The white house at Chatham Bend, boasted Planter Watson, was by far the biggest and best built in all the Everglades and the Ten Thousand Islands. Worried by the expense of my staircase, Mandy ran her hand down the shining rail. “I cannot justify it, my dear wife”—I hugged her happily—“but never again need you fear cold and hunger.”
To keep out bugs, we tacked a cotton fabric over the windows, made palmetto-frond brooms to sweep mosquitoes off anybody coming through the door. The cow was swept, too, as she entered her shed, and a gunnysack door covered that entrance, for otherwise this beast would weaken and die from loss of blood. Mosquitoes were at their worst from June through September, when kerosene smudge pots and wick lamps filled the house with filthy smoke.
At Chatham Bend, we watched out for bad snakes—rattlers and moccasins, sometimes a coral snake—and occasionally we came across the track of bear or panther. These animals were not dangerous, I promised the scared kids, unless surprised in the hog pen or chicken house. The children reserved their most delicious fear for a fire-brown creature the size of my middle finger which our colored hand Sip Linsey called a “scruncher” due to the noise it made, trod underfoot. Sonborn (Rob, Mandy insisted) and young Lucius went to great pains not to step on them. Despite the ten-year difference in their age, these two were the closest among the four children. (Rob’s mother still came to me in dreams but never spoke. Had time really stopped that day she died or just rolled on without me?)
Even at seven, Lucius was fascinated by wild creatures. He trailed Tant everywhere, unable to learn enough about wild things and wilderness and fishing, always fishing. Sometimes Tant, using the tides, would row the kids downriver to gather oysters, dip-net blue crabs, trap diamondback terrapin in the bays or gill-net pompano off the barrier island beaches. In the sea turtle nesting season, they followed the broad tracks that led out of the Gulf to a place above the tide line where they gathered buried clutches of warm leathery white eggs. Mandy tinned vegetables and jarred wild fruit preserves for her fresh bread, and sometimes we had cake or pie or cookies. After those hard years in Oklahoma, it seemed to my dear folks that such bountiful food was not to be found anywhere on earth. I watched their happy faces, happy, too.
My worry was the children’s love of playing at the water’s edge and paddling in the shallows. Sharks came upriver with the tide, Erskine assured me, and immense alligators, fifteen foot and better, drifted downriver from the Glades in the summer rains. Drawn to commotion, gliding underwater toward the bank, these grim brutes were always on the lookout for unwary creatures along shore. One gigantic specimen of a queer gray-greenish color would haul out on the far bank, where it sometimes lay all day like a dead tree. Often its long jaws would be fixed open, and the boys claimed they could see its teeth glint all the way across our wide bend in the river. Uneasy when that thing was missing, fearing its shadow presence in the current, Mandy kept a close eye on the children and the dogs while reading in her chair beneath the poincianas.
One afternoon over lemonade and cookies, discussing our wilderness with the children, she quoted some opinions of the poets. A Miss Dickinson of New England had concluded that the true nature of Nature was malevolent, whereas the self-infatuated Mr. Whitman of New York found undomesticated Nature merely detestable. What could such people know of Nature, Mandy inquired, pointing at that huge motionless gray-green beast across the river: nature was not malevolent, far less detestable, but simply oblivious, indifferent, and God’s indifference as manifested in such creatures was infinitely more terrifying than literary notions of malevolence could ever be. To regard such an engine of predation without awe, or dare to dismiss it as detestable—wasn’t that to suggest that the Creator might detest His own Creation?
“How about His mosquitoes?” complained Eddie, ever anxious to return indoors.
Lucius led us to a nest of red-winged blackbirds, parting the tall reeds so we could see. Losing its mate after the eggs had hatched to a snake or hawk or owl, the male bird, flashing his flaming shoulders, had simply resumed his endless song about himself (like Mr. Walter Whitman, said Mandy, smiling), by dint of which he won a second female, and now this pair was busily engaged in constructing its new nest on top of the old one—on top, that is, of the live young, which were squeaking and struggling to push their hungry bills up through the twigs. The horrified children longed to rescue the trapped victims, although this meant that the second clutch would be destroyed. Lucius forbade this and his mother nodded. “Even victims are not innocent,” she whispered to no one in particular. “They are simply present. They are simply in the way.”
Instinctively I had to agree, though Lucius and I could never explain to each other just what she meant. Her words made me feel odd. One moment a man bathing in the river celebrates his sparkling life and the next he is seized by the unseen and dragged beneath the surface, which moves on downriver as placid as before. God’s will, Mandy would say. Man’s fate, I agreed. Are they the same? But since long ago I had lost all faith, Mandy knew it was useless to discuss this.
GATOR SLOUGHS
In the winter dry season, when the fresh flow weakened, the gators returned upriver into the Glades; in a real dry year, they would pile up in the few sloughs that still had water in them. Taking a skiffload of coarse salt in 160-pound sacks, I set up camp on a long piney ridge near the head of Lost Man’s Slough. Tant and Erskine were with me, also Lucius, who came along as camp cook out of curiosity. Working ever deeper into the swamps, leaving a trail of gator pools turned muddy red, we clubbed and axed for three weeks without cease, then stayed up late slashing the soft flats off the bellies and rolling them in salt by firelight. Around our camps hung that purple smell of heaped raw carcass; when we came back through, that smell had turned to the stink of putrefaction, as if the earth had rolled over and died. Lucius, thoughtful and subdued, lagged behind as the days passed and no longer nagged me to let him shoot the rifle.
One day we came across a big boar gator, fourteen, fifteen foot, in a little slough under a willow head. Having eaten or driven off the other gators, it did its best to scare us, too, emerging slowly from the water swinging its long head to run these two-legged intruders off its territory. By now we were low on ammunition, wasting no bullets: I jumped to one side and fetched the thing a solid ax blow to the nape. The brute thrashed back into the pool and kept on thrashing till it rolled and shuddered and finally lay still.
I got my breath and mopped my brow, getting a whiff of my own acrid stink in the steaming heat. “These big ol’ dinosaurs take a lot of killing, don’t they?” I said to the son behind me, who protested when I started to move on; I had to explain that the belly flat on a gator of this size was knobbed and horny, not worth stripping. He gazed at me in that open way he had inherited from his mama, then waded into the red water and touched the head of the dying gator. Leaving his hand there, he said, “Well, then, why kill it, Papa?” That turned me in my tracks. “Why kill it? That’s a bull gator, boy.” And as an afterthought, I said, “That’s one big gator less to come downriver, take a dog or child.”
This sounded like bluster to my son because bluster is what it was. Still polite, he said, “Papa? We going to stay out in the Glades till we kill ’em all?” We slogged on back to camp, where I told the others we were heading home. We all knew we had killed enough but it took a nine-year-old to put a stop to it. In the loaded boats, the flats stacked up above the gunwales. Any more would have been dumped out to rot.
At Everglade, we laid our loads along the dock to be checked and measured by George Storter. We were tangle-haired, bearded, sun-cracked, filthy, our clothes caked stiff and dark with reptile blood. Folks stepped back when we went into the store. Lucius said they recoiled from all that death on us. He never went on a gator hunt again.
THE FRENCHMAN
That summer my wife was feeling poorly; she spent long hours in that river breeze, in the shifting sun and shade. To provide distraction from our insect-ridden life, I rowed
her upriver one fine Sunday for some cultured conversation with Baron Msyoo de Chevelier—“Shoveleer,” as the local people knew him. Long ago, I’d shot the Frenchman’s felt hat off his head as a warning to keep out of my plume bird territory and I warned Mandy that, seeing my boat, he would rush into his cabin for his weapon. When he did just that, Mandy had to smile, but fortunately that kind smile reassured him: he set down his fowling piece and resigned himself to Watson’s imposition.
Jean Chevelier sniffed crossly as he picked his way about. Those hooded eyes of his were a raccoon’s eyes, bright black and burning. He had long since lost the last of his good manners, having shrunken in old age and solitude to a peevish little gnome who would bark their orders to a firing squad lined up to shoot him. Ignoring my courtly introduction, he neither greeted Mrs. Watson nor welcomed her to Possum Key. Instead, he thrust under her nose the ugly queer black blisters on his withered forearm, cackling in triumph when her challenged husband could not tell her what had caused them. “Man-chi-neel!” he cried. In a perverse impulse of scientific inquiry so typical of this old man, he had purposely taken shelter from the rain beneath a manchineel or poison tree, a small smooth-barked reddish tree found in the Glades country. To tease him, I claimed I’d seen manchi-neel on Gopher Key—was that where he got those blisters? Rattled, he cried Am-po-see-bluh! To the end, he pretended he knew nothing of Go-phaire, though everyone knew he had dug up that whole mound in a frantic latelife hunt for Calusa treasure.
Mandy was plainly entertained by his prickly scientific stance and could scarcely wait to report back to Lucius that the big “ironhead” or wood ibis was not a true ibis, in Chevelier’s view, but a New World stork and that the “shit-quick” was the reed heron or bittern. “Sheeta-queek!” he yelled at Mandy, who shifted in her seat. “All birts sheeta-queek, for fly away queek, voo com-prawn, Madame?”
Deftly Mandy changed the subject to that huge greenish gator which frequented the riverbank across from Chatham Bend. Firing snippy questions to display her husband’s ignorance, the Frenchman sneered that in the unlikely event that my description could be trusted, my giant “alligator” was no alligator but a saltwater crock-o-deel, rare in south Florida. Surely a more observant man, Chevelier insinuated, would have noticed the pointy snout, quite unlike the shovel snout of the brownish, blackish alligator, and that even when its mouth was closed, its teeth protruded along the entire length of its lower jaw.
I might have known that the first naturalist to describe this brute had been a Frenchman. But the crocko-deel, Chevelier complained, had been falsely claimed by a mere French colonial, the rascally Jean-Jacques Audubon, who had dared to belittle Chevelier’s old mentor Rafinesque—Constantine Samuel Rafinesque-Schmaltz—after robbing him of his discovery. Chevelier’s hatred of “fokink Aud-u-bone” was only exceeded by his oft-expressed disdain for God Almighty. (In the face of sacrilege, Mandy batted her eyes prettily, her smile an entreaty as well as a signal that her honor would remain unsullied if her husband did not rise up in wrath to strike this villain down.)
However, to spare Mandy, I distracted him: “Is it true there are white shell canals at Gopher Key?” The old man hitched forward, a gleam of duplicity lighting his eye. Avoiding all mention of Gopher Key, he proposed that the white shell found in such canals could only have derived from a huge clam bed somewhere along this coast—an obvious conclusion that had not occurred to me. If he were a younger man, he assured Mandy—he had yet to address me directly, far less look me in the eye—he would locate and stake out that area for a canning industry. I pictured the coast charts in my head: that clam bed’s location could only be the vast shallow bank off the empty coast north of Chatham River, easily accessible from Pavilion Key.
Seeing me distracted, cracking my knuckles, Mandy guided the conversation to the topic of French poetry, agreeing with Msyoo that Edgar Allan Poe was less esteemed in his own country than in France, where he’d been discovered and translated by the poet Beau Delair, ness pa, Madame? But what Msyoo was most anxious to discuss was the inferiority of all aspects of American culture when compared with those of La Belle Frawnce, a paradise to which he hoped to return before death caught him een thees fokink Amerique.
Msyoo presently declared that France had conquered Florida back in the 1590s, as proven by such local names as Cape Sable and Cape Romaine: had it not been for the Louisiana Purchase, France’s rightful territories would include most if not all of North America. He scurried inside to dig out mildewed books by a pair of clever Frenchies who knew a great deal more about America than we Americans could ever hope to learn.
De Tocqueville, who had visited this country in the 1830s, had been appalled on the one hand by the callous indifference with which most Americans regarded slavery and astonished on the other by the slaves’ strange apathy and acceptance of their lot, which not only inured them to wretched servitude but caused them to imitate their oppressors rather than hate them. In my own experience, this was also true of chain gangs, cane crews, and other hard-used men, not merely blacks, but Chevelier dismissed my idiotic quibble by flicking his fingers toward my face in the way he might brush cake crumbs off his lap. “Compared to lay negres,” the Frenchman said, “lay poe rooge, lay redda-skeen—”
Here Mandy neatly intervened, observing that most European writers—the French writer Chateaubriand, for one—seemed to cherish a romantic view of les peaux rouges, perhaps to compensate for their prejudice against les peaux noires. She politely reminded him that to avoid capture and a bitter return to slavery, black warriors had reinforced and often led Seminole resistance to the whites.
“As was recognized by the U.S. Army and most historians,” I chimed in, quoting a general who had told the Congress that the First Seminole War was essentially a “Negro war.” Even De Tocqueville had remarked, said Mandy—I was so proud of her!—that escaped slaves who in the early days had turned up among Indian tribes throughout the South had to be men of exceptional courage and fortitude to survive a hostile wilderness and its wild peoples. Therefore they were much admired by the Indians and often married into the head families, producing a mixed-blood progeny of fine physical specimens of high intelligence—
“May ben sewer!” cried Chevelier, who had to recapture control at once or jump out of his skin. Was this not an affirmation of de Crèvecoeur? And he read out a passage that Mandy kindly regurgitatated for my benefit: What, then, is the American, this new man? He is neither a European nor the descendant of a European; hence that strange mixture of blood you will find in no other country. Here individuals of all nations are melted into a new race of men! The Frenchman cited “the half-a-breed Hardens,” as typical of these new Americans, embodying the tough, enduring qualities of the black, red, and white races. The Hardens, he said, with grudging admiration, represented the essential character of “thees fokink ray-poo-bleek.” I interrupted as he glared: the Hardens were by no means the only family on this coast with dark genes that had sifted down through generations, and they may or may not have manifested his new race of men, but they were good people and the best of neighbors in the Lost Man’s country.
To gall him, I added what Napoleon Broward had remarked, that it was the destiny of E. J. Watson to develop this southwest coast. The old man scoffed rudely, Lemper Roo-er! Lemper Roo-er Vot-sawn! And my wife smiled to chide me for my boasting: I had not heard the last of “Emperor Watson.”
Chevelier was wildly emboldened by her smile. When Mandy suggested that the Ten Thousand Islands, with their myriad channels, evoked the Labyrinth in Greek mythology, he speedily retorted that if the Islands were the Labyrinth, Madame’s own mari must be the fokink Mee-no-tore. Squeezing my arm to restrain me, Mandy said that the fearsome Minotaur could also be very gentle. “Minotaur Watson?” she would tease me later. “Emperor Watson? Which do you prefer?” (She had never cared for sentimental stale endearments for her husband; she preferred her own pet names, all of them quirky, slightly disrespectful.)
Msyoo le
Baron Jean de Chevelier had the gall to be galled by Mandy’s fondness for her husband and did not trouble to hide it: he stared at us half-mad, mouth twisting cruelly. (Elderly indigestion, she suggested later.) Plainly this bachelor gentleman had been smitten by an educated lady and was trying to court her with his hard-earned rare knowledge, and when my wife hinted at his real emotion, overtaking him too late in life in this painful way, it seemed absurd to be angered by his insults. Standing up, I reminded him that his bullet-punctured hat still hung on a kitchen peg, to be returned on his first visit to the Bend. Which would be most welcome, Mandy added.
Leaving Mrs. Watson to accept his fond adoos, I bid him good-bye—we did not care to shake hands—and went back to the boat. Mandy thanked him for his kind hospitality, though this old misery hadn’t offered us so much as a cup of rainwater. “Bun shawnce, share Madame! Bella fortuna!” he called after her (wishing her good luck in two languages, she would explain, to compensate her for the dark fate of her marriage to a minotaur).
All the way home we talked with animation, though I knew my wife had to quell ascending sadness. At the dock she said, “Wait, Edgar, please,” too weak to leave the boat. She was watching the silver mullet down along the bank, leaping skyward as if to escape their natural element, only to fall back with those thin little smacks into the darkening water.
Shadow Country Page 78
