Peter Matthiessen - Killing Mister Watson

These are the times I trust him most and love him best. He is so boyish, for all his "hell and high water" reputation! He is truly ashamed over that cowboy's death, he blames his drinking for the accident, and for how terrible poor Dr. Winkler must feel. Walter makes no excuses for himself, he comes right out with it, says nothing would have happened if he and his cowboys had not tormented that poor old darkie. He vows his intention to make something of himself in his new job at Langford & Hendry, not just "punch cows," as he puts it, and waste his hard-earned dollars in pure devilment.

Dr. Langford hasn't long to live (we just hope he will be strong enough to join the wedding) and Walter wonders if Mr. Hendry will give him a fair chance in the business after his father's death or just ignore him as a young ne'er-do-well. If that should happen, he will quit the partnership and start out on his own. Since that terrible freeze in '95, Walter has had his eye out for good land farther south. He went down to Caxambas with Fred Ludlow to look at the Ludlow pineapple plantation, and now Mr. Roach, the Chicago railroad man who has taken such a liking to him, is very interested in what Walter tells him about possibilities for citrus farming out at Deep Lake Hammock, where Billy Bowlegs had his gardens in the Indian Wars.

It was our own Papa who told Walter about that. Papa knows about these things, he always has these sure-fire ideas that he can't act on. There are still Indians out there today, but Papa declares that Indians will be no problem, there aren't enough of them to stand in the way of planters who mean business. Walter rode that wild country a lot in his cow hunter days, and says that the Indians' grown-over plantations have the richest soil anywhere south of the Calusa Hatchee.

The main problem will be getting the produce to market. From Deep Lake it is a terrible distance across the Cypress to Fort Myers but only thirteen miles south to the Storter docks at Everglade, and Mr. Roach feels that a Deep Lake-Everglade rail line might be just the answer. (And to whom does John Roach credit this idea?-to our dear Papa!)

Papa has earned a fine reputation as a planter, his "Island Pride" syrup, which he sells wholesale in Tampa, is already famous in these parts. One day Mr. Roach chanced to tell Walter what a pity it was that E.J. Watson was confined to forty acres in the Islands, considering what such an inspired farmer could do with those two hundred black loam acres at Deep Lake. But when I asked if there might not be some way that he could join their business, Walter shook his head. "It may be best if your daddy stays in Monroe County"-that was all he said.

The first time Walter met Papa was on Capt. Bill Collier's schooner going down to Marco, that time he visited the pineapple plantation. Papa had been in Fort Myers on business. That was in 1895, the year we came from Arkansas to Columbia County, and stayed with Granny Ellen near Fort White. The Langfords and Papa used to get along just fine, that's how T.E. Langford became Mama's doctor. But these days Walter has withdrawn from Papa. Everyone seems to know something that I do not.

Friday last, Papa stopped over at Fort Myers with a cargo of his "Island Pride," consigned for Tampa. He took Mama along, and they went to a concert by Minnie Maddern Fiske at the Tampa Theater! Mama did not really wish to go, she is feeling poorly these days and looking very old for thirty-six. No one seems to know whether poor spirits or poor health gives that scary yellow-gray cast to her skin. But she took advantage of some episode in Tampa-some drunken sally yelled across the street-to warn poor Papa that his presence at the wedding might cause difficulties.

"He refuses to be banished from his daughter's wedding," Mama sighed when she came home. "He refuses to bow to these provincial people." She was very tense, and so was I, all the more so now that Papa knew and was so angry. For such a self-confident, strong man, Mama says, our Papa's feelings are hurt easily, though he is too proud to wince, he only squints. For all his jollity, he keeps his feelings private.

Before heading south, Papa took me for a walk, nodding in his courtly way to everyone we met. He is such a strong vigorous mettlesome man with his snapping blue eyes and bristling beard, stepping out smartly down Riverside Avenue with his adoring daughter on his arm, as handsomely tailored and well-groomed as any man in town. If Papa has anything to be ashamed about, he doesn't show it. He looks the world right in the eye with that kindly crinkle and ironic smile, knowing what our busybodies must be thinking!

I finally asked if he knew about Hell on the Border. The muscles in his forearm twitched as if he had been spurred, and after a little pause he nodded, and I felt ashamed. We walked along a little ways before he said, That author imagines Mister Watson is dead, and will therefore take these insults lying down.

At first I didn't see he'd made a joke, and then my laugh came like a shriek because his strange and still expression had unnerved me. When he makes such jokes, there's a bareness in his eyes, one has no idea at all what he is thinking. He watched me laugh until, desperate to stop, I got the hiccups. Not until I'd finished did he smile just a little as we walked along-not amused by his own joke, not really, but by something else. We didn't speak about the book again.

Papa confessed that, at the start, he'd been dead set against the wedding, not because he disapproved of Walter (he likes Walter well enough, everyone does), but because he disliked any meddling in our life by Captain Cole, who has appointed himself spokesman for the Langfords now that Walter's father is so ill. This damnable Jim Cole, he said, seemed to regard Ed Watson's daughter as a piece of negotiable property-"like some nigger slave wench!" Papa exclaimed. (Mama tries to persuade him to say "darkie" but he just ignores her.)

Out of breath with sudden anger, he stopped on the sidewalk. Is my lovely little Carrie to be led to the altar like some sacrificial virgin just to restore respectability to the Watson family? Because this family is already a damn sight more respectable than some damned cracker clan from Suwannee County! And he set off on one of his tirades about how his forebears had been landed gentry, about how Rob's namesake, Colonel Robert Briggs Watson, was a decorated hero, wounded at Gettysburg-all those old honors that obsess poor Papa-while I glanced nervously up and down, alarmed because some passerby might overhear.

Papa calmed down then and apologized for all his cussing. It was too long, said he, since his knees had suffered the chastisement of a hard church floor. All the same, the very mention of Jim Cole and his insinuations-he made me laugh with a deadly imitation of that mud-thick drawl-got him furious. I'll grab that gut-sprung cracker by the seat of his pants and march him down the street and horsewhip him, growled Papa, right in front of this whole mealy-mouthed town!

Not long before, a cattle rustler out in Hendry County had stung up Mr. Cole with a few shotgun pellets. Too bad that hombre didn't know his business, Papa said, with a very hard expression.

We walked along toward Whiskey Creek in silence. Papa knew what I was thinking, always had and always would. Soon he said in a cold formal voice that he had consented to this marriage because it was beneficial to our family. He stopped short, took my arm from his, and faced me. "I gave in, Carrie, I accepted their conditions. I am not in a position, not today, to dictate my own terms. But one day I shall be, you may count on it. I intend to protect my family to my utmost ability from the mistakes I have committed in this life."

I told him I was not quite clear about who "they" were, and he brooded a moment, then he growled, "This marriage is best for you, too, daughter, take my word for it." His expression stopped me when I tried to speak-"Please let me finish!" He squinted and muttered a little longer before taking my hands in his with great formality. "Don't ask your own father to stay away, you hear? I agree to stay away." He took a deep breath. "It is best I stay away. Please inform your mother."