Peter Matthiessen - Shadow Country

“Tonight,” he began, “I’d like to tell you what I have discovered in my researches into the colorful but controversial life of Planter E. J. Watson-research based on reliable first-hand accounts by folks who actually knew him.” Though his biography of Mr. Watson was nearing completion, he said, he would welcome comments and corrections after his talk.

“Controversial, you said? I don’t think so, mister! Folks was pretty much agreed he was bad news!”

“Well, no doubt you’ve all read that E. J. Watson killed the Outlaw Queen Belle Starr and many others. Certain tales may have elements of truth but none have proof. And how many of these writers ever laid eyes on the real Ed Watson, far less knew Ed Watson, shook his hand or had a drink with him, heard him sing or tell a story? Did you know he was a marvelous storyteller? And that most of his neighbors liked him? Even those who lynched him?”

Another blunder. An arm shot up, another wig-wagged. “Hold on, Mister!”

“Hold it right there! Ain’t you his boy?”

This speaker’s features were empurpled by long falling years of drink. Holding body and soul together, his arms were folded tight across his chest, and on his head perched a sadly stained Panama hat. Because he wore his hat indoors and looked disreputable, no one sat near him, nor did they pay the least attention to his provocative question.

When no one else challenged him, Lucius hurried on, presenting a synopsis of E. J. Watson’s life, from boyhood in South Carolina during the War Between the States to the successful establishment of his hardy strain of sugarcane at Lake Okeechobee a few years after his death-

“WAIT! Darn it, Mister!” The first voice had returned to the fray. “You sayin his neighbors ‘lynched’ him?! Who are you to come and tell us local folks about local stuff we know a hell of a lot more about than you do?”

“No, no, Ed weren’t near so bad as what them writers try to tell you, not when you knowed him personal the way we done. Give ye the shirt off his back with one hand, put a knife in yer back with the other.”

As the ladies hissed and shushed, their elderly men scratched thin silvery ears, cracked knobby knuckles. Lucius tried to smile. He had expected that resistance would be doughty. After all, Watson Redeemed was a far less colorful figure than Desperado Watson, who was not to be reduced to the common clay by some scholarly recital of dull virtues.

An old man in red galluses and a green shirt buttoned right to the gullet stood up and removed his hat. “I’m Preston Brown, age ninety-four,” he told the hall. “Had me a stroke so I ain’t as good as what I was but most days I got some idea what I am talking about. And these old eyes seen Ed J. Watson in the flesh many’s the time, and this old hand shook his’n, and they ain’t too many in this hall can say the same.

“Now Ed J. Watson and young Tucker had a run-in so Watson went down to Lost Man’s Key and killed him. For many years you could see the blood on that old driftwood tree. Tucker’s nephew tried to hide back in the mangroves but Watson sent his boy Eddie in to finish him.”

Before Lucius could object, Owen Harden scraped his chair back and rose to challenge Brown. “You old-timers been trading that nephew tale for years and it’s all wrong.”

The old man squared around to glare at Owen. “Wrong?” He seemed to be sucking on his tongue tip. “I bet you’re a Harden, aint’cha.”

“Wally Tucker and his wife Bet were good friends of my family at Lost Man’s,” Owen continued. “No nephew weren’t involved in it at all.”

“One them damn Hardens,” a voice said loudly, but when Owen looked around the room, no one met his eye. In a level voice he said, “Any man who cares to tell me to my face why he don’t like Hardens can find me right outside after the show.” His tone was quiet but it carried nonetheless, like a voice from far away across open water.

In the stir and murmur, Mud Braman spoke up from the doorway, “Hell, we know Owen Harden. Ain’t one thing wrong with that boy that a bullet wouldn’t cure.” Everyone laughed including Owen, who sat down, waving his hand in salute to Mud over his shoulder.

Preston Brown was unperturbed. “Been fishin and guidin down around Lost Man’s all my life. Knew Ed Watson, fished with his younger boy many’s the time. Had him a nice round-stern cedar skiff. Liked his whiskey, too. Still does, I reckon.” The old man peered hard at the speaker.

“Killed that plume bird warden right while I was livin at the Bend.” snarled the man in the stained Panama hat. Though he would not face Lucius as he spoke, Lucius recognized Nell’s father, Fred O. Dyer. “I was foreman on his cane plantation. Ed was over to Flamingo. Word about him murderin Guy Bradley got back before he did so I packed my family aboard the mail boat, got away from there.”

“Heck, I knowed Bradley,” Old Brown said. “Plume-hunted right alongside us fellers but went over to wardenin. Aimed to clap Watson in the jail and so Ed shot him.”

Lucius said sharply, “Mr. Brown? Guy Bradley was murdered by a plume hunter named Walter Smith.”

“Cap’n Walt Smith! That is correct! Got turned loose at Key West cause word had got around it was Watson done it.”

“That’s wrong, too,” Lucius snapped, regretting the sharp tone that was casting a pall over the room. “And another correction, sir, if you don’t mind. His son Eddie was still a schoolboy in Fort Myers. He was nowhere near Lost Man’s when the Tuckers died.”

“Yep! Eddie Watson! Sure as I am settin here this evenin!”

Lucius gazed bleakly at the audience, appealing to its good sense. “You see? These tales are passed down from our parents and grandparents and we just repeat them, until finally errors become legend.”

“Who the hell is we ?” a man’s voice called. “You come from around here?”

“He sure does!” Fred Dyer hauled himself up straight again and pointed a bent arthritic claw. “That’s Watson’s younger boy! That’s Lucius! Standin right there under them false pretenses!” He glared wildly around, seeking support, and again his neighbors turned away as if deaf to him.

Old Brown brooded. “Yep. Young Ed helped his daddy kill ’em, like I said. Thems that told me had no reason to lie so no dang professor can’t just walk in here and call ’em liars.” The crowd muttered approval as Brown said accusingly, “He’s coverin up for Eddie, looks like, cause it sure weren’t Colonel done it. I knowed Colonel all my life, he been on my boat about a thousand times. Liked hard spirits, visited all the bars. I had nothin against spirits, I was in there, too. Nicer feller you would never want to meet. And you know somethin funny?” Preston Brown pointed at the podium. “This man talkin to us here puts me in mind of him.”

“Ain’t that what I said? Jesus!” Querulous, Fred Dyer took his hat off, scratched his scalp, put it back on again.

“It wasn’t Eddie and it wasn’t Colonel, Mr. Brown,” Lucius said gently. He glanced toward the night windows and asked Rob’s forgiveness. “If E. J. Watson killed those Tuckers, and if he was not alone, the only conceivable witness was his oldest boy, who disappeared.”

“How’s that? I ain’t never heard about no older boy.” Like a helmsman peering through the fog, Preston Brown raised three fingers as a brim over his eyes to study this dang know-it-all up on the podium. “Yep! Got it wrote right here on my program, ‘L. Watson Collins’-that’s the Watson part.” The audience fretted and shifted, scratched and coughed.

“L. Watson Collins is a pen name,” Lucius said, lifting his gaze to the room as it fell silent. He scanned the audience, taking a deep breath. “Mr. Dyer was correct: I’m Lucius Watson. E. J. Watson was my father.”