Part 3 (2/2)

It's just them beans, Boss, answered Carr, placatingly.

Then I slept, s.h.i.+elding my eyes with my pillow. Once I woke up and saw Carr playing solitaire at the table, the poker game broken up, the gamblers sent to bed. Again I slept until next I heard the cooks and trustees being awakened. They dressed. First the gate and then the door were unlocked, opened, closed and locked again. An hour later the Chain Men were getting their early call so they would have time to put on their pants.

Trying to m.u.f.fle the noise, they sat on the floor busily working at the involved procedure. At night they always take off their pants in such a way that one leg is turned inside out and pulled over the other. In the morning the whole thing is gradually worked beneath the ankle ring and pulled over the right leg. Then the outer pant leg is pulled down, leaving the other one in place. The left leg is reversed and pulled down over the right foot and then over the chain and then back up the left leg. After they rigged up their harness and strings they went over to the faucet to wash their faces and brush their teeth.

I lay there for ten minutes, drowsy, reluctant to wake up. Yet I couldn't help but be aware of the tinkle of shackles, the sc.r.a.pe and thud of shoes, the splatter of the water from the faucet. Then the Wicker Man got up and opened the door. I waited. Then he hit the brake drum with the iron bar. Swiftly Carr walked up and down the Building, making sure there were no sleepy heads.

First Bell. Sheets and rolls. First Bell. Let's go.

The bare heels of the Family hit the floor all at once. It was pandemonium. Beds squeaked and swayed, shoes clumped, toilets flushed and gurgled, the faucet trickled as a crowd of men took their turns. All the beds were made up and personal belongings gathered together to be taken outside and stowed in the lockers. Shoe laces were tied and pockets stowed with the necessities of the day. And then the Family was gathered in a silent crowd in front of the gate, smoking and waiting, Carr blocking the exit with his body, facing the crowd with a belligerent scowl which everyone sleepily ignored.

Outside, the guards had taken their places on the gun platforms. The Wicker Man unlocked the gate, went out on the porch and unlocked the outer door. There was a pause. And then exactly five minutes after the First Bell had rung, there was the sound of the Second Bell. Carr swung the gate and door open and stepped aside as the men poured out in a rus.h.i.+ng tumult of clumping feet and rattling chains, their voices counting off loud and clear as they went out, each one with a different tone and pitch, each one with a different soul- (one) TWO Three ”Four” FIVE Six! seven?

Like little children the Newc.o.c.ks imitated our every move. We tolerated their ignorance with proper dignity, correcting their mistakes and giving advice with gestures and quiet hisses.

It was pitch black outside and cold. Everyone scampered to his locker to put things away. But since there aren't nearly enough lockers to go around the Newc.o.c.ks had to find someone willing to share his s.p.a.ce. Then there was the line in front of the Messhall door. Cigarettes glowed among the s.h.i.+fting silhouettes, phantoms which giggled, cursed and groaned. The line shuffled forward, the voices stilled and the b.u.t.ts put out as another form entered the glowing rectangle of the door, the silhouette of each man suddenly illuminated to those of us still out in the yard.

Inside there was waiting a cup of hot, black water, thin grits, a slab of fat back, catheads and one greasy, cold egg. But the faces of the Newc.o.c.ks reflected their surprise. In Raiford you are served a tiny portion of powdered eggs once a week. And there is a sign on the messhall wall that has been there for as long as anyone can remember, ”No Eggs Today.”

We ate in a hurry, going outside to wash our spoons under the faucet in the yard and putting them away in our pockets. Quickly we lighted up smokes again, inhaling deeply. We stood in groups and huddles. In a few minutes we began to form a double line that was arranged according to the four squads. Again the Newc.o.c.ks were advised, hissed, gestured and recruited into one or the other of the two Bull Gangs. Eagle was drafted into the big Bull Gang by Stupid Blondie who had fallen madly in love with the tattoo on his chest. The other Newc.o.c.k went with the little Bull Gang, the one which has Boss Palmer for a Walking Boss and is more or less composed of f.u.c.k-ups and hoosiers. But Jackson lingered on the porch, smoking and waiting with the other men. At the last minute he strolled over and got at the end of the big Bull Gang, calmly, as though confident he had made the right choice.

The Yard Man came through the gate, closing it behind him and standing there for a minute with his shoulders hunched under his old leather jacket, his false teeth working back and forth, clicking audibly within the death's head of his face. Then he walked up to the back of the line and snarled out, Aw right, gawd d.a.m.n it. Straighten out them lines.

There was silence. The lines straightened. Hats were bared but cigarettes remained in place. Then the Yard Man walked forward, counting silently. At the gate he spoke through the fence.

Forty-three Cap'n. One in the Box.

Forty-three. All right, Boss. Let 'em out.

The Captain stood motionless with his hands in his pockets. His windbreaker sports jacket was zippered up to his throat, the collar up around the back of his neck. The brim of his Panama hat was pulled over his eyes. He stood there and spat three or four times.

The Yard Man opened the gate and stepped to one side. The left hand column began to file through, each man turning his head to count over his shoulder as clearly as he could so the man behind him wouldn't misunderstand.

-seventeen Eighteenl NINETEEN (twenty)- But the Newc.o.c.k in Boss Palmer's squad began to stutter.

-twenty-uh-twenty-TWENTY- Swiftly the Yard Man kicked him square in the b.u.t.t, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him back to the gate.

Git back here, d.a.m.n yore sorry a.s.s! You ain't allowed to be no lazy, raggety a.s.s tramp no more. You hear? You gotta straighten up. But quick. Now git back here and give the right count.

-uh-uh- Twenty-one!

TWENTY-ONEI.

The interrupted column resumed its counting. Then the right hand column started through the gate, drawing abreast of the left which was standing in place. Everyone stood still a few minutes, heads bared, cigarettes glowing. Yet everybody had exactly the same thought. Tramp. The new man's name would have to be Tramp.

The spotlights fixed on the poles surrounding the asphalt ap.r.o.n were glaring down at the parked squad trucks and glaring into our sleepy eyes. The guards were s.p.a.ced all around us, trying to look alert for the Captain's benefit. From the kennels way behind the Building and behind the woodpile we could hear the bloodhounds barking for their breakfast. The yapping of Rudolph the puppy was unmistakable. And so was the deep baritone of Big Blue.

The Walking Bosses stood together about one step behind the Captain. Boss Peters held the nub of his missing arm with his hand. Boss Higgins squinted his eyes and scowled, his hand gripping his stomach which we knew was riddled with ulcers. Boss Palmer stared at us over his bifocals, grinned at nothing, leaning forward to spit and then s.h.i.+fting his quid as he pulled out his watch, replaced it, patted his pot belly and then hooked a thumb in his suspenders. Boss G.o.dfrey stood relaxed, leaning heavily on his cane, taking the cigar out of his mouth with his other hand to roll it back and forth with the tips of his fingers.

Everybody waited. The Captain turned his head and spat.

All right, Boss Higgins. Take 'em away.

The Walking Boss of the big Patch Squad signaled and the men stepped forward, the left hand column counting off by twos. Then the other Patch Squad counted off. Then Boss Palmer's Bull Gang. And then Boss G.o.dfrey straightened up, replaced the cigar in his mouth and sauntered over to the rear of the cage truck, holding the edge of the gate with one hand. He gestured just once, a slight s.h.i.+ft of his cane and then we started forward, two by two, mounting the steps and ducking inside as fast as we possibly could.

Bouncing and swerving over the ruts, we roared off into the darkness. We crossed our legs and s.h.i.+fted our feet, rolled up cigarettes and smoked. Rabbit climbed underneath the bench to lay on the floor on his back, pulled his cap over his face and fell asleep. Dynamite got down on his knees, peering through the bars and trying to estimate where the job would be for the day.

But most of us were glum and silent, staring through the bars at the sleeping Free World outside. Occasionally a match was struck, illuminating a sad, serious face in the gloom.

Finally the truck pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. The gate was unlocked. We got out. Jim the Trustee handed down our tools and we started to work. Boss G.o.dfrey walked up the road a bit, turned around and leaned on his cane. He stood there, watching us, silhouetted against the dawn, the sun rising up behind his body, right up through his head and out of the black night he wore for a hat. All day the sun rose high up into the sky while we, stripped to the waist, were seared by its burning rays. But we knew that sun was really the left eye of the Walking Boss just as his right eye is the moon.

8.

ON JACKSON'S FIRST DAY ON THE ROAD WE were shoveling dirt up from the bottom of the ditch to fill in the washouts that the rains had worn along the edge of the pavement. When the slope of the embankment was too high to reach we would carry a shovelful of dirt up the slope and than walk back down to the bottom of the ditch for another shovelful. The Chain Men in the gang always stay on top, their shackles making it too difficult for them to clamber up and down. They brush down the piles and clumps of earth, using the edges of their shovels which they sweep as though they were brooms.

Back and forth and up and down we moved with the same monotonous regularity as pismire ants carrying their grains of sand. And this is exactly why this job is always referred to as p.i.s.s anting.

But unless the terrain is especially hilly we are always able to reach the pavement by pitching the dirt. Each man took a sector of about ten feet. He threw up enough dirt to do the job and then would fill in the holes, that is, he would bevel in the edges of the holes he had dug in the ditch bottom. Then he would move up to the head of the line, leapfrogging the men in front of him.

All morning long the shovels of the Bull Gang were making s.h.i.+ny arcs with graceful and rhythmic swings of muscled arms and twists of bodies. Clumps of dirt sailed through the air in lazy parabolas. The Chain Man held his shovel blade behind the washout, using it for a backstop. I kicked my shovel into the ground, bent back the handle over my knee and with that timing all of us have developed, the clod of dirt flew off like a projectile to splat against the Chain Man's shovel. He held it there and in quick succession I threw up three more. He began to brush it all smooth and I filled in my holes, yelled out to the guards and moved on up to the head of the line.

But Jackson and Eagle were shoveling like mad and getting nowhere. Not having the right balance and leverage, they were only able to throw the dirt a few feet. They tried harder. Their chests panting, their pitches became wilder and more frantic. Patiently we demonstrated the proper technique and when the new men couldn't keep up we would stay back and help them with their sector. And from time to time the new men would have to resort to p.i.s.s anting the dirt up the slope while we merely tossed it up, shoveling away at perfect ease.

The sun got higher and hotter. Everyone took off his jacket and s.h.i.+rt and left it on the edge of the road for Rabbit. But when the pasty white skins of the Newc.o.c.ks were exposed to the sun they began to get a blistering burn. The sweat got in their eyes. They had headaches and their vision blurred. They felt like they were going to vomit, beginning to stagger with wobbling knees. By the time Smoking Period came around both of them were nearly bear caught.

But somehow everyone always makes the day. And at last it was over. Boss G.o.dfrey pulled out his watch and growled a word and everyone surged towards the tool truck, handing up their shovels to Jim and Rabbit and then clambering into the cage truck. The Walking Boss locked the gate and we headed back to Camp.

The truck was in an uproar. As far as the rest of us were concerned it had been an easy day. We laughed and joked, lit up smokes and wondered what there would be for supper. We sorted out our jackets and s.h.i.+rts and put them on, some of us dropping to our knees to lean on the bench and look out through the bars of angle iron to eyeball at the pa.s.sing scenery. The Newc.o.c.ks just sat there, slumped in an exhausted heap, their hands blistered, their backs burned, their muscles cramped and stiff.

But the rest of us were tense and excited as we rolled through the teeming Negro section of town, eyeballing like mad at the black girls strolling by on the sidewalk or sitting on the front porches. Half under our breaths we gasped out our frenzied comments and appraisals, gripping each other by the arm or poking with our elbows to bring attention to a sa.s.sy hip or a huge breast bulging out of a thin cotton dress. Hoa.r.s.ely we swore with outraged frustration whenever there was a smile or a winked response to the row of dirty white faces peering wild eyed from the depths of our rolling cage.

Back at Camp we unloaded, were lined up and shaken down and then counted in through the gate. After supper we all jammed in together in the shower. The Newc.o.c.ks were a bit reluctant to enter into the community bath but Jackson calmly strolled right into the middle of it all, soap in hand.

And then we saw his scars. He had several jagged shrapnel wounds on both legs. There was a long grooved mark that went down his left side, skipped a few inches at his waist and then continued down the side of his b.u.t.tock. We admired his wounds but said nothing. He was still a Newc.o.c.k.

For the rest of that week we p.i.s.s anted the Clay Pit Road. Every night the Newc.o.c.ks took a shower and stumbled to bed, their backs and legs and arms and hands stiff, blistered and sunburned.

And then Sat.u.r.day. All day a guard sat on each gun platform at the corners of the fence and we had the run of the yard. The Building reverberated with whoops and yells. We let off steam. We blew our tops. Dirty clothes were flung over the fence beside the kitchen and clean ones taken off the pegged board where they had been hung by the Laundry Boy.

Everyone shaved, combed his hair, strolled about barefooted to give his feet a chance to breathe, glorious in our fresh, clean, wrinkled clothes. The wallet industry boomed; floats and backs, side pockets and liners cut out of sheepskins and calf skins, glued with rubber cement, punched and laced and then s.h.i.+pped out to the Free World.

But there was still extra energy to spare. Wrestling matches were staged periodically, the two combatants rolling over the floors and banging against the frames of the bunks, each one trying to take the pants off the other one, the victor galloping up and down the Building waving the trophy in the air as the shamefaced and bare-a.s.sed loser pursued him.

Outside on the lawn there might be boxing. Inside there was certainly a c.r.a.p game in the shower stall and a poker game at the table. Radios blared out at full volume. In the middle of the floor two Chain Men would be jitterbugging, barefooted and barechested, their feet leaping and turning this way and that as their shackles jingled frantically over the floor boards, tinkling with a frenzied joy. And as the Chain Men did their dance, others stood around and clapped their hands in rhythm to the mad, jazzy sounds.

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