“How’ll we know which is them?” Post demanded.
“They’ll be in front urging the others on. Now spread out—don’t set the fireworks off. Don’t fire until I do—no matter what happens! That’s important. Now, get behind some kind of cover.”
The men scattered, poking their Spencer rifles out from behind trees.
Sky planted his feet like a sentry as the first wave of men appeared—five or six, he saw. They seemed to be studying him; then one of them waved the others back, and waited, staring at the hospital buildings, always dropping his gaze back to where the single man stood in front of the largest structure.
Soon he was joined by more men, many of them carrying torches. He motioned to the buildings on both sides of the street, and with a wild yell, a few men rushed to the buildings, broke the windows and tossed the torches inside. The mob grew steadily. Finally the leader called out, “Let’s go!” and the whole mass moved down the broad street straight for the hospital.
The leader was a huge full-bearded man wearing a pistol in a holster and carrying a shotgun in one hand. He bared his teeth in a rash smile as he continued to advance, the rowdy men at his heels. Most of them were carrying rifles or pistols; others carried torches, which flickered in the early light.
The burning city behind them seemed to fuel the violence in the faces of the men, and they yelled and cursed as they advanced, filling the street and spilling over on the sidewalks. When they came within thirty feet of Sky, they halted, moving restlessly. The shouting died as they cocked their heads toward the big man, trying to hear what he was saying.
“Well, lookee what we got here, men!” he jeered. He cast his eyes around; then seeing no other force than the single man and the few defenders, he spat out, “Mister, you got five minutes to git!”
Sky Winslow didn’t move. He made a solid shape against the white buildings. His voice was steady as he spoke. “This is a military hospital. There’s nothing of value for you.”
“You hear me?” the leader roared. “Git out of the way or git killed!”
The mob cheered, but Sky waited until the voices dwindled to a mutter before he answered the challenge. “I wonder what kind of men you are? You’d set fire to a hospital filled with wounded men who fought for you? I thought we had men in the South—not a bunch of yellow dogs who’d attack helpless men!”
His slashing words cut and stung, and he saw a few men begin to waver. Somebody called out, “Let it go, Cutter! There ain’t nothin’ in a hospital we can use.”
The big man whirled. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you, Hayes!” He lifted his voice. “He’s lying, men! Right in there is grub and whiskey, and them soljers got money and gold watches. Let’s go take it!”
The crowd began surging forward, and Cutter took two quick steps ahead—then jerked to a stop as he found himself looking down the steely muzzle of the Colt that had leaped into Sky Winslow’s hand. His mouth opened to yell, but nothing came out. The crowd stopped abruptly.
“He’s only one man, Cutter!” a tall ruffian in a black suit cried.
At once Sky called out, “Post, if that man who just spoke opens his mouth one more time—put a bullet in his brain!”
“Yes, sir!” Post answered. “I got a bead right between his eyes! He’ll be in hell if he opens his big trap—even to sneeze!”
The tall hoodlum froze, and swiveled his head to see that he was covered by a grinning young man who looked anxious to pull the trigger.
A mutter went over the crowd, and a squat burly man inched a couple of steps toward Cutter. “We can rush ’em—!”
“Kill that man if he moves, Jennings!” Sky yelled.
“Yes, sir!”
Sky knew it couldn’t last, so he thrust the pistol back in his waistband and taunted, “Cutter, do you have the guts to fight me? Or do you just shoot women and wounded men?” The man blinked, his eyes loaded with the wrath to kill. Sky raised his hands above his head, calling out, “You’ve got a shotgun in your hands—all you have to do is turn it and pull the trigger. Go on, Cutter. Show these men you’re not a gutless coward!”
Cutter’s sweat shone in the sunlight, but he didn’t move. He had seen the revolver leap into the hand of the man in front of him as if by magic, and he began to back away. That might have been the end of it, but one of the men in the second rank lifted his gun and fired at Sky.
Winslow felt the slug rake his side, half turning him; but it was not a fatal blow, and he yelled, “Let them have it!”
Even as he yelled he drove a slug at Cutter, who had leveled his shotgun and was in the very act of pulling the trigger. Sky’s bullet caught him in the mouth, and the shotgun flew up, exploding its charge high as he fell back, dead before he hit the ground.
Sky’s men were on a hair trigger, loosing a hail of bullets at the first ranks, dropping at least half a dozen in the street. A yell of rage and fear rang out, and the mob began to return the fire. Those in front, however, lunged back, trying to get away from the gunfire that searched the street with a deadly effect. Man after man fell, and the cries of the wounded spread panic.
Sky felt a bullet pluck at his coat, and heard others whizzing around him. “Get off the street!” Post shouted, and Sky dived for one of the elms. The mob saw it, and somebody raged, “Get ’em!” The whole mob surged against the blistering fire, shooting steadily. Sky saw one of the militia go down with a bloody face. Then Jennings arched backward, gave a high-pitched cry and fell.
“We can’t hold ’em, sir!’ Post yelled. He took a snap shot and a man dropped instantly, but they were coming fast—too fast.
Suddenly a shrill sound rose above the yells of rage and the firing, and Sky turned. Down the west side of the street, a body of mounted Union men were charging, with sabers flashing. They hit the mob with locomotive force, and man after man went down from the slashing blades.
Sky yelled. “We’ll hit from this side!” He snatched his second revolver from his belt and headed for the street, firing all the way. The rest of the militia joined him, and the mob was caught in the pincers. But the sight of the naked steel was too much for the hoodlums, so they dropped their guns and scrambled back to the city.
The mounted men dispersed the rest of the frantic mob as a wolf might scatter a flock of helpless chickens, and then the officers rode off.
Rebekah came running out of the hospital and threw her arms around Sky. She was joined almost at once by Pet and Belle, and he heard his little band of defenders giving a cheer. He grinned at Post. “Your arguments were quite convincing, soldier!”
“Sky! You’ve been shot!” Rebekah cried out, noticing his bloody vest. “Quick! We’ve got to get you inside.”
“Not yet,” he said and walked over to look down at Jennings. “You did well,” he murmured. He checked the other casualties, commenting, “They were soldiers, weren’t they?”
“Here come the Yankees!” Post cried, adding with a strange look on his face, “Ain’t never seen any bluebellies who wasn’t tryin’ to kill me.”
The officer called out “Halt!” and swung out of the saddle.
Sky moved to meet him, holding out his hand. “Sir,” he said, “we are in your debt. You must—”
“Mr. Winslow—are you all right?”
Sky stared at him dumbfounded.
“It’s Davis Winslow, Sky!” Rebekah exclaimed.
Sky tried to speak—with some confusion, for he had not recognized the tall, lean, bronzed officer as the overweight son of his relative.
Belle felt as though she were going to faint, and turned to flee into the hospital, but Pet grabbed her arm and pulled her with her. It can’t be possible! Belle thought, gazing in unbelief.
“You have General Chamberlain to thank, sir,” Davis continued. “He allowed me to bring the detail in to protect the citizens.”
Then he saw the blood on Sky’s clothing and exclaimed, “You’ve been hit, sir!” At the same time his eyes fell on Belle, and he said, “Mrs. Wi
ckham, I think your father should see the surgeon at once.”
Belle nodded, and took her father’s arm. “Yes—thank you, Lieutenant.”
She found Dr. Stevens waiting just inside the door. “Come along, Sky,” he urged. “I’ll have a look.”
While the doctor attended her father, Belle headed for the wards to tell the men what had happened, but stopped at her office to regain control of her emotions. Finally she took a deep breath and left the little cubicle, stopping to talk to Rebekah and Pet, who were waiting with Davis near the doctor’s office. “How’s Father?” she asked.
“I’m all right—just a scratch,” Sky said, emerging from Dr. Steven’s surgery.
He stared at Davis and shook his head. “I never thought angels wore the uniforms of lieutenants in the Union Army, Lieutenant Winslow.”
“You were right to think that, Mr. Winslow,” Davis remarked. “But tell me, what can we do to help? Looks as if the whole city’s on fire.”
“I don’t think that mob will be back,” Sky told him. “When do you think your troops will get here?”
“In a day or two. Colonel Sizemore will be the officer in charge. He’s a fine man. You can be sure he’ll keep the peace.” Davis shifted awkwardly, saying, “I’ll go post the men around the hospital.”
The Winslows stared after the retreating officer. “What is it about him that seems so strange?” Sky asked. “He doesn’t look like himself.”
Rebekah broke in. “He’s older, that’s all, and he’s been through a lot. Come along now, Sky. You’re going to get some rest, exactly as Dr. Stevens ordered. I imagine the house is burned, so Belle will find you a cot here.”
Glad to have something to do, Belle busied herself finding places for everyone to sleep. She worked throughout the seemingly endless day, and didn’t see Davis again. Pet informed her he’d gone with some of his men to check conditions in Richmond.
Later when Belle and her mother were alone, Rebekah asked, “Are you going to talk to him, dear?”
“I don’t know, Mother,” she replied, exhausted. Closing her eyes, she added, “I don’t see what good it will do.”
The next afternoon she was walking across the yard to another building when she saw Davis ride up and dismount. He headed straight toward her ward, and she knew intuitively he’d come to see her.
“Davis!” she called.
Winslow turned and came to stand before her. His eyes were tired, she noted as he pulled off his hat. “I’m leaving Richmond, Belle.”
An unexpected twinge cut at his words. “Why—why are you leaving?”
“I have to rejoin my unit. Colonel Sizemore arrived with his troops, so you won’t have to worry about any looters.”
Their last meeting flashed into her mind, and she blushed. She had never expected to see him again—and certainly not under these circumstances. Struggling to find words, she said hesitantly, “You . . . saved them all, Davis. All those wounded men!”
“I doubt the mob would have burned the hospital.”
“Yes, they would have. They were insane.” The silence was so strained she wanted to flee, but he stood there looking at her in that peculiar way of his. Finally she murmured, “Thank you . . . for the men, and for my family.”
When he didn’t respond, she flared, “I can’t say any more! Why don’t you say something?”
“I said everything to you the last time we talked, Belle.” He smiled and asked slowly, “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes.
“What did I say, Belle?”
She raised her eyes and he saw the pain, fear—and something he couldn’t put his finger on. Drawing a deep breath, she replied softly, “You said . . . that you cared for me.”
“I did. And I haven’t changed my mind.”
“I . . . it won’t ever—”
“Goodbye, Belle,” he broke in, brushing her cheek with his hand. “You’re the most wonderful thing in my life—and nothing is going to alter that—just like the poem says.”
He turned to go, and she cried out impulsively, “Davis—will I see you again?”
He looked deep into her eyes and said in a firm voice, “You’re going to see me for the rest of your life, Belle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE NEW BANKER
Belle shivered and snuggled her coat around her throat as she drove the rickety wagon down Cherry Street. Winter lurked over the horizon like a hungry wolf, and the sharp breath of a chill October wind numbed her hands and lips as she drew up in front of the Planter’s Bank. Her father was waiting, sitting on the seat of a wagon in front of the bank. He leaped off to hitch her team as she got down.
“Cold this morning,” he remarked. “I brought your heavy coat.” He was wearing a brown suit, the cuffs of his trousers and sleeves slightly ragged. “Toby sent a wagon load of greens for the hospital, and we butchered that old red bull. I brought about half of it, but I can’t answer for it. Probably tough as shoe leather.”
Belle smiled and gave him a hug. “Bless you! The men are so tired of chicken! And they love greens.”
The hospital had thinned out dramatically after Lee had surrendered at Appomattox, and now after six months, only those who were unable to travel remained. With the collapse of the Confederacy, there had been no support for the hospital, and it was only through the gifts of local farmers that the men were able to subsist. Most of the plantations had been stripped by the invading soldiers, despite efforts by Union officers to control them. Even the majority of the cattle and hogs had been “liberated” by the Yankee soldiers. The Winslows, however, had not complained, for none of their buildings had been destroyed, as was the case with some.
Sky took Belle’s arm. “Come along with me and meet the new banker. I’ll leave the greens and meat at the hospital after I finish here.”
“Is Planter’s Bank really out of business?” Belle shook her head sadly. “Richmond’s almost a ghost town.” The blackened outlines of buildings bore little resemblance to the former prosperous, busy city. Many lots were piles of rubble with only black chimneys left, pointing skeletal fingers at the sky. Of the remaining buildings few were occupied. Merchants with little to sell and weary of refusing to accept worthless Confederate money had closed their doors.
“It’ll come back, Belle,” Sky encouraged. “The bank’s been taken over by a New York group. Now, let’s meet the new president.” He opened the door, adding, “His name is Moody. He’s a strong Methodist, so we’ll be seeing him quite a bit at church.”
“Hello, Max,” he greeted the middle-aged man sitting behind the front desk. “Like to see the president if he’s not busy.”
“I’ll see, Mr. Winslow.” The clerk disappeared through a door at the rear, and was back almost at once. “Be just a few minutes, Mr. Winslow. Sit down and have a cup of coffee.” He motioned to the two, then spoke to Belle. “How are you, Mrs. Wickham?”
“Just fine, Mr. Wayne. Tell your wife the men were delighted with the cakes she sent.”
“Wish we could do more—but it’s a little slim right now.” He sat down and took a sip of coffee, considering them over the rim of his cup. “Guess things are pretty tight at Belle Maison.”
“Going to be a hard time, Max, but we’ll make it with the help of the good Lord.”
Wayne’s face darkened. “Going to have to be God, I reckon. Lots of folks losing their farms. Been a steady stream of them coming in ever since Mr. Moody got here.”
“Anybody we know?” Sky asked.
“Noel Roberts and Ben Lattimer. Good men, but they just had nothing to start with—and Milton Speers.”
“Speers!” Sky was stunned. “Why, he’s got one of the biggest plantations in Virginia!”
“All mortgaged—and most of his money was in slaves, you got to remember. He may get out of it with a little, but not much.”
Just then someone came out of the president’s office, and Wayne nodded, “You can go in now.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Moody. This is my daughter, Mrs. Belle Wickham.”
Interest flared in Moody’s eyes, but he said only, “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Wickham. Here, sit down, and we can talk.” He returned to his chair and leaned on his desk. “I understand you folks are Methodists?”
“Yes,” Sky nodded. “We attended St. Paul’s for the last few months, to be with the President. But we’ll be back at St. Andrew’s now.”
“Fine! Fine! I’m a newcomer, of course, but Mrs. Moody and I were distressed to see the small crowd last Sunday. I trust you and I can work together to build the church.”
“I’d like that,” Sky responded. “Our place is about twelve miles out of town, but we’re anxious to see the church prosper. Of course, we haven’t had a minister for the last year, which hasn’t been the best.”
“I talked to the bishop about that,” Moody commented. “He promised me he’d send a pastor within a month.” His gaze shifted to Belle. “You’ve done an efficient job at the hospital, Mrs. Wickham, from all accounts. Now that it’s being phased out, perhaps some of your talent could be used for the church.”
Belle immediately knew Moody was aware of her past, and she gave him a steady look, saying, “I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“I’m sure you will. My wife is having a little get-together for the ladies of the church next Wednesday. She’s very good at getting things organized. Six o’clock, she said. Please come, and tell your wife about it, will you, Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes, I will.”
Moody nodded, and a change swept his countenance. Sky could see that the man had an aptness for cataloging things, putting every element into its proper place. The church business was taken care of—now on to the next item.
“I’ve been going over your notes.” He opened a brown cardboard file, pulled a sheaf of papers out, and scanned them. “Some go back quite a ways, don’t they?”
The Dixie Widow Page 26
