The Last Confederate Read Free

that they were prime candidates for permanent residency. He reminded them that they had been elected for this fate (by some sort of divine process Thad didn’t understand) and that they were undeserving of anything else.
    Strangely enough, the piercing voice of the preacher did not keep Thad awake. Instead, he became accustomed to it and sat with his eyes half open, fighting to stay alert. The room grew hotter and he felt very sleepy, but knew he must hold his head up. Suddenly he was aware that something was wrong. He forced himself to focus on the preacher and was startled to find the man’s fat forefinger pointed directly at him! The voice was screaming, “And you, no doubt, are the worst! All these men are from our town—poor unfortunate wretches that they are. Yet they are true men, good southern men! But you . . . !” He walked over to Thad and stabbed his thick forefinger at the boy’s chest as if he wished to penetrate that region clean to the heart. “You,” he shouted, “wouldruin our southland! You are a benighted Yankee —and that is the worst of all sinners!”
    Thad leaped to his feet, his head swimming with the effort, and cried, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    An oily smile spread across the round face of Rev. Tate, and he sneered, “You don’t know anything about the North, do you? Oh, no. You’re not from there, are you, boy?” He jabbed Thad’s chest again and again as he continued to shout his questions, until the boy trembled beneath the heavy hand. “ You aren’t from that nest of vipers, are you? You have no knowledge of that godless place, which is reserved for the pit, have you?”
    He would have continued his tirade until his victim lay prostrate at his feet if Thad hadn’t jerked away and lurched toward the door. There he turned and consigned Rev. Josiah Tate to the lowest section of that region the minister had spoken of so harshly. He also told Mr. Tate exactly what he could do with the food and the cot for the night. Then as the man’s pursed fat lips made a shocked round O, Thad laughed, threw open the door, and plunged out into the freezing air, slamming the door with such force that the lantern rattled against the wall.
    Thousands of tiny flakes glittered in the light of the lantern. Thad’s face ached with fever and from the heat of the room, and the falling flakes seemed to soothe his burning cheeks. Pulling the thin coat closer around his skinny frame, he walked unsteadily toward Cherry Street. At this hour most of the crowd had gone indoors or returned home, and Thad avoided the few left by crossing the street. He halted uncertainly, peering into the darkness where he thought the river lay, then made his way down a side street until he came to a break in the buildings. The snow had papered the ground with a thin layer, making the surface slippery underfoot. But Thad did not stop until he came to a broad road over which the dark form of the levee loomed. Must be the River Road, he thought, and turned to follow it southward.
    There was just enough light from the crescent-shaped moon to reveal the ground if he bent forward, and he saw in the distance the light of a house beside the road. When he approached it, he almost stepped up on the porch to ask for shelter, but then he wavered and plunged on toward the next house. This, too, he passed, saying out loud, “Reckon I can walk twelve miles any day.”
    He began to call out the name of the place Dooley had mentioned, repeating it by syllables in cadence with each step:
    “Belle—May—zon. Belle—May—zon.”
    The words had no meaning for him, but they kept his mind off the razor-sharp wind that whipped across the road, stiffening his face and numbing his feet. He passed a few more houses, but did not stop; instead, he plunged on, calling out “Belle—May—zon!” over and over again until he reached the end of town toward the open fields of the delta. The road wound with the meanders of the