Standing at the Scratch Line (3 page)

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 the 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.

LeRoi ducked back through the tarp into the darkness of the bunker and confronted the strong smell of men living in close quarters under the lights of kerosene lamps.

“What’s it look like out there, LT?” Big Ed asked from his cot.

“More Eskimo weather,” LeRoi answered tersely. He sat down and lighted another small kerosene lamp and began cleaning his guns.

“That’s right, you don’t like snow,” Big Ed continued. “Great Googa mooga, man, you’d hate Nebraska. It snows from October through March every year. I remember a time—”

“Big Ed, when is the last time you cleaned your guns?” LeRoi interrupted. He was in no mood for chitchat.

Big Ed Harrison sat up with a questioning look on his face. “Damn if I know. Why?”

“These crackers might send us out anytime. In this kind of weather, guns freeze up. You got to keep them oiled.”

“I guess you’re right, LT,” Big Ed said easily. He got up off his cot and stoop-walked over to his gun. He was a massive, hulking, brown-skinned man, almost six foot six inches tall and nearly three hundred pounds, almost all muscle. A big Nebraska farm boy, he had a friendly, easy disposition. His ready smile was contagious, even though it exposed a wide gap between his two front teeth.