He began to look for the cotton-seed mill that stood to the left of the railroad. He peered, longing to see black stack-pipes. They were along here somewhere. Mabbe Ah done passed it? He turned to the right, bending low, looking. Then he twisted about and squinted his eyes. He stopped the boat; the oars dangled. He felt a sudden swerve that tilted him.
“Peewee, keep still!” Grannie whispered.
Lulu groaned. Mann felt wild panic. Quickly he retraced in his mind the route over which he thought he had come, and wondered what could be on the ground, what landmarks the water hid. He looked again, to the right, to the left, and over his shoulder. Then he looked straight upward. Two tall, black stack-pipes loomed seemingly a foot from his eyes. Ah wuznt lookin high ernuff, he thought. Westward would be houses. And straight down would be Pikes’ Road. That would be the shortest way.
“Pa, is we there?” asked Peewee.
“Hush!”
He rowed from the stack-pipes, rowed with the houses in his mind, yearning for something to come out of the darkness to match an inner vision. Every six or seven strokes he twisted around to look. The current became stiff and the darkness thickened. For awhile he had the feeling that the boat was not moving. He set his heels, bent to as far as he could go, and made his sweeps with the oars as long as his arms could reach. His back was getting tired. His fingers burned; he paused a second and dipped them into the cold black water. That helped some. But there was only darkness ahead of him each time he turned to look for the houses on Pikes’ Road. He wondered if he were on the wrong side of the mill! Mabbe Ahm headin the wrong way? He could not tell. And with each yard forward the current grew stiffer. He thought of the levee. Suddenly the boat swerved and spun. He caught his breath and plied the oars, losing all sense of direction. Is tha ol levee done broke? He heard Grannie cry: “Mann!” The boat leaped: his head hit something: stars danced in the darkness: the boat crashed with a bang: he clung to the oars, one was loose: but the other was jammed and would not move. The boat was still save for a hollow banging against a wall he could not see. He dropped the oars and groped his hands ahead in the darkness. Wood. Ridged wood. Is these them houses? He sensed that he was drifting backwards and clutched with his fingers, wincing from the sharp entry of splinters. Then he grabbed something round, cold, smooth, wet… It was wood. He clung tightly and stopped the boat. He could feel the tugging and trembling of the current vibrating through his body as his heart gave soft, steady throbs. He breathed hard, trying to build in his mind something familiar around the cold, wet, smooth pieces of wood. A series of pictures flashed through his mind, but none fitted. He groped higher, thinking with his fingers. Then suddenly he saw the whole street: sunshine, wagons and buggies tied to a water trough. This is old man Toms sto. And these were the railings that went around the front porch he was holding in his hands. Pikes’ Road was around the house, in front of him. He thought a moment before picking up the oars, wondering if he could make it in that wild current.
“Whuts the mattah, Mann?” Grannie asked.
“Its awright,” he said.
He wanted to reassure them, but he did not know what to say. Instead he grabbed the oars and placed one of them against an invisible wall. He set himself, flexed his body, and gave a shove that sent the boat spinning into the middle of the current. He righted it, striving to keep away from the houses, seeking for the street. He strained his eyes till they ached; but all he could see were dark bulks threatening on either side. Yet, that was enough to steer him clear of them. And he rowed, giving his strength to the right oar and then to the left, trying to keep in the middle.
“Look, Pa!”
“Whut?”
“Hush, Peewee!” said Grannie.
“Theres lights, see?”
“Where?”
“See? Right there, over yonder!”
Mann looked, his chin over his shoulder. There were two squares of dim, yellow light. For a moment Mann was puzzled. He plied the oars and steadied the boat. Those lights seemed too high up. He could not associate them. But they were on Pikes’ Road and they seemed about a hundred yards away. Wondah whut kin tha be? Maybe he could get some help there. He rowed again, his back to the lights; but their soft, yellow glow was in his mind. They helped him, those lights. For awhile he rowed without effort. Where there were lights there were people, and where there were people there was help. Wondah whose house is tha? Is they white folks? Fear dimmed the lights for a moment; but he rowed on and they glowed again, their soft sheen helping him to sweep the oars.
“Pa, cant we go there?”
“Hush, Peewee!”
The closer the lights came the lower they were. His mind groped frantically in the past, sought for other times on Pikes’ Road and for other nights to tell him who lived where those yellow lights gleamed. But the lights remained alone, and the past would tell him nothing. Mabbe they kin phone t town n git a boat t come n git Lulu? Mabbe she kin res some there. The lights were close now. Square yellow lights framed in darkness. They were windows. He steered for the lights, feeling hunger, fatigue, thirst. The dull ache came back to his head: the oars were heavy, almost too heavy to hold: the boat glided beneath the windows: he looked up, sighing.
“Is this the hospital, Pa?” asked Peewee.
“We goin in there, Mann?” asked Grannie.
“Ahma call,” said Mann.
He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Hello!”
He waited and looked at the windows; he heard the droning water swallow his voice.
“Hello!” he hollered again.
A window went up with a rasping noise. A white face came into the light. Lawd! Its a white man…
“Whos there?”
“Mann!”
“Who?”
“Mann! Mah wifes sick! Shes in birth! Ahm takin her t the hospital! Yuh gotta phone in there?”
“Wait a minute!”
The window was empty. There was silence; he waited, his face turned upward. He plied the oars and steadied the boat in the swift current. Again a white face came through. A pencil of light shot out into the darkness; a spot of yellow caught the boat. He blinked, blinded.
“Yuh gotta phone there, Mistah?” he called again, dodging the glare of the flash-light.
Silence.
“Mah wifes sick! Yuh gotta phone!”
A voice came, cold, angry.
“Nigger, where you steal that boat?”
The window became filled with white faces. Mann saw a white woman with red hair. He fumbled for the oars in fear. He blinked his eyes as the light jumped to and fro over his face.
“Where you steal that boat, nigger! Thats my boat!”
Then Mann heard softer voices.
“Thats our boat, Father! Its white!”
“Thats our boat, Henry! Thats our boat…”
“Dont you hear me, nigger! Bring that boat back here!”
There were two pistol shots. Grannie screamed. Mann swept the oars blindly; the boat spun. Lawd, thas Heartfiel! N hes gotta gun! Mann felt the water rocking him away.
“Nigger, dont you take that boat! Ill kill you!”
He heard two more shots: loudly the boat banged against wood: he was thrown flat on his back. He jerked up and tried to keep the yellow windows in sight. For a moment he thought the windows were dark, but only the flash-light had gone out. He held his breath and felt the boat skidding along a wall, shaking with the current. Then it was still: it seemed it had become wedged between two walls: he touched a solid bulk and tried to shove away: the boat lurched: a shower of cold water sprayed him: the boat became wedged again: he looked for the windows: a third square of light burst out: he watched a white man with a hard, red face come out onto a narrow second-story porch and stand framed in a light-flooded doorway. The man was wearing a white shirt and was playing the yellow flare over the black water. In his right hand a gun gleamed. The man walked slowly down an outside stairway and stopped, crouching, at the water’s edge. A throaty vo
ice bawled:
“Nigger, bring that boat here! You nigger!”
Mann held still, frozen. He stared at the gun in the white man’s hand. A cold lump forced its way up out of his stomach into his throat. He saw the disc of yellow sweep over the side of a house. The white man stooped, aimed and shot. He thinks Ahm over there! Lawd! Mann’s mouth hung open and his lips dried as he breathed.
“You sonofabitch! Bring my boat here!”
“Mann!” Grannie whispered.
Mann fumbled in his pocket for his gun and held it ready. His hand trembled. He watched the yellow disc jump fitfully over the black water some fifty feet from him. It zig-zagged, pausing for instants only, searching every inch of the water. As it crept closer Mann raised his gun. The flare flickered to and fro. His throat tightened and he aimed. Then the flare hovered some five feet from him. He fired, twice. The white man fell backwards on the steps and slipped with an abrupt splash into the water. The flash-light went with him, its one eye swooping downward, leaving a sudden darkness. There was a scream. Mann dropped the gun into the bottom of the boat, grabbed the oars, threw his weight desperately, shoved out from the wall and paddled against the current.
“Henry! Henry!”
Mann rowed: he heard Grannie crying: he felt weak from fear: he had a choking impulse to stop: he felt he was lost because he had shot a white man: he felt there was no use in his rowing any longer: but the current fought the boat and he fought back with the oars.
“Henry! Henry!”
It was a woman’s voice, pleading; then a younger voice, shrill, adolescent, insistent.
“The nigger killed im! The nigger killed father!”
Mann rowed on into the darkness, over the black water. He could not see the lights now; he was on the other side of the building. But the screams came clearly.
“Stop, nigger! Stop! You killed my father! You bastard! You nigger!”
“Henry! Henry!”
Mann heard Grannie and Peewee crying. But their weeping came to him from a long way off, as though it were as far away as the voices that were screaming. It was difficult for him to get his breath as he bent on the left oar, then the right, keeping the boat in the middle of the bulks of darkness. Then all at once he was limp, nerveless; he felt that getting the boat to the hospital now meant nothing. Two voices twined themselves in his ears: Stop, nigger! Stop, nigger! Henry! Henry! They echoed and re-echoed even after he was long out of earshot.
Then suddenly the rowing became a little easier. He was in the clear again, away from the houses. He did not worry about directions now, for he knew exactly where he was. Only one half mile across Barrett’s Pasture, and he would strike streets and maybe lights. He rowed on, hearing Grannie’s crying and seeing Heartfield coming down the narrow steps with the flash-light and the gun. But he shot at me fo Ah shot im… Another thought made him drop the oars. Spose Heartfiels folks phone to town n tel em Ah shot im? He looked around hopelessly in the darkness. Lawd, Ah don wanna ride mah folks right inter death! The boat drifted sideways, shaking with the tug of the current.
“Lulu,” Grannie was whispering.
“How Lulu?” Mann asked.
“She sleep, Ah reckon,” sighed Grannie.
Naw, Ahm goin on, no mattah whut! He could not turn back now for the hills, not with Lulu in this boat. Not with Lulu in the fix she was in. He gritted his teeth, caught the oars, and rowed. High over his head a plane zoomed; he looked up and saw a triangle of red and green lights winging through the darkness. His fingers were hot and loose, as though all the feeling in his hands had turned into fire. But his body was cool; a listless wind was drying the sweat on him.
“There the lights o town, Mann!” Grannie spoke.
He twisted about. Sure enough, there they were. Shining, barely shining. Dim specks of yellow buried in a mass of blackness. Lawd only knows whut wes ridin inter… If he could only get Lulu to the hospital, if he could only get Grannie and Peewee safely out of this water, then he would take a chance on getting away. He knew that that was what they would want him to do. He swept the oars, remembering hearing tales of whole black families being killed because some relative had done something wrong.
A quick, blue fork of lightning lit up the waste of desolate and tumbling waters. Then thunder exploded, loud and long, like the sound of a mountain falling. It began to rain. A sudden, sharp rain. Water trickled down the back of his neck. He felt Grannie moving; she was covering Lulu with her coat. He rowed faster, peering into the rain, wanting to reach safety before the boat caught too much water. Another fifty yards or so and he would be among the houses. Yeah, ef they ast me erbout Heartfiel Ahma tell em the truth… But he knew he did not want to do that. He knew that that would not help him. But what else was there for him to do? Yes, he would have to tell the truth and trust God. Nobody but God could see him through this. Bob shouldna stole this boat… But here Ah am in it now… He sighed, rowing. N this rain! Tha ol levee might go wid this rain… Lawd, have mercy! He lowered his chin and determined not to think. He would have to trust God and keep on and go through with it, that was all. His feet and clothes were wet. The current stiffened and brought the boat almost to a standstill. Yeah, he thought, theres Rose Street. He headed the boat between two rows of houses.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
He pulled the oars. A glare of light shot from a second-story porch and made him blink. Two white soldiers in khaki uniforms leaned over the bannisters. Their faces were like square blocks of red and he could see the dull glint of steel on the tips of their rifles. Well, he would know now. Mabbe they done foun out erbout Heartfiel?
“Where you going, nigger?”
“Ahm takin mah wife t the hospital, suh. Shes in birth, suh!”
“What?”
“Mah wifes in birth, suh! Ahm takin her t the Red Cross!”
“Pull up to the steps!”
“Yessuh!”
He turned the boat and paddled toward steps that led down to the water. The two soldiers loomed over him.
“Whats your name?”
“Mann, suh.”
“You got a pass?”
“Nawsuh.”
“Don’t you know youre violating curfew?”
“Nawsuh.”
“What was all that shooting back there a little while ago?”
“Ah don know, suh.”
“Didnt you hear it?”
“Nawsuh.”
“Frisk im, Mac,” said one of the soldiers.
“O.K. Stand up, nigger!”
One of the soldiers patted Mann’s hips. Lawd, Ah hope they don see tha gun in the boat…
“Hes awright.”
“What you say your name was?”
“Mann, suh.”
“Where you from?”
“The South En, suh.”
“I mean where you bring that boat from?”
“The South En, suh.”
“You rowed here?”
“Yessuh.”
“In that boat?”
“Yessuh.”
The soldiers looked at each other.
“You aint lying, are you, nigger?”
“Oh, nawsuh,” said Mann.
“What wrong with your woman?”
“She’s in birth, suh.”
One of the soldiers laughed.
“Well, Ill be Goddamned! Nigger, you take the prize! I always heard that a niggerd do anything, but I never thought anybody was fool enough to row a boat against that current…”
“But Mistah, mah wifes sick! She been sick fo days!”
“O.K. Stay here. Ill phone for a boat to take you in.”
“Yessuh.”
One of the soldiers ran up the steps and the other hooked Mann’s boat to a rope.
“Nigger, you dont know how lucky you are,” he said. “Six men were drowned today trying to make it to town in rowboats. And here you come, rowing three people…”
The soldier who had gone to telephone came back.
“M
istah, please!” said Mann. “Kin Ah take mah wife in there, outta the rain?”
The soldier shook his head.
“Im sorry, boy. Orders is that nobody but soldiers can be in these houses. Youll have to wait for the boat. Its just around the corner; it wont be long. But I dont see how in hell you rowed that boat between those houses without drowning! It mustve been tough, hunh?”
“Yessuh.”
Mann saw a motorboat swing around a curve, its head-light sweeping a wide arc, its motor yammering. It glided up swiftly in a churn of foam. It was manned by two soldiers whose slickers gleamed with rain.
“Whats the rush?”
“Boy,” said one of the soldiers, “I got a nigger here who beat everybody. He rowed in from the South End, against the current. Can you beat that?”
The soldiers in the boat looked at Mann.
“Says you!” said one, with a scornful wave of his white palm.
“Im telling the truth!” said the soldier. “Didn’t you, boy?”
“Yessuh.”
“Well, what you want us to do about it? Give im a medal?”
“Naw; his bitch is sick. Having a picaninny. Shoot em over to the Red Cross Hospital.”
The soldiers in the boat looked at Mann again.
“They crowded out over there, boy…”
“Lawd, have mercy!” Grannie cried, holding Lulu’s head on her lap.
“Mistah, please! Mah wife cant las much longer like this,” said Mann.
“Awright! Hitch your boat, nigger, and lets ride!”
Mann grabbed the rope that was thrown at him and looped it to a hook on the end of his boat. He was standing when one of the soldiers yelled:
“Watch yourself, nigger!”
The motor roared and the boat shot forward; he fell back against Grannie, Lulu and Peewee. He straightened just as they made the turn. His boat leaned, scooping water, wetting him; then it righted itself. The rest of the drive was straight ahead, into darkness. He had hardly wiped the water out of his eyes before they slowed to a stop. His fingers groped nervously in the bottom of the boat for the gun; he found it and slipped it into his pocket.
Uncle Tom's Children Page 9
