Cy in Chains (18 page)

The doctor kept looking at Billy. “How long have you been sick, boy?”

“Few days, sir.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

Billy didn't seem sure what to say.

“Answer when you're spoken to!” Cain growled.

“I reckon so,” Billy said.

“That's good,” the doctor replied.

“This here boy,” Cain said, pointing at Mouse, “had it real bad, but he's a lot better now. On the mend, ain't you, Mouse?”

“Yessir.”

“And you?” the man asked Cy.

He felt Cain's eyes on him. “I's better, sir,” he lied.

“Take care of yourself,” the man said. “Get your rest. Soon you'll be able to go back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want to examine any of 'em?” Stryker asked.

“I don't believe that will be necessary,” the doctor replied. He put his hands in his coat pockets. “No point in taking the risk of spreading the contagion.”

“We're gonna keep on doin' all we can for 'em,” Cain promised. “They'll soon be back on the job.”

Suddenly Billy jumped off his bed and ran at the doctor. He threw himself on the ground and grabbed him by the legs. “Please, sir!” he cried. “I ain't suppos' to be here! I didn't do nothin'! My daddy say he come an' get me after he make it all right with the judge. But that been a long time ago. You got to help me! Please, mister!”

The doctor stepped back, trying to shake Billy off without touching him.

“Dawson!” Cain cried.

Stryker moved in. He grabbed Billy and pulled him off the doctor. Billy fought back, but a coughing spell came on him, and he fell onto the hard-packed dirt floor.

“Get him out of here!” Cain ordered. Stryker and Prescott took hold of Billy and dragged him away.

“Sorry,” Cain said to the doctor. “That one's a little crazy. Been like that since the first day. Got some wild notion that his daddy is gonna come for him. Ain't even got a father, from what they told me when they brought him in. None of 'em do, for that matter. They ain't like us, Doctor. Got no concept of family the way the good Lord revealed it to us in his Holy Scriptures.”

“Indeed?” The doctor seemed unimpressed.

Cain chuckled. “Course, they all claim to be innocent.”

The doctor gave him a look.

The men started for the door. “Do you have time to see the child?” Cain asked.

“Certainly. How old is he?”

“About four.”

They were at the door.

“And how long has he been ill?”

“Fits started last night.”

So Pook had it too.

 

Cy got deathly sick. They told him later he had it worse than any other boy, even Mouse. The coughing spells exhausted him. One was so bad he broke a rib. He found that out when he roused from a feverish sleep to feel someone poking at his chest. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized it was Stryker.

“Yeah, it's a rib,” he heard the man say through the haze of his fever. “Can't bind him, though, not with that sickness in his lungs. He's just gonna have to live with the pain.”

Later, he woke again after what seemed days, only to hear Stryker say, “Pneumonia, Cap'n. Not much hope for this one.”

Other times, Cy would find Jess beside him, holding a water cup, insisting he drink. Sometimes it was Billy. Once, Cy stayed awake long enough to realize he had on a clean cotton shirt under his jacket. He recognized it as the one his father had brought him, the one he'd made Billy take when he thought he wouldn't be needing it any longer. When he thought he'd be free.

While he was lying awake, too weak and sick to get up but not needing to sleep, Cy wondered why Jess and Billy had taken care of him. Jess never did come down with the sickness, but Billy had had it bad. Even so, he'd done what he could to help the others. Cy knew he wouldn't have done as much for Billy. Why had they looked after him so kindly, even cleaning him up when he was no better than a baby too small and helpless to wipe off his own puke?

Slowly, he began to get better. His fever broke, and he slept easier as the coughing attacks subsided. Then one morning he overheard Stryker tell Cain that the epidemic seemed to be over. No boys in the other gang had come down with it, and all the sick boys had recovered. It was a miracle, actually, Stryker had said. A miracle that only one boy had died. But the disease claimed most of its victims among the youngest and weakest, so it was surprising that Mouse had survived. And it wasn't surprising that Pook had not. The little fellow had died and been buried during the empty days and nights Cy had been so sick. So Death had perched above the camp, claimed one life, and then moved on.

L
OSING
P
OOK HIT
R
OSALEE HARD
. S
OMETIMES
Cy could tell she'd been crying. Other days, in the mornings especially, she simply looked empty, her dark eyes strangely unfocused, the black pupils just pinpoints. Mostly silent before, she was mute now. Often, her face looked unwashed, her hair unkempt. At some meals, she was absent, and Sudie had all she could do to serve up the sloppy food by herself.

No one knew where Cain had buried Pook. The boy was his son, too, but he gave no sign that he missed the child or grieved his loss. Maybe he was just as glad that now no one could claim he'd lain with a black woman.

Jess felt sorry for Rosalee. No woman should lose a child, he said. Cy allowed that it was too bad Pook died, but he didn't feel sad. Still, Rosalee had helped him that one time when he'd been locked in the icehouse. That made her worth some sympathy, but he didn't have much to spare.

The whooping cough had done something to West, too. His case had been mild, compared to what Mouse, Billy, and Cy had been through. But when it was all over and life got back to what passed for normal in Cain's camp, West was different, changed. Before, he'd kept the other boys laughing with his jokes and mocking imitations of the white men. Now, like Rosalee, he was silent most of the time. He had always been on the lookout for extra things to eat, but now he had no appetite and often gave away half his meals. Instead of being in the middle of every game, he kept to himself, slept more than ever, and didn't seem to notice most of what was going on around him. Jess fretted over him, the way he did over any boy who was having a hard time. Cy tried not to care. It wasn't his problem. Still, he missed West's jokes.

Then West started doing dangerous things. He talked ugly about the white men, cursing them openly, sometimes when they were close enough to hear his tone of voice, if not his exact words. He talked freely about how much he hated Cain and his slaves, which is how he referred to Stryker and Prescott. He did this even in front of some boys that Cy and others suspected of being snitches, ready to inform on other boys in hopes that Cain would grant them favors.

When Jess tried to warn West, he was told to mind his own business, and what did it matter now, anyway? Jess tried to get West to explain what he meant by those words and got a cussing for his trouble.

One morning in late January, Prescott and Stryker both came into the bunkhouse smelling of stale cigars. Stryker's neck was marked with purple bruises, and West muttered that last night must have cost him a lot of money.

Prescott was in a black mood. He went up and down the line yelling at everyone, and even started giving Jess a hard time for playing “Mammy” to the other boys. Jess took it like he always did: eyes on the ground, answering every one of Prescott's ugly questions with polite
yessir
s and
nosir
s.

“Cracker must not o' got hisself none last night,” West muttered, loud enough for Cy and Mouse to hear him. Cy managed to keep from laughing, but Mouse giggled.

That was a mistake.

Like lightning, Prescott was on him. “What's so goddamn funny, you ugly little toad?”

“Nothin', Mr. Prescott, sir.”

Prescott slapped Mouse across the mouth. “Don't you know better than to lie to me? I asked you what's so funny.”

“Nothin'. I just laughed, that's all.”

Prescott hit him again. Mouse hadn't died of the whooping cough, but he hadn't recovered any strength, either, and weighed not much more than sixty pounds. Mouse fell against Cy, who caught him before he hit the ground. Jess was standing at rigid attention but breathing hard.

“Easy there, Onnie,” Stryker said. “Maybe the kid wasn't laughing at you.”

“Like hell! That's
all
these niggers do—laugh at us behind our backs. Or ain't you noticed?” He took Mouse by the collar of his jacket. “Tell me what you was laughing at!”

“At somethin' I said,” West announced.

Prescott released Mouse and went for West. “And what was it? Tell us so we can all enjoy it.”

West hung his head, pretending to be sorry. Cy could tell he wasn't, though. He was never sorry for talking ugly about the white men. “I don't reckon you think it be funny, Mr. Prescott.”

“That's for me to decide! Now spill it, unless you want a dose of what your friend here got.”

West kept his eyes fixed to the ground. The bunkhouse had gotten quiet except for the sound of Jess's breathing. Prescott glanced in his direction. “Shut up, you!”

Jess took one deep breath and was silent.

“Now tell us what's so funny. I could use a good laugh.”

“Well, sir, I just wonder if you in a bad mood this mornin' 'cause you didn't get none at the whorehouse last night.”

All the boys except Jess started to laugh.

“Kid got
you
pegged,” Stryker commented. He was trying not to laugh, too. “Didn't get none last night. It wasn't for lack of trying, though, was it?”

Prescott grabbed West and slapped him across the face. Stryker let Prescott get in three or four licks, then grabbed his arm. “That's enough, Onnie. Let it go. You made your point.”

“I hate you all,” Prescott panted. “I wish you was all dead. I wish
all
niggers was dead! You're a plague on the nation. A scourge! A curse!”

“Calm down,” Stryker soothed. “You been listening to too many speeches.”

Prescott shook him off. He got in West's face again. “Apologize,” he demanded.

“I's sorry, sir.”

“If you disrespect me again, I'll kill you.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the building.

The minute the white men were gone, everyone started talking at once. Cy was all over West. “You got a smart mouth! Quit causin' trouble.”

“Leave him alone,” Jess said. “He done had enough already.”

“Stop makin' excuses for him! And for everything. He got to learn to keep quiet.”

“I's tired o' keepin' quiet,” West said.

“We got to go,” Jess said. “If we late for lineup, it only give Prescott more reason to mess with us. And I don't feel like puttin' up with no more o' that kind o' stuff. Already had more'n enough for the day.”

 

Cain had a surprise for them that morning. Instead of clearing palmetto, the boys were going to help on a stretch of railroad a couple miles in the other direction from camp. He made it sound like he was doing everyone a favor, giving them a change of work. He said there would be another gang there, all grown men, and the boys were to stay clear of them. They were hardened, desperate criminals, Cain warned, ready to cut a boy's throat if he did or said something he shouldn't.

Cy remembered the feel of Prescott's knife against his own throat. He glanced down the line at West, wondering if Cain's words were meant especially for him.

While they were loading up for the trip to the railroad line, Jess kept wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“What's a matter?” Cy asked.

“I failed.”

“Failed how?”

“When Prescott was beatin' on West, I shoulda done somethin'. Stopped him. I wanted to, but I didn't.”

“If you did anything, you be on your way to Alabama by now.”

“That don't matter. We should of done somethin' to help West, but we didn't. Prescott could of killed him, and the rest of us just be standin' there watchin'.”

“West needs to learn to shut up.”

“I promised God I look after all the ones what couldn't help theyselves, and when it come down to it, I just stood there like a coward. That's all I is—a yellow coward.”

“Don't talk like that. What could you do?”

“Somethin'.”

“What happen to all that stuff about prayin', waitin' for God to take care o' things?”

Jess was clearly troubled. “I dunno, Cy. That use to make sense to me, but now—I dunno.”

“I been tellin' you we got to do somethin'!”

“Maybe.”

A faint hope stirred in Cy. Perhaps he could get Jess to come around to his side, after all. He'd wait until the right moment and make his case again.

 

When they got to the railroad site, the chain gang men were already hard at work. It was open country, big fields all around. Standing water filled the low places, so the ground was soft and wet, but a railroad needed solid ground so the tracks wouldn't sink when the heavy trains came along. The men worked in two long lines facing each other, everybody shoveling dirt toward the middle to build up the bed.

The men from the other chain gang didn't look dangerous, and they didn't act dangerous. Cy had seen chain gangs of grown men before he ended up on a gang himself, and he remembered how the men laughed and joked, even sang as they worked. But these men were different—lifeless. They were heavily chained on their ankles and waists. And silent. No songs, no jokes.

Guards stood along both lines, rifles ready. One had a whip.

The faces of the chained men bothered Cy the most. They had dark, dead eyes. When Cain's boys approached them, not one even glanced their way.