The Last Confederate (2 page)

“What about him?” Shippy protested, as he edged toward the door.

Bailey took another bite of his apple. “Dunno,” he said, then smiled as Shippy slammed the door with a loud crack.

“What you want, Dooley?”

“Ah nothin’, Shurf,” Dooley replied, grinning. “Jest thought I’d see what this here dang’rous criminal might do.”

“Looks to me like he might keel over.” Bailey nodded toward the boy. “You sick, Thad?”

“I’m all right,” he said stubbornly, staring at the sheriff with distrust. Then he shrugged and added, “Guess I’ve felt better a time or two.”

“Got any money?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have stowed away on that boat, would I? Can I go now?”

“I reckon so.”

Bailey turned to Dooley. “I’d say the best thing for him tonight is the Mission.”

“Ah, Shurf—not ol’ Pitchfork!” Dooley groaned. “If this kid ain’t sick now, he
will
be after a dose of that preachin’!”

“Won’t hurt him none,” Bailey shrugged.

“You go with Dooley, Thad,” the sheriff told the boy. “Looks to me like you need to get around some food and then into a warm bed.” He examined the thin face, wondering at his slightly foreign look. “Come see me tomorrow; maybe we can make some medicine.”

Dooley steered the boy out the door. “He’s a good shurf, Thad. Lots of that breed would of chucked you into the pokey on general principles.”

“What’s this mission thing?”

Dooley had to lean forward to catch the words, and he saw that the boy was almost out on his feet. Grabbing Thad’s arm, he said, “Aw, it’s jest a place where the Methodists git the drunks together and preach at ’em. But the good thing is that after you get preached at you get some real good grub. Ol’ Miz Hollis, she does the cookin’. And they’s some cots to stay the night on.”

“I don’t want—!”

“Oh, it ain’t all that terrible, Thad.”

Dooley guided the boy through the milling crowd to a side street. He noted that the stowaway wore only a thin coat and
was shivering from the bite of the frosty wind that whipped around the corners. The young man made a mental note to bring one of his own worn but serviceable coats to him.

After they had walked a short distance, Dooley pointed at a frame building where the lamplight spilled through two windows. “That’s it,” he told Thad. “I reckon they put it this close to the saloons so’s they wouldn’t have to carry the drunks too far.”

The two approached the building and stood under the hand-lettered sign over the door: RESCUE THE PERISHING. “Good thing you ain’t got to stay out tonight,” Dooley remarked. “It’s startin’ to snow.”

He lifted the latch and pushed the door open, shoving Thad ahead of him into a room no more than twenty feet square. In one corner a large potbellied stove glowed like a huge ruby, around which six tattered men—all the worse for drink—huddled. A kerosene lantern hung high on each side of the room, casting a pale gleam on an assortment of battered chairs and a table with a Bible on it. Behind the table was a door, and Dooley nudged Thad. “That’s where you get the stew and the bunks—but you gotta put up with ol’ Pitchfork first.”

“Who’s that?” Thad murmured weakly. He was feeling very faint and lightheaded now, and Dooley’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, muffled and thin.

“Oh, he’s the local sky pilot—preacher, don’t you see? Now set down here, Thad. I gotta run and take care of some stuff. Jest set here and when ol’ Pitchfork starts in on you, think of that good stew and warm bunk! I’ll be back and check on you after a while.”

Recovering some of his strength, Thad asked, “You know anybody named Winslow living around here?”

Dooley’s eyes widened, and his mustache shifted as he grinned. “Boy, you better believe I do! Ain’t nobody in these parts who don’t know the Winslows. Why you askin’?”

“I . . . used to know somebody by that name. Worked in a
mill with me. He said he came from around here. I thought I’d see if he’d come back here to his folks.”

“Well, if he worked in a mill, he wasn’t no kin to
these
Winslows, Thad. Mr. Sky Winslow is jest about the richest man around. ’Course, it might have been a poor Yankee relation.”

“I guess.” The boy stared into space for a moment, and finally asked, “Where’d you say these Winslows lived?”

“I didn’t say, Thad—but they live south on the River Road—that’s the one that runs alongside the levee.” He studied Novak’s face, then shook his head. “But they live twelve miles from Richmond, and with it beginnin’ to snow, you ain’t in no shape to make it.” He slapped the thin shoulder and added, “I live down that there road myself, Thad. Tell you what—I’m headed home tomorrow. You can ride behind me. I gotta go right by Belle Maison—that’s what the Winslows call their place.”

Thad stared at the banty-legged young man. “Why you helpin’ me? We ain’t friends.”

Dooley laughed and his bright blue eyes sparkled beneath his bushy brows. “Why, shoot, Thad! Mebby we might git to be. Anyways, I been down on my luck a time or three.” He got up and walked toward the door. “Jest ride it out for tonight—and tomorrow we’ll see.” Then he was gone.

Thad felt more alone than ever before, even more than in the storeroom on the
Dixie Queen.
He slumped into a chair and watched the men around the stove.

The room was warm after the walk through the cold night, and Thad’s head soon dropped forward and he dozed off. He thought once,
I ought to get away from here.
But the rich aroma of stew from behind the door held him and he decided,
I can stand it, I reckon.

He awoke with a start, confused and in a panic. A large hand was shaking him, and he opened his eyes to see that the chairs were all full.

“Wake up, boy!” A red-faced man, heavily larded, was pulling at his arm.

“All right—I’m awake!” Thad growled, pulling away from the man’s grip.

“Very well. See that you remain so!”

The fat man, obviously the preacher, straightened up and walked to the table at the front of the room. He picked up the thick Bible, surveyed the assortment of drunks before him, and drew his thick lips into a hard line. Shaking his head slowly, he began to moan in a blubbery whine: “Oh,
Gawd!
You see these miserable sinners!” He glanced upward, as if seeking for the Lord in the dusky ceiling, then continued his prayer in much the same manner, except that the longer it went, the shriller he became. By the time the man was finished, Thad’s head ached with the sheer volume of it all.
Don’t see how I can stand much more of this—even for grub!
he thought.

The Reverend Josiah Tate plunged into a sermon that was, if possible, even on a higher pitch than the invocation. He informed the wretches trapped in the cane-bottomed chairs that there was a hell, and 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, “would
ruin 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 river, so he concentrated on keeping inside the perimeters of the white strip.

Time soon ceased to have meaning, and distance became the space between one step and another as he walked doggedly through the snow, now falling heavily.

After a while he could not feel his face; even his eyelashes were stuck together with snow crystals. From time to time he had to brush them off with his hands, which seemed to belong to someone else.

Finally he slipped, falling full length into the snow. He lay there, thinking very slowly and with great effort:
Gotta get up. Can’t stay here.
He realized he might freeze to death, but his mind was so dulled he could not remember which way led back to town.

He tried to get up, but it took three attempts, and then he began to run, clumsily with flailing arms, but plunged into a shallow ditch beside the road. He couldn’t stand up, so he pulled himself out by grabbing the thick weeds beside the road. Again he tried to get to his feet.
I can’t do it,
he thought.

A strange sense of warmth began to flow through him as
he lay there holding on to the weeds like a drowning man to a life preserver. He tried to rouse himself, but the warmth crept up his body and into his brain. He mumbled, “Just—a few—minutes—just—”

He drifted off and seemed to be resting in a warm feather bed. But someone was trying to get him to leave it! Someone was pulling at him, and he resisted, hating to leave the warmth that had surrounded him. He began to fight, crying out, “Leave me alone!”

Though he struggled, a strong hand grabbed him, forcing him out of the feather bed. Then he came out of his dream to see a black face not two inches from his own, the thick lips forming the words: “You cain’t stay heah, white boy! You freeze to death!”

The man pulled Thad to his feet, and he felt himself being pushed against something hard. “I boost you inter da wagon—watch yo’self!” Suddenly Thad was hoisted high and fell onto a hard floor, striking his head. Sparks seemed to fly in front of his eyes, and warm blood trickled down his cheek.

“You wrap up in dis heah blanket,” the man ordered, pushing the rough covering around Thad. He began drifting off to sleep at once, but a voice said sharply, “Wake up! You go to sleep now, you ain’t nevah gonna wake up!” Then he called to the horses, “Git up!” The wagon lurched down the rutted road, throwing Thad from one side to the other with such force, he lost all thought of sleep!

Finally the rocking motion stopped, and he fell back, totally exhausted. He felt strong arms lifting him, and said, “I won’t go to sleep!”

A deep bass laugh shook the heavy chest Thad lay against. “Dat’s all right, white boy. Now, heah we goes!”

Thad drifted off, but knew that the black man had carried him out of the cold into a small room not much bigger than a closet. A cheery fire burned at one side. He managed to open his eyes, and his gaze fell on faces staring at him by the light of the tiny fire—they were all black! He smelled greens
cooking, and someone made him swallow the stuff. Then he lay back and was plunged into the warmth of a smooth black darkness—safe from the icy storm raging outside.

CHAPTER TWO

BELLE MAISON

As always, the first thing Pet Winslow did when she awakened in the morning was to look out the window. She waited until the maid finished building up the fire, driving out the chill; then she threw back the covers and ran to the mullioned window. “Lucy—look!” she cried with delight. “It’s like a fairyland!” As far as she could see, the earth glittered as the bright sun struck the unbroken snow. Dressing quickly in the clothing Lucy had laid out for her, she said, “Maybe we can build a snowman. And we can have snow cream!”