Chaneysville Incident (10 page)

“An’ let me tell you, that game was gettin’ on. The money was goin’ into the pot so fast it left holes in the air. Every one a them fellas was bettin’ like there wasn’t no tomorrow, an’ I suspected then that if Mose’d cottoned on to what they was at, there was likely not to be. They went around an’ around, an’ everybody was raisin’. The bet come to Josh an’ he raised it fifty, an’ I says to maself, Josh’s done it now; the sonofabitch is gonna call ’em an’ be mighty surprised to find out his full house don’t beat four aces an’ a king, an’ all hell’s gonna bust aloose. I give Josh one last look, but he wasn’t noticin’; his eyes was all glazed over an’ he was sweatin’ like a fountain. Wouldn’ta made no difference if I coulda warned him; the bet was down.

“Mose took his time. He looked at his cards an’ he looked at the pot, an’ then he looked at Josh an’ looked at his cards again. Finely he smiles an’ reaches out an’ picks up the jug an’ takes a long swalla. Then he looks at the other two fellas an’ says, ‘You boys like this here whiskey?’ They look at each other an’ shrugs an’ says yes, they allowed as how it was pretty fair whiskey. Josh was gettin’ antsy, an’ he says to Mose, ‘This here’s a card game, not a whiskey judgin’. Play or fold.’ Mose jest smiles an’ says that fifty was a mighty hefty raise, an’ bein’ as it was a friendly game an’ all, he jest wanted to think on it a minute. Then he looks back at the other two an’ says, ‘I’m pleased y’all like this here whiskey. I made it ma own self. Up in the mountains. Ain’t ’xactly
legal
, but it sure do beat workin’ for a livin’.’ Then he grinned at ’em, a big, wide, flashy grin, an’ the two of ’em started to catch on. Mose waits till he’s sure they got it all—an’ it wasn’t hard to tell, they turned all ashy—then he sees Josh an’ raises
him
fifty. Them other two boys jest about busted theyselves foldin’.

“But Josh, he didn’t notice a thing wrong; he jest looked at ’em like they was crazy, then he settled back, figurin’ he was gonna take all Mose’s money all by hisself. I could almost see him calculatin’ jest how far he was gonna be able to go, an’ it never oncet occurred to him that he’d already gone too far by about six mile. Or maybe six feet is a more accrate way to put it. I looked at Mose, an’ he was settin’ there jest as cool as could be, wasn’t even lookin’ at his cards, or at Josh, he was jest starin’ up at the ceilin’ an’ smilin’ a little.

“After a while Josh made up his mind how he was gonna play it an’ reaches for his money. But Mose stops him. ‘You like that there whiskey too, Mr. White?’ Mose says. Josh says, ‘It’s fine, but we’re playin’ cards here, not talkin’ whiskey.’ Mose grins at him. ‘I know that, Mr. White,’ he says, ‘I know that. I jest thought I’d mention this here: that likker is so smooth it has a way a sneakin’ right on by folks that don’t see how strong it is. See, most folks, they think it’s plain old country white lightnin’. But it ain’t. No, sir. This here is a special ressipy handed down from ma old granddaddy, an’ what it is, it’s
Black
Lightnin’. He called it that on accounta it was made by a colored man, an’ a colored man’s whiskey is mighty special.’

“Well, you couldn’t say the man wasn’t given no warnin’. But Josh, he jest sniffs an’ I swear, ’stead a foldin’ like a man that knowed what he was up against, he reaches down an’ shoves another fifty into the pot, an’ I thought, sweet Jesus, the crazy fool’s callin’ the man. But Josh was even craziern I thought, ’cause he says, ‘I’ll see your fifty an’ raise you,’ an’ he shoves another fifty in.

“Now, by this time everybody else knowed who Mose was, an’ was figurin’ which way to duck when the poop started flyin’. But Mose jest looks at Josh an’ shakes his head real slow an’ sad like, an’ then he says, ‘I hate to do this here. I really do. Tell me, Mr. White, you happen to be a married man?’ Josh stares at him. ‘Married? What the hell’s that got to do with a card game?’ Mose grins an’ says, ‘I was jest wonderin’ if you had anybody that was countin’ on you for their keep.’ ‘Hell, no,’ Josh says. ‘No wife?’ says Mose. ‘No widowed mother? No crippled-up father? No woman? No gang a little bastards that calls you Daddy?’ Josh was fit to be tied. ‘Hell, no,’ he says. He leans across the table an’ he gets his face as close as he can to Mose’s face, an’ he says, ‘Now, for the last Goddamn time, you quit this cacklin’ an’ you bet or fold, mister—’ An’ that took the wind outa his little speech some, ’cause they’d been so busy figurin’ out how to take Mose’s money away they hadn’t even stopped to ast his name. But Mose took him off the hook. He grins real wide an’ he says, ‘The name is Washington, Mr. White, Moses Washington. An’ I promise you I’ll be bettin’ in a minute here.’ An’ with that he made a show a studyin’ his cards.

“Not that Josh was noticin’. He was too busy chokin’. He choked for ’bout ten seconds, bein’ real quiet about it, but chokin’ all the same. But I’ll say this for him: he set there. Never moved a muscle. There was sweat on his forehead but his hands was steady as rocks. After a while Mose looks up an’ says, ‘You sure you ain’t got nobody dependin’ on you, Mr. White?’ Josh looks at him, knowin’ it was a way out. ‘No, sir, Mr. Washington,’ he says, ‘there ain’t nobody.’ An’ I tell you, Josh could be mighty greedy, an’ sometimes he was meanern hell, but right then I was proud a him, ’cause he sure wasn’t no coward. Course, he was still gonna get his butt kilt. ‘Nobody?’ Mose says. ‘Not even a dog?’ Well, everybody in the County knowed ’bout Josh’s dogs. But Josh says, ‘I got a couple dogs. But that ain’t got nothin’ to do with this here poker game.’ An’ he looked Mose right straight in the eye. ‘Yes, sir,’ Mose says, ‘yes, sir, you’re right about that. But I must say, knowin’ there ain’t nobody dependin’ on you makes it a lot easier for me to do what I guess I got to do.’ An’ everybody was expectin’ him to pull a shotgun outa that sack, on accounta he
had
to know the man was cheatin’. But maybe he wasn’t sure, on accounta what he done was to push more money into the pot an’ say, ‘I call.’

“An’ then, let me tell you, we was lookin’ for hideyholes for real, on accounta when Josh showed his royal flush or whatever, Mose wasn’t gonna have no more doubts an’ there was gonna be murder done for sure. Josh, he give this look, real slow an’ funny, an’ he went to go an’ turn his cards over. But Mose stops him an’ says, ‘You sure you ain’t got nobody—’ ‘Nobody, Goddamnit,’ Josh says. Mose grins. ‘Well, in that case, I think I’ll try an’ take all your money. I’ll raise you fifty.’ An’ jest like that, Josh was off the hook; all he had to do was fold. But did he fold? Hell, no. The damn fool saw Mose’s fifty an’ raised him fifty more.

“Mose was shocked. We was
all
shocked. I do believe Josh was a little shocked hisself; ain’t every day a man watches hisself commit suicide. An’ then Mose started to laugh. It was the craziest Goddamn laugh I ever heard; sounded like a cross ’tween a church choir an’ a screech owl. He about fell off his chair laughin’. But he was laughin’ alone, I’ll tell you that. Finely he settles an’ says, ‘I guess we’ll have to play it your way, Mr. White. Dealer’s choice after all.’ An’ he puts in another fifty an’ calls.

“I guess it was ’bout then that Josh come to his senses. But it was too late. He set there for a second, knowin’ he’d give up his chances a livin’, an’ then he grins an’ shrugs, an’ turns his cards over. It wasn’t as bad as it coulda been—just a full house, queens an’ jacks. But it was gonna be enough. ‘Umph,’ Mose says, ‘that’s a good hand, Mr. White, a mighty good hand. You deal out real good hands. Seems you dealt me out a good one too.’ An’ he turns it over. I didn’t bother lookin’ at it, I was lookin’ at Josh to see if he was gonna make a play. An’ I b’lieve he was fixin’ to, only I seen his eyes bug out. He was starin’ at Mose’s cards, an’ that made me stare at ’em too, an’ God damn if Mose wasn’t showin’ four deuces. An’ then he starts to laughin’, an’ in between chuckles he was sayin’, ‘Yes, sir, Mr. White, we gonna play it your way.’

“Well, it took maybe half a minute ’fore folks could say anything, an’ for the whole half a minute the only thing you could hear was Mose laughin’ an’ Josh makin’ these funny little sounds that I can’t even begin to explain. An’ then Josh jest got up an’ walked out, an’ everybody followed him out to the main room, where they could talk free without worryin’ maybe Mose was gonna blow their heads off. But I stayed. After a while Mose quits laughin’ an’ he looks at me an’ says, ‘I seen me some crazy folks in ma time, but that boy is one a the craziest.’ Well, I don’t know what come over me. I thought about it a lot since. Maybe I didn’t like what he’d done to Josh. It was hard to say who was right, who was wrong, but it was jest right there on the borderline ’tween fun an’ mean, an’ that there is a line I like to stay way on the fun side of by a goodly ways. So when he said that I says, ‘I believe they got their share a crazy colored men up there in them hills, an’ I ain’t sure but that the ones we got down here ain’t a better breed.’

“Mose didn’t say nothin’. Not for a long time. It give ma anger a chance to cool some, an’ I was surely wishin’ I hadn’t stayed behind to step in the dog dirt like I done. Finely Mose reaches out an’ takes his jug an’ takes a long pull, an’ then he sets it down. Then he looks at me. ‘I ain’t sure yours is
better
, he says. ‘I ain’t sure that, as a genral thing, yours is any good at all. But some of ’em is pretty damn fine.’ An’ he gets up an’ gathers up his gunnysack an’ starts countin’ money outa what’s on the table. Musta been twenty dollars on the table, but he didn’t take but five or six. Then he heads for the door. ‘Hey,’ I says, ‘ain’t you gonna take the rest a this here money?’ He jest grins an’ says, ‘Why, what for? It was jest a friendly game.’ An’ that was the last anybody seen of him for quite a spell.”

We had dreamed away the day, he in delirium, I in reverie. From time to time he wakened to cough, from time to time I stirred to put more wood on the fire. The stove’s mechanical clankings disappeared; what was left was a soft, eerie, almost indiscernible squeaky hissing hum, the sound of a drawn-out kiss. I drifted, recalling another time when I had sipped whiskey and listened to a fire’s keening.

My eleventh birthday. A night in summer, the air warm enough, but tinged with the chill that always haunts the mountains. There was a strong wind aloft; the clouds were strung out like great hurrying ghosts.

We had been camped in the lee of a giant boulder, near a minor stream called Nigger Hollow Run, waiting for Uncle Josh White’s dogs to catch the trail of some unfortunate raccoon. Uncle Josh himself sat stoically beyond the range of the firelight, pulling steadily at a bottle of Four Roses. Old Jack sat closer to the flames, sipping a toddy from a tin cup. I sat beside him, sipping from a tin cup of my own. Uncle Josh, as usual, was as silent as the tomb. Old Jack, as usual, was talking, but softly; he was telling a tale. I could not really hear him; I had had three or four toddies by that time, and all I could really do was to sit and hold the warm cup clutched against my belly, watching the flames dance against the backdrop of the night. His words came to me only in bits and snatches, but I had not needed to hear more; I knew the tale. He had told me the story twenty times by then, but he had only needed to tell me once, for at that first telling he had said that it was a tale that Moses Washington had liked to tell, over and over again. And so I could sit by the campfire, hearing the words with only half my mind, filling in the details on my own, telling myself the story of a dozen slaves who had come north on the Underground Railroad, fleeing whatever horrors were behind them, and who had got lost just north of the Mason-Dixon Line, somewhere in the lower reaches of the County, and who, when they could no longer elude the men who trailed them with dogs and horses and ropes and chains, had begged to be killed rather than be taken back to bondage. But that night had been different; he had added something new. His voice had come clearly to me, coming, it had seemed, out of the flames: “Some say they give up. Some say they quit. White folks say it mostly, though I’ve heard some colored say it too. Bunch a sorry niggers, they say, too scared to fight, too scared to run, too scared to face slav’ry, too scared even to kill their own selves; couldn’t even get away that way, lessen a white man done it for ’em. An’ maybe that’s the truth of it, though it seems to me you don’t want to be judgin’ folks too quick, or too hard. Maybe you can do it if you’re white, but it strikes me a colored man oughta understand what it coulda been like, white folks all around you, an’ no place to turn. But judgin’ don’t matter when you get to the bottom of it, on accounta don’t nobody know what happened down there in the South County, or when, or even ’xactly where. I doubt the killin’ part of it myself. On accounta they ain’t dead. They’re still here. Still runnin’ from them dogs an’ whatnot. I know, on accounta I heard ’em. I ain’t never heard ’em that often—maybe five, six times in ma whole life. Funny times. I never heard ’em anytime when there wasn’t snow on the ground, for instance. An’ I ain’t never heard ’em when I was listenin’ for ’em special. Now I think on it, I only ever heard ’em when I was on the trail a somethin’ else, an’ I’d be listenin’ for whatever I was after, jest settin’ there lettin’ the sound come to me, an’ then I’d hear ’em. Wouldn’t be no big noise. Wouldn’t be nothin’ like them sounds them dumb-butted white folks, don’t know a ghost from a bed sheet, is all the time tellin’ you ghosts make. On accounta they ain’t ghosts; they ain’t dead. They’re jest runnin’ along. An’ the sound you hear is the sound of ’em pantin’. First time I heard ’em, I recall I was caught out in a storm, up along Barefoot Run. I thought I had time to make a kill an’ get on back, but the wind shifted on me an’…”

Then he had called to me, his voice cracking, and I had risen from the chair and gone to him, had touched his forehead. The flesh had seemed hot enough to burn.

Later, I fed him stew, and then I filled his chipped enamel basin and had washed him as best I could, trying to be gentle with him despite the rough rag and lye soap I had to use, despite the embarrassed looks he gave me. Then I helped him use the old enamel chamber pot, hating what it did to him to be so helpless, hating the process, hating myself for hating it. I had escaped outside to empty the pot, and had found the ground covered with snow, the air clotted with flakes. And so I had turned and gone back inside, to tell him we had to go.