Shadow Country

by Peter Matthiessen

  House was watching Lucius as if appraising him. “Might have some grit but you sure ain’t got good sense. You keep snoopin around this backcountry askin damfool questions, keepin lists, how’s them boys s’posed to know you ain’t a fed?”

  “The men on that damned list are mostly dead—”

  “I ain’t dead far as I know and Speck Daniels ain’t neither, not lest he went yesterday.”

  “Oh hell, if I’d wanted revenge—” But still unsure what he’d wanted, he fell silent.

  “That a fact? If you was Speck, would you take a Watson’s word for that?”

  Lucius drank off his lemonade, discouraged. “Anyway, that’s why I wanted to see Henry. Wanted to hear his account of it firsthand—”

  Bill House interrupted him. “You come after Henry and now you’re back; don’t look like you’re makin too much progress, Colonel.” Briefly, ruefully, they both grinned, to ease matters.

  The silence returned. House’s clear gaze was a question. Lucius knew that the more he insisted on his peaceable intentions, the more sinister his pursuit of Henry might appear. Finally he rose to go. He understood, he said, why his host had to be careful, but if he’d wanted to harm Henry, he’d had plenty of chances in years past to catch him alone down in the rivers and nobody would have said a word about it.

  “You might of had trouble from Houses but mainly that’s correct. Folks wanted to put that whole business behind ’em, and if a black man had to pay the price, too bad. Some has tried to blame him anyway, as I guess you’ve heard.”

  Lucius nodded. “Later that week of October twenty-fourth, you gave that deposition in Lee County Court. Seemed like you were trying to defend somebody against rumors. Was that Henry?”

  House measured him. “Yes, it was. Poor feller been hidin out from rumors ever since.”

  “The story that Henry was present, that was one thing, but the other rumor—that he was the first man to shoot, that he fired the fatal bullet—doesn’t make much sense.”

  “No sense at all. Them Jim Crow years, Pitchfork Ben and all, was the worst of times for any nigra crazy enough to stick his head up out of the mud, and Henry Short weren’t the least little bit crazy. All his life, he’s been dead wary around white men and for damned good reason.”

  “No sense at all,” Lucius agreed. “Was there any truth to it?”

  “Why don’t you consult your goddamned list, see if he’s on there?” Quite suddenly, House turned a dangerous red, and his angry voice brought his wife to the kitchen doorway. “What are you after? What d’you think I been tryin to tell you here?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I only know that in your testimony two days after the shooting, you already sounded defensive about rumors. So I guess I need to know why that was so.”

  Bill House sat back exasperated, slapping his big hands down on his knees. “Why do you need to know? All that happened long ago. High time you lived your own life, Colonel.” But when Lucius simply awaited him, he nodded. “Reckon I’d feel the same. Sit down then. You ain’t touched your cookies.”

  Bill House closed his eyes and sat silent a long while. Then he looked hard at Lucius. “All right,” he said. “I aim to tell you the true story, Colonel, so don’t go pesterin me with questions till I’m done.”

  WATSON DYING

  “Where do I start? At the first argument? Watson seen our men was scared. Probably knew that because we was bunched up, he could do a lot of damage with a shotgun. Two charges of buckshot would knock down the leaders and scatter the rest, and with his revolver he might keep ’em duckin while he pushed back off the beach, reloaded, shot his way out of there. With a panicked crowd, he might of got away with it.”

  Lucius thought, But if that was his plan, why had he run his boat so hard aground on a falling tide that not even a man as strong as Papa could push her off? Was that just a bad mistake, as people said? Papa didn’t make mistakes like that, not when he had the whole trip north from Chatham Bend to think his plan through.

  “When Mr. D. D. House asked for his weapon, Watson had to move real quick. Up till now, he had played for time, figuring the crowd might falter, and he wasn’t wrong. Truth was, if he’d surrendered up his guns, only one of his Island neighbors had the hard nature it would of took to shoot him in cold blood and that feller was away down to Honduras.”

  “Gregorio Lopez?”

  “Names don’t matter.”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Your daddy’s nerves was tight. He lost his temper. ‘You want my gun so bad, you’re going to get it!’

  “Watson moved fast before we could take in what was happening—before we realized that a man we’d known near twenty years aimed to fire into a flock of neighbors like so many turkeys. Some of ’em are still tellin strangers how they seen a shine of crazy anger in his eyes. There weren’t time nor light enough to see no such a thing. Most of ’em was so darned scared they couldn’t see straight anyways. A couple of the biggest talkers wasn’t even there.

  “When his gun come up, my heart froze and my guts clenched up to block a charge of lead: I thought we was done for, Pap did, too, but I was lawman squeezin off my trigger. After that, all them guns emptied, a kind of a running explosion like giant firecrackers or maybe munitions set afire.” House squinted at his guest. “It’s a miracle some poor soul wasn’t killed,” he said.

  “William House!” his wife cried, horrified.

  Lucius refused to smile. “And Henry?” he persisted. “Was he there or not?”

  “Oh Lord, does it matter anymore? I couldn’t say it at the time I give that deposition but Henry Short was with us that day, yes. Bein a nigra, he naturally didn’t want no part of it, and Smallwood tried to scare him off, but that good man knowed what he owed our family so he come along. Stood back by that big ol’ fig, never spoke to nobody. What must of went through the poor feller’s head, God only knows: we never talked about it, not even long after.

  “Henry never come forward till your daddy jumped ashore. That’s when I glimpsed him in the corner of my eye, wadin out a little ways, elbow hitched to keep his rifle barrel clear of the salt water. Even then, you couldn’t hardly say he was in the crowd. Some of ’em said later that they thought they seen him but most of ’em didn’t, cause bein a nigra, he just didn’t count. Funny, ain’t it? He had no business in that line so he weren’t there.

  “When your daddy spotted him, he reared his head back, anger flickerin all over his face, quick as heat lightning—I seen it.

  “With his free hand, Henry lifted his straw hat and set it down again. ‘Evenin’, Mist’ Edguh’—that is all he said. Daddy House beside me bein deaf as dust, I don’t think anybody heard him ’ceptin me’n Watson. He growled somethin like, Get on home, Henry! I couldn’t hardly make it out with all the whisperin and shiftin right behind us. Some was even slappin at miskeeters, thinkin the worst danger was past. Us ones up in the front knew better. We was too afeared we might die in the next second to pay no mind to no miskeeters, never knew till we was scratchin later how bad we was gettin bit. So them twin muzzles comin up looked big as the nostrils on a bull that’s right on top of you.

  “Now I bet you will tell me that your dad was only bluffin, which he was well knowed for. Speck Daniels claims he seen that shotgun after, said there weren’t no shells in the chambers, but that darned feller is a troublemaker and a born liar. Anyways, it don’t make a spit of difference. When Watson spoke so furious and behaved in that wild way, swinging that gun up in the face of close to twenty nervous fellers, the man were as good as dead, no matter if he fired or he didn’t.” Bill House turned to Lucius, worried. “You reckon he knew he was finished when he done that? Aimed to get it over with?”

  Lucius nodded. “That could be.” He cleared his throat. “And Henry?”

  “Henry never raised his gun, let alone fired. Afterwards I talked it over with them Hardens, who asked Henry for the truth about what happened. Never mind what some folks say—and my sister Mam
ie, darn it all, she’s one of ’em—them Hardens are honest people, and from what Henry told ’em, they come to the same conclusion I did.”

  House gazed regretfully at Watson’s son. “I fired at your daddy, Colonel, like I said. I aimed to kill him, too. Maybe I did. When I seen that red hole jump out on his forehead, I knew there weren’t no need to shoot again. His barrels was already comin down and he was, too. Then the rest of them guns let go, and a terrible hail of lead in the next second whapped into him very hard and loud before he hit the ground. I reckon most of that gunfire was nerves, and I can’t rightly say I blame ’em. My nerves was ragged, too.”

  “Maybe they were making sure they could brag later about helping to bring down Bloody Watson,” Lucius said sourly. House shrugged.

  LONELIHOOD

  “When Henry slipped away that night, he went south to Lost Man’s, continued on to Shark River and Cape Sable the next day. He weren’t never seen on the Bay again until after the World War. Had no home no more on Chokoloskee and no place he belonged. One time I asked him, ‘Ain’t it lonely, Henry? Livin all alone all them hard years?’ And he looked at me kind of funny, sayin, ‘Well, Mist’ Bill, when a nigger has to hide, I reckon lonelihood works best.’ ”

  “Lonelihood. I guess that’s right.”

  “Ironical, ain’t it? Every soul who knew him before all the trouble had a very high opinion of that man. Then he was gone for all them years, and the younger ones comin up had never worked with him, never hunted with him; they knew him mainly by bad reputation as That Nigger Who Raised a Gun Against a White Man. So when them boys crossed paths with him down in the rivers, they might yell over the water. Hey, boy? We’ll git you one day, boy! One year they stole Henry’s skiff and his whole harvest of fresh vegetables and bananas, hid it back in the mangroves till it rotted. Just funnin, you know, the way young fellers will. Never really knowed nor cared about Ed Watson, this was only their excuse to have some fun—”

  “Fun,” Lucius said, appalled.

  “—but other ones, well, when they was drinkin, they still liked to talk about a lynchin, maybe settin a bounty on his head. I sure hate to think any such thing, but I know more’n one of ’em might not pass up a chance to shoot that colored man even today.

  “Early twenties, Henry would come work sometimes for our family at House Hammock. Dense jungle back in there where nobody couldn’t find him. Done some huntin and fishin, worked his own patch, lent a hand sometimes when I was caretakin the Bend—that’s when you caught up with him. Year after that he come with us when we moved up Turner River to Ochopee and pioneered a tomato farm off the new Trail.

  “When we had no work for him at Turner River, Henry would head downriver to the Gulf, hunt north or south along the coast for buried treasure. That feller was a fool for gold since back when we was boys. Only thing I ever knew he was a fool about. Had this secret bona fide copy of the map made by the pirate Gasparilla so’s he wouldn’t forget where he buried all his treasure.

  “Course Gasparilla weren’t nothing but a publicity stunt for Yankee tourists. Read all about pirate treasure on your place mat at the restaurant with a lot of other history thrown in for free. You got that authentical evidence all laid out on your doily where you can look at it while waitin on your shrimps and Key lime pie. Official art picture of Gasparilla in his black pirate hat with skull and crossbones, sword between his teeth, eye patch, big belt buckle, and all. Wipe off the ketchup and that mat will tell you ever’thing you need to know about that famous Spaniard from the bounding main.

  “Come the Holy Day, Henry wouldn’t never do no labor, he just read his Bible. But after he got that smell of gold, he would break his own commandment and go dig. I doubt he ever give much thought to where he’d spend up all his treasure if he found some, but after so many years alone, I reckon he had the idea that striking gold might make up to him some way for the life that had passed him by.”

  House gazed at the wall opposite, looking troubled. “Henry ended with us in a ugly way. Couple years ago, I told him he’d be better off goin south with a bunch of men who was headin for Honduras because he was bound to make more money huntin gators than scratchin for pieces-of-eight. Henry had a bad feelin about them Spanish countries and flat didn’t want to go, but after so many years, I reckon it felt unnatural not to do what our family advised him.

  “When I run him to the bus up to Fort Myers to board ship, he got out with his little burlap bindle and stood a minute lookin down the street. When I wished him luck, stuck out my hand, he never took it, never even looked at me. ‘Looks like your family gettin shut of me before I get too old to work,’ is all he said. Crossed over to the bus and went down to Honduras and near starved to death: the gators was all hunted out, the same as here. He made it back, but left our family for good; never came to see us even for a visit. And we was hurt, you know, having raised him up: we never took him for that angry kind of nigra.

  “Because of them rumors he had shot a white man, Henry always figured some white man would come huntin him sooner or later. When you phoned today, we thought that man might be you. One day at Ochopee, my boy spotted a stranger circlin around back of our field totin a rifle with a huntin scope. I hollered at the man to lay that rifle down and step out where we could see him, state his business, but he just backed off, headin for the Trail. Some way we kind of knew this weren’t the end of it.

  “Sure enough, it weren’t a month before a feller rung up, said he had important business with Henry Short. ‘What you want with him?’ I says, trying to figure who he might be. He said, ‘That’s between him and me.’ So I told him, ‘Okay, give me your name and address in case I hear where he is at.’ All he gives me is a phone number—no name, no address, only that number. And he says, ‘No names needed, mister. Just you call, say where he’s at, and then you’re out of it.’ ”

  Disturbed by his own story, House got to his feet in sign Lucius should go. “I don’t know where Henry is these days,” he said, leading his visitor to the front door, “but for a time he was living over near Immokalee. Maybe we can find him through his church.” He turned in the doorway. “Know something, Colonel? I aim to trust you. I’d like to see him, too. Out of respect, you know. Out of respect.”

  NORTH

  On the white limestone road north toward Immokalee, the worried House could not stop talking about Henry Short. “Few years back, when Henry come with us to Ochopee, we was glad to have him, because black or white, he was the most able man in this coast country.” He glanced at Lucius. “I was a good boss to nigras, got some work out of ’em, too. ‘Treat ’em like fine horses and they’ll run for you’—Daddy House taught me that old sayin from way back in slave days.” Lucius wondered what Henry might have thought of that old saying. Intuiting his censure, House flushed red.

  “Nigras is supposed to be free men, that what you’re thinkin? Well, they ain’t free and they never was, not in this backcountry, they was claimed by whoever gave ’em work. Some men called Henry ‘House’s nigger.’ That sounds awful, don’t it? Like we owned him! But you know something? He was glad about it.”

  Bill House struggled to explain, “All I’m sayin is, any black man in south Florida would be far better off bein a slave than on his own and that’s the truth. Any nigra not attached to a white family can get grabbed right off this road, charged with loiterin or vagrancy and sentenced to farm labor or the chain gang: county sells his labor. But a nigra that belongs someplace ain’t never bothered, not even for somethin pretty serious. That’s because no red-blooded American won’t stand for nobody messin with his property. So if you’re black with white people behind you, you can murder your wife and if she don’t make too much racket, the sheriff will most likely look the other way. He weren’t elected to go spendin up taxpayer dollars on no coloreds.”

  For all the impacted prejudice, Lucius realized, there was decency in this man, too. House’s laconic, deadpan humor reminded him of his father except that its irony was rueful,
whereas Papa’s irony had been sardonic, sometimes cruel.

  House was pointing. “Our Ochopee tomato farm just over east of here is where Henry’s past caught up with him. One day two white fellers come along in an old flivver, stepped out and said they was cattle ranchers from De Soto County by the name of Graham, said they was looking for a Henry Short. Two white men hunting up a colored was suspicious. We didn’t say nothing. They stood in the noon sun, hats in their hands, and nobody so much as offered ’em a drink of water. So then they said, Sir, if your name is House and that man over yonder goes by the name of Henry, we come to pay him a Sunday call because his mother is our mother, too. Never twisted words about it. If they was sheepish or ashamed, it never showed.

  “Them Grahams took Henry aside, had a real visit. Left him a letter from their mama. Henry must of read them words a thousand times, eyes shinin like he seen a miracle. Then he refolded it very careful, like there was a gold piece wrapped in there that might slip out. He never showed his letter to our family, never spoke about it, and we knew better than to ask him. Now and again, he might refer to things it said—he had it memorized—and finally we had the story pieced together.

  “I reckon you heard that Henry’s father was burned and hung and his white mother whipped severely; you might not know that her daddy took his ruined daughter back. Took her baby, too, till the age of four, then sold him to a man on his way south. Henry finally wound up in our family. Him and me was close to the same age so we come up together.

  “Well, this white girl’s daddy found some older man willin to take her and she give that man two boys before he died. When the boys was growed, she confided to ’em about Henry. Said that little boy had never left her heart, she purely yearned to know what ever become of him. I reckon her two white sons loved her dearly because even after they located Henry, they came south every other year to make sure he was getting on all right. Steady men of average size, polite and quiet. We couldn’t get over ’em. Their mother might of been a sinner but she must of been a very good woman, too, if she could raise up two fine sons who took on the responsibility for a mixed-blood half brother they had never seen, a field hand in south Florida who never even knew that they existed.