“Take my mother!” he whimpered.
The voice startled Mann; he stiffened. It was the same voice that had yelled, You nigger! You bastard! The same wild fear he had known when he was in the boat rowing against the current caught him. He wanted to run from the room and tell Brinkley that he could find no one; he wanted to leave them here for the black waters to swallow.
“Take my mother! Take my mother!”
Mann saw the boy’s fingers fumbling; a match flared. The boy’s eyes grew big. His jaw moved up and down. The flame flickered out.
“Its the nigger! Its the nigger!” the boy screamed.
Mann gripped the axe. He crouched, staring at the boy, holding the axe stiffly in his right fist. Something hard began to press against the back of his head and he saw it all in a flash while staring at the white boy and hearing him scream, “Its the nigger!” Yes, now, if he could swing that axe they would never tell on him and the black waters of the flood would cover them forever and he could tell Brinkley he had not been able to find them and the whites would never know he had killed a white man… His body grew taut with indecision. Yes, now, he would swing that axe and they would never tell and he had his gun and if Brinkley found out he would point the gun at Brinkley’s head. He saw himself in the boat with Brinkley; he saw himself pointing the gun at Brinkley’s head; he saw himself in the boat going away; he saw himself in the boat, alone, going away… His muscles flexed and the axe was over his head and he heard the white boy screaming, “Its the nigger! Its the nigger!” Then he felt himself being lifted violently up and swung around as though by gravity of the earth itself and flung face downward into black space. A loud commotion filled his ears: his body rolled over and over and he saw the flash-light for an instant, its one eye whirling: then he lay flat, stunned: he turned over, pulled to his knees, dazed, surprised, shocked. He crawled to the flash-light and picked it up with numbed fingers. A voice whispered over and over in his ears, Ah gotta git outta here… He sensed he was at an incline. He swayed to his feet and held onto a wall. He heard the sound of rushing water. He swept the spot of yellow. Mrs. Heartfield was lying face downward in a V-trough to his right, where the floor joined the wall at a slant. The boy was crawling in the dark, whimpering “Mother! Mother!” Mann saw the axe, but seemed not to realize that he had been about to use it. He knew what had happened now; the house had tilted, had tilted in the rushing black water. He saw himself as he had stood a moment before, saw himself standing with the axe raised high over Mrs. Heartfield and her two children…
“Yuh fin em? Say, yuh fin em?”
Mann flinched, jerking his head around, trembling. Brinkley was calling. A chill went over Mann. He turned the spot on the window and saw a black face and beyond the face a path of light shooting out over the water. Naw …Naw… He could not kill now; he could not kill if someone were looking. He stood as though turned to steel. Then he sighed, heavily, as though giving up his last breath, as though giving up the world.
Brinkley was clinging to the window, still calling:
“C mon! Bring em out! The boats at the windah! C mon, Ah kin hep t take em out!”
Like a sleepwalker, Mann moved over to the white boy and grabbed his arm. The boy shrank and screamed:
“Leave me alone, you nigger!”
Mann stood over him, his shoulders slumped, his lips moving.
“Git in the boat,” he mumbled.
The boy stared; then he seemed to understand.
“Get my mother…”
Like a little child, Mann obeyed and dragged Mrs. Heartfield to the window. He saw white hands helping.
“Get my sister!”
He brought the little girl next. Then the boy went. Mann climbed through last.
He was again in the boat, beside Brinkley. Mrs. Heartfield and her two children were in the back. The little girl was crying, sleepily. The boat rocked. Mann looked at the house; it was slanting down to the water; the window through which he had just crawled was about a foot from the level of the rushing current. The motor raced, but the roar came to him from a long ways off, from out of a deep silence, from out of a time long gone by. The boat slid over the water and he was in it; but it was a far away boat, and it was someone else sitting in that boat; not he. He saw the light plunging ahead into the darkness and felt the lurch of the boat as it plowed through water. But none of it really touched him; he was beyond it all now; it simply passed in front of his eyes like silent, moving shadows; like dim figures in a sick dream. He felt nothing; he sat, looking and seeing nothing.
“Yuh hardly made it,” said Brinkley.
He looked at Brinkley as though surprised to see someone at his side.
“Ah thought yuh wuz gone when tha ol house went over,” said Brinkley.
The boat was in the clear now, speeding against the current. It had stopped raining.
“Its gittin daylight,” said Brinkley.
The darkness was thinning to a light haze.
“Mother? Mother…”
“Hush!” whispered Mrs. Heartfield.
Yes, Mann knew they were behind him. He felt them all over his body, and especially like something hard and cold weighing on top of his head; weighing so heavily that it seemed to blot out everything but one hard, tight thought: They got me now…
“Theres the hills!” said Brinkley.
Green slopes lay before him in the blurred dawn. The boat sped on and he saw jagged outlines of tents. Smoke drifted upward. Soldiers moved. Out of the depths of his tired body a prayer rose up in him, a silent prayer. Lawd, save me now! Save me now…
VI
It was broad daylight. The boat had stopped. The motor had stopped. And when Mann could no longer feel the lurch or hear the drone he grew hysterically tense.
“Waal, wes here,” said Brinkley.
With fear Mann saw the soldiers running down the slopes. He felt the people in the seat behind him, felt their eyes on his back, his head. He knew that the white boy back there was hating him to death for having killed his father. He knew the white boy was waiting to scream, “You nigger! You bastard!” The soldiers closed in. Mann grabbed the side of the boat; Brinkley was climbing out.
“C mon,” said Brinkley.
Mann stood up, swaying a little. They got me now, he thought. He stumbled on dry land. He took a step and a twig snapped. He looked around and tried to fight off a feeling of unreality. Mrs. Heartfield was crying.
“Here, take this blanket, Mrs. Heartfield,” said one of the soldiers.
Mann walked right past them, waiting as he walked to hear the word that would make him stop. The landscape lay before his eyes with a surprising and fateful solidity. It was like a picture which might break. He walked on in blind faith. He reached level ground and went on past white people who stared sullenly. He wanted to look around, but could not turn his head. His body seemed encased in a tight vise, in a narrow black coffin that moved with him as he moved. He wondered if the white boy was telling the soldiers now. He was glad when he reached the tents. At least the tents would keep them from seeing him.
“Hey, you! Halt, there!”
He caught his breath, turning slowly. A white soldier walked toward him with a rifle. Lawd, this is it…
“Awright, you can take off that stuff now!”
“Suh?”
“You can take off that stuff, I say!”
“Suh? Suh?”
“Take off those boots and that raincoat, Goddammit!”
“Yessuh.”
He pulled off the raincoat. He was trembling. He pushed the boots as far down his legs as they would go; then he stooped on his right knee while he pulled off the left boot, and on his left knee while he pulled off the right.
“Throw em over there in that tent!”
“Yessuh.”
He walked on again, feeling the soldier’s eyes on his back. Ahead, across a grassy square, were black people, his people. He quickened his pace. Mabbe Ah kin fin Bob. Er Elder Murray… Lawd, Ah wondah whu
ts become of Peewee? N Grannie? He thought of Lulu and his eyes blurred. He elbowed into a crowd of black men gathered around a kitchen tent. He sighed and a weight seemed to go from him. He looked into black faces, looked for hope. He had to get away from here before that white boy had the soldiers running him to the ground. He thought of the white boats he had seen tied down at the water’s edge. Lawd, ef Ah kin git inter one of em…
“Yuh had some cawfee?”
A small black woman stood in front of him holding a tin cup. He smelt steam curling up from it.
“Yuh had yo cawfee yit?” the woman asked again. “There ain nothin here but cawfee.”
“Nom.”
“Here.”
He took the extended cup and stood watching the steam curl. The woman turned to walk away.
“Mam, yuh seen a man by the name of Bob Cobb?”
“Lawd knows, Mistah. We don know whos here n who ain. Why don yuh ast over t the Red Cross Station? Thas where everybodys signin in at.”
No, he could not go to the Red Cross. They would catch him there surely. He walked a few steps, sipping the coffee, watching for white faces over the brim of his cup. Then suddenly he felt confused, as though all that had happened a few hours ago was but a dream. He had no need to be afraid now, had he? Just to imagine that it was all a dream made him feel better. Lawd. Ahm sho tired! He finished the cup and looked over to the tent. Heat was expanding in his stomach. He looked around again. There were no white faces. Black men stood, eating, talking, Ahma ast some of em t hep me… He went over and extended his cup for another helping. The black woman stared, her eyes looking beyond him, wide with fear. He heard her give a short, stifled scream. Then he was jerked violently from behind; he heard the soft clink of tin as the cup bounded from his fingers. The back of his head hit the mud.
“Is this the nigger?”
“Yeah; thats the one! Thats the nigger!”
He was on his back and he looked up into the faces of four white soldiers. Muzzles of rifles pointed at his chest. The white boy was standing, pointing into his face.
“Thats the nigger that killed father!”
They caught his arms and yanked him to his feet. Hunched, he looked up out of the corners of his eyes, his hands shielding his head.
“Get your hands up, nigger!”
He straightened.
“Move on!”
He walked slowly, vaguely, his hands high in the air. Two of the soldiers were in front of him, leading the way. He felt a hard prod on his backbone.
“Walk up, nigger, and dont turn rabbit!”
They led him among the tents. He marched, staring straight, hearing his shoes and the soldiers’ shoes sucking in the mud. And he heard the quick steps of the white boy keeping pace. The black faces he passed were blurred and merged one into the other. And he heard tense talk, whispers. For a split second he was there among those blunt and hazy black faces looking silently and fearfully at the white folks take some poor black man away. Why don they hep me? Yet he knew that they would not and could not help him, even as he in times past had not helped other black men being taken by the white folks to their death… Then he was back among the soldiers again, feeling the sharp prod of the muzzle on his backbone. He was led across the grassy square that separated the white tents from the black. There were only white faces now. He could hardly breathe.
“Look! They caughta coon!”
“C mon, they gotta nigger!”
He was between the soldiers, being pushed along, stumbling. Each step he took he felt his pistol jostling gently against his thigh. A thought circled round and round in his mind, circled so tightly he could hardly think it! They goin t kill me… They goin t kill me…
“This way!”
He turned. Behind him were voices; he knew a crowd was gathering. He saw Mrs. Heartfield looking at him; he saw her red hair. The soldiers stopped him in front of her. He looked at the ground.
“Is this the nigger, Mrs. Heartfield?”
“Yes, hes the one.”
More white faces gathered around. The crowd blurred and wavered before his eyes. There was a rising mutter of talk. Then he could not move; they were pressing in.
“What did he do?”
“Did he bother a white woman?”
“She says he did something!”
He heard the soldiers protesting.
“Get back now and behave! Get back!”
The crowd closed in tightly; the soldiers stood next to him, between him and the yelling faces. He grabbed a soldier, clinging, surging with the crowd. They were screaming in his ears.
“Lynch im!”
“Kill the black bastard!”
The soldiers struggled.
“Get back! You cant do that!”
“Let us have im!”
He was lifted off his feet in a tight circle of livid faces. A blow came to his mouth. The crowd loosened a bit and he fell to all fours. He felt a dull pain in his thigh and he knew he had been kicked. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw a moving tangle of feet and legs.
“Kill the sonofabitch!”
“GET BACK! GET BACK OR WE WILL SHOOT!”
They were away from him now. Blood dripped from his mouth.
“The general says bring him in his tent!”
He was snatched up and pushed into a tent. Two soldiers held his arms. A red face behind a table looked at him. He saw Mrs. Heartfield, her boy, her little girl. He heard a clamor of voices.
“Keep those people back from this tent!”
“Yessir!”
It grew quiet. He felt faint and grabbed his knees to keep from falling. The soldiers were shaking him. He felt warm blood splashing on his hands.
“Cant you talk, you black bastard! Cant you talk!”
“Yessuh.”
“Whats your name?”
“Mann, suh.”
“Whats the charge against this nigger?”
“Looting and murder, General.”
“Whom did he kill?”
“Heartfield, the Post Master, sir.”
“Heartfield?”
“Yessir.”
“He stole our boat and killed father!” said the boy.
“Do you confess that, nigger?”
“Capm, he shot at me fo Ah shot im! He shot at me…”
“He stole our boat!” yelled the boy. “He stole our boat and killed father when he told him to bring it back!”
“Are you sure this is the man?”
“Hes the one, General! His name is Mann and I saw him under our window!”
“When was this?”
“Last night, at the Post Office.”
“Who saw this?”
“I did,” said Mrs. Heartfield.
“I saw im!” said the boy.
“Ah didnt steal that boat, Capm! Ah swear fo Gawd, Ah didnt!”
“You did! You stole our boat and killed father and left us in the flood…”
The boy ran at Mann. The soldiers pulled him back.
“Ralph, come here!” called Mrs. Heartfield.
“Keep still, sonny,” said a soldier. “We can handle this!”
“Did you have that boat, nigger?” asked the general.
“Yessuh, but…”
“Where did you get it?”
He did not answer.
“What did you do with the boat?”
“The man at the hospital took it. But Ah didnt steal it, Capm…”
“Get Colonel Davis!” the general ordered.
“Yessir!”
“Nigger, do you know the meaning of this?”
Mann opened his mouth, but no words came.
“Do you know this means your life?”
“Ah didnt mean t kill im! Ah wuz takin mah wife t the hospital…”
“What did you do with the gun?”
Again he did not answer. He had a wild impulse to pull it out and shoot, blindly; to shoot and be killed while shooting. But before he could act a voice stopped him.
“Search im!”
They found the gun and laid it on the table. There was an excited buzz of conversation. He saw white hands pick up the gun and break it. Four cartridges spilled out.
“He shot daddy twice! He shot im twice!” said the boy.
“Did he bother you, Mrs. Heartfield?”
“No; not that way.”
“The little girl?”
“No; but he came back to the house and got us out. Ralph says he had an axe…”
“When was this?”
“Early this morning.”
“What did you go back there for, nigger?”
He did not answer.
“Did he bother you then, Mrs. Heartfield?”
“He was going to kill us!” said the boy. “He was holding the axe over us and then the house went over in the flood…”
There was another buzz of conversation.
“Heres Colonel Davis, General!”
“You know this nigger, Colonel?”
Mann looked at the ground. A soldier knocked his head up.
“He was at the hospital.”
“What did he do there?”
“He helped us on the roof.”
“Did he have a boat?”
“Yes; but we took it and sent him to the levee. Here, he signed for it…”
“What kind of a boat was it?”
“A white rowboat.”
“That was our boat!” said the boy.
The piece of paper Mann had signed in the hospital was shoved under his eyes.
“Did you sign this, nigger?”
He swallowed and did not answer.
A pen scratched on paper.
“Take im out!”
“White folks, have mercy! Ah didnt mean t kill im! Ah swear fo Awmighty Gawd, Ah didnt… He shot at me! Ah wuz takin mah wife t the hospital…”
“Take im out!”
He fell to the ground, crying.
“Ah didnt mean t kill im! Ah didnt…”
“When shall it be, General?”
“Take im out now! Whos next?”
They dragged him from the tent. He rolled in the mud. A soldier kicked him.
“Git up and walk, nigger! You aint dead yet!”
He walked blindly with bent back, his mouth dripping blood, his arms dangling loose. There were four of them and he was walking in between. Tears clogged his eyes. Down the slope to his right was a wobbly sea of brown water stretching away to a trembling sky. And there were boats, white boats, free boats, leaping and jumping like fish. There were boats and they were going to kill him. The sun was shining, pouring showers of yellow into his eyes. Two soldiers floated in front of him, and he heard two walking in back. He was between, walking, and the sun dropped spangles of yellow into his eyes. They goin t kill me! They goin… His knees buckled and he went forward on his face. For a moment he seemed not to breathe. Then with each heave of his chest he cried:
Uncle Tom's Children Page 12
