One of them cattle kings, Jim Cole, claimed them palms was wasted where they was so he had us dead-broke Island men dig the last one out to prettify the city streets. Put 'em on postcards, bring in tourists from the north. Tropical paradise, y'know. Course the most of 'em died-nobody watered 'em-so they might's well lived along right where they was.
This was when Cole and Langford brung the railroad in, and the tourists started coming in their thousands, Godamighty! Too bad Jim Cole didn't order up some gumbo-limbos, cause them trees is scraggily, thin-skinned, always red and peeling. Us local folks call that the tourist tree.
It was along about this time that C.G. McKinney made the mistake of not keeping his post office money where he could put his hands on it. This was somewhere around 1906. They seldom inspected, but the day they did, the money was somewhere else. Wasn't lost, just in use, you know, he didn't have it handy, and by law he had to have it handy there and then. So Smallwood loaned McKinney the money to get him out of trouble, and before you know it, Ted was postmaster instead, and not only that but biggest trader, owned most all of Chokoloskee Island, left the rest of us in the dust. For the next thirty-five years and more, Smallwoods was the main family on that island.
This was the year Mister Watson brought his new wife back to Chokoloskee Bay. First thing he done was pay a call on Storters, open a new account, and he done the same across the Bay at Smallwoods. Probably figured that so long as he stayed friends with the traders, he would be all right.
MAMIE SMALLWOOD
I recall the day in 1906 when Mister Watson came back to Chokoloskee-everybody does, I guess, because he showed up in the first motor launch we ever saw. Folks heard it coming, pop-pop-popping down the Pass from Sandfly Key-for years us young folks called that boat the May-Pop, that's how cranky she was. Men and women both left their tomato patch and hustled along after the children, who went flying and hollering down to the landing. At Chokoloskee we were way behind the times, though not all of us knew it, and pretty desperate for a look at something new.
Even a quarter mile away, out in the channel, the figure at the helm looked too familiar, the strong bulk of him, and the broad hat. When he saw the crowd, he tipped that hat and bowed a little, and the sun fired that dark red hair-color of dead blood, Grandma Ida used to say, only she never thunk that up till some years later, when the ones who never knew him called him Bloody Watson. Ida Borders House of South Carolina-well, we'll miss her. But it was that little bow he made that told us straight off who it was, and my heart jumped like a mullet, and it weren't the only one. A hush and stillness fell on Chokoloskee, like our poor little community had caught its breath, like we was waiting for a storm to break from high dark thunderheads over the Glades in summer, just before the first cold wind and rain.
"Speak of the Devil," says Grandma Ida, primping up her hair, though no one had spoke of Him lately as I knew of. Grandma knew she was looking straight at Satan, and no mistake. That man has dared to come back here among us! All around the shore they was raising fingertips up to their mouths, rolling their eyes, O Lord-a-mercy-now why do some fool women do that, you suppose?-and staring walleyed at each other like a flock of haunts. Then all together they dared look again, and all together gave a grisly moan of woe. Wouldn't surprise me if I gave a moan myself. It was like in Revelations, regular Doomsday. I didn't see no one rend their clothes nor tear their hair, but a couple of God-fearing bodies hurried their offsprings up the hill, squawking and scattering like hens, not cause they really thought Mister Watson might attack 'em but to show them other biddies how Mrs. So-and-So wouldn't let her angels have no truck with no Methodist murderer.
Course them two hens turned right around when they heard that eager squabble from the other women, picked up their skirts and come tripping down the hill again. Might been scared of Mister Watson, but they was more scared yet of missing out on something.
When Mister Watson tipped his hat and bowed, who should stand up right beside him but a young woman with a babe in arms! Next thing we knew, he was handing her out onto our landing! After that, it was a barnyard around here, pushing and squeaking and flapping off home to find a poor bonnet or a pair of shoes for such a high society occasion.
Say what you like about Mister Watson, he looked and acted like our idea of a hero. Stood there shining in the sun in a white linen suit and a light Panama hat, not one of them rough straws we plait down here. And her on his arm in a wheat-brown linen dress and button boots, and sweet baby girl in brown frock and sunbonnet and big pink bow-you never seen a more upstanding couple!
For a few moments that fine little family stood facing the crowd like they were posing on a holiday. I see that picture each time I recall how he stood alone in that very selfsame spot on a dark October evening four years later, with that young woman turning slow to stare at me in my own house, and his little girl squeaking her heart out in the corner like a poor caught rabbit, in that wild crashing of men and their steel weapons.
Since that bad business down at Lost Man's River there'd been plenty talk that if Ed Watson ever showed his face round here again, the men would right away form up a posse to turn him over to the Monroe sheriff, maybe string him up if he gave 'em any back talk. But Mister Watson stayed away from Chokoloskee when he came through in 1904, he stopped off quick at Chatham Bend and was gone quicker. Returned later that same year, stayed a bit longer, burned off his plantation, which had mostly gone back to scrub palmetto. Never heard that he'd been there till after he was gone, but meantime folks got used to the idea that he might come again.
Whether that was his plan or it wasn't, you had to admire Mister Watson's nerve. He took all the steam out of the men, who told each other he would never stay, told each other he was fixing things up so he could sell the place on Chatham Bend, told each other everything that they could think of. And all this time he was tending to his business, seeing the Lee County surveyor about getting title to his land, bringing his own carpenter from Columbia County to build him a front porch, giving the house a new coat of white paint. Not whitewash, mind, but real oil paint. Only house with a coat of paint was ever seen down in the rivers. But that carpenter perished down at Watson's, and bad rumors naturally started to fly, and next thing we knew he was gone again. This was the year poor Guy Bradley was killed, and some pinned that one on him too, once he departed.
When he didn't show up for a year, and it looked like we'd seen the last of him for certain, the men concluded he had killed that carpenter along with the Frenchman and the Tuckers, and the lynch talk started up again. Some of these fellers got just plain ferocious.
Well, here he was, walked right into their clutches, but I never heard no mention of a posse. Most of them fools were jostling when E.J. Watson came ashore, that's how bad they wanted to step up and shake his hand. Nobody wanted to hang back when it came to showing how much they thought of Mister Watson, they wouldn't hear a hard word said against him. Told their wives later, Well, them Tuckers was just conchs, y'know, goldurn Key Westers. They might have had it coming, who's to know?
Yep, they joked and carried on with Mister Watson that day, he weren't nothing but our long-lost Island neighbor. Charlie T. Boggess asked what kind of motor Mister Watson had in that there boat, and he said, Why, that's a Palmer one-cylinder, Charlie T., and she's a beauty!-and all the rest of 'em nudging and winking, nodding like a row of turkey gobblers, as if anyone but Charlie T. would have known it was a Palmer soon's they heard it coming up the Pass. Charlie and Ethel Boggess is our old dear friends, they was married back in '97, same year we was, and my Ted always held a good opinion of him, but Charlie T. was a pure fool around Ed Watson, and he wasn't near as bad as some them others.
Eugene Hamilton was here that day, who helped bury them poor Tuckers down at Lost Man's, and was all for lynching Mister Watson some years back. A young Daniels told him at that time, Ain't no damn difference if the man is guilty, boy, it ain't your place to go talking big about lynching no damn white man. And
Eugene said, You saying I ain't white? and they had one heck of a fight right here behind the store, Gene Hamilton like to killed his own darn cousin. But this day he stood gawking with the rest.
The only one who took no part in all the hubbub was my brother Bill, and I was proud of him. Bill House was curious, no doubt about it, he puzzled over Mister Watson his whole life, but Bill had talked to Henry Short, who had helped the Hamiltons with that burial. Though Henry Short would never accuse nobody, Bill concluded that Mr. E.J. Watson was a cold-hearted killer, and never seen nothing else to change his mind. Bill had no kind of education, he took over for Dad when Dad went too hard for his age and crippled himself with his ax, down at House Hammock. Taking care of our House clan the way he done, Bill was always too busy to improve himself, but he had more sense than the whole bunch when it came to people.
Mister Watson must have felt Bill's eye cause he turned around in the middle of a sentence, eyed Bill a little bit too long, then said real quiet, "Well, hello there, Bill." And Bill said, calm and easy, "Mister Watson," and took off his hat to the young woman, and shook hands all around. Bill had growed up broad-shouldered and blond, broiled beef-red by the sun, steady as a tree. "Glad to see you again," Mister Watson said, like he was testing him. But Bill wouldn't go that far with him, and didn't, though he had House manners and purely hated all his life to seem unfriendly. Oh, he looked amiable enough, but he just nodded without speaking and put his hat back on by way of answer.
Mister Watson sized him up a minute before nodding back. But Bill House was a man he wanted on his side, and Bill was the first one on the island that her husband introduced to "Mrs. Watson."
I see her today as she was then, a handsome taffy-haired young woman of about my age, holding a pretty baby girl with the same auburn hair and sleepy smile as her bad daddy. And Mister Watson said, Now you boys watch your language, hear? Because this young lady is a preacher's daughter. That was just a joke, of course. Wasn't a man in Chokoloskee would dare to curse in front of all them women.
Ida Borders House was plumb determined not to take it like he meant it-nearly knocked herself out cold, that's how hard she sniffed. Mama dearly liked to make a point with that big sniff of hers, didn't care too much whether or not her point was called for. So she said real loud, "Well, praise to goodness, ain't no need to instruct First Florida Baptists about blasphemies!" But she was glaring someplace else by the time she finished. It was very hard to meet Mister Watson's eye.
I watched the young wife's face, see how much she knew. She caught me looking, and she cast her eyes down, and I seen that she knew plenty but not all of it. Then she looked up again and smiled, as if she'd spotted me as her new friend, or as her enemy. I went forward to welcome her, and the women followed.
For all the grinning and good fellowship, everybody there was bone-uneasy about what happened to them Tuckers down at Lost Man's-or seemed like it happened, as Ted says, cause there wasn't never any proof, and nobody left alive to tell the tale. Knowing that, Mister Watson stood there quiet and easy, very patient, hands folded behind his back, nodding and smiling, more tickled to be home than the Prodigal Son. Never raised his voice nor cackled loud the way them others done, just acted sheepish about being gone so long. Just toed the ground with them nice boots of his, waiting for these folks to look him over and be done with it.
But all the while he smiled and nodded, he was looking the men over one by one, and very few besides Bill House met him head on. Then he winked at his wife and that wink give us a start, as if he'd seen from the quick shift in their faces which men had talked of lynching him and which had not, and which he aimed to settle up with later. The men knew this, too, and one by one fell still.
A bad silence was broke by Mister Watson, who declared he'd be proud to have a look at our new store. I sent Ted ahead to sweep out one them Danielses, won't say which, who was out colder'n a pickled pig's foot on my counter. Mister Watson led the way, and being as the store was in our house, he took his hat off as he climbed the steps and crossed the porch, probably the first save Old Man Richard Hamilton who ever come into our store without his hat on. But that day, pushing in behind him, about half the men took off their old hats, too.
Mister Watson, looking all around, was brimming over with congratulations to Ted Smallwood and "Miss Mamie," said no place of business had us beat this side of Tampa, though everybody knew that Storter's, right across the Bay, was twice the size. He shook his head like he couldn't believe his eyes, reminding Ted of them good old days when they first met, at Half Way Creek back in the nineties, and how far both of 'em had come in life since then. Because he always did feel shy and modest about doing better than his neighbors, Ted changed the subject. "Ain't hardly nobody no more at Half Way Creek, Ed. Storters bought it all."
Now Ted wasn't yet twenty in his Half Way Creek days, while Mister Watson was already in his early thirties. It's true he built up a plantation in the Islands beyond any that was seen down there before nor since-every crop that feller raised just turned to gold-but I don't believe he done as good as Ted. By 1906 Ted Smallwood was postmaster and trader and biggest landowner on Chokoloskee, and never robbed nor killed to get there, neither. Course C.G. McKinney and William Wiggins kept their little stores across the island, but we was the main trading post on Chokoloskee from the day we opened, and we are still in leadership today.
Ted Smallwood worked hard for everything he had-getting him to stop work was the problem! If a man had money in his hand, Ted would come down in his nightshirt just to wait on him, even on Sundays. But this man Watson never lacked for money, not since the first day that he showed up here. The Good Lord only knows where that money came from, and how much innocent blood might of been spilled.
That year we had us a young preacher that the skeeters hadn't yet run off the island, and this man of God came hurrying down to meet the newcomer, tell him how welcome he sure was to worship with us on a Sunday, when the Good Lord hung His hat in Chokoloskee. Mister Watson told the preacher that Chatham Bend was a long way from the house of God, but he certainly intended to continue his lifelong custom of reading aloud from the Bible on the Lord's Day whether his people needed it or not.
When everybody laughed, C.G. McKinney frowned. He pulled his long beard and he coughed, as sharp and sudden as a dog, to show folks he could take a joke but didn't like no jokes about the Bible. Besides, C.G. McKinney was our local humorist and never was one to encourage jokes from other people. This was the year we took over his post office, and without none of our mail to read, he was writing up our local news for the county paper, and if any jokes was to be cracked, it was our newshawk that was going to crack 'em or know the reason why. So what he done, he told the story of poor Reverend Gatewood, first man of God back in '88 over at Everglade. Reverend Gatewood come to the Bay on the old Ploughboy, and his first sacred duty on arrival was to preach last words over the body of a man killed in a dispute with the boat captain during the voyage. Captain Joe Williams was a woman man who was always in trouble with some husband or other, and the feller he put an end to was well liked, so Captain Joe had to lay low for some years after.
This Captain Williams was the selfsame feller who bought the honey farm from William Wiggins's brother at Wiggins Pass. Folks used to say that Captain Joe give some of his honey to Mary Hamilton at Fakahatchee when that old mulatta man of hers weren't looking, give her a boy with honey-colored hair.
I'm sure that Mister Watson knew the Gatewood story, but he had the manners to pretend he never heard it. Said he sure hoped good ol' Captain Joe had paid for all his sins, cause what was needed in the Islands was some law and order. Hearing that, Isaac Yeomans had a whooping fit till his eyes watered, and even Mister Watson had to laugh a little, though his laugh was quiet. Our men liked to tell each other that Ed Watson always spoke more quiet the more he got riled up, but most of 'em had no idea what they was talking about.
After the Santini business, when word come out about Belle Starr, a
story got going how our Mister Watson had throwed in with those Jameses and Youngers who rode with Quantrill in the border wars and become outlaws. Our men could talk of nothing else for weeks. You would have thought them cold-blooded desperaders was the greatest Americans since Lighthorse Harry Lee. And some way, just for knowing outlaws and getting the blame for killing that outlaw queen, Ed Watson became some kind of a hero, too. If he'd showed up with a jug of moonshine and a bugle yelling Come on, boys, are you Americans or ain't you? Jump in them boats, we're headed for them Philo-peens, see if we can't finish off them Spaniards, why, half the fool men on the island would have marched off after him like the Rough Riders charging up ol' San Juan Hill, flags flying, tears in their eyes, without once asking where in heck they might be going, or what was right or wrong in the eyes of God.
"God works in mysterious ways," Mister Watson told us. "We must pray for the violent as well as for the victims." That prayer sure startled our poor preacher, who was small in the head, with tired ears, looked less like our shepherd than a sheep. He said in a kind of little bleat, "Amen."
Next thing we knew, Mister Watson was looking fierce, pounding his palm. Everyone fell still like they was in church and the preacher commencing to hand down the Word. "If the Ten Thousand Islands have a future," he declared, "and I, for one, aim to see to it that they do, then those who place themselves above the law have no place in a decent law-abiding community!"
Everyone stared and he stared right back with a great frown like Jehovah. "A-men!" he shouted, at which Isaac give a whoop which he cut off short, as if Mister Watson had shot off his Adam's apple. Excepting Isaac, my Ted was about the only one who dared to laugh, and even Ted held off a minute, and his chuckle never had much heart to it. Then Charlie T. laughed, imitating Ted, and Isaac whooped again and slapped his thigh, and some women started in to hissing about sacrilege-they was thrilled!-and some just tittered, tee-hee-hee, you know.
Killing Mister Watson Page 24