Part 14 (1/2)
Cutton remained silent.
Poltrock tried to push the memory out of his head. ”Felt sick as a dog when I was in there.”
”You was likely hungover,” Cutton finally spoke up. ”I saw you at the tavern last night, in your cups.”
”Yes, that's right.” And that's all it is.
”You meet his wife?”
”I did. Seems nice, sophisticated.”
Did Cutton smile to himself? ”She's somethin', all right. How about his kids?”
”I saw a blonde girl with a dog for a minute.” And then Poltrock gulped at what he thought he'd seen next. ”Like about fifteen, sixteen or thereabouts.”
”That's Mary, and there's another one-nine, I think-a brown-haired little girl named Cricket...” Cutton stalled his next words, which Poltrock found curious.
”Yeah?”
Cutton gnawed off the corner of a tobacco plug. ”Well, see, Mr. Poltrock, I understand that you're a man with some credentials. I heard you were the track engineer for the Pennsylvania Railroad.”
”That I was, but what's it got to do with Mr. Gast's children?”
Cutton spat over the side. ”I'm just an inspector-all of a sudden a very well-paid inspector but still. You're my boss, and I don't want to lose my brand-new job by sayin' something out of line.”
This perked Poltrock up. He didn't know anybody here. ”I appreciate any information you might be kind enough to render. Good men keep the details of their discussions to themselves. My word is bond, and I am certain yours is, too. An honest man is worth his weight in gold and, for instance, it will be an honest man as well as a helpful man that I pick to be my line chief. Which pays an extra five dollars per week.”
Cutton nodded. ”I just mean to say that without no discourtesy to Mr. Gast, his children are a might peculiar and the same for his wife. It would do a wise man service to keep a good distance from 'em all. They're bad luck is all I'm sayin', Mr. Poltrock.”
Cutton stroked his reins and drove on.
Poltrock thought he got it. But now that he was out of the house, he could think clearly. Gast just hired me to be his number-two man on this job-that's all that matters.
The horses drew the wagon down a byroad that ran parallel to the track. The track itself appeared to be top quality, as was the tie bed beneath. ”How much track's been laid so far?”
”Five, maybe six miles so far, and we only started a few weeks ago.”
Poltrock looked at him. ”That's impressive, Cutton.”
”Mr. Gast plans to have it completed in mid-'62. He says the war will've already started by then, and the South will likely be in Was.h.i.+ngton. Mr. Gast's rail line will be a crucial alternate supply route.”
Poltrock thought about that, and smirked. A lot of it didn't make sense to him. An alternate supply line...from Maxon? He figured it was best left alone. Just do what you're paid for, and let Gast think what he wants...
A high gaze ahead showed him the layout. A steam engine connected to several pallet cars would haul the new rail and ties up the current point of construction, then go back to Virginia for more: a constant replenishment of material. Each return run would find the newly lain track a mile or two longer. Five years, was all Poltrock could think. Five years of goin' back and forth like that, each trip back a little bit longer. It would be hard work, for sure-and Poltrock wasn't adverse to that-and by the time the project was done, most of his formidable salary would still be in the bank. Ain't gonna have much time to spend it.
The sun blazed. The closer they got to the site, the more apparent the sound: metal ringing as a hundred slaves brought hammer to spike. It was almost musical in Poltrock's ears.
”Gettin' close now,” Cutton remarked.
At once a foul odor crinkled Poltrock's nose. ”G.o.d in heaven, what's that?”
Cutton pointed beyond the track, to farmland. Poltrock saw cotton, corn, and beans being picked by complacent female slaves. But that's not what Cutton pointed to...
Poltrock thought of scarecrows when he noticed a couple of severed heads on stakes. The awful smell came from the rotting heads? ”I heard some talk of executions,” he mentioned through a half gag.
Cutton nodded. ”Yes, sir. Plantation justice I guess is what you'd call it. When slaves get frisky, well...you gotta make an example of 'em.”
”Any white men executed?”
”Oh, sure. Two or three, at least. One fella got caught tryin' to steal from Mr. Fecory-”
Poltrock stared at the odd name in his head. ”Who's he?”
”One you'll get to know well, like the rest of us. Mr. Fecory is the paymaster. Shows up at the site every Friday with his ledger book and suitcase full'a money. Funny little man in a red derby hat. And he's got a gold nose.”
”A gold what?”
”Nose. Rumor is he got his nose blowed off a while back when some fugitives tried to rob him, so now he wears a fake one made'a gold. But like I was sayin', one'a Mr. Gast's white laborers pinched some money out of Fecory's pay case and, well, that was that for him. Then another white fella or two got caught rapin' some town girls. They got executed, too.”
Poltrock looked at the next severed head. ”In the fields?”
”No, no. The white men got trials. They was hanged in the town square. Only the nigrahs are killed in the field. You're probably smellin' it right about now.”
”Yes, I am. Hard to believe a couple of severed heads could smell that bad at this distance.”
”Oh, it ain't just the heads,” Cutton calmly went on. ”Their whole bodies are threshed into the soil. Fertilizer. turnin' somethin' bad into somethin' good. And they'll just leave the heads there till they rot down to skulls, a reminder for the rest of the slaves not to act up.”
Poltrock gazed back out when several intermittent shadows crossed his face. Jesus Lord, he thought grimly. They'd just pa.s.sed two more severed heads mounted in the field. He forced himself to look forward.
Down the line, he could now see the men working. White foremen measuring gauge and marking the next length of track bed to be dug and filled with ballast, then a hundred sweat-glazed slaves, either digging, hammering spikes, or dropping ties. Armed security men stood watch over the entire site, faces vigilant.
”Here were are, Mr. Poltrock,” Cutton announced and slowed the wagon. ”Everything you see, you're now in charge of. It's a pleasure to be workin' for ya.”
You work for me, but I work for Gast, Poltrock reminded himself. ”Thank you.” Metal striking metal sang in his ears. ”I must say, this appears to be a top-notch team.” And suddenly he felt enthused. Maybe the job wasn't impossible after all. The operation was running like welloiled machinery.
The wagon stopped. ”Morris is the crew boss. I'll have him call a break, and then he can introduce you to the men.”
”That would be in order.”
They both dismounted the wagon. No one even looked at him when they approached the line. Each man, black or white, worked with focus and determination.
And the hammers. .h.i.tting spikes rang on.
When Poltrock crossed the line, he stopped cold. Suddenly he felt bile bubbling in his gut...
The field seized his gaze, where he saw at least three dozen more severed heads on stakes.
II.
”Quit actin' like you ain't never done this before,” the younger man said, straddling the fat man's face. The fat man mewled.