Lost Man's River (57 page)

She turned to investigate his expression, the long fork dripping grease into the pan. “Don't, Lucius. Please.” She turned her back on him. “I'll take you to Naples as soon as you're finished,” she said coolly and carefully, in warning to them both.

In a while, her voice came brightly, “Ol' Mister Colonel! Whidden sure talked about ol' Mister Colonel after he came to bed! Just went on and on about the old days!” She faced him again. “Made me feel funny, as if I'd lied to him about you, though I haven't. He has never asked. I just lay there listening, as if I knew hardly anything about you!” Her eyes were misty as she turned back to his bacon.

After E. J. Watson's death, folks reckoned they'd seen the last of that man's family. Camped and squatted in the Watson Place just as they pleased, and
over the years they took away pret' near everything, nailed down or otherwise. So it must of been hard for his younger boy to come home to the Islands and see what that old place had come to.

When he first showed up around nineteen and nineteen, Lucius Watson—he was still called Lucius—spent a fortnight at his daddy's place, then kept on going south to Lost Man's River. First thing he done was offer Chatham to Lee Harden, on the condition he could live there, too, in the little Dyer cabin down the bank. Pa told him how a certain family had sold the quitclaim to the Bend to the Chevelier Corporation, and he got all hot and bothered, saying his dad's title was still good, no matter what.

Only trouble was, Pa didn't want the place, no more'n my Grandpa wanted it before him. Hardens was fishermen, not farmers. They did not care to see forty acres of good ground goin to waste. Also, most local fishermen had motorboats by then, so Chatham River was already too close to Chokoloskee. And though Pa hated to admit it, the Bend spooked him.

Lee Harden had always been uneasy on the Bend, right from a boy. Bad power there, that's what he was told by his cousin Cory Osceola. Finally Lucius Watson gave up on the Bend, moved south, built a small shack on our shell ridge back of Lost Man's Beach. And after that day, in all the times he went up Chatham River with Lee Harden, he hardly never went ashore, not even when Pa stopped to pick guavas or ladle up some water from the cistern. Fell dead silent, passin that gray house and that big old raggedy plantation out behind it, hardly never took a look in that direction. Colonel Watson was the lonesomest person on the earth, that's what my ma told me.

Mister Colonel—that's how I called him then, how I still think of him—was kind of my adopted uncle, and Lost Man's River was his adopted home. For the better part of thirty years, he lived just down the beach there at South Lost Man's. He was a well-built and good-lookin man maybe six foot tall, fair hair bleached out by the sun but thick dark brows and a brown skin from long days on the water. According to his sister Pearl up to Caxambas, he took after his mother, kind of wishful-looking, same gray eyes and little sideways smile. Spoke very soft when he spoke at all, and had real nice manners like his daddy. Mr. Lucius Watson was a real old-fashioned gentleman—a regular Kentucky Colonel, that's what my ma called him. Tant Jenkins heard that, and one day sung out, “Good mornin, Colonel!” And pretty soon the man was goin by that name, though us kids put a Mister to it, out of respect.

Mister Colonel never cared for his new name. “I am no Colonel, sir,” he'd say when he was drinking. “I am Machinist's Mate Second Class Lucius Hampton Watson! U.S. Navy!” He'd put on a loony dangerous look when he
talked like that, to make us children laugh, but all the same, he kind of enjoyed the sound of that old stuff. “I was born in the Indian Country in 1889, the year that Belle Starr died by an unknown hand!”—he enjoyed the sound of that one, too. I've heard him come out with it even when he thought he was alone, just to let the birds in on what ailed him.

Us Hardens sure liked Mister Colonel, everybody on this coast liked Mister Colonel, even them men who was afraid of him, but nobody could figure out just what he wanted. He was pretty close to thirty then but acted like a lanky homesick boy—a homesick boy who talked too quiet, walked too quiet, and could shoot pretty near as good as the man who taught him. He could drill a curlew through both eyes so's not to waste no meat, and that kind of shootin scared them men that was ready to be scared of Watsons in the first place. They figured Ed Watson was crazy, and if the father was crazy, the son might be, too.

By the time he come home to the Islands, the tales about his dad was worse than ever, and them terrible stories made the son withdraw from people. Even Browns and Thompsons who was his dad's friends was very uneasy around Watson's son, they couldn't figure what this man was thinking, they didn't really want nothing to do with him.

Course Mister Colonel made things worse by askin questions of anybody who might tell him anything about what happened that October day of 1910. A lot of 'em he spoke to knew more than they let on, and some knew less, but nobody didn't care none for his questions. Then one day he was seen writin somethin on a scrap of paper, and next thing you know, them rumors started that Colonel Watson was takin down the names of all the men who fired at his daddy. If Colonel weren't such a sweet-natured feller, some edgy darn fool would of put a bullet through him long ago, that's what my pa said. Said if that man don't move very careful, they might do it yet.

Every man down in the rivers had growed leery, and maybe Bill House and his brothers most of all. Once that family heard that Watson's boy was back, they kept a real sharp eye out, cause they never knew when he might be comin nor what he might do after he got there. There weren't no knowin where he might be headed, and he didn't always wave. He was a loner. A man might sense something and glance around, get maybe no more'n a glimpse of that blue skiff crossin a narrow channel between islands. Hardly no wake at all, no more'n a alligator. On land, that man could come up on you soft as a panther, even on a crunchy old shell beach, and he could disappear in that same way. You looked around and that blue skiff was gone.

Mister Colonel fished up and down the coast, but his home was with our Harden clan at Lost Man's River. The men of Chokoloskee Bay was feudin
with our family, and Watson's son throwin in with us that way—though we was glad to have him—made things more dangerous for him, and for us, too.

I was born at Lost Man's River and grew up mostly with my folks, so I grew up with Colonel Watson, too. Hardens had knew his daddy well but nobody spoke too much about him, only me. After I heard about how he died I asked Mister Colonel some hard questions, sneakin up on him real crafty so's he wouldn't know what I was gettin at. And he tolerated this because I was a young boy, and also because he was good-hearted and knew the Hardens meant him well no matter what. And over the years he told me what he knew.

When he first come, Mister Colonel had a plan to repair his daddy's house for a Miss Lucy he had planned to marry, though he never mentioned her except when he was drinking. She had lived on Chatham Bend as a little girl, he said, she was his true love. Well, he weren't in the Islands hardly a year when his true love married someone else. Mister Colonel had a lovin nature, and for a long while after that, I believe he was half in love with Sadie Harden, but bein a gentleman, he never said nothin nor done nothin, so Hardens never give it no thought neither.

Lee Harden used to tell about this stranger who turned up in a skiff one time at Lost Man's Beach. Wiry feller with a black head of hair and a thin beard, spoke short and crusty. He was dead pale with smooth soft hands but seemed to know what he was doin in
a
boat. They said, “You off a ship someplace?” and he said, “No, I rowed down here from Everglade.” His hands was raw, all blistered up, but the man was tough cause he did not complain. Pa said, “Well, that's far enough for a man ain't used to pullin oars. What can we do for ye?” He thought this feller looked some way familiar.

Feller said his name was Tucker, John D. Tucker. He claimed to be Wally Tucker's nephew, said he wanted to pay his last respects where E. J. Watson killed his aunt and uncle. So my folks took him over to the key where the Tuckers was buried back in 1901, and when they come near that burial place, this John Tucker come out all feverish and sweaty and he could not hide it. So when he asked the whereabouts of Lucius Watson, Hardens got the idea he had a feud to settle, so they told him that the last they heard, Lucious Watson had left south Florida for parts unknown. The stranger give 'em a hard eye, cross and dissatisfied. He said, “That's what they told me in Chokoloskee, too.” And Lee Harden laughed and said, “Well, for once them goddamn people told some truth.”

They wrapped this feller's hands in rags and watched him row away back toward the north. From his questions they had figured out that he knew
more than he should about the Tuckers, considerin there weren't no witnesses that could of told him. Then it come to Pa why he looked familiar, beard or no beard. This man was Rob Watson, E. J.'s oldest boy, the one that run away in 1901.

Rob Watson had not believed them people when they told him his young brother had moved away. By the time he got to Lost Man's River, he was likely wonderin if these Island people had killed his brother and buried him someplace back in the mangroves.

When Mister Colonel come back from Flamingo, he started fishin commercial with Hoad Storter. Them fellers would always bring their catch to our Harden fish house at Wood Key, hose 'em and weigh 'em, ice 'em down, go get some rest. Like everyone else, they got their nets tore up on all them orster bars, but Colonel never minded. He'd whittle him a new needle out of red mangrove, which God made tough and limber for that purpose, then set in the sun and mend net all day long. Watchin him perched like a egret on his bow, hour after hour—that was my first real memory of Mister Colonel. You couldn't never guess what he was thinkin.

Though he never said straight out about it or complained or nothin, he talked sometimes how he come back there to represent his father's family and show the Bay people that Watson's son—or this son anyways—was not ashamed of him. Said nobody put that duty on his head except Lucius Watson, but all the same, he felt obliged to live his life there. Made a livin as a fisherman, read all them books he had there in his shack, and drank rye whiskey. Whiskey was his enemy, I guess.

Mister Colonel was well educated, he knew much more than he would ever tell, but he was modest, always set himself aside. He meant it, too, it weren't a humble show like some people. As Pa would say, “Colonel Watson is a real fine man that don't appreciate himself.” In that way, he reminded us of Henry Short.

Them two good men was both close to my family but could never be friends. Mister Colonel knew about them foolish rumors that Henry was the man who killed his daddy, but he never spoke bad about Henry Short and he didn't hate him, not so far as anyone could tell. My ma told him more'n once what Henry Short told
her
, that he never took part in killing Mr. Watson, but because Mister Colonel would only nod when she said that, and never made no other sign about it, she warned Henry Short to stay away from him.

Mister Colonel never spoke against his family, never spoke of 'em at all. When he would tell us that he had no family, what he meant was, no one to go home to. All he had was that Daniels-Jenkins bunch around Caxambas that his people at Fort Myers never spoke about. Sometimes he might mention
how he missed his sister Carrie or his brother Rob, especially after Hardens told him how Rob come huntin him that time, then went away again. Otherwise he never let on about how lonesome his life was, though from time to time, when he was drinkin, he would remind me and my older brother Roark how lucky we was to have such a fine family of lovin folks to raise us up. Sadie Harden said that all poor Colonel wanted was to find a place in life where he belonged. Said that all his life, all he was lookin for was the way home.

Mister Colonel wore shoes most of the time, which few men did in them days in the Islands. He stayed clean and neat in his appearance, very—that man bathed and shaved most every night! Harden women done his washing and they darned his socks. Outside, he wore a cap or hat, but always pushed it far back on his head, or rolled the front, so's nobody wouldn't take that hat too serious. Comin inside, he'd take it off, tidy his clothes. Never came to the table without first brushing his hair. He was our adopted uncle, and he brought us presents. We was poor, so if he hadn't brought some, we'd of never got any. Bring us kids a whole bushel of bubble gum—three hundred pieces!

Mister Colonel ate most of his Sunday meals with us. He kept his own shack down the beach but was always invited to Thanksgiving and Christmas. He loved to cook and was real good at it, and he canned a lot of vegetables with my ma, but behind them smiles he offered at our table, he always seemed a little sad to us, watching his own life pass him by. At Lost Man's, neighbors was few and far between. There weren't no spare women on that coast, and he didn't hunt one. He was forty or fifty when our ma told him, “Colonel, don't let the past eat you alive! You've never let yourself have any happiness, and it's time to start!” And Mister Colonel said, “Might be too late to teach old dogs new tricks, seems like to me.” And he'd grin that sideways grin of his, to make sure nobody took him no more serious than they took his hat.

He would not whine. Never talked too much about his dad, only when drinking. “My dad might of been all right,” he might say sometimes, “if they'd told the truth about him. It was all those lies that got him so riled up, like how he murdered his own friend Guy Bradley.” Mister Colonel would never say if his dad had killed people or not, he would only relate how kind he always was to his wives and children, how he looked after 'em so well, and was always generous to his friends and neighbors. “It's so hard to believe all those terrible stories, don't
you
think so?” he might say, “How a good kind man could turn overnight into a coldhearted killer?” And Hardens could not explain that either, they could not help him.