The men were troubled by the wind shifts and nobody liked the looks of that hard sky. Folks took those murders at the Watson place for an evil sign like that white swath of light across the heavens in the spring, so far away in deepest night, beyond all knowing.
Saturday morning a report came in over Cap’n Thad’s ship radio that the strong offshore storm coming up the Gulf had sheered off westward. Thad didn’t trust that and by midafternoon had everyone aboard that hadn’t already taken off in their own boats. The only person who refused to leave was Mrs. Josie Jenkins. She came down to the shore, put her young daughter on board, and stayed to call good-bye, waving her baby son’s fat little arm. Mother and babe would brave the storm alone, she cried, because even her own brother had forsaken them. That was more guilt than poor old Tant could handle, so he left Pearl in the care of Josie’s latest husband and returned ashore to reason with her. Got nowhere because both of ’em were drunk. When Tant’s friends went to moderate and failed to return, Cap’n Thad got fed up. It was too damned late to sail today, he would sail without fail at daybreak Sunday, and any fools that weren’t on board would be left behind.
Sunday dawned with light winds and fair weather, all but that cold purple off to westward like a deep bruise in a pale sky.
I and Claude and Henry Short went north in our own boat. I told Henry I was sorry about locking him up the night before with that black prisoner. He said the man’s real name was Frank and reminded us that Frank was the one witness to what really happened, because even if Leslie Cox was caught, he would surely lie. Then he told the story. Claude asked Henry if he believed that story and Henry said yessir, he did. That man had took too big a risk to go making up lies for just another nigger, Henry added.
I had never heard Henry speak in that hard way. Henry knew how he had sounded, too, and tried to smooth it over. Said he believed this man had implicated Mister Watson because Watson had betrayed Melville to Cox.
Henry caught our quick exchange of looks. “Frank and Dutchy were friends some way,” Henry explained. “Feller fugitives,” he said, ironical again.
Claude ignored this new Henry, being worried about what would become of that tough black man. “Think they’ll hang him?” he asked me. When I nodded, Claude looked kind of sorry.