My time has come.
‘I don’t suppose you even know her name, but she’s going to remember you and what you did to her for the rest of her life.’
‘What the hell …?’
Mr McIntyre is stumbling towards the tree trunk with Mambo holding on to him. That last gulp has done for him.
‘What’s going on here? Something’s going on. Seymour?’ His voice fades as his legs finally lose all their power and he topples over. Mambo props him up against the tree trunk and leaves him there to help us with the rope around Seymour’s neck. Mr McIntyre isn’t capable of going anywhere now.
‘What the hell are you doing? What the hell …’
‘Bâtard,’ whispers Madame as she yanks hard on the noose.
Mambo pulls me into Seymour’s line of vision.
‘This here is my daughter Arletta. Ya remember her? Fifty Cents, ya called her. Ya remembering what ya gone and do to her, ya evil piece of shit? This is MY daughter. Daughter of MAMBO!’ she growls.
She draws herself back then launches forward and spits full in his face.
Mambo’s eyes and teeth flash menacingly in the dark. She’s snarling. She’s terrible. She’s Mambo. She pulls the fish knife from somewhere.
‘Ya remember this knife? Eh?’
‘What the …? No, no!’ Seymour tries to push away with his elbows.
‘No, Mambo.’ I grab her arm. ‘No. The noose is enough.’
‘What’s going on? You’re crazy …’ Seymour is groggy and confused.
‘Vite! Pull.’
‘Goddammit! Stop this, you crazy black piece of shit …’
‘This is for what ya did to my daughter.’
Mambo pulls.
Seems Seymour is finally realizing what’s happening to him. Too late. He has no strength in his legs to support his own weight; Mambo’s closet has rendered him utterly defenceless.
‘And this is for that little girl you left at the side of the road.’ I sneer and pull. His ugly, blotched face shows panic like I guess he’s never had any cause to feel in his life. He just liked making little girls feel that way. Then I help Mambo get the knot on the noose right under his chin. ‘And this is what you get for your fifty cents.’
I yank the noose tight. He squeals.
‘And this is for all the other little girls you were never man enough for.’
Yank.
‘Piece of shit …’ he snarls through gritted teeth. ‘Get this fucking thing off me. Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Who?’ asks Madame. ‘You know me well enough monsieur, and if I knew you ever at the little girls, I kill you a long time ago. Bâtard. Merde!’ She spits.
Yank.
Seymour tries desperately to lash out at us, his voice rasping in his throat, but it’s wasted effort, he’s drunk, his legs will not obey him, and Madame has his arms pinned. Panic spreads over his face and adrenaline surges through his body with one last futile effort to save himself.
We heave on the rope and his body lifts off the ground, swinging round and round, his face redder at every pull. He soils himself. We use our full force to combat the surge for survival only apparent in the unparalysed top half of his body. The lifeless legs serve our purpose, pulling his weight helplessly towards the ground and forcing the noose tighter.
When his body stops jerking we wait a few minutes in silence before dropping him to the ground in a crash. His vile tongue protrudes hellishly and his body is limp.
We turn to Mr McIntyre. He’s struggling to drag himself away on paralysed legs and crying like a baby. Madame and Mambo get hold of his ankles and drag him back. He tries to yell, but his voice is feeble with terror, and pointless against the noise from the bordello. I recall when fear of him dried my throat to the silence of sheer terror. Mambo places the rope effortlessly around his neck and then grabs me again. She pushes me in front of him. He is frightened out of his wits, his eyes bulge, his lips quiver, and we hear him soil himself noisily.
‘My daughter, McIntyre. Ya take a last good look. This is for what y’all did to my daughter, and all them other little girls ya been raping for years. Even ya own daughter.’ She laughs deep in her throat. ‘How the hell ya ever think ya gonna get away with this McIntyre?’
‘You’re crazy, crazy women … stop this … stop …’
‘Ya thinking we gonna just let y’all carry on and on like we ain’t got our own ways of dealing with rats?’
‘What about your daughter, Mr McIntyre?’ I ask. ‘Does your wife know what you do to her?’
His eyes bulge wider in terror.
‘No, I don’t …’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Yes, yes … you won’t get away with this … aarghhh …’
‘Do you tell her she likes it?’
‘She does, she does, she … no, I don’t touch her …’
Mambo pulls the noose tight to shut him up.
‘Bâtard,’ whispers Madame again. ‘Nobody going miss this trash, merde …’
I stand in front of him and wonder how he ever terrified me. He’s a small man, insignificant, weak. I have Mambo’s fish knife in my hand. He eyes the blade as I hold it up to his face.
‘Did you have anything to do with that little girl?’ I ask.
‘No!’ He’s struggling for his life without the power of his legs.
‘You know what I can do with this knife, don’t you Mr McIntyre?’
‘No! Yes … don’t … please …’
I edge the knife down to his genitals.
‘Did you have anything to do with it?’
His face is wet with tears. The man is reduced to crying like a baby.
‘Please. No. That’s his shit, he’s fucking crazy. Let me down, I’ll tell you everything. He’s out of control … he’s … aaargh!’
The noose is getting tighter.
‘I was going to turn him in. I was. Let me down and I’ll tell you … I didn’t know what to do … he’s crazy …’
‘He was crazy, Mr McIntyre,’ says Mambo in her sing-song voice. ‘He’s dead now.’
I take the knife and cut through the belt holding up his pants. Madame does the rest with an expert yank of her hand, leaving him naked from the waist down. He stinks of his own smell.
McIntyre struggles for his life while we all heave on the rope. His ankles are bound together by his own clothes and he wiggles like an eel. He swings his legs out towards the trunk of the tree, desperately looking for something to rest his feet on. We give one last heave on the rope and he’s spinning aimlessly, grabbing at his throat. He gets his fingers into the noose, but it doesn’t save him. A few seconds later he slumps lifelessly and the rope feels like it has a dead weight on the end of it.
Mambo and Madame hold him there while I prop the ladder against the tree and climb up. I wind the end of the rope round enough to keep him raised off the ground. I secure it by knotting it in the crook of a branch. Then we go back and cut Seymour’s clothes so they fall around his ankles before hoisting him up and doing the same to keep him swinging off the ground. The weight soon stops them spinning and they eerily hang lifeless in the Spanish moss. Soiled, stinking, evil men the world is better without.
I stand at the edge of the bayou and throw the fish knife high into the air. It disappears into the mist then a second later I hear it splash into the water.
We carry the ladder between us and head back to the fête. It’s dropped in the grass a short distance from the back of the bordello for Tout de suite to collect later.
‘Bon voyage, Arletta ma chérie. Be strong. Vas. Maybe one day you come back. Je t’aime.’
Madame embraces me and kisses my cheek before rushing back to the party. I watch her link arms with a very well dressed, very drunk gentleman and lead him onto the dance floor, as though she’s delighted to have just this minute spotted him at her soirée.
‘I didn’t thank her. I need to say thank you, Mambo.’
‘Come, come quickly, we need to be gone,
’ Mambo says urgently.
‘Miss Arletta.’
‘Yes Tout de suite?’
‘Miss Arletta, travel safe on the long journey. Madame say to give you this. Take care, Miss Arletta.’
Then he’s gone. Mambo pulls me away.
Mambo stays with me at Mrs Archer-Laing’s for this, the last night I ever spend with my own family in my own country. I open the small package Tout de suite handed to me. It has $300 in it and a card that smells like roses. Like her.
To help with your new life, Arletta.
Madame, your friend always
It is the last night under the eaves. We sleep. Mambo holds me like she used to when I was a little girl sharing a cot with her.
Fifteen
The following morning two carriages take me to the station to catch my train. Errol, Mambo and I are in one and Mrs Archer-Laing and Monsieur Desnoyers follow behind in the other. Errol tells me the police have arrested Ainsley in Jackson and charged him with Safi’s murder. He admits he got her to take something, but denies he knew it was poison. I feel sad about it, but I sure am glad I found that letter. Just for a moment of madness, his life is gone too.
‘Happen that way sometimes Arletta,’ says Errol. ‘When folk ain’t wanna face up.’
‘What will come of it, of him? Ainsley is not a murderer, not like that, not really.’
‘He ain’t gonna go to no trial. Albert say he admit to what they’s callin’ negligent homicide.’
‘He’s still going to be sentenced, though?’
‘Can’t see no ways outta that. He’s gonna get at least five years, Albert says, but he’ll get good behaviour, they reckon. If he’s smart, he’s gonna get on outta there sooner.’
Mambo has no sympathy for Ainsley at all. He ought to have told us right there and then that he had forced her to take something, and where he’d gone for it. If he’d done that right then, in that room, maybe we’d have been able to save Safi. Maybe she’d still be alive.
‘I’d have gone for you Mambo. Would you have been able to help her?’
‘Well, I guess so. Ain’t be the first time I been called in to fix up some hokey-pokey dammit mess. But ain’t work out that way honey, and ya gotta put it behind ya. Remember the good times ya had, all them happy socials and livin’ in that fine boarding house. And remember li’l Martha.’
‘He oughta face up to that chile. Ain’t no two ways ’bout it,’ says Errol.
‘She gonna be just fine. She’s got her folks. And we’s all gonna take good care of Martha. She ain’t needin’ no pa like Ainsley. That she don’t need at all. We taking care of her fine,’ says Mambo.
I smile because I know she will. Errol chuckles too. Martha won’t ever be the same kind of old-time Mambo like mine – times have changed – but everybody can see she has her gut and knows about herbs.
Errol carries my suitcase, though it’s perfectly manageable for myself, and we make our way along the busy platform.
‘Monsieur Desnoyers and I won’t board with you, Arletta dear, we’ll say our goodbyes here.’ Mrs Archer-Laing removes an embroidered handkerchief and dabs the corner of her eyes. ‘Let us know when you’ve settled in, how things are. We’ll be looking for a letter from you soon.’
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Mrs Archer-Laing. And for Safi too.’
‘Dolly,’ she sniffles, ‘please call me Dolly, my dear. And when you come home, do pay us a visit. I have the guest room, as you know, so please come and stay. And write to us, Arletta. Do.’
I’m embarrassed to be using her first name, but I do when she embraces me.
The train lets out a rush of steam. I turn to Monsieur Desnoyers and shake his hand.
‘Merci, monsieur, thank you too, very much.’
‘It’s a long journey, Arletta. I trust you have a good book?’ He grins.
‘I’m still reading it.’
‘We look forward to seeing you just as soon as you have leave. Bon voyage.’
He has no reason to suspect that I have no plans to return.
Errol, Mambo and I board the train. Errol puts the suitcase in the rack above my seat and holds out his hand.
‘Goodbye Arletta. All the best over there.’
‘Goodbye Errol, and thank you. For everything. You’ve been a good friend and I’m going to miss you. And your cooking. I’m really going to miss your cooking.’
I pop a kiss on his cheek. He nods and laughs into his chest. As he leaves he turns for one last look and says he’s sure gonna miss me sitting in his kitchen slipping off these stupid faddish stools. He says he knows God is going with me and steps out of the carriage.
Mambo gives me a hug.
‘We did the right thing Mambo.’
‘An eye for an eye. That’s the old ways. And this world sure is cleaner for it this morning.’
The whistle blows.
‘I’m going to miss you Mambo.’
I cling to her, breathe her cologne and soap, her other-wordly odour of warm musk and our cabin.
‘I have something for you Mambo.’
I hand her Pappy’s pipe.
‘Lord, Arletta …’ Tears well up in her eyes and she cannot say a word.
‘I took it, like I told you, and I want you to have it to remember me and Pappy by.’
‘I love ya girl. One day soon ya gonna be able to come home. I’m gonna be wantin’ my girl home. I’m waitin’ on that day.’
I hold her as close as I can.
‘I love you Mambo. My Mambo. My very own Mambo.’
‘Ya get on that boat outta here Arletta. Ya get y’self back over to the old country before they get ya honey.’
‘Goodbye Mambo.’
‘Before they get ya. I keep tellin’ myself why ya going. Ya goin’ home, ya gonna be safe. I knows it.’
She gets off the train and I blow her a kiss. I see her stiffen her shoulders and raise her head up high. She wipes her nose.
The whistle blows again and the train jerks forward. Mambo places her hand on the window then disappears into the steam as the train shunts off down the track.
I stand up and scan the steam, looking for one last glimpse of my Mambo, but when it clears I see Albert Gaudet at the end of the platform, among the freight crates, wearing his police uniform and walking to keep up as we slowly shunt down the platform. I freeze with horror, expecting the train to come screeching to a halt with half the Louisiana state law department stampeding aboard to clap me in chains.
Albert Gaudet gives me a faint smile and raises his hat. Before disappearing into the next burst of steam he draws his forefinger across his neck and nods. Then he places his hat back on his head and the train keeps chugging on out of the station.
The St Francisville Herald
16 MAY 1923
SEYMOUR HAMILTON LYNCHED IN AVOYELLES
SEYMOUR HAMILTON, proprietor of Brayhead Rose Plantation, has been named as one of the men found murdered near Mansura, Avoyelles Parish. Mr Hamilton, and Mr Charles McIntyre, manager of the Louisiana Planters’ Bank in Baton Rouge, were both found early on Saturday morning by local trapper Claude Riems and his son.
State trooper David Lebrau said the motive was likely to be robbery and their investigations were successfully underway, with the police already questioning an unnamed suspect.
Enquiries included the questioning of well-known socialite Madame Bonnet, whose property borders the bayou where the crime took place. Neither Madame Bonnet nor any of her staff saw anything suspicious on the night of the murders and, because of the Cochon du Lait celebrations taking place last weekend, are unable to account for all those who attended. The area around the old Oakland plantation was crowded with partygoers, and police ask anyone who thinks they saw anything suspicious or unusual to get in touch with the police department.
Harvard-educated Mr Hamilton studied law, but had not practised since his return to the state of Louisiana. He inherited Brayhead Rose Plantation after the
tragic death of both his parents in a boating accident. Mr Hamilton Snr. was a seasoned boatman and the unusual accident was considered a fluke of nature. Brayhead Rose Plantation has been in financial trouble since the death of his father but Mr Hamilton’s suicide has been ruled out due to the circumstances of his death.
Mr Charles McIntyre leaves a wife and two children in Baton Rouge. The Louisiana Planters’ Bank has expressed their shock on hearing about the death of one of their most respected managers. A statement from the bank read, ‘We are most shocked to hear of the unfortunate and untimely demise of someone in our employ who had such a promising future ahead of him, and he will be sorely missed by all.’
Mr McIntyre’s wife, Ella, was unavailable for comment.
The suspect remains in custody and is due to be arraigned before the court next week.
THE AVOYELLES GAZETTE
20 May 1923
Suspect In Hamilton Case Released
EARL FRANKLIN, the suspect held since last week in connection with the deaths of Mr Seymour Hamilton and Mr Charles McIntyre, has been released. A spokesman stated that Mr Franklin was in fact being held in custody on liquor charges the night the murders took place. Mr Franklin is understood to have below-average intelligence, which rendered him unable to fully understand the charges he had confessed to. Mr Franklin’s lawyer, Mr Ken Chester of Payne and Charter, is to lodge a formal claim for compensation on behalf of his client.
More details of the lynchings have since come to light. It is understood that both Mr Hamilton and Mr McIntyre were naked at the time they were discovered hanging from the branch of one of Oaklands’ largest trees. It is rumoured they had been mutilated in some way, but a spokesman for the sherriff’s department refused to comment.
‘It was a terrible sight for my young son to see,’ said Monsieur Riems, who found the bodies. ‘I had taken him out to get some experience of trapping. I wasn’t expecting to come across this sort of thing at all. I only hope they find these evil culprits soon. It was inhuman what we had to witness.’
Governor Parker has appealed for calm and warns that troop reinforcements could be sent to the parish as unrest spreads.
What the River Washed Away Page 28