Miami Gundown

by Michael Zimmer

  “No, suh, they didn’t, though they sure enough threatened to. Said they’d peel the hide offen my back with whips if I didn’t tell ’em where Marse Jeff keeps his gold.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “No, suh, I didn’t. They sent me out to the summer kitchen to fix up some food, but I didn’t go to the summer kitchen. I took off for the woods, but . . .” She stopped, and her voice began to tremble. “Poor little Lena, they took her with them, marse. They called and called for me to come in, and made all kinds of threats when I wouldn’t. Then they took some meat and grits and hoecake, and set fire to ever’thin’ before they rode out. Said they’d be back, though. I heard ’em callin’ for me to tell you and your daddy, when he got home, that they’d be back for what was still owed them.”

  “Dave,” Casey stated flatly.

  “Dave’s just an excuse,” I replied bitterly. “Jacob’s mad about his nephew, but wants someone else to pay for it. I doubt if he’s ever considered his own blame. If they hadn’t been following us, scheming to steal our herd, Dave wouldn’t have been anywhere near that ’gator hole.”

  We reached the main house and entered the kitchen. Casey righted a chair, and Jim helped Josie into it. Then I shooed everyone but Jim outside, so we could look her over. Except for briar scratches and her concern for Lena, the woman seemed fine.

  I think I mentioned Lena earlier, the gal Pa brought home for Joe-Jim to marry. Lena wasn’t pure-spear African—not many Negros were by then—but she was unusual in that her mixed heritage was of Indian blood, rather than white.

  Not many folks realize that a lot of Indians kept slaves. Some of the Eastern tribes, the Seminoles among them, bought and sold Africans in the same manner as whites, while more Western tribes like the Sioux and Comanches just took whoever they could snatch, white, black, or Mexican. [Ed. Note: When Billy Bowlegs surrendered in 1858, officially ending the Third Seminole War, he was sent to the Indian Nations in what is now Eastern Oklahoma; in his procession at the time of his exile were fifty Negro slaves, two wives, several children, and $100,000 in “hard cash.”]

  Despite her Indian blood, Lena was chocolate-hued and as pretty as a newborn colt on green pasture. Pa had purchased her from a good family in Tampa, paying $1,200 for her and a trunk full of clothes and kitchen stuff for her new home. I think Pa expected Joe-Jim to marry her right off, but Josie’d put her foot down when she discovered the girl was barely fourteen. Pa hadn’t argued. Since Ma’s death to the Yellow Jack, he’d pretty much turned all the household duties over to Josie, and her word was law on most matters—never forgetting, of course, that she was as much Pa’s property as the kettle she cooked her cabbage in.

  I’ve heard slavery referred to as a “peculiar institute,” but for those of us who lived during those times, who remember the reality of it, “peculiar” doesn’t hardly do it justice.

  After sending Jim to fetch his wife a tall mug of cold spring water, I pulled a chair around and sat down in front of her. “When did they leave?” was my first question.

  “Yesterday morning. They took that gray filly your daddy set such store by, and those two bays you was breakin’ to saddle, and the sorrel you’d sometimes ride.”

  “What else did they take? Could you see?”

  “Some, I could. They took the kitchen shotgun and some blankets and your daddy’s fancy suit, the one he was married in and that your mama wanted him to be buried in, and that jug of moonshine what Mistah Wakley makes in his still. They took some foodstuffs, too, hams and such from the smokehouse, but that was near ’bout all I could see from the woods. I was afraid to come back too soon, marse. ’Fraid they was hidin’ somewheres, waitin’ to catch me soon as I showed myself.”

  “You were smart to stay hidden,” I assured her, although I doubted if Klee’s men had hung around too long. They’d be worried about me coming back with my trail crew and want to be long gone before I did.

  Patting the top of Josie’s shoulder with relief, I went to the door. Jim met me as he was coming in, and I assured him that I’d stay away from the kitchen to give them some privacy. Casey and the others were waiting for me in the dogtrot. Tipping my head for them to follow, I walked down the veranda until we were out of Josie’s hearing. Roy was the first to ask what we were all thinking.

  “You reckon they’ll abuse that girl?”

  “They might,” I admitted. “I’d hate to count on Jacob Klee for any kind of mercy, or his men, either. On the other hand, if he’s got plans for her, he might keep his boys away.”

  “What kind of plans?” Punch asked.

  “Maybe some kind of trade. Jacob might claim he’s hurting over that wayward nephew of his, but I wager his grief could be eased for the right price.”

  “You think he’s keeping her for ransom?” Ardell asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he is, maybe he ain’t. Maybe he figures a good slave is compensation enough. Either way, we’ll set him straight.”

  Silence greeted my words.

  “What are you talking about, Boone?” Casey asked after a pause.

  I remember giving him a funny look, not quite sure I understood what he was talking about. Then I said: “I’m going after Lena, and when she’s safe, I’m going to set things right for what they done here.”

  “You’re . . . going into the swamps?” Punch asked, with an odd hitch to his voice.

  “Yeah, I am, but nobody’s saying you have to go with me.”

  “No,” Punch hurriedly amended. “I’ll go. I just . . . it took me by surprise, is all.”

  “We’re all goin’,” Roy growled, and when I glanced at him, I noticed that his fingers were still wrapped tightly around his holstered revolver. “We’re gonna root that cow thief out once and for all,” he added.

  “We’re going after Lena first,” I reminded him. “After that, we’ll do what we can to put an end to their lawlessness.” My gaze traveled the knot of cow hunters standing before me. “What about it, boys? Are you still riding for the Flatiron, or are you anxious to get up north and fight Yankees?”

  “I’m going south with you,” Casey said firmly, and the others quickly nodded their assent. All except Pablo, who stared broodingly across the vast plain to the east.

  “What about it, Torres?” I asked. “Are you going with us?”

  “I hired on to hunt cattle,” he replied. “Not to fight your papa’s enemies.”

  “The hell,” Roy grunted in surprise, then added heatedly: “By damn, this ain’t Cuba, Torres. We ride for the brand around here, or go back where we came from.”

  Pablo brought his gaze around to stare me in the eye, but I couldn’t tell a thing from his expression. “Sí,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I will ride after the chica negra, if that is what el pequeño jefe wishes.”

  I didn’t speak Spanish at the time, but Ardell did. I looked to him for a translation, but he gave me a quick shake of his head, instead. “It’s settled,” he said, and I exhaled loudly in relief. I’d assumed at first that they would all ride with me, but Punch’s startled reaction and Pablo’s surly response had given me cause for doubt. Of course, had I known then what el pequeño jefe actually meant, I might not have been so quick with my gratitude. [Ed. Note: El pequeño jefe is Spanish for “the little boss”—a derogatory term as used in this instance.]

  “We’ll need fresh horses, and a night’s rest won’t hurt,” I said. “We’ll need to put together some supplies, too.” I nodded toward the open range stretching away to the east, the dusty prairie, and distant curve of the horizon. “Ardell, take Punch and Roy and Pablo, and see if you can round up some fresh mounts. Casey, take Dick along with you and try to find a trail for us to follow tomorrow. I’ll start sifting through the rubble here and see what I can find that we might be able to use.”

  “Let’s go, boys,” Ardell said briskly, dropping off the veranda and stalking toward his lathered marshtackie. The others followed silently, mounting their weary animals and turning toward
the prairies. When they were gone, I pulled the panniers from the pack horses and set them on the veranda to be taken care of later, then went exploring.

  I started for the smokehouse, hoping the raiders had left behind some food, but they hadn’t. Nothing we could use, at any rate. To show you what kind of men we were dealing with, what they hadn’t taken, they’d urinated and defecated on. My stomach did a quick flip when I saw the stinking remains, and my temper started bubbling like a pot left too long on a hot stove. Returning to the house, I began working through the various rooms, starting at the far end and making my way toward the kitchen.

  Those boys had been thorough in their destruction, although erratic. What they could break or ruin easily, they’d done, but if it was something that was going to require effort, they’d passed on by. For instance, there wasn’t a mirror or water pitcher left unshattered in the entire house, but the mattresses and linens and extra clothes, which would have burned fairly quickly if they’d taken time to haul them outside, had been left untouched.

  I’ll confess I was puzzled by their seemingly hit-or-miss approach. They’d burned the bunkhouse, the summer kitchen, and the barn, for cripes sake, so why hadn’t they also set fire to the house or to Jim and Josie’s cabin? Roy would swear afterward that it was just plain laziness on their part and point to the slovenly shacks they’d left behind when they abandoned their Lake Okeechobee compound. Who knows, maybe he’s right. If anyone listening to these recordings can offer a better explanation, I’d admire to hear it.

  My anger had settled into a cold, hard resolve by the time I worked my way back to the winter kitchen. I walked inside to find the room empty. Glancing through a window, I saw Jim’s mule tied out in front of their cabin and figured he and Josie had returned to their own home, where they’d feel more comfortable. I couldn’t blame them and was actually kind of glad to be able to continue my exploration without having to monitor my vocabulary around Josie, who didn’t normally tolerate our cursing.

  If you’re not familiar with winter kitchens and summer kitchens, then maybe I ought to explain. A winter kitchen is a part of the main house where a family did its cooking during the cooler months. We seldom used ours because of the unbearable heat it generated in that mostly hot, humid landscape, and had built a summer kitchen out back of the main house where Ma and Josie—then Josie and Lena, after Ma’s passing—would cook, preserve, and put up garden truck in glass jars and clay crocks.

  Not anticipating much luck as I started rummaging through what the Klees hadn’t destroyed, I was pleasantly surprised when I came across a three-gallon crock of pork chops stashed under the spice table and a half-sack of coontie on one of the higher shelves. [Ed. Note: Coontie (zamia pumila) is a fern-like plant whose pounded and heavily washed stem is used to produce a starchy type of flour; although toxic if consumed raw, processed coontie was an important trade and food source for Florida’s native tribes and early Euro-American explorers and settlers; during the Union blockade, it was a common substitute for wheat flour.]

  After kindling a blaze outside, I fished the pork chops out of the crock, scooping away the layers of heavy, white lard that kept the meat fresh and protected from insects and spoilage. Then I fetched the only remaining sack of coffee beans I’d gotten from Müller and set a pot on to boil while I ground the beans with a scorched grinder that had survived the worst of the summer kitchen’s flames. Josie came out before I could start the biscuits and told me to shoo.

  “Ain’t no reason I can’t fix up some good eats for a crew of hungry cow hunters,” she scolded, but I noticed her eyes were red from crying and that she was still sniffling as she set about heating her griddle and slapping coontie into biscuit patties.

  Jim fetched my horse and his mule and led them over. “You want me to unsaddle your ’tackie, marse?”

  “Not until Ardell and the others get back, and I know we’ve got fresh mounts.”

  “Mistah Ardell and them others is already comin’ in. Looks like they’s got eight, nine ’tackies with ’em, too.”

  I looked up in relief from where I had been staring moodily at the flames. “Then I reckon I can take care of my own horse, Jim. Molly, too. You stay here with Josie, in case she needs any more wood or water.”

  “Yes’um,” Jim replied gratefully.

  I led the horse and mule around front and hitched them to a middle rail of the small corral behind what remained of the barn, then swung a gate wide as Ardell and his crew trotted into the yard, driving nine good mounts before them. A grin—my first since returning to the Flatiron—tugged at the corners of my mouth when I recognized those horses. They were part of the stock Pa had used on his last drive to Georgia, including a tall bay gelding, with a wide blaze down its face, that I liked to ride. While neither as quick nor as agile as my swamp-bred marshtackie, that bay was a good horse, with a long stride and a lot of staying power. I was really glad to see it.

  Ardell swung down while I latched the gate and stripped the saddle from his mount’s back. He nodded toward the main house, not knowing that Josie was around back putting together a meal. “She OK?”

  “She will be. She’s worried about Lena, now that she knows Jim is safe.”

  “Makes sense. When do we go after them?”

  I swung my saddle over the top rail of the corral, then pulled up a clump of gama and started wiping down my marshtackie’s sweaty back. The gama was a substitute for the brushes and currycombs we’d lost in the fire, but better than nothing. I took my time answering Ardell’s question, trying to sort it all out in my mind while avoiding my first inclination, which was to mount up immediately and take off at a gallop. Finally I said: “I reckon tomorrow will be soon enough. We’ll get a decent night’s sleep and a good breakfast in the morning. I’m going to have Jim stay behind this time, look after the place while we’re gone.”

  Ardell looked surprised by my decision. “Those Klees are burrowed down in those swamps like ticks in a dog’s ear, Boone. We’ll likely need every man we can bring along.”

  “We can’t go in there like a troop of bluebellies, all shiny brass and blowing bugles. We’ll have to slip in quiet-like, and try to ghost Lena out of there before they know we’re around.”

  “What’s Jim going to do here if some of Klee’s men show up? Or a pack of deserters?”

  “He’s got that shotgun Pa gave him.”

  Ardell snorted. “A black man pulls a gun on a white man in these parts, he’ll hang before the powder smoke clears.”

  “Not if there’s just one of them, or not if his master backs him up.”

  “It’s damn’ risky for Jim, is my opinion.”

  “If there’s too many, he and Josie can slope for tall timber. He can use the shotgun for meat, if he has to.”

  “I think you’re just worried about Josie.”

  Something about Ardell’s words struck me wrong, and I stopped rubbing on my mount’s flank. “That’s right,” I said. “Josie ain’t just a Negro to me, nor to any of us McCallisters. She was my mother after Ma died, or as close to a ma as I’m ever likely to get. And Jim’s been more like an uncle than any of my real uncles ever were. They’re my family, Ardell. Joe-Jim and Lena, too.”

  Ardell didn’t reply right away or meet my gaze. After a couple of minutes, he said: “I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Embarrassed by my flare-up, I said: “Jim can start putting the place back together while we’re gone. I don’t reckon one man will make that much of a difference.”

  “It’s your call, Boone. You know I’ll back whatever decision you make.”

  “Thanks, Ardell.” I turned away self-consciously and resumed rubbing down my marshtackie. When I was done, I turned the little horse loose to find its own way out to pasture, knowing we’d round him up again before the next drive.

  I started on Jim’s mule next. Ardell and the others had already taken care of their own mounts and the pack horses, and wandered off, but I wasn’t in any hurry. I wanted t
o think a while and puttering with livestock was a way for me to do that—mindless, relaxing labor. It was just about full dark when I finally turned Molly loose and headed for the house.

  The boys were gathered on the veranda, smoking pipes and talking quietly among themselves. Ignoring them, I walked around to the far side of the house where Jim and Josie were putting the finishing touches on the evening’s meal. Firelight danced across the ebony planes of their faces, emphasizing the deep lines that feathered outward from their eyes and corrugated their foreheads. I paused in the darkness next to the house to watch, caught off guard by the unexpected emotions that swirled through me. I guess it was the blindness of youth that had prevented me from realizing how much Jim and Josie had aged in recent years and that there would come a time when neither would be a part of my life any more. It had taken the Klees’ raid, including the abduction of Lena, to bring home the mortality of those two stalwart figures of the Flatiron, and the knowledge was like a fist planted so deep in my chest that for a moment I found it difficult to breathe.

  Numbly I started forward. The soft jingle of my spurs alerted them that someone was approaching, and it tore at my heart to see the quick alarm that came over their faces.

  “It’s me!” I called, just before entering the firelight.

  “Marse Boone, you surely did give me a start,” Josie chided. “You sing out, next time.”

  I grinned weakly and nodded. “All right,” I replied, as if properly chastised.

  Jim remained silent until Josie turned back to her fire, then started peppering me with questions.

  “What we gonna do, marse?”

  “About Lena?” I shook my head. “I don’t rightly know. We’ve got to get her out of there somehow, but first we’ve got to find her, and those swamps are man killers. I ain’t keen on going in without a guide.”

  “They say that Mistah Jacob has got hisself an island not even the devil hisself can find.”

  “An island would be about the only way they could survive down there,” I agreed.