Buffalo Blacque

BUFFALO

BLACQUE

Written by:

James M. Russell

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This is a work of fiction. Names. Characters. Places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by James M. Russell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Cover photo of bison by: James Ownby

Cover design by: the Author

This book is dedicated to Marcus Garvey and the women, men, and children of the Universal Negro Improvement Association.

Thanks for showing the way.

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INTRODUCTION

In telling Lucius’s tale I have incorporated a fair amount of detail, which may lead you to wonder whether Buffalo Blacque is 100% factually correct. It’s not. Oh sure, in creating the world that envelops my fictional characters, I have tried to be realistic but chances are that I got a name, or a date, or a description of the façade of a long-destroyed building, utterly wrong.

Having cleared that up, I hope you can now relax, sit back and enjoy Lucius’s story -- I certainly enjoyed writing it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Other books by the author

Harlem, New York – Sunday, July 10, 1921

CHAPTER 1

Darn it!

It was Lucius’s third try at buttoning his left shoulder epaulet.

You’re going to make me late! Lucius whispered to the button.

Lucius Alphonse Henry and the other men of the Liberian Brigade were dressing in the cramped basement of the New Testament Church of the Shining Lord. The brigade, which started off with seven men last year, had grown to thirty-five, with more signing up every time their leader, Marcus Garvey, made a speech.

Garvey’s speeches gave his people hope for the future.

Lucius renewed his efforts to button his uniform the moment he recognized the lyrical opening refrain of the Emperor’s Waltz float in through the church’s open door. Lucius knew that the ladies of the Black Cross Nurses Brigade would have already taken up their positions on the street by now. Once the front row of their group began marching, Lucius’s brigade was scheduled to step off exactly thirty-five seconds later. Glancing around the basement, Lucius saw that all but a few of his brigade were already dressed.

Can I be of assistance Lance Corporal Henry?

Lucius turned abruptly the moment he felt the hand on his shoulder. Corporal 2nd Class Tabler was smiling until Lucius answered, No! I mean, no thank you. I can do it myself.

And with a renewed sense of determination, Lucius tried yet again. This time the button slid home.

Less than a minute later he had attached his sword and sheath, fixed his collar then stepped in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the basement wall. Yes, he probably lingered there longer than most of the other men had, but only because he wanted to be sure that his uniform was perfect.

Lucius was especially glad that he had taken the time last night to clean his uniform belt with saddle soap before applying a fresh layer of polish because it always gave the leather a deeper, longer-lasting sheen. All-in-all, Lucius thought that his uniform looked far better than the sergeant major’s, even better than Lance Corporal Rugger’s newer but poorly maintained uniform, possibly better than Gunnery Corporal Richard Vecey’s uniform, which he boasted to everyone he had his girlfriend look after because his wife was too lazy.

Last month Lucius did notice that the serge in his blue tunic was beginning to nap a bit where the chrome sheath of his sword rubbed against it, but if he was careful to brush that area after every wear, he figured that it should last another year or two before he would have to replace the tunic. By then he might be eligible for promotion anyway; the material of the non-commissioned officers’ uniforms was a better quality of wool.

After one more glance at himself in the mirror, Lucius joined the rest of his brigade as they filed outside. He wished they could exit the basement through the front door, as they did last week, instead of the side door, which forced them to walk through that dreaded stretch of Harlem called China Alley.

Lucius feared China Alley. Not just because the alley stank of urine and rancid grease from the two Chinese food restaurants that backed onto it, or because the hundred by fifteen foot section of Harlem real estate was dark and foreboding, even on bright summer days. Lucius feared China Alley because, over the years, that stretch of revolting real estate had produced more than its share of dead people, most of them shot or stabbed, or both. Silly as it may have seemed, Lucius suspected that China Alley was a living, evil thing. Franklyn McMaster, gambler, ladies' man and local entrepreneur, certainly had no love of China Alley either. The alley was where he had breathed his last breath just a few hours before Lucius, looking debonair in his uniform, stepped through the church basement door and unknowingly stepped into a congealed pool of Mr. McMaster’s blood.

Lucius was one of the last of his group to take up his position on the street. He had been delayed when he paused at the entrance of China Alley to scrape what he thought was red sweet and sour sauce off the sole of the shoe.

It was an undistinguished July day. Occasionally a cluster of steel grey clouds would drift across the sky, but otherwise the canopy overhead remained a pastoral blue.

A few moments after finding his place, Lucius noticed the sharp aroma of marigolds and chrysanthemums that sprouted from the flower boxes that clung to every window railing. It was a moist and warm fragrance that drifted with the gentle breeze, a breeze that exorcised every vestige of that evil-smelling lane.

This afternoon’s crowd was even larger than last week’s. Harlem loved parades.

The Black Cross Nurses, thirty stern-faced black women of all ages, all dressed in sparkling green, marched in front of Lucius’s group. Behind them came the African Motor Corp, followed by the Young Pioneers, a group of thirty or forty teens dressed in purple overalls. The marching band was about a block ahead, but Lucius could still hear the roar of the wind instruments, the staccato beat of the drums, the blare of trumpets and tubas. Behind them, perhaps two or three blocks, was the man himself. Lucius had only seen Garvey from a distance. He had, of course, never met the man and likely never would. Lucius understood that someone who commanded an army of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, would have no time for someone as insignificant as a lowly Lance Corporal.

Of course, that didn’t prevent Lucius from dreaming about meeting his hero, which some may have thought was odd but all of us, at one time or the other, dream about meeting famous people: presidents, royalty, Jesus, even God. Dreaming of meeting the Honourable Marcus Mosiah Garvey, President General of the Universal Negro Improvement Association, was no different.

Liberty Hall was on West 138th, not far from the opulence of Strivers’ Row. The hall was a grand structure with solid stone columns that supported the gentle arches of its distinguished façade.

Upon arrival at the hall, Lucius’s brigade was assigned to break formation and mix with the crowd, nearly a hundred by Lucius’s count, that had formed to either side of the royal purple carpet, laid down for the official party to walk on as they traveled from the curb to the hall’s front door. It wasn’t an important job, but Lucius was excited about it because it would give him a chance to see Garvey.

Lucius heard the roar of the crowd long before he saw Garvey’s horse-drawn coach approaching. The several dozen men of the African Legion, an elite group made up of the best-of-the-best, preceded Garvey’s arrival. The sight of their matte-black uniforms, made even more majestic by the single red stripe running down the side of each pant leg, had an almost electric effect on the spectators.

Suddenly the already turbulent crowd voiced their excitement when the horse-drawn, cherry wood and polished brass carriage pulled to a stop at the head of the carpet and Garvey, his boots glistening in the afternoon sun, stepped onto the wide purple ribbon.

A gaggle of press photographers and reporters rushed toward the carriage. As Garvey acknowledged the crowd’s cheers, the photographers’ cameras bathed Garvey with flashes of light.

Most of the photographers took only one or two photos but one stern-looking fellow continued to take photos of Garvey and the other dignitaries accompanying him in the carriage.

Garvey, a short, stout man with perfect posture and dressed in the military uniform of an emperor, smiled warmly as he waved regally to the crowd.

The marching band immediately began playing the National Anthem of the Universal Negro Improvement Association. Garvey waved his arms as would a conductor.

Advance…advance…

Lucius sang enthusiastically, completely oblivious of his non-existent vocal skills.

Advance to victory.

Let Africa be free.

Advance to meet the foe.

With the might of the red, the black and the green.

Advance... advance...

As the African Legion cleared the way, Garvey strode with the grace of royalty toward the hall’s front door.

Liberty Hall had seating for hundreds and every seat was filled. Many, like Lucius, stood at the back of the hall. Even more lined the sidewalk outside, hoping to hear Garvey’s speech via one of the two loudspeakers attached to the hall’s façade.

From where he stood, Lucius couldn’t see the stage but he listened to every word of Garvey’s impassioned speech, a speech that lasted nearly an hour and a half.

There was some mix-up in the arrangements and although Lucius’s brigade was officially off duty they were ordered to help with crowd control at the rear of the theatre where Garvey was to make his exit.

The men of the Africa Legion did most of the work. Each member was trained in crowd control, and the martial arts if necessary. Lucius and his Brigade just provided supplemental support.

Garvey, accompanied by three men, exited through the back door of the theatre at ten past five, three minutes late. The two men on either side of Garvey were his bodyguards. The third man, who wore a finely cut blue business suit and green silk tie, followed a few paces behind. Lucius had seen Charles P. Fitzroy before but never spoken to him. Rumour was that Charles Fitzroy was not a man who had much time for casual talk with underlings, and as Special Assistant to the President, everyone, except Garvey, was his underling. That suited Lucius fine. There was something about Fitzroy that gave Lucius the chills.

Lucius was standing in the middle of the crowd, perhaps five feet from the front, when a scowling, middle-aged man in a wide-lapel, black business suit and dark blue fedora barged through the crowd of spectators.

The bodyguard on Mr. Garvey’s right spotted the approaching man immediately and placed his body between the man and his boss. At that point, the man in the fedora probably couldn’t even see Garvey past the bodyguard’s massive frame but he shouted his question anyway.

Mr. Garvey, my name is Chandler and I want to know how can you say that the black man should not demand equality.

Mr. Garvey stopped, turned toward the man then smiled that smile of his.

No Brother Chandler, I never said that we should not demand equality. What I said was… and then Marcus Garvey, leader, inspirer, and teacher, paused and glanced about.

Does anyone remember what I said just a few minutes ago?

The crowd fell silent and still – their eyes shifted to the ground – their embarrassment complete.

Lucius’s arm began to rise, not wilfully but un-consciously. In fact, no one was more shocked then he was when he glanced to the right and saw his hand reaching for the sky. However, it was another man, standing closer to the front of the crowd, who spoke first, and not with confidence, but with truncated sentences.

Didn’t you say something like ….something like establishing the right … and that it was unfair?

Finally, Lucius could hold it no longer.

Mr. Garvey you said, ‘it is indeed unfair to demand equality when one has done nothing to establish the right to equal ...

Every head suddenly turned toward Lucius.

…ity, Sir.

Well done. That's exactly what I said Brother ...?

Lucius wanted to tell Garvey his name, but he couldn’t speak. Clearly he had overstepped his position and possibly, by speaking directly to the Honourable Marcus M. Garvey, even broken a U.N.I.A. regulation or two or three. Lucius was lost and confused, and the faces of the crowd, all of them with their eyes drilling into his head, provided no answers. Thankfully, one of Garvey’s bodyguards, a burly, red-haired man with a boy’s face, locked eyes with Lucius and nodded. That simple gesture shattered the spell.

Missssttter. Garvey … my … my name is Lucius Henry, Sir.

The crowd felt Lucius’s embarrassment and each man and woman forced a quick smile.

Mr. Garvey was clearly pleased. Well, Brother Henry, you think you could tell this gentleman just how the Universal Negro Improvement Association intends to accomplish this goal?

Again, Lucius looked at the red-haired bodyguard and again the burly man nodded.

Thhhhrough self-reliance, Sir. Freedom for the black people will only come with economic self-sufficiency. The programs of the U.N.I.A. will give is the economic freedom that will liberate the black people of America and Africa …

Lucius paused to savour at the moment, he … Lucius Henry was speaking directly to Marcus Garvey, who was listening. More than listening, Garvey’s face was consumed by a wide smile and his eyes sparkled with the light of a thousand stars. Less than a second had passed before Lucius suddenly remembered that he hadn’t completed his sentence.

… fffffrom the yoke of poverty and colonialism … Sir.

Quite right Brother Henry ... Quite right.

Garvey stepped around his bodyguard and gestured to Lucius.

Walk with me, young man.

Lucius glanced first to his left, and then to his right, convinced that Garvey was speaking to someone else, but no one moved. Finally, the red-haired bodyguard grabbed Lucius’s bandolier and jerked him through the crowd to the front.

Lucius hurried to catch up to Garvey, who while smiling and waving to the crowd, had resumed strolling toward his waiting carriage. How long have you been a member of the U.N.I.A., Brother Henry?

Two years this September, Sir.

And what is your trade?

Garvey looked Lucius up and down.

A lawyer, or a doctor perhaps?

Oh no Sir. I’m just a bookkeeper, Mr. Garvey.

Never say ‘just’ Brother Henry. Be proud of what you are. Do you like bookkeeping?

Oh yes, Sir. I like numbers and …

Lucius stopped when several people in the crowd laughed at the preposterousness of anyone having a fondness for numbers. Garvey shot a wilting glance at the non-believers, then suddenly renewed his smile and looked Lucius straight in the eye.

Good for you, Brother Henry. My army includes soldiers of many different shapes, sizes, and vocations. Even bookkeepers. Do you want to be a foot soldier in the army of the Universal Negro Improvement Association?

Yes... I mean, yes, Sir.

Good, Brother Henry. Then be the best foot soldier ever. The destiny of our people depends on men like yourself.

And then, with all the pomp and circumstance of the King of England knighting a valorous warrior, Garvey unhooked the chain of his pocket watch and nestled it warmly into Lucius’s hand.

In recognition of your devotion to the cause I present you, Lucius Henry, with this small token of your nation’s appreciation.

Garvey laid his other hand over Lucius’s and gave the stunned bookkeeper a two-handed shake.

Good day, Brother Henry.

Garvey leaped into his carriage and sat on the red leather bench. Almost as suddenly, the snap of the coachman’s whip split the air and the elegant carriage lurched forward.

By the time Lucius was able to speak, Garvey was already halfway down the street, still smiling warmly, still waving to the crowd.

Good day, Mr. Garvey and thank you … Sir, but no one heard what he said, certainly not the man himself.

Lucius stood on the sidewalk staring in awe at Garvey’s present. It was a beautiful watch, black face with white Roman numerals set in a golden case. The hair-thin second hand moved clockwise with careful jerks while the hour and minute hands, both of sparkling gold, journeyed at an imperceptible pace. The large link chain, which Garvey himself unhooked from his own vest, was attached to a golden half-ring that swivelled over the large knurled winding knob at the top. It was a truly magnificent timepiece.

A jostle from a passing couple, their arms intertwined as they strolled down the sidewalk at a lovers’ pace, dragged Lucius back to the waking world. He immediately pulled his wire-bound notebook from the inside pocket of his tunic, flipped it open and began scribbling furiously as he recorded the events of the last few minutes.

&

The carriage moved in fits and starts, forcing Garvey and Fitzroy to sometimes grab their seat cushion to keep from falling out. Through it all, Garvey continued waving to the crowd.

Once they hit a smooth patch of road, Fitzroy leaned forward and opened the storage compartment set in the partition wall behind the driver’s seat. He then reached into the red, felt-lined box and pulled out one of a dozen pocket watches, each one identical to the one that his boss just presented to Lucius Henry. Fitzroy handed the watch to Garvey, who matter-of-factly attached it to his vest while continuing to smile and wave to the crowd.

I think that Brother Henry might be the right man for that administrative assistant position at headquarters.

Mr. Garvey, William ... my nephew. We discussed giving that position to him when he ... he's graduating from college next month.

We'll find another suitable position for your nephew.

Fitzroy spent several moments shifting about in his seat, not from discomfort but from a need to stall for time while he composed a strategy.

Mr. Garvey, Henry is untested. Inexperienced. We don't even know whether he can ...

Then give him a small job with which he may prove himself. I have a feeling that he will be up to the task.

Garvey continued waving to the crowd while Fitzroy fumed with a smoldering intensity.

CHAPTER 2

`It was nearly six in the afternoon by the time Lucius reached the church, changed back into his street clothes and began the walk home. He could have taken the subway but even after standing for hours, he felt like walking. Lucius walked everywhere.

You a walkin’ fool, boy! Nana Henry would say with a smile to Lucius.

Nana Henry didn’t mean that her grandson, her favourite, was stupid. No, her oft-repeated phrase was just her way of recognizing that Lucius was fond of puttin’ shoe leather to the sidewalk, as old folks were fond of saying. And she was right. From an early age, when Lucius needed to get somewhere he walked. In the old days, before diabetes took both her legs,

Nana Henry used to walk too; five miles a day, every day. She figured that Lucius must have gotten his love of walking from her. Certainly didn’t come from the rest of the Henry clan, who never walked further than to the streetcar stop. Bunch of fat, lazy slobs, Nana was fond of repeating, sometimes just out of the blue. Nana Henry wasn’t shy about speaking her mind.

&

New York City of 1921 was home to a rainbow of humanity. Men, women, and children of every colour, hue, native language and accent. Harlem, however, at least that section that stretched from 114th to 156th Street, was populated almost exclusively by black people. Some, like those who lived in Striver’s Row, enjoyed some measure of financial well-being but most of the residents of Harlem spent their days and nights, and indeed, their entire lives, teetering on the edge of economic ruin. Doctors, accountants, bakers, office clerks. All of them were climbing the economic ladder of success one paycheque, one promotion, and one marriage at a time.

Lucius lived in a two-storey at the corner of 116th and 8th, near the northernmost edge of Harlem. Quite a way from the New Testament Church but Lucius covered the distance in record time, arriving home at exactly 6:30. His mother was always so disappointed when he was late for dinner.

Sunday dinners were always a formal occasion at the Henry household. His mother insisted on it. Judging by the way his step-father complained about having to wear a starched collar and tie, Lucius figured that Father would have preferred a lesser level of formality but never vocalized his preference out of respect, or fear, of Momma.

Lucius slipped off his black wingtips as soon as he stepped into the foyer, then set them beside the heavy brass canister that served as an umbrella stand. That space on the floor was reserved for him, just as each and every other parking spot on the brown hemp shoe mat was reserved: one for his mother, step-father, brother. Visitor’s shoes were always lined up against the opposite wall, under the framed portrait of Jesus.

Mother heard him coming long before she saw him.

Evening, Lucius.

Evening, Momma, Father, Frank. Henrietta, he said as he stepped into the sunroom.

Henrietta Andora Stockwell was the love of his life and fiancée for the past six months. They had been dating for nearly two years before he proposed. Henrietta was a lovely woman and considering his bleak career prospects and meagre savings, Lucius was a little surprised that she had accepted his proposal of marriage, especially since it was widely known that she had already turned down several more financially endowed suitors. No doubt about it, he was a lucky man.

Nice to see you, he said brightly as he kissed her Henrietta on the cheek and sat.

Evening Lucius, she replied while flashing him a smile brighter than the sunrise on a summer morning, then matter-of-factly unfolded her napkin and laid it gracefully on her lap.

The Henry family’s Sunday dinner, always taken in the utilitarian sunroom, dining room, sewing room, was always a cramped affair. For one thing, the room measured barely eleven by fourteen while the table, a hastily finished maple slab, was seven by ten and a half. Everyone was tight for space, especially Momma and Father, who sat at opposite ends of the table.

Lucius sat on the east side of the table, directly across from Frank, Lucius’s older brother. Lucius and Frank weren’t close, they never were, at least not since grade school when Mr. Hollinger, the principal of 7th St. School, commented from the speaker’s podium during one of their Friday assemblies that young Lucius’s grade average had exceeded that of his older brother, who had graduated from the same school two years earlier. Frank knew that he wasn’t a ‘damned egghead’ like his brother but objected to the rest of the world thinking that he was some kind of mental midget.

Frank naturally was a stickler for time, working in the transit scheduling for the city, so after glancing at the wall clock, a reportedly authentic Bavarian Coo-Coo clock, he said with a Cheshire cat smile: Cuttin’ it pretty close, dear brother.

Henrietta was kind enough to join us for dinner.

That’s good; guess what Momma. Lucius gushed, unable to contain his joy any longer.

What dear?

The Honourable Marcus Garvey shook my hand today and he gave me his...

Frank interrupted Lucius with a burst of sustained laughter that wracked his chest with great heaves of air and noise.

You sure that Jamaican carpetbagger didn't pick your pocket ‘da same time? Frank finally managed to spit out.

Lucius turned angrily and opened his mouth to reply to Frank, but Susan interrupted.

That's exciting dear! What did he say? Take the stage and act it out for us, Lucius!

&

Lucius was seven when his grade two class produced Othello. His teacher, Mr. Pillat, did most of the work, making the costumes and set, but the kids played all the roles. Both Lucius and Daniel Johannsen wanted to play the lead roles, but Daniel figured that he could just show up at the tryouts so he didn’t bother to memorize his lines or even study the play.

Lucius however, knew the play better than he knew the head of the kid who sat in front of him in class so, naturally, Lucius got the part.

The play was presented to the entire student body on the last day of the school year. Lucius received a standing ovation, mostly because after forty minutes the audience was tired of sitting on the unpadded wooden chairs and needed to stretch their little legs. Nevertheless, standing on the stage, bathed in the warm glow from incandescent lamps and polite applause, a star was born.

Lucius entertained the possibility of becoming an actor instead