There were no true plantations in this area as in West Tennessee, where cotton was a prominent crop, but the Westford place was considerably larger than Five Oaks and had a large complement of slaves to keep it up. Lucas Westford was in his sixties and hadn’t been called into service yet—all four of their sons were in the Confederate Army. Greying and heavily bearded, he was sitting in front of a big fire in the living room, smoking his pipe, when the black houseman let Jem and Vick in.
“Hello there, Uncle Luke,” Jem greeted Westford, backing up to the fire. Lucas Westford was not a relative but in the community everybody of the same social level was either “uncle” or “aunt” or “cousin.” “How’s it comin’ along with you?”
“Dern war’s messed up the cattle market,” Luke responded, shifting in his platform rocker. “Main thing, though, is my rheumatiz, botherin’ me in this damp weather. An’ that blame overseer of mine, always complainin’. Nothin’ but po’ white trash. But what else can you get, with a war on?”
“He’s new, isn’t he?” asked Jem. “Didn’t I hear tell you brought him up from Miss’ssippi?”
“No’th o’ Vicksburg,” confirmed Luke. “Feller named Quince. He’s rougher on the darkies than Springer was—but the dam’ Army took Springer.”
Jem moved to the window and saw what Uncle Luke meant. A half-naked dark-skinned form was bound to a stake just beyond the side yard fence and Quince was wielding a whip with vigor.
“That’s a woman he’s whippin’,” said Jem in some distaste. Slaves were rarely punished at Five Oaks.
Vick moved up beside Jem and continued to stare out the window when Jem went back to the fire.
“High yaller gal I bought last month,” said Luke. “Quince says she’s sassy. He won’t hurt her bad for that—though they say he whupped a coupla smart-lipped darkies to death down in Miss’ssippi.” Uncle Luke brooded a moment. “Dammit, Jem, I wish I wasn’t so decrepit so I could keep closer check on things goin’ on around here!”
“It’s the weather, Uncle Luke. You’ll feel better when it warms up.”
Vick stood at the window watching Quince swing the whip rhythmically against the mulatto girl’s already red-striped back and a shiver of revulsion quivered through him. This was the other side of honeysuckle-scented beauty… this was like Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He could not hear the cries of the slave under the lash through the window and this far away, but he could imagine them.
Jem was talking with “Uncle Luke” in terms of familiar respect, no hint in his voice of protest or disapproval of what was happening out there. And if that overseer chose, he could whip the girl to death without more than a reprimand. If Luke Westford was one of those benevolent masters on whom Vick hung his vision of the genteel Old South, why did he allow his overseer to perpetrate such cruelty? Why didn’t he control the man, chastise him, kick him off the goddamn farm?
If confronted with such a question Westford probably would say, “It’s hard to find a good overseer these days. It’s the dam’ war.” Vick was reminded of those friendly, polite Germans just east of the Rhine. No, they weren’t Nazis, they weren’t the ones who tortured and slaughtered Jews in the Konzentrationslage, that was the SS troopers. What could they do about such things?
Vick put the inadvertent comparison out of his mind and turned back to the cheerful fire in the comfortable, high-ceilinged living room, where Jem was asking, “You reckon I could talk to Aunt Sally, Uncle Luke? She’s got a dress pattern Pru wants to borrow.”
“Sho’,” said Luke and bellowed, “Prissy! Get yo’ black hide in here and go fin’ Miz Westfo’d for Mistuh Ha’hdaway!”
“What kind of baloney do you folks feed these blacks?” Vick asked Jem when the two men and Rich were on their way out of Five Oaks the following morning. “Last night when Tammie was turning down my bed she asked me if I’d ever seen a Yankee. I told her I hadn’t seen any of these Yankees and she seemed disappointed. She said she’d heard they had horns and tails like devils and obviously was hoping I could confirm or contradict it for her.”
Of course Vick had lied to Tammie. If he was a Confederate agent he must have seen plenty of Yankees, but it was plain he wasn’t from around here. That myth was common among the slaves.
“Sho’, it’s not just the darkies believe those tales about Yankees bein’ devils,” he told Vick. “Any white child under fourteen or fifteen around here’ll tell you the same thing, and maybe some of the grownups too. I’d’ve believed it myself if the war’d started when I was a scaper.”
Jem was right about the condition of the roads: he knew this country and this season. As they came closer to the river, lower-lying stretches of ground were sheets of water with trees and bushes sticking up through it, and the horses slogged along the road in mud up to their fetlocks. Since Vick wanted to bypass the fort and take up a position northwest of it, they went away from the Nashville and Charlotte Road and turned northward on the Wynn’s Ferry Road.
The spare Confederate uniform Jem had loaned him was tied in a bundle behind Vick’s saddle. The slaves had washed Vick’s clothing and Vick was wearing it, with his cap set at a jaunty angle. The two men rode abreast when they could, Rich following on a gaunt bay with most of their gear.
“About that gun, Mr. Vick,” said Jem. “You can trust me. I hope this isn’t just one gun they’re tryin’ out with you but that Montgomery has a source of supply. If it’s the prime gun you say it is, the army with the best muskets could be the winners in this war, you know.”
“Lieutenant, the Confederacy can’t get a supply of these M-ls because they haven’t been invented yet.” Whatever that meant: how could Vick have one if they hadn’t been invented yet? “I’ve been trying to tell you why I think eliminating Grant—and, hopefully, getting Buckner in command at Fort Donelson—is likely to win this war. Try to believe this: Grant’s the general Lincoln’s going to depend on to win the war and out of all the Union generals he’s the one who can do it.”
“I’ve had truck with him,” said Jem. “General Polk beat his ears down at Belmont a few months back. That’s where I got wounded—I’d been sent as a courier to Logwood’s Cavalry when the battle broke. But I never saw Grant. Will you know him if you see him?”
“I will,” said Vick grimly.
They didn’t have a long ride to reach the vicinity of Fort Donelson but their progress was slow because of the water and muddy roads. At the Robbins house they took the crossroad to the right and about a third of a mile farther on turned left on the Fort Henry Road. About midday they came to the corner of a farm and Jem decided to turn off to the right.
Passing south of the farm they came to a drive, in sight of a white picket fence and a two-story log house with a tall chimney at one end. Through gaps in the trees Fort Donelson was visible a little over a mile away, close enough for them to see some of its Confederate defenders moving around on the earthworks thrown up to the south and west of the fort.
“That’s Mrs. Crisp’s place,” Jem told Vick, indicating they should turn in. “We’ll get some dinner here and save our vittles for campin’ out.”
“Mrs. Crisp? Ah! That’ll be Grant’s headquarters at Donelson,” said Vick, staring at the house with interest.
Jem chuckled.
“Man, you sho’ think you know all the pa’ticulars, don’t you?” he remarked. “I reckon General Grant must be pretty smart after all. If he wants good eatin’ he couldn’t pick on a better headquarters than Mrs. Crisp’s place!”