Shadow Country (120 page)

Hannah showed us a wedding photo of her sister Lydia, who was every inch as big as Hannah and Sarah and was wearing a whole rosebush for a hat. Sat in a chair with the groom in her lap and his hat only came to her shoulder. She called him Doll Baby. Doll Baby was shortly convicted of murder and sentenced to thirty years in prison, but Lydia, unable to tolerate her lover's absence, offered financial incentive to the warden to see to his release, then went to the penitentiary, wrote a check, and lugged Doll Baby away under her arm. Soon as she got home she stopped payment on her check, and all that warden could do short of going to jail was shake his head over Miss Lydia's financial acumen. “Ain't a man alive who can out-figger me,” Miss Lydia liked to say. “I always said I could make five dollars out of every dollar I could lay my hands on,” and she had laid her hands on plenty, Hannah told us.

These days Miss Smith worked for C. G. McKinney on the farm he called Needhelp up in Turner River, plowing and hoeing, building fences, too. Grew malangas and cabbages, which C. G. rowed down to the Bay and shipped to Key West on the
Rosina.
In the field as well as other times, Hannah wore her high brogans and gray dress down to the ground and a sunbonnet big enough to hold a bushel of fresh cabbages. She removed her boots to feel the good earth when she plowed, and of an evening loved to sing sad ballads about young country women and their faithless sweet-hearts. She was weary of working Needhelp all alone, she told us, so I invited her to Chatham Bend to try her hand at women's work, see how she liked it. Green brought her on a visit once or twice and finally installed her there for good.

Green was greatly annoyed that his lady friend had been followed from Turner River by Charlie Tommie, the only Mikasuki in the Glades who had got himself snake-bit by moccasins three different times. The first time he got “sick, sick, sick,” the second time “sick, sick,” and the third time scarcely sick at all. That is the only interesting thing I ever heard about Charlie Tommie. According to Green, this pesky redskin had spied on Miss Smith unstintingly at Needhelp, having fallen in love with this eye-popping damsel who laved her bountiful white body weekly in the river shallows. Sure enough, Charlie showed up at the Bend, camping across the river out of rifle range from where he could keep an eye on Hannah as she came and went and make sure she was treated in the manner she deserved until such time as she realized his true worth and permitted him to lead her off to live happily ever after in the swamps.

In truth he wasn't much of an admirer. “That Charlie ain't nobody no more,” Richard Harden told me. By that he meant Charlie might as well be dead, having been banished by his band for trafficking with whites. In Indian terms, he no longer existed in the world even though, to the untrained eye, he still seemed to be running around loose. He was also running out of time, because one of these days, when they got around to it, his people planned to kill him. Charlie accepted this fate without complaint, so I guess you could say those Indians know what they're doing.

Green Waller never looked like much but he was certainly in love, you never saw such a damn fool in your life. And his adoration had poked up the primordial fires smoldering in his beloved, who took that hog thief to her bed and clung to him for dear life. Since she was ten times stronger, Green explained, he knew it was useless to attempt a struggle.

“Thought you wanted to grow up to be a virgin, Green,” I said. “Why, hell, no!” Green retorted with a dirty grin. “It's just I was savin it for Betsey!” Betsey was that brindle sow I'd trained up to do tricks for the children. Waller claimed that in his early years, alone here on the Bend, he'd trained her to provide him with some low fulfillment which no selfrespecting human being would care to think about.

Green and Hannah had washed up on the Watson place after hard voyages, and they were tired. They swept out the little Dyer cabin and made it “the first home I ever knew,” as Green said weepily, wiping his long sniffling nose with the back of his hand. There they vowed to love each other the best way they knew how until death parted them.

Poor as we were, we always had plenty to eat, with Hannah's garden patch back of the cistern, also two milk cows, hogs and chickens, papaws, pears and guavas, coconuts, bananas—all in addition to fresh fish and game. Lucius was sure that in no time at all Watson's “Island Pride” Syrup would come back strong, and gradually my own hope revived a little. These people trusted me to get back on my feet and I aimed to do it. “Can't keep a good man down,” Waller would snigger, winking at Hannah. Hearing those words, she would gaze at her man hungrily as she rose like a genie from the table and hurried him off to bed.

THE STRANGER

May 1910 was the month of that ghostly white fire in the sky that was seen at first as the Star of Bethlehem but was later feared by the more pious as the Great Tribulation or even the Exterminating Angel of the Book of Exodus, who would spare only those earthly dwellings whose lintels were marked with the Blood of the Lamb. According to the newspapers, that broad luminous streak crossing the heavens every night was Halley's Comet, which was causing suicides around the world out of man's terror that this sinful world was coming to an end, but since our third child was delivered at the Key West hospital while that light was still flaring in the heavens, I decided to take that mysterious apparition as a good omen.

Not long after Kate came home with Amy May, I made a business trip to Tampa. Passing through Chokoloskee on my return, I was warned by Ted Smallwood that a stranger was awaiting me at Chatham. “Calls himself John Smith,” Mamie Smallwood said. “Looked like a preacher,” Ted scoffed, impatient. “Never seen a preacher yet with a big ol' half-moon scar across his cheekbone.” At the mention of that scar, I had to wonder if the Great Comet had been a good omen after all.

Hearing the
Brave
coming upriver, Kate and her baby were waiting on the dock, and even before I stepped ashore I could see how jittery she was. “He's here,” she whispered, close to tears. When I took her in my arms to calm her, she wept desperately. “He murdered old Calvin and Aunt Celia Banks and another darkie, too! He
boasts
about it! He claims you wanted him to do that for revenge on Calvin! He claims you put him up to killing those Tolens!”

I'm ashamed to say that what I was thinking about as my wife spoke was not poor Calvin and his Celia, not at all. I was thinking about the way this bastard had humiliated an innocent young mother when he sent her to my jail cell with that knife. I strode up the mound toward the porch.

Lucius, Waller and Hannah, Sip, Frank Reese, and two young hands were all out working in the field. “John Smith” sat in my chair drinking my whiskey. His boots were sprawled on my pine table, a pistol beside them (though I suspected he'd put boots and pistol on the table when he heard me coming). In his hard-cornered black suit—a would-be riverboat gambler, not a preacher—with his pubic scraggle of a beard and long ducktails of greasy hair on his dirty neck, he looked degenerate. In fact, he stank.

“You don't smell so good,” I said.

“Howdy, pardner,” says this fool by way of greeting, putting on his best gunslinger squint and dangerous smile. I stood in the doorway considering the boots until he finally removed them, stood, stuck out his hand. Ignoring it, I sat down across the table.

“So you murdered Calvin.”

Cox said, yep, he'd
had
to. Had to fix that fuckin Calvin for what he done in court to E. J. Watson. No nigger did that to
no
friend of Les Cox and lived to brag on it. Cox spoke in lean whispery tones out of his respect for his own honor. He had aimed to share up Calvin's savings, help me pay my legal bills, restore my good name in the community, “hold my head up proud.”

Sickening as this horseshit was, it was horribly sincere; this hayseed had really thought he was saving my good name as he robbed and killed for money, having persuaded himself he was exacting the revenge I would have wanted. But having been present in the courtroom, even Leslie must have known that poor old Calvin meant no harm: he had only done what he was told to do, which was speak the truth.

As if being a dangerous liar and coldblooded killer were not bad enough, Les Cox succumbed easily to self-pity. Assuring me he expected no reward for his act of friendship, he struggled to fight back manly tears; I had to fight back tears myself after hearing what he'd perpetrated on my account.

Leslie had found Calvin Banks pushing his old half-blind Celia on the porch swing. Told to hand over the fabled chest of William Myers's missing gold, Calvin said, “Nosuh, I ain't got it.” Warned that Leslie didn't have all day, Calvin apologized but repeated what he'd said. Fed up with arguing, Cox shot him dead, then put two bullets into the old woman as she toppled off the swing and tried to crawl away. Rooted through everything those darkies had, trying to find their money, even crawled and scratched around under the cabin.

Afraid that somebody might come along, and resentful of all the trouble and the risk that mulish nigger could have saved him, Cox vented his anger on the son-in-law, who was waiting for him down the road. “He was sposed to get a little money but I never found near enough to share. Kept moanin that he would fry in Hell for getting his old folks killed without so much as one thin dime to show for it”—a threat, Leslie decided, and for once he was probably right. Les, I thought, “he's a damn witness. You better take and shut this nigger's mouth. That's what I did.”

“Naturally,” I said, feeling very tired.

Leslie's cousin Oscar Sanford and their friend Tom Gay were both in on his plan. Wasn't much of a plan, of course, but knowing the planners, it probably took all three of 'em to think it up. Once he was indicted, Leslie named the other two as his accomplices, to teach 'em a lesson for running off when he started killing people, then failing to support his alibi. That instinct for revenge led to his downfall because Tom Gay turned state's evidence against him.

Naturally Sheriff Dick Will Purvis released Les to go off to his own wedding in Suwannee County and was astounded when he actually came back. Men were rarely detained for killing nigras but because of all the Tolen rumors, this Cox boy had to be indicted. Stunned when he was convicted and sent to prison for the rest of his natural life, Leslie complained to the judge that a likely young man such as himself would never survive the ordeal of the chain gang, and the judge said, “Son, you will come out of it just fine.”

That judge knew what he was talking about, too. In February, Will Cox rode to where the gang was laying rail near Silver Springs. The guards had unshackled the gang chain so each man could work, and one guard had uncoupled that last car and Will's boy was hanging on to the far side when it rolled back down the grade. None of the guards seemed to notice when that convict jumped off and lit out for the woods.

I recalled how Leslie bragged in jail how his daddy was such good friends with Purvis that even if he got convicted the guards would turn their backs and let him go. At the time that sounded like more of his big talk but now it turned out to be true. He went across country to his uncle John Fralick, who took him home under a canvas in his wagon a few days later.

Gay and Sanford were not prosecuted, Les told me, because the one witness who could implicate them had escaped. “Just a pitiful disgrace,” he complained, “that I couldn't do my bounden duty and go over to the county court and testify on them yeller sonsabitches without gettin arrested for escapin. If
that
ain't obstructin of justice, Unc, what's this country comin to?” Les could say these hilarious things and never crack a smile.

That mention of splitting his loot with his friend Watson was the last I ever heard about his loot. It was not so much he begrudged me Calvin's savings, it was more his reluctance to admit he had blown three people's heads off for next to nothing. As Reese observed, “Three human lives for thirty-eight dollars is pretty doggone cheap even for niggers.”

Piece by piece, the whole story came together. The girl Les married was my niece May Collins, which was why this idiot now called me Unc. May's father was dead and her mother was oblivious, but even so, the marriage caused an uproar in the family. Having defied her brothers by eloping, May went to stay with Coxes. The sheriff was still going through the motions of being on the lookout for the fugitive, who wore his mother's dress out in the field as a disguise, and that spring the young couple had to hole up in Will's attic. My virgin niece had been crazy about him, Les complained, but their bower was airless and so hot and humid that he couldn't get a hold on his nude bride, she got so slippery. Couldn't hardly tell which end was up, he said. Very serious about this problem, Leslie was offended by my grin, demanding to know what manner of man would dirty-grin about his own fucking niece.

“Breaks a man's heart to leave his darlin,” Les confided, deeply moved by the bittersweetness of it all. “But I knowed my gal May would sleep a whole heap better once her man had made good his ex-cape and was safe under the roof of her uncle Edgar.”

He cheered up then, cocking his head. “Ever get that knife I sent into the jail with your Kate Edna?” With a sly grin, he kicked back in his chair, lifted his legs, and set his boots back on the table, clasping his hands behind his head.

Containing myself, I glared at his dirty boots. “I'll find a way to thank you, boy, you can count on that. And I won't make you wear your dress at Chatham Bend unless you want to.”

“
Boy,
you said?” Les squinted harder.
“Wear my dress?”

“What I meant was, boy, if you plan to eat while you are here under my roof, you'll keep your damn boots off my table and go on out and earn your keep like everybody else.” I grabbed those boots and swung his legs so violently that he spun right off his chair onto the floor. “I catch you snooping around my wife again, I'll kill you,” I advised him.