In dream, Lucius rowed across the water. Very slowly, the brute opened its long jaws in warning before raising itself on its short legs and rushing at him with horrid speed, jaws wide, before thrashing away in a thick roil into the current. In terror that the crocodile was just beneath the skiff and must surely rise to capsize, seize, and drag him down, he was awakened by his own cry and gasped for breath. He sat up on deck in the cold mist and dew, peering fearfully into the river deeps.
Yes, he was full of dread and could not hide this from himself. He went at dawn to Lost Man’s River, where Owen Harden and his Sarah had always been his friends and made him welcome. That same day, on impulse, he offered them the Watson place: he could rebuild the Dyer cabin. Troubled by his distress, they refused to take the offer seriously. There was no sense wasting Chatham’s forty acres of black soil on fishermen. Anyway some development company had recently acquired rights to the Watson property. Bill House, who was working not far upriver on the high ground at House Hammock, would take over as caretaker early next year.
“The leader of the lynch mob! Living in your daddy’s house!” Sarah exclaimed.
“Acquired rights from whom?” Lucius demanded. These damned developers were usurping Papa’s land claim and perhaps his vision for the future of this coast. But Lucius had no heart for a legal battle which he probably could not win.
Owen Harden kindly invited his friend to build a driftwood cabin here on Lost Man’s Beach and use the Harden dock and icehouse. And as Sarah pointed out, this cabin project would allow a little time for his father’s executioners to adjust to Lucius’s sudden reappearance in the Islands.
He began his inquiries gradually, trying to remain objective and avoid recriminations. From early on, he kept a secret list with notes. The Island men had liked “Ed’s boy” back in the old days, and at first some put their wariness aside, even volunteered information about Ed’s early years on Chatham Bend, his farming innovations, his quickly acquired seamanship, uncanny marksmanship (which he never minded showing off), his humor and good humor, and the colorful tales, not all of them apocryphal, of his riotous behavior in Tampa and Key West—everything, in short, but the background and events of that black autumn evening in October of 1910. Keeping Lucius at a distance, they nicknamed him “Colonel,” less in amicable teasing than in recognition of his educated speech and manners—for even at their most obliging, they mistrusted him, so fearful were they that those quiet manners might be hiding schemes of bloody retribution. The situation worsened as his inquiries became more specific, touching on the identities of posse members: he always said “posse” though he wanted to say “mob.”
Rumor spread quickly. The Islanders grew taciturn, then cold; he braved cold-eyed silences everywhere he went. The men might head their boats off course as his approached; their women might simply back indoors and let him knock repeatedly without response. Knowing that if he touched that latch, some frightened body behind the door might blow his head off, he went away. That this soft-spoken man would take such risks, that he kept coming, only served as further evidence that Lucius Watson must be crazy, maybe just as dangerous as his daddy. From the start, Bill House and his brothers—the patriarch D. D. House had died—refused to deal with Watson’s son at all.
To Lucius’s surprise, friends such as the Browns who at the time had denounced the Watson execution as a lynching were as reticent about the lynchers’ identities as those who had been involved. Even Erskine Thompson, his father’s ship captain, seemed to avoid him—very curious, since Erskine had no reason to be nervous. Or did he? Lucius often wondered what had happened to the schooner, which at Papa’s burial he had asked Hoad Storter to see to: Hoad later reported that the ship was missing. Had someone sold her and pocketed the money?
Lucius caught up with the lank, sun-baked Thompson on the dock at Everglade. After some stiff conversation, he asked this old friend from Chatham days if he still believed that E. J. Watson’s death had been planned in advance. Erskine nodded in assent, but when asked who the planners might have been, he said, “Damned if I know.” Asked whom he had noticed at the scene, the only man he could come up with was Mr. D. D. House, four years deceased.
“Nobody else? You sure? You were right there, Erskine.”
Over the years, Thompson had soured in the way of lazy men, and Lucius’s incredulity turned him peevish. He was soon insinuating that no son of Ed Watson should go around Chokoloskee Bay asking nosy questions: that whole business was better left alone, less said the better. Instead of asking his fool questions, Thompson called back, starting away, the son should settle up all those back wages that the father had never paid his schooner captain.
“Speaking of schooners,” Lucius shot back, “whatever happened to the Gladiator? Isn’t her captain the man who should know best?” Thompson cupped his ear, feigning deafness, before waving Lucius away with disgust and finality and walking on.
NIGGER SHORT
Though even his father’s friends concealed the identities of the posse members, these families made sure that Watson’s son heard rumors that “Nigger Short” had participated in the shooting. Lucius dismissed these stories as absurd until Hoad Storter told him that he, too, had heard this. Hoad said unhappily, “Well, he might have been there, Lucius. People say they saw him. That doesn’t mean that he participated: don’t let ’em tell you that. Henry’s colored and he’s not suicidal. He’s got very good sense.”
He asked the Hardens. After a long pause, Owen said flatly, “Sure. He might of been there. Houses’ orders, probably.” He shrugged it off as insignificant but it was clear that, for Henry’s sake, he didn’t want to talk about it.
In the interests of objectivity, Lucius felt obliged to seek Short out, hear him deny any participation in his own words, but Short had not been easy to track down. He no longer visited the Hardens, who had no idea (they said) where he might be found. Probably this was more or less true, but it was also true, as Owen and Sarah admitted, that though they trusted Lucius, they could not count on what he might do as Watson’s son. Did they doubt his sanity or his intentions? Lucius wondered. And why were they so protective of Henry if he had not been involved?
It was Henry Short, as it turned out, who had dismantled the Frenchman’s shack on Possum Key (an act that for years had been attributed to Leslie Cox). In his sailing skiff he had moved it piece by piece all the way south to West Cape Sable and lugged the boards three miles or more inland to a desolate area of scrub and brackish water where nobody would come looking for him, let alone find him. “That whole cabin traveled on that one man’s shoulders,” Sarah marveled.
“Henry Short come straight to Lost Man’s after your daddy was killed. ‘Wait and see,’ Henry said. ‘They’ll try to hang it on the nigger.’ But Daddy Richard had taught that man the Bible. Henry was a fine strong Christian, swore by the First Commandment so we knew he could never line a man up in his rifle sights and pull the trigger.”
“And anyway, he had nothing against my father,” said Lucius.
“I ain’t so sure. Remember Jane? Light mulatta gal that come down from Fort White to cook for your daddy at the Bend?”
Lucius smiled. “Jane Straughter? Sure. I thought I was kind of in love with her.”
“Me, too. That’s how I learned I could love two girls at once.” Owen glanced at his young wife in comic fear. “Well, Henry confided he had loved Jane dearly and believed she loved him, too, but your daddy found out and sent Henry away. When she went back to Fort White, that poor feller was heart-broke. Took him years to get over her. Finally married my sister Liza, got tore up again.
“Course Hardens had nothing against mixed blood, so when Henry started courtin Liza, nobody objected ’ceptin Earl, although Liza was coffee and Henry the pale color of new wheat.”
“Henry has a lot more white than most of those po’ whites who call him ‘Nigger,’ ” Sarah said.
“I guess Henry never talked enough to suit my sister. As the only colored
in a cracker community, he never had much practice. Liza complained that Henry never talked, never gave her more than the bare facts even when he talked about the weather. Our Liza dearly loved a conversation, and she couldn’t bear that. So pretty soon that girl run off with a white man who told her he had money which he didn’t.”
Sarah said, “Liza announced her marriage to Henry was annulled because it was performed outside the Church and therefore didn’t count in the Pope’s eyes, but she never could remember who annulled it. Being strong-minded like her mother, she most likely annulled it herself.
“Our ma admired Henry Short, no matter what,” he reflected after a while. “She never had much use for her daughter after she run off with that cracker, who had a bad habit of pickin up anything loose he could lay his hands on, my sister included. Liza bein Henry’s consolation for a lonely life, he never got over it. Followed our family to Flamingo, fished around Cape Sable, but when he returned to Lost Man’s River, who should he find living there but Liza and her man; they were not real friendly but made him drink with them to let bygones be bygones. That was Henry’s first liquor and he couldn’t handle it, and that night he was heard to mutter how somebody might take and shoot that thievin redneck. We knew he was just easin his torment but that kind of wild talk could of got him killed.”
“Even before Liza took up with Henry,” Sarah said, “some of them Bay women called her ‘white trash,’ not because she done wrong but only because their menfolk—every man along that coast—would have sold his soul for what Henry had and those ladies knew it. So they were happy thinking she’d humiliated her family by marrying ‘Nigger Short’ and overjoyed when she run out on him: it did their hearts good to see God Almighty humble that mulatta who dared to marry that supposed-to-be-white woman after raising up his gun to a white man.”
“Ma said Henry was a high type of man who had a low opinion of himself. White people had robbed him of his chance for a home and family and now they had took his self-respect as well. But I believe that losing Liza might have saved his life. The young fellers let off steam crackin mean jokes and shootin off their mouths instead of gettin drunk and comin after him. Because when there’s too much lynch talk in the air, it’s bound to happen.”
One day Owen Harden said, “Henry’s at the Bend.”
To avoid scaring Henry Short back into the scrub, Lucius slipped up Chatham River on a night tide and was at the dock at daybreak. Calling out softly to calm the dogs and announce his presence, he walked unarmed toward the house.
Bill House, already outside in the porch shadows, stood in his nightshirt like a ghost. Perhaps to warn Henry, he sang out, “That a Watson? You lookin for me?”
“Looking for Henry. Heard you might know where to find him.”
“We ain’t seen him. What you want with him? Next time—oh Christamighty!”
To House’s annoyance, Short had appeared at the corner of the boat shed. When Lucius said good morning, Henry lifted his hat politely but did not come forward. Instead he retreated behind the shed, possibly to escape the cool breeze off the river but more likely, Lucius guessed, to make sure they were out of earshot from the porch. Was this precaution for his visitor’s sake or for his own?
“We heard some man been huntin him,” House said. “That you?”
“Nosir,” Lucius said, “it’s not.”
Short awaited him, standing not stiffly but very straight, as if to accept any punishment his hard life had in store including its own immediate relinquishment. His ancient Winchester, leaned against the shed, had been left or placed well out of his reach, though Short must have heard the Warrior coming upriver and could have kept the weapon handy if he’d wished. If I were to put a revolver to his head, Lucius supposed, this man might flinch but he would remain silent, less out of fortitude than a profound fatalism and possibly relief that all his trials, Lord, would soon be over.
Henry bent to brush raccoon scat off a fish box, providing his visitor a seat. He was a strong, good-looking man with blue-gray eyes, composed and very clear in his appearance. Like most men in the Islands, he went barefoot, but unlike most, he kept himself clean-shaven and his blue denims were well patched and clean.
Lucius opened the conversation with civilities, then rather abruptly came right out with it, keeping his voice low. He’d heard rumors, he said, keeping his voice amiable, that Henry Short was present at the Watson killing.
Yessir, Henry agreed after a pause. He had gone down to Smallwood’s landing on that day. Why? Because Ol’ Mis Ida House, she told him go keep an eye on Ol’ Mist’ Dan. And he had taken his rifle along? He was told to bring it. And why should he be believed?
Near expressionless, Henry raised his gaze and looked his inquisitor straight in the eye. “I don’ know that, suh.”
“You were only following orders, Henry. I believe that. But some say you took part. They say they saw you raise your rifle.”
“Nosuh, nosuh!” Shaking his head over and over, Henry retreated into negritude. “White folks roun’ de Bay was allus good to me, Mist’ Lucius. Must of mistaked dereselfs, dass it. Dey was all lookin at Mist’ Watson, see what he might do. Nobody nevuh paid no min’ to no darn nigguh.”
Lucius groaned in frustration. As a man who had lived his whole life among whites, Short usually spoke like one; he must have known that his visitor would not be taken in by this performance. Lucius sensed carefully controlled anger. What Short was really saying was, Is a minstrel show what I must offer before you will let me be?
“Some even say you fired.” He tried to startle him, pointing at the rifle. “Is that the weapon you pointed at my father, Henry? Yes or no?”
Henry met his glare, less defiant than stoic, resolute. Slowly he shook his head. “No cullud wouldn’ nevuh raise no gun to Mist’ Edguh Watson!” Then he said strangely, “Mist’ Edguh knowed dat.”
Lucius searched his face for sign of ambiguity. Short’s expression was impassive. For one more moment, they held that gaze before the colored man deferred to him and looked away.
The previous evening, at his camp under the moon at Mormon Key, his purpose had seemed clear, but standing here in the bright sun of morning, he was no longer quite sure why he had come. Now that he had finally caught up with Henry Short, his whole inquiry seemed unreasonable, ridiculous—what could this man tell him? And how could he act on anything he confessed, since even if Short had raised his rifle to a white man, that reckless act would not have changed the outcome in the smallest way. A confession would signify nothing.
At a loss, he muttered, “So the rumors are untrue?”
The nod was a mere twitch, as if Henry were bone tired of telling an old truth that would never be believed—tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of lifelong loneliness and fear. His apathy seemed to signal that the white men could believe whatever suited them and their black man would go along out of his helpless resignation.
“Thank you. I’m sorry if I troubled you.”
“Your daddy always treated me real good, Mist’ Lucius,” Henry said, not to ingratiate himself but to ease the absurd situation in which his visitor had put them; he had reverted to his normal voice. And Lucius told him, “You have nothing to fear, Henry. Not from me.” And Henry nodded, understanding very well what had passed unspoken. He murmured softly, “Okay then, Mist’ Lucius.”
Henry, like a polite host, followed him out from behind the shelter of the shed. Lucius had always known that he and Henry Short were natural allies, as the Hardens had suggested to them both from the beginning, and saying good-bye, he had an impulse to offer his hand; under House’s sharp eye, he could not bring himself to do that. The gesture would be seen as weakness and might compromise Henry, too. But in years to come, when their boat courses happened to cross, the white man would respond in kind when the brown one touched his hat. Rarely, one or the other made a vague half wave and once, nearly colliding on a narrow bend, both men smiled, though they looked away quickly and kept going. As outcas
ts befriended by the outcast Harden family, their condition might have disposed them to a common trust, yet they shared an instinct not to seek the other out. In mute respect, they felt no need to speak. And though neither thought of it in terms of “friendship,” a silent bond was what it had become.
As the visitor walked past the porch, Bill House said, “Well, that was quick.” Lucius raised his hand without stopping and the little boy at House’s elbow waved back shyly. “How’s that ol’ list comin?” House called after him. “I sure hope you got my name spelled right.” When Watson did not turn but kept on going, he yelled angrily, “Don’t slip up on us so quiet next time, hear?”
Lucius Watson’s visit to the Bend served only to fire up a rumor that Watson might be gunning for Nigger Short.
THE LIST
One by one, from varied sources—cryptic gossip and sly woman talk, drunk blurtings—Lucius learned the names of every armed man present in that October dusk at Smallwood’s landing and in most cases the extent of his participation. New information gave him reason to eliminate a name or add another or simply refine the annotations that kept his list scrupulous and up-to-date. With its revisions and deletions, comments and qualifications, ever more intricate and complex, the thing took on a whole different significance, as what had begun as a kind of morbid game evolved into a kind of obsession.