Читать книгу Forsaken - Ross Howell - Страница 11

4.

Orphan Girls

On Thursday morning, March 21, at 11 o’clock, Ida Virginia Belote was to be laid to rest beside her husband in the St. John’s Episcopal Church cemetery in Hampton. My rented rooms on the second floor of a brick carriage house near the trolley stop on Lincoln Street had a porch. From it I could see the entrance to the cemetery. The family had announced the interment would be a private ceremony, and Mayor Jones had instructed Sheriff Curtis to have deputies on duty early to keep gawkers at a distance. Mr. Rees, the undertaker, had hired a couple of big fellows from the docks to help out, too. When the men lifted their arms to hold their top hats against the wind, the suits Mr. Rees loaned them for the job looked like they might split at the seams.

I caught the trolley to the docks and walked to the entrance of the Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock Company on the coal pier side. As I made my way across the C&O tracks, I could glimpse a section of the Texas. The prow of the dreadnought was hung with scaffolding. Her superstructure towered above the yards. Seagulls spun and screeched among the masts and guy wires. A guard at the gate remembered Cahill right away.

“Bandy little fellow with a moustache?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Best damn rivet man in the shop. Heard about the trouble over at his landlady’s. I don’t know where he’s hanging his cap now. Wait here at the gate when the shift changes at five of the evening, you’re sure to catch him.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you keep records of the men’s attendance?”

“Yes, they sign in and out here at the gate.”

“Do you have this Monday’s records?”

“I do. I turn the time sheets into the office of a Friday.”

“May I ask you to check to see if Mr. Cahill was at work on Monday?”

“Oh, I’m sure he was. Supposed to launch that battleship in May, so they’re working round the clock.”

“I’m sorry to ask, sir, but do you mind checking?”

“All right,” he said. “Just hold on.” He went back into a little office where clipboards were hanging from pegs. He picked one up and began to leaf through the sheets.

“Monday, March 18. Signature: J. T. Cahill. Ingress: 6:45 a.m. Egress: 5:10 p.m.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for your trouble.”

Newspapers were piled high in the rubbish can by the entrance. I pulled out a few. Stories about the testimony in Dr. Vanderslice’s inquest were all over the front pages—Hampton, Phoebus, Norfolk, Newport News, Portsmouth, Chesapeake, Suffolk. Reporters from the Richmond Times-Dispatch and the Williamsburg Bee had been at the sheriff’s office, too. “NEGRESS STRANGLES WIDOW IN GRUESOME CRIME,” read one headline. “INNOCENT CHILDREN DISCOVER SCENE OF HORROR,” read another. “BASIN OF BLOOD TESTIMONY RIVETS JURORS,” was the headline Mr. Hobgood gave my story in the Times-Herald.

Passions were running high. Some feared a race riot. Ministers of the black church congregations in Hampton and Newport News were alarmed. An article stated a colored preacher from the pulpit had called for the speedy execution of Virginia Christian. “Murder of Mrs. Belote Is Deplored by Negroes,” read a headline in the Daily Press. For the story Pace had interviewed two colored preachers who said the crime was a real setback for relations between the races. They claimed their congregations were willing to hire private investigators to assist the sheriff’s office in bringing the girl to justice.

For background to my story on Mrs. Belote’s funeral, I decided to check the morgue at the Daily Press. The clip file about Hampton residents at Pace’s paper was better than ours at the Times-Herald. I was smoking a cigarette outside when Pace came trotting up the steps. He stopped and grinned.

“Looking for a job, Charlie?” he asked.

“Yours,” I said. He stepped by me, giving me the finger over his shoulder as he went inside.

Mrs. Belote’s beloved husband, James Edward Wadsworth Belote, had died at their Washington Street home on June 6, 1911. The cause of death was throat cancer, according to the obituary. For some reason people called him Frank. His family was from Northampton County, North Carolina. He’d moved to Hampton about 1880. He worked as a bookkeeper for various firms in the yards. Except for the proprietor of a saloon by the docks, who remembered him as a man who liked to argue politics, nobody seemed to recall much about Mrs. Belote’s husband.

One thing was certain, Frank Belote was prolific. At the time of his death he had five sons, all grown men. There was a marriage notice about Pauline, his oldest daughter. She’d married George Wright, a welder in Newport News, in 1909, when she was nineteen years old. According to the notice, her two younger sisters, Harriet and Sarah Elizabeth—Sadie—lived at home with their mother, Mrs. Ida Virginia Belote.

My hunch was the two girls would be staying with their older sister, at least for now. When I finished at the Daily Press, I located the Wrights’ address in Newport News. Too bad I hadn’t thought to check before I went to the shipyards earlier. The address was near the point where the James River runs into Hampton Roads. I caught the trolley as far as I could. The place was a white cottage with big azaleas planted at the foundations. Fat buds were scattered among the branches, but none of the blossoms had opened. The sun was bright and a breeze blew cold off the Roads. Sadie was sitting by herself on the stoop. Her hair was the color of honey and drooped in thick ringlets below her shoulders. She was holding a big doll with a frilly bonnet. Her nose was running and she wiped it on the hem of the doll’s dress.

A petite woman wearing a black skirt and black shirtwaist came out on the stoop. I recognized her from the inquest.

“Sadie,” she said. “It’s too cold! Come inside the house and shut that door. Goodness!”

“Mrs. Wright?” I said.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Charlie Mears. I work for the Times-Herald. I’m sorry to trouble you at such a difficult time, but may I ask you some questions?”

She bit her lip and studied me. “My husband’s not at home,” she said. “It would be better if you came back later.”

“I’ll only take a moment of your time, ma’am.”

“Oh, all right, come inside. Sadie, for goodness’ sake, stand up and get inside this house before we both catch our death.”

I stepped quickly up the walk. There were purple crocuses barely open by the stoop. Mrs. Wright held the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

“Mears,” I said.

“Come in, Mr. Mears. Sadie, take Mr. Mears’ cap.”

She shut the door behind me. There was a coal firebox in the fireplace and the room was toasty. I handed Sadie my cap. My glasses began to fog. I removed them and wiped the lenses with my handkerchief. When I put them back on, I saw Harriet Belote standing by the fireplace mantel. She was pale as a lily. Her long, jet-black hair fell down her back. Her eyes were very bright. In one hand she held a book, a finger keeping her place. Though I had seen her twice, first at the depot and then at the sheriff’s office, I had not noticed how pretty she was. Like her older sister, she was dressed in black.

“You have a cowlick.”

“Sadie!” Mrs. Wright said.

I looked down. Sadie was gazing up at me, clutching her doll.

I brushed at my hair with my hand. “The cap,” I said. “It seems to do it.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said. “Dolly’s will, too, if she sleeps on it funny. See?” She held the doll up and pointed to its forehead.

“Yes,” I said. “I see.”

“Harriet, why don’t you take Sadie in the bedroom so Mr. Mears and I can talk,” Mrs. Wright said.

Harriet nodded and moved toward the door. She waited until Sadie joined her, then took her by the shoulders and guided her from the room.

Mrs. Wright sat in the Morris chair by the fire and folded her hands on her lap. I sat in a ladder-back chair facing her. “I’m worried sick, Mr. Mears,” she said. “Sadie’s all right. I don’t think she grasps what has happened. But Harriet hasn’t spoken a word since yesterday. She won’t eat a bite. Nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “It must be terrifying to lose her mother this way. Maybe a person of faith?”

“The minister at St. John’s is stopping by this afternoon. He delivered a lovely eulogy for Momma.” Mrs. Wright’s hands were clutching the fabric of her skirt. “She wants to live here, Mr. Mears. I’m their sister and I love the girls dearly, but it’s just not possible.” She lifted her hands. “The house is so small. We’re just starting out. It wouldn’t be fair to George.” Her chin trembled. She pulled a kerchief from the wrist of her shirtwaist and touched it to her eyes. She folded it in her hands on her lap.

“Is there anyone else?” I asked.

“Oh, Harriet’s named for her grandmother, and they’ve always been close. Grandmother has a beautiful place on King Street, not far from where she and Grandfather ran the grocery, but Grandfather’s gone now and she’s in her eighties. She’s done everything she could. She even purchased the house on Washington Street for Momma and Daddy, gave it to them. She’s done everything you could expect. If Harriet asked, she would take the girls in an instant, because she loves them so, but she’s not well, Mr. Mears. Even with servants, she couldn’t manage two young girls. I don’t know why Harriet won’t listen to reason.”

She paused.

“Daddy was not the best of fathers, Mr. Mears. His drinking made everything difficult. For everyone.”

“I understand, Mrs. Wright. In college I was a member of the Temperance Club. I’ve kept my pledge.”

“God bless you, Mr. Mears.” She looked up at the daguerreotypes on the mantel. “Our uncle Lewter is a wealthy man. He has a successful business in Norfolk,” she said. “You probably know it. They sell big machines to the shipyards. I don’t understand it, but George, my husband, could explain it for you. Uncle Lewter and Mary have a family themselves. A little boy, Floyd, and a girl, Maggie, who’s almost exactly Harriet’s age. It will be the best situation.”

I nodded. “Ma’am, do you believe that Virginia Christian is responsible for your mother’s death?”

“No,” she said. “I just don’t see how that could happen. Momma visited with us Sunday a week ago. She told me about a missing skirt, that she expected Virgie to pay her for it. Momma was always missing things. She had too much on her shoulders. Alone, with two young girls to raise. She wore herself out. I’m sure she just misplaced things. Whenever she thought something’d been stolen, it would show up somewhere. But she was cross all the time, and no wonder.”

“You said your mother never quarreled with Virgie?”

“Oh, my word, no. Whenever Momma confronted her about something, Virgie looked scared more than anything. I think Momma frightened her to death. She’d cringe at the sound of Momma’s voice. Virgie never said anything back to her, no matter how hateful Momma was. And she always was sweet with us girls. Virgie’s just a girl herself. I remember her talking about school, how she liked it. But she had to quit when her mother got sick. I don’t think she could really read or write a word.

“It was funny how she had to have things arranged just so when she was working. Ironing board right-to-left. Clothes basket to the left of the ironing board. White things on top. Colored things on the bottom. Two irons on the stove, one on the stand. Once I borrowed an iron from the stove to touch up a skirt hem and you’d have thought the house was afire, the commotion Virgie made when she missed it. But she was a worker. Lord knows she earned every penny Momma paid her.”

“Did you ever have occasion to speak with Mr. Cahill? The boarder?”

“Oh, I think a couple of Sundays, when I visited Momma,” Mrs. Wright said. “Sometimes he’d bring fresh fish or oysters from the docks, and Momma would cook everyone a nice Sunday dinner. He was very pleasant. Always a gentleman.”

“Was there ever any problem with his payments?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure Momma would’ve told me.”

“He’s quite a handsome man.”

“Harriet certainly thinks so,” she said. “And Momma, too, for that matter.” She smiled, and looked down at her hands. “At least, she did think so.”

“Mrs. Wright, you’ve been very generous with your time. I’d better go. I’m very sorry for your family’s loss. I will remember your mother in my prayers.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mears.”

I stood to leave. She offered her hand, and I shook it.

“Ma’am, does Harriet like to read verse?”

“Why, yes, ever since she was a little girl.”

“I’ll see if can find a volume for her. Maybe it will help her pass the time.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Mears.”

Outside the air had warmed with the sun. The blossoms of the crocuses were open. I had started for the cottage gate when I heard the front door behind me.

“Mr. Mears!” Mrs. Wright called from the stoop. “You forgot your cap. Here, Sadie, take it.”

The girl scampered down the steps and ran to me. She held up the cap.

“Thank you,” I said. Her eyes were blue as robins’ eggs. She looked at me for a moment.

“Momma went to see the angels,” she said. She smiled. Then she ran back inside the house.

By the time I got back into Hampton it was getting close to deadline. I still had time to swing by the jail before going to the paper. In the square between the courthouse fence and the jail there was a crowd. Except for a pack of colored boys running footraces at the edge of the square, the people were white. Clouds had gathered and were spitting sleet. The pellets stung my face.

I could see Deputy Chas Curtis speaking from the steps of the jail. His face was red. I wasn’t close enough to make out what he was saying. When he paused, people in the crowd hooted and whistled.

“Just hang that nigger!” a man close to me shouted. I walked on till I was closer. Chas saw me and nodded. He turned back to the crowd and lifted his chin.

“The mayor has directed the court to move forward on this case as quickly as the laws of the Commonwealth allow,” he shouted. “You folks need to disperse.”

“We don’t need Commonwealth law!” a man yelled from beside the steps. “We need God’s law!”

A murmur rose through the crowd like a swell in rough weather. There was quiet, then an eruption of sound.

“Send the nigger girl out!”

“We’ll take care of her. Save the sheriff the trouble!”

The deputy raised his hands for quiet, but the shouting grew louder. The sleet fell harder, bouncing off the brick pavers. The crowd’s anger seemed to rise.

“Send her out!”

The jail door opened and Sheriff Curtis stepped through. He was wearing his Stetson with the brim pulled low and an oilcloth slicker that reached to his boots. One side of the slicker was tucked behind a holstered Owlshead pistol on his hip. Slung over a forearm was a double-barreled Remington with the bore broken open. The brass shell casings shone in the dull light. Officer Hope and Constable Hicks stepped out behind the sheriff. Each man was wearing a holstered Colt. The constable closed the door and stood in front of it with his hands hooked in his holster belt. The big man was about as wide as the door. The crowd fell silent.

The sheriff looked from face to face. “I see people out here I know voted for me,” he said. “And I appreciate it. You voted for me to uphold the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia and Elizabeth City County in your behalf. I aim to do that.” He gestured with his free arm. “These men standing here, they aim to do that.”

He snapped shut the bore of the shotgun. “This ten-gauge is loaded with double-ought. At this distance I reckon it’d pert near cut a man in two. Now I’m asking you people to disperse. I know you want justice served and that’s what we aim to do. But I’m damned if I’m gone stand out here in this cold and wet. Now do what Chas says, and get on home.”

“She’s just a nigger, sheriff!” a woman shouted.

“I understand that, ma’am, but under the law, she’s a citizen of Elizabeth City County, same as you. Now move on. A grand jury is set to hear this case on the first of April.”

“Well I never,” the woman muttered.

The crowd began to break up. Officer Hope adjusted the globes and lit the gaslights on the façade of the jail. Sheriff Curtis removed his Stetson and shook the sleet pellets from the brim. He put his hand on Chas’ shoulder.

“You did all right,” he said. The sheriff replaced his hat and looked at me. “My cousin did all right, didn’t he, Charlie?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

Just beyond the glow of the gaslights a small group of white men stood, murmuring like birds on a roost in the shadows. The sheriff and deputies watched them for a while, until the men began—by ones and twos—to walk away. The officers went back inside the jail. A colored girl raced across the square, brandishing a long switch. The pack of colored boys, huddled by a cistern where they’d listened to the sheriff’s speech, sprang up laughing. They ran along the courthouse fence and scattered in the streets.

“I’m gone tell Momma where I found you!” the colored girl screamed, chasing after the smallest boy.