“We’ll be by about eight-thirty,” Thompson said. “Russ will drive up with us and fill you in on what happened in Washington. We have a few questions ourselves. They could have some details that are important to the investigation. As far as Higson is concerned, not much left to talk about. We still have people in custody in Washington, and I’m sure the German embassy will be getting a visit from our folks up there.”
Thompson and Collins parted ways. Travis was vindicated. He had done the right thing. But he also knew there was still a price to be paid—for borrowing Mr. Morgan’s car without permission, for turning Hannah’s uncle’s boat into a pile of floating wood and putting the motor at the bottom of the Mississippi, and for almost getting himself and Hannah killed. A price to be paid.
On the way to their car, Travis’s mother suggested a special meal to celebrate his safe return.
“Can we start with a julep?” Travis said.
“Oh, I suppose.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. Still Mama’s favorite—a Southern son. He’d never relinquish that title. Nor could he.
CHAPTER 44
Going to leave this southern town.
—Charley Jackson
CAPTAIN JOHANN KESSLER AND HIS FIRST MATE, Neumann, were ashore in Vicksburg doing what they always did when they arrived in a new city: they found the most interesting bar close to the dock and went in. First, they would order what the bartender recommended, and then they would choose for themselves. The only problem was that Mississippi was still under Prohibition. They’d have to find someplace that had relaxed its interpretation of the law. That was usually pretty easy.
The sign hanging above the door of the third establishment they came to read, “Dockside Dave’s.” Kessler and Neumann figured that was interesting enough. They walked inside and took two seats at the bar.
“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender, looking at Kessler. A well-groomed, slender man with dark black hair, the bartender could easily have worked in a bank.
“Anything local?”
“Nothing that I can sell legally.”
“You decide.”
The bartender eyed them suspiciously, but Kessler’s accent told him they weren’t agents looking to enforce the law. “And you?” the bartender said to Neumann.
“The same.”
“Thanks,” Kessler said, after the bartender placed the drinks in front of them.
“My name’s Rick when you’re ready for another.”
The interior of Dockside Dave’s looked like a hundred other bars he and Neumann had frequented during their travels around the world. Peeling paint on the walls, tables scarred from cigarettes left unattended, faded watercolors of seafaring men and ships hanging crooked on the walls, and the ever-present haze generated by chain-smoking patrons. They felt right at home.
“Do you think he made the boat?” Neumann said.
“I don’t know. We’ll see soon enough.”
“And if he’s not on it?”
“Then let’s hope he can make it to New Orleans. But we won’t wait long.”
“What about those men we talked to? Do you think they’ll keep an eye out for him?”
“Maybe. They know there’s a reward for the first person who leads us to him. Or him to us. It’s to our advantage that Vicksburg is a small town with a small wharf. He will be easy to find.”
In the corner behind the bar, a radio with the volume turned low played popular tunes that some customers tapped their feet to and others appeared not to hear at all. Twice an hour, the music stopped for five minutes and the national and local news was read.
Kessler and Neumann savored their beer, talking idly about what they would do when they arrived home. Neumann planned to visit Munich, where his sister was getting married, and Kessler had promised his wife a short trip to Switzerland.
When the news had been read the first time they missed it, not because of their conversation, but because the bartender had turned the volume down before it started. He was in the back taking a delivery when the news was broadcast a second time.
Kessler’s ears perked up. He thought he recognized a name. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Neumann said, straining to listen.
Kessler rose from his chair and walked around behind the bar. He turned up the volume.
“Hey, turn it down!” someone said from the back of the bar. “We don’t want to hear any of that.” The man was slurring his words.
“One moment, please,” Kessler said.
“I said turn it down,” the voice said.
“Wait a minute!”
The edge and sound of his voice startled Neumann. No one else said a word. Only the radio could be heard.
“I repeat, Conrad Higson, a noted agricultural scientist in Mississippi, has been found dead aboard the River Belle, a passenger ship based out of Helena, Arkansas. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had been conducting a massive manhunt up and down the Delta for the suspected spy. We will bring you more information as it becomes available.”
Kessler turned the radio down and returned to his seat. He finished his drink and put some money on the bar. “If we don’t get out of here, they’ll be looking for us. Let’s go.”
Neumann took his last swallow of American beer then followed Kessler out the door.
CHAPTER 45
My baby’s gone.
—Tampa Red
AFTER A FEW DAYS, THE DOCK ATTENDANT IN HELENA called the local police about a vehicle in the parking lot that had an odd odor coming from it. A heavy-set police officer pried open the trunk, then covered his face as Reverend Coulter’s rotting corpse was exposed to the daylight. He sent the body to Clarksdale for identification and burial.
An editorial in the paper by Emmett Wilson pondered Coulter’s tragic meeting with Conrad Higson on that fateful fall day. A moment in time that might have been avoided had the reverend needed to perform a baptism, wedding, or have an extended conversation with a grieving mother. “But the Lord has a plan,” Wilson wrote.
Coulter’s wife, children, and many of his parishioners attended the three-hour funeral. Long sermons extolled his wisdom, his compassion for the downtrodden, and his tenacious faith in the Lord, his Savior. Rivers of tears flowed that day, but none came from Elma Williams. On the other side of town, she was shedding hers for Luke.
After his body had washed up on shore and had been recovered, the church immediately offered to place Luke right next to Reverend Coulter.
“Oh, no thank you,” Elma said. “Luke didn’t go to church that much. We’d just as soon have him in the backyard as in the cemetery.” Even if Luke was buried next to the reverend, she knew they wouldn’t be seeing much of each other in the afterlife. They had different makers.
Luke’s funeral was held on Sunday, and Travis and Hannah arrived early at Elma’s. They played with the children in the front yard while Elma finished getting the food ready. A viewing had been held the night before, and Travis thought the funeral home had done a good job mending the weary sharecropper. Dressed in a new suit Elma had purchased, Luke, for once in his life, looked peaceful.
“Can you say a few words, Travis?” Elma said, lightly touching his arm after the preacher asked for any words from the small crowd who had assembled.
“I didn’t know Luke very well,” Travis began his eulogy. “But what I do know now, as you do, is that he was a law-abiding man, a just man, who didn’t do the things people said he did.” He looked at Luke’s boys. “His only crime was wanting a better life. He knew sharecropping would never amount to anything, so he gave the only thing he had—himself. For his wife, his children, his family. And he was brave in the face of death, yes he was.” Travis saw the boys grin. “Mighty brave.”
That sleepy Clarksdale would be the hub of a scandalous, international incident involving the FBI had gotten the town’s collective tongues wagging. Over bridge games, in barbershops, on street corners—nowhere was safe from the raging epidemic of gossip
about Travis, Hannah, and Conrad Higson, the quiet newcomer to Clarksdale who had barely caused a ripple even after testifying against Luke. “Who would have thought!” exclaimed every interested party.
A couple of weeks passed before the fervor surrounding Higson’s escape and capture started to die down. Over the course of those weeks, Lewis Murphree wrote a series of articles about the murders for the local paper. Headlined “Dead or Alive,” the last article discussed the FBI’s investigation into Higson’s espionage activities. The FBI, right up to the director, had wanted the German spy any way they could get him, the reporter wrote.
Sam Tackett was one of the many sources Murphree interviewed for the story. “Why do you think Higson went on this murderous rampage, District Attorney?”
Tackett shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess some people are just no darn good.”
Hannah knew that what she had done was going to have repercussions. A girl like Hannah couldn’t kill or truly love a white man in Mississippi and expect to get away with it. She had done both.
When Sheriff Collins and Russ Kalman questioned Hannah, Travis sat next to her and corroborated everything she said. With Travis at her side, she might as well have been quoting the Bible. They asked about her marksmanship, and she told them that her uncle who owned the boat had taught her to shoot. They all remarked that her uncle was a fine teacher.
Yet even after Hannah was vindicated, the talk would not stop. She knew that for those who cast their world in only two colors, what she had done could not be forgiven. From the afternoon she and Travis stepped off the River Belle together, the Morgan family had been receiving telephone calls—always anonymous, sometimes threatening, sometimes just menacingly silent. Sometimes the caller mentioned Hannah’s suspected involvement with Travis. Travis could easily defend himself against innuendo and hearsay, but he wasn’t able to shield Hannah. Even though she was leaving sometime next year, she knew what her father would do now. There was no waiting out this storm.
Hannah’s last day in Clarksdale proved to be the first cool day of fall. Travis stepped outside and felt the change at once. He knew what was coming—the biting winter cold. Mississippians resided either in the sweltering heat of summer or the damp, deep chill of winter. They felt most comfortable at these extremes, because Mississippi was always either black or white. Hannah had several relatives in Atlanta, and Mr. Morgan thought that was the best place for her. She would still be close enough to visit, but distant enough to be removed from the town’s anxiety.
On her last night, she sat with Travis on her porch swing for hours.
“Do you want to stay?” Travis asked.
“Of course I do. But you said it yourself, Travis, the night of the party when we ran down to the river.”
“What was that?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“You said, ‘Things won’t change in time for us.’”
“And you believed me?”
“You were right.” She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. “Unfortunately, you were right.”
“I wish I wasn’t.”
He kicked the porch floor and the swing started to sway. They rocked and gazed at the stars that filled the cloudless night sky. They talked into the night, teasing, laughing, at times silent for a while, at other times crying. They recalled the hours they had spent down by the river where their love ran deep like the water, binding them as the river ties the east bank to the west. They would judge every love by this one.
On Sunday morning, Travis skipped church with his family and went to the train station to see Hannah off.
Hannah’s family had gathered already; they were standing together outside on the platform, chatting, hugging, and wishing Hannah well. It was not a happy occasion, but they were used to saying good-bye to friends and family heading north, or west, or somewhere that would offer a better life.
While Hannah’s family mingled and talked, Travis walked around to the side of the train that faced away from the station and climbed on board. He found a seat next to a window and watched Hannah step onto the train and take her place in another car.
It was only a minute—but a long one—before the train whistle sounded, announcing the start of their journey. Travis felt the train stir. He slipped into her car and walked to her seat.
She looked up and smiled. “I thought you weren’t coming to see me off?”
“I didn’t get to give you a proper send-off last night since you fell asleep on me.”
“And this is my proper send-off?”
Travis looked outside. The train, though still moving slowly, was picking up speed. He had to hurry. He removed a small velvet box from his pocket and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Open it.”
Hannah opened the box. Inside lay a small golden cross.
“It was my grandmother’s. Wear it. It’ll keep you safe.”
“Don’t you need it?”
“Not anymore. You kept me safe.”
She picked the cross up by the chain and suspended it in the air.
He took it from her, gently placed it around her neck, and fastened it. He pulled his hands from around her neck and cradled her face. “I won’t soon forget you, Hannah Morgan. Remember that.” He kissed her deeply. Someone in the car gasped.
“You better not.”
By now her tears had mixed with his. He glanced outside. The train was moving faster.
He removed his hands from her face. “Good-bye,” he said. “I expect some letters.”
“And responses.”
He walked to the back of the car, bumping into the porter who was making his way through the car checking on passengers.
“May I help you, sir?” the porter said.
“That was my stop. I’ll just get off here.”
“You can’t get off now.”
“Sure I can.” Travis brushed past him and entered the open space between the cars. Looking up and down the track, he took a deep breath and jumped.
He was in midair, and he thought of Hannah, that night by the Mississippi. How he had chased her into the woods and had landed on the soft banks of the river. He thought of the gentleness of her soul. He would miss her more than she would miss him.
Travis landed on his feet but instantly curled up, rolling several times before coming to a stop. He stood up and made sure he hadn’t injured himself. Squinting at the train as it chugged toward the sun, he could see the outline of a passenger hanging out a window. She was waving wildly.
He waved back.
When the train was out of sight, he took a shortcut through a cotton field on the way home. He wanted to finish that application to Emory University in Atlanta before his father returned from church.
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