Standing at the Scratch Line Page 2

  As soon as he rounded the first turn in the slough, three hundred yards from its entrance, he released the pressure in the boiler and cut the engine. Then he went to check on his uncle. Jake was unconscious and breathing shallow breaths. LeRoi attempted to make him as comfortable as possible and put a bundle of clothing under his head. He picked up a long stout pole, which all bayou boats carried, and began poling the Sea Horse slowly along. He didn’t want the noise of the steam engine to give away his position. He knew that within half a mile a larger waterway intersected and he would be able to start the steam engine again. Soon the trees overhanging the water created a dense canopy that cut the light and gave the impression of a long, winding tunnel. The fog grew progressively thinner as LeRoi pushed the Sea Horse further along the slough.

  It was hard work, but LeRoi poled the boat steadily, changing sides to keep the craft in the center of the slough. He refused to quit. He felt that if he could just get his uncle home alive, perhaps there was a chance. There were other things to think about. He and his Uncle Jake had created a problem for the family because white men had been killed. If it had been only DuMonts that had been killed, there would have been no problem. No one would have even investigated their death. It was different when colored men killed whites, particularly sheriff’s men.

  LeRoi did not waste a moment of sorrow for the men he killed. It was not a moral question for him; it was what he had been raised to do. His family had been feuding with the DuMonts for generations. Before he was ten years old, LeRoi had seen his father and two older brothers killed during a DuMont raid on the Tremains’ corn liquor still. It was a memory that remained close to the surface. He would have been killed as well if he had not hidden in the surrounding underbrush. From that day on, he couldn’t wait to go out and spill DuMont blood. As far as he was concerned, death was a natural consequence for those who were not careful or alert. His only concern about killing whites was the heat that it might bring down on his family.

  LeRoi, large and unusually muscular for his age, took part in his first raid against the DuMonts when he was fourteen years old. During that raid he became what his uncle called “blooded” because he killed his first man. On his next raid, he was blooded again, but he was given greater respect for pulling an injured cousin to safety while under fire. The Sea Horse, rifles, and ammunition represented the booty from his fifth raid on the DuMonts and he was not yet eighteen years old.

  LeRoi stopped poling and checked on his uncle, only to find that Jake was dead. He had passed away without returning to consciousness. The blood from his wound had stopped pulsing out of his body and was congealing on the deck. Jake’s face had the look of serenity. If it wasn’t for the coldness of his skin and the lack of respiratory movement, he could have been mistaken for being asleep. But he was not asleep, he was dead, and no amount of praying would bring him back.

  Uncle Jake had taken him under his wing and had served as a surrogate father after LeRoi’s own father had been killed. LeRoi felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He dropped to his knees, fighting back tears, and cupped his face in his hands. It seemed that nearly everyone that he cared for was being snatched from him. It seemed like a punishment to him.

  The Sea Horse scraped bottom and jerked to a halt. LeRoi slipped listlessly into the water, which was barely four feet deep, and checked for the obstruction. A log had been laid across the creek and embedded into the bank on both sides, one of the logs his family had planted to prevent large boats from using the slough. By rocking the Sea Horse up and down, he was able to jockey the boat over the log with only a few serious scrapes.

  LeRoi had no words for the sadness he felt as he got back into the boat. He had only formless emotions, which brought the taste of bile into his mouth. He picked up the pole, took a deep breath, and stuck it back into the water; shoving hard, he propelled the Sea Horse on down the slough. He could not have said that he loved his uncle, for he had never used that word in relationship to himself, but he felt the agony of loss. And as with all such negative feelings for which he had no words, LeRoi had to distill them into something purer—like anger or hatred—in order to understand them. He burned with a hatred that was beyond his years. He now had a greater debt to repay the DuMonts, one he would never forget.

  He remembered a story one of his Sunday-school teachers had told. It was about how when each person is born, he starts off as a blank page, and with the passing of each day, more of his life is written on the page. People died when there was no more room on the page to write. He had felt then, and he felt now, if he had ever started off as a blank page, it was no longer true. He felt like his page was already filling up with little mean words about loneliness, pain, and disappointment. There didn’t appear to be room on his page for words about happiness or joy.

  S A T U R D A Y, M A R C H 1 8, 1 9 1 6

  The funeral for Jake Tremain was held the weekend following his death. He was laid to rest in the family graveyard, which was located on a small hill behind the main house, the highest ground on the Tremain farm. The event was not attended by anyone outside immediate family and friends, but there were still almost seventy-five people. All the blood relatives were there, including LeRoi’s crippled great uncle, who was the unchallenged head of the family.

  The mood was particularly somber because Jake Tremain was popular, but there was also something else in the air, something undefinable. LeRoi felt it in the stares he received and in the way people stopped talking when he walked past. Everyone knew that white men had been killed and there was concern and worry etched on the faces of the women. The men acknowledged him with curt nods and somber looks. No one came to stand next to him. As the preacher said the last words over the coffin, LeRoi stood off to the side by himself.

  After the service, food was served. LeRoi was just finishing a plate of fried catfish and corn pone when one of his younger cousins came up to him and told him that his great-uncle wanted to see him back at the barn. A chill went through him, for the barn was the traditional place of family celebrations or family meetings whenever something terrible had happened. No one had to tell him this was not a time of celebration.

  It was a large wooden structure that contained a hayloft and had a fence dividing the ground floor. On one side of the fence sick animals were kept, and the other side was used primarily for storage of farm staples like grain and feed. When LeRoi walked in, he saw that all the adult men of the Tremain family were standing around his great-uncle, Henry Tremain, who was sitting on a milking stool. All conversation stopped as he walked up to Papa Henry, as the old man was called. LeRoi looked around at the solemn faces and saw few smiles. His skill with weapons had earned him grudging respect, but his youthful arrogance was not appreciated.

  “You call me, Papa Henry?” he asked, trying to control the beating of his heart.

  His grandfather had light, reddish brown skin and gray, wavy hair; his eyes were dark, and glinted like coals—the combined evidence of his African and Choctaw ancestry. “We got us a problem, son,” the old man spoke slowly. “The sheriff knows you was in on the killin’ of them deputies. Those DuMont dogs went yappin’ to him as soon as they heard about your arrows. Now, the sheriff wants to come on our land lookin’ for you. He gon’ try to come with a big posse and we can’t have that.”

  “What can we do about it, Papa Henry?” LeRoi asked. His face appeared unconcerned, but fear was knotting his stomach.

  “Well, we been talkin’ and talkin’ and the best way, I think,” Papa Henry paused before continuing, “is for you to leave the area for a while.”

  “What’s a while, Papa?” LeRoi had only been to New Orleans a few times. Other than that, he had never left the rolling hills and swampland that surrounded his family’s farm.

  “A couple years at least, maybe more. We got to let this whole thing die down a little taste, before I can tell you when you can come back.”

  LeRoi stared down at the hard-packed earthen floor of the barn and shook his head. He had grown up within a network of aunts, uncles, and cousins. He had never been alone. “It ain’t fair that I got to leave. I only did what Uncle Jake told me to. You hid LeMar for almost two years and he killed some white folk. How come you can’t do that for me? How come I got to go?”

  “First thing is LeMar didn’t kill no deputies, and second thing is, he didn’t take nothin’ from the pirates. He just killed some swamp trash. You done killed both John Law and some pirates. We gon’ be pretty hard-pressed between the two: the badge on one side and them seafaring thieves on the other.”

  “What happens to my daddy’s farm? Mama can’t work it without me.”

  “That’s one of the prime lots. Maybe it’s time to give Clara and Benjamin a chance at farmin’ it. I think your mama needs to move into the main house where she can be safe.”

  “Nobody is takin’ my daddy’s farm! It’s mine by rights. Every year me and Mama worked hard gettin’ the crops in. Ain’t nobody come out to help us except Uncle Jake.”

  There was an angry murmur from the men standing around Papa Henry. They were incensed that LeRoi would dare challenge the head of the family’s decision.

  The old man waved everyone to silence. “Ain’t nobody in this family own any land but me. I say who lives where and for how long. Now, as long as you my blood, you got a home and some land. It may not be the parcel your daddy worked, but it will feed your family when you get one in the future. Hear me, boy, ain’t nobody gon’ steal nothin’ from you. Jes’ do what I’m askin’ you to do.”

  LeRoi realized that it was no good arguing. It would just set everyone against him. “What you want me to do, Papa?”

  “There is a freight train carrying colored soldiers passing north of here around four-thirty in t
he morning. It’ll be stopping to take on water by Dead Man’s Slough. You can board the caboose, ’cause Bodeen Walker, your mother’s cousin, is the head porter. He’ll help hide you until you’re out of Louisiana. From there you on your own.”

  LeRoi shook his head. “That’s it? I don’t get no money or nothin’? All you care about is that I’m gone? What about the Sea Horse and them guns?”

  “ ’Course we’ll give you some travelin’ money,” Papa Henry replied. “We thought maybe you would decide to join the army, then your board and lodgin’ would be taken care of for a couple years. Ain’t no doubt you old enough.”

  “I’ll go, Papa,” LeRoi said sadly. The tension in the room disappeared. Some of the men began to talk among themselves, but LeRoi’s next words caused the room to fall silent. “I’ll go now, but when I come back, I takin’ over my daddy’s farm. I don’t care who’s livin’ there. I swear on the blood of my father, I’ll kill the man that stands in my way.” LeRoi turned to leave the barn, but a voice made him turn back.

  “Damn shame you didn’t have brains enough to collect all of your arrows before you ran away.”

  LeRoi turned to face the speaker. He wasn’t a Tremain. He was Benjamin Willets and he was married to LeRoi’s Aunt Clara. “Why you talkin’? You ain’t a Tremain!”

  The man had been whittling a piece of wood with a hunting knife and he pointed the knife at LeRoi.

  “You ain’t got enough respect for your elders! If’en you don’t watch your mouth, somebody gon’ have to teach you respect,” he said.

  LeRoi pulled out his bowie from its sheath. “Why don’t you come on and teach me some respect?” LeRoi asked. The men around him began edging away from Benjamin. Everyone knew of LeRoi’s ability to throw a knife with either hand.

  “Ain’t no reason for us to start fightin’ among ourselves, is there?” Papa Henry asked angrily. “In a few days we gon’ have more enemies ’round than we can shake a stick at. We gon’ need every man we got.” The old man’s words silenced the grumbling around him. He turned his dark eyes on LeRoi. “We’ll give you travelin’ money, boy, and we gon’ see to yo’ mother. She ain’t gon’ want for nothin’.”

  LeRoi nodded his head grudgingly and controlled his anger, but in his heart he felt that his family was giving him a raw deal. He was being forced to leave everything he knew. He felt abandoned. The protective shell and numerical strength was being stripped away. Now he would have to face the world alone. He knew that if his father or Uncle Jake were still alive, there would be a different solution to this problem.

  “Just remember,” LeRoi advised the assembly through gritted teeth. “If I have to come through hellfire, I’ll be back!” Without another word, he left the barn.

  S U N D A Y, M A R C H 1 9, 1 9 1 6

  The sky was dark and the stars were twinkling when the Arkansas Shuttle gathered steam and pulled away from Dead Man’s Slough. In the early morning darkness, the smoke billowing out of the train’s smokestack looked blue, and the light above the engine’s cowcatcher made the tracks in front glisten like parallel ribbons of silver in the distance.

  LeRoi sat on Captain Sam Mack’s favorite mare atop Beaumont Ridge, watching the train follow the contours of the rolling hills. The mare was extremely high-strung and the train’s whistle made her boggle and rear up. Easily maintaining his seat, LeRoi soothed her with caresses and calm words.

  Early the previous evening he had slipped into the forests surrounding the Tremain farm and made his way to Nellum’s Crossing. Since he thought his family had forsaken him, LeRoi’s pride would not allow him to accept anything from them. He went fifteen miles on foot to the only man he knew would help. He went to Captain Sam Mack. Since their youth, LeRoi’s father and Sam Mack had a bond that was stronger than blood and it defied the custom and mores of the time. It did not matter that Mack was white. He had been present at LeRoi’s birth, as LeRoi’s father had been present at the births of Mack’s two sons. To LeRoi, they were family. Although he arrived at the house long past dinner, he was fed a good meal, given fifty dollars’ traveling money, and sent off with the mare and a hug from Mack’s wife.

  Beaumont Ridge was a huge fold in the earth that curved around for about fifteen miles and ended just after Shannon Junction. With a light kick, he urged the mare into a cantering gallop and rode along the slope of the ridge. It was his intent to get on board the train after it had passed the junction. His Uncle Jake had told him that if he ever had to escape the law by train, he shouldn’t board it until it had left the parish; that way he was beyond the jurisdiction of local law enforcement.

  The junction consisted of a flat open area with several large storage sheds, a small train depot, and a large dock that jutted into a wide man-made canal. It had been built for transferring shipments of cargo from trains to riverboats and barges. Normally, the depot was attended by a freight master and a couple of colored stevedores. This morning was different. There were about twenty armed white horsemen milling around the depot. Even from this distance, he could see shiny reflections on their chests. It was not difficult for him to conclude that these men were deputies and that the badges were the source of the reflections.

  By the time LeRoi rode his mare through the trees and underbrush along the ridge to a spot overlooking Shannon Junction, the train was already there. Streaks of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky. Guiding the mare into a stand of small trees, he watched. The posse made everyone who had been a passenger in the caboose stand out on the platform. From where he sat, LeRoi could see there were three colored men who were receiving some rough handling from members of the posse. One of the colored men was being beaten with riding crops. He was lying on the ground in a fetal position while his tormentors stood around him in a circle, swinging their heavy crops at his head and shoulders. Suddenly, colored soldiers with rifles began pouring out of the train. Soon the horsemen were surrounded by a sea of black and brown faces in green khaki.

  LeRoi saw a large brown-skinned man lift his arm and all the colored soldiers lifted their rifles and pointed them at the posse, whose leader walked to his horse and mounted. His deputies followed suit. They then rode single file through the throng of colored soldiers.

  LeRoi nodded his head in approval. Maybe being a soldier wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It looked like men in the army stuck together and helped one another. His heart was heavy. He was about to leave everything he knew and cared about for the unknown. As he rode on to Sycamore Bridge, where he planned to board the train, he made up his mind to enlist.

  He recalled how his mother had tried to get him to go to church before he left, mouthing words about hell and damnation. Her eyes filled with tears as she told him to memorize the Ten Commandments. She was a weak and broken-spirited woman who had no effect on him. It was strange, he felt almost no love for her, and saying good-bye to her was nearly painless.

  The most intense emotion he felt was the desire for the warmth and security that a strong family could provide. LeRoi had a clan mentality. All his life he had lived in an environment of strong blood ties. He was a product of the interweaving web of an extended family. He had no concept of national patriotism or regional allegiance. The only loyalty he had ever known was to his family. He swore to himself that one day he would be the head of his own family. It would be a new branch of the Tremains and it would dominate all the others. This thought was to be a driving force in his life, powered by a deep reservoir of indignation and pain.

  T H U R S D A Y, D E C E M B E R 2 7, 1 9 1 7

  The snow fell in big, soft clumps, blanketing the landscape. LeRoi looked out of the bunker, down the hill to where the main military encampment sprawled in a small valley. The pristine cover of white made the orderly row of canvas tents look almost inviting. But LeRoi knew that under the virgin white snow was mud deep enough to stall a tank. The officer who had directed that the camp be built in the valley hadn’t thought about drainage, and now it had been snowing steadily for nearly two days. When the snow melted the camp was going to be in the middle of a river. Beyond the valley in which the camp lay was a row of jutting snowcapped mountains, a high crystalline mass rising to Mont Blanc.