The Preacher's Marsh Page 8

  Even a blasphemy of the likes of interracial marriage could only hold their interest for long, however, and eventually it became a thing in the back of their minds, half-forgotten, but there just the same and ready to flare up at a moment’s notice.

  Gideon and Desdemona added on to his ramshackle church and built up the shack out in back until it almost resembled a city house. Gideon taught, and ex slaves from surrounding camps began to come around to hear him, and to learn. The camp grew, and though they didn’t like having a social gathering of ex slaves on their property, the Popes found that they had no lack of labor when it came time for planting, or harvest, and that they had no trouble from the small community in the woods, so long as they let things alone, which they mostly did.

  After the first year of their marriage, Desdemona gave birth to a son, and in the second year, a daughter followed. The boy was named Gideon, after his father, and the girl was Gwendolyn. Both grew quickly, tall, strong, and light-skinned with their mother’s dark beauty.

  The two had children in and out of their home at all times. Elijah was like a son to them, and Sarah grew up to be a silent beauty. She still said nothing, and though Desdemona’s casting of the bones predicted she would have great things to pass on, she showed no inclination to do so.

  Things seemed to be easing up in town, as well. By the year 1887, Negro families could be found shopping from the street markets and buying some of their groceries from the Walz’s store. Their presence was always met with disapproving stares, and sullen glares traced their movement through town until they were out and on their way, but there was no real trouble. Sheriff Hawkins had retired, and a younger man, Joe Thomas, had taken over. Thomas had come in with his family from the North, and had no love for farming. He took over the local law enforcement, a job no one but Hawkins had the stomach for, and while he kept the peace, he didn’t share Hawkins’ iron hand, or deep-rooted prejudice.

  It might have gone on this way, growing calmer as the years passed and the old generations fell away. In many other towns, in many other places, this was the case. The prejudice was there, deeply routed, and passed from mother to daughter and father to son with the government, church, and founding fathers putting on their separate shows of good will while turning their faces from the inequality all around them.

  Things were much the same across the south, less so in the cities, and more like the old days on the farms and rural areas, with a trapping of change tacked on in front like the set of a bad play. Old Mill was no better, or worse than other places. There were bad apples in the mix, and just like anywhere else in the world, there were times when the wrong people crossed paths at the wrong time.

  Gideon educated his children carefully. He wanted better things for them than working the Pope cotton fields, and he wanted them to be able to function in society when they moved north. He talked of it often, and though she clung to her children, Desdemona knew he was right. There was nothing for the next generation in their ramshackle village. She could never leave – they depended on her for healing, and for the rites and mysteries that her husband could not, or would not embrace, despite the truce the two had made over the years.

  For once, it was the aged Reverend Cumby, so old that he had to be helped to the pulpit on Sundays, who foretold the tragedy most clearly, though it was nothing different than he’d predicted a thousand times before, year after year as his heart grew old and bitter and the fire and brimstone he spewed week after week finally charred what heart he’d had to start with.

  “No good will come,” he cried, “from the union of a man and woman of different race. That we allow such a thing on the very edge of our town is a tragedy. That we do nothing to set things right is a sin. No good will come of it, for it is an abomination.”

  No one paid any attention to the good reverend. It had been a long time since his fiery harangues had brought the heavy weight of guilt down on the heads of his congregation. The world was moving on, and he refused to step on for the ride, but this one time – this one last time, he saw clearly.

  Young Gideon came to town once a week to shop for his mother. Usually his father or Elijah accompanied him – there was safety in numbers, and though there’d not been any real trouble in many years, it paid to remain cautious. One day in June of 1898, he went alone. It was a hot day, the sun beating down on the fields, and planting was in full swing. Gideon would have been in the fields, but his mother needed some things, and the best – the safest, they all believed – time for a single black man to walk alone into Old Mill was during a weekday when the men were working in the fields, and as few as possible would see him.

  Gideon passes as often for not as a young white man. If you didn’t look too close at his close-cropped hair, or the exotic tilt of his eyes, which were gifts from his mother, you could miss his race entirely. His skin was nearly as light as his father’s, and his clothing was clean and mended. Everyone in Old Mill knew him, of course. They knew his father, or knew of him, and his mother. Gideon and his father were a part of local legend, the preacher beaten and left for dead in the cotton, rising to build a church in the swamp and marry a colored witch.

  No one knew how to react to Gideon, so in most cases they chose not to react at all. He made it into town without a problem, and stepped into Walz' General Store with his hat in his hand and a smile on his face.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Walz,” he said.

  The man who glanced up was Stanley Walz, Devon’s son. Stan had been running the family business for nearly a decade. He frowned when he saw who had entered the store, but he remained civil.

  “Afternoon. What can I get you?”

  “I need a pound of corn, a bag of sugar, and some flour,” he said. “Got the money right here.”

  The townsfolk regularly ran credit at Walz', but the freedmen were expected to pay cash.

  Walz nodded.

  “Right with you,” he said. He leaned his broom against the wall and quickly packed the items Gideon had requested. He didn’t want the boy in his store any longer than absolutely necessary. He didn’t want others to see the two of them talking, or to get the wrong impression about how close they were. More than that, he didn’t want his father to wander up from the diner on the corner and see him serving a colored man. It would mean another fight, and probably another telling of the old story about that long ago night in the sheriff’s barn.

  “I thank you,” Gideon said.

  “You’re welcome to what you can pay for,” Stan replied grudgingly.

  Moments later, Gideon was walking down the sidewalk toward the edge of town. There was no one in sight, and that suited him fine. He wasn’t really intimidated by the city folk, but he wasn’t comfortable around them either. The way they stared at him, and the stories he knew they whispered as he passed itched at the back of his mind. Even when he couldn’t hear them, it made him angry. He hated the way he was treated, and hated the way his father – a man of God – was shunned by these supposedly civilized men and women. It wasn’t something he talked about, because no one in the town would have listened, and anyone in the camp he might have confided in, with the possible exception of Elijah, who felt the same, would have lectured him on biding his time, turning the other cheek, and studying so he could find a better life for himself. Somewhere else. Somewhere without his family, or the home he’d grown up in, or his father’s church.

  He kept his head down and walked quickly, and he made it to the Pope cotton fields without being noticed. Out across the field, he saw his friends and neighbors, his mother and even his father. Their backs were bent to the work, sowing the seeds that would become the next crop, all of which would be handed over for a pittance to men who didn’t care about them at all. To men who would as soon kick them into a ditch or run them down with their horses as say hello.

  Most days he paid close attention, particularly when he was out in the fields alone. He had brought the avoidance of the Popes to the level of an art form, but this particular day he
was distracted. He had spent all of his concentration making it in and out of Old Mill without being seen. He let down his guard too soon and halfway across the last cotton field that separated him from home, he heard running footsteps. Even then, he didn’t react. If he’d started running then he might have made it to the line of trees, and the path beyond. Some of the others would be there, there was always someone taking a short rest or getting a drink.

  But he didn’t run, and he didn’t turn, until it was too late, and when he finally realized that the footsteps were dead on his trail, it was too late. He turned, and he stood staring at the red, blustery face of Bartholomew Pope. The boy was nearly a head taller than Gideon, and much broader. He had his own father’s shoulders, and his tousled hair stuck out at odd angles, as though it had never been touched by a comb or a brush.

  Of all the Popes, Bartholomew, “Bart,” to his brother and their family, was the worst. Isaiah was nearly consumed with the farm now, married himself with a son, Enoch, and another on the way. Bart was different. He spent his nights out, rarely pitching in with work and when he did, only to bully field hands, or to offer useless advice to his brother. He drank, and he rarely bathed. His eyes were set too closely together, contorting his features into an eternal sneer. All of this Gideon could have lived with. He did, in fact, live with it, but there was more.

  From a very early age, Bart Pope hated colored people. He had memorized all the standard insults by hanging out in town. He spent as much time as he could gathering stories from the old men in town, and the sons of those same old men drinking by the river. He’d said the words and laughed at the jokes for so long that they were a way of life to him. Gideon had his own theory.

  Bart wasn’t a bright boy. There was no danger that he’d ever run the farm; he was barely able to handle simple jobs, and he couldn’t be trusted around the field hands because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, his hands off the women, or his fists off the men. He’d nearly beaten Elijah’s nephew to death with a stick, and only Isaiah’s sudden arrival had saved him from being murdered in his own field, and causing the deaths of a dozen hands in retribution.

  He was trouble. That was the front and back end of it, and by the time Gideon realized it, Bart Pope had set his broad body in the cotton row that separated him from safety. Gideon looked around quickly, but there was no one close enough to see him, and even if there had been, there was nothing he could yell across that field that wouldn’t start the trouble he was desperately figuring a way to avoid.

  “What you doin’ out here all by yourself, nigger?” Bart asked. He was sweating from his short run, his shirt plastered to his shoulders and soiled. His eyes had an odd, piggish glitter that made Gideon’s stomach turn.

  “Just been to town, boss,” he said quietly. “Had to get some things for my ma.”

  “It’s funny,” Bart said, staring off over the field and trying to look thoughtful. “All these fields out here that need seedin’ and a big, strappin' nigger like you takes the day off and heads into town. That about the size of it boy? You shirking your duties?”

  Bart spat the last word.

  “I work hard,” Gideon said evenly. “Someone had to go to town. There were plenty of workers to get the seed in, and I’ll be back out there this afternoon. I got to get this home to ma, though.”

  “That right?” Pope asked. He hadn’t looked back away from the fields. He seemed to be watching the workers, but Gideon knew better. He was looking out of the corner of his eye, hoping Gideon would light out for the trees. It was what he was hoping for, an excuse to beat him, or worse. Gideon didn’t intend to offer it.

  “Yes sir,” Gideon mumbled.

  “You say something boy?” Bart asked, turning back. He didn’t move quickly. He had one hand on his hip, the thumb hooked over his belt. He appeared to be trying to imitate someone, or something, that Gideon didn’t recognize. Maybe some older man or some image he’d see from the war.

  “I said yes sir,” Gideon replied more loudly. He tried to imagine how a soldier would snap his answer to a superior. It gave him something to focus on, making it a game – not a shame. His mother had taught him that, and it had worked for him more than once. Not this time.

  Bart turned to him and smiled, and Gideon started walking. It was too late, he knew, but he tried to slip past Bart on the right, moving the small package of groceries to his own right hand to keep them as far out of reach as possible.

  Bart stepped to his left and blocked Gideon’s way.

  “I ain’t done talkin’ to you boy,” he snarled.

  “Sorry, boss,” Gideon said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I just need to get this home.”

  “I heard you the first time,” Bart said. “You got to get that package home to your swamp witch, nigger mom so she can cook up some dinner for that papa of yours, that right? The nigger lovin’ preacher? That what she used to put the spell on him, or don’t she tell you the swamp Juju?”

  “I got to get home,” Gideon repeated. He tried to slip over a row, use the furrows as a shield, and break for the woods. Bart lunged, grabbed Gideon by the arm, and swung him hard. Gideon cried out and swung his arm wide for balance. Pope was strong, too strong. He sent Gideon reeling. The package of groceries fell into the dirt, and Gideon swung his arms up to protect himself.

  “What you think, boy?” Bart grunted. “You think you can just run away from me? Ignore me? You think you don’t have to listen to me? You think you can just waltz into town and act like any white man, just because your nigger witch mom tells you it’s okay?”

  Gideon saw red. It was very sudden, and he couldn’t control it. He fought to keep his breath even. He told himself to roll into a ball, to ignore the insults, to take the beating and hope someone heard him crying out, or saw what was happening and came to his rescue. It might be bad, but Bart had never killed anyone, so far as Gideon knew. No one on the farm, anyway. He tried to let it pass, but it just wouldn’t go.

  “My mother isn’t a witch,” he said. His voice cleared, the field hand dialect falling away. His father had trained him to speak proper English, and he was proud of what he’d learned. He didn’t let on when he was in the field, and he didn’t let on when he was in town, but when he was home, he practiced. On Sundays, now and then, he read from the scripture in his father’s church. Now, as his anger drowned his sense, all pretenses fell away as well.

  Bart swung. His fist was big, and though he was slow, and Gideon saw it coming, it still caught him a glancing blow. White hot pain shot up behind his eyes, and he rolled to the left. Bart dropped then, letting his weight press down on the smaller, younger man. Trapped, Gideon lashed out.

  All the anger he’d been bottling up since the day he was born poured out of him in that instant. He screamed, and he struck. His fist plowed into Bart’s eye, driving him back and to the side. The bigger man bellowed in surprise and pain. Gideon leaped to his feet and followed. He drove the toe of his boot into Bart’s side, drew it back, and slammed it forward again. He dropped onto the man’s back and started swinging, not aiming at any particular target, just pounding away.

  Bart tried to crawl through the dirt and escape. He swung wildly, but missed with most of his shots, and the few that didn’t miss didn’t have any power. Gideon plowed through them and fought through it. They were both screaming, and it was only moments before others were running across the field. They cried out for Gideon to stop, but he didn’t hear them. They called out to Bart to run, or at least for the love of God fight back, but the big man had dropped to a broken heap in the dirt. He rolled into as small a ball as possible and grunted with each knew kick…each new blow to his head, or his ribs.

  It took three grown men to pull Gideon off, and he was a quarter of a mile away before he came to his senses – before he started to understand what he’d done, and what the consequences would be. As his mind cleared, he moved more quickly. He didn’t know where he would go, or what he would do, but he knew if he stayed close to the
fields, this might be the last day of his life.

  About five minutes after he entered the trees, Elijah stepped out of the shadows ahead of him.

  “Go to the church,” he said. “Your mother is there; your father is on his way.”

  Bowing his head to hide the sudden flood of tears, Gideon nodded and ran.

  SEVEN

  Word spread in the fields and washed across toward the plantation house like wildfire. By the time Gideon reached the church, his parents were already there, along with his younger sister. A network of others stretched out toward the fields, watching and waiting. A small delegation had been chosen, mostly older workers who’d been with the Popes since they were children. They were making their way slowly toward the plantation house. Someone had to tell Isaiah and get help for Bart, but they didn’t hurry. Others were caring for the boy – he wasn’t dead, but he was unconscious. No one wanted to be there when he woke up, but still they took care of him. Anything less would have been a death sentence for all of them.

  The clock was ticking.

  Reverend Swayne stood just inside the door of his church and stared out past the clearing into the trees, watching carefully. He knew it was too soon for any pursuit. It would be a while before Isaiah heard the news, longer before they retrieved Bart, or he staggered out of the field on his own. Then the drinking would start. Maybe they’d just come after the boy on their own, maybe they’d go to town to the doctor and come back with a posse. Whichever way it went down, it was going to be bad. Bad for the elder Gideon, bad for his son – and bad for their people.

  Desdemona hovered in the shadows at the rear of the building. Her daughter, so much like her they could have been different-aged, mirror-images of one another, stood beside her. Elijah sat with the younger Gideon on one of the plank pews. No one spoke for what seemed an eternity, and then the Reverend began to speak.