Chiefs

by Stuart Woods

  “Daddy!” the boy shrieked hysterically. “He whupped me in front of all them niggers!”

  Hoss’s eyes narrowed. “He whipped you in front of a bunch of niggers?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Get out to the barn right now, or I’ll knock your head off!” Hoss yelled. The boy fled. Hoss wheeled on Will Henry. “You whipped my boy in front of niggers?”

  “You’re damned right I did, and I whipped him good! And I’ll tell you something else. If you aren’t down at the city hall before the close of business tomorrow with a checkbook to pay for the damage, I’ll come out here with a warrant, and I’ll throw his ass in jail! Do you understand me?”

  Hoss’s face glowed nearly purple by the back porch light, but he held himself in. “I’ll be there,” he said; then he turned on his heel and started for the barn, unbuckling his belt as he went.

  Will Henry watched him go, surprised at his own behavior. He could not recall shouting at anybody in his adult life. As he drove away from the Spence house, he could hear terrible screams coming from the barn. Will Henry shuddered, his anger spent. “Lord, I hope he doesn’t kill the boy,” he muttered to himself. “But I hope he can’t sit down for a month, either.”

  And as he drove toward home, he again felt the glow that came from having done justice, from having been effective.

  25

  JESSE COLE was wakened by Nellie at three-thirty in the morning; he struggled into his clothes, half awake, while Nellie fried some bread in fat for him. This had been the hardest part of coming to work for Hoss Spence, this getting up in the middle of the night. He had risen at dawn all his life, but cows demanded to be milked twice a day, and that meant getting up at three-thirty, there was no way around it. He ate the hot bread and drank milk from a tin cup. There was no cash to buy coffee now, and Jesse missed his morning coffee mightily. Nellie was asleep again before he finished eating. Willie never cracked an eye.

  He left the shack with a kerosene lantern and walked a quarter mile to the gate across the Warm Springs road, where the herd waited patiently to be let through to the dairy. He stood with the lantern while they crossed the road, then walked slowly behind the cows, their bells thudding softly in his ears. He was about as close to sleep as a man could get and still walk a straight line, and he did not hurry the animals.

  The cows entered the dairy barn and went into their stalls like ladies arranging themselves at an ice-cream social. Jesse milked his dozen still half-asleep, resting his head against soft flanks while his hands automatically coaxed the milk from the teats. He and the others emptied their pails into the big, five-gallon cans, and he drove the emptied herd back to its pasture, with the sun rising before them, huge and red. Already the air was heavy and hot, and the day promised to be a scalder.

  There were the cement floors of the dairy barn to be hosed down and disinfected, the stalls to be cleaned, then the milk to be fed into the pasteurizer, cooled and bottled, while a portion went into the big mechanical churn. By ten o’clock Jesse was replacing a rotting door jamb at the main house, by now fully awake and doing his carpentry steadily and skillfully.

  When Hoss Spence came back to the house at noon for his dinner, Jesse was just finishing up with the door jamb. He did not speak to Jesse, and the black man was aware that something was wrong. He finished the work, packed his tools, and started home for his own dinner, and as he left he was aware of Spence staring at him. He had heard about the incident with Emmett and the Chief the day before, and he suspected Hoss’s attitude had something to do with the Cole family’s having once worked for the Lees.

  Jesse was still eating when he heard Hoss’s truck pull up outside.

  “Jesse!” Hoss had a tendency to yell when he was angry.

  Jesse walked out onto the porch. The truck’s engine was still running. “Get in. I’ve got some work I want done.”

  Jesse swallowed what he was chewing. He was annoyed. He normally got two hours for dinner and a nap, to make up for the early rising. What did the man want now? He reached for his toolbox on the porch.

  “Never mind the tools. You won’t be needing ‘em.” Jesse got into the truck and sat silently while Hoss drove down a rough dirt road toward the middle of the farm, then turned off across a field toward Pigeon Creek. Hoss said nothing, but Jesse knew he was mad as hell about something the way he jerked the truck around.

  They drove over a small rise and started downhill. As they moved along there appeared ahead in the distance a small forest of tall, topless tree stumps, bare of bark, thrusting from water like elongated tombstones in a flooded cemetery. They were headed for several acres of swamp that bordered Pigeon Creek. Something inside Jesse recoiled. There were only two things on earth that truly terrified him, water and snakes, and a swamp was the worst possible combination of the two.

  Hoss stopped the truck at the edge of the water, where there were two truckloads of sandbags stacked, waiting for drier weather before being fashioned into a levee which would allow the land to be drained. Hoss got out and motioned for Jesse to follow him. The white man pointed over the water.

  “See that tall trunk there, and, on along, that one with the limb sticking out?” The two stumps were about where the creek bank would be in dry weather, and about thirty yards apart. “I want you to start laying them sandbags between them two trees. I want ‘em a in straight line, stacked so they’ll stay, you understand me?”

  Jesse’s breath was coming quickly now, and his words tumbled out. “Mist’ Spence, don’t you reckon be better to wait fo’ the creek go down a lil’ bit fo’ stackin’ them bags down there?”

  Hoss turned his head slowly and stared at Jesse. “I don’t want no back talk from you. I want them bags in there today.”

  Jesse was near panic now. “But Mist’ Spence—” Hoss turned back to the truck, lifted a double-barrelled shotgun from a rack behind the seat, broke it and looked at the twelve-gauge shells inside, then snapped it shut again. He walked back to where Jesse stood and stopped, the shotgun held across his chest. “You and me are all alone down here,” he said softly. “Now you start shifting them sandbags, or I’ll blow your fucking head off right where you stand.” His eyes were bright with something beyond anger.

  There was something terribly wrong here, Jesse thought. He had done nothing to bring this man down on him. Nellie had been awfully quiet lately, and the boy had been on his best behavior. But he knew that this man would kill him, so he turned quickly and lifted a sandbag to his shoulder. Jesse couldn’t count, but he knew it weighed nearly a hundred pounds. He waded into the water and started for the tall tree, picking his way carefully as the water deepened, feeling for a drop-off. There was mud—soft, sucking mud—under the water, and his own 220 pounds, plus the weight on his back, pressed him down into it as he struggled on, staggering toward the tree. The water was only waist deep when he reached the stump, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he dumped the bag and guided it into place as it sank. He started back for another bag, mosquitoes swarming around his head, biting every exposed bit of flesh.

  More than an hour had passed, and only ten bags had gone into place in the deepening water, when Jesse saw the snake. He was struggling back in water to his chest, and the reptile’s head and wake appeared in the corner of his vision, with three feet of writhing length following. Jesse uttered a strangled cry and changed his course abruptly for a log which stretched out from the water’s edge, his arms flailing the water. He was nearly to the log, and suddenly there was no bottom. His forward progress took him away from his last contact with anything solid, and the snake became unimportant. All he wanted was a hand, a toe on something that would bear his weight. He surfaced, sputtering, water spewing from his mouth and nose; he could see the shape of the log through the liquid that filled his eyes, and he expelled all the air from his lungs in a final, pleading scream. Before he could inhale again, he was underwater, sinking, being drawn down by his sodden overalls, his empty lungs robbing him of any buoyancy. Some s
park of survival instinct kept him from inhaling again as he sank, and after what seemed minutes of downward travel his foot touched a soft bottom. With all his will he resisted struggling until both feet were on the bottom and he had enough leverage to push off the mud. He shot upward, and as he broke the surface, gasping and flailing, his hand came into contact with something cold and hard, and he drew himself around until both hands could grasp it, taking great gulps of sweet air and shaking the water from his eyes.

  Then he saw what he had grabbed. Somewhere behind him was the dreaded snake; beneath him was the black water; and at the other end of the shotgun barrel to which he held so tightly was Hoss Spence, braced on the log, with finger on the triggers. And all around him the air hummed and bit and stung.

  26

  SOME WEEKS LATER Carrie Lee was ironing on her back porch, the coolest place she could find, when she looked up to see Nellie Cole at the screen door. She had not heard the black woman approach; nor had Nellie knocked; she simply stood there, staring blankly ahead of her.

  “Why hello, Nellie.” She went to the door and brought her to a cane chair next to the ironing board. She was clearly distraught. “Would you like some iced tea? I was about to have some myself. It’s awfully hot this morning.” Nellie took the glass and drank deeply from it.

  Carrie sat down next to her. “Nellie, what’s wrong? Why are you in town the middle of the week?” Nellie took another swallow of the tea. “Is it Jessie? Is something wrong with Jessie?”

  “Yes’m. And now the words began to come. “Nearly ‘bout a month ago Mist’ Spence put Jessie to work in the swamp. He been doin’ the milkin’ and carpentin’ ‘round the big house, and they seem like they real proud of his workin’. But one day he come and git Jesse, and when he bring him back in the evenin’ Jesse soakin’ wet and shakin’ and cryin’. He won’t tell me what happen, but pret’ soon he git sick, and Mist’ Spence he wait three days fo’ he call the doctor, and Dr. Wilson from Warm Springs he come out there fin’ly and say Jesse git somethin’ from the skeeters in the swamp.” She struggled for the name.

  “Malaria?”

  “Yes’m. Malaria, thas what Dr. Wilson say, and he make Mist’ Spence go down to the swamp and spread oil on the water to kill the skeeters.”

  “How is Jesse now?”

  “He git better after Dr. Wilson give him the medicine, but then he git sick again, and Mist’ Spence he come down to the house this mornin’ and say we got to git off the place ‘cause Jesse cain’t work no mo’. Jesse, he try to git up and go to work, but he cain’t, and Mist’ Spence he say we got to git off the place right quick. I make Willie stay with Jesse to keep him in the bed, an’ I hitch up the buggy and come to town.” She had been staring ahead, but now she turned and looked at Carrie with defeated eyes. “Miss Carrie, what we gon’ do? We ain’t got no place to to. What we gon’ do? We cain’t go to Flossie. She ain’t got no room for a sick man and a boy. She got to do her bakin’ to get by. She cain’t have nobody sick in the house when she bakin’. What we gon’ do?”

  Carrie patted her arm and gave her some more tea. “Nellie, you just sit here and cool off for a few minutes, and we’ll see what we can do. Don’t you worry, now. It’s all going to be all right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Carrie called Will Henry at the station, but he was out. She felt something had to be done before the day was over. She was very angry with Hoss Spence. It was shameful that he should treat his people this way, that he didn’t have the simple Christian decency to take care of them. She cranked the instrument again and asked for Idus Bray’s number at his store. It was typical of Idus that when he set up his office in a downtown building he should also run a shoe store in the extra space. Never waste an opportunity to turn a dollar. Idus ran his business and farming interests from a space at the rear barely eight feet square, containing a roll-top desk, two chairs, and a hat rack, and he did it all between waiting on customers up front. A stranger visiting the store would have pitied the man, wondering how he could possibly make a living in the tiny shop, not knowing that Idus owned half a dozen farms, a peach-packing operation, a majority holding in the telephone company and that, on the side, he lent money at high interest rates to people Hugh Holmes considered poor risks for the bank. He answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Idus, this is Carrie Lee. How are you?”

  Bray was immediately on guard, remembering the large lump of cash Carrie had extracted from him for the new pastorium. “So, so, Carrie. How you doing?”

  “Just fine. Idus—” She stopped and rephrased the idea in her mind. “I’ve got a little business proposition for you.”

  “How much is it going to cost me?”

  “Not a thing, not if you’ve got a colored house empty.”

  “I might have. I’d have to check.”

  “I understand the city council has been after you to fix those houses up.”

  “It was mentioned.”

  “Well, I’ve got just the man for you. Jesse Cole. Carrie’s brother. Used to work for us at the farm?”

  “I know him.”

  “He’s a first-rate carpenter; cost you a lot if he were white. He needs a house, and I reckon he can work off the rent by fixing things at the other houses.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s been working for Hoss Spence ever since we left the farm, doing carpentry work and milking. When he got sick, Hoss said he didn’t need him any more.”

  “He’s sick, is he?”

  “He’s been sick, but he’s getting better. Be up and around in no time.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve got anything just at the moment, Carrie.”

  “His wife’s a good washerwoman, too. I know Bess would be pleased with her.”

  Bray was silent for a moment. Carrie knew his wife had been asking around for a laundress. When he continued to be quiet, she knew she had him hooked.

  “Well, there is a place, on D Street, second house from the corner. Might need a little work.”

  “Tell you what. Jesse’ll give you a day a week for his rent, you supply the materials to fix up his own place. Nellie’ll do your washing.”

  “Two days.”

  “Done, as soon as he’s on his feet. Now, Idus, if you don’t treat these people right you’re going to have to answer to me, you know that?”

  Bray laughed out loud. “Carrie, I’m not about to bring that on myself.”

  Carrie hung up and took a couple of deep breaths. She went back to Nellie and told her what she’d arranged. Nellie nearly fainted with joy. “Now, Nellie, you drive back out to Spence’s, and you and Willie get your things loaded onto the buggy. Flossie and I will go look at the house, and I’ll send Robert out there for you and Jesse this afternoon. Willie can drive the buggy in.”

  Carrie and Flossie drove out to D Street. The house was a shambles, but two hours of sweeping and dusting made it habitable. The stove was all right, and Carrie gave a neighborhood boy a quarter to chop some wood and kindling. There were two iron beds and a few sticks of other furniture, and Carrie contributed some linens. By the time Robert returned with Nellie and a very weak Jesse, the Coles had a home again, and Carrie left feeling that a great weight had been lifted from her. That night she related the whole incident to Will Henry.

  “You know why he did it, don’t you? It was that business with Emmett.”

  Carrie was shocked. “You mean Hoss was mad at you, so he took it out on Jesse? What kind of a man would do that?”

  “Hoss Spence’s kind, I reckon.” Carrie continued to send groceries out to the Coles via Flossie until they had some money coming in. In a week Jesse was pottering around the house, and soon after he was giving Idus Bray his two days a week on the other houses. Idus seemed pleased, but Frank Mudter wasn’t too optimistic.

  “It’s a bad disease, Carrie,” he told her at church one Sunday. “It comes and it goes, and you never really get rid of it. If Jesse’s lucky he’ll be able to make a livi
ng, but he’s going to have a hard time. I’ll look after him for nothing, but there’s not all that much I can do. There’s quinine and rest, and that’s about it. And a man in Jesse’s position can’t afford much rest.”

  27

  AS THE 1920s moved on, Franklin Roosevelt became a familiar sight in Meriwether County, and in Delano in particular. Hugh Holmes continued a series of personal conversations with the man in which, for the most part, Roosevelt asked questions and Holmes answered. Warm Springs agreed with Roosevelt, and the improvement in his condition seemed to whet his appetite for information about Georgia and the South. Holmes and others were invited to Warm Springs for a steak supper whenever Roosevelt arrived, and the banker sensed, perhaps before the others, that Roosevelt, who almost certainly did not consider any of these men his social equal, was seeking more than merely their company. His questions in the private conversations with Holmes became more and more pointed, and Holmes could only surmise that the man was planning an attempt on the presidency in 1928, a fact which did not entirely please him, for Roosevelt seemed to stand considerably to the left of Holmes in his politics. The banker was caught between his personal attraction and his philosophical antipathy for the man.

  In the late twenties Holmes was a leader among a hundred state legislators who sponsored a young lawyer from McCrae named Eugene Talmadge to run against the incumbent state commissioner of agriculture, one J. J. Brown, who had built for himself something of a political empire at the expense of the state’s farmers. Talmadge was a bit wild, but he was a mover, and he had caught the imagination of the state’s farmers, who needed entertainment as much as they needed help from the state. Holmes saw a certain kinship between Roosevelt and Talmadge, as different as they were in background and philosophy. Ambition seemed to be their common characteristic, and Holmes had little doubt that each was capable of gaining much of what he sought. Now the little mountain against which Delano nestled was aflame with fall, the oaks and sweetgums and the occasional maple mixing with the evergreen of the pines and giving the crisp air of early November a companion in color. Crops were in, and a whiff of prosperity could be caught drifting in from the distant economic boom that had the twenties of the rest of America roaring. The mill was running three full shifts, six days a week, and the railroad was hiring; the ring of cash registers was heard more frequently in the stores on Main Street; at the bank, deposits were up, and Hugh Holmes thought that an ex-schoolteacher named Irwin Dixon should probably be the bank’s first vice-president. Because of this young man’s stewardship, Holmes could now take increasingly more frequent absences from the bank for legislative sessions, political meetings, and foreign travel with Virginia; and when he returned, things were in order.