Shadow Country

by Peter Matthiessen

  Walter says he would like to “go bag me a Spaniard,” but he cannot abandon his mother when his father is not well, so will stay home and run their cattle business. Dr. Langford is an excellent doctor, he takes good care of Mama, but in recent years—here’s Papa again—his side interest in business makes him pay more mind to profits than to people. “Doc” Langford and Captain Cole are grazing stock on Raulerson Prairie at Cape Sable, where Papa says the horseflies and mosquitoes will show them what damn fools they are if saline coast grass doesn’t starve their cattle first. (If Papa’s two cows at Chatham Bend had no screened shed between sunset and sun-up, he says, they’d be sucked dry of blood let alone milk.)

  Sometimes I think that Mama is getting better. When we first came, she had a queer shine to her skin like a coon pelt scraped so thin the sun shines through. With rest, she has some color back and her old curiosity, too, and even dares to question Papa’s views about the War. Being an invalid with time to read, she keeps herself so well informed that even Papa pays attention to her comments. In her quiet way, Mama despises the cattlemen’s “tin patriotism,” all this flag-waving and fine speechifying. Our brave young men, who have no say about it, are sent off to be killed, while our rich businessmen wave the flag and rake in the fat profits from what the Secretary of State has called this “splendid little war.” Mama asks, “How ‘splendid’ is it for scared homesick boys who must do all the screaming and the dying?”

  Although the words “brave Yankee boys” still set his teeth on edge, Papa is fiercely patriotic, but hearing the Langfords and Captain Cole gloat over their war profits has made him cynical. (Captain Jim Cole chortles unabashed that war “is the best d—business there is.”) “Captain Cole!” he growls, disgusted. Says this so-called captain has no give to him and people see that so he takes Walter along to grease his way. Walter admits that Mr. Cole is a “rough diamond,” but like Mama I find no diamond in the man, a hard dull money glint is all I see. Papa suspects these public patriots of selling cattle to the Spanish on the sly.

  Dear Papa says he will never salute the Stars and Stripes. The war with Spain is very like “the War of Yankee Aggression,” as he still calls the Civil War: the South, he says, was the first conquest of the Yankee Empire, and Cuba and the Spanish colonies will be next. Yet he also denounces Mr. Twain for writing that Old Glory deserves to be replaced with a pirate flag, with black stripes instead of blue and every star a skull and crossbones. Mama nods, swift needles flying. She quotes an editorial: “The taste of Empire is in the mouth of the people, even as the taste of blood—”

  “Mrs. Watson.” Papa snaps his paper. “Kindly permit me to read in peace.”

  Mama hums a little to soothe Papa, whose newspaper is lifted high to block her from his sight. I watch her bosom rise and fall in her emotion. “This is the Good Lord’s war on Spain, they say, and we are but His servants. Don’t you agree, dear?”

  “Mrs. Watson, be still!”

  “With all this money being made, it’s so appropriate that we inscribe Him on our coins—In God We Trust! I believe the Germans share our feeling: Gott mit uns, they say.” Speaking more and more softly, Mama knits faster and faster. “So even when our women have no voice—and our poor darkies are tormented, burned, and hung—we can take comfort in our faith that God is on our side.”

  Papa’s paper falls still as he turns his gaze to her in dreadful warning; she raises pale innocent eyebrows and resumes her knitting. “A brave lady”—she pretends to address her daughter, as if only females could make sense of the ways of men—“has recently petitioned President McKinley about the lynching of ten thousand Negroes in the past twenty years alone, almost all of them innocent of any crime.” She is upset that the Supreme Court has upheld segregation on the railroads. “ ‘What can more certainly arouse race hate,’ ” she reads aloud, quoting the dissent of Justice Harlan, “ ‘than state enactments which in fact proceed on the ground that colored citizens are so inferior and degraded that they cannot be allowed to sit in public coaches occupied by white citizens?’ ”

  Papa slaps his paper down and leaves the house. Lucius and Eddie beg permission to run after him to Ireland’s Dock, knowing he will buy them sweets at Dancy’s Stand before he sails. The two boys twist like eels upon their chairs, and Eddie pretends he is suffering a call of nature, but Mama doesn’t let them go so easily: in her quiet way, she is determined to advance her “liberated” ideas, about women’s suffrage especially.

  Mama says that Indians, too, would suffer “Jim Crow” laws if we hadn’t wiped most of them out with bullets and diseases. In south Florida today, there are few left, but Papa says they have started to come in to trade at Everglade with dugouts full of deer hides, plumes, and pelts. The women like calico in yellow, red, and black—coral snake colors, says Lucius, who knows everything there is to know about Indians and the natural world of the Glades country. Probably the coral snake has sacred meaning, our little boy explains, until Eddie scoffs at his opinions, reminding him that he is only nine. Eddie is happy here in town but Lucius badly misses Chatham Bend.

  The Indians are still afraid that the few families left in the Big Cypress and the Glades will be captured and removed to Oklahoma. They call themselves Mikasuki, denying they are Seminole, but nobody listens to them, least of all Captain Cole, who declares he would gladly round up the whole bunch and ship ’em as far as New Orleans in his cattle schooner at no charge to the government—“just to be rid of ’em,” he says, “cause they won’t never be civilized, no more’n wolves nor panthers, and sooner or later they will get in the way of progress.” Papa says this was the first d—d thing he ever heard Cole say that he agreed with. Said the man sounded sincere for once, all but that part about not charging for the shipping.

  MAY 6, 1898

  Captain Cole, looking too serious, has brought Mama a book. In a hushed voice, he asks her to read a brief marked section; he would come back for his book a little later. “Always first with the news,” Mama said warily, turning the book over. “Bad news especially.” She held it on her lap for a long time before she opened it.

  The book was called Hell on the Border, and the marked pages told about Belle Starr, the Outlaw Queen, and her life of reckless daring, and how that life had ended on her birthday, February 3 of 1889. Mama closed the book again, got up to leave the room but paused in the doorway when I read aloud from the marked passage. About fourteen months earlier, a neighbor, one Edgar Watson, had removed from Florida. Mrs. Watson was a woman of unlimited education, highly cultured and possessed of a natural refinement. Set down in the wilderness, surrounded by uneducated people, she was attracted to Belle, who was unlike the others, and the two women soon became fast friends. In a moment of confidence, she had entrusted Belle with her husband’s secret: he had fled from Florida to avoid arrest for murder.

  After Belle was slain, the book continued, suspicion could point to none other than Watson, who was released for want of evidence but was later imprisoned in Arkansas for horse stealing and killed while attempting to escape from an Arkansas prison.

  “Well, there you are!” I cried to Mama. “That last part proves that this darn know-it-all has the wrong Edgar Watson entirely!”

  Mama sat down and resumed her knitting. Soon her needles stopped. “No, Carrie, dear.” She put her work down. My heart leapt so that I had to press it back in place with my fingertips. Papa was never indicted in the Belle Starr case, she whispered, and that murder in Florida was committed by Uncle Billy Collins’s brother. One day Papa came home to their Fort White farm and told her to pack everything into the wagon, they were going to Oklahoma. He said a shooting had occurred which was being blamed on him, said they’d be coming for him. He never accused Lemuel Collins, and never said another word about it.

  She held me tight. Though I could not see her face, I could feel her stiffness. Finally she let me go and we sat quiet. My heart was still pounding so I knew it wasn’t broken but an awful dread came over me all the s
ame.

  Mama said that Maybelle Starr was a generous woman in some ways, by no means stupid, yet very foolish in her hankering after a romantic Wild West that never was. Her father was Judge Shirley of Missouri, so Belle had a little education, played the piano fair to middling, and paid Mama to tutor her in this and that. She wanted above all to be a lady even though she consorted with outlaws and bad Indians.

  The Oklahoma Territory Mama knew all too well was a wild border country, a primitive and violent place where life was rough and cheap; its inhabitants were mostly fugitives and savages and the most barbaric savages were white. Negroes had come early as Indian slaves, and after the war, many black folks drifted west into the Indian Nations, where the worst elements of all three races—Mama spoke with fervor—were mixed together in an accursed hinterland of mud and loneliness, race prejudice, rotgut liquor, blood, and terrible tornadoes where the civilization left behind was a dream of the far past, all but forgotten. There was little worship and no law, no culture, morals, nor good manners, and nothing the least bit romantic about any of it.

  “Mama,” I said after a while, “did Papa kill Belle Starr or not?”

  Taking me in her arms, the poor thing clung for dear life so as not to meet my gaze. In my ear, she murmured, “The case was dismissed because of insufficient evidence. Your father never went to trial.”

  In the old days, Mama reflected, a man’s whole honor might depend on his willingness to fight a duel over almost anything. I knew she was thinking about Papa, our fierce Scots Highlands hothead who sometimes drinks too much and gets in trouble, all the more so when he imagines that his Edgefield County honor has been slighted. Grandfather Elijah back in South Carolina whom Papa never mentions had also been too quick to take offense, as were many other Edgefield men, well-born or otherwise. When I asked if Papa was well-born, she said, “Yes, I believe so. Your granny Ellen in Fort White is an educated person of good family and the Watsons are still prosperous Carolina planters. Your father was taught manners but his education was woefully neglected.”

  At the start of the Civil War, Papa’s father had gone off as a soldier, and Papa had Granny Ellen and his sister to take care of when only a young boy. Though he’d never complained, she’d learned from Granny Ellen that his childhood had been hard and dark indeed. “You children have to be begged to do your lessons, and here is Papa, already in his forties, still trying to learn a little about Ancient Greece.” She points at Papa’s battered schoolbook, The History of Greece, which resides on the table by his chair; it had traveled all the way to Oklahoma and she’d brought it back.

  It is one thing to hear rumors about Papa’s past and quite another to see them printed in a book. Captain Cole believes that Hell on the Border will cause a public scandal. “They’s people snooping through this thing that couldn’t read their own damn name, last time I heard,” he told Walter on the veranda. “Begging your pardon, miss!” He had glimpsed me inside and knew I was near enough to hear him cuss. A man like this is a born politician, always on the lookout for an audience; as Mama says, he never wastes his gaseous windbaggery by confining it to the person he is talking to.

  Since that famous article appeared a few years ago about our refined and cultured life here in Fort Myers, all our gentry try hard to live up to it, and dime adventure novels from New York about the Wild West and the Outlaw Queen are a popular diversion among our literati (an Italian term, our paper tells us, for “people who can read”). Everybody in America today knows everything there is to know about Belle Starr, who is already immortalized in a book about eminent American females. “Women are on the march!” says Mama, waving a knitting needle like a baton. She smiles at me when Papa steps outside to spit, neglecting to come back to join the ladies.

  Though Walter has not mentioned it, Captain Cole assures us that the Langfords know all about Hell on the Border and are “much perturbed.” (An unfailing sign of vulgar pretension is the choice of a long word or elaborate phrase when a short, clear, simple one will do, Mama fumed later, and anyway, who was it who perturbed them first by showing them that dratted book?) Captain Cole hints that it might be best if “Ed” did not attend the wedding—here Mama cuts him off. Our family will not be requiring your counsel in this matter, she informs him, bidding him a very cool good day.

  But Mama knew Jim Cole was right and I did, too. Alone upstairs, I cried. I’d imagined a beautiful church service and dear Papa giving me away. How handsome and elegant he would look in black frock coat and silk shirt and cravat, how much more genteel than these “upper-crust crackers,” as Mama calls the cattlemen. And how ashamed I am for giving in to everybody’s wishes, being terrified Papa might drink too much, insult our guests, or provoke some violent quarrel (as he does regularly in Port Tampa and Key West, Walter confirms). Heaven knows what might happen as a consequence. Walter might withdraw from our marriage—or be withdrawn, perhaps, for nobody knows how much choice the poor dear had about his own betrothal. Papa suspects that Captain Cole, “who can’t keep his damned fat fingers out of anything,” had manipulated our peculiar match from the very start.

  Dr. Langford has been ill, he hasn’t long to live (we just hope he will be strong enough to attend the wedding), and Walter wonders if Mr. Hendry will give him a fair chance in the business after his father’s death or just write him off as a young hellion. If that should happen, he will quit the partnership and start out on his own. Since the terrible freeze in ’95, Walter has had his eye out for good land farther south, and Mr. John Roach, the Chicago railroad man who has taken such a liking to him, is excited by what Walter tells him about prospects for citrus farming out at Deep Lake Hammock, where the war chief Billy Bowlegs had his gardens in the Indian Wars.

  There are still Indians out there but Papa says they are too few to stand in the way of planters who mean business. Walter rode that wild country a lot in his cow hunter days, and he claims those old Indian gardens have the richest soil south of the Calusa Hatchee. The main problem will be getting the produce to market. From Deep Lake it is a long hard distance west across the Cypress to Fort Myers but only thirteen miles south to the Storter docks at Everglade, so a small-gauge Deep Lake–Everglade rail line might be just the answer. And who does John Roach credit for this idea? Mr. E. J. Watson! The man who told Walter about Deep Lake in the first place!

  Poor Papa has these sure-fire ideas that other men cash in on. He has earned a fine reputation as a planter and his “Island Pride” syrup is already famous, but he lacks the capital, Walter says, for a big agricultural development like Deep Lake. That’s why he has confided in others who might be his partners.

  Mr. Roach thinks it a great pity that E. J. Watson is confined to forty hard-won acres in the Islands, considering what such a progressive farmer could do with two hundred acres of black loam. But when I asked if there might not be some way Papa could join the Deep Lake Corporation, Walter shook his head. “The partners believe that Mr. Watson had better stay in Monroe County.” That was all he’d say. The Langfords and Papa used to get along just fine, but these days my in-laws have withdrawn from him. Everyone seems to know something that I do not.

  Friday last, Papa stopped over on his way to Tampa with a consignment of his “Island Pride.” Picked up Mama and took her up the coast to a concert at the Tampa Theater. Mama did not really wish to go—she is feeling weak, with a yellow-gray cast to her skin—but she knew she would have him alone. In Tampa she finally murmured something about the difficulties that might be caused by his presence at the wedding.

  “He refuses to be banished from his daughter’s wedding,” Mama sighed when she came home. “He won’t bow down to these people. And of course he is angered by his family’s lack of confidence in his behavior.” She was very tense and upset and so was I; we hated to have Papa feel humiliated. For such a self-confident, strong man, says Mama, his feelings are easily hurt, although he hides that.

  Before heading south, Papa took me for a promenade down Riverside Aven
ue, nodding in his courtly way to passersby. Such a vigorous mettlesome man, folks must have thought, with his adoring daughter on his arm; he is groomed as well as any man in town. If Papa has a past to be ashamed about, he doesn’t show it. He looks the world right in the eye with that ironic smile, knowing just what our busybodies must be thinking.

  I got up my nerve and finally asked if he knew about Hell on the Border. He twitched as if he had been spurred but walked along a little ways before he said, “The author imagines, I suppose, that having been reported dead, E. J. Watson will take these insults lying down.” When he makes such jokes, there is a bareness in his eyes, one has no idea at all what he is feeling, and my laugh came like a little shriek because that strange expression so unnerved me. He watched me laugh until, desperate to stop, I got the hiccups. We never spoke about that book again.

  In silence, we walked downriver toward Whiskey Creek. Turning back, Papa confessed that, at the start, he’d been dead set against the wedding, not because he disapproved of Walter (he likes Walter well enough), but because he disliked all this meddling in our life by this damnable Jim Cole who had appointed himself spokesman for the Langfords (Papa made me giggle with his deadly imitation of that mud-thick drawl) and seemed to regard Ed Watson’s daughter as negotiable property like some slave wench. Enraged, he stopped short on the sidewalk. “Is my lovely Carrie to be led to the altar like some sacrificial virgin in order to restore our family name?” And he set off on one of his tirades about how our forebears had been landed gentry even before the Revolution and how Rob’s namesake, Colonel Robert Briggs Watson, was a decorated hero of the Confederacy, wounded at Gettysburg. The Watsons were planters in South Carolina when these crackers were still ridge runners!” he shouted, as I glanced up and down, afraid some passerby might overhear. “One day I’ll grab that gut-sprung cracker by the seat of his pants and march him down this avenue and horsewhip him in front of this whole mealy-mouthed town!”