Shadow Country

by Peter Matthiessen

  Hannah’s hog-thief boyfriend was still with her. Somebody looked down and there he was! He had been weighted separately but their lines tangled, he rose with her, and that spooked us, too.

  Those bodies had been there a few days and nobody wanted to look at ’em, let alone smell ’em—made our eyes water. We dug a pit on the south bank down the river, maybe thirty feet in from the point where Watson had been clearing off another cane field. Henry Short helped dig the hole but he knew better than to lay a hand on her. Maybe someone mumbled a few words and maybe not.

  Returning downriver, someone spotted a third body wedged into the mangrove roots, all torn by gators. We rigged a hitch to Dutchy Melville and towed him back and buried what was left of him beside the others. One feller threw up and I came pretty close.

  A man can go there yet today and see that lonely grave. Big and square, maybe sunk about a foot, and nothing growing, even some years later, as if someone had lifted a barn door stuck in the marl. Those three lost souls are laying in there right this minute. You open that pit, you’ll have a look at Hell.

  We hardly got back from the burial when in came this big nigra from the Watson place, dark husky feller in torn coveralls. He had taken a skiff and got away from Chatham Bend—a desperate act because he was no boatman, his palms were raw from pulling on old splintery oars. One minute he was moaning and blubbering so much you could hardly make him out, the next he was quiet and his eyes were steady. Captain Thad Williams, who came in that day to pick up any people who wanted to go north before the storm, gave that man a hard cuff to make him talk straight, and finally he hollered that three white folks had been bloody-murdered on the Bend.

  “Jesus, boy, we know that!” a man yelled. “Tell us who done it!”

  “Yassuh! Mist’ Watson—”

  “Y’all hear that? Watson!”

  But before we could pin him down, he cried, “Nosuh, I mistook myself! Mist’ Watson’s fo’man!”

  The ugly silence in that crowd was partly outrage against any nigra who would dare to get his white boss into trouble. Captain Thad talked rough with him, told him to be careful who he went accusing; Thad told me later he had been afraid this excited crowd might lynch him. The nigra was moaning and carrying on but back of all that noise and fear I sensed something cunning.

  Watson’s back-door family—that whole Daniels-Jenkins bunch that lived off and on at Chatham Bend—that bunch wanted to shut this black man up right then and there. And seeing the way the wind was blowing, the man insisted, “Nosuh, ah sho’ mistook mahself! Mist’ Watson nevuh knowed nothin about nothin! Mist’ Watson gone!” But not until he got Watson suspected had he switched his story.

  Watching him work his story back and forth, I realized this feller knew what he was doing from the start. Cox might have killed him at Chatham Bend and he had no place to run, so he risked coming to Pavilion Key to warn the nearest white men about a dangerous killer. If he’d left it at that, he might have been all right. But as we could see, he was in a rage, maybe mule-headed by nature: he put out that stink of suspicion rather than let his white man boss get off unpunished, then backed off from a flat-out accusation. Didn’t want to die, but if he had to die, he would not go before he risked the truth. As Henry Short found out and told us later, this man was determined to see justice done, even if his idea of justice was an act of revenge that could very well get him killed. He had dug himself a deep dark hole of trouble, probably too deep to climb out.

  When this nigra was told how the woman’s body had surfaced in the river, he let out a yell, “Oh Lawd Miz Hannah! Lawdamercy!” They slapped him again, to shut up all his racket. Everyone was trying to think what we should do. When Thad demanded, “Who gutted out those bodies?” he blubbered how Mist’ Les Cox tole him he was done fo’ if he didn’t shoot into the bodies and help “in the guttin and haulin,” said Mist’ Cox tole him if anybody asked, just blame it on Mist’ Watson. This was the first time most of us learned that the foreman’s name was not John Smith but Leslie Cox.

  That black man was plain crazy to confess he had shot and manhandled a white woman. When someone yelled that this damn nigger had been in on it from start to finish, there rose a kind of ugly groan and a man whapped his face. “You shot a white woman, that what you said? Laid your black hands all over her? What else you do?” If there’d been one tree limb on that key that had not been chopped for fuel, they would have strung him up.

  But if he was mixed up in it, why had he come here? Why had he talked himself into so much trouble? Those watchful yellow eyes gave me the feeling that this man had done just what he aimed to do. When he saw I’d seen that, he cast his eyes down. Bone reckless, maybe, but no fool.

  At the fire, the clammers were drinking shine, angry and frustrated; most agreed that shooting this man could do no harm. But Cap’n Thad declared that his vessel was the only one that could carry them all home from Pavilion Key to escape the coming storm, and anyone who harmed this crucial witness to the crime would get left behind. He marched the nigra over to his schooner for safekeeping, and once the man was out of sight, the crowd calmed down some, deciding to see justice done in court.

  Tant’s sister Josie was still spitting mad that a white man had been slandered by “a dirty nigger.” She’d had some drink and they let her rant and rave. Swore she’d never board that rotten ship with such a bunch of yellerbellies, not if it was her last day on this earth, and neither would her man Jack Watson’s baby boy. “Spittin image!” one drunk yelled when she lifted him above her head for all to see.

  HENRY SHORT

  Friday evening October the 14th the Marco man brought word about dead bodies in Chatham River. First light Saturday morning a party went up there, hauled them poor souls out, and buried them on that point down from the Watson place. Put all three in the same hole because they wanted to get back with a storm coming. Being the nigger, I done most of the digging. Heard a man inquire if that albino nigger in the hole was the same one who buried them young Tucker folks on Lost Man’s Key.

  Black feller from Mist’ Watson’s showed up Saturday evening with the story. He had escaped, he was near starved, he talked too much out of his fear. Not wanting to pay for his mistakes, I eased away into the dusk and Mist’ Hoad follered me. Said I best sleep aboard Captain Williams’s ship in case there was trouble. That black man was brought on board right after me, they locked the two coloreds in the same cabin for safekeeping. One man said to Mist’ Hoad, “That’s all right, ain’t it? Both bein niggers?” Mist’ Hoad looked across at me, see how I took that. Him and me and Mist’ Claude Storter been fishing partners for some years, he knew me pretty good. I shrugged to show I understood. There weren’t nothing to be done about it.

  When the white men were gone, this feller said, “What they fixin to do with me?” I said, “All I know is, you best calm down and get your story straight.” He jeered real ugly, “Who you, boy, the pet nigger around here? That cause you so white?”

  “This ain’t no time to go picking fights,” I warned him.

  “Nosir, Mr. Nigger, it sure ain’t,” he said, his voice gone quiet. He lay down on the floor, turning his back to me.

  Raised up and living all my life in a frontier settlement where black folks were not tolerated, I have only talked to few but I can say I never met a black man hard as this one. Course a lot of his anger likely come from nerves. He was scared, all right—he’d be a crazy man not to be scared—but he weren’t panicky.

  I couldn’t sleep and I knew this man weren’t sleeping so when he rolled over next, I asked his name. He said that “Ed”—he used that name!—always called him Little Joe, which worked as good as any. From this I knew he was a wanted man same as them others. Said he’d knew Ed for some years but could not recall where they first met. This was a lie and he never tried to hide that: this feller knew plenty about Mist’ Watson and his foreman, too. He shrugged me off, saying this fool conversation weren’t none of his idea and anyway it weren’t my busi
ness so leave him alone. But in a while he muttered, “Name ain’t Joe. It’s Frank, okay?” He rolled back toward me. “Mights well get my real name just in case they got a nigger guestbook down in Hell showin who passed through.”

  With no way to know what might be coming down on him in the next hours, he must have needed somebody to hear him out, even if only just another nigger, cause when I didn’t ask him no more questions, he started talking on his own—not to me, not to nobody in particular, he just wanted to get it off his chest once and for all. Talked along in a dead voice about the awful deeds done at the Watson place and why he reckoned he weren’t slaughtered like them others. All the while he spoke, he kept his face hid and his voice low like this was a secret God Himself should never hear.

  Mist’ Ed Watson took Dutchy along to Chokoloskee, leaving Cox and the others behind. The restless weather all that week before the storm had riled up everybody’s nerves, they were all drinking. From out in the kitchen, this black man listened to everything, including Cox’s nigger jokes told specially for him to overhear.

  The trouble started when Green Waller went to the boat shed for another jug, came back in howling that the Injun girl was over there hung by her neck. Big Mis Hannah took to blaming Cox because he raped that girl and made her pregnant so the least he could do was go take her down and close her eyes, lay her out decent. Cox said, “What she done to herself, that ain’t my business.” Said if Big Hannah wanted her took down so bad, she better go take care of that herself “or let the nigger do it,” meaning him.

  So then Mis Smith come out with something rough about the foreman’s manlihood, and he called her back by a filthy name this man Frank would not repeat out of his respect for Big Mis Hannah. Green Waller yelled, “That ain’t no damn way to go talking to a lady!” And Cox said, “I ain’t talking to no lady, Pigshit, unless you mean this here big freak out of the circus.” And Waller comes back, “White trash like you wouldn’t know a lady if she come from church to help your mama off the whorehouse floor!”

  Cox said, “That done it.” He pulled out a pistol. Mis Hannah screeched at Green to shut his mouth, didn’t he know that white trash loves their mothers good as anybody? Waller was scared to death but wouldn’t quit. The man was plain crazy in love, showing off for his sweetheart so she could see her man weren’t just some drunken hog thief the way Mister Watson said. He pointed at his own chest, said to Cox, “How about it, kid? You yeller enough to shoot a man in his cold blood that is twice your age?”

  Maybe Mist’ Green Waller had Cox figured for another Dutchy Melville, Frank said, dangerous talker but not all bad at heart. Mis Hannah Smith did not make that mistake. She was struggling up out of her chair trying to get between them, telling Cox, “Don’t pay no attention to that idjit!” Frank claimed he called in from the kitchen, “Nemmine, Mist’ Les, Mist’ Green was only foolin.” But like Frank said, Cox had more excuse already than his kind ever needs. Bein drunk, arm wobbling, he said, the foreman had trouble getting Waller in his sights. “Sit still, you sonofabitch,” he yelled, “don’t make me go wastin these here bullets!”

  Mist’ Green Waller finally understood the fun was over. He brought his hands up slow and careful so as not to flare the man behind that pistol. Cox lowered his weapon into his lap, then fired anyway underneath the table. Ever hear a gun go off in a small room? Their ears exploded with that noise. Even Cox looked stunned. “That was a accident,” he muttered. But this nigra swore that Cox done that on purpose, shot him in the belly cause that hurts the worst.

  Mist’ Green was still setting at the table clutching his belly. Looked kind of sheepish, Frank said. “Well, Hell,” he whispered. Them were his last words. Scowling, he leaned into the table, then toppled over soft onto the floor.

  Mis Hannah had barged out of her chair. She flew and shook him, moaning, “Christamighty, Green, ain’t you never going to learn? Oh, Christamighty, sweetheart!” Howled with woe and headed for the kitchen. Cox jumped up with his pistol, took off after her and she darned near beheaded him, splitting that door frame with the big two-blader ax which she kept leaned in the corner behind the kitchen door. Cox went down but sat up and fired before she could try him again. She took a bullet in the shoulder, dropped the ax, crashed off the wall, threw a pan at Cox with her good arm, then headed for the stair.

  Cox picked himself up, very bad scared by his close call. He was furious Frank never warned him. Pointing his gun, he said, “Stay right there, nigger. I got business with you.”

  Miss Hannah was cumbersome climbing the stair and Cox overtook her before she reached the landing. Knowing how strong she was, he gave her room, stood a step below while they got their breath. Miss Hannah weren’t the kind to beg for mercy and she knew she’d never get none if she did. She screeched, “Run, Little Joe! We’re done for! Run! He’ll kill you, too!”

  Time he heard that, he was already outside, out past the cistern. Two shots came, then another. From the wood edge he could hear a thump, thump, thump of someone falling, then a queer high laugh like a horse nickering. Being drunk, Cox had shot so poorly that he had to sneak around behind, give her a brain shot, he told Frank later. Only she weren’t done yet cause her big leg kicked, knocked him off balance: he slipped on the blood, fell down the stair, but never hurt himself, being so drunk. That nickering noise weren’t nothing but his nerves. When he seen Frank was gone, he commenced to holler, told him to come give him a hand with this here manatee before she bled all over, nastied up the place for Mis Edna. The dead woman went a good three hundred pound and he could not work the body down the stair. Couldn’t stop hollering out of his excitement. “Ah Jesus, will you look at that damn mess!” he moaned. “Know who will catch hell for this? Les Cox, that’s who!”

  Mister Watson’s old skiff was some ways down the bank, overturned with the old oars underneath, all growed over by bushes. Frank doubted Cox ever knew about that skiff, probably forgot about it if he had. Trouble was, he couldn’t make a run for it without crossing open ground. Before he could make up his mind, Cox came reeling out, threatened to shoot him in the belly same as he done Green, leave him for the bears or panthers or the crocodiles, whichever ones got to him first. Next, he tried to talk reason-able. He was sounding scared again. Hell, I was only foolin, Joe! Promised not to shoot him and the nigra reckoned he meant it, at least until they finished cleaning up.

  Right about then, they heard the pot-pot-pot of Watson’s boat rounding the Bend. Cox screeched Shit! in frustration, which told him Cox was probably scared that “Little Joe” would get to the Boss first with the true story. Cursing real disgusting, Cox ran inside and came right out with Waller’s shotgun. Waving the gun at Frank in warning to keep his mouth shut, he crossed the yard and ducked inside the boat shed door and screamed again because he had bumped into that hanging body.

  Frank was relieved when the boat drew near, knowing that once the Boss was back, he would be all right. All the same he remained hidden, scared that with Watson coming, Cox might try to kill off the last witness. But when he saw Cox disappear into the shed armed with a shotgun instead of going down to meet the boat, he realized the foreman was planning on an ambush. The intended victim could only be Cox’s sworn enemy Dutchy Melville, who was this nigra’s friend.

  Dutchy was already on the dock but the boat was drifting off into the current. Frank heard Dutchy sing out, “Where you going, Mister Ed?” By the time Frank ran out yelling a warning, Dutchy had smelled the trap and lit out zigzag for the nearest cover. That was the boat shed. Cox poked the shotgun through a loose slat in the door and Dutchy Melville took a charge of buckshot in the throat, died kicking like a chicken with the head cut off.

  Cox had heard the nigra’s yell and swung around in time to catch him in the open. Frank put his hands up, sure he was a goner. Instead Cox marched him to the dormitory behind the boat shed and locked him in with the four field hands he locked up every night so’s they wouldn’t steal nothing or eat a chicken or run off on him—th
ough where them poor fellers would have went to in them miles and miles of salt marl mangrove only God would know. Anyways, they were too scared to try anything. They cringed like mutts when the foreman came around, which was how Cox wanted it. Those colored boys had heard the shooting so when they saw Cox they could only moan.

  • • •

  Afraid to go back into that bloody house, Cox spent what was left of that night drinking shine out on the porch. At sunup he came and let Frank out but not those field hands; probably imagined he still might get away with what he’d done and didn’t want four more witnesses to see those bodies. Walked him at gunpoint to where Dutchy was laying, ordered him to pick up one of those six-guns, shoot into the body without turning around, then go inside, put bullets in the others, and drop the six-shooter on the ground.

  I asked Frank did it cross his mind to swing and put his bullet into Cox instead. He said he thought about it only Cox was too nerved up and had him too close covered the whole time. Anyway, it didn’t matter what he did. He was still a nigger and a fugitive from justice and nobody was going to listen to him, let alone believe him, and besides, he said, real bitter and sarcastic, I weren’t doing them dead people no harm. Said he would hang no matter what for the murder of three whites—make that four if he shot Cox. But as he said, a nigra could never dream of no such thing, let alone do it.

  Full of fear, Frank helped drag Miss Hannah down the stairs. That started her leaking all over the place but finally they got her hauled across the porch and down into the yard. Cox planned to sink her in the river, but first we got to gut her out, he said, so she don’t gas up and come back on us. Said he hated to see black hands on a white body, then handed Frank the kitchen knife and held his gun on him while the nigra done this terrible sacrilege on a human woman and the same for the two men, gagging all the way. Next they weighted Hannah and her man with pig iron and bricks and pushed ’em off the dock into the current.