Gunsmoke Blues

by Balogun Ojetade

  The man laughed again. “Aw naw, cher, what a shame. Looks like all five of y’all are back on the menu.”

  “Shut up!” Robert said. He needed the man to stop talking, so he could think clearly. “Let go of Elijah.” He waved the knife in the air, but his hand shook as he did it.

  “Or what?” the man said. “Going to have a go at me, are you, boy? I don’t think so. I don’t think you gon’ do nothing.”

  The banged on the door with their fists, shouting for help.

  “The constables will come soon,” Robert said. “Somebody outside gon’ hear the noise and break the door down.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the man.

  The man shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think so. Nobody cares what happens round here, least of all the constabulary. Besides, you can scream all you like on Hallowmas and no one will give a damn. Screaming’s all part of the fun.” He chuckled again, shaking Elijah by the shoulders. He stopped abruptly, and all the laughter left his face. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and dead. “By the time the law dogs get here, I’ll have eaten every last one of you, Je pense.”

  With a sudden movement, he shoved Elijah toward Robert then lunged at Robert’s knife arm. The little boy tripped and fell on top of Robert, knocking him sideways into the edge of the door. A sharp pain jarred through Robert’s side. He felt the man twist his arm and grab the blade. The knife was pulled from his grasp.

  Tears stung Robert’s eyes, but he had the sense to grab Elijah with his free arm and push the boy through the open doorway and out into the hallway.

  The man slammed him backward into the kitchen wall with a vicious strength, and he doubled over, the wind knocked out of him.

  When he lifted his head again, the man was standing right in front of him. He grabbed Robert by the hair and jerked his head up, banging it back against the wall. The man held the knife now and he pushed it up against Robert’s throat.

  In the hallway the children clung tightly together by the locked front door. One of the girls screamed.

  The man brought his face up close, his stinking breath washing a wave of nausea over Robert. His yellow eyes glinted and he smiled. “Aw naw, cher,” the man said. “That didn’t go too well, did it? Look who’s got the knife now.” He dragged the blade up to Robert’s chin, drawing its serrated edge slowly across his skin. Robert felt the sting of the knife cutting into his flesh.

  “I’ll cut your head off, I shol’ will,” the man said with a nod. “How’s that for a treat?” He laughed coldly, turning to look at the four children at the other end of the hallway. “Would y’all like to see me do that? Would you like to see it?”

  Robert didn’t think what to do next. Thinking hadn’t done him any good thus far. Instead he reacted instinctively, bringing his knee sharply up into the man’s groin. The man shrieked, slashing wildly with the knife, cutting the air viciously just inches from Robert’s face.

  Robert dodged his head aside. He grabbed at the knife, feeling the blade dig into the palm of his hand, pulling beads of blood from his flesh. He let go with a cry.

  The man pushed him to the floor then ran toward the children, who were huddled by the front door.

  Robert ran after him, but the man moved quickly. By the time Robert reached the end of the hallway, the man already had the knife pressed to Sweetpea’s throat. She screamed. Beulah joined her, the two girls shrieking in unison.

  “Make them stop!” the man shouted. “Make them stop or I’ll kill them both!”

  The girls screamed louder.

  The man’s eyes held a mad look.

  Elijah and Belshazzar started wailing too.

  “Make them stop!” the man repeated.

  Then from outside, a male voice shouted, “It’s the Law! Open up!” A fist banged heavily on the front door.

  The man turned to look up.

  In that moment, Robert dived at him, grabbing for the knife. One hand closed around the man’s hand on the knife handle, the other grasped the blade itself. A searing pain shot through Robert’s hand, but he held on tight.

  The man screeched.

  Robert fell on top of him, kicking and twisting as they collapsed together onto the floor.

  Sweetpea wriggled free, but continued to scream as loudly as she could. From outside another voice, a woman’s, cried, “Open the door now! This is the Law!”

  The man let out a roar like a cornered animal, his face contorting in rage. He and Robert both clung to the knife, the man gripping the handle, Robert feeling the sharp teeth of the blade biting into his palm. The pain was blinding, but he didn’t let go.

  Robert had his weight on the man now, pinning him down. But the man’s grip on the knife was stronger. Robert felt it slipping from his grasp.

  A heavy weight crashed against the door, like someone was hurling their entire body against it. The man looked up for just a second.

  Robert elbowed him in the face and suddenly the knife was his. He wrenched it from the man’s grasp, ignoring the blood that ran down the blade of the knife, gripping its slick length in his fingers. He twisted it around so he could grip the handle.

  The man bared his teeth at Robert in frustration, then lunged forward, sinking his incisors into Robert’s forearm.

  Unbelievable pain shot through Robert’s arm. The man bit deep, as if he really did mean to eat Robert alive.

  Robert felt sick. He was in danger of passing out from the pain. Desperate, he viciously plunged the bread knife into the man’s chest.

  The man fell backward.

  Robert felt a jolt of relief as teeth unclenched and jaws unlocked, releasing his arm from the terrible bite.

  The man’s yellow eyes stared at Robert with unbridled hatred.

  The front door began to splinter and give way as the heavy weight crashed against it repeatedly from the other side.

  Still the man struggled, closing his hands around Robert’s neck and squeezing.

  Robert twisted the knife in the man’s chest, pushing it with both hands. The knife sank deeper, finding a path between the man’s ribs.

  The man screeched again.

  Robert didn’t stop pushing and twisting the blade until the door crashed open behind him and strong hands pulled him away. By then the yellow glow had faded from the man’s eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Place Congo—Congo Square, New Orleans, one day later, full moon.

  Investigative Journalist Ida B. Wells had never seen a rat.

  “What do you mean, you’ve never seen one?” demanded her colleague, John Scobell. Ida called him Big Sco’. He was a huge man, six feet six inches tall and weighing nearly 300 pounds. Scobell carried a bit too much of that weight around his belly, but he didn’t take kindly to anyone who pointed that out. He only allowed Ida to call him Big Sco’ because they were such good friends.

  “I’ve never seen one up close,” Ida said. “It’s not like you see a lot of rats in Rita Springs, Mississippi.” She looked up. Overhead, the landing lanterns of an airship blinked red. She couldn’t see any stars in the hazy sky. The moon shone full and bright above the old warehouses and residences that zipped by as the horses pulling their carriage picked up the pace.

  Scobell gave her a mischievous look. “The report said this rat was as big as a man.”

  “Yeah.” Ida rolled her eyes. Someone reported seeing a rat running wild in the Tremé. A rat as big as a man. “As big as a possum, more likely.”

  Scobell snorted. Most likely it was a damned possum.”

  “Or maybe some madman hiding out in the bushes,” Ida said with a shrug. She’d beaten up her fair share of those over the years. She hoped it wasn’t a madman, though. She’d had her fill of that after rescuing those children and that man from that maniac the previous evening. She’d never seen such a severe bite wound before—not from a human bite, at least—and hoped she wouldn’t again. If only she and Scobell had been a bit quicker breaking down the door, they might have been able to pre
vent the incident becoming so serious. As it was, that man had gone to hospital for emergency treatment and the perpetrator had ended up dead with a kitchen knife sticking out of his chest.

  She had agreed to help Scobell keep the Tremé safe—Lord knows the constables won’t, she thought—because the work provided exciting stories for the Red Record, her popular 100-page pamphlet series that covered lynchings and other cruelties against Black people in the United States since the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863. It also covered black peoples’ struggles in the South since the Civil War. But lately things were getting a bit too exciting for her tastes.

  Madmen that want to eat our babies? A chill clawed its way up her spine.

  Scobell tapped hard on the side of the carriage. The driver pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked it in a space under some oak trees. The trees stood bare, save for a few last heroic leaves and some acorns still clinging to the gnarled branches.

  “Let’s go take a look,” Scobell said, hopping out of the carriage.

  Ida followed. Outside, the air held a late November chill, and dried leaves tumbled through the cold night as wind gusted from the open area next to the road.

  Place Congo was an open space, surrounded by thick trees and shrubs, which was located in the Tremé, just across Rampart Street north of the French Quarter. Not too far from where the child-eating madman resided.

  There, Black people gathered, unbothered by white oppressors, and set up a market, sang, danced, and played music. This singing, dancing and playing started as a byproduct of the original market during French reign. At the time, the enslaved could purchase their freedom and could freely buy and sell goods in the square in order to raise money to escape slavery. Now, many visitors came from all over the globe to enjoy the African-style dancing and music—the beat of the bamboulas and the wail of the banzas, and the multitude of African dances that had survived through the years. There was a variety of dances that could be seen in Congo Square including the Bamboula, Calinda, Congo, Carabine and the Juba.

  That night, though, all was quiet. Light from the gaslights on the street penetrated about twenty feet into the square, lending an orange tinge to the trees, shrubs and brick ground in the square. Beyond that, there was nothing to see, save for distant lights on the other side of Place Congo. At least Ida could see a few pale stars there. The moon was brighter too, casting a silvery reflection on a puddle of water in the wet grass. Hardly a place for rats, she thought.

  “Tell you what,” Scobell said. “Even if there is a rat in there, we’ve got a better chance of finding Little Black Sambo than catching the damn thing.”

  Ida walked a little farther along the pavement, staying close to the iron railings. “Shh!” She had heard something. Maybe a branch cracking underfoot, maybe just the wind snapping twigs off a tree. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness of the park that surrounded Place Congo, and she could see further now. A tangle of smaller paths led off from the main walkway to Congo Square, heading deeper into the park. She could see wrought iron benches at regular intervals along them, and lighter patches of grass.

  Nothing moved.

  “This is a waste of time,” Scobell said. “Let’s get back in the carriage and go get ourselves some beignets and café au lait at Café Du Monde.”

  They both heard the sound this time. A screeching that touched something primal deep within the human psyche. A sound that no one could fail to recognize, whether they had encountered a rat before or not. The sound came from close by, piercingly loud, a wild din that rose and slowly fell away. A cold shiver ran all the way down Ida’s back.

  “Shit,” Scobell said. “That wasn’t no rat.”

  Ida saw the creature first. It loped out of the bushes not more than thirty feet from the road—rat, with chestnut brown fur and yellow eyes that gleamed in the darkness. It was as big as a man too, just like the caller had reported. The rat ran toward them, covering the distance easily, bounding effortlessly across the grass. As it drew near, Ida noted the way it steadily quickened its pace, its long nose stretching forward keenly.

  It leapt.

  Ida shoved Scobell aside, out of the way of the surging rat. The big man stumbled and she went down on top of him, her elbow jarring as it hit the cold, hard surface of the pavement.

  She felt the rush of air as the creature sailed over them, its huge yellow teeth snapping at empty space. It landed behind them then spun round to face them, its bright eyes flashing yellow with rage.

  Ida jumped to her feet, but Scobell was still lying on the roadside. She pulled at his arm. “Come on, get up!”

  Scobell groaned and rolled over onto his back. He sat up slowly, but when he tried to stand his right leg buckled under his weight. “Damn,” he cursed.

  The rat paced back and forth, its eyes locked on them, assessing, measuring. Ida had never seen an animal that looked more human. The rat seemed to know their strengths and weaknesses. It was weighing the situation, preparing to make a decision.

  Ida made the decision first.

  She stepped between Scobell and the rat, pulling her Enfield MK I revolver from the pocket of her wool skirt. She held the weapon ready and ran at the rat, shouting for it to flee.

  The rat regarded her coolly, dashing to one side just before she reached it. The creature ducked behind a tree and disappeared from view. Ida turned around, looking to see where the giant rat had gone. It seemed to have vanished.

  She heard another groan from Scobell as he lurched to his feet, struggling to take the weight off his injured knee. “Shit,” he muttered.

  Ida rubbed her elbow and moved cautiously toward him, glancing around for the rat.

  “Where’s it gone?” Scobell asked.

  Ida shrugged. “It ran behind a tree.” Her elbow burned with a sharp pain as if she had damaged a tendon. She rubbed it again, but it did no good. At least she could still use her arm. Scobell’s leg was a different story.

  He tried to put his weight on it, but the knee buckled again and he clutched Ida’s shoulder for support. “I can’t walk,” he complained.

  “You stay here,” Ida said. “I’m going to look for that… rat.”

  “Well, now you’ve seen one,” Scobell said, forcing a smile.

  “Yeah,” Ida said, shaking her head. “And it’s a big sumbitch.”

  She moved cautiously around the tree where the rat had run. Nothing. She rounded the tree and moved along to the next one. A shout from Scobell made her spin around.

  The rat had doubled back on itself somehow and was padding brazenly toward him, stepping sure-footedly over the uneven paving stones beneath the oak. Scobell leaned against a tree and pulled out his Manhattan Navy revolver.

  Ida ran toward him, but she was too slow. She watched as the rat jumped at his throat.

  Scobell fired into the animal’s face as it leapt. The rat cried and left off its attack, landing silently on the ground in front of the Black Dispatch. It hissed angrily, shaking its head from side to side, but the bullet didn’t seem to have had much effect. The creature spun around again, hissing menacingly.

  “Come on then, you hairy bastard!” Scobell said. He let go of the tree and lunged at the animal, wrapping his brawny arms around its middle, using his weight to force it to the ground. The rat struggled, twisting in his strong grip. Its wet fur made it slippery and it nearly wriggled free of his grasp, but he was too heavy for it. He rolled on top of the creature, pinning it to the ground. “Go get help!” he shouted.

  “Shoot the damned thing, Sco’!” Ida shouted.

  “We need to capture it,” Scobell said. “Harriet says Baas wants to study any strange—”

  “Damn what Harriet Tubman wants! Shoot that—”

  Scobell’s scream made her pause. The rat had its jaws clamped around Scobell’s neck. Ida could see blood spurting from the wound. Scobell fired again.

  The rat whimpered in pain and released its grip on Scobell’s neck. It sprang back and screeched once
more. Close up, the sound was deafening. Ida put her hands to her ears.

  The rat ran in a circle around Scobell, snapping its jaws in fury. It had been hurt. There was no sign of blood, apart from on its muzzle, which was presumably Scobell’s blood, but it limped on one of its hind legs. The creature approached Scobell again, this time from behind, aiming straight for his head.

  “No!” Ida shouted. She ran forward, firing her gun. The rat turned its head to look in her direction. A look of hate filled its yellow eyes and it sprang at her, covering the gap between them in one leap, knocking her backward onto the hard ground in the middle of Place Congo. Her gun flew from her fingers.

  The rat scratched at her chest with its sharp claws. She skittered sideways on her back, which saved her from the worst of the attack.

  She struggled to reach hold of her gun, which was just a few inches from her outstretched fingertips, but the rat had her pinned to the ground with its paws. Her elbow hurt like hell, making her attempts to push the beast away useless.

  The rat raised its enormous head and opened its mouth ready to make a final lunge. She saw a kind of savage laughter in its yellow eyes as it rolled its jaws toward her face.

  Then the sound of many footsteps on pavement cut through the night air and the rat lifted its head with a start. It stood motionless for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. With a last hiss aimed at her, it turned and fled, bounding through a gap in the trees, making its escape down the middle of the road.

  Ida rolled onto her side to watch. The rat turned right at the road junction and disappeared down a side street, almost like it knew where to go. That was strange. Why hadn’t it gone back into the park? She turned her attention back to Scobell. His neck wound was bleeding heavily and his eyes stared dully at nothing in particular. She recognized the symptoms of shock.

  “Hang in there, John,” she said, applying pressure to the wound to quench the bleeding. “Help’s on its way.”

  The sound of booted feet running toward her had never been so welcome.