Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

“You might of had trouble from Houses but mainly that’s correct. Folks wanted to put that whole business behind ’em, and if a black man had to pay the price, too bad. Some has tried to blame him anyway, as I guess you’ve heard.”

Lucius nodded. “Later that week of October twenty-fourth, you gave that deposition in Lee County Court. Seemed like you were trying to defend somebody against rumors. Was that Henry?”

House measured him. “Yes, it was. Poor feller been hidin out from rumors ever since.”

“The story that Henry was present, that was one thing, but the other rumor-that he was the first man to shoot, that he fired the fatal bullet-doesn’t make much sense.”

“No sense at all. Them Jim Crow years, Pitchfork Ben and all, was the worst of times for any nigra crazy enough to stick his head up out of the mud, and Henry Short weren’t the least little bit crazy. All his life, he’s been dead wary around white men and for damned good reason.”

“No sense at all,” Lucius agreed. “Was there any truth to it?”

“Why don’t you consult your goddamned list, see if he’s on there?” Quite suddenly, House turned a dangerous red, and his angry voice brought his wife to the kitchen doorway. “What are you after? What d’you think I been tryin to tell you here?”

“I’m not quite sure. I only know that in your testimony two days after the shooting, you already sounded defensive about rumors. So I guess I need to know why that was so.”

Bill House sat back exasperated, slapping his big hands down on his knees. “ Why do you need to know? All that happened long ago. High time you lived your own life, Colonel.” But when Lucius simply awaited him, he nodded. “Reckon I’d feel the same. Sit down then. You ain’t touched your cookies.”

Bill House closed his eyes and sat silent a long while. Then he looked hard at Lucius. “All right,” he said. “I aim to tell you the true story, Colonel, so don’t go pesterin me with questions till I’m done.”

“Where do I start? At the first argument? Watson seen our men was scared. Probably knew that because we was bunched up, he could do a lot of damage with a shotgun. Two charges of buckshot would knock down the leaders and scatter the rest, and with his revolver he might keep ’em duckin while he pushed back off the beach, reloaded, shot his way out of there. With a panicked crowd, he might of got away with it.”

Lucius thought, But if that was his plan, why had he run his boat so hard aground on a falling tide that not even a man as strong as Papa could push her off? Was that just a bad mistake, as people said? Papa didn’t make mistakes like that, not when he had the whole trip north from Chatham Bend to think his plan through.

“When Mr. D. D. House asked for his weapon, Watson had to move real quick. Up till now, he had played for time, figuring the crowd might falter, and he wasn’t wrong. Truth was, if he’d surrendered up his guns, only one of his Island neighbors had the hard nature it would of took to shoot him in cold blood and that feller was away down to Honduras.”

“Gregorio Lopez?”

“Names don’t matter.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Your daddy’s nerves was tight. He lost his temper. ‘You want my gun so bad, you’re going to get it!’

“Watson moved fast before we could take in what was happening-before we realized that a man we’d known near twenty years aimed to fire into a flock of neighbors like so many turkeys. Some of ’em are still tellin strangers how they seen a shine of crazy anger in his eyes. There weren’t time nor light enough to see no such a thing. Most of ’em was so darned scared they couldn’t see straight anyways. A couple of the biggest talkers wasn’t even there.

“When his gun come up, my heart froze and my guts clenched up to block a charge of lead: I thought we was done for, Pap did, too, but I was lawman squeezin off my trigger. After that, all them guns emptied, a kind of a running explosion like giant firecrackers or maybe munitions set afire.” House squinted at his guest. “It’s a miracle some poor soul wasn’t killed,” he said.

“William House!” his wife cried, horrified.

Lucius refused to smile. “And Henry?” he persisted. “Was he there or not?”

“Oh Lord, does it matter anymore? I couldn’t say it at the time I give that deposition but Henry Short was with us that day, yes. Bein a nigra, he naturally didn’t want no part of it, and Smallwood tried to scare him off, but that good man knowed what he owed our family so he come along. Stood back by that big ol’ fig, never spoke to nobody. What must of went through the poor feller’s head, God only knows: we never talked about it, not even long after.

“Henry never come forward till your daddy jumped ashore. That’s when I glimpsed him in the corner of my eye, wadin out a little ways, elbow hitched to keep his rifle barrel clear of the salt water. Even then, you couldn’t hardly say he was in the crowd. Some of ’em said later that they thought they seen him but most of ’em didn’t, cause bein a nigra, he just didn’t count. Funny, ain’t it? He had no business in that line so he weren’t there.

“When your daddy spotted him, he reared his head back, anger flickerin all over his face, quick as heat lightning-I seen it.

“With his free hand, Henry lifted his straw hat and set it down again. ‘Evenin’, Mist’ Edguh’-that is all he said. Daddy House beside me bein deaf as dust, I don’t think anybody heard him ’ceptin me’n Watson. He growled somethin like, Get on home, Henry! I couldn’t hardly make it out with all the whisperin and shiftin right behind us. Some was even slappin at miskeeters, thinkin the worst danger was past. Us ones up in the front knew better. We was too afeared we might die in the next second to pay no mind to no miskeeters, never knew till we was scratchin later how bad we was gettin bit. So them twin muzzles comin up looked big as the nostrils on a bull that’s right on top of you.

“Now I bet you will tell me that your dad was only bluffin, which he was well knowed for. Speck Daniels claims he seen that shotgun after, said there weren’t no shells in the chambers, but that darned feller is a troublemaker and a born liar. Anyways, it don’t make a spit of difference. When Watson spoke so furious and behaved in that wild way, swinging that gun up in the face of close to twenty nervous fellers, the man were as good as dead, no matter if he fired or he didn’t.” Bill House turned to Lucius, worried. “You reckon he knew he was finished when he done that? Aimed to get it over with?”

Lucius nodded. “That could be.” He cleared his throat. “And Henry?”

“Henry never raised his gun, let alone fired. Afterwards I talked it over with them Hardens, who asked Henry for the truth about what happened. Never mind what some folks say-and my sister Mamie, darn it all, she’s one of ’em-them Hardens are honest people, and from what Henry told ’em, they come to the same conclusion I did.”

House gazed regretfully at Watson’s son. “I fired at your daddy, Colonel, like I said. I aimed to kill him, too. Maybe I did. When I seen that red hole jump out on his forehead, I knew there weren’t no need to shoot again. His barrels was already comin down and he was, too. Then the rest of them guns let go, and a terrible hail of lead in the next second whapped into him very hard and loud before he hit the ground. I reckon most of that gunfire was nerves, and I can’t rightly say I blame ’em. My nerves was ragged, too.”

“Maybe they were making sure they could brag later about helping to bring down Bloody Watson,” Lucius said sourly. House shrugged.