Watson knew about them paper claims, he was always asking questions. What he wanted to do, we figured later, was tie up as much high land as he could from Chatham Bend to Lost Man's River, maybe all the way south to Harney River, then file a claim the way Santini done. Santini knew his way around the law, and Watson went to him for help. But rumors about E.J. Watson had commenced to wander, and maybe Ed figured he needed an upstanding citizen to back him up.
Well, I wasn't there so I don't know what happened, but Elijah Carey said he seen it. Dick Sawyer always claimed that he was there, Dick never missed much, and he told me pretty good about it, too. Santini was our leading citizen, and he was also the outstanding farmer, nobody near him, mostly cause he owned all the good land. Chokoloskee is just one big mound that them old Calusas started up from scratch. Tomatoes did fine high on the mounds, sugarcane down on the flats, with any vegetable you wanted in between. By 1884 Dolphus Santini had over two hundred alligator pear trees, and he also had Jamaica apples, sour and sweet oranges, bananas, guavas-biggest farm in that part of the country. Most all our Chokoloskee produce went south to Key West, cause Key West could claim eighteen thousand head if you was to count Yankees and nigras. In them days, Fort Myers, the biggest city in Lee County, never had but seven hundred. On the coast between, not counting Injuns, I don't believe there was two hundred people, and half of 'em lived on Chokoloskee Bay.
Dolphus had been hearing a sight more than he cared to about this feller Watson down on Chatham Bend, how Watson raised up bigger hogs than anyone around, how Watson could grow tomatoes on a orster bar, could grow him damn near anything and a lot of it. He had also heard rumors that Watson was a wanted man. Dolphus was a drinker, too, and that night he was drunk. According to Captain Elijah Carey, who was in the thick of it, Santini advised Mister Watson that the State of Florida would not give preemption papers to any citizen who had not paid his debts to society, said Watson better look out for his own business.
Watson didn't show a thing, just kind of nodded, like what Dolphus said made pretty good sense. Then he put his hand into his pocket and moved up alongside Dolphus, never spoke, and the whole crowd skittered to the side like baby ducklings, that's how fast they made that man some room. And this was before they knew what they know now about Ed Watson.
It was the look on Watson's face that scared 'em worst, or that's what Lige said. Watson could cuss him a blue streak when he got aggravated, but the worse he cussed, the easier you felt, cause he'd end up saying something so outrageous that the whole outburst would collapse, he'd bust out laughing. When he was truly angry he went cold. That ruddy face went stiff and dead, it turned to wood. What Elijah Carey noticed was, them stone eyes never blinked but once-that's how come he noticed it-and that blink was very, very slow.
Though Watson hadn't touched Santini, he stood much too close, he had ol' Dolphus backed against a table. Then he whispered how he hadn't heard too good, but it sure sounded like some dirty guinea slander. Would Dolphus care to make his meaning plain? Watson spoke to him very soft, and that soft voice should of been a warning, but Dolphus was too puffed up to hear, he probably thought he had this feller buffaloed.
The whole auction room fell still, but Dolphus was too full of his own noise to hear that quiet. He cleared his throat and smiled at all the men, winking one eye, and then he says, "Our state of Florida don't welcome desperados on the run from somewheres else."
Watson's bowie knife was at his throat before he finished. Watson drew a thin red line, then told Santini to beg his pardon or have his throat cut. Santini was too scared to talk, so Watson went ahead and cut his throat, near took his head off, spattered blood across three bushel of cucumbers. Would have finished the job, too, if they hadn't stopped him. Captain Lige claimed he was one of the men who got that knife away.
When Watson drew that knife under Santini's jaw, in that split second before the blood jumped out, he looked as careful as a man slitting a melon. That, Lige said, is what scared folks the most. But when they grabbed his arm, he about went crazy, hollered out that nobody weren't going to lynch Ed Watson, took four or five of 'em to rassle him down to the floor. By the time they got that knife away, he had started laughing. "I'm ticklish," that's what he said, and laughed some more.
Somebody run quick and fetched a doctor, and it was known that Dolphus had survived it by the time the news got back to Chokoloskee, though he carried a thick purple scar for life.
At the hearing Watson raised up his right hand, swore on the Bible that he never meant to kill Mr. Santini. If he'd meant that, why it stands to reason that he would have done it. He said this looking real sincere, and everybody laughed, and he grinned too, grinned right at Dolphus, who looked like he was strangling in all them bandages.
Dolphus's boy Lawrence told me once that Watson struck his father without warning, just reached around him from behind and cut his throat. That may be true but it ain't the way Lige Carey told it.
At that time there was no law down here, men settled their differences amongst themselves, and a killing was not what you might call uncommon, though the Islands never was so bad as outsiders make out. But Key West had some law, so Ed paid Dolphus nine hundred dollars in hard cash not to take the case to court, and that was that. We never thought too much about it.
But Key West was getting tired of Ed Watson, and Sheriff Frank Knight liked to use his telegraph machine, so he sent around to see if Ed had any record, got word this man was on the dodge, just like Dolphus said. Telegraph said a Edgar A. Watson was the only one was ever charged with the murder of Belle Starr, Queen of the Outlaws, out in Indian Territory back in '89. There was a prison escape from Arkansas, and a killing in north Florida some years back, and another in Arcadia on his way here.
Watson explained all that away. Said Edgar A. Watson was a well-known polecat, he had knew him personal, but Edgar J. Watson was a solid citizen and a fine feller. By the time the word come to arrest him, ship him back to Arkansas, Edgar J. was way back in the rivers.
The man killed in Arcadia was named Quinn Bass. Our family homesteaded in Arcadia awhile before we drifted south to Turner River, and my pap knowed the dead man as a boy, and he thought Quinn Bass was better off deceased than not. Sheriff O.H. Dishong up there must of thought so too, cause they let Ed Watson pay his way out of that scrape, same as they done in Key West with Santini. Only difference was, Quinn Bass never sat up to count his money.
So word got out that in Arkansas, maybe north Florida, too, Ed Watson was still a wanted man, which was why he come down here in the first place. Well, naturally, folks begun to worry. They was used to drifters and backcountry killers, not well-dressed famous desperadoes who was wanted all over the Wild West.
But nobody put no questions to this feller. If lawmen was hunting him across four states, it was not our business. That was his own responsibility, and he took it. If any man could of used a change of name, it was Ed Watson, but Ed was always who he was, come hell or high water, and you had to like that. Cepting Mr. Chevelier, we all liked the man, that's the God's truth. We seen from the first that he was a good farmer and a generous neighbor, and for many years we done our best to forget the rest.
"Key West" (from the Spanish "Cayo Hueso") was made a Navy base in the 1830s to deal with the rampant smugglers and pirates. An account of 1885 provides the flavor of Key West as E.J. Watson must have known it in his first years in the Islands.
Moonlight beautiful over the harbor. Find anchorage near the wharf. See many boats and lights about us. All quiet except chickens and dogs.
Wind from south, very warm and sultry… Engage a carriage for a view around the town. The island is seven by three miles in extent, prettily built in places with frame houses, with green blinds, surrounded by thick luxuriant growths of tropical trees and flowers. Streets narrow; rather hard roads on the bed of natural limestone rock… a great many pools of stagnant water in the streets. Many Spanish faces and voices; strange hotels with strange fruits and custo
ms. The tropical coconut palm is all prevalent and very striking; some house yards have numbers of them. The laurel tree… almond trees, tamarinds full of their bean-like fruit. Many varieties of the acacia family. Sappadillo, lime trees, date palms, sugar apples, Pride of India, banyans, and many others. Drove over to the empty fort commanding the harbor, and down the beach, on which were washed up a good many cup sponges. Past the sponge-drying yards, and back to the boat for supper. Beautiful evening; all sat on deck until late, enjoying the warmth, the setting sun glow, and the moonlight.
HENRY THOMPSON
Mister Watson told me he had family someplace, but he never said too much about it, not in front of Henrietta Daniels. Henrietta-he called my mother Netta-come to keep house for Mister Watson and brought Tant with her. Tant Jenkins was her young half brother, not much older than me.
That day Mister Watson come back from Everglade so darn excited, Tant was plume hunting back in the rivers. He snuck off every time Mister Watson went away, left the work to me. Henrietta is setting there on the front stoop with Minnie hitched up to her bosom, and Mister Watson ain't hardly tied up before he hollers all the way from the boat landing, "Netta honey, you better start thinking about packing up, I have my people coming!" He shows me a letter from a Mrs. Jane D. Watson of north Florida, and in it was a brown picture of three kids in Sunday best. Young Eddie and little Lucius wore white high collars and black knicker suits, and Miss Carrie in her prim white frock with a big ribbon bow and buckle shoes was the prettiest little thing I ever saw. On the back was written, "Rob was shy, he would not sit for his picture!"
"Rob's not shy," Mister Watson said, "Rob is so sore at his daddy that his tail's sizzling like a rattler!" I don't know why that struck him funny but it did, and he laughed some more when he seen that I weren't laughing. "Well," he sighed, "I don't believe that Mrs. Watson would have got in touch with us if her husband was such a terrible bad feller, what do you think, Henry?" And he chuckled some more, that's how tickled he was by the way his life was working out. Before leaving Everglade, he said, he telegraphed money for their tickets, and expected to meet 'em at Punta Gorda toward the end of the month.
Mister Watson was so overjoyed he clean forgot about our feelings. So there I am down at the landing helping with the boat, and I don't know where to look, that's how ashamed I am, for me and my mother both. I got on good with Mister Watson, and after two years, his place was my home. This was the first real family I ever knew, cause Mister Watson was kind of a dad to me, and let me think so, that's how good he treated me. Now I'd have to head out, too, with no idea where to go and start all over.
When my mother first come to Chatham Bend, I been out on my own for a few years, and she seemed more like some noisy older sister. I never known my father, never laid eyes on him, he was a English sailor at Key West that came and went. I got borned there back in 1879. Had a younger brother, Joe, called him Thompson, too, but Henrietta left Joe behind with our uncle John Henry Daniels at Fakahatchee, hardly seen him one year to the next.
Well, Henrietta was good-hearted, never mind her loose bosom and loud ways, and with her and Tant there, we made a family at the table, I got to feeling I belonged someplace. So I hated the reckless way that Mister Watson was fixing to toss her out like nigger help, and his own infant, Minnie, along with her. I was feeling all thick and funny in my heart and chest, ready to fight somebody. When he swung that crate of stores to me off of the boat deck, I banged it on the dock so hard that a slat busted.
That bang was somewhat louder than I wanted, and the sharp noise caught him by surprise, cause he crouched and dropped the next crate to the deck, that's how fast his hand shot for his pocket. Then he straightened slow, picked up the crate, carried it across himself and set it carefully on that dock longside the other.
"You look like you swallowed a frog, boy. Spit it out."
He was hot, but I was hotter, and I set my hat forward on my head and spit, not too close and not too far from them Western boots he always wore when he went up to town. I was scared to talk for fear my voice was pinched or all gummed up, so I just give him a sideways look like a mean dog and put my hands on the next crate, to let him know I'm here to do my work, never mind no questions.
But he keeps on gazing, stone eyes, no expression. Put me in mind of a big ol' bear I seen with Tant one early autumn evening up back of Deer Island, raring up out of the salt prairie to stare. It's like Tant says, a bear's face is stiff, never moves no matter what he's thinking. He don't look mean or riled, not till his ears go back, he just looks bear down to the bone, that's how intent he is on his bear business. It's up to you how much you want some trouble, he will wait you out while you make up your mind. Mister Watson had that bear-faced way of letting you know he had said his piece and weren't going to repeat it and weren't going to take no silence for no answer. I couldn't look him in the eye.
"Well, heck, ain't you the daddy of that baby girl? Ain't we your people, too?" Sure enough, my voice come out all garbled and too high, and I spat hard again to cover that up, and show who didn't give a damn one way or the other. Mister Watson looks down beside his boot, nodding his head, like inspecting another feller's spit was common decency, and then he's looking me over again. All this time he's never blinked, not even once.
"You want me to tote this crate or what?" I says, trying some sass on him.
He's still waiting. He aims to ream this thing right out of me. That makes me madder still, but damn if I don't come blurting out again with something stupid. "You want to run me off this place along with her, ain't that right? Ain't it?"
He turns his gaze away like he can't stand the sight, same way that bear done, giving a woof and dropping back down to all fours. He steps back over to the deck and swings me another crate, too hard. "No," he says. "Rob will be with 'em, and I mean to train him in your job. With all these orders for our syrup, we're going to need a full-time schooner crew, so you and Tant can run this boat if we ever get Tant in out of the Glades."
Well dammit if tears don't jump into my eyes, and he seen that before I turned away. Know what he done? Mister Watson stepped over to the dock and took me by the shoulders, turned me around, looked me straight into the eye. He seen right through me. "Henry," he says, "you are not my son but you are my partner and you are my friend. And the Good Lord knows poor old Ed Watson needs every last friend he can find."
Then he roughed my hair and went off whistling "Bonnie Blue Flag," to make his peace with Henrietta Daniels. I picked up a crate but set it down again. Looking over my new ship give me something to do while I pulled my nerve together, in case they was laughing at me from the house. At sixteen years of age, at least in them days, a man was a man and could not be seen to cry.
For a long time I stood there, thumbs looped into my belt, shaking my head over the boat like I was planning out the captain's work. Knowing Tant, I knew who would be captain-Tant was twenty and already a fine hunter, but he didn't care none for responsibility.
That afternoon, to work off his high spirits, or maybe just to get away from Henrietta, Mister Watson come out with a hoe into the corn patch. Me and the niggers hoeing weeds was stunned by the weight of that white sky that sank so low over the mangrove in the summer, but Mister Watson was singing his old songs. Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah! For Southern rights, Hoo-rah! He was the only man I ever saw who could outwork everybody and sing at the same time: Hoo-rah for the bonnie blue flag that flies the single star! He straightened long enough to do the bugle part: Boopet-te-boopet-te-too, Te-boopet-te-boopet-te-boopet-te-poo, marching around us, hoe over his shoulder.
That man never took his shirt off, not even when it stuck to them big shoulders. One time he told me, "A gentleman don't strip his shirt when he works with niggers. It's all right for them but not for us."
There was another reason, too. He usually wore a striped shirt with no collar that Henrietta sewed him from rough heavy mattress ticking, but it weren't thick enough to hide the shoulder holster that would
show up underneath when he got sweated. Even out there in the cane, he had that gun where he could lay his hand on it. The niggers seen it, too, and he didn't mind that, he just grunted when they went to hoeing harder.
Another time he said, "I learned to keep my shirt on, Henry. It's good manners. You never know when you might have a visitor."
That day Tant spoke up kind of smart to Mister Watson, "A visitor from the north?" Mister Watson turned and looked at Tant, and I did too, first time I ever took a look at Tant, I was so used to him. Tant were skinny as a fish pole, black curly hair and a big smile stuck to the top. He done his best to hold that smile but couldn't do it. Then Mister Watson said, "Boy, don't outsmart yourself." That hard way with Tant were most uncommon and it kept the smile off of Tant's face almost till supper.
Tant weren't out there that bad day when Mister Watson, chopping a tough root, swung back hard and caught me good long-side the head. Next thing, I was laying on the ground half-blind with blood, and them scared niggers backing off like I'd been murdered. Mister Watson went right ahead, finished off that root with one fierce chop-"That got her!" he says-and then he stepped over and set me on my feet. There was blood all over, and my head was burning. "Got to give a man more room, Henry," he told me. Never said he was sorry, just told me to run up to the house, get Henrietta to stick on a plaster, he'd be along there in a little while.
Killing Mister Watson Page 7
