Free Lost Man's River by Peter Matthiessen Page A

the
History
.
    Sally Brown had applauded his intention to mend his father’s reputation, all the more so since E. J. Watson had always been a good friend to Whidden’s family, and like those Harden boys down at Shark River, had been “murdered in cold blood by those damned rednecks.” And it was Sally who finally persuaded him that a pen name was preferable to abandoning his project or damning his father with faint praise. Together they constructed a “family” pseudonym, L. Watson Collins. A year later, when the
History
was published, L. Watson Collins moved back to Caxambas, where he set to work on the biography, and placed the ads requesting information on his subject which would produce the Bill House deposition.

    One day at the crossroads store where he picked up his mail, Lucius received a formal letter requesting that he get in touch with Watson Dyer, in Miami. Attorney Dyer notified him that his father’s house was now officially scheduled for demolition by the National Park Service and offered his own services to help protect it.
    In the early years, Dyer explained, the Park had not bothered with the Watson Place, since its first task had been the construction of paved roads and facilities between Homestead and Flamingo that would open the eastern region to the tourists. But now, pursuant to Park policy that “the region be returned to its natural condition as a wilderness,” all sign of man was to be eradicated, even the rain cisterns and fruit-bearing trees. The old camps and shacks at Flamingo and Cape Sable, together with those at the river mouths and on the outer islands on the Gulf, had already been destroyed, and the Watson house on Chatham Bend was the only house left standing in the Islands except for the shack of an old loner who had been granted a life tenancy on Possum Key and the Earl Harden cabin at Lost Man’s River, which had been taken over as a ranger station.
    Although Lucius had heard these rumors from Speck Daniels, the formal notice was an unpleasant surprise, for the first and last house ever built on Chatham River would always be what his heart told him was home. Letter in hand, he strode angrily to the pay telephone outside the store. Over a bad line, after stiff greetings, Lucius demanded, “What do those idiots mean by ‘natural condition’? Before Indian settlement or after? Before
which
Indians? Do they hope to wipe out every trace of the Calusa? Those Calusa canals? It would cost millions just to fill them in, in all that backcountry! And how do they propose to level and fill without gouging more scars on a fragile landscape than they were trying to eliminate in the first place? If the Park wants the Watson Place back the way it was, it will have to bulldoze all forty acres of Chatham Bend into the river, because the Bend is nothing but shellmound, don’t they realize that? One huge Indian midden, built by human hands!”
    Like an unseen presence in the room, the lawyer’s silence commanded him to be still. In a moment, Dyer said, “Indians don’t count.” The voice was less ironic or cynical than plain indifferent.
    So far as the lawyer could determine, the Watson family had gone uncompensated for the claim on Chatham Bend, which in the aftermath of the great scandal at the time of the claimant’s death, none of his descendants had seen fit to pursue. If the Watson claim was valid, the old house might still be spared, and the land awarded legal status as an inholding within the Park for which life tenure, at least, might be negotiated. Could Lucius give him family authority to pursue this matter?
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t afford a lawyer—”
    â€œPro bono,”
Dyer said. “Sentimental reasons.” He reminded Lucius that he had been born at Chatham Bend and had been named after the claimant. In fact, he was just the man to represent the family, since his practice specialized in