by Seneca Fox
Chapter XXIV
5:30 am, or thereabout
Light from various manmade sources cast their fixed beams through the haze. I had been sitting quietly for about fifteen minutes when a small, bushy-tailed animal darted across the road that led to Anna’s house. An instant later, I saw something moving toward me. Emerging as a silhouette against a misty backdrop, I could not make it out at first. I sat, staring intently. It was tall and oddly shaped, like an animal with long, muscular legs and a torso that narrowed unnaturally above the hips. I could see a head and shoulders, but the arms, if there were any, were not swinging by its side. There was a distinctive rhythm to the gentle way the torso slowly rocked from side to side. Then I heard the sound, the “clip-clop” of horseshoes against the hard surface of the road. Step by step, horse and rider emerged from the mist.
Who is this, I wondered – someone coming to participate in the morning battle? Is this some kind of ritual, a messenger perhaps? It seemed odd that there was no one else around – just a lone rider. The rider turned toward the battlefield and led the horse through a ribbon of light illuminating the steps of someone’s RV. It was then that I saw that the rider, dressed in a long coat with the tail resting on the horse’s withers, was carrying a flag; it was curled-up around the pole.
The rider passed through the spectator’s camp and directed the horse toward the edge of the battlefield, moving along the border that ran from the Confederate to the Union camp. Struck by the oddity of what I was watching, I decided to follow, taking the opposite side of the field to avoid being noticed.
I quietly crept past the Confederate encampment, holding my breath when I passed by Leland’s tent. At the edge of the camp, I looked across the field and barely made out the rider on the far side. I moved slowly, staying low to the ground and hiding behind trees whenever possible. I was peering out from behind a small evergreen when the rider stopped and dismounted, just past the crumbling stone wall that split the battlefield in half. I ran from the tree and crouched behind the stone outcroppings that the Confederate sharpshooters had used as cover.
The lone rider sat down beside the horse. I leaned back against the rocks.
Is this part of the reenactment that Rose Thompson failed to mention when she gave me the details of the Battle of Clear Creek? I could understand her not wanting to disclose all the details, especially if there was some surprise that added to the spectators’ experience. But, I was sure that I had told her that we would not spend the night – knowing that, it seems that she might have at least hinted about this unusual event? I peeked over the rocks and saw the rider still sitting beside the horse.
A few minutes passed and I knew that at any moment the early risers and insomniacs would begin emerging from tents or fumbling around in their campers. Some would stir the remains of a fire from the night before; others would turn a dial to light a gas stove or warm an electric element. Most would be making coffee.
Twilight slowly turned to daylight. Several reenactors started to scurry about. When I, once again, looked across to the far side of the battlefield, the rider had one foot in the stirrup and was swinging the other leg over the saddle. The rider pulled forward, took the reins in one hand, held the flag in the other and sat as if waiting for the right moment to nudge the horse forward.
As I waited, I started to think about the soldiers that had died on the battlefield. The identity of those men and precisely what compelled each of them to fight remained a mystery, but I did know more about them than I had known before. I wondered if I should feel remorseful, questioning whether some of the harder feelings I’d felt after encountering reenactors inside the circle of tents were discounting the sacrifice of others. But, I was confident that Leland, and those like him, interpreted history in a way that conveniently supported their purpose. Perhaps Anna was right when she said that it was time someone stepped forward to challenge men like that?
The rider abruptly turned the horse towards the rocks, where I was hiding, then leaned forward and dug their heels into the animal’s flanks. The horse reared slightly, started forward with a jump and bolted into a gallop. The pair accelerated and the rider leaned forward holding the flag low, half-unfurled, half-flapping, in the rush against the still morning air. Soon after the horse began to gallop, the two were bearing down on the opposite side of the field and the rider pulled gently on the reins.
The rider leaned back and pushed against stirrups. In unison with the movements of the rider, the horse slowed, shifted her weight back and pressed her hoofs into the soft soil.
Suddenly, something seemed odd. I was expecting to see the broad shoulders, muscular arms and unshaven face of a reenactor; instead, I saw the wide hips, rounded bosom and delicate hands of a woman. The rider was a woman – it was Anna. I might have jumped up and called out to her, but I was too surprised and too curious to see what she was up to. I sat there, spellbound, waiting to see what she would do next.
Anna gently laid the reins on the side of the horse’s neck – a beautiful chestnut mare that I had noticed grazing in the pasture behind Anna’s house. The mare turned, neighed and blew out hard.
“That-a-girl, let everybody know we’re here.” I heard Anna say. She was only a few yards away.
Without any hesitation, Anna dug her heels into the mare’s sides a second time and took off, racing back to where they had started. The flag – a Confederate battle flag – was still loosely wrapped around the pole. When the two reached the other side, Anna quickly turned the mare around and stopped. I looked left, and then right, and saw crowds of shouting reenactors at the border of each camp. Some were running about, a few were shaking their fist in the air and others were pointing toward Anna.
Anna unfurled the flag and held it high above her head. She waved it back and forth and a loud cheer rose-up from the Confederate camp; then a musket shot rang out, perhaps a signal of approval sent to Anna, or perhaps a noise made to rouse any sleeping reenactors. More and more men emerged from the tents until the edges of the camps were lined with curious onlookers.
Once again, Anna punched the horse with her heels and leaned forward. She galloped across the field and I watched the flag billow and pop. I sensed great power when I heard the sound of hooves pounding the soft earth and the flag beating against the air. I empathized with Anna – imagining the exhilaration of the swift and rolling journey on the back of such a magnificent animal. As the horse slowed, Anna appeared calm and determined. The horse stopped and Anna held her still for a moment, as if she were gathering her thoughts. “This is it, girl,” she said; and, just as the cheers from the reenactors began to die out, she bolted. She quickly reached the center of the field and pulled hard on the reins. The chestnut mare obediently struggled to overcome her momentum and clumps of dirt and grass flew into the air as they came to a halt.
Anna dismounted and stood holding the reins in one hand and the flag in the other. She turned to face the Confederate camp, raised the flag and waved it slowly. The approving cheers, whoops and whistles were more raucous than before; but, when she turned and did the same toward the Union camp, the response was muted.
Anna jammed the flagpole into the ground, reached into her pocket and pulled something out. The object fell from her hands. She bent over and quickly picked it up; somehow I knew that it was a box of matches.
Fearfully, I said, “She’s going to burn the flag!”
Anna struggled to open the box with one hand. “Come on, come on,” I heard her cry. She pulled the horse closer and used two hands to open the box while still holding the reins. She slid the box open and the matches fell out. She shook her head and laughed; then she bent over to pick one up.
While she was fumbling with the match, a brief volley – three or four shots – of musket fire rang out. The mare repeatedly pulled on the reins, but Anna steadfastly held tight. She was clearly frustrated and shaking, when she finally laid the head of the match squarely on the side of the box and pushed it. The match sparked and burst into flames. The
mare pulled again, and Anna let her go. She cupped her hand around the flame and laid the match against the tip of the flag. Flames licked up along the edge and the flag started to burn. Anna pulled the pole from the ground and waved it slowly – back and forth – hard enough to fan the fire, but not hard enough to extinguish it. At first, the only sound I heard came from the flag flapping above Anna’s head. I watched it burn, then I turned my head and saw men dressed in gray uniforms looking on in stunned silence. The flames grew larger and a quarter of the flag was quickly consumed.
Voices once again rose-up from the Confederate camp. The noise reached a fevered pitch, making a sound I had not expected to hear. It grew louder until it was unmistakable – the Rebel Yell. The roar intensified, and Confederate soldiers started running toward Anna. She stood in the middle of the field; vigorously waving the burning flag and starring down the Confederate Army as it charged forward. Union reenactors were also running toward her, but they ran silently.
Crouched behind the rocks, I realized that I was throbbing with fear and a strange awareness, as profound as anything I’d ever felt before. The reclusive, thru-hiker part of me wished that none of this had ever happened, that I’d listened to Max and stayed on the trail. But certain disconnected pieces of my past, some that I strained to keep hidden from myself and others that had lain dormant throughout the entirety of my adult life, suddenly came together. “Damn-it, Anna,” I said, “what have you gotten me into?”
I stood up – my heart pounded, my legs pulsated, and the optical centers in my brain perceived sharp edges around the objects in front of me while I remained aware of movement in the periphery. I took off running toward the center of the field.
When I approached, Anna turned and faced me – still waving the flag. The flames were hot, and sizzling pieces of burning cloth dropped to the grass in front of us. The flag was more than half burned. Anna smiled. When I got close she said, “It’s about time you got here.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“And if I don’t?” she replied.
The mass of charging Rebels was no longer yelling so loud, nor were they running as fast as when they started. The gentle, uphill slope and tall, wet grass grabbing at their feet had tired them. Only one man seemed to still be running hard, increasing his lead over the others whom had begun to jog and walk.
“Let’s get the horse,” Anna said, as she jammed the pole, with its tattered remnants of the burning flag, into the ground.
“Good idea,” I reacted. I didn’t know what Anna was thinking, but I hoped she was planning to get away from the approaching armies.
Anna turned to the mare. We walked slowly, trying not to spook her. Anna leaned forward and said, “Easy girl, easy,” and reached for the reins. The mare was unsettled; she lifted her head and turned away slightly. “Easy, girl,” Anna said again. One step away, she reached for the reins, but before she grasps them a loud KABOOM sounded and slowly echoed around the valley. Someone in the Confederate camp had fired a cannon. Anna and I stood there, watching helplessly, as the spooked mare ran off.
“What now?” I asked.
“I’m ready for these guys.”
“I’m glad you are.” Panic set in as I looked back and forth at the opposing armies steadily advancing toward us. The lead pursuer from the Confederate camp was not far away; he was vigorously pumping his arms and driving his knees. The look on his face made his intent seem clear, and I felt an urge to run. That’s when we saw an unexpected sight. Coming fast, from far across the field was a blue pickup truck. I froze when I saw Max, standing upright with his arms stretched out over the cab of the truck holding on tight.
“Max,” I shouted, suddenly feeling more confident.
“Zeb,” Anna added.
We glanced at each other and I said, “Why not get out of here.”
“Ah,” Anna hesitated, before she said, “okay.”
We started to run for the truck, but we’d only taken a few steps when someone grabbed me from behind and said, “Not so fast, you coward.” I turned, not knowing what to expect, and looked into the eyes of a reenactor – it was Ben. He grabbed my coat with both hands, pulled me close and said, “I ought’a kill you.”
“Ben, it’s me, I talked to you last night about your grandfather and Jedediah, ah, Jedidiah…”
“Powell,” Ben offered and his expression changed when he recognized me.
Desperately, I said, “You’ve got to trust us.”
“Trust?”
“Yeah. We can explain.” I did not really know if we could, but I knew we would have to try.
Ben let go of my coat and turned to face his fellow reenactors. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “This better be good.”
I stood there shaking and watching men from both camps circle around us. Most were gasping for air; some bent over holding their hands on their knees while others held their hands on their hips with their heads turned up. It appeared that everyone from both camps had turned out to see why someone had burned a Confederate battle flag. I’m sure they were also wondering why I was there.
Moments later the blue truck rolled up behind us. Max jumped out and walked over. Zeb stayed seated inside the cab.
Ben held a hand up as if keeping the growing crowd back. “He says he can explain.”
“He better get on with it,” said one Confederate reenactor.
Anna stepped forward and said, “I’ll explain.”
A man stepped forward, took off his cap and expressed his disbelief. “There’s no good explanation for what you just did,” he said to Anna. His comment was followed by a universal “yeah” from the Confederate side. Many Union reenactors joined in as well.
From the back of the Confederate crowd I heard, “Let the woman have her say – we’ll get our chance.” Leland stepped forward from a mass of gray uniforms. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, the red sash or his sword. He picked up the flagpole, stood up straight, glanced at me and finally glared at Anna. “Ms. Foxharte, I presume.”
“Correct.”
“Ms. Foxharte, I understand that this property belongs to your family. And, because it does, I recognize that, in some ways,” he emphasized, “you were within your rights when you burned that flag. However, what you have done, and I speak for the men standing here with me – what you have done is insulting. So, would you please indulge us with an explanation?”
Anna stood silently, as if she was thinking about what to say.
I scanned the crowd, hoping to find a few familiar faces. Reg and Darin were standing with other reenactors dressed in blue – they avoided making eye contact with me. I recalled what Reg had said about not wanting to be around when real bullets started flying. He was talking about hunting with his friends in the Virginia 1202nd, but what was developing in front of us could easily disintegrate into a riot. I looked among the Confederates and saw Dexter towering above the men around him, but I did not recognize anyone else, except Leland and Junior.
“Well, Ms. Foxharte?” said Leland.
Anna starred at him. Her face was red and her jaw was clinched. She shook her head and said, “Where does one begin?”
No one spoke while Anna considered what to say.
She started with a question. “Do you live by a set of principles, Mr….”
“Call me Leland.”
“Leland,” acknowledged Anna.
“Of course I do.”
“What principle or principles are you living by when you fly that flag?”
“Honoring one’s heritage,” Leland answered without hesitation.
“And, it doesn’t matter that many people find that flag offensive?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter that that flag has a long history of being used by bigots as a way to instill fear in others?”
“No.”
“So the principle of ‘honoring one’s heritage’ is more important than people working together to overcome their differences?�
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“No.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does,” countered Leland. “No one can deny that the Southern Cross has a controversial past. But, our aim is to put the controversy behind us. We fly that flag and other Confederate flags as a way to honor the better parts of the past.”
“But who’s past are you honoring – that of the bigots who taunted Black Americans during the Civil Rights Movement?”
“Isn’t someone who, at first sight, assumes that our flag symbolizes hatred or bigotry a bit of a bigot themselves?” Leland paused. The deliberate lifting of his eyebrows and tilting of his head implied that he was calling Anna a bigot. The crowd snickered with approval, but Anna’s expression was unchanged. “We are honoring the history of the South, a way of life, and the sacrifice made by our ancestors. A life lost in battle to defend one’s rights is a life worth honoring. If you see hatred and bigotry when you look at a Confederate flag, then blame those who taught you to see it that way, as well as others who share that vision.”
“What about those who lost their lives defending principles that are in direct opposition to that flag.” Anna added, “And, I don’t mean Yankees. Throughout the late 19th and 20th century, that flag has been a symbol of those dedicated to the oppression of blacks. Surely you can’t just disregard the violence that was endured by one generation after another. Given that history, you must be willing to accept that that flag is divisive.”
Leland quickly cut his eyes at Reg and the other black reenactors. He put his hand to his chin, and for a moment I thought that he might ask for their opinion. But, he said nothing to them and relied on himself to counter Anna’s argument. “You have me repeating myself,” he said.
Anna gave a quick nod, as if to say she understood. She tried a different approach. “People around the world look to this country for leadership; we represent a great experiment. We are a nation that embraces differences. This nation is a refuge to those who seek to escape oppression. Perhaps what others revere most about us is the incomparable freedoms that our citizens enjoy. But, that flag – that flag,” she repeated, “is the very antithesis of freedom.”
Leland interjected, “Once again, you are mistaken. What was the North doing when it invaded the South? It was trying to take away the freedoms of our southern ancestors. To this day, the North supports an agenda that often pushes the limits of tolerance to an extreme that many find hard to accept. In addition to being a symbol of Southern sovereignty, that flag, as you keep referring to it, is a symbol to those who have the courage to stand-up and say no to those who would impose their will on others.”
While Leland was talking, his son slipped through the crowd. He stood beside his father, who responded by placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy tugged on his father’s sleeve, but Leland ignored him.
As the debate continued, the heads of those listening moved from side to side. The argument went back and forth in an endless volley. Anna would make a point, often seeking a higher principle, and Leland would counter, logically turning Anna’s argument against her. The discourse went on until Anna finally reached for the highest principle.
“People who love humanity,” she said, “would refrain from glorifying war. And, one would hope that they would explain their motives before acting in ways that others might find offensive.” With a sigh, she added, “those who fly that flag today, seem to be insensitive to those who are offended. And worse, they seem to be energized by the controversy that they stir up.” Anna’s words had a certain finality, and she hung her head. I felt that she was saying, “That’s the best I can do.”
The crowd was silent, and the debate appeared to end in a draw. But, a draw was a victory for Leland. Anna’s defense of higher principles would not change anything – “status quo” would be good enough for him. Most of his men rolled their eyes at one another, adding a smirk here and there; but refraining from any act of celebration. Leland’s son, however, perhaps sensing the victory and not understanding the value of keeping silent, spoke out. “You told her,” he said to his father.
Anna closed her eyes and a steely smile spread across her face. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head; but she said nothing; and the words spoken by the young boy might have been forgotten if it had not been for the reenactor who added, “That he did.” His comment was followed by uneasy laughter.
Angered by the comments, Anna jerked her head up and whispered, “Ian, I don’t want to drag you into this, but I have to tell them what you’ve told me. It’s the only real evidence I have.”
“Okay,” I replied without any hesitation. I realized, however, that while Anna could repeat the fragmented bits of what I had shared with her, it might not be good enough. She was right – to convince anyone in the crowd that burning the flag was justifiable she needed evidence that it symbolized more than Leland was willing to disclose. Other than repeating what I told her, I didn’t know what she might say.
Anna shouted, “We’re not done here.” The crowd looked at her in disbelief.
I whispered to Anna, “Let me speak.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
I turned to Anna. “You’re not asking, I’m offering. I know you can handle it; but, it’s what I saw here last night that everyone needs to hear. I’m the one that knows all the details.”
She stood silent for a moment before she nodded and said, “That’s true.”
“So?”
“Okay.”
I turned and looked at the crowd. Exhaling slowly, I pointed to Ben, “She didn’t burn his flag,” I began. “She didn’t burn the flag of the Virginia 1202nd.” I paused and thought about the neo-Confederates standing around the fire singing “Dixie” and the man I had talked to inside the circle of tents. I considered saying that she didn’t burn their flag either, but I doubted that was true. I took another deep breath and pointed at Leland. “She burned your flag.” Several reenactors stepped closer to Leland in an obvious gesture of solidarity.
I half expected Leland to become angry in response to my accusation, but he kept his cool and spoke firmly. “Don’t you people get it? As I’ve said before, that flag is an important symbol to all of us. When she burned it we were all insulted.”
“It may be an important symbol to everyone here, but, even you acknowledged that it means different things to different people.”
“Many brave men and women, and even children, died for that flag,” said Leland. “Their sacrifice has been desecrated.”
“That’s not true. We respect their sacrifice. It’s not their sacrifice that concerns us; it’s something else that we’re worried about. Civil War reenacting may be a legitimate form of celebrating heritage for some, but for others it’s nothing more than a clever way to advance the white supremacist movement.” I could see that Leland was ready to respond to my comments, so I quickly added, “In fact, its better that way, isn’t it? Racist, hiding behind the legitimacy of others.”
“That’s absurd,” he said with a hint of irritation in his voice. “There are no racists around here. I can’t speak for everyone, but I can speak for the Association of Southern Heritage. We denounce all forms of racism. In fact, we clearly denounce it in our creed – which is the first thing you read in our charter. Furthermore, we celebrate the contribution that all men and women, black and white, made to the Confederacy. So I ask you, sir,” Leland nodded toward Anna, “and Ms. Foxharte, to get in that truck and leave us alone. This has gone on long enough.”
Reaching inside my jacket, I pulled out the catechism and held it up. “If you’re so innocent, then why are you having this distributed to children in Charleston and Columbia and Savannah?”
Junior Squires stepped closer to Leland. I sensed that he recognized the papers that I held in my hand as the ones that were in his father’s RV. Leland narrowed his eyes and, a few moments later said, “What about it? It’s just an educational pamphlet. Haven’t you ever seen one? We use them all the time. So
meone has to make sure that our children understand the truth about the Civil War.”
“It’s filled with distortions,” I said.
“For example?” Leland demanded.
I hastily opened the document and skimmed down the list. When I found the question I was looking for, I read. “Question number fifteen. How did the slaves feel about their masters? Answer number fifteen. They were faithful and devoted and were always – always,” I repeated, “ready and willing to serve them.”
“I see,” said Leland. “Perhaps that question is not a hundred percent accurate, but it does convey the general sense of the relationship between slave and slave owners.”
“How can you say that when you know that thousands of slaves escaped to freedom by way of the underground-railroad?”
“Thousands, ha,” scoffed Leland. He lifted his arm in a grandiose gesture, “Now there’s a distortion. I suppose you can back-up that one up.” His comment was met with more laughter.
“There is plenty of evidence.”
“And there is plenty of evidence to the contrary.” I wanted to ask Leland to identify his sources, but he didn’t give me the chance. “Appealing to higher principles didn’t work, so now you question our interpretation of history,” he said. “Anything to make us look bad, perhaps that’s the real issue.”
Many of the men in the crowd grumbled impatiently. But, others looked curiously at the document I held in my hand. I assumed they were unaware that neo-Confederates used such methods to educate children about their perspective on the reasons for the Civil War.
Leland’s son tugged on his father’s arm again, but Leland brushed him off and said, “Not now.” He then looked at me and continued, “So, that paper, is that the reason why Ms. Foxharte burned our flag – because she, or you, don’t agree with our interpretation of history?”
Anna interjected, “You’re getting the idea.”
Leland snickered. I was surprised at how easily he had dismissed the significance of the catechism. It was becoming apparent that the case against him was not as good as I had allowed myself to believe. But I had to go on; I felt that there was no other choice. I cleared my throat and said, “I have more.”
Someone shouted, “I doubt it.”
“Why are you rewriting the by-laws of the Association for Southern Heritage to limit membership to people whose ancestors officially served as officers and enlisted men for the Confederate States of America?”
Leland looked directly into my eyes as if he was trying to identify me. He then looked away and stood silent. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how I knew about the by-laws. When he finally looked up, he shrugged his shoulders as if he was bewildered. “New by-laws?” he said.
“Yes, new by-laws,” I repeated.
“I suppose you have another piece of paper in your pocket that supports your accusation?”
I hesitated. “Well…” I was about to say “no” when Max nudged my arm. I turned and he handed me a folded piece of paper.
“New by-laws,” Max whispered.
“Huh?”
“Zeb gave them to me.” He gave me a wink and said, “Interesting.”
Leland took a deep breath. “Well?”
I held up the paper and said, “I have a copy.”
Leland said, as if he was trying to call a bluff, “Read them.”
“Out loud?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I started to read, and Leland interrupted me after only a few words. “What do you see in the bottom right hand corner?” he asked.
“The word ‘draft’ and a date,” I replied.
“Written a few days ago, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes.”
“Only a draft. It has to be reviewed by an attorney to make sure that it’s legal. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. However,” he scowled, “I sense that that’s not good enough for you. I assume that you want to know if anyone is being excluded from membership based on race.”
Recalling Leland’s comment about how some historians refuse to recognize the official service of blacks to the Confederacy, I answered his question with a question. “Did African-Americans officially serve as officers or enlisted men for the Confederate Army?”
Leland answered immediately. “Why, yes. President Jefferson Davis signed an order on March 18th, 1865 to enlist Negro men into the Confederate Army. Furthermore, there are many descendents of Confederate enlisted men and officers who are African-American but have no African-American ancestors that served for the Confederate Army. White Confederate soldiers and their descendents fathered African-American children and, unless I’m confused about genetics,” he said with a smile, “that would make them eligible for membership in many heritage-based organizations.”
Leland’s remark about genetics drew snickers from the crowd, but when he finished his statement, they began to grumble again. I could tell that many of the reenactors were losing patience, and a sick feeling started to well up in my stomach. I realized how adept Leland was at using the facts to meet his needs – interpreting history to better serve his purpose. It was also clear that my approach was not working out the way I had expected. I looked at Junior Squires and at Leland’s son, who now appeared to be more interested in me than his father. I realized that I could have mentioned what I had overheard the boy say in his father’s tent, but I questioned whether or not I had really heard anything incriminating. I also understood that anything Anna or I said would be disputed by Leland and would ultimately come down to his word against ours. I knew that I had failed. I sheepishly looked at Anna and said, “Sorry.”
The crowd grew loud and I discerned a variety of remarks among the rumble. One reenactor shouted, “You’ve had your chance boy, now take your woman and get out of here.” Several others added angry words of their own.
Leland’s son was staring hard at me. He looked as if he had an irrepressible urge to speak. He opened his mouth; but, before he could say anything, Leland put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and cut in. “What we are doing here is respectfully celebrating our heritage,” he said quickly. He sighed and added. “It’s unfortunate that people don’t understand that. So, as I said before, please leave – leave us in peace to go on with our celebration.”
Leland’s suggestion sounded merciful. So I said to Anna, “We should go.”
She looked at me with a blank expression. I gently took her arm and motioned for her to get into the truck, but she resisted. “This isn’t right,” she said to no one in particular and she pulled away from my grasp. The crowd heard her remark and they became eerily quiet, anticipating what she might say next. I could feel hundreds of eyes staring at us. I was expecting any variety of comments, but for a few long seconds no one said anything.
I looked again at Leland’s son. He looked at me and broke the silence – finally able to say what was on his mind, he said, “He’s a nigger lover, ain’t he, Daddy?”
