Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

“When Henry slipped away that night, he went south to Lost Man’s, continued on to Shark River and Cape Sable the next day. He weren’t never seen on the Bay again until after the World War. Had no home no more on Chokoloskee and no place he belonged. One time I asked him, ‘Ain’t it lonely, Henry? Livin all alone all them hard years?’ And he looked at me kind of funny, sayin, ‘Well, Mist’ Bill, when a nigger has to hide, I reckon lonelihood works best.’ ”

“Lonelihood. I guess that’s right.”

“Ironical, ain’t it? Every soul who knew him before all the trouble had a very high opinion of that man. Then he was gone for all them years, and the younger ones comin up had never worked with him, never hunted with him; they knew him mainly by bad reputation as That Nigger Who Raised a Gun Against a White Man. So when them boys crossed paths with him down in the rivers, they might yell over the water. Hey, boy? We’ll git you one day, boy! One year they stole Henry’s skiff and his whole harvest of fresh vegetables and bananas, hid it back in the mangroves till it rotted. Just funnin, you know, the way young fellers will. Never really knowed nor cared about Ed Watson, this was only their excuse to have some fun-”

“Fun,” Lucius said, appalled.

“-but other ones, well, when they was drinkin, they still liked to talk about a lynchin, maybe settin a bounty on his head. I sure hate to think any such thing, but I know more’n one of ’em might not pass up a chance to shoot that colored man even today.

“Early twenties, Henry would come work sometimes for our family at House Hammock. Dense jungle back in there where nobody couldn’t find him. Done some huntin and fishin, worked his own patch, lent a hand sometimes when I was caretakin the Bend-that’s when you caught up with him. Year after that he come with us when we moved up Turner River to Ochopee and pioneered a tomato farm off the new Trail.

“When we had no work for him at Turner River, Henry would head downriver to the Gulf, hunt north or south along the coast for buried treasure. That feller was a fool for gold since back when we was boys. Only thing I ever knew he was a fool about. Had this secret bona fide copy of the map made by the pirate Gasparilla so’s he wouldn’t forget where he buried all his treasure.

“Course Gasparilla weren’t nothing but a publicity stunt for Yankee tourists. Read all about pirate treasure on your place mat at the restaurant with a lot of other history thrown in for free. You got that authentical evidence all laid out on your doily where you can look at it while waitin on your shrimps and Key lime pie. Official art picture of Gasparilla in his black pirate hat with skull and crossbones, sword between his teeth, eye patch, big belt buckle, and all. Wipe off the ketchup and that mat will tell you ever’thing you need to know about that famous Spaniard from the bounding main.

“Come the Holy Day, Henry wouldn’t never do no labor, he just read his Bible. But after he got that smell of gold, he would break his own commandment and go dig. I doubt he ever give much thought to where he’d spend up all his treasure if he found some, but after so many years alone, I reckon he had the idea that striking gold might make up to him some way for the life that had passed him by.”

House gazed at the wall opposite, looking troubled. “Henry ended with us in a ugly way. Couple years ago, I told him he’d be better off goin south with a bunch of men who was headin for Honduras because he was bound to make more money huntin gators than scratchin for pieces-of-eight. Henry had a bad feelin about them Spanish countries and flat didn’t want to go, but after so many years, I reckon it felt unnatural not to do what our family advised him.

“When I run him to the bus up to Fort Myers to board ship, he got out with his little burlap bindle and stood a minute lookin down the street. When I wished him luck, stuck out my hand, he never took it, never even looked at me. ‘Looks like your family gettin shut of me before I get too old to work,’ is all he said. Crossed over to the bus and went down to Honduras and near starved to death: the gators was all hunted out, the same as here. He made it back, but left our family for good; never came to see us even for a visit. And we was hurt, you know, having raised him up: we never took him for that angry kind of nigra.

“Because of them rumors he had shot a white man, Henry always figured some white man would come huntin him sooner or later. When you phoned today, we thought that man might be you. One day at Ochopee, my boy spotted a stranger circlin around back of our field totin a rifle with a huntin scope. I hollered at the man to lay that rifle down and step out where we could see him, state his business, but he just backed off, headin for the Trail. Some way we kind of knew this weren’t the end of it.

“Sure enough, it weren’t a month before a feller rung up, said he had important business with Henry Short. ‘What you want with him?’ I says, trying to figure who he might be. He said, ‘That’s between him and me.’ So I told him, ‘Okay, give me your name and address in case I hear where he is at.’ All he gives me is a phone number-no name, no address, only that number. And he says, ‘No names needed, mister. Just you call, say where he’s at, and then you’re out of it.’ ”

Disturbed by his own story, House got to his feet in sign Lucius should go. “I don’t know where Henry is these days,” he said, leading his visitor to the front door, “but for a time he was living over near Immokalee. Maybe we can find him through his church.” He turned in the doorway. “Know something, Colonel? I aim to trust you. I’d like to see him, too. Out of respect, you know. Out of respect.”

On the white limestone road north toward Immokalee, the worried House could not stop talking about Henry Short. “Few years back, when Henry come with us to Ochopee, we was glad to have him, because black or white, he was the most able man in this coast country.” He glanced at Lucius. “I was a good boss to nigras, got some work out of ’em, too. ‘Treat ’em like fine horses and they’ll run for you’-Daddy House taught me that old sayin from way back in slave days.” Lucius wondered what Henry might have thought of that old saying. Intuiting his censure, House flushed red.

“Nigras is supposed to be free men, that what you’re thinkin? Well, they ain’t free and they never was, not in this backcountry, they was claimed by whoever gave ’em work. Some men called Henry ‘House’s nigger.’ That sounds awful, don’t it? Like we owned him! But you know something? He was glad about it.”

Bill House struggled to explain, “All I’m sayin is, any black man in south Florida would be far better off bein a slave than on his own and that’s the truth. Any nigra not attached to a white family can get grabbed right off this road, charged with loiterin or vagrancy and sentenced to farm labor or the chain gang: county sells his labor. But a nigra that belongs someplace ain’t never bothered, not even for somethin pretty serious. That’s because no red-blooded American won’t stand for nobody messin with his property. So if you’re black with white people behind you, you can murder your wife and if she don’t make too much racket, the sheriff will most likely look the other way. He weren’t elected to go spendin up taxpayer dollars on no coloreds.”

For all the impacted prejudice, Lucius realized, there was decency in this man, too. House’s laconic, deadpan humor reminded him of his father except that its irony was rueful, whereas Papa’s irony had been sardonic, sometimes cruel.

House was pointing. “Our Ochopee tomato farm just over east of here is where Henry’s past caught up with him. One day two white fellers come along in an old flivver, stepped out and said they was cattle ranchers from De Soto County by the name of Graham, said they was looking for a Henry Short. Two white men hunting up a colored was suspicious. We didn’t say nothing. They stood in the noon sun, hats in their hands, and nobody so much as offered ’em a drink of water. So then they said, Sir, if your name is House and that man over yonder goes by the name of Henry, we come to pay him a Sunday call because his mother is our mother, too. Never twisted words about it. If they was sheepish or ashamed, it never showed.