On the deck of the barge was pitched and tied down to the railing a large white tent which shimmered in the sunlight. The strange green and yellow paint of the barge now stood out even more and in the little shack aboard Harry could see the shape of an operator, his hand on the steering wheel that was mounted sideways in the cabin. The empty fuel drums had been removed from the deck and the lines were neatly coiled. Seeing the glistening railings of the barge, Harry knew they had received a fresh coat of paint.
Three small boats were running escort for the barge, bobbing in the larger boat’s huge wash wave. The craft were arrayed alongside the barge and Harry recognized their captains. They were the boys from the swamp, Chuckie, Steve, and WeeJay, the ones who had found the sunken boat, with young WeeJay’s white outboard proudly showing the words Black Duck Two painted in black letters on its side.
The public address barked again, and as the message came through the large speakers along the harbor edge, the words carrying an echo across the harbor water in the heat.
“I wish we could say something to make up for all the lost years, to say we’re sorry about how we failed a fellow driver. We can only try.”
As the barge came to a point about a hundred feet from the reviewing stand, the operator stepped out of his deck house. He waved to the judge’s stand.
The moderator said, “We’ll now hear from the regional director of the Powerboat Association.” The man, his white shirt glimmering in the sunlight, came out from the shade of the judge’s booth. He had a megaphone which he brought up to his mouth.
“I’d like first to present our honored guest with a special award. “He reached into his vest pocket and drew out a small package. Then from a sheet of paper in his left hand, he began to read.
“Honorable Mention mechanic of l967.Walker John Douglas, awarded by the United National Powerboat Association, August 7, 1968, at the Mahoney Memorial Powerboat Regatta, River Sunday Maryland.”
“Walker John Douglas, come up here,” the man said, holding out the package.
Walker stood with the help of the people around him and came forward. He shook the hand of the officer and looked at the package.
“You’ll find this is a replacement of the one you lost,” the man said.
Harry could see the old man moving his lips in thanks and nodding his head.
The moderator raised his microphone and said, “Let her loose. Let the folks see.”
The operator on the barge nodded and walked toward the tent. He reached down and untied the corner of the tent closest to him and then pulled the tent back over the large item it had been protecting.
Sounds of astonishment, of surprise, broke out from the regatta audience. In front of them, its newly polished chrome glinting in the sun, was the repaired hull of the Black Duck. The repainted black letters were bold against the bright freshly restored white hull.
“They must have worked all night to do this,” Harry said.
“Catch did this. He had the help of Walker’s old mechanic friends,” said Annie who had come up beside him.
The moderator intoned, “Folks what you see before you is the restoration of the Super Sport boat Black Duck built in 1968 by Walker John Douglas, winner of our mechanic’s award of that same year. This boat was never raced and we think that is a damn shame.”
The crowd broke into applause. Close by the stand, Harry could spot Jesse and his pals, Jimmy and Fat Mike, whistling and clapping their hands.
“So we’re going to do something about it,” the words came over the speakers.
The barge passed slowly by the reviewing stand and then began its circle of the harbor, the escort runabouts leading the way. Its path followed the markers set out for the racing boat competitors. The smell of new enamel paint came in over the water and mixed with the tar smell of the wharf pilings.
“It gives us all great pleasure to right a wrong,” said the director. “Here is his boat, Walker’s Black Duck. We know it as a boat that did not race because of a man’s willingness to give all not for the sport but for his friend, another great racer, Homer Kirby.”
To the far side of the reviewing stand the Civil War reenactors had now come out and formed a line to honor Walker. The chief of police was standing with them but was in his regular police uniform. Harry waved to him and he waved back with a smile. Ten men were acting in the group, three of them black, and all of them members of local veterans groups, dressed as Union and Confederate soldiers who formed a rifle line with old fashioned percussion rifles. Captain Stiles ordered them to stand to attention and to raise their rifles. On his order they fired, with sharp reports and then puffs of smoke heading out over the water towards the barge.
Captain Stiles moved closer to Harry and said quietly,
“They got Cheeks out to the State Police barracks. He’s talking.”
Harry smiled, “The bigger they fall.”
“I don’t know about all that,” said Stiles, looking back at the reenactors as he went on, “About Lulu’s husband. Looks like he might tell us about that.”
“How many of the town fathers were involved?” asked Harry.
“Don’t know yet. Maybe none. This might have been just Cheeks crime, all by himself,” he said as he looked Harry in the eye. “We’ll have to straighten it out. The state is figuring out the charges. Walker going to be due a lot of money.”
He paused, “You think he’ll sue the town.”
Harry shook his head. “All he wants to do is come home.”
The chief smiled, then added, “I picked up those kids in the car with the cross painted on it. You want to press charges. You’d probably have to press charges against half the town, Mister Jacobsen,” Captain Stiles said with a smile. “You want that?”
“No, I guess not,” said Harry.
When the echoes had died down, the crowd roared their approval at the honors given the barge and the announcer resumed his talk, thanking the reenactors and beginning to point out the features of the racing boat. In the background as he spoke were notes of the Star Spangled Banner. Far off, Harry could hear a man hawking hot dogs and crab cakes.
“This is for you,” said Billy who had come up and put his arm on Walker’s shoulder.
“It’s to say that we’re sorry,” said Catch, holding out his hand.
“I owe you this,” said Senator, grim faced, holding out a ten dollar bill.
Peggy stood opposite Billy and bent down and kissed Walker’s cheek.
In turn, Walker John took their hands and smiled. When he had finished greeting them, he said, “The boats have always been more important than we are.”
The barge circled around the old monument and then headed back to its home berth.
Two seagulls, their wings folded, stood proud at the bow of the barge, as if to guide it into safe waters. The barge slowed and as it did, the small boats stood off in deeper water. Finally, with the crowd cheering, Catch steered the craft into its pier and secured it.
The moderator came back to the mike, “The Black Duck will be on exhibit all weekend during the regatta. Afterwards, the town of River Sunday is planning to have it placed as part of a permanent museum at the workshop of Walker Douglas in Mulberry for all to see for years to come.”
By this time, Stella had arrived, wearing Walker’s old racing jacket and bringing along a young black man dressed in an expensive business suit. Harry watched as the old man first stared then embraced the two of them.
The moderator insisted that Walker come to the microphone. Walker turned his head and, facing the crowd, held up a copy of the Nanticoke Times. The crowd cheered again. He moved to the podium and began to speak, his slow and careful words going out over the public address.
“The Lord has blessed me again. I have not only regained my freedom,” he looked around, “and have come home to be with my friends, but also I have found out I am a father.” Walker stopped and brushed away tears in his eyes. A silence was over the crowd, except that out in the harbor a bl
ack duck landed, splashing its wings, a sound that made some turn their heads for a moment.
Walker said, “I want to thank you for making this fine welcome for me and my boat.”
Applause grew louder and louder, its rumble pierced by shrill whistles.
He said, “I’m an old man now and some of you probably feel I’ve lost most of my life. True, I have lost something but I’ve gained a lot too. When I was racing these boats I thought only of the regattas each year and my place in them.” He looked around. “I’ve heard that some of you thought my treatment was the same as if I’d been lynched.” The word brought murmurs through the crowd. He went on, “Maybe so but I managed to live through all that kind of hatred and those bad days. I must tell you that over these years I have been in hiding, many decent and kind people, white and black, asking nothing in return, have risked their lives for me that I might stay alive and out of jail. These are folks who will never hear their names read because they broke the law to help me. All these years of solitude have been like a prison but one in which I learned a great amount about the world. I want to share with you a lesson I have learned so that none of you will feel sorry for me.”
The applause stopped. An outboard engine gurgled and stopped.
He said, “I learned what my Pastor tried to tell me when I still lived here.” Walker looked at the Pastor his mouth in a smile, then said, “I learned that what happened to me was not because of my skin color although many of you might think that. I realized that River Sunday was never a mean town to those of us of color, never mean, perhaps misguided but never mean.”
He hesitated then went on in the soft voice that Harry had come to respect, “Nossir, I tell you the truth, folks, it’s not because of black or white or gray or blue or any other color, it’s because of greed. My lesson was that, even though I was not guilty of the crime for which I was a fugitive, I was instead guilty of greed. Yessir, I was as guilty as anyone, guilty especially of my selfishness in putting my racing career ahead of helping the people around me. My Pastor told me, and I should have listened, that people who have something to share, must then share that something with others who are not so fortunate. Folks who have nothing must be helped to be able to live a good life. I know the Lord has kept me alive all these years to spend the rest of my time doing just that, sharing what I have.”
Harry heard this and thought, “Was this the story of this town, the real secret? This greed he speaks of. Is that the secret?”
Walker said,” You know my friends that we have suffered in this town for many years. You and I and those who came before us. Out in the harbor is a monument to the sin of slavery, something that haunts us even to this day. Those of us who were responsible for it and those of us who accepted it without protest and those of us who were the slaves and feel the shame. As long as that monument reminds us we will never be free of the sin and I have come to realize that. The sin was caused by greed, slavery was a matter of profit, and the memory of it reminds us of greed. When General Store was burned and the fortunes of so many were ruined, the hands that set the fire were driven by greed, the desire to keep profits from spreading to others. My girlfriend was a victim of that greed but I myself participated by failing to come to her rescue. I wanted my own success in racing and showed my own grasping greed when she was so needy. It was my own greed and resulting misfortune that caused my son to have such a hard life during his youth, growing up without his mother or father. Of course, all of us must share the greed that caused the great fire and the resulting profits that came from its horror. Two women who were friends to all of us died while many either made money or lived to take advantage of the growth of the town that came from that fire’s financial benefits. Then our own compatriot was turned to murder from his own greed and became a modern terror in his own home town.”
“So that was it,” thought Harry as he listened to the old man.
Walker said, “This is my story, your story, the story of the town of River Sunday. I hope you agree with me that the time has come to start over and to forget our past. Some say we should always remember the past. I say, that if it causes all of us to walk with our heads down, afraid to look anyone in the eyes because of our shame, then the past must go from our minds. We can do better.
He looked out at the monument. “I will this day offer some of my own money to help in the destruction of that slave monument. Take my money and spend it to help the town and all of us look to the future.”
Walker finished by raising his hand in a wave to the crowd. At this time, he looked very tired and Harry helped Stella and his son get him back to his seat. As Walker sat down, a surge of noise, a general cheer began in earnest, complete with stamping of feet on the boards of the pier, and oars struck against the sides of boats, and much screaming and whistling. As the noise increased, Walker tried to wave again but was too weak. Later on, listeners said that the rumble of the crowd could be heard outside of town as far as the highway, as though thunder was coming up, a summer storm, and that the sound was the loudest of the day, much more than the cheering for the racing boats.
Billy went to the old man as he came back to his seat, putting his arms around the fragile body in front of him. He pushed aside the television cameras and said, “Me and Charleston are going to make sure you never need anything.”
“The mother of my boy, she’ll need help,” whispered Walker.
“I don’t need anything but you being around, old man,” Stella said.
“You hear that good, Walker, and don’t go running off anymore,” Billy grinned.
“Folks,” the announcer said, moving along with his schedule. “Walker John’s a hard act to follow. We’ll be stating the Super Sport class in just a few minutes. Keep your seats for some real fine driving.”
A small rowboat carrying the fat woman and Reverend Blue came putting. along the shoreline close in front of the crowd. Above her she held a sign that said,
“Evil is from the Devil.
You should fear.
The Devil is from evil.
Fear you should.”
Blue was running the outboard, his shirt shadowed darkly with sweat. Blue’s lighted cross flicked red and white on and off across his breast. A few hellos as well as boos were directed at the preacher. Harry watched the preacher thinking that the man had probably been right all along, that evil did exist in River Sunday, that it was the darkness before the light. What he mistook, Harry thought, was that the darkness was not the color of people’s skin, but the lack of light in their hearts, the greed. Walker had something there.
Lulu came up to Harry. “Catch and my sister. I guess they came through after all,” she said. “They surprised me, changing their attitudes way they did.”
Harry nodded. “Like they were reunited in Walker’s Patrol again.” He looked past her at the young boys coming back along the side of the pier, the slapping of their tiny plywood and fiberglass hulls and the purring of their outboards scaring up the seagulls who had tentatively reclaimed the racecourse. These boys had, without knowing it, duplicated the feat of the children thirty years ago. Instead of saving a tanker they had, by discovering the wreck out in the swamp, saved the life of an old man and perhaps, Harry thought, saved the soul of the town. The three of them were running their small outboards, just like the others before them, a new patrol like the one of thirty years ago, and in the lead was WeeJay in his white runabout.
“You coming out to the Motorboat later?” Lulu asked.
“I’ve got to get back to my poker. I’m running out of money,” he said, laughing
She nodded toward Annie who was talking with Walker and his son. “Do you know that she’d do anything for you?”
Harry looked at Annie and smiled. He replied, “She’s like me, Lulu.”
“You really going to stay here in River Sunday?” she asked.
“If I can make some money out of my newspaper.”
“Come on by and I’ll place a big ad for the Motorboat.”
Mel’s band started up again.
Come on Nancy, put your best dress on.
Come on, Nancy, ‘fore the steamboats gone.
Everything is lovely on the Chesapeake Bay,
All aboard for Baltimore, and if we’re late they’ll all be sore!
Some of the drivers revved engines, warming up for the next heat. The guttural sound of the big Ford and Chevrolet engines tore across the harbor. Annie came up to him.
“I wanted to tell you about Baltimore,” she said.
“You don’t have to,” Harry said.
The crowd had clustered at the front of the wharf. She led him to a deserted area behind the speaker’s platform. They sat down on a wooden seat built into the side of the pier. The air was filled with the smell of cotton candy, and they had to raise their voices against the noise of the racing boat motors with their open exhausts.
“You remember the letter that Peterson sent to you and his mention of the reporter who turned in false stories? The man whose name was Joe Dank?”
She said, “I lived with him, Harry. I lived with him and never knew how much of a crook he was. When he was found out it was like I was guilty too. That’s why I left that paper. I hated myself.”
Harry thought for a minute and then said, “An African newspaper editor that I once worked with told me that before you could comment on what hell was like, you had to travel there.” He put his hand softly on her arm.
“I had been in hell,” she said, looking at the race boats, then back at him. “I came to River Sunday where I thought the stories were simple, where I didn’t have to make decisions about what was true.”
Harry said, “The business has knocked us all around. Even so, you’re like me. It gets in your blood. You couldn’t leave the news completely. Lloyd was a good compromise, a place to hide and regroup.”
“Yes,” she said. “Until you came along and forced me to face up to the Walker story. All of a sudden I wasn’t reporting statistics on boats anymore. I got my guts back. I was alive again. I began to realize that you can’t hide from the truth, that stories are everywhere. That’s our business, to find them, report them.”
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 31