Trouble on the Tombigbee

by Ted M. Dunagan

  “Now no need to get flustered,” he said to calm me.

  “You think that murdering slaver is gonna come all the way up here to get us?” Poudlum moaned as his eyes grew large.

  “No, I don’t,” Mr. Jackson said. “But you never know what these types will do, so I think we ought to take proper precautions. That’s why I asked if you boys would like to stay under my care until I can get the matter cleared up.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” I asked.

  He stroked his chin whiskers as if in thought before he said, “As far as the Klan is concerned, I plan to write an editorial in the newspaper and expose the identity of the judge and the solicitor. That way, they should be satisfied as to the question of whom you boys were working for when you spied on them.”

  “But wait,” Poudlum said with a puzzled look on his face. “We really wasn’t doing that.”

  “That’s of no matter,” Mr. Jackson replied. “By using that strategy, it will eliminate any reason for them to be concerned with you boys anymore.”

  Poudlum and I looked at each other again, and this time we knew we both were thinking what a smart man Mr. Jackson was. But thinking further about what he had just said made me feel concern for him, so I asked, “But then wouldn’t the Klan come after you?”

  His eyes twinkled, and he smiled for the first time since I could remember, just before he said, “I would welcome them coming after me, but I don’t think they will.

  “What we have to be concerned about is this Mr. Kim, if that’s what his real name is. I didn’t mention it while you boys were relating your story, but I was already aware of an ongoing investigation of missing boys in the area south of Jackson and on down toward Mobile.

  “The encounter you boys had and the information you have furnished may be the first break in the case, and I’ve sent Mr. Curvin down to alert the authorities. So you see, I would feel much better if you both remained under my protection until the culprit has been apprehended.”

  Poudlum and I nodded agreement simultaneously, and Mr. Jackson said, “Good, that’s settled. There’s no need to alarm your parents, so I’ll send word that for a few days you both will be doing some chores for me, and we’ll find you some so we won’t be fibbing.”

  It was getting on toward noon so Mr. Jackson took us to a café and bought our dinner.

  They didn’t serve colored people in that restaurant, but when we walked in, Mr. Jackson swept his gaze across the big room as if daring somebody to say something about us having Poudlum with us. It seemed nobody wanted to, and it was the kind of food we had been hankering for—fried chicken with creamed potatoes and gravy, along with some early peas, cornbread, and sweet tea.

  Mr. Jackson smiled, and as we cleaned our plates, he said, “You boys eat like you got a hollow leg.”

  “That was mighty tasty, just what we been wishing for, and we surely do thank you,” I told him.

  “Yes, sir, that was mighty fine,” Poudlum said as he licked his lips. “We been living off catfish for days, and there was some times in between when we was too busy running, hiding, or paddling to even stop and eat.”

  We whiled away the afternoon in Mr. Jackson’s library. I found a copy of Robinson Crusoe, and Poudlum settled on Treasure Island.

  Mr. Jackson’s housekeeper fixed us another tasty meal that night, and Poudlum and I retired to his guest bedroom, which was about the most comfortable-looking room either one of us had ever seen.

  We marveled at the shiny floor and the two heavy twin beds. Later on, after we had blown the lamp out and curled up in those beds, through the window, I saw a flash of movement outside in the dark yard.

  “Poudlum!” I whispered. “Did you see that?”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “I saw something move out there,” I said. We crawled over and crouched on our knees at the window and strained our eyes, searching in the darkness.

  “There it is! You see it?” Poudlum said as he grabbed my arm.

  “Uh-huh,” I breathed softly as I felt the fear seeping into me.

  What we saw was a dark figure pass though the bushes and disappear around toward the rear of the house. He was moving and there were too many shadows to tell if it was who we dreaded it could be.

  Chapter 19

  Back on the River

  My fear intensified when I suddenly got that feeling that someone else was in the room with us. Poudlum must have felt it too, because he began to fumble with the lock on the window. I supposed he was doing that so we could open it, dive through it, and escape.

  But then we heard the kind and welcome voice of Mr. Jackson say, “Is everything all right, boys?”

  “Somebody’s out there!” I told him in a loud whisper as he stood framed in the doorway.

  “All you saw was Claude,” he said calmly.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Claude provides security here when I think it might be in our best interest. You boys can relax and get a good night’s sleep. You’re safe here.”

  What Mr. Jackson said made us feel a lot better, and there was also something calming about the tone of his voice. We got back under the covers after that, and I was about to doze off when I heard the low sounds of Uncle Curvin’s voice intermingled with Mr. Jackson’s.

  They were talking fast, and I couldn’t quite make out the words, just that they both sounded excited and part of me wanted to go in there and see what was going on, but the other part of me was in a soft warm place, a fleeting moment from sound sleep, and that side won.

  Poudlum woke me up the next morning. It was light outside, and he was shaking my shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said as my eyes popped open. “Did you hear them talking a lot just before we went to sleep last night?”

  “I sure did,” I said as I sat up in bed.

  “Then why didn’t you go in there and see what all the ruckus was about?”

  “Why didn’t you?” I answered.

  “Too tired and sleepy, I guess. Come on, get dressed and let’s go find out what’s going on.”

  We dressed and rushed out but couldn’t find anyone until we got to the kitchen where we found Mr. Jackson’s housekeeper, Leola Hensley.

  As soon as we walked into the room, she looked directly at us, pointed toward the table, and said, “Y’all sit yourselves down, and I’ll stir you up something to eat.”

  Although we had seen her at last night’s meal, we hadn’t had the occasion to talk directly with her. I could tell right off that Miss Leola wasn’t a woman to trifle with. Evidently, Poudlum felt the same way because he beat me to the table. And it didn’t seem like it was no time before she slid steaming plates of grits, eggs, and biscuits in front of us.

  While we were eating and she was turned away from us, I poked at Poudlum so he would look at me. When he did, I nodded toward Miss Leola in the hopes he would take the lead and ask her where everybody was.

  He nodded okay, and when she returned to the table to refill our milk glasses, Poudlum said, “Miss Leola, would you happen to know where Mr. Jackson or Mr. Curvin might be?”

  She stopped in mid-step with the pitcher of milk in her hand, looked down at us and said, “Mr. Jackson is working in his office, I suppose, like he always do.” As she turned and headed back toward the ice box she added, “And it ain’t my job to keep up with Curvin Murphy.”

  I kicked Poudlum under the table, encouraging him to pursue the conversation with her.

  I could tell he was intimidated by her, just as I was, but he gathered up his courage one more time and said, “Did, maybe, Mr. Jackson leave word for us?”

  “He certainly did,” she said as she busied herself in front of the sink.

  When she didn’t say anything else, I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I couldn’t wait for Poudlum, so I dared to speak to her myself.

  “Did
he say what we ought to do, Miss Leola?”

  I expected her to say he certainly did again, but she surprised me and said, “He told me to tell y’all to tend to your chores till he sends for you,” with no indication of what the chores consisted of.

  I looked at Poudlum, and we both rolled our eyes as I whispered, “Your turn.”

  We had cleaned our plates when Poudlum said, “That was a delicious breakfast, Miss Leola. I reckon we ready to get on with them chores now, if you would be kind enough to point them out to us.”

  I was impressed by Poudlum. He had asked her exactly what we wanted to know in a polite manner, but neither of us expected her answer.

  “He say for y’all to go into his library and read some of his books.”

  We were both flabbergasted because we had expected the chores to consist of pulling weeds or some other form of yard work.

  “He also said y’all could talk to each other some in betwixt the reading,” she added.

  “Uh, did he say how long?” I ventured.

  “Till he sends for y’all,” Miss Leola said just before she turned and disappeared through a swinging door.

  “That woman’s ’bout as hard to get something out of as Mr. Curvin,” Poudlum told me later in the library.

  We were like two tortured souls in that library, trying to read and wondering what was going on. It was just before noon when we heard the front door slam and then steps coming down the hallway.

  “Hey, boys,” my uncle called out. “Where y’all at?”

  We rushed out to meet him and immediately bombarded him with questions.

  “What did you do in Mobile? Where’s Mr. Jackson?” I asked.

  “And what are we supposed to do now?” Poudlum said.

  “Hold your horses, boys,” he said. “We got to get over to Mr. Jackson’s office lickety-split. Come on, I’ll tell you about things on the way.”

  We piled into my uncle’s truck and started peppering him with more questions as he backed out of the driveway.

  “They’s a big manhunt going on down the river. It turned out y’all’s Mr. Kim is about the most-wanted man in Alabama.”

  We sat slack-jawed, rapt with attention as he continued. “As soon as I delivered Mr. Jackson’s information to the Mobile County Sheriff, he got on the phone and pretty soon he had every lawman from Jackson down to Mobile Bay on the case.

  “What they doing is some of ’em are heading north from Mobile and another passel of ’em are heading south from Jackson with boats in the water and men and dogs along both sides of the river.”

  “They intend to trap Mr. Kim somewhere in between ’em,” Poudlum guessed

  “That’s exactly what they hope to do. Now listen up boys. Y’all gonna have to tell your story again—the part after y’all got swept down the river—to some gentlemen from Mobile. They over at Mr. Jackson’s place waiting on us.”

  “How come we got to go through it again?” I asked.

  “It’s because they wanting a real detailed accounting of what y’all say and a real good description of Kim. It’ll be all right. They won’t keep y’all for long, and then I’ll take y’all for a hamburger.”

  My uncle was wrong. The men kept us for a very long time and made us tell our story over and over. It turned out that Mr. Kim wasn’t Mr. Kim at all, but rather a man with a name so long we couldn’t even pronounce it, much less spell it.

  We could tell they wanted to catch him real bad by the way they would get excited and start scribbling on their pads when we thought of something new about him.

  We got restless, and we were very hungry when we finally got some relief. It was when one of their assistants came rushing into the room so excited he could hardly get it out, but he finally said, “They done caught him! Chased him down in a stolen motorboat in Baldwin County!”

  I never saw a group of men move so fast. They gathered up their papers and all bolted for the door at once. The one in charge poked his head back in the door and said, “We appreciate your help, boys, and we’ll be in touch with y’all.”

  Poudlum and I just sat there by ourselves wondering what was next. That’s when Mr. Jackson came into the room and sat down at the table with us.

  “Well, boys,” he said, “once again you can be proud of yourselves. Thanks to you the river will be rid of the scourge of Kim and his cohorts. Before long, you’ll probably have to testify in court, but there’s no need for concern because I’ll be there with you.

  “I thought y’all might also want to know that Dudley didn’t get his throat cut after all. He’s been captured, too, and is being very cooperative with the authorities.”

  I was relieved to know that our leaving Dudley tied up didn’t get him murdered and I could tell Poudlum was, too, when he asked, “How in the world did he get away from Mr. Kim?”

  Mr. Jackson said, “It seems he broke loose from his bonds at the same time as Silas and Kim arrived, and he witnessed the same thing as you boys did through a crack in the window, and then quickly escaped through the hole you boys had cut in the floor of the back room.”

  “Old Dudley wasn’t as dumb as he seemed,” Poudlum said with a grin.

  Mr. Jackson continued, “Since you boys aren’t in any kind of danger anymore, I suppose it’ll be all right for you to go on home.”

  “Bu-bu-but, Mr. Jackson,” Poudlum stuttered. “What about the Klan?”

  In answer, he slid a copy of the weekly newspaper, fresh off the press, across the table toward us.

  Our eyes bugged out when we saw the story on the front page. It was written by Mr. Jackson and the headline blared: Klan Leaders Exposed.

  The story identified the judge and the solicitor as the Exalted Cyclops and the Night Hawk, and went on to demand their resignation from public office.

  When we finished reading the story, Mr. Jackson said, “All the Klan wanted from you boys is who they thought y’all were spying on them for. Now they know what they thought they wanted to know, that it was for me, even though we know it wasn’t. If they want to come after anybody, it’ll be me and not you boys.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that,” I told him.

  “The only thing is,” Poudlum said, “the Klan, Silas and Dudley, and Mr. Kim sure did mess up a good fishing trip.”

  Mr. Jackson scratched his chin whiskers and said, “Maybe there’s something we can do about that.”

  About a week later Uncle Curvin and Poudlum picked me up at my house, and we headed toward Mr. Jackson’s house.

  After all the excitement had died down, Mr. Jackson had offered to let Poudlum and me take his motorboat, put it in the river at Jackson, and have ourselves a nice fishing trip all the way up to Mr. Henry’s ferry in Coffeeville, where Uncle Curvin would pick us up and deliver the boat, Poudlum and me all back home.

  Uncle Curvin picked the days for us by studying the Old Farmer’s Almanac. He claimed we had two good sunny days, cool nights, and very little breeze, which would make for the perfect fishing trip.

  When I saw that boat in Mr. Jackson’s garage, I knew he had been having things done to it because it shined like a new apple. While I was admiring the motor at the rear of the boat, Poudlum called me from up at the front of the boat and said, “Hey, come look at this!”

  When I got there, he pointed to the side of the boat and said, “A boat is supposed to have a name, and look at the one this boat’s got.”

  There it was, printed in neat white letters on the red boat. We were going fishing in the Night Hawk.

  The boat was also outfitted with poles, fishing gear, bait, food, water, sleeping bags, and a tent, all strapped down neatly inside it. It was just about the finest boat we had ever laid eyes on.

  We helped Uncle Curvin hook up the boat trailer to the back of his truck, and we were preparing to pull out of the driveway when Miss Leola appeared ext
ending a big brown bag through the truck window to us.

  “This is for y’all to nibble on before you get the fish to frying.”

  When we got the boat in the water at Jackson, Uncle Curvin went out on the water with us and gave instructions and let us practice running the boat. It was a lot different than paddling because things happened much faster.

  After my uncle promised to meet us in Coffeeville, he gave us a shove out into the water.

  “You ready?” Poudlum asked with his hand on the starter rope.

  Pretty soon we were roaring up the Tombigbee leaving a wake and all of our troubles behind us. The wind blew in our faces, and we had time to study things, not being chased or paddling around in the dark.

  We didn’t even go ashore that night. We just anchored the boat at the mouth of the Satilfa and fished late by the light of a lantern. Later on, we crawled into our sleeping bags while the sound of the river and the gentle rocking of the boat lulled us to sleep.

  The next morning we fished some more and took us a swim in the mouth of the creek before we secured everything and headed the boat north, taking turns driving.

  We sighted the ferry, and there stood Mr. Henry and Uncle Curvin on the edge of it. They had some ice to put all the fish on.

  We got back to Grove Hill well before dark and backed Mr. Jackson’s boat into his garage, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in my front yard waving goodbye to Uncle Curvin and Poudlum.

  They weren’t even out of sight yet, and I was missing them already.

  About the Author

  Ted M. Dunagan was born and grew up in rural southwestern Alabama. He served in the U.S. Army, attended Georgia State University, and retired from a career in business in 2003. He received the 2009 Georgia Author of the Year Award in Young Adult Fiction for his debut novel, A Yellow Watermelon. The book was also named to the inaugural “25 Books All Young Georgians Should Read” list compiled by the Georgia Center for the Book. He followed his first success with a sequel, Secret of the Satilfa, which earned the 2011 Georgia Author of the Year Award. He lives in Monticello, Georgia, where he writes news, features, and a weekly column for the Monticello News.