Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 78

"Hincty m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka," snorted a man near me, shaking his head in disgust.

"My people are not ashamed to have servants, and they know what to do with them . . ."

Uncertain looks all around.

"In short, my people have not been discussed by mainstream America, which has no idea we exist. Which is why I wrote Chosen People: I want America to know that we are here. I want us to take our rightful place in American society. I want people with money and taste and breeding to stop hiding these a.s.sets and to be proud of them. We should be proud: We are special. We are different. We are chosen. And now is our time to shine."

The room broke into vigorous applause from the people who felt strongly as Simp did. Others kept their hands in their pockets, frowning. Some people shook their heads, as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing. And about four folks simply got up and left.

During all this, a white magazine journalist for the local monthly was scribbling furiously into his notebook. Clearly he'd never met or heard from anyone like JSL Hastings, Jr., and was fascinated.

"Now, I could go on for hours," Hastings chuckled. "My fiancee-who some of you out here may know; she has an M.D. and a J.D. from Yale and she's a medical correspondent for the Today show-Dr. Sheila Howe?-says I go on all the time. But I'll stop, because I'm sure you have questions, and I'd love to hear them. And answer them."

So saying, he drank some more water, and looked over the rim of his gla.s.s at the audience. You could hear chairs squeaking as people shifted.

"Come on, don't be shy! What's on your mind?-Tell me!"

A tall, thin woman rose slowly. She was elegantly dressed, all in beige, with a cream-colored cashmere shawl draped gracefully around her shoulders.

"What I'd like to know, Mr. Hastings, is this: Why?"

He blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why bring all this up now? We've gone through so much as a people, this is such a hurtful subject for many in our community. Why do you insist on raising it?"

Her voice was well modulated and confident. She was probably in her late sixties. Her gold bracelets jingled softly as she sat again.

"Well, Mrs . . . ?"

"Elton, Grace Elton."

"Oh my G.o.d-I cannot believe I'm talking to you, finally!" Simp squeaked. "Does anybody here not know who this is?"

Many people looked at him as if saying "Duh-of course we do." A few people shrugged, confused. They didn't remain unenlightened for long.

"This is the wife of Dr. Howard Elton, one of the premiere civil rights activists in this city. Dr. Elton's father established the first black hospital in Los Angeles. You may be too young to remember any of this-I am, too, actually, but I did my homework: The hospital Dr. Elton senior started is now Los Angeles Munic.i.p.al Children's Hospital."

Gasps of recognition.

"You're exactly who I wanted to write about in this book!" Simp Hastings chided the woman old enough to be his mother. "You should have let me interview you!"

Mrs. Elton rose again, and looked squarely at him.

"I had no interest in being in your book, Mr. Simpson. Like my late husband, I feel strongly that if we are to move forward as a people, we have to concentrate on what binds us together, not focus on what could tear us apart. This book never should have been written. Or perhaps it should have been written-by someone else. I have no quarrel with a book that outlines the achievements of successful blacks, but this is not that book. This is merely a . . . a shopping list of things to have and to get, and a wretched catalogue of the worst sn.o.bberies and sillinesses some of our people insist on displaying. So I have become a Chosen Person: I have chosen to remove myself from any a.s.sociation with it at all. I wish some of the people who had decided otherwise had had second thoughts. And I pity you, Mr. Hastings. You have completely missed the boat on what being black means in this day and age.

"I'm sorry," Grace Elton turned and apologized to those around her; "I'm becoming a little emotional. I wish you all a good evening."

And, wrapping her shawl more closely around her, the chic Mrs. Elton picked up her purse and left to thundering applause.

Simp Hastings wasn't fazed in the least.

"Well," he said, only a smidge huffily, "some people are still in denial about their station in life. Such a pity. She would have been fabulous to include. Other questions?"

It went on for about a half hour, with varying degrees of civility: why had he included So-and-So but not Thus-and-So? Why hadn't he thought to include more cities in the Midwest? Would he consider, ever, doing a history of "the best sororities and fraternities? White folks need to understand we've had these organizations for years . . ." Was it true that he'd signed on as a consultant to a Movie of the Week about life on the East Coast's now-vanished black summer resorts?

After the questions, Simp Hastings signed books for another half hour. Some people bought loads-one for themselves, several as presents. Many people bought them for their children "because they need to know this about us."

Toward the end, a big, burly brother with twists and a Malcolm X T-shirt came up to the signing table, leaned forward and said, softly: "We should be beyond this s.h.i.t by now. It's n.i.g.g.e.rs like you that are holding us back. You need to rethink your utility to the community, brother."

The menace in his voice was unmistakable.

"I'll be sure to do that," Simp said blandly as the angry man stalked out of the store.

"What's with him?" wondered Logo Lady, who was having three books signed.

"E-N-V-Y," Simp said, looking at her knowingly. She nodded, and slipped the books into a stylish tote with a big metal G on its front.

Hastings had promised a brief interview after all this was over to both me and the white guy from the city magazine, so we hung around waiting for the last person to receive a signed copy.

Unfortunately for the remaining few, Ashanti had run out of books. Simp had sold seventy-five in thirty minutes.

"Oh no!" one disappointed customer moaned. "I'd wanted to give one to my mother for her birthday."

"We're getting another shipment in two days," the store owner a.s.sured her.

"My mother's birthday is tomorrow," the woman said stonily.

The owner retreated to the cash register, muttering something about "last-minute Negroes who think they can just throw a present together when their mama's birthday is the same day, every year."

Disappointed Customer rolled her eyes at him.

"Know what? I think I have a few extra in the back of my car," Simp said. "Let me go out and look, and if I do, they're yours."

"Oh, would you? Thank you! Do I make the check out to you?"

"Yes," he called as he walked out into the misty night air. "I'll be right back."

Either he had a huge trunk or he was having trouble finding the books, because after ten minutes, Simp Hastings hadn't returned.

"Maybe he's out having a smoke," someone suggested.

"Or making a call on his cell phone."

"Or," said the bookstore owner, "he can't see. Those rental cars are notorious for leaving off as many of the essentials as possible. I'll bring him a flashlight."

He was back in forty-five seconds, looking ashen.

"Call the police-now!" he snapped to his startled cashier.

The few of us left in the store looked up.

"Something bad has happened," the bookstore owner said tersely. "n.o.body go outside."

Which meant, of course, that everyone immediately did.

Logo Lady started screaming at once. I pushed her aside to look, and wished I hadn't.

There, on the ground, promised books in his outstretched hand, was James Simpson Lee Hastings, Jr., wearing an ear to ear grin.

On his neck.

To Haiti or To h.e.l.l.

BY ALEXS D. PATE.

Arrow stood on the bow of the Starry Eye as it hit the breakwater. He felt powerful standing there. If it would have borne his weight, he'd have stood on the very tip of the bowsprit. If he could, he'd stand there with his shirt open, his large brown chest with its thick nest of kinky coils the only protection from the salt spray, and ride the rolling power of the water below him. But even from this place, even sliding along the tranquil waters of this Tortuga Bay, he could feel the gentle bucking and bobbing of the ship as they approached port.

He was ready to touch dry land. Much had happened since he'd last stepped foot ash.o.r.e, and he had the booty to prove it. And although his crew was tense, he knew they were also satisfied that their adventures had returned a profit. Brethren of the coast, they were. Scallywags all. Arrow didn't like the word "pirate," and refused to let that word be used in his presence. But regardless of what he called them, he knew what they were. They were out for themselves.

Luckly, Arrow also knew who he was. If you made a mistake and crossed his path in free and open waters, then you'd better have a very fast ship or an army hidden in your hull. He straightened his crisscrossed leather sashes so that they intersected at the center of his chest, just below the cut in the neck of his shirt. Affixed on these sashes was a collection of razor-sharp throwing knives. Twenty in all. And no one could throw knives as quickly and accurately as Arrow. That was how he'd gotten his name. He threw knives with an archer's skill. But faster. So fast that he could pepper a group of ten or twelve men with those darts in an eye's blink. So fast that men who witnessed his skill often turned on their heels. In shipboard fights, when he joined boarding parties, he could stand in one place and cause the ruin of a third of a small ship's company. Arrow would also carry and use his firearm, but by the time he got to his pistol, there would already be a handful of dead men lying about. He was the Black Arrow. A knife throwing terror who now sailed on his fastest ship yet, the Starry Eye.

Arrow turned aft and headed amidships, ordering sails dropped and the anchor readied. Their journey was over. His strong voice danced about the decks, over the trouble he could feel brewing. Yes, they had come into some fortune and the crew was happy about that. But last night after they'd divided up the booty and each man received his share, and before the rum keg was opened, Arrow had announced his plans to sail to St. Domingo after a short stay in Tortuga. He knew they were uneasy about it, given the rumors about the revolution that was coming there.

But there had been no way to have a deliberation about that then. Everyone had been too excited to be sailing into the port the next morning. They were almost giddy as the shares were divided. That spontaneous ceremony had graduated into a carnage of rum, petty fights, and loud singing. Now even he felt a little light-headed in the midday sun. He was ready for a good meal, some drink, and a standing bed. And he would present no strong argument to the first pretty woman who offered to join him there.

His loins stirred with a force only a woman could tame. He looked forward to the surrender his body was determined to make.

As with the end of every voyage he'd taken, there was a natural sadness that overtook the ship when the next port was sighted. Yes, everyone wanted to hit sh.o.r.e. Everyone wanted the same things, and most of those things were found on land. To the seaman dreams exist on land. The only reason to be engaged in the business of piracy was to get money so that life on land was better. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were some, whom Arrow knew, who loved the sea more than anyone or anything else. On land, these men were hopeless drunks or beat-down husbands. But once the ship was under way they became crackerjack shipmates. Foisting and heaving and battling at the slightest need. But that wasn't what had driven Arrow to the sea, wasn't what had pushed him to the ostensible command of his crew of sixty-seven men. Oh, he loved the sea. He did. But it was a lucky thing that he loved it. He was there because it was the only place in the entire world where he actually was free.

No, he didn't just feel free, he was really free on his ship with his men. He'd once been a slave. A man of bondage. He shuddered whenever he remembered it. For nearly twenty years he'd been nothing more than a thinking work animal. But providence had intervened. Or more accurately, it was the meeting of providence and preparation. Arrow, then known as Luke Dunly, had, under the tuteladge of an uncle on the same plantation, developed a skill in knife throwing. He practiced every minute he could behind the outer ring of slave quarters. He'd knifed up the back of so many shacks people took to pleading with him to practice farther out in the woods. And then, one night as he was sneaking back to the men's quarters, three of his friends had dashed past him. He'd called to them, but they hadn't even turned around. So he'd taken off after them. After about twenty strides, one named Jingo had stopped and faced Arrow.

"Boy, get back."

"Where y'all goin'?"

"We'se gonna freedom." With that Jingo had turned and taken off again. Arrow had just stood there listening as their footfalls disappeared into the woods. And then he'd heard new footsteps and realized he would be taken for a runaway. And just as this thought had formed in his head, he'd seen Breathin' Heavy, the overseer's bloodhound, come galloping down the path. He'd instinctively brought Breathin' Heavy down with one of the two knives he had in his hand. And then he too had taken flight along the same route as those who'd gone before. The point where preparation and providence came together.

That was a bit more than five years ago. How things had changed. He'd found his way to the sea. They said it was the water that had brought him here. Maybe water could take him away. And it had, in a way. He now knew that Africa was on the other side of the world and he wasn't sure that's where he wanted to go. He had six Africans in his crew. Pulled them from a slave ship on a previous voyage and offered them a place. He always offered black men a choice. They could join him or they could try to make their own way. Most chose to be let go, not realizing that on this side of the world, when a white man wanted a black man he almost just had to claim him. He never saw or at least recognized any of those he set free. But ten had stayed with him. Four of them had died, two in battle, two from sickness.

Fortune had brought him to the Caribbean and now the Caribbean was his fortune. He plied it like the best of his ilk.

There was no feeling like being out on the high seas, trying to command movement when the sea itself had such a great will. An overwhelming will. No maps and all the instinct in the world could not save you from an angry sea bent on your destruction.

And he'd not sailed them in peace. Far from it. Arrow and his crew had taken two ships on this voyage. The last being the ship he was now putting into port, the Starry Eye. When he'd ousted its English captain, a Mister Downs, he'd asked politely if the good captain minded if he rechristened her. And of course Downs, seeing clearly that he was at a large disadvantage joyfully a.s.sented.

"Yes, yes . . ." He spat, trying to smile docilely, "Please sir, if I may insist. Name her as you will."

At which moment, Arrow graciously swept his upper body forward, bowing at the waist, uncovering his hat in the manner of the fine European gentlemen he'd had the great pleasure of knowing. And he'd known them all. From royalty to the lowest Jack Tar he knew them. He'd been a slave to one. And now he was teaching them the wrongs of their ways. They could no longer keep him down. Not the Black Arrow.

Arrow leaned close to the puffy face of Captain Downs, "I see by ya clothes that you be a gentleman, sir. And by your manner, of which I do approve, sir, I would love to accommodate your request for leniency, sir." They were in Down's quarters. Arrow, Downs and Dirty Bill who was Arrow's quartermaster and de facto, the ship's mediator and dispenser of justice. Dirty Bill was completely loyal to Arrow, seeing as how it was him who'd saved his life more than once and who'd taken him on in the first place. But, as was usual when Arrow was present, Dirty Bill stood back, calmly, watching.

"I truly would like to see a fine gentleman like yo'self to be free to strut about with those fine clothes and all the things you dearly love. I truly would. But you see, I must . . . you see," Arrow stopped abruptly and turned his back on Downs. He walked toward Dirty Bill, whose sun burned, muscled face in the shadows looked demon-like to Arrow. His eyes, dark from the previous night's celebration, stared blankly ahead of him. Not really looking at Arrow. He knew what was about to happen. He knew Arrow had no choice. Poor Captain Downs was to meet his destiny in the form of the Main's most notorious colored pirate captain. Arrow could no more let the good Captain live than throw his gold in the drink.

With a sudden swoosh, Arrow whirled around, in the same motion unloosing one of his blades and still, even to Dirty Bill-who'd seen this same motion so many times he'd could never account for them all-in the very same movement of torso and arms sent that same blade into Down's heart. The man slumped immediately. Arrow continued his turn until he was again facing Dirty Bill. "You see, sir, I must increase the fear of me. I must make it legendary or I will not be respected. I did not ask for this life and its needs. I truly did not. Tell him Bill. Tell him that if this world were different, I'd be different too. Isn't that true Bill?"

"Aye, Cap'n." Dirty Bill stood perfectly still.

"But, forgive the immodesty, sir. I am the Black Arrow, and in this world of legendary thieves and brigands of all sorts, fakers mostly, men of limited skill whose reputations seem so great in the pubs when I goes to 'em and hear about all these exploits and how many ships they takes and all this fancy talk, I figured I had to follow suit if you know what I mean to say. But," Arrow tuned now to the dead captain, "I want to thank you for your clothes which I will take good care of and especially those boots you got on. Yes. Well, Bill, get Mobley and Frenchie to clean this place up. We got permission to rename this lady." And with that he walked by Dirty Bill and went above decks to survey the loot.

And now he was returning to a port in which his safe pa.s.sage and accommodation were all but a.s.sured. The gold and jewels the ship carried, even after the split, along with bolts of materials and other sundry items, would be more than enough to grease the palms of various officials and provide for a little relaxation before they took to the seas again. Besides there were four other ships of questionable registry already sitting in the harbor. Tortuga looked to be busy with the brethren of the sea.

The crew had decided before the drinking started on the previous night to take two long boats into port, leaving behind a skeleton crew for protection. It was also decided that Arrow would be in the first boat so as to make the appropriate arrangements. They'd not been to Tortuga in nearly a half year. And on the Spanish Main, officials changed with the whim of queens and kings thousands of miles away.

Arrow changed into an outfit he'd picked from Captain Downs' locker. His pants were a tough but smooth broadcloth, dyed dark blue. His shirt was a dingy white made from the same material. It, as were most of the shirts Arrow favored, opened two inches above his navel and flared out to its rather long collars. Over this he flung his knife belts. As he strode briskly past his men in Captain Downs' scuffed, but still quite fine leather boots, Arrow felt a feeling he knew well. He was in fact, the captain. These were his men. Men who he'd fought alongside, ate and drank with and, in moments when someone had to say what to do, commanded. He knew that some of them resented his leadership, but Dirty Bill kept them honest and there had been only a few minor purges. Besides no man aboard the Starry Eye was willing, in his right mind, to go against the Black Arrow.

As he pa.s.sed through the crew on his way to the ladder to climb down into the boat, he felt strong, prideful. His knives gleamed and showed all of the effort Frenchie had put into the their polish. He was greeted with the rising energy of a sea crazy crew an hour away from the beach.

"Ayyyyyy," Dockson called. "Look at the captain, here. Decked out he is. Tryin to get there 'fore we do, eh Cap'n? Wants 'em all for hisself, he does, dressed like that."

"You'll have your turn, Dockson," Arrow said smiling. Dockson was a tall muscular man, English and mean. Dirty Bill had often reminded Arrow that Dockson might one day prove a threat. But today, Dockson's salt-worn face showed levity. Arrow smiled back. "And if I remember correctly you already have a 'lady' waitin for you. And if I can say it plainly in front of your mates, here, she was a mighty powerful little somethin'." Laughter began to bubble around them.

"Aye, Cap'n you've made your point."

"I thought I might, Dockson, for you're much more the scoundrel everywhere but here. And since I go ash.o.r.e before you do, if I were you, I'd keep my trap shut and go in peace when your turn comes." That was Arrow at his best. And his men appreciated it. He could give as good as he got.

"Now you dregs," Arrow went on, now in full voice, "We've come a full circle. And we've got the profits of it in our belts. But do not let land lull you to sleep. We will not grow root here." Arrow craned his neck to see to the back of the group. "How long will it take you to drink up this here loot, Bracken? How long?"

Everyone turned to look at Bracken, an Irishman who could drink a stone to sand. He was propped against a storage locker, barely able to stand after last night's binge. "Well Captain, after I settles a few previously made notes I won't have enough to make it to more than two-three months. At least best I can gather with my head spinnin' the way it is."

Arrow laughed. "Hear that, mates? Three months. We all know that if we stay here that long, you'll be dead, Bracken. And we won't have that will we?" There were shouts of agreement. "No, we will be under weigh in a fortnight. So, stay out of jail. Try to keep from getting married. And keep your legs seaworthy because before you know it we'll be fightin' the swells."

The crew cheered its agreement and the first boat was loaded and disembarked.

Four hours later, Arrow was seated in the shadows of a rum house, stomach full, head spinning, picking at his nails with one of his knives. But he was only half focused on his fingers, his gaze kept cutting across the hazy room. From one group of sailors playing cards, to the games of other sailors, to the women who bounced about like buoys in a storm-from one man to the next-to the sullen loners, like himself who were content to drink themselves into empty moments of empty mindlessness. It was odd how they could come ash.o.r.e in the afternoon and by night have steadied their legs well enough to feel some semblance of normalcy. It was also strange the way the crews of the various ships knew each other, had fought with or in some instances against each other, and yet there was a sense of family between them. Although most were European-Frenchmen, Englishmen, Dutchmen, Norse-there were a smattering of runaways, Indians, Caribs, Africans, even a few Asians jammed into the tavern. And they understood at least one thing that bound them all together. They knew that each one of them depended on the seas and the weakness of the Spanish or the arrogance of the British merchants for their livelihood.

"Cap'n." It was Dirty Bill suddenly standing off to Arrow's side. He waited there, asking with his body for permission to sit.

Barely turning his head toward him, Arrow nodded his a.s.sent. "How goes it, Bill? Where were ye?" Arrow was a self-educated man. Most of his book learning came from one slave or another who'd had the courage to defy the law and teach him. He knew how to read and did when he could find something to read. And even more significantly he could write. Not many of his mates could claim that. But when he spoke, you wouldn't necessarily figure he'd grown up on a southern plantation. More likely you'd think he'd been an urchin in the streets near the docks of London. Arrow had learned early among the pirates, that the more like them he talked, the better they treated him.

"The Flyin' Fish. There's more of our men there than here. Cap'n Flagg's crew is there besides. Much merriment over there. More women and ah . . . a looser sort than here."