There is an eerie silence as he gazes across the horizon kneeling with his hands raised trying to catch his breath. The air is crisp, the sun portraying its usual brilliance, making the sky red, reminding him of what he had committed and relieved at knowing what is about to happen to him.
From the moment that he was born, life had been a struggle. He had to live through the deaths of all those he had ever loved as he lived on. He was born at the tail end of the Second World War. His mama had died bringing him into the world. He’d never known his grand-pa cause he was killed in the war before he had been born. He had just buried all the family he had ever known just about a month ago. His grand-ma had done the best she could. It seemed to him that he was cursed to have been alive. There had been moments of joy in his life only to be crushed by the agony brought by Death’s wrath.
He was six years old and his pa had taken him fishing. It was a good day’s catch they had caught enough to last them for a couple of days. He enjoyed spending his days like this with his pa. On their way home an angry white mob looking for a nigger to lynch, ran after them. Dropping the day’s catch, Carl’s dad told him to run home as he ran toward the mob.
“That’s him, that’s the nigger that stole from George’s store,” said one in the mob.
From his blind side a baseball bat hit Carl’s dad in the back of the head and instantly knocks him out cold. The mob drags his lifeless body through the street. They place a noose around his neck and hang him from a tree. Carl had not run home but sought refuge from behind a tree and had seen what had happened to his dad.
It had been such a hot South Carolina summer. It was only nine o’clock in the morning and it had already gotten to ninety degrees. It had been expected to get really hot and really muggy. Carl stepped off of the bus, walked down to the Army recruiter’s office in downtown Charleston. He pulled out his handkerchief from his left rear pocket to wipe the sweat from his face.
Staff Sergeant Wooley had been sitting at his desk finishing the paperwork of a new recruit when Carl walked in.
“I’ll get to you in a sec boy, just have a seat.”
Staff Sergeant Wooley was from Alabama who admired George Wallace but also needed to make his quota for the month and was one short.
“Boy, what do want?”
“Well, sir”
“Sir! Did you just call me sir? Boy, I am a Staff Sergeant in this God’s U.S. Army. I work for a living. Have a seat.”
“Sorry, Staff Sergeant, sir,” said Carl fumbling over his words.
“Boy, you startin to get on my nerves. What is it that you want?”
“I have this letter saying that I had been drafted.”
“Well, come on, let’s process your papers and you can get on your way to serving your country in Vietnam.”
“But, I have a letter from my doc saying that I am not physically able to join.”
“Oh, is that right. Did a nigger doctor write you that junk? Let me see that piece of paper.”
“No, Staff Sergeant, actually it was Dr. Jackson.”
Carl hands Staff Sergeant Wooley the letter. Wooley snatches the paper smartly from Carl’s hands. It was well known that Dr. Jackson, who had moved to Charleston from New York, was a nigger sympathizer. With a name like Jackson, most of the white community had felt that Dr. Jackson had betrayed his heritage. Wooley had pulled out his cigarette lighter from his shirt pocket and had began to set the letter on fire.
“Well, now we don’t have that problem, do we boy?”
Carl had prepared for such an event. He had been warned by others not to go see Staff Sergeant Wooley. Carl did not care. He had a score to settle. Carl stood up. He pulled out the .38 revolver from his right front pocket. Without hesitation he aimed the gun in front of Wooley’s face and fired a shot.
The bullet snapped Wooley’s head back, rattled around his skull, turned his brain to mush, before it exited just behind his left ear. Wooley’s lifeless body slumped into his chair. Blood ran down his nostrils. Carl always looked forward to this day where he had avenged the death of his father. He had finally done it. He felt a kind of ecstasy in the act.
Carl, running all day and the angry white mob, still following him, thought he had found refuge at Caw Caw Swamp.
“I see the nigger,” said one in the mob, “he went into the swamp.”
The mob began to converge on to Carl’s position. There was nowhere for him to go. Carl makes one last attempt to escape but decides to give up. He felt peace within himself as he had served his father’s justice. There is an eerie silence as he gazes across the horizon kneeling with his hands raised trying to catch his breath. The air is crisp, the sun portraying its usual brilliance, making the sky red, reminding him of what he had committed and relieved knowing what is about to happen to him. He ain’t afraid of dying. He finally would be relieved of the hatred that had burned through his veins.
“That’s him, that’s the nigger that killed John,” said one from the mob.
From his blindside a baseball bat hit Carl at the back of his head and instantly knocks him out. The angry white mob drags his lifeless body along to Jacksonboro Road from the swamp. They place a noose around his neck. They hang his lifeless body.
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