Alex Cross's Trial Part 2
I DIDN'T GO HOME, of course; I couldn't-my mission was only just getting started. So I actually talked to some candidates for federal judgeships. And I continued my secretive investigation for Roosevelt. I even squeezed in a few hours at L. J. Stringer's party and remembered what a good friend he was.A few weeks later, I felt I needed a haircut, and I knew where to go: Ezra Newcomb's.During my visit, I congratulated Ezra, Eudora's only barber, on the sharpness of his blade. This resulted in my receiving a nine-point instructional course on the most important techniques involved in properly sharpening a straight razor. (The truth was, I had brought my own dull razor along, hoping to have Ezra sharpen it.)"You got to start her off real slow, then you swipe down the strop real fast," he was saying.This was exactly the lesson I had gotten from Ezra the last time he cut my hair, when I was a boy of eighteen."Just don't understand it," Ezra said. "A boy goes all the way up to Harvard and they don't teach him how to sharpen a razor.""I must have been out sick the day they gave that cla.s.s."Ezra laughed and swept the bib off me with a dramatic flourish. He returned my sharpened razor to me. I handed him a quarter and told him to keep the change. He whistled at my generous big-city tipping habits.Then I stood outside the barbershop in the bright September sun, admiring the dangerous gleam on the edge of the blade."Why, Ben, you're looking at that razor the way most men look at a pretty girl!"I turned around to see Elizabeth Begley standing right there beside me. We were practically elbow to elbow."I was admiring Ezra's handiwork. In all my years of trying, I have never been able to put half as good an edge on a razor.""Oh, Ben, I don't believe there's anything you can't do," she said, "if you decide to go after it."Now what was this craziness? Was my old girlfriend flirting with me? Was I flirting right back?I flicked the razor shut and slipped it into my pocket."Come walk me to Jenkins's store," she said. "I bought new boots for Emma and she's already been through the laces. That's not right."We walked the sidewalk of Commerce Street, which was fairly deserted at this hour."A little bird told me you were the guest of honor at the Stringers' dress party the other night," she said."I wouldn't say guest of honor," I said. "But I guess some people are a little curious what I'm doing back here.""You must tell them all you've come to visit me," Elizabeth said with a smile. "That will get their tongues wagging."She laughed, and so did I."Speaking of people who love to talk behind other people's backs..." She nodded in the direction of Lenora G.o.dwin, who was walking toward us on the sidewalk across the street, apparently lost in thought."Lenora was at the party," I said. "She's still as well dressed as ever.""Did she look ravishing?" There was a slightly caustic edge to the question."She may still be the 'Best Dressed,' " I said, "but I was wondering why the 'Most Popular Girl' at Eudora High wasn't there.""It's simple, Ben. She and her husband were not invited to attend."I was surprised to hear this. I knew that Eudora "society," such as it was, was a small, intimate group. Surely Elizabeth would be included."I think you know my husband is Richard Nottingham, the state senator," Elizabeth said. "Richard is known to be the political kingmaker.""I did know that," I said."Well, then, put it together. L. J. Stringer never sits down to dinner with anyone more important than himself. Some people say that Richard will be the next governor," she said."And what do you think, Elizabeth?""He certainly wants to be governor. But I... I don't want to leave Eudora."We had reached Jenkins's store now. "Thank you for walking with me, Ben. And for our talk. Now I have boot laces to buy."To my disappointment, she didn't invite me in with her. But Elizabeth leaned in and lightly kissed my cheek, then disappeared into the store-the same one where my mother had collapsed when I was just a boy.
Chapter 41.
MY MOTHER USED TO SAY, "When you're truly in love, you see the face you love in your coffee cup, in the washstand mirror, in the shine on your shoes." I remembered those words as I sat at my regular table at the Slide Inn, sipping a cup of strong and delicious chicory coffee.Miss f.a.n.n.y brought my breakfast of fried eggs, creamy salty grits, a slice of cured ham, and b.u.t.termilk biscuits, but I only had eyes for my coffee cup, and Mama's words haunted me. I couldn't stop thinking about Elizabeth. Yes, Mama. I see her face in the surface of my coffee.Elizabeth.If I were not feeling so lonely and abandoned by my wife, would I be having these feelings? Probably not. But I was feeling lonely and abandoned, and worse-aroused.Elizabeth.My reverie was broken by f.a.n.n.y's exclamation as she looked past me and out the window."That boy is like to drive me crazy, late as he is. Look at him, running up here like his shirttail's on fire!"A gangly colored boy of about sixteen was headed for the cafe in a big, sweaty, arm-pumping hurry-such a hurry, in fact, that he almost dashed in the front door without thinking.Then he saw f.a.n.n.y and me staring at him. He remembered his place, ducked his head, and went around back.Miss f.a.n.n.y went to meet him. Through the window to the kitchen I saw the two of them in serious conversation, the boy gesticulating wildly.I waited until Miss f.a.n.n.y came back out front, then lifted my finger for more coffee. She brought the tin pot over to me."What's the trouble?" I said."Big trouble," she said quietly. "Seems like there was another hangin' party last night."I kept my voice low. "You mean... a lynching?""Two of 'em," she said.
Chapter 42.
I TOOK ANOTHER SIP of coffee and noticed that my hand was shaking some. Then I folded my napkin and headed back through the kitchen as if I intended to visit the privy. On the way I detoured to the side of the room where the boy stood over a sinkful of dirty dishes."What happened, son?" I said. "Please, tell me everything." At first the boy just stared at me without speaking a word. f.a.n.n.y came up behind us. "It's okay, Leroy. This here's Mr. Corbett. He's all right to talk to."At last the boy spoke. "You know who is Annie?" he said. "The one cook for Miz d.i.c.kinson? She got a girl, Flossie, little older than me?"I didn't know who he was talking about, but I nodded so he would continue."Well, it was that Mr. Young," he said, "Mr. Jasper Young."I knew Jasper Young, who owned the hardware and feed stores. He was a quiet, grandfatherly man who exercised some influence behind the scenes in Eudora."What does Jasper Young have to do with it?""I can't say." The boy stared down at his dishes."Why not?"He shot a look at Miss f.a.n.n.y. "Lady present.""Aw, now, come on, Leroy. Not one thing in this world you can't say in front of me!"He wiggled and resisted, but at last he turned his eyes away from f.a.n.n.y and fixed them on me."Mr. Young want some lovin' from Flossie. She didn't want to go along with it. So he... he force the love out of her."What an incredible way to put it.He force the love out of her.The rest of the boy's story came quickly.Flossie had told her mother of the rape. Annie told her husband. Within minutes, her husband and son, crazed with rage, broke into Jasper Young's home. They smashed china and overturned a table. Then they beat Jasper Young with their fists.A neighbor summoned a neighbor who summoned another neighbor. Within an hour, no more than that, Annie's husband and her son were hanging from ropes in the swamp behind the Quarter."Where are they, exactly?" I asked the boy."Out by Frog Creek."That was not the place I'd visited with Abraham, but I knew where it was.I practically ran all the way back to Maybelle's. I didn't ask if I could borrow the bicycle, I just climbed on and rode out the old McComb Road, toward the swamp.Toward Frog Creek.
Chapter 43.
I CAME UPON A VISION of horror, all too real. Two men, one young, one older, naked and b.l.o.o.d.y, dangling from ropes. Already the smell of rotting flesh was rising in the morning heat. Flies were on the bodies.On the ground beneath the stiff, hanging bodies, amid the cigar b.u.t.ts and discarded whiskey bottles, sat a woman and child. The woman was about thirty-five years old. The boy was no more than four. He was touching the woman's face, touching the tears on her cheeks.The woman saw me and her face furrowed over in rage. "You go on, now," she shouted. "They already dead. You cain't do no more to hurt 'em."I walked closer and she drew the boy to her, as if to protect him from me."I'm not going to hurt anybody," I said. "I'm a friend."She shook her head fiercely. No.I wanted to comfort her terrible sobbing, but I stayed back. "Are you Annie?"She nodded.Now that I was close to the dangling bodies, I saw the welts left by whips, the b.l.o.o.d.y wounds covering almost every part of their bodies. The older man's arm hung down from his shoulder by a few b.l.o.o.d.y tendons. As the younger man slowly twisted, I saw that his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es had been severed from his body.My voice finally came out choked. "Oh, I am so sorry."I noticed a pink, rubbery thing in her hand, something she kept stroking with her finger as she wept.She saw me looking. "You want to know what it is? It's my Nathan's tongue. They done cut his tongue out of his head. Stop him from sa.s.sin' them."I looked up. Blood was thickly caked around the older man's mouth."Oh, Jesus!""Ain't no Jesus," she said. "There ain't no Jesus for me."She wept so terribly I could not hold myself back. I knelt by her in the clearing.For a moment all was quiet, but for her sobbing.Then a noise. A rustling in the underbrush, a crackling of twigs. I saw birds fly up in alarm.Someone was there.No doubt about it.Someone was watching us.And then out came several people, some men but also women, black people from the Quarters come to cut down the father and son who had been murdered.Part ThreeSOUTHERN FUNERAL FAVORITES
Chapter 44.
COULD ANYONE POSSIBLY PEDAL a bicycle as slowly as I did going back to Eudora?I looked all around me. Although my little town still looked much as it had when I was a boy, now it was stained and tattered almost beyond recognition.Now the whole place was poisoned by torture and murder. The proof was still swinging from that oak tree out by the banks of Frog Creek. I thought about going to the police, but what good would it do? And besides, it would raise the question of why I had gone out to the scene of the lynchings."You all soakin' wet," Maybelle said as I trudged up onto her porch. "Set here with me and have a lemonade."I put myself in a porch rocker and prepared to be disappointed, but the lemonade was cold, sweet, delicious."Oh, I almost forgot," Maybelle said. "You had a visitor while you were gone. Senator Nottingham's wife.""Elizabeth? Did she leave any message?""No, she said she would stop by again. But that reminds me, I know how much stock you put in getting the mail, and you did get some today. I put it in the front hall."On the hall table was a square, cream-colored envelope with my name written in Meg's delicate hand.I took the stairs two at a time. Inside my room, I removed my jacket and settled into the chair at the window for a good read.Dear Ben,I know I ought to be ashamed for not having written sooner. The girls have done very little else but remind me. They have pestered me about you night and day. But I've been busy doing almost all the housekeeping, because Mazie had to go up to Trenton on account of her sister has been "ill."Do not worry about me. Other than sore muscles from wringing out the wash and from scrubbing the floors in the house, I am in good physical shape.These opening lines filled me with joy. My wife was still my wife. My fears were unjustified. The letter sounded so much like her-the teasing complaints, the emphatic descriptions, even the hint that she regarded Mazie's sister's problem as nothing more than a love of the grape.Later on, when I reflected on this moment, I wished I had stopped reading at that point.Ben, I might as well get to the point. I have suffered and wept many nights over this. Finally I have reached my decision. There is no reason for me to delay the pain for both of us, and pain there will surely be when I tell you what is in my heart.I think it would be best for all involved if I move back in with my father.I read that last sentence again... and again...I doubt this will truly come as a surprise to you. You know that we have not been in love, as husband and wife must be, for some time now.My hand was shaking now. The paper began to rattle and my eyes burned.I rested my head back against my chair. "I'm still in love, Meg," I said out loud.I have prayed much about this matter, and have spoken to my father about the situation.I should have known. Meg had consulted the one G.o.d in her life, the almighty Colonel Wilfred A. Haverbrook, U.S. Army, Ret. No doubt the colonel had agreed with her that her husband was a miserable failure.I know that my decision may strike you as a terrible mistake on my part. Yet I believe it is the only correct solution to our dilemma. We must be honest with each other and ourselves.I think it best if you do not come home at this time. I will be in touch with you by post or wire, as I begin the steps necessary to bring about a most painful but inevitable result.Cordially, your wifeMegI have often heard the expression "It hit him like a punch in the stomach," but I had never felt it myself. Suddenly I knew exactly what it meant. The letter struck me a blow that caused a physical ache so sharp I had to bend over. Then I sat up. Perhaps I'd missed a word, or an entire sentence, and reversed the meaning of the thing.I grabbed the letter and read it again.I read it out loud.Eventually I turned it over and found another message scrawled on the back in pencil, a child's handwriting.Daddy, me and Alice miss you terrible, just terrible. Pleas come home soon as you can. I love you, your dauhgter, Amelia.And that is when I felt my heart break.
Chapter 45.
I POURED COLD WATER from the pitcher into the basin, then washed my face with the coa.r.s.e brown soap, scrubbing so hard I threatened to take the skin off.Next I took a sheet of writing paper from my valise, along with a pen Meg had given me for the first anniversary of our marriage: a beautiful Waterman pen.I pulled the wobbly chair up to the wobbly table and uncapped the pen. Immediately I felt all my lawyerly eloquence disappear.Dear Meg,As your husband, and your friend, I must tell you that you have some things wrong. I do love you. You are simply wrong to say that I don't. A separation like this is a rash thing to do, especially considering that we have never even discussed these problems face to face.I don't care about your father's opinion of our marriage. But I do care that our parting will break the hearts of everyone involved-Alice, Amelia, my own heart, even yours.Before you take any further action, please, my darling Meg, we must discuss this-together, as husband and wife, as mother and father of our two little daughters, as Meg and Ben who always planned to spend our lives together.Suddenly I came out of my writing trance..."Mr. Corbett! Mr. Corbett!"It was Maybelle, hollering from the foot of the stairs. I quickly wrote,Your loving and faithful husband,Ben"Mr. Corbett!"I put down the pen and walked out to the landing."What is it, Maybelle?" I called."Mrs. Nottingham is here to see you. She's here on the porch. She's waiting on you, Mr. Corbett. Hurry."
Chapter 46.
THERE ELIZABETH WAS, standing on Maybelle's wide wraparound porch. She had put on another bonnet and seemed even more attractive than she'd been this morning.She reached out for my hand. "I came to apologize, Ben."I took her hand. "What do you mean? Apologize for what?"I said this for the benefit of Maybelle, whom I could see lingering in the parlor, trying not to be observed."Let's go look at Miss Maybelle's rose garden," I proposed. "It's in full bloom this time of year."I made a motion with my eyes that disclosed my real meaning to Elizabeth. She nodded and followed me around the porch toward the backyard.Maybelle's roses were actually in sad shape, a few blossoms drooping among a profusion of weeds."I'm sorry for this morning," Elizabeth said. "The way I ran off.""You didn't run, you walked. I watched your every step," I said and smiled."You can still be funny, Ben.""Sit on the bench," I said. "I won't bite you."Smoothing her dress, she sat on the stained marble bench amid the raggedy roses.Sitting close to her, I was fascinated by her every gesture, word, movement. I noticed the way Elizabeth touched her mouth with the knuckle of her second finger, giving herself a little kiss before coming out with an opinion. And the slow southern musical rhythm of her speech. Lord, what was getting into me? Probably just loneliness. Or was it being rejected by my wife?"You were surprised I came to see you again so soon?" she said."I'm always glad to see you, Elizabeth," I said. Then added, "Yes, I'm surprised you're here.""I do have an ulterior motive," she said. "We're having a luncheon after church on Sunday. Will you come?""We?""Richard and I.""Sure, I'll come," I replied.I caught the faint scent of rose water, and I noted the curve of her nose, and remembered being very young and in love with that little nose."Wonderful," she was saying. "Come about one, Ben. We'll have some nice people in. I'll try not to have any of those you were subjected to at L.J.'s."She stood. "I can't be late picking up Emma from her lesson. She's quite the little pianist, and I guess I'm quite the doting mother."I stood, and we smiled. This time, there was no kiss on the cheek.But I watched Elizabeth walk away again, every step, until she finally disappeared behind the rooming house porch.
Chapter 47.
WASHINGTON, D.C.That same afternoon, Senator John Tyler Morgan, Democrat of Alabama, stood in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, yelling at the general manager."I have never been refused service in my life! That insufferable man in the elevator had the nerve to tell me he was holding the car for an important personage. He told me to get off that car and wait for another car!"Senator Morgan was so angry that specks of saliva were speckling the lapels of the general manager's morning coat."Senator, I am so sorry for the inconvenience-""Not an inconvenience! It's a G.o.dd.a.m.ned insult! Who the h.e.l.l was he holding the elevator for, the G.o.dd.a.m.ned president of the United States?"As he roared this question, the great gla.s.s doors of the lobby flew open at the hands of two uniformed guards. In walked Theodore Roosevelt.He took one look at John Tyler Morgan in mid rampage and the poor little cowering manager. Then Roosevelt thundered, "Unless my eyes deceive me, the man at the center of that ruckus is none other than the senior senator from the great state of Alabama. Good morning, John!"The famous Civil War general and southern statesman was stunned into silence. No one had called him John in many years."Morning, Mr. President," he finally managed to say."Come ride the elevator with me, John!"A few minutes later, having deposited the red-faced Morgan on his floor, Roosevelt had a good laugh at his expense. "And the newspapers call me a gasbag? Senator Morgan, my friends, is the royal and supreme emperor of gasbags! Did you see how quickly I deflated him simply by using his Christian name?"Appreciative laughter from his aides trailed the president to his suite. Roosevelt grew serious the moment he pa.s.sed through the door."Good morning, Mr. President. We're all ready for your meeting," said Jackson Hensen, his capable a.s.sistant."Well, get them in here. No need to dawdle.""Yes, sir. They're on their way up in the service elevator."Roosevelt chuckled. "How did they take to that?""I understand the gentleman was... displeased," Hensen said.
Chapter 48.
THE INNER DOOR OPENED and a pair of adjutants appeared, escorting a distinguished-looking black man with a Vand.y.k.e beard and a wide woman of a darker, more African appearance, with a wise face and a spectacular sweep of hair that plainly was not entirely her own.Mr. Roosevelt bowed to the man and kissed the lady's gloved hand. He could never be seen doing such a thing in public, but here in private he was all too happy to pay honor to W. E. B. Du Bois, the great Negro writer and crusader, and to Ida B. Wells-Barnett, the pa.s.sionate antilynching campaigner, such a modern and audacious woman that she dared to append her husband's name to her own when she married."My sincere apologies for the indignity of bringing you up in the... back elevator," the president said.Du Bois bowed slightly. "It is not the first time I have ridden in the servants' car, Mr. President," he said. "I am fairly sure it will not be the last."Mrs. Wells-Barnett perched her sizable self on the upholstered chair beside the fireplace."Now, Mr. Du Bois," said the president, "I have received quite a lot of correspondence from you about these matters. I want you to know that my administration is doing everything within our power to see that these local authorities start observing the laws as-"Roosevelt was surprised when Ida Wells-Barnett interrupted."That's fine, Mr. President," she said. "We already know all that. You don't have to coddle us or pour on all that old gravy. We know what you're up against. We're up against the same. White men get away with killing black men every day."Roosevelt's eyes flashed behind his spectacles. "Well, Madam, I think I may be able to do something finally," he said. "That's why I agreed to this meeting."Du Bois said, "Yes, sir, but-""If you will try to refrain from interrupting your president," Roosevelt demanded, "I will further explain that I am taking steps right now to learn the true situation in the Deep South. Once I have all the facts, I a.s.sure you I intend to act.""I appreciate that," Du Bois said."We're not asking for public displays any more than you are," said Wells-Barnett, warming to the discussion. "As you recall, sir, when you invited Booker Washington to dine at the White House, it caused a political headache for you and accomplished absolutely nothing for the cause of colored people.""Booker T. Washington is the whitest black man I know," grumbled Du Bois.Roosevelt sat ramrod straight in a large leather armchair. Jackson Hensen loomed over a tiny French desk in the corner, taking down in shorthand everything that was said."Mr. Roosevelt, let me put this as simply as possible," said Wells-Barnett. "What we have at the present time is an epidemic of lynching in the South. The problem is getting worse, not better."Jackson Hensen decided to speak up.It was an unfortunate decision."I understand what you are saying, Mrs. Wells, Professor Du Bois," he said carefully. "But at the same time you are telling us these terrible stories of lynching, we have it on excellent authority that there is also an epidemic of white women being raped and molested by Negroes all over the South. I've seen the numbers. The crime of rape is at least as prevalent as the crime of lynching, is it not?""That simply isn't true, young man." Du Bois's voice was an ominous rumble. "I don't know where you're getting that insidious, completely inaccurate information."Wells-Barnett interrupted. "Just this morning, Senator Morgan was telling people in the lobby of this hotel that he intends to repeal the antilynching laws now in effect."Jackson Hensen made a skeptical sound. "With all respect, Mrs. Wells-Barnett, I seriously doubt Morgan can muster the votes to do such a thing."Then Du Bois: "I disagree, young man. I disagree-vehemently!""That's enough!" said the president. He got to his feet and paced the floor behind his desk. "I've heard enough of this squabbling. I am determined to get to the bottom of the problem. And I will!"The president's flash of anger silenced everyone. They all stared at him dumbly: the combative Du Bois, the pa.s.sionate Wells-Barnett, the young and arrogant Hensen.Now Roosevelt spoke, quietly and with purpose. "At this very moment I have sent a personal envoy to the Deep South on a dangerous mission, to investigate this entire question of lynching. He is a man I trust," Roosevelt continued. "A native of those parts. I have connected him with certain others who can show him the situation from all sides. I haven't told you his name because I'd rather this situation remain confidential until he's done his job. And then I will do whatever I deem necessary to remedy the tragic situation in the South."Ida Wells-Barnett rose from the sofa. "Thank you, Mr. President. I gladly tell anyone who asks that you are the best friend the Negro has had in this office since Mr. Lincoln."Roosevelt shook her hand enthusiastically.Du Bois was forced by Mrs. Wells-Barnett's action to rise from the sofa and offer his own hand. "Thank you, Mr. President," he said."Yes. Thank you, sir." The president shook his hand. "Let's hope we can make progress on this.""I've been hoping for progress all my life," Du Bois said.Roosevelt kept the fixed smile on his face until the two were out of the room. Then he frowned and uttered an epithet."Sir?" said Hensen."You heard what I said.""Is there something I should do about this?""Get a message to Abraham Cross. Tell him I want a report from him and Ben Corbett immediately-if not sooner."
Chapter 49.
I WENT DOWN to Young's Hardware-the only such store in town-and bought myself a bicycle. Then I wheeled my purchase out into the hot sun. The machine was a beautiful silvery blue, with pneumatic tires to smooth out the b.u.mps and ruts of Eudora's dirt streets.I took my maiden voyage on my new machine out to the Quarters, to see Abraham Cross.On this day Abraham and I did not head for the swamp. We rode his mules along the Jackson & Northern tracks, then turned east on the Union Church Road. This was fine open ground, vast flat fields that had been putting out prodigious quant.i.ties of cotton for generations.Every mile or so we encountered a clump of trees surrounding a fine old plantation house. These plantations had been the center of Eudora's wealth, the reason for its existence, since the first slaves were brought in to clear the trees from these fields."You don't mean they lynched somebody right out here in the open?" I said."You stick with me," Abraham said, "and I'll show you things that'll make your fine blond hair fall out."At that moment we were riding past River Oak, the Mc-Kenna family plantation. In the field to our left about thirty Negro workers were bent over under the hot sun, dragging the cloth sacks that billowed out behind them as they moved down the row, picking cotton.We pa.s.sed out of the morning heat into the shade, the portion of the road that curved close to the McKennas' stately home. On the front lawn two adorable white children in a little pink-painted cart were driving a pony in circles. On the wide front veranda I could see the children's mother observing their play and a small army of black servants hovering there.This was a vision of the old South and the new South, all wrapped into one. There, gleaming in the drive, was a handsome new motorcar, bra.s.s fittings shining in the sun. And there, rushing across the yard in pursuit of a hen, was an ink-black woman with a red dotted kerchief wrapped around her head.Abraham was careful to ride his mule a few feet behind mine, to demonstrate his inferior position in the company of a white man. I turned in the saddle. "Where to?""Just keep riding straight on ahead to that road beyond the trees," he said."You don't think that lady's going to wonder what we're up to?""She don't even see us," said Abraham. "She just happy to sit up on her porch and be rich."We pa.s.sed once more out of the shade and turned our mules down the long line of trees flanking the McKennas' pecan orchard.Soon we arrived at another clump of trees shading an intersection with another dirt lane. The western side of this crossing formed a natural amphitheater, with a gigantic old black gum tree as its center.Beneath this tree someone had built a little platform, like a stage. In a rough semicircle several warped wooden benches were arranged, their whitewash long faded. Obviously they had been hauled out of some derelict church and placed here for spectators."What is this, a camp revival?" I said.Abraham pointed up at a st.u.r.dy low branch of the gum tree. The branch extended directly over the little wooden stage-or rather, the stage had been built directly under the branch. Three ropes were carefully knotted and hanging from the branch, three loops waiting for heads to be slipped in, waiting for someone to hang."Good G.o.d!" I said as I realized what I was seeing."For the audience," Abraham said as he gestured around at the benches. "They come to watch the lynching. And they need a place to sit. Nothing worse than having to stand while you waiting to watch 'em hang a n.i.g.g.e.r."That was the first time I'd heard Abraham use that word, and his eyes burned fiercely.I almost couldn't believe it. Across that fence was the Mc-Kennas' impeccable lawn, acres and acres of flawless mown gra.s.s. I could see beds of bright orange daylilies sculpted into the landscape from here to the big house.To one side of the stage, I noticed a low table with a small bench behind it. Maybe that was for shotguns and rifles, to keep them out of the dirt."What's that table for, Abraham?"He answered with a weak smile. "That's where they sell refreshments."
Chapter 50.
IF I THOUGHT that obscene place was the worst abomination I was going to see-a serene amphitheater constructed for the pleasure of human beings torturing other human beings-I was wrong.Our journey was just beginning.We turned south, along back roads, until we were riding beside the fields of the Sauville plantation. I asked if they too had a theater for lynching."I don't believe so," said Abraham. "Why bother building your own when there's such a nice one already established in your neighborhood?"We rode past the showy Greek Revival pile of the Sauville home, past miles of fields with colored folks in them, picking cotton.After riding for most of an hour, we came to a long, low cotton barn with a tall silo for storing grain at one end. The place was neatly kept and obviously much in use; the doors at one end stood open, revealing deep rectangular bays stuffed to the ceiling with the first bales of the new crop.The most successful farmers used barns like this for storing their cotton from year to year, selling only as they needed cash or the price reached a profitable level."You telling me they've lynched somebody here?""I'm afraid so. This was where Hiram Frazier got hanged. And a couple more since.""How on earth could you hang somebody in a barn this low? Looks like his feet would drag on the ground."He pointed to the end of the barn by the silo. "The folks watch from in here. But they hang 'em inside the silo. Don't even need a tree."I shook my head. I thought of Jacob Gill and the pint he kept in his leather toolbox. I wished for a taste of that whiskey right now.Abraham led the mules to a slow, muddy stream, where they drank. The old man knelt down, cupped some water in his hand, and drank too."It don't look like much, but it taste all right," he said.I was thirsty but decided I could wait.We climbed up on the mules. Abraham's animal groaned as he brought his full weight down on its back."I declare, I don't know who's in worse shape," Abraham said, "this poor old mule or me."I smiled at him."There's one more place I need to show you, Ben," he said. "Then I reckon we'll be ready to write an official report for Mr. President."As his mule started off, I saw Abraham wince in pain and try to hide it. He saw that I had noticed and forced a smile."Don't worry about me, Mr. Corbett," he said. "I'm old, but I ain't even close to dyin' yet."But as he turned away and the smile dropped from his face like a mask, I realized that Abraham was a very old man, and probably a sick man as well. His face had the hidden desperation of someone hanging on for dear life.Or maybe just to make this report to the president.
Chapter 51.
I SUPPOSE ABRAHAM WAS WISE to save the worst for last. We rode the mules through a peach orchard south of the Chip-ley plantation, making a roundabout circle in the general direction of town. The air was heavy with the smell of rotting fruit. For some reason no one was picking these peaches.At the end of the orchard we emerged into a peaceful wooded glen. At the far side stood two huge old trees. From the fruit dotting the floor of the glen, I made out that these were black cherry trees; we had a nice specimen growing in back of the house the whole time I was growing up.From the tree on the right hung a black man. At least, I think it was a man. It was mostly unrecognizable. Flies buzzed around it. It had been there a while.I didn't want to go closer, but I found myself moving there as if my legs were doing all the thinking for my body. I could see that the man had been young. He was caked with blood, spit, snot, mud, and s.h.i.t. His head was distended, swollen from the pressure of hanging. His lips were swollen too, like balloons about to pop.I began to gag and I turned away. I fell to one knee and heaved."Go ahead, Ben," Abraham said. "It's good to be sick, to be able to get rid of it like that. I wish I could. I guess I'm just gettin' too used to seein' it. It's a bad thing to get used to."I took out my handkerchief and wiped the edges of my mouth. The wave of nausea was still sweeping over me."That's Jimmy Patton up there," he said."What happened to him?""He worked over at the gin for Mr. Purneau," Abraham said. "Last Sat.u.r.day he got drunk like he always does after he gets his pay. He was walkin' home and somehow he got hold of a gun. Don't know if he brung it with him, I never knowed Jimmy to carry a gun. Anyway he popped it off right there a couple of times on Commerce Street, down at the end there by the depot. He didn't hit anybody, but a couple of men saw him. They brought him here.""We can't leave him up there," I said."Well sir, we have to," said Abraham."Why is that?""Because they told the people came to cut Jimmy down they wanted him left here as a warning for the others.""You afraid to cut him down, Abraham? This man needs to be buried.""We got no way to carry him.""Across the mule's back," I said. "I can walk it, or I can ride with you.""I'm an old man, Mr. Corbett. I can't climb that tree.""Well, I can, but I don't have a knife," I said.Abraham produced an excellent bowie knife with a bone handle.It was only when I was directly under Jimmy Patton's body that I saw someone had severed his fingers and toes. Where his digits should have been there were b.l.o.o.d.y stumps.I made quick work of climbing the cherry tree."Yes, sir," Abraham said. "Sometime they cut off pieces. To take for souvenirs. And sometimes they sell 'em, you know. At the general store. At the barber shop. Ten cent for a n.i.g.g.e.r toe. Twenty-five cent for a n.i.g.g.e.r thumb."I waved my hand at the ugly explosion of blood on the front of Jimmy Patton's trousers."That's right," said Abraham. "Sometimes they don't stop at fingers and toes."I felt light-headed and nauseated again. "Just-just stop talking for a minute, would you, Abraham?"I sawed at the rope with a knife for what seemed like an hour. Jimmy Patton finally fell to the ground with a sickening thud.Somehow I managed to climb down that tree. Somehow I got the Indian blanket out from under Abraham's saddle and wrapped it around the dead man. With Abraham's help I got Jimmy onto the mule. His body was so stiff from rigor mortis that I had to balance him just so, like a pine log."We better get out of here," Abraham said. "Somebody watching us for sure.""Where? I don't see anybody.""I don't see 'em," he said, "but I know they watching us, just the same."We made it back through the peach orchard, onto the road, all the way back to town without meeting a soul. I walked the mule by its rope, hoping it would help to be out front. But there was nowhere to walk without breathing in the smell of Jimmy Patton's decomposing flesh, the coppery smell of his blood."I'm ready to write that report, Abraham," I said."Yes, sir," he said. "I imagine you are."
Chapter 52.
SUDDENLY IT WAS SUNDAY, and I was back in a world I recognized. I didn't admit to myself why I felt so lighthearted. I splashed my face with lilac water and clipped a fresh collar to my shirt, but it wasn't until I was standing at the bright yellow door of Elizabeth Begley's white mansion that I admitted what had made me so happy yet apprehensive: the prospect of seeing her again.The door swung open even before I could knock. At a house so grand, I naturally expected to be greeted by a servant, but instead I found the door opened by its owner, Elizabeth's husband, a short, bald man with an amiable smile. "You must be the famous Benjamin Corbett of Washington, attorney at law," he said."I am," I said. "And you must be the much more famous Richard Nottingham, senator and man of influence."He smiled. "You've got that just about right," he said, grabbing my hand. That hand had not been shaken so vigorously since Roosevelt operated it at the White House. Maybe it was a habit of politicians to inflict pain on new acquaintances, as an aid to memory."Lizzie talks so much about you I feel like we already know each other."Lizzie. The familiarity of the nickname made me wince inwardly."I've been looking forward to meeting you," I said. "She speaks fondly of you.""Oh, now, he's making that up," said Elizabeth, coming up behind her husband. "Don't lie, Ben. Richard knows I haven't spoken fondly of him in years!" She threw her husband a big stage wink. "At least, not in public."Nottingham laughed. "Isn't she a delight?"I agreed that she was, in a most unspecific murmur. Then I followed them into a small drawing room off the rear of the center hall."Ben, Richard and I are so happy you came. There may be a few people here you don't know-"This looked a lot like the gathering at L. J. Stringer's mansion: the same aging stuffed shirts, the same overstuffed dresses, a faint smell of mothb.a.l.l.s.Elizabeth led me to a stout couple on the fringed velvet loveseat. "This is Senator Oscar Winkler and his dear wife, Livia."I noticed that state senators dropped the "state," turning themselves into real senators. Senator Winkler clasped my hand. "Nice to see you again, Ben."I was surprised he remembered me. Many years ago, as political editor for the Eudora High School Bugler, I had interviewed Senator Winkler for a column ent.i.tled "Eudora Looks Forward." He had been warm to me and wise in his comments. One thing he said I had never forgotten. He said it, then asked me not to print it: "The southern man who figures out a way to bridge this terrible divide between the black and the white will enjoy all the blessings our Lord can bestow."I shook the senator's hand and kissed his wife's. As I was straightening up I heard Elizabeth say, "And I do believe you already know this fellow."I turned. To my astonishment, I found myself smiling and extending my hand to one Judge Everett Corbett.He shook it quite formally and made a little bow. "Ben, always a pleasure," he said. "I hope your business down here is going well."Richard Nottingham clapped his hands. "Lizzie, I heard just a bit too much preaching this morning, and presently I'm about to starve to death." Everything the man said had that odd quality of being humorously intended but not actually funny. "Could we please have our dinner?"
Chapter 53.
I WAS PLEASED about two things immediately. One, Elizabeth seated me next to herself at the table; two, turtle soup was not on the Nottinghams' menu.I'd eaten a skimpy breakfast, expecting the usual six-or seven-course southern exercise in dinnertime excess. Instead I found the food a touch on the dainty side: deviled eggs, shrimp remoulade, cuc.u.mber sandwiches, various cheeses, and a big silver dish of pickles.My father was also dishing it up: the personification of silver-haired charm, as he could be at those times when he let himself be roped into a social event."I really owe you and Elizabeth a debt of grat.i.tude," he told Nottingham. "If it weren't for you, who knows if I'd even get to see my son again before he heads home!"I recognized that as a clear signal. Now that we'd seen each other and been observed acting cordially toward each other, my job was done. I was welcome to go back to Washington anytime."Oh, I'm not going home yet, Father," I said over the back of the settee. I held up my gla.s.s of claret. "I'm grateful too, Richard. My father and I don't get to see each other enough. It's so rare to see him in such a cheerful and expansive mood."My father gave out a little laugh. "Ben is quite a character," he said. "He's come down to tell us all where we went wrong. He thinks the South ought to be able to change overnight."Richard Nottingham was glancing from my father to me, as if wondering whether this dispute was going to lead to blows among all this expensive china and crystal."I'm just hoping for a South that returns to the rule of law," I said. "I just want a place where the Ku Klux Klan is not hanging black men from every available tree." I knew that I was treading dangerously here, but I couldn't help myself."Now you're being plain ignorant," my father said. "You don't seem to remember that the Klan was outlawed about forty years ago.""I remember it very well," said Livia Winkler. "My daddy said it was the end of civilization."Senator Winkler cleared his throat. "Now, Judge, you know as well as I do that outlawing something does not guarantee that it ceases to exist," he said. "As a matter of fact, that's one of the best ways to ensure its continuing existence-to forbid it!"They glared at each other. It struck me that they'd had this argument before, when I was nowhere around. It also reminded me that there were many good men and women in the South, even here in Eudora.I was about to say something in support of Winkler when a servant girl walked in bearing a large round cake, frosted white, on a silver platter.Nottingham brightened. "Why, Lizzie, is that a hummingbird cake?""Of course it is. I had them make it just for you. Richard's going off to Jackson next week. We'll miss his birthday, but we can all celebrate tonight."Something happened then that sent an electrical jolt through my body. It was all I could do to keep from bolting upright in my seat.As she said these words to her husband, I felt Elizabeth's hand gently pat the inside of my thigh."Ben," she said, "you must try the cake."
Chapter 54.
"NO, SIR.""No, not today, Mr. Corbett.""No, sir, nothing today."Maybelle always had the same answer to the question I asked her at least once every day. First I would check the table in the front hall, then I'd convince myself that a letter had come and Maybelle was keeping it from me because she knew how anxiously I waited.I would go ask her, and she would say, "No, sir."It had been more than a week since I'd written to Meg. I'd imagined that my love had fairly leapt off the page when she read it and that she would write back immediately.That letter had not yet arrived.Meanwhile I was keeping someone else waiting: President Roosevelt expected a report on what I had found out about lynching in and around Eudora. I had spent the past two evenings on a long letter to the president that gave precise locations, right down to the species of the hanging trees. I included the names of victims and the approximate times and dates of their murders.Then I showed the letter to Abraham. He read it and said, "If it was me, I'd make it like a telegram. Short and sweet. 'Dear Mr. President, it's worse than you heard. Send the Army. Stop.' "Abraham was right. I remembered years ago at Las Guasimas when Roosevelt spoke to me for the first time. He glared down from his horse. "Do we have provisions for an overnight, Captain?""Sir, I ordered the men to double their rations and to fill their canteens-""Stop!" Roosevelt commanded. "That was a yes-or-no question.""Yes, sir," I said.And now it took Abraham to remind me of Roosevelt's fondness for a concise report."Send it to him in a wire," he said."That's a good idea. But I can't send it from Eudora."The telegraph operator in town was Harry Kelleher, who was also the stationmaster. The moment I left the depot after sending my wire to the White House, Kelleher would personally see that the contents were pa.s.sed on to every man, woman, and child in Eudora."Where can I go, Abraham?""Where's the closest place where everybody doesn't know who you are?"I thought about that. "McComb," I said.McComb was the nearest sizable town, a farm center and railroad hub ten miles north. When I was growing up, McComb was nothing but a crossroads, but when the Jackson & Northern railroad extended its line and located a terminus there, it outgrew Eudora. McComb was only an hour's carriage ride away, and it boasted Sampson's, a fine restaurant specializing in New Orleansstyle food: Creole jambalaya, grits and grillades, steak Diane.Most of all, it had something that was sure to lift my spirits. I had seen the handbill only the day before, hanging on the front wall of the Eudora Courier office.TOMORROW! ONE NIGHT ONLY!THE INIMITABLE AUTHOR, SATIRIST, & RACONTEURMR. SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS,WHO MAY DECIDE TO APPEAR ALONGSIDEMR. MARK TWAINDOORS OPEN AT 7 O'CLOCKTHE TROUBLE TO BEGIN AT 8 O'CLOCKMCCOMB CITY LYRIC THEATREMy favorite author in the world was just a carriage ride away.And then another thought struck me. I didn't have a carriage, but I knew someone who did.
Chapter 55.
WHEN I PUSHED my carefully composed telegram across the desk to the man behind the barred window at the McComb depot, his eyes bugged. "I ain't never sent a wire to the White House before," he said in a loud voice.A few people waiting for the next train turned their heads to give me an appraising glance.I smiled at the man. "Neither have I," I said gently. "Could you please keep it down?""I sent one to the president of Ole Miss one time," he bellowed, "but that ain't the same thing. You mean for this to go to the real president, in the White House, up in Washington?""That's the one," I said.I would have to tell Abraham that his idea of coming to McComb for anonymity had failed. I wondered whether there was anyplace in the state of Mississippi from which you could dispatch a wire to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue without causing a fuss."Yes, sir," the man was saying, "one time I sent one to Governor Vardaman, and there was this other time a fellow wanted to send one-""I'm glad you and I could make history together," I said. "Could you send it right away?""Soon as the station agent comes back from his break," he said.I forced myself to remember that I was down South, where everything operated on Mississippi time, a slower pace than in other places. After the man's break would be soon enough.I hurried out to Elizabeth's carriage, where she sat surveying the panorama of McComb.Half the town had burned to the ground just a few years before, but a st.u.r.dy new town had already been put up to replace it. At one end of the business district stood a fine new depot and the famous McComb Ice Plant, which iced down thousands of train cars full of southern fruits and vegetables for the trip north.All the way at the other end of downtown, on Broadway Street, stood the only other building that really interested me-the Lyric Theatre, where Twain would perform tonight.First we repaired to Sampson's, where I ordered crab gumbo and Elizabeth ordered-what else?-turtle soup. We chatted and relived old times throughout the Pompano en Papillote and the Snapper Almondine, the bread pudding and the egg custard. It was the finest meal, and dining companion, I'd had since returning to the South.With a rare sense of satisfaction, Elizabeth and I strolled down the new sidewalks of Front Street to the theater. Men in waistcoats and women in fancy crinolines were milling about the entrance, and I couldn't wait to go in."You look like a child on Christmas morning," Elizabeth said and laughed merrily.I lifted my hat to the man I'd engaged to water our horse and keep an eye on the carriage. "It's better than that," I said. "Christmas comes once a year. But Mark Twain comes once in a lifetime."
Chapter 56.
LET ME PUT THIS SIMPLY. Mark Twain remains to this day the funniest, most intelligent and entertaining person I ever saw on any stage or read in any book.By then he was an old man, over seventy, but he wore his famous white suit, smoked his famous cigar, and constantly ran his long fingers through his famously unruly hair. His voice was as raspy as an old barn door. He sounded at all times as if he were about ten seconds away from erupting in a violent rage."Nothing needs reforming," he said by way of beginning, "so much as other people's habits."The audience roared in recognition of a universal truth."Best forget about the animals. Man is the only one with the true religion..."The audience waited. Sure enough, the rest of the sentence arrived with perfect timing."Yep... several of them."He was amusing, biting, sarcastic, ferocious, and bitter in his repudiation of nearly everything and everyone. Elizabeth laughed as hard as I did-harder sometimes. I kept sneaking glances at her: shoulders shaking, handkerchief pressed to her mouth. I was happy she was having such a good time.I was no author, no satirist, no raconteur, but I did know that the humor of this man Clemens was different. Besides being funny, every word he spoke was the absolute truth. The bigger the lies he pretended to tell, the more truthful the stories became.When he talked about his struggles with trying to give up whiskey and his beloved cigars, we all laughed because we had struggles of our own, and he helped us see that they were ridiculous.When he read from his book Huckleberry Finn, a pa.s.sage in which Huck is bemoaning the fancy clothes the Widow Douglas has forced him to wear, we laughed because someone had once forced us into Sunday clothes too.Occasionally Twain landed with both feet in an area that made this audience a little restless, as when he said:"We had slavery when I was a boy. There was nothing wrong with slavery. The local pulpit told us G.o.d approved of it. If there were pa.s.sages in the Bible that disapproved of slavery, they were not read aloud by the pastors."Twain paused. He looked deadly serious. I saw men shifting in their seats."I wonder how they could be so dishonest..."Another long pause. And then: "Result of practice, I guess."The laughter came, and I saw Elizabeth dab at her eyes.After more than an hour of effervescent brilliance, it became clear that Twain was exhausted, clinging to the podium. A man pushed an armchair in from the wings, and Twain asked our permission to sit down.He sat down and lit a cigar, which drew another round of applause.He was finishing up. When he spoke this time, I felt he was speaking directly to me."There's a question I'm interested in," he said. " You-all might have an opinion on this. Why does a crowd of people stand by, smitten to the heart and miserable, and by ostentatious outward signs pretend to enjoy a lynching?"The room fell so quiet you could hear the nervous cough of one man at the back."Why does the crowd lift no hand or voice in protest?" Twain said. "Only because it would be unpopular to do it, I think. Each man is afraid of his neighbor's disapproval-a thing which, to the general run of the race, is more dreaded than wounds and death."Still the audience sat rapt, unmoving."When there is to be a lynching, the people hitch up and come miles to see it, bringing their wives and children," he said. "Really to see it? No-they come only because they are afraid to stay at home, lest it be noticed and offensively commented upon."No mob has any sand in the presence of a man known to be splendidly brave. When I was a boy, I saw a brave gentleman deride and insult a mob, and drive it away."This would lead one to think that perhaps the remedy for lynchings is to station a brave man in each affected community. But where shall these brave men be found? That is indeed a difficulty. There are not three hundred of them on the earth."That's exactly what Mark Twain said that night. I looked around and saw almost everyone in that audience nodding their heads, as if they all agreed.
Chapter 57.
APPARENTLY ELIZABETH'S CARRIAGE HORSE had never encountered an automobile before, at least not after sundown, and not in such profusion.With all the sputtering and clanging and light-flashing and honking in the streets around the Lyric Theatre, the frightened old horse bucked and snapped at the air. It took some fancy rein work to get us safely back on the road to Eudora.The trip home made the trouble worthwhile. The stir of a breeze in the sultry night. A fat full moon that seemed stained yellow around its edges."I saw Charley's Aunt in that theater," Elizabeth said. "I saw Maude Adams in Jackson when she came through as Peter Pan. And they were both wonderful. But they didn't touch my heart the way Mr. Twain did. Or make me laugh until there were tears.""It's a very special evening," I said. "Couldn't have been any better."I waited. She didn't answer."It is," she finally said. "It's very special to me too."These last words caught in her throat. I glanced at her: even in the faint moonlight, I could see the shine of tears in her eyes."What's the matter?" I asked."Oh, you know what it is, Ben," she said. "I should be riding home with Richard. I should be sharing memories of Mark Twain with him. I should be in love... with Richard."I knew what I wanted to do then. I wanted to tell Elizabeth my own troubles, Meg's and mine, tell her how lonely I felt, how devastated when Meg proposed (by letter, no less!) that we put an end to our marriage.Instead, I drove along in silence. The breeze disappeared, and the moon went behind a cloud."Why did you ask me to go with you tonight?" she said."I thought you would enjoy it," I said. "And I guess I've been... lonely.""Oh, Ben," she said. "Oh, Ben." Then she took my hand in hers, and held it for a long moment.We were riding past the town limits sign now. It was late; Commerce Street was deserted. The clip-clop of the horse's hooves echoed off the storefronts.I finally pulled to a stop in front of the Nottingham home. I clicked open my watch. "Ten minutes till midnight," I said. "Very respectable.""Respectable," she said with a little smile. "That is one thing you are. It's a good thing, Ben."I walked her to the yellow door flanked by a pair of flickering gaslights."Thank you for a beautiful evening," she said. She pressed her lips to mine, her body soft against mine. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, but for those seconds, I was lost."Ben, do you want to come inside?" Elizabeth said in a whisper."I do," I whispered back. "I most certainly do. But I can't."Then Elizabeth disappeared inside her house, and I went back to Maybelle's. I had never felt more alone in my life.
Chapter 58.
I WAS STILL WAITING for an answer from the White House. Maybe my telegram had been too concise? Too curt or disrespectful to send to the president? Maybe Roosevelt had forgotten about me?I walked downtown to get out of the rooming house, to do something other than wait. Pretty much every human being within ten miles came to town on Sat.u.r.day. For a few hours in the morning, the sidewalks of Eudora buzzed with the activity of a much larger town.I was standing in front of the Purina feed and seed, discussing the weather with Mr. Baker, when I saw an old lady and her grown daughter hurrying along the sidewalk toward us, as if getting away from something."I don't care what anyone says," the younger woman said as they pa.s.sed, "they are human beings too. It isn't right! Those boys are acting like heathens!"Mr. Baker and I tipped our hats, but the ladies failed to notice us.I excused myself and walked up Maple Street, around the corner where they had appeared. What I saw made my heart drop.Three white men, maybe my age, were holding the heads of two black boys under the surface of the horse trough in front of Jenkins' Mercantile.They were drowning those boys. It scared me how long they were submerged after I came around the corner and saw them. Then, as if on cue, they were yanked up from the water. They spluttered out a desperate heaving breath, and then their heads were plunged into the water again.Those boys were just kids-twelve or thirteen at the most.When their heads came up out of the water again, they cried and begged the men to please let them go."Whatsa matter, you thought them white ladies was gonna save you?"Their heads went back under.I remembered the closing words of Mr. Clemens's address: "Where shall these brave men be found? There are not three hundred of them on the earth."I took three long strides forward. "What's going on here? Let 'em up. Do it now."The white men whirled around. In their surprise, they jerked the heads of their victims clear of the water. The boy on the left used the moment to make his escape, but the largest man tightened his grip on the other boy's arm.He was a mean-looking fat man with red hair, bulging muscles, and a tooth missing in front. "These n.i.g.g.e.rs was sa.s.sing us," he said."Turn him loose," I said."s.h.i.t, no.""He's about twelve years old," I said. "You men are grown. And three of you against two little boys?""Why don't you mind your own d.a.m.n bidness," said the second man, who had a greasy head of black hair and a face that even his mother could not have loved much. "These n.i.g.g.e.r boys was out of line. We don't allow that in this town.""I'm from this town too," I said. "My father's a judge here. Let him go."I guess I sounded just official enough for Big Red to relax his grip. The black boy took off like a shot."Look what we got here, men," said Red then. "A genuine n.i.g.g.e.r-lover."Without warning he charged and struck me full force with the weight of his body. I went flying.
Chapter 59.
I WAS SLAMMED DOWN on the hard dirt street, and before I could catch my breath Red jumped on top of me."Reckon I'll have to teach you how to mind your own business."I was trying to figure a way out of this. I had once watched Bob Fitzsimmons demolish an opponent with a third-round knockout. That was one way to do it. But there was another way to win a fight.I reached up and pressed my thumbs into the soft, unprotected flesh of the fat man's throat. I got my leverage, then slung him off me, right over my head. Red landed face-first in the dirt and scuffed up his lip. Blood was coming out of his nose too.I jumped to my feet and his buddies charged at me. The first ran hard into a right uppercut. He dropped like a rock and was out cold in the street.Now there were two dazed bullies down, but the third got behind me and jumped on my back. He started pounding his fists into my ribs.I knew there was a thick wooden post supporting the gallery in front of Jenkins' Mercantile, so I leaned all my weight into the man, propelling us backward, smashing him right into it. His arms unraveled from my neck and he lay on the ground twitching. He'd hit that post pretty hard, maybe cracked a couple of ribs."n.i.g.g.e.r-lover," he spat, but then he struggled up and started to run. So did the other two.It was quiet again, the street empty.Well, almost empty.
Chapter 60.