Standing at the Scratch Line
T o m y g r a n d f a t h e r,
B a i l e y J o h n s o n
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
I am standing on the rotating tip of a pyramid. I am here because I have been lifted onto the shoulders of my friends and family. I would not be here but for their arms, their sweat, their attention, their hearts, and their love. I mention first my family.
To my wife: partner in irreverence, partner in the daily toil, partner in laughter, generator of love, nest creator, ears to my most confidential thoughts, my greatest fears, my sickest jokes; without your smile and your laughter this book may not have come to pass and we know that all the female characters that I create will fall under your judgmental gaze.
To my oldest son, Colin Ashanti Murphy-Johnson: climber at the foot of Kilimanjaro, eyes lifted upward to the heights, having in abundance the strength, stamina, determination, intelligence, and courage to reach the heights, but not truly knowing it. You are now holding your own child in your arms, sheltering it from the weathering sky. We have never been closer in goals and action. It is to your energy that this book is intended to strike. Fatherhood will play a part in everything I intend to write.
To my mother: the Lady with seven-league boots, you who have taught me there is no end to learning, to growing, to reaching higher, to pursuing the right path, and perhaps greater, that all pursuits are lost if there is no love, no investment in others. I continue to emulate you. I continue to say your ideas are mine. I want to be like you: an artist in stride, moving with direction, purpose, and voice.
To Elliott: son of two families, you who have allowed me to win a place in your heart, you who have declared yourself a preteen for nearly three years, your laughter, innocence, and joy continue to open my heart and reacquaint me with the importance of being loving and being human.
To my friends: readers of countless script versions, with all your countless irreconcilable differences, ethnicities, eccentricities, proclivities, and vocations; you are my village. I come to you to be reaffirmed, to see my reflection in your eyes. In my village, I am but one artist among many. Part of my inspiration to write arises from witnessing the struggles and achievements of others in my community. I am in debt to you in all the diffuse ways that humans touch and connect. I mention only the readers, but in no particular order: Janice Jones, Tim Marshall, Paul Schabracq, Ernie Carpenter, Norman Jayo, Helen Brann, Mike Coward, Dr. Dolly McPherson, Calvin Sharpe, Leland Brown, Carol Langhauser, Al Nellum, Sharon Brown, Mike DuVall, L. Stephen Turer, and Paul Dufeu.
I wish to express my special gratitude to the models and standards of behavior set by Dr. Betty Shabazz and Jessica Mitford—two ladies who were kind enough to accept me as a nephew and lift me with their senses of humor.
Last but not least, Elaine and Bill Petrocelli, who saw the promise in my writing and introduced me to my editor and friend, Manie Barron.
S T A N D I N G A T
T H E S C R A T C H L I N E
In the early 1900s, when bare-knuckle fights were still common, a line was scratched in the dirt or on the pavement and the two fighters were brought to stand on opposite sides. At a preordained signal the fight would begin, then the line could be crossed. In gambler’s rules, if one of the fighters suffered a knockdown, there was a break in the action. The man who delivered the blow returned to the scratch line and waited. The fighter who suffered the knockdown had to get up and walk back to the scratch line if he wanted to continue. If he did not come to scratch within an agreed-upon time frame, the fight was stopped, and the man standing at the line was declared the winner.
B o o k I
L E R O I
B O R D E A U X
T R E M A I N
W
E D N E S D A Y,
M
A R C H 1 5, 1 9 1 6
The thick, low-lying fog covered the contours and waterways of the swamp. Only mature trees and shrubs were visible above the milky gray mist. Darkness was beginning to fade in the early morning light, creating the surreal landscape of a nightmare.
Two men propelled a flat-bottomed skiff quietly over the water. There were oars in the boat, but favoring the method practiced by bayou dwellers, both men used long poles. Trees loomed above them through the mist like towering observers as they poled their way down the narrow channels that coursed through a system of small islands. The silence was broken only by the distant bellow of alligators and the soft, incessant buzzing of voracious mosquitoes.
The man in the front took his pole out of the water and listened for sounds ahead. He motioned for his companion to stop poling. Somewhere to the right of the boat, there was an indistinct sound of human voices. High overhead came the long screeches of a pair of cranes calling to each other. The man in the front of the skiff turned and began unwrapping an oilskin bundle, in which there lay two bolt-action rifles, a quiver of arrows, and a homemade longbow. He directed his companion by hand signals to continue poling toward their right.
LeRoi Tremain followed his uncle’s directions and quietly poled closer to their quarry. They were heading toward a large channel that fed directly into the gulf. Stealth was of maximum importance. The fog began to dissipate in areas that were close to the open waterways where there was a tidal current. They could not be sure that the mist would afford the same level of protection once they entered the channel.
Uncle Jake motioned for him to stop poling again, and the boat floated quietly forward. Off to their left, somewhere above them, a man coughed. LeRoi put his pole into the water to prevent the boat from continuing out into the channel. If they had continued on, they would have been caught between their quarry and a lookout man. His uncle motioned for him to take the bow and pointed in the direction of the cough. Picking up the bow, LeRoi slid over the side into the dark, brackish water. Jake handed him the quiver and squeezed his arm encouragingly.
LeRoi turned and waded slowly into the opaque vapor. A cold glove of water surrounded him up to his navel. He had to be careful, for he was near the edge of the channel and the waist-high depth dropped away to twelve feet. There could be no splashing. He strung an arrow in his bow and continued forward. He did not know whether he would need the arrow for the man or an alligator, but he intended to be prepared.
The man he was looking for was probably up in one of the trees, which were looming as shadowy presences above him. Twenty feet further into the murkiness, he felt a breeze blowing and the beginnings of the current moving on his right. He was getting too close to the edge of the channel. He changed his direction to angle to his left and waded through a particularly dense patch. When he emerged, a large shadow spun and stood watching him. It was the largest swamp deer he had ever seen. Had he been hunting meat, he would have treasured this moment.
After determining that this intruder had no immediate hostile intention, the deer turned and moved away with a stately dignity. LeRoi needed something to draw the attention of the man in the tree, so he picked up a short, thick piece of branch and threw it hard at the disappearing flank of the deer. The branch hit the deer with a resounding whack and the deer took off at a dead run, splashing its way to safety.
LeRoi heard a surprised “What the hell?” and the chambering of a bullet in a lever-action rifle. As the deer ran away, he saw movement in a tree off to his right. The shadowy outline of a man holding a rifle could be seen about ten feet off the ground. Dropping down into the water until only his head was above its dark surface, LeRoi began his noiseless approach. He figured the man must be standing on some kind of hunting platform. He knew he could hit him from where he was, but he couldn’t risk the man calling out. He had to move closer to be certain of a killing shot.
As he moved nearer, he saw that there was a small dinghy moored to the trunk of the tree. In the surreal landscape of gray and white vapor under the trees’ overhanging shadowy presences, only the boat had movement as the pull of the current caused it to bump against projecting roots. The man had resumed his stillness and had attempted to hide himself once more. LeRoi could not see the man clearly, but he knew where his chest was because he could see his arm. He was no more than thirty feet away. When he rose out of the water, the bow was already stretched taut with an arrow. The bow had a sweet, bass twang as the arrow was loosed.
LeRoi heard a soft thud and then the clatter of the rifle caroming off the tree into the water. He continued forward cautiously. He had no doubts that the man was hit, but LeRoi couldn’t be sure he was dead. He might be waiting with a revolver. He could see the man’s foot projecting out beyond the dark outline of the tree. From the way the foot was turned, LeRoi concluded it was unlikely that the man could see him approaching, but he did not abandon his caution.
The arrow had to be collected. Not only would it serve as evidence against him, but good arrows were nearly impossible to make and were expensive to buy. All his arrows were store-bought and had a distinctive red and yellow shaft, which made it easier for them to be found once they were shot. Standing at the base of the tree, he could still see no movement. The foot was still in the same position, an augury of death.
LeRoi picked up the rifle that was leaning against a root with its stock in the water. He checked the barrel carefully for obstructions, then mounted the rough ladder that led up to the platform. Peering over the rim of the platform, he was surprised at what he saw. His arrow was deeply embedded in the man’s rib cage, but that is not what surprised him. It was the badge on the man’s chest. LeRoi had been expecting one of the DuMonts or their kin. Instead he found the corpse of a white man who had pale skin, greasy brown hair, and a handlebar mustache. He was obviously a deputy. As LeRoi pulled his arrow free and wiped it off on the body of the deputy, he pondered whether he and his uncle had walked into an ambush. Cupping his hands and blowing into them, he made two quick owl hoots, a signal of alarm.
His signal was answered by six or seven shots. Standing up, LeRoi could see the flash of a gun from another tree platform fifty yards away. As LeRoi shouldered the rifle and took aim, he saw the pinkness of the man’s face on the other platform. He squeezed the trigger and saw the man’s body jerk backward and fall into the sea of vapor. Several more shots were fired in the distance, but LeRoi couldn’t see where they came from.
It was clear the DuMonts had found out about the Tremains’ raid and had somehow lured the sheriff’s men out to take their side. LeRoi went through the deputy’s pockets, checking for valuables. The man had only three dollars, which he took along with the badge. At the base of the tree, he put the rifle and the bow into the small dinghy and paddled out to find how his Uncle Jake had fared. Entering the channel, he let the current carry him. He levered another bullet into the rifle’s chamber and set it against the gunwale; he knocked an arrow into his bow. Occasionally, he would row to avoid partially submerged logs and other debris, but for the most part he listened and stared into the fog.
Somewhere ahead of him to his left, a man cried out in pain. LeRoi dug his oar deep into the water to change direction and sent the dinghy slithering across the water. There was another cry, sounding like his Uncle Jake. Up ahead he saw movement around the dim outline of an island. He let the dinghy come to rest in a small thicket of bushes forty feet distant from the island. There were sounds of heated conversation.
“Get this cargo back aboard the
Sea Horse
while I find out how this nigger knew about our meeting.” It was a voice of authority.
Another voice responded, “Aye, aye, sir.”
A man cried out again. It was a long wail of agony and this time LeRoi knew it was his uncle.
The gruff voice spoke again. “Tell me, nigger, how did you know that we was going to be meeting here? It ain’t gon’ get no easier for you. You might as well talk now and save yourself a lot of pain.”
The other voice called out, “Billy! Billy, bring the boat in. We need to load up!”
LeRoi heard the sound of an engine start and saw a small twenty-five-foot cargo boat chug into view. It was the type of boat that small-time traders used to sell their wares along the distant reaches of the bayou. The
Sea Horse
passed within fifteen feet of LeRoi on its way to the island. Billy was visible as he steered the boat to its makeshift mooring. LeRoi drew back his bow and let the arrow fly.
The force of the arrow penetrating into his shoulder knocked Billy into the water with a splash. There was no other sound except the engine of the
Sea Horse.
The boat continued chugging toward the island.
“Billy! Billy! Back off the steam! You’re going to run aground!” The
Sea Horse
continued on its course. “Billy! Billy! Are you daft, man?”
“What’s going on over there?” the authoritative voice demanded.
“I don’t know, sir! He’s got way too much speed!”
LeRoi pushed off from the thicket and followed the
Sea Horse,
using the boat to shield his approach. Before the boat crashed into the island, he heard his uncle call out defiantly in a voice racked with pain, “Just kill me, cracker! I ain’t telling you shit!”
The
Sea Horse
plowed into the foliage growing at the water’s edge. LeRoi saw a man clamber aboard and pull the levers to stop the engine. Before the man could turn around, an arrow struck into the woodwork above his head. The man swiveled and jumped over the side of the boat into the water. As he splashed away he shouted out, “There’s more of ’em, sir! There’s more of ’em!”
“Jimmy Lee? Jimmy Lee?” the voice called out. “Are you alright, man?”
“I ain’t hit, but there’s more of ’em! I’m gettin’ out of here!”
“You better come back here, Jimmy Lee!”
LeRoi cursed himself silently for missing the man in the boat, but the movement of the dinghy had made his shot go wide. He paddled alongside the
Sea Horse
and climbed in. LeRoi took another arrow from his quiver and waited. He heard a man walk through the underbrush to the prow of the boat. LeRoi waited until he started to walk around to the side before he stood up. As soon as he reached a standing position, LeRoi saw the man swing a double-barreled shotgun in his direction. He ducked as both barrels discharged just above his head, shattering the glass windshield and splintering the wood of the navigation cabin. LeRoi stood up again, hoping to catch the man loading more shells into his shotgun, only to find him running away through the trees. Aiming carefully, he caught the fleeing figure in the thigh. The man went down but got up limping. He could be heard splashing into the water on the other side of the island. LeRoi got out of the boat cautiously and scouted the island to ensure that there were no more enemies about. He could still hear the injured man making his way noisily through the water to safety.