by Irvin S. Cobb
IT GOES past the powers of my pen to try to describe
Reelfoot Lake for you so that you, reading this, will get the picture of it in
your mind as I have it in mine.
For Reelfoot Lake is like no other lake that I know anything
about. It is an after-thought of Creation.
The rest of this continent was made and had dried in the sun for
thousands of years-millions of years, for all I know-before Reelfoot came to be.
It's the newest big thing in nature on this hemisphere, probably, for it was
formed by the great earthquake of 1811.
That earthquake of 1811 surely altered the face of the earth on
the then far frontier of this country.
It changed the course of rivers, it converted hills into what
are now the sunk lands of three states, and it turned the solid ground to jelly
and made it roll in waves like the sea.
And in the midst of the retching of the land and the vomiting of
the waters it depressed to varying depths a section of the earth crust sixty
miles long, taking it down -- trees, hills, hollows, and all, and a crack broke
through to the Mississippi River so that for three days the river ran up stream,
filling the hole.
The result was the largest lake south of the Ohio, lying mostly
in Tennessee, but extending up across what is now the Kentucky line, and taking
its name from a fancied resemblance in its outline to the splay, reeled foot of
a cornfield negro. Niggerwool Swamp, not so far away, may have got its name from
the same man who christened Reelfoot: at least so it sounds.
Reelfoot is, and has always been, a lake of mystery.
In places it is bottomless. Other places the skeletons of the
cypress-trees that went down when the earth sank, still stand upright so that if
the sun shines from the right quarter, and the water is less muddy than common,
a man, peering face downward into its depths, sees, or thinks he sees, down
below him the bare top-limbs upstretching like drowned men's fingers, all coated
with the mud of years and bandaged with pennons of the green lake slime.
In still other places the lake is shallow for long stretches, no
deeper than breast high to a man, but dangerous because of the weed growths and
the sunken drifts which entangle a swimmer's limbs. Its banks are mainly mud,
its waters are *muddled, too, being a rich coffee color in the spring and a
copperish yellow in the summer, and the trees along its shore are mud colored
clear up their lower limbs after the spring floods, when the dried sediment
covers their trunks with a thick, scrofulous-looking coat.
There are stretches of unbroken woodland around it, and slashes
where the cypress knees rise countlessly like headstones and footstones for the
dead snags that rot in the soft ooze.
There are deadenings with the lowland corn growing high and rank
below and the bleached, fire-blackened girdled trees rising above, barren of
leaf and limb.
There are long, dismal flats where in the spring the clotted
frog- spawn cling like patches of white mucus among the weed-stalks, and at
night the turtles crawl out to lay clutches of perfectly, round, white eggs with
tough, rubbery shells in the sand.
There are bayous leading off to nowhere, and sloughs that wind
aimlessly, like great, blind worms, to finally join the big river that rolls its
semi-liquid torrents a few miles to the westward.
So Reelfoot lies there, flat in the bottoms, freezing lightly in
the winter, steaming torridly in the summer, swollen in the spring when the
woods have turned a vivid green and the buffalo-gnats by the million and the
billion fill the flooded hollows with their pestilential buzzing, and in the
fall, ringed about gloriously with all the colors which the first frost
brings-gold of hickory, yellow-russet of sycamore, red of dogwood and ash, and
purple-black of sweet-gum.
But the Reelfoot country has its uses. It is the best game and
fish country, natural or artificial, that is left in the South today.
In their appointed seasons the duck and the geese flock in, and
even semi-tropical birds, like the brown pelican and the Florida snake-bird,
have been known to come there to nest.
Pigs, gone back to wildness, range the ridges, each razor-backed
drove captained by a gaunt, savage, slab-sided old boar. By night the bullfrogs,
inconceivably big and tremendously vocal, bellow under the banks.
It is a wonderful place for fish -- bass and crappie, and perch,
and the snouted buffalo fish.
How these edible sorts live to spawn, and how their spawn in
turn live to spawn again is a marvel, seeing how many of the big fish-eating
cannibal-fish there are in Reelfoot.
Here, bigger than anywhere else, you find the garfish, all bones
and appetite and horny plates, with a snout like an alligator, the nearest link,
naturalists say, between the animal life of today and the animal life of the
The shovel-nose cat, really a deformed kind of fresh-water
sturgeon, with a great fan-shaped membranous plate jutting out from his nose
like a bowsprit, jumps all day in the quiet places with mighty splashing sounds,
as though a horse had fallen into the water.
On every stranded log the huge snapping turtles lie on sunny
days in groups of four and six, baking their shells black in the sun, with their
little snaky heads raised watchfully, ready to slip noiselessly off at the first
sound of oars grating in the row-locks. But the biggest of them all are the
These are monstrous creatures, these catfish of Reelfoot --
scaleless,slick things, with corpsy, dead eyes and poisonous fins, like
javelins, and huge whiskers dangling from the sides of their cavernous heads.
Six and seven feet long they grow to be, and weigh 200 pounds or
more, and they have mouths wide enough to take in a man's foot or a man's fist,
and strong enough to break any hook save the strongest, and greedy enough to eat
anything, living or dead or putrid, that the horny jaws can master.
Oh, but they are wicked things, and they tell wicked tales of
them down there. They call them man-eaters, and compare them, in certain of
their habits, to sharks.
Fishhead was of a piece with this setting.
He fitted into it as an acorn fits its cup. All his life he had
lived on Reelfoot, always in the one place, at the mouth of a certain slough.
He had been born there, of a negro father and a half-breed
Indian mother, both of them now dead, and the story was that before his birth
his mother was frightened by one of the big fish, so that the child came into
the world most hideously marked.
Anyhow, Fishhead was a human monstrosity, the veritable
embodiment of nightmare!
He had the body of a man -- a short, stocky sinewy body -- but
his face was as near to being the face of a great fish as any face could be and
yet retain some trace of human aspect.
His skull sloped back so abruptly that he could hardly be said
to have a have a forehead at all; his chin slanted off right into nothing. His
eyes were small and round with shallow, glazed, pale-yellow pupils, and they
were set wide apart in his head, and they were unwinking and staring, like a
His nose was no more than a pair of tiny slits in the middle of
the yellow mask. His mouth was the worst of all. It was the awful mouth of a
catfish, lipless and almost inconceivably wide, stretching from side to side.
Also when Fishhead became a man grown his likeness to a fish
increased, for the hair upon his face grew out into two tightly kinked slender
pendants that drooped down either side of the mouth like the beards of a fish!
If he had another name than Fishhead, none excepting he knew it.
As Fishhead he was known, and as Fishhead he answered. Because he knew the
waters and the woods of Reelfoot better than any other man there, he was valued
as a guide by the city men who came every year to hunt or fish; but there were
few such jobs that Fishhead would take.
Mainly he kept to himself, tending his corn patch, netting the
lake, trapping a little, and in season pot hunting for the city markets. His
neighbors, ague-bitten whites and malaria-proof negroes alike, left him to
Indeed, for the most part they had a superstitious fear of him.
So he lived alone, with no kith nor kin, nor even a friend, shunning his kind
and shunned by them.
His cabin stood just below the State line, where Mud Slough runs
into the lake. It was a shack of logs, the only human habitation for four miles
up or down.
Behind it the thick timber came shouldering right up to the edge
of Fishhead's small truck patch, enclosing it in thick shade except when the sun
stood just overhead.
He cooked his food in a primitive fashion, outdoors, over a hole
in the soggy earth or upon the rusted red ruin of an old cookstove, and he drank
the saffron water of the lake out of a dipper made of a gourd, faring and
fending for himself, a master hand at skiff and net, competent with duck gun and
fishspear, yet a creature of affliction and loneliness, part savage, almost
amphibious, set apart from his fellows, silent and suspicious.
In front of his cabin jutted out a long fallen cottonwood trunk,
lying half in and half out of the water, its top side burnt by the sun and worn
by the friction of Fishhead's bare feet until it showed countless patterns of
tiny scrolled lines, its underside black and rotted, and lapped at unceasingly
by little waves like tiny licking tongues.
Its farther end reached deep water. And it was a part of
Fishhead, for no matter how far his fishing and trapping might take him in the
daytime, sunset would find him back there, his boat drawn up on the bank, and he
on the other end of this log.
From a distance men had seen him there many times, sometimes
squatted motionless as the big turtles that would crawl upon its dipping tip in
his absence, sometimes erect and motionless like a creek crane, his misshapen
yellow form outlined against the yellow sun, the yellow water, the yellow banks
-- all of them yellow together.
If the Reelfooters shunned Fishhead by day they feared him by
night and avoided him as a plague, dreading even the chance of a casual meeting.
For there were ugly stories about Fishhead -- stories which all the negroes and
some of the whites believed.
They said that a cry which had been heard just before dusk and
just after, skittering across the darkened waters, was his calling cry to the
big cats, and at his bidding they came trooping in, and that in their company he
swam in the lake on moonlight nights, sporting with them, diving with them, even
feeding with them on what manner of unclean things they fed.
The cry had been heard many times, that much was certain, and it
was certain also that the big fish were noticeably thick at the mouth of
Fishhead's slough. No native Reelfooter, white or black, would willingly wet a
leg or an arm there.
Here Fishhead had lived, and here he was going to die. The
Baxters were going to kill him, and this day in late summer was to be the time
of the killing.
The two Baxters -- Jake and Joel -- were coming in their dugout
to do it!
This murder had been a long time in the making. The Baxters had
to brew their hate over a slow fire for months before it reached the pitch of
They were poor whites, poor in everything, repute, and worldly
goods, and standing -- a pair of fever-ridden squatters who lived on whiskey and
tobacco when they could get it, and on fish and cornbread when they couldn't.
The feud itself was of months' standing. Meeting Fishhead one
day, in the spring on the spindly scaffolding of the skiff landing at Walnut
Log, and being themselves far overtaken in liquor and vainglorious with a bogus
alcoholic substitute for courage, the brothers had accused him, wantonly and
without proof, of running their trout-line and stripping it of the hooked catch
-- an unforgivable sin among the water dwellers and the shanty boaters of the
Seeing that he bore this accusation in silence, only eyeing them
steadfastly, they had been emboldened then to slap his face, whereupon he turned
and gave them both the beating of their lives -- bloodying their noses and
bruising their lips with hard blows against their front teeth, and finally
leaving them, mauled and prone, in the dirt.
Moreover, in the onlookers a sense of the everlasting fitness of
things had triumphed over race prejudice and allowed them -- two freeborn,
sovereign whites -- to be licked *by, a nigger! Therefore they were going to get
The whole thing had been planned out amply. They were going to
kill him on his log at sundown. There would be no witnesses to see it, no
retribution to follow after it. The very ease of the undertaking made them
forget even their inborn fear of the place of Fishhead's habitation.
For more than an hour they had been coming from their shack
across a deeply indented arm of the lake.
Their dugout, fashioned by fire and adz and draw-knife from the
bole of a gum-tree, moved through the water as noiselessly as a swimming
mallard, leaving behind it a long, wavy trail on the stilled waters.
Jake, the better oarsman, sat flat in the stern of the
round-bottomed craft, paddling with quick, splashless strokes, Joel, the better
shot, was squatted forward. There was a heavy, rusted duck gun between his
Though their spying upon the victim had made them certain sure
he would not be about the shore for hours, a doubled sense of caution led them
to hug closely the weedy banks. They slid along the shore like shadows, moving
so swiftly and in such silence that the watchful mudturtles barely turned their
snaky heads as they passed.
So, a full hour before the time, they came slipping around the
mouth of the slough and made for a natural ambuscade which the mixed-breed had
left within a stone's jerk of his cabin to his own undoing.
Where the slough's flow joined deeper water a partly uprooted
tree was stretched, prone from shore, at the top still thick and green with
leaves that drew nourishment from the earth in which the half uncovered roots
yet held, and twined about with an exuberance of trumpet vines and wild
fox-grapes. All about was a huddle of drift -- last year's cornstalks, shreddy
strips of bark, chunks of rotted weed, all the riffle and dunnage of a quiet
Straight into this green clump glided the dugout and swung,
broadside on, against the protecting trunk of the tree, hidden from the inner
side by the intervening curtains of rank growth, just as the Baxters had
intended it should be hidden when days before in their scouting they marked this
masked place of waiting and included it, then and there, in the scope of their
There had been no hitch or mishap. No one had been abroad in the
late afternoon to mark their movements -- and in a little while Fishhead ought
to be due. Jake's woodman's eye followed the downward swing of the sun
The shadows, thrown shoreward, lengthened and slithered on the
small ripples. The small noises of the day died out; the small noises of the
coming night began to multiply.
The green-bodied flies went away and big mosquitoes with
speckled gray legs, came to take the places of the flies.
The sleepy lake sucked at the mud banks with small mouthing
sounds, as though it found the taste of the raw mud agreeable. A monster
crawfish, big as a chicken lobster, crawled out of the top of his dried mud
chimney and perched himself there, an armored sentinel on the watchtower.
Bull bats began to flitter back and forth, above the tops of the
trees. A pudgy muskrat, swimming with head up, was moved to sidle off briskly as
he met a cotton-mouth moccasin snake, so fat and swollen with summer poison that
it looked almost like a legless lizard as it moved along the surface of the
water in a series of slow torpid S's. Directly above the head of either of the
waiting assassins a compact little swarm of midges hung, holding to a sort of
A little more time passed and Fishhead came out of the woods at
the back, walking swiftly, with a sack over his shoulder.
For a few seconds his deformities showed in the clearing, then
the black inside of the cabin swallowed him up.
By now the sun was almost down. Only the red nub of it showed
above the timber line across the lake, and the shadows lay inland a long way.
Out beyond, the big cats were stirring, and the great smacking sounds as their
twisting bodies leaped clear and fell back in the water, came shoreward in a
But the two brothers, in their green covert, gave heed to
nothing except the one thing upon which their hearts were set and their nerves
tensed. Joel gently shoved his gun barrels across the log, cuddling the stock to
his shoulder and slipping two fingers caressingly back and forth upon the
triggers. Jake held the narrow dugout steady by a grip upon a fox-grape tendril.
A little wait and then the finish came!
Fishhead emerged from the cabin door and came down the narrow
footpath to the water and out upon the water on his log.
He was barefooted and bareheaded, his cotton shirt open down the
front to show his yellow neck and breast, his dungaree trousers held about his
waist by a twisted tow string.
His broad splay feet, with the prehensile toes outspread,
gripped the polished curve of the log as he moved along its swaying, dipping
surface until he came to its outer end, and stood there erect, his chest
filling, his chinless face lifted up, and something of mastership and dominion
in his poise.
And then -- his eye caught what another's eyes might have missed
-- the round, twin ends of the gun barrels, the fixed gleam of Joel's eyes,
aimed at him through the green tracery! In that swift passage of time, too swift
almost to be measured by seconds, realization flashed all through him, and he
threw his head still higher and opened wide his shapeless trap of a mouth, and
out across the lake he sent skittering and rolling his cry.
And in his cry was the laugh of a loon, and the croaking bellow
of a frog, and the bay of a hound, all the compounded night noises of the lake.
And in it, too, was a farewell, and a defiance, and an appeal!
The heavy roar of the duck gun came!
At twenty yards the double charge tore the throat out of him. He
came down, face forward, upon the log and clung there, his trunk twisting
distortedly, his legs twitching and kicking like the legs of a speared frog; his
shoulders hunching and lifting spasmodically as the life ran out of him all in
one swift coursing flow.
His head canted up between the heaving shoulders, his eyes
looked full on the staring face of his murderer, and then the blood came out of
his mouth, and Fishhead, in death still as much fish as man, slid, flopping,
head first, off the end of the log, and sank, face downward slowly, his limbs
all extended out.
One after another a string of big bubbles came up to burst in
the middle of a widening reddish stain on the coffee-colored water.
The brothers watched this, held by the horror of the thing they
had done, and the cranky dugout, having been tipped far over by the recoil of
the gun, took water steadily across its gunwale; and now there was a sudden
stroke from below upon its careening bottom and it went over and they were in
But shore was only twenty feet away, the trunk of the uprooted
tree only five. Joel, still holding fast to his shot gun, made for the log,
gaining it with one stroke. He threw his free arm over it and clung there,
treading water, as he shook his eyes free.
Something gripped him -- some great, sinewy, unseen thing
gripped him fast by the thigh, crushing down on his flesh!
He uttered no cry, but his eyes popped out, and his mouth set in
a square shape of agony, and his fingers gripped into the bark of the tree like
grapples. He was pulled down and down, by steady jerks, not rapidly but
steadily, so steadily, and as he went his fingernails tore four little white
strips in the tree-bark. His mouth went under, next his popping eyes, then his
erect hair, and finally his clawing, clutching hand, and that was the end of
Jake's fate was harder still, for he lived longer -- long enough
to see Joel's finish. He saw it through the water that ran down his face, and
with a great surge of his whole body, he literally flung himself across the log
and jerked his legs up high into the air to save them. He flung himself too far,
though, for his face and chest hit the water on the far side.
And out of this water rose the head of a great fish, with the
lake slime of years on its flat, black head, its whiskers bristling, its corpsy
eyes alight. Its horny jaws closed and clamped in the front of Jake's flannel
shirt. His hand struck out wildly and was speared on a poisoned fin, and, unlike
Joel, he went from sight with a great yell, and a whirling and churning of the
water that made the cornstalks circle on the edges of a small whirlpool.
But the whirlpool soon thinned away, into widening rings of
ripples, and the corn stalks quit circling and became still again, and only the
multiplying night noises sounded about the mouth of the slough.
The bodies of all three came ashore on the same day near the
same place. Except for the gaping gunshot wound where the neck met the chest,
Fishhead's body was unmarked.
But the bodies of the two Baxters were so marred and mauled that
the Reelfooters buried them together on the bank without ever knowing which
might be Jake's and which might be Joel's.