"That ought to shut him up," said the man on horseback, who was in command. "Load him in the meat wagon and let's go." ilk.
It smelled of pines. The odor actually was not unpleasant; it was brisk, somehow clean, and pine needles, like tufts of feathers, light brown and fluffy, lay everywhere.
But it was still a prison.
Sam's arms were both swollen, and when he clumsily peeled away the clothes he wore, he saw two purplish-yellow bruises inscribed diagonally across each biceps, as if laid there by an expert. One was not harder than the other. In fact, they were mirror images. No bones were broken, no skin cut, just the rotted oblong tracing exactly the impact of the billy club upon his upper arms, each delivered with the same force, at the same angle, to the same debilitating effect. Sam's arms were numb, and his hands too unfeeling to grab a thing. He could make but the crudest of movements. When he had to pee in the bucket in the corner, undoing his trouser buttons was a nightmare, but he would not let these men do it for him, if they would, which was questionable.
He knew he had been beaten by an expert. Someone who had beaten men before, had thought critically about it, had done much thorough research, and knew where to hit, how to hit, how hard to hit, and what marks the blows would leave, which, after a week or so, would be nothing at all. Without photographic evidence, it would only be his word against a deputy's in some benighted Mississippi court room, in front of some hick judge who thought Arkansas was next to New York, New York, the home of communism.
His head ached. His temper surged, fighting through the pain.
It was some kind of cell in the woods, and he had a sensation of the piney woods outside, for he could hear the whisper of needles rustling against each other in the dull breeze.
He said again to the bars and whoever lurked down the corridor, "I
DEMAND to see the sheriff. You have no right or legal authority to hold me. You should be horsewhipped for your violations of the law."
But no one bothered to answer, except that once a loutish deputy had slipped a tray with more beans, some slices of dry, salty ham, and a piece of buttered bread on the plate, as well as a cup of coffee.
Was he in the prison?
Was this Thebes, where uppity niggers were sent to rot?
He didn't think so. There was instead a sense of desolation about this place, the stillness of the woods, the occasional chirping of birds.
The window was too high to see out of, and he could see nothing down the hall. His arms hurt, his head hurt, his dignity hurt, but what hurt even more was his sense of the system corrupted. It cut to the core of the way his mind worked. People were not treated like this, especially people like him, which is to say white people of means and education.
The system made no sense if it didn't protect him, and it needed to be adjusted.
"Goddammit, you boys will pay!" he screamed, to nobody in particular, and to no sign that anybody heard him.
At last―it had to be midafternoon, fourteen or fifteen full hours after his capture―two guards came for him.
"You put your hands behind yourself so's we can cuff you down now," said the one.
"And goddammit, be fast about it, Sheriff ain't got all day, goddammit."
"Who do you think―"
"I think you gimme lip, I'll lay another swat on you, Dad, and you won't like it a dad gum bit."
So this was the fellow who had hit him: maybe twenty-five, blunt of nose and hair close-cropped, eyes dull as are most bullies', a lot of beef behind him, his size the source of his confidence.
"G'wan, hurry, Mister, I ain't here to wait on your dad gum mood."
At last Sam obliged, turning so that they could cuff him, a security measure that was, in a civilized state like Arkansas, reserved for the most violent and unpredictable of men in the penal system, known murderers and thugs who could go off on a rampage at no provocation at all. It was for dealing with berserkers.
Once they had him secured, they unlocked the cell and took control of him, one on each arm, and walked him down the wood corridor, then into a small interrogation room.
They sat him down, and, as per too many crime movies and more police stations than Sam cared to count, a bright light came into his eyes.
The door opened.
A large man entered, behind the light so that Sam could not see details, but he made out a dark uniform, black or brown, head to toe, with a beige tie tight against his bulgy neck, and a blazing silver star badge on his left breast. He wore a Sam Browne belt, shined up, and carried a heavy revolver in a flapped holster, his trousers pressed and lean, down to cowboy boots also shiny and pointed.
"Samuel M. Vincent," he said, reading from what Sam saw was his own wallet. "Attorney-at-law, Blue Eye, Polk County, Arkansas. And what is your business in Thebes, Mr. Vincent?"
"Sheriff, I am a former prosecuting attorney, well versed in the law and the rightful usage of force against suspects. In my state, what your men have done is clearly criminal. I would indict them on counts of assault and battery under flag of authority, sir, and I would send them away for five years, and we would see how they swagger after that.
Now I "
"Mr. Vincent, what is your business, sir? You are not in your state, you are in mine, and I run mine a peculiar way, according to such conditions as I must deal with. I am Sheriff Leon Gattis, and this is my county. I run it, I protect it, I make it work. Down here, sir, it is polite of an attorney to inform the po-lice he be makin' inquiries.
For some reason, sir, you have seen fit not to do so, and so you have suffered some minor inconveniences of no particular import to no Mississippi judge."
"I did not do so, Sheriff Gattis, because there were no deputies around.
I spent most of yesterday looking for them. They prefer to work after midnight! I insist "
"You hold on there, sir. You are getting on my wrong side right quick.
Any nigger could have told you where we are, and if they didn't it's ' they thought you's up to no good. God bless ', they have the instinct for such judgments. So, Mr. Vincent, you're going to have to cooperate, and the sooner you do, the better. What are you doing in Thebes County?
What is your business, sir?"
"Good Lord. You set up a system than cannot be obeyed, then punish when one does not obey. It is―"
Whap!
The sheriff had not hit him, but he'd smacked his hand hard on the wooden table between them, the room echoing with reverberation from the force of the blow.
"I ain't here to talk no philosophy with you. Goddamn you, sir, answer my questions or your time here will be hard. That is the way we do things here."
Sam shook his head.
Finally he explained: he was after a disposition or certificate in re the death of a Negro named Lincoln Tilson named in a will being probated in Cook County―that is, Chicago―Illinois.
"Thought you had a Chicago look to you."
"Sir, if it's your business, and it's not, I have never been in the state of Illinois and know nothing at all of it."
"What I hear, up there, the Negro is king. Ride ' in fancy Cadillac cars, have white girls left and right, eat in the restaurants, a kind of jigaboo heaven, if you know what I mean."
"Sir, I feel certain you exaggerate. I have been to New York, and that town, progressive though it may be, is nothing as you describe."
"Maybe I do exaggerate. But, by God, that ain't goin' happen in Thebes.
Down here, we got a natural order as God commands, and that's how it's goin' to be."
"Sir, I feel that change will come, because change is inevit―"
"So you are one of them?"
"Uh―"
"One of them."
"I'm not clear―"
"One of them. You talk like one of us, but you be one of them.
Northern agitators. Communists, Jews, God knows who, what or why, but up to nothing good. Is that you, Mr. Vincent? Are you a communist or a Jew?"
"I am a Democrat and a S
cotch Presbyterian. You have no right to―"
But the sheriff was off.
"Oh, we done heard. We done been warned. We onto y'all. Y'all come down here and stir our niggers all up. You think you doin' them a favor. Yes sir, you helping them. But what you be doin' is filling their fool heads full of things that can't never be, and so you be making them more unhappy rather than less unhappy, while you be gittin' it ready to tear down what we done built down here, on nothing but sweat and blood and guts and our own dying. Oh, I know your sort, Mister. You are the pure-D devil his self only you think you doin' good."
"I am a firm believer in the rules, and I―"
"The rules! Mister, I got a county full of piney-woods niggers who all they want to do is fuck or fight, don't matter much to them."
"Sir, I didn't say―"
"Now I'll tell you what. I will make inquiries. I will git you your certificate, and my deputies will get you out of our county. Don't you never come back, you hear? That's the goddamnedest best you're gonna git down here, and I am cutting you an exclusive deal because you are white, even if I believe you be deluded close to mental instability.
Thebes ain't for outsiders. You want Mississippi hospitality, you go to Biloxi, you square on that, partner?" "I see the point," said Sam.
"Yes, sir, I bet you do. Boys, move Mr. Vincent to holding, where he'll be more comfortable. He's ' to leave us." sam was no longer locked up, nor did he remain handcuffed. He was free to move about the general area, but had, under orders and strict observation, to stay close to the station, as it was called, and not to go near to or rile any Negro people.
They let him take a nice shower indoors, where they themselves kept clean, and he got himself back into some kind of civilized order. He was fed, and the food was better than anything he had eaten since leaving Pascagoula, beans and ham, fried potatoes, heavy chicory coffee, fresh bread. These boys here, they lived pretty good, in what was a kind of barracks in the woods, a good mile out of town, which, he now saw, was protected against attack by a stout barbed-wire fence.
There was a stable here, for the deputy force seemed more like some kind of light cavalry than any law enforcement unit. The men lounged about like soldiers, keeping their uniforms sharp, riding off on patrol now and then in twos. There was a duty room with assignments and rotation, a roster board; in all, it seemed far more military than police.
Finally, a rider came, and after conferring with some of the deputies, he came and got Sam, who was put back into the wagon, though this time not bound or beaten. He sat up front with the driver, who drove the team through the piney woods―Lord, they were dense, seeming to stretch out forever into the looming darkness―and then through the town, dead now as it was then.
They approached the river, the big wagon and the thundering horses driving back what Negroes remained in the street. As they passed the public house, Sam felt the eyes of the two old men he'd spoken to watching him glumly.
Down at the dock, a happy sight greeted Sam. It was Lazear, back from wherever, standing by his boat, whose old motor churned a steady tune.
The sheriff stood there also.
Sam climbed down from the wagon, on unsure legs, then caught himself.
"All right, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, here is your official document.
You'll see that it's right and proper."
It appeared to be. Under the seal of the state of Mississippi and the state motto it was an official certificate of death for one lincoln tilson, Negro, age unknown but elderly, of Thebes, Thebes County, Mississippi, October 10th, 1950, by drowning, namely in the river Yaxahatchee. It was signed by a coroner in an illegible scrawl.
"There, sir. The end of that poor man. The river can be treacherous.
It takes you down and it does things to you, and out you come three days later. Poor Negro Tilson was such a victim. It's a miracle that after that time in the water, he was still identifiable."
"Sheriff, who identified him?"
"Now, Mr. Arkansas Traveler, we don't keep records on every dead Negro in the county. I don't recollect, nor do I recollect the exact circumstances. Nor, sir, do I fancy a chat with you on the subject, while you interrogate me and try to prove your Northern cleverness over my simplicity."
"I see."
"You have been given fair warning. Now you get out of our town, and don't you come back nohow. There is nothing here for you and you have done your task."
Sam looked at the document; there was nothing to it to convince him that it couldn't have been fabricated in the last hour or so.
But here it was: the out. The end. The finish. He had earned his retainer, and would file a complete report to his client, and what would happen next would be up to the client.
"Well, Sheriff, this is not the way I do things, but I see things down here are slow to change, and it is not my charge to do that. I fear when change comes, it will be a terror for you."
"It ain't never coming, not this far south. We have the guns and the will to make that prediction stick, I guarantee you. Now, sir, every second you stand there is a second you try my hospitality to an even more severe degree."
Sam stepped down into Lazear's boat and didn't look back as it pulled from the shore and headed out to the center of the dark river.
Sam sat in the prow of the boat, too angry to talk to Lazear, uninterested in the feeble excuses the man had thrown his way on the whys and wherefores of his seeming abandonment.
He felt two powerful, conflicting emotions. The first was relief.
Thebes was enchanted, somehow, by evil. Who knew what secrets lurked there, what horrors had been perpetuated under its name, who was buried where and how they had perished? It was frightening, and escaping its pressures brought a sense of complete liberation.
So a part of Sam was happy. He was done, and now it was a mere progression of travel and he could return to his life, chastened, as it were, by exposure to the lurid and the raw, aware that the world in general was uninterested in his experiences and it would best be forgotten or filed away for distant future usage.
But there was also a powerful, seething anger. His mind was orderly yet not overly rigid. He understood that order was a value and from order all good, great things stemmed. Yet order was only a value when it guaranteed and sustained those good, great things. When it actively opposed them, where it destroyed them, where its rigidness was so powerful and its administration so violent that it was only concerned with its own ideas, something evil happened, and it filled Sam with rage.
He felt the thwack when the deputy's two expert blows had smashed his arms, and the fear when under the influence of pain all will to resist had fled him. He remembered the helplessness of being bound and forced into the wagon, the wait for the sheriff as that man took his own sweet time, the fear on the faces of the Negroes whom he ruled so absolutely, the brazenness of the phony document that had guaranteed the end of his days in Thebes.
And Sam finally wondered this one last thing: Did he have the strength, the guts, the steel, to stand up to it, to oppose the ways of Thebes?
He knew the answer.
The answer was, No.
It wasn't in him. It wasn't in anybody. You just got out and didn't look back and you went back to a better life, and soon enough the memories eroded and you won your election and you fathered your children and you won the approval of powerful men and you had a career, a set of memories, a fine tombstone, the respect of those who stayed behind when you had passed. That was enough.
He sat back, having at last faced and come to terms with his own weakness. On either side of the river, the piney woods fled by, diminished by the steady chugging of Lazear's old motor, the day a bit cooler than before. Before him the river wove and bobbed, dark, calm and smooth. It was growing toward late afternoon; he assumed that in a few hours or so, when they had penetrated the great bayou, they would lay up as before, then continue in the morning.
He began to calculate. They'd be in Pascagoula then by late afterno
on; he'd call his wife and alert her that everything was fine. He could spend a night in a fine hotel―if there was such in Pascagoula… wait, then, no, a better idea. He could hire a car and zip down the coast a bit, possibly to lush Biloxi, and take a room there, where surely there'd be fine hotels. Maybe he'd take a day or so; the stipend he'd earned would certainly cover it, and possibly he could even expense it, as the recovery time from his ordeal was a fair charge, was it not? He saw himself having an elegant meal under a slowly rotating fan, amid ferns and palms; outside there'd be a sparkling beach. The meal would commence with oysters fresh from Mother Gulf, move on to fresh sea bass or trout grilled or poached in butter, all served by an elegant black gentleman in a white cotton jacket. The room would be full of beautiful people, happy people, the best kind of people that our great country could produce.
What a riposte. What a recovery. Then, the next morning, on to New Orleans, refreshed and restored; from there by rail up to Memphis, the drive over to Blue Eye and home, home, home, home.
Home, he thought.
Home, home, home. Then he saw the body.
He happened to be looking down, in the black water, and the shock was such that perhaps it was an apparition, something that his momentarily deranged mind had conjured. But he knew in the next second that no, this was reality, no haunt, no ghost, nothing from the subconscious. It was a Negro boy, a few inches under the surface, bled white by immersion, his features puffy, his body in the cruciform as if inflated, his fingers abulge, his eyes wide and empty, his mouth open black and empty, his clothes in tatters, gliding by. Then he was gone.
Sam blinked, stunned.
He saw something just ahead, floating, its low silhouette just breaking the surface, and as Lazear's old craft fled by, he made this victim out to be a girl child, also Negro, but facedown to spare him those open eyes staring into nothingness.
He looked: on the surface of the water appeared to be the remnants of a massacre by drowning; bodies floated everywhere, as if a vessel had capsized and all perished. There had to be at least ten, drifting, riding the currents, bobbing this way and that.
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