Lost Man's River (82 page)

A lot of people who was secretly relieved to see their friend Ed Watson shot to pieces was the same ones who hollered later on how he deserved a trial—the same ones who pointed fingers at the House family and called us lynchers. That cousin of mine is still sayin that today, don't know the first thing about the truth and don't care neither. Well, the House men never lynched nobody. Never had no plan to kill Ed Watson in cold blood, and never fired till he swung that gun up.

All his life my dad would talk about that piece of history that happened here on this little stretch of shore. Talked about that October twilight, talked about that death like it happened yesterday—“clear as stump water,” them was his words. What he meant by that: when the sun catches it right, the little pool of water in the heart of an old stump shines as deep as a black diamond, dark silver black but full of holy light, like that shine in them little limestone sinkholes in the hammocks. In them deep small holes, they ain't a breath of wind to rile the surface, nothin but some little leaf that might drift down and float on that black mirror just as light as teal down or wild petal or dry seed, with the treetops and clouds and the blue sky all contained in the reflection. “Clear as a deer's eye”—that's the way Bill House described how clear that moment was, every detail, right to the bright red of Watson's blood flecks on his rifle barrel, right to the hairs the evening wind was stirring on the dead man's neck where he lay face down.

That's the way Bill House recalled the death of Mr. Watson. He never mentioned Henry Short at all.

The Harden men weren't there that day but later years, they asked Henry for the truth about what happened. Hardens weren't liars, neither, they was honest people, and from what Henry told 'em, they concluded that Henry
never fired at Ed Watson. Course bein a black man back when lynchin nigras didn't hardly make the papers, he would never admit to shooting at a white man, not to Houses and not to Hardens, neither. Not to God in Heaven! Because if that one he told ever let on, them men would say, “That dang nigger bragged he killed a white man”—say that real sweet and soft, you know, which is the sign amongst them fellers that some poor nigra is headed for perdition. But so long as he never bragged on it, it was all right, because he had the whole House clan behind him, seven men and boys.

Now them other men was very glad that Henry Short was in that line, and his rifle with him. Later years, a few of 'em took on about it some when they was drinking, but they liked Henry and they was grateful, and I don't believe they would of raised their hand against him. It was them men's sons who hated to admit that a black man had took care of Watson while the white men only finished off the job. So pretty soon certain ones was saying that Henry Short had lost his head and murdered Watson.
We gone to stand for some damn nigger shootin down a white man? Who in the hell give him the idea he could get away with that? Who give him that damn rifle in the first place?
And maybe, they said, Henry's bad attitude come from the way them Houses spoiled him, and anyways, Houses done wrong to arm that nigger, never mind lettin him foller 'em over to Smallwood's. The way some of the younger ones was carrying on when they got drunk, you would have thought that Henry Short was the only armed man there. Then someone would say,
Ain't he the one married that Harden down to Lost Man's River?
And a few of them fools started in to saying, “
Well, who's going to teach that boy his lesson?
”

Course they was not so much bad fellers as big talkers. They never rightly understood what a terrible fear had weighed on our community. And their daddies went along with it, they kind of nodded. In their hearts, they knew Henry was there that day because they wanted him there, but bein a little bit ashamed, they would not discuss it in the family. The fathers never admitted to the sons how scared they was of Watson—scared enough so for that one day, they forgive a man his color because that man could shoot better'n they could and might of kept some of 'em from getting hurt.

So Henry Short never told nobody he fired that gun, not even my dad, who was raised with Henry and was standin right beside him when he done it. And Dad would never think to ask, because Henry was dead honest all his life, and Dad would never want to be the one to make a liar of him. Henry Short never had no choice about what he had to do. From the very first minute after Watson's death, he was setting a backfire, trying to keep that firestorm away.

That same evening after dark, Henry slipped away to Lost Man's River. Before he left, he told my dad he might be gone awhile from Chokoloskee. Far
as I ever heard about, he never come back. Never said nothin about Mr. Watson, but Dad knew. He said, “Them men ain't goin to bother you none, Henry. Hell, they
like
you!” And Henry nodded, give a little kind of smile. Then he said, “Spect so, Mist' Bill. They liked Mist' Watson, too.”

There are stories that the following took part—in one case, his participation was confessed by the elderly suspect himself! But it seems more likely that these men were not involved, or if they were, that they did not pull the trigger.

Certain boys, including Crockett Daniels, were said to have shot into the corpse there at the water's edge.

The
Cracker Belle
, which Whidden Harden kept upriver near the bridge at Everglade, was a thirty-two-foot cabin boat with a long work deck for commercial fishing. When Lee Harden owned her, Lucius recalled, she had been white, with that old-time blue trim at the red waterline, but after years of disuse, her hull was a flaking driftwood gray.

The engine started with a cavernous rumble. “Sounds pretty good, Cap,” Lucius said, and Whidden said, “Sounds good because I tinkered all this mornin. We'll see how good she starts tomorrow.”

“He talking about his wife or his old boat?” called Sally, who was guiding Andy to a canvas boat chair in the aft end of the cockpit. In blue sweatshirt and torn-off jeans, she swung gracefully to the cabin roof and leaned back against the windshield, raising her pretty face up to the sun.

The
Cracker Belle
idled down current past rusty fish houses and a sagging dock and stacks of sea-greened crab pots. On a warehouse wall a notice read
DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT STACKING YOUR SHIT ON THIS DOCK
. “Nice,” Sally said. She fluttered her fingers at the men in rubber boots, packing ice and fish into slat boxes. Straightening, they squinted at the
Belle
from beneath their caps. They did not wave back.