Miami Gundown

by Michael Zimmer

  “Well, that makes at least two of us,” I replied, “but the odds are likely better now than if it does get infected.”

  Without much enthusiasm, he said: “We could put you on a boat, sail you up the coast to Jacksonville. They’d have a doctor there.”

  “Yeah, a Yankee doctor. If he don’t cut off an arm or a leg, he’d still throw me in a rock coop. I ain’t going to Jacksonville, Ardell.”

  The young cow hunter sighed loudly. “I didn’t think you would. All right, I’ll do the best I can, just don’t die on me, you hear?” He was glaring like I’d have anything to say in the matter.

  “I’ll do what I can,” was my reply.

  “Good. I’ve got everything just about ready. Lena, start pouring as much of that popskull down his throat as you can, while I go get my knives. I don’t want him feeling anything he doesn’t have to.”

  “Yes, suh,” Lena replied gravely, then looked at me after Ardell walked off. “I ain’t never done nothin’ like this afore, massa.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just listen to Ardell, and do what he says.”

  “Mistah Ardell ain’t never done nothin’ like this afore, either. He was talkin’ to Papa Jim at breakfast. Papa Jim says he’s seen wounds durin’ the Indian Wars like what you got, and says it’ll go bad if that bullet ain’t cut outta there real soon. Mistah Ardell wanted Papa Jim to do the cuttin’, but Papa Jim says he’s too woozy yet, and sometimes sees two of ever’thing. He can’t do it, and that poor Mistah Punch is as weak as a half-drowned kitten after that long ride outta Miami with his leg all swolled up from that bullet in his calf. Papa Jim says Ardell be the only man here what can do it, but Mistah Ardell, he sure don’t want to.”

  “Just do what Mister Ardell says,” I replied, growing aggravated by the woman’s nervous talk.

  Well, I don’t guess you need to know the particulars, not that I could give them to you if you did. I will say it wasn’t an experience I’d ever want to repeat, or wish on an enemy, but I obviously lived through it. Ardell pried a .44-caliber slug out of my chest that day, and later on asked if I wanted it, but I told him no. What the hell kind of a Miami souvenir would that have been?

  I was in and out of consciousness all day, but woke up toward evening feeling better—“better” being a relative term, of course. Turning my head slow and careful, I found Jim sitting by my side. There was a ragged strip of cloth from the hem of Lena’s skirt—that gal was going to end up bare-assed naked if she didn’t soon find another source for rags—wrapped around his head, hiding what would eventually become a long, ridged scar just above his ear. Jim had his back to the cabin’s wall and was staring in grim reflection at a dense wall of mangrove forest that rose fifty or so yards away. He was drinking something from a tin cup that steamed gently in the softening twilight and didn’t realize I was awake until I spoke.

  “How you feeling?” I asked, the words kind of choppy on that first sentence, but smoothing out afterward.

  Smiling, Jim put his cup down and scooted closer, placing a cool palm to my forehead. “You still warm, marse, but you ain’t burnin’ up like you has been the past couple days.”

  I had to think about that for a moment. Frowning, I asked: “Two days?”

  “Yes’um. We’s been here in Fort Lauderdale two full days now, waiting for you to get better enough to go home.”

  “Lauderdale?” I was really confused then. Lifting my head, I took a quick peek around. I spotted the ruins of the old fort off to my right, then heard the lapping of the surf not too far away. It was the gentle breaking of waves that finally gave me a sense of direction and made the rest of the world seem real again.

  Although the settlement that had grown up around the fort had been deserted when we came through a few days earlier, there were people in sight that evening, going lazily about their business in the oppressive humidity.

  “They come back,” Jim explained, seeing my questioning look. “They was down to the coast salvagin’ a wreck, last time.” He reached behind him to hold up the cup I’d seen him drinking from earlier. “Was a Yankee ship they found, with a good supply of coffee and tobacco on board. Mistah Ardell bought up a whole sack of both, and some medicine, too. He’ll have you feeling pert again in no time.”

  Letting my head roll back into the sweat-soaked cradle of my pillow, I didn’t reply. We were in Lauderdale, and had been for two days, rather than just one. But there were other things I found even more disconcerting, and the biggest was the return of Jim’s subservient attitude. Apparently with the worst of the danger past, he’d instinctively reverted to his old mannerisms. I found it annoying, yet I also understood that for Jim—and for me, to a much lesser extent—anything else would have been impossible. There were never a lot of slaves in southern Florida in those early years of the cattle trade, but there was still that attitude of dominance and superiority over the darker races. Roy was a good example of that, but there were others a whole lot worse. Although it bothered me, I decided not to bring it up until I had a chance to talk with Pa.

  “How are the others?” I finally asked. “Punch and Roy?”

  “Mistah Punch is doin’ right well,” Jim replied. “That bullet was a tiny thing, no bigger’n another piece of buckshot. It went all the way through his calf and didn’t tear up too much meat a-tall. He’s sore, but gettin’ around.” He hesitated, and I felt a sinking in my stomach. “Mistah Roy didn’t make it, marse. We buried him and Mistah Casey over close to the river, where they’s others been laid to rest.”

  “A cemetery?”

  “Yes’um.” Jim nodded. “He was hit real bad, marse, and hurtin’ real bad, too. I’d’ve give just about anything for him to live, but . . .”

  When Jim’s words trailed off, I filled in what he’d left unspoken. “Sometimes dying is best.”

  “Yes, suh, I surely believe it was for Mistah Roy.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “You wants something to eat, marse? Lena fixed a pot of turtle soup.”

  “No, not now,” I replied without opening my eyes. “Maybe later.”

  “Yes’um, but you gots to eat. Needs you some food down your belly to get you well again.”

  “I know, but . . . later.”

  Leaning back, Jim sighed. “All right, but next time you wake up, you gots to.”

  I nodded weakly, already drifting off.

  We stayed in Lauderdale three more days, until Ardell deemed me well enough to fork a saddle. I was the last of the wounded to get back on my feet, and even then, I was as shaky as a three-legged goat. I was more than ready to go home, though.

  I don’t guess there’s much point in telling you about our return, since nothing really exciting happened, and sure as Hades, there wasn’t much conversation between us. We all kind of slipped into a blue funk on the ride back, the memories of Casey and Roy riding vividly right alongside us as painful as broken teeth.

  We were all bone weary and sick of the saddle by the time we rode into the Flatiron. Josie met us in the yard, and the reunion between her and Lena brought tears to my eyes. After the greetings were over, she put me and Punch straightaway to bed, and neither one of us protested. Jim went to his own house, and Lena said the snores coming from his and Josie’s bedroom made her fearful of the cypress shingles flying off the cabin roof.

  Ardell hung around for a couple of days, but he was anxious to get back to his own place. I didn’t blame him. He said he’d stop off at the Turners on the way and tell Roy’s mama and sisters what had happened. He obviously wasn’t looking forward to it. If I’d been in better shape, the chore rightly should have been mine, but I didn’t think I had another hundred-mile round trip left in me. I felt kind of guilty for my relief at not having to talk to Missus Turner, but not enough to volunteer for the task.

  Punch left the day after Ardell did, promising to swing wide on his way home to inform Casey’s folks of their son’s death. I was glad to avoid that one, too, although in fairness, Punch was family, and by
rights the chore was his to complete. Punch was mighty young for the task, being just fifteen when we started that drive to Punta Rassa, although I reckon he grew up fast that year.

  I wrote a letter to Calvin Oswald’s folks in Kissimmee, probably the most difficult missive I ever had to put down on paper. Later on, after the war, I went to Punta Rassa with Calvin’s pa and older brother to help them retrieve the body. They buried Cal in the Kissimmee Cemetery, and I stayed for the funeral, although I didn’t feel welcome. I think his folks—his ma in particular—blamed me for the boy’s death, rather than the Yankee invaders who’d shot him in the back. But what can you do in a situation like that except steel yourself to the icy stares and hang on until it’s over?

  It was a full week after our return to the Flatiron before I started taking on light chores around the place, but I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for it. Pa and the others were overdue by then, and I was starting to worry. Jim and Josie and Lena were feeling equally fretful, like a sense of doom had drifted cloud like over the Flatiron and refused to budge.

  It was Joe-Jim who finally showed up, nearly six weeks late by my reckoning. He was riding a little Flatiron marshtackie and trailing an extra horse and a pack of catch dogs, my own Blue-Boy among ’em. Although skinny and worn down, Joe-Jim beefed up real quick under his ma’s and Lena’s cooking.

  The first thing Joe-Jim did on his return was ride over to where I was toiling at the burned-out wreckage of the barn and hand me a letter from Pa. Although my fingers trembled as I opened it, I don’t believe I was really surprised by the news. Pa had decided to stay in Georgia and help drive a wagon train of supplies to our boys fighting in Tennessee. When my brothers elected to go with him, Pa sent Joe-Jim back with the catch dogs. [Ed. Note: Jefferson McCallister’s letter, along with the note from W.B. Ashworth, are available for viewing in the McCallister Papers, archived in the Arcadian Historical Association files; the letter Boone McCallister received that day reads: Deer Boon me and your bothers have desided to stay in north and fit yankees for awile. you are in charge of flatiron until i get bak, hopfuly in the spring your pa, jefferson t. Mccallister]

  That was the last correspondence I ever received from my father, although I got a letter from Bud in May, more or less repeating what Pa had said. [Ed. Note: Bud is Kenton Simon, Boone’s older brother.]

  There’d been a time when being put in charge of the Flatiron would have swollen my chest with pride, but I found myself feeling strangely ambivalent in the weeks following my return from Miami. Finally I decided that if that was what Pa wanted, I’d do the best I could until his return. I even started putting together another herd to take north, although it was Frank Turner who ramrodded that drive, while I stayed home to look after the ranch.

  Even though Pa never came back, I’m pretty sure he would have approved of what I did later that summer. Leaving Jim in charge, I saddled my bay and rode down to Pete Dill’s trading post on the Caloosahatchee. Like before, Pete got a startled look on his face when I walked in, but a grin wasn’t far behind.

  “Howdy, Boone,” he called, his voice booming hollowly across the nearly empty trade room. “Belly up here and sample a dose of Norm Wakley’s latest. Tell me it tastes better than gopher spit.”

  “It’d be an improvement if it does,” I allowed.

  “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth,” Pete replied solemnly. He brought a jug and two mugs out from under the counter. “Dang if it ain’t been a ’coon’s age since I seen a Flatiron rider.”

  “It kind of feels like a ’coon’s age,” I agreed, leaning into the counter. “How have you been faring?”

  “I been lonesome. Can’t even get some wild buck from the ’glades in here to trade for the merchandise I’ve got left. Tell me you’re wanting some ink or writing paper, and the next drink is free.”

  Pete’s offer made me laugh. “That’s exactly why I’m here. Klee’s boys burned all the spare writing paper we had at the ranch.”

  I don’t think he believed me at first, but his expression sobered noticeably when I told him why I wanted it.

  “What’s your daddy going to say when he gets back?”

  “I believe he’d say it was past time and then some, but even if he doesn’t, he was the one who put me in charge. I’m set on this, Pete, and need you to witness the transaction.”

  Dill shrugged uncertainly. “I’ll witness the signature, although I think you’re wrong to do it.”

  “You got that paper and some ink?”

  “Yeah. Need a quill? I got some turkey that nibs down to a fine point.”

  “Bring it out,” I replied, setting my drink aside—and in case you’re wondering about that latest batch of Norm’s, it wasn’t a damned bit better than what he normally brewed—raw as kerosene and probably just about as deadly.

  After conducting my business and having Pete add his signature as witness, I returned to the Flatiron and told Jim and the others to come into the winter kitchen. I handed out the contracts I’d put together at the trading post and explained what they were.

  “Those papers mean you’re free,” I told them.

  All four of them were watching me gravely, like they were expecting some kind of stipulation, but there wasn’t any.

  “Up north, Mister Lincoln has signed something called an Emancipation Proclamation, which basically says the same thing these papers do, and probably a whole lot better. But even though these are hard times for the South, it ain’t yet a given that the North will win. If the Confederacy survives, these papers will guarantee your freedom. Soon as things ain’t so dicey, I’ll ride up to Tallahassee and register them proper like at the capital.”

  I don’t recall what kind of reaction I was expecting, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the subdued thank-yous I was given. Holding their papers in front of them like hats removed for prayer, they filed out of the main house and returned to their cabin. In time the reality of what I’d given them sank in, and they kept those papers wrapped in oilcloth and parchment to protect them from bugs and humidity, but they never spoke of them openly. It was like they were afraid someone might come along and take them away if word got out.

  After the war, as a wedding gift to Joe-Jim and Lena, I deeded them one hundred acres and a team of mules, and helped them register their own brand—the Flatiron mark, with the letters J-L inside the triangular figure. I thought a connection to the McCallister spread might help if some carpetbagger tried to wrestle ownership away from the happy couple. Joe-Jim and Lena prospered on their new place, and according to Bud, who would write from time to time, they eventually had seven youngsters to pass the place on to. Although I offered Jim and Josie a similar parcel of land just north of their children, they declined.

  “We’s settled good enough right here, if that be all right with you,” Jim said, and Josie, standing behind him, had nodded emphatically, as if they’d already discussed the possibilities.

  “You ain’t slaves no more,” I reminded them. “You can stay forever, and I hope you do, but you don’t have to.”

  “We know, marse,” Josie replied. “But this here be our home, and I don’t hardly know what we’d do som’wheres else.”

  I probably told them a dozen times in the years that followed that I didn’t want them calling me master any more, nor any of its kin—like massa or marse or boss.

  “From here on, I’m just Boone, OK?” I’d say, and they’d always agree, but I guess old habits are the hardest to break. In time they started calling me Mr. Boone, which was a little better, although, now that I’m older, I can see it was more important to me than it was to them. Guilt, I guess. I remember Josie saying—“We’d rather”—the last time I tried to get her to drop the mister, and I finally decided to let it go. Hell, if they were free, then I reckon they could do whatever they wanted. The South itself had other ideas, though, and there were rocky times ahead for Negroes all over the former Confederacy. Up north, too. But I’d done what I could for Jim and Josie and Joe-Jim
and Lena and their seven, and so did Bud, after I left for Texas.

  Bud was the first of my brothers to return home after General Lee’s surrender in April of 1865. He showed up in June of that year, barefoot and half starved, armed with just a rusty musket instead of the Sharps carbine and Navy revolver he’d gone off to fight the Yankees with. It was Bud who told me about Pa and Stone, both killed by an artillery shell at Bull’s Gap in Tennessee. Other than confirming that they were gone, it was several more months before I learned from Clark what had happened. I’m not going to tell you about it, though. Clark was there and saw it, and his description is a dog that needs to be left to sleep.

  Lew came home later that summer, and in not much better condition than Bud, although they would both pale in comparison to the scarecrow that showed up a few days before Christmas. Clark had been captured at Bull’s Gap and spent the remainder of the war in a prison camp near Washington, D.C., in conditions that would make your blood run cold to hear about.

  Crockett never returned, and no one seemed to know what became of him. Lew said he was still alive after the first day’s fighting at Bull’s Gap, but he lost track of him afterward. There were rumors that Crockett joined a band of partisan fighters, rangering all through Tennessee and Kentucky and even up into Indiana and Ohio on occasion. Another tale had him joining Mosby’s Rangers, which is close enough to the first rumor to make me wonder if there wasn’t a kernel of truth in those stories. If you ever run across any information on Crockett McCallister in your travels around the country, I’d appreciate you dropping me a letter about it. Ol’ Crock would be well into his nineties by now, but he’d be McCallister tough, too, and likely still kicking if someone didn’t put a bullet in him.

  Of the kin that did come back from the war, I don’t think things were ever the same. We all stayed on the home place through the winter of ’65 and ’66, but after that, we kind of drifted apart. Clark went to Tampa and married a Turner, distant kin to Roy. They had two kids, but later divorced when Clark fell too heavily into a bottle. He died in 1909, struck by one of the first automobiles ever to ply the dusty streets of Tampa.