Standing at the Scratch Line (36 page)

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The day Sampson Davis was brought into the Toussant Hotel on a stretcher, it caused quite a stir among the patrons and the staff. He was borne by two large muscular men but when they got to the stairs, which had a sharp right angle leading to the second story, the semiconscious Sampson almost slid off the stretcher. King, who had been directing the patient transport, rushed to assist the two bearers. For several seconds, the three men struggled for control of both the patient and the stretcher. It was obvious another pair of hands was needed to navigate the turn. King looked around and saw the bell captain leaning against his counter. He called to the man. The bell captain responded with a negative shake of his head and turned to attend some paperwork chores.

King roared, “You better get yo’ lazy ass over here and help or I swear you’ll regret this day!”

The bell captain looked over at the registration desk where the manager was standing. The manager would not get involved. He put his head down and concentrated on his account books. Finding no support from his boss, the bell captain made his way reluctantly to the three men, but he took his time and his attitude was clearly surly. When he was close enough, King grabbed the man by the neck. He shook the bell captain in an iron grip and whispered something angrily in his ear. The bell captain moved with more alacrity after King’s words of encouragement. The stretcher was jostled and lifted around the obstacles and carried upstairs.

Once Sampson was installed in his room, King returned to his own room and sat pondering his next move at a table by the window overlooking the street. The street outside the hotel was busy with both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Vendors and street hawkers were calling out their wares in competing melodic bursts. Eggs and dairy, fruits and vegetables were all being called out below. King was only distantly aware of the commerce that was being conducted. He was primarily immersed in the problem of what to do about his new ward. King had not intended to assume responsibility for Sampson, but there appeared to be no other alternative. Dr. McKenna had informed him that he could no longer keep Sampson in his clinic, since he was out of immediate danger and there were other cases that were more needy. Sampson had no one else, and King didn’t see the point in turning him out into the street after paying for his care. Up and down Colored Town, King had searched but he was unable to find anyplace better than a brothel. So, he brought Sampson to the Toussant.

Perhaps it was because King saw himself as responsible for the man’s injuries, or perhaps he had seen too many men stripped of their dignity by the wounds of war. He did not feel guilt. It had more to do with an unwritten code he obeyed. It was not something he had verbalized or fully examined. It just seemed like the right thing. So, hell or high water, he was going to follow it through. The doctor had given him the names of several women who made home visits to care for recovering patients. Sampson was still recovering from two broken arms, several broken ribs, and severe contusions on his head and legs. He would need assistance with his toilet and personal affairs for at least a month. After making arrangements for someone to attend to Sampson’s care, King stopped letting the matter trouble his thoughts.

He was preoccupied with finding an out-of-the-way building to serve as his headquarters. Although he wanted to keep his official residence at the Hotel Toussant, he needed a place in which to store equipment and stable his horse, a place off the beaten track. He had been looking for the right property in and around New Orleans for several months. He had considerably more time since the deaths of Lester and Chess DuMont. Their whole family was paralyzed by the turmoil and confusion caused by all the jockeying for power by the remaining family members. King spent days on his horse, looking at different lots.

After one particularly long day’s ride, King reentered Algiers along a narrow, overgrown channel leading to an old, little-used wharf. There on the edge of the channel was a dilapidated old villa with rusted wrought-iron gates. It was a large, tiled-roof, two-story stucco affair with numerous windows. He easily climbed the fence and took a look around. Despite its size, it was perfect for his needs. It was built like a fort with an interior courtyard and its own back dock on the river, and, as important, it was located on the edge of a commercial shipping district, which meant the streets were always full of traffic. Its location in the run-down section of the wharf was of particular benefit in that King was less likely to be stopped and challenged by law enforcement. He was excited as he returned to his horse. He hurried to a nearby wire service to send Goldbaum a telegram and set up a phone call at the Beau Geste. There was only one telephone in the hotel and it was in a very public place next to the registration desk.

King’s focus on the villa was diverted by the news that Sampson still had not spoken a word, and nearly two weeks had passed. So King began to visit him early in the morning and on more than one occasion attempted to initiate a discussion with him, but Sampson merely nodded his head in response. There appeared no rancor in Sampson’s attitude toward King; in fact, King got the distinct impression that the man looked forward to his visits.

During the next few weeks, after finding the villa, King contacted a lawyer and had a meeting with Ross Hollister, the son of Taylor Ross Hollister, the president and principal owner of Hollister Savings Bank. In all these meetings with the white lawyers and bank officials, King portrayed himself as an employee of his own firm. His corporation purchased the villa, not he. A major lesson that the war had taught him was that a colored man could not expect to be treated with any kind of dignity by white America unless he worked for a powerful white man. Several times during the war he had carried orders through German-controlled territory for his regimental commander. He had seen how the slovenly attitude and disrespect had dropped from the white American soldiers’ faces when they understood for whom he was carrying orders. Therefore, King had Ira Goldbaum write to the bank and the attorney and convey to them that he was an employee of a powerful business corporation. As such, he enjoyed greater freedom of movement and grudging respect than he would have if it were known that he owned the company.

By the third week, Sampson was able to sit up and, other than his inability or unwillingness to speak, his health seem to be progressing on all fronts. King asked Dr. McKenna to come to the hotel to diagnose Sampson’s condition. After a thorough examination, McKenna stated that there was no outward reason for Sampson to have lost his power of speech, unless the beating he had received had caused brain damage. From these discussions King realized that whatever ailed Sampson was beyond the scope of medicine to resolve. But his experiences in the army had shown him that even a mentally healthy soldier, after a certain period of confinement to a bed, could go stir-crazy and act very inappropriately. He set out to provide some outlet for Sampson. King was not motivated out of love or concern, but a sense of responsibility. It was Sampson’s absolute vulnerability that had awakened this feeling in King.

One morning King brought in the paper along with a cup of steaming hot coffee. As the woman he had hired straightened Sampson’s bed, King opened and read the paper while he drank his coffee. At one point, he noticed Sampson staring hungrily at his coffee mug. King asked him if he wanted coffee and Sampson nodded his head vigorously. King sent for a pot of coffee and, when it arrived, watched Sampson hold his mug in two hands while he loudly sipped the hot liquid. What began as a whim became routine. Every morning near the end of Sampson’s ablutions, King would enter with a pot of black coffee and a couple of mugs and the two men would drink their coffee in silence. Occasionally, King would read the paper out loud while they were drinking their coffee. Sometimes Sampson would rap on his bed and wave his hand, indicating that he wanted King to read something over. A relationship was developing without the will or intent of either man.

Often at the back of King’s mind was the possibility that Sampson was merely waiting for the right opportunity, that one day he would break out of his malaise and strike a blow in revenge for all that he had lost. That possibility stayed King’s hand not one bit; he could no more change his course than a salmon could fight the call of the open sea. It felt right. He was going to do what felt right and he had no great fear of death.

King hired carpenters and master builders to refurbish the villa. Whenever possible, he hired colored people. Both the bank and the attorney’s office tried to put pressure on him to hire prominent white businesses, but King did not relent. He had a mistrust of southern whites that he could not put aside. He spent several months having the inside of the villa redone to his specifications. The stucco exterior was patched and repaired but left unpainted. There was no desire to make the building look too out of place with its surroundings. He now owned a safe house where he could hide or from which he could depart covertly by either land or sea.

King had made a regular practice of riding through the areas around New Orleans, and as Sampson grew stronger, he took him along. They were often seen leaving the city limits early on horseback. The war had taught King the value of knowing the surrounding terrain. Within weeks of his arrival in New Orleans, King had purchased two excellent horses: a large chestnut gelding with a deep chest and long legs and an eight-year-old bay stallion with sound Arab breeding. Often he and Sampson spent hours on their horses riding the surrounding hills and trails. King searched out and bought a thirty-foot flat-bottomed river steamer used to carry small cargoes between the port and various ships and barges that plied the local waters. Several times a week he and Sampson took the steamer, which he named the
Mamie Lou,
out into the swamp looking for old landmarks and waterways leading into the bayous.

A friendship was slowly developing between King and Sampson. Initially, they communicated mostly by hand signals and facial expressions, but King discovered that a deaf woman worked in the hotel’s kitchen and she taught them both sign language. It was a necessity because once Sampson was strong enough to leave the hotel, he wanted to go everywhere with King. King was forced to buy him a horse and then had to teach him how to drive a car. Sampson was excellent around horses and he took their care and maintenance as his responsibility, but the car was different. He crashed several times before he got fully familiar with the demands of driving. King also started taking him along when he went shooting. Sampson loved going out in the swamp steamer along the bayous and channels of the delta river country. They made several trips before Sampson evinced any interest in firearms. The first time he had gestured to try shooting the guns himself, King wondered if the time had come, but King handed him the weapon without hesitation and showed him how to use it. Sampson had such a good time that when they went back to town, King bought him his own rifle and a bowie knife.

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