledge that he might not be alive at the end of the day; now he faced a more certain fate with equal equanimity. He remembered a line Davis had read to him about death: “By my troth, we owe God a death, and he that pays this year is quit for the next.”

  He liked that thought, and repeated the words as he moved down the row of roses set in strict military fashion along the front walk, stopping now and then to touch one of the crimson blossoms. He limped markedly, for the broken ankle had never completely healed. Entering the kitchen, he washed his hands and gulped down two glasses of cool water.

  His back still ached, but he refused to lie down. Instead, he fixed a strong cup of coffee, picked up the latest newspaper, and returned outdoors to sit in the small courtyard on the east side of the house. It was merely a cubicle of space, large enough for a table and four chairs, but it was shielded from the street by a lath screen and protected from the hot sun by a spreading elm that touched the eaves of the house.

  Easing himself into the chair, he opened the paper and began to read, sipping his coffee as he scanned the war news. Not much had changed in the long months since Gettysburg. Finally he laid it on the table and closed his eyes. The bees he kept in two hives were busily flying about, singing in a high-pitched key as they passed. In the hedge to his right, the mocking birds chirped, and the colony of martins nesting in the two-story house he had built argued and bickered in their amiable way.

  The captain was more tired than he cared to admit, and the warm sun, combined with the soft sounds of June, soon caused him to drop his chin on his chest. He dozed lightly until a faint sound of knocking aroused him.

  He jerked his head up with a start and looked toward the front door. From where he sat, he couldn’t see who it was, but he had ordered some fresh beef from the butcher and assumed it was Billy McMannis, the delivery boy.

  “Come round to the side, Billy,” he called. He picked up the cup, took a sip of the cold coffee, and turned toward the sound of footsteps on the walk, saying, “Put the meat in—Chamberlain!” he exclaimed as the tall blue-uniformed officer emerged through the narrow slit in th
e screen. “What are you doing in Washington?”

  The sun was behind the man’s back, and Whitfield thought it was his old friend. But when the captain rose to his feet and took a step forward, he saw he was mistaken. It was not a general, but a lieutenant. The captain couldn’t see the face clearly because the sun was peeping through the trees from behind the man’s head, catching Winslow directly.

  Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered at the officer and demanded, “Yes? What is it?”

  No answer.

  “Well, speak up, man!” he grumped. “What is it?”

  The officer stepped forward. “It’s—it’s me, Grandfather!”

  The world plunged into an eerie stillness. He stood as if transfixed, staring into the face he had grieved over every day for the last months. The silence rang in his ears and a dizziness swept over him, causing his knees to buckle.

  Catching himself he whispered, “Davis . . . !” Reaching out in stark unbelief, he was enveloped by a pair of strong arms.

  “I’m back, Grandfather!” Davis said thickly. He helped the old man sit down, realizing the shock had been almost too much. “I’m back,” he repeated. The pale cast of the strong old face of his grandfather alarmed him.

  “Let me get you some water,” he offered, and started for the kitchen.

  “No.” Winslow’s voice was unsteady, but he lifted his shoulders and pulled himself up straight in the chair. “I’m all right.”

  Davis sat opposite him. “I wanted to send a wire to break the news, but I was afraid you’d be alone when it arrived.” He put out his hand and the captain grasped it, holding on as if he were afraid Davis would vanish. “Just sit there for a minute. Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Have you seen Robert and Jewel?”

  “I just came from there. It was—hard,” he said, stumbling over the word. “I saw Father first, and then he went in and broke it to Mother. I don’t think either of them can believe it, though.” A smile touched his lips, and he added, “They almost refused to let me come over here.”

  Whitfield Winslow had led an eventful life, but nothing had shocked him so much as the sight of his grandson’s appearance. He stared at him, his throat constricting. He put his other hand over Davis’s in a steel grip. “I know how they feel,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid if you leave, I’ll wake up and find it’s all been an old man’s dream.”

  “I won’t leave,” Davis promised, squeezing the gnarled hands.

  “Tell me about it—all of it!”

  For the next hour Davis gave a detailed account of his escape from Libby. “I should have found some way to let you know I was alive—but I was afraid it would get Thad in trouble,” he said.

  “You did the right thing, boy,” Whitfield nodded emphatically. “That young man, he’s the Winslow stock—the real thing!”

  “You’re correct about that,” Davis nodded. He went over his first days at Chimborazo, emphasizing Belle’s role. “I’d be either dead or a one-legged cripple by now if it hadn’t been for her.”

  “You’ve forgiven her, I see.” The captain’s eyes lit up with approval. “That was what frightened me, Davis—your terrible hatred for her. It was killing you inside. But now it’s all gone?”

  Davis hesitated, then said what he had not told his parents—what he had not intended to tell anyone—“It’s . . . more than that, Grandfather.” There was a note in his voice that made Whitfield look at him with surprise. “All the time I was in the hospital, I watched her. Later when the Winslows took me in, and she was there, we spent a lot of time together. We talked much about books, and—well, I got to know her.”

  He found it difficult to say what he wanted, so his grandfather did it for him. “Are you trying to tell me you love the girl?”

  Davis nodded. “Yes—but she doesn’t care for me.”

  Whitfield studied Davis carefully. It had been less than a year since he had gone away, but little remained of the rosy-cheeked boyish look. Instead, his face was lean and marked with suffering—suffering that had made him into a man. His deep-set eyes were steady and filled with wisdom, the clean lines of his face, once hidden, now apparent.

  “She’s suffered a lot, boy,” he finally stated quietly. “I’ve always felt she was a fine woman. But it may take some time.”

  “It’ll take that,” Davis agreed. “It’ll take a miracle, too.”

  “Well, there are precedents.” Whitfield’s face creased in a smile, and he gave Davis’s shoulders a hard slap. “There’s one sitting in my garden! Now, tell me how you escaped from the South.”

  “That was sort of a miracle in itself, I think,” Davis answered. “It was almost too easy! I boarded the train in a Confederate uniform, rode as close as I could to the lines, then got off. I put on civilian clothes, got rid of my uniform, and started walking. The first farm I came to, I bought a horse. From there I just eased around until I found an opening. Soon as I got through to our side, I asked for the Twentieth Maine. It was a two-day ride, but I made it.”

  “I’ll bet Chamberlain got a shock at the sight of you.”

  Davis smiled at the memory of how he had walked into camp to find Chamberlain in a staff meeting, wearing the insignia of a general, which he’d received in June. He had taken one look at Davis and shouted, “Good God! He’s come out of the grave!” Davis repeated this to the captain, and said, “For once that man lost his scholarly reserve!”

  “How’d you account for being reported dead?”

  “Oh, I just said I’d bribed a guard to let me go out in a coffin. I didn’t mention Thad, of course, so they think I’m somewhat of a hero.” He laughed. “He found a uniform and sent me away right off. My leg’s not all that steady, so you’ll have me on your hands for quite a while, I think.”

  “My boy, I thank God for your safe return.”

  Davis stared at the floor. “Well, Perry Hale would say God’s been in it all the way.”

  “Hale’s a good man, and I agree,” the captain nodded.

  “I’ve changed my views about God,” Davis stated abruptly. He told how the sermon he’d heard had affected him so powerfully, and asked, “Do you think it was God who took all the bitterness out of me? I didn’t call on Him, or make any kind of public profession.”

  “Davis, only God can do a thing like that. It’s not in the power of man to change his own heart.”

  “But—am I a Christian, then?” Perplexity creased his brow and he added, “Most of the Christians I know have some kind of experience. They call it ‘getting saved.’ You’ve told me about how you came to know God—and nothing like that’s happened to me.”

  “God’s not in a box, Davis, though lots of people would love to put Him there. He’s an infinite God, and I think He deals with people in many ways. It’s a mistake to think that every man has to have the same experience in all the details. You’ve read the Bible. You know He didn’t deal with Abraham as He did with David. Paul had a spectacular experience with Jesus on the road to Damascus, while other people have a more simple conversion.”

  Davis shook his head. “Something in me is different—but I still don’t feel—I don’t feel God, somehow.”

  The captain smiled and nodded his approval. “Why, boy, most of us have to go through some sort of struggle to find God. I was miserable for two years, fighting God all the way. I know now He was after me, and I was doing everything I could to keep from being caught!” He studied Davis carefully. “I think God came knocking at your door in that hospital, Davis. And He gave you just a little taste of what He’s like by removing the hate. But that’s not the end of it.”

  Davis mulled the words over. After a while he nodded, his face sober. “I’ve been thinking about that. It seems like I’m—well, sort of half finished. What do I do now?”

  “You give your life to Jesus.”

  “But—how?” Davis was disturbed, and his confusion was evident.

  “I guess that’s what you and I will have to talk about, Davi
s,” the captain replied. “One thing I know for sure—when a man is ready for Christ to do something in him, it’s not a long affair. It doesn’t take God long to save a man—but sometimes it takes quite a spell for the man to get his heart right for God to do something. I think what you’ll be doing for the next few days or maybe months is getting ready.”

  Davis looked doubtful. “Well, I’ve got the time—and I’ve got a good teacher,” he smiled. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

  “Me? Ready for what?”

  “Why, the prodigal’s come home!” Davis got to his feet. “Mother’s killing the fatted calf for me—and we’ve both got to be there for the feast.” Then he amended his words. “On the other hand, I guess I’m sort of a cross between the prodigal and Lazarus, wouldn’t you think?”

  “A little of both, my boy—a little of both!”

  ****

  The rest of the summer sped by, and Davis stayed in Washington. He had no inclination to leave and was glad when he was assigned to a desk job—a job that in his opinion had no meaning or value, except that it allowed time with his grandfather and the family.

  His stay with his parents was rewarding, for the breach between them was totally healed. They were so filled with joy over his miraculous appearance that nothing was too much for them to do for him. Sometimes it seemed a little smothering, the way his mother clung to him. Davis, however, never showed any displeasure. He grew close to his father also, and they spent many evenings together, often dining out or going to the theater.

  But it was the visits with his grandfather the young man prized most. The two studied the Bible constantly, and Davis was astonished to discover how much he understood.

  Attending church had always been a duty, but by the end of summer Davis was a fixture, along with his grandfather, in the Presbyterian church where the captain had taken Belle. He often saw President Lincoln, and once had shaken hands with him after the service.