Cy in Chains (20 page)

The man was heavily built, shorter than Stryker and maybe younger, with a bushy black beard. Where had Cain come up with him so quickly?

“Mr. Davis is a fair man, like me. And he got a more even . . .
temperament
than Mr. Prescott. So as long as y'all mind yourselves, you won't have no trouble with him.”

Davis nodded.

“In light of recent events, I've decided to give y'all a day off,” Cain went on. “You can wash uniforms if you want to or just take it easy. If any of y'all want to get together and have a little service for West, you can. So after you eat, you got the day to yourselves. Can't any man say I ain't fair, and more than fair.”

 

Midmorning, a few of the boys had their service for West, even though there was no body, no coffin, no preacher, no nothing. Stryker showed up and stood to one side. Cy figured Cain had told him to keep an eye on things, make sure no one “lost his self-control.”
Can't have that in camp
, Cy thought bitterly.

He found himself wishing Jess could be there.
He
would have the right words to make them feel better, even if those words might not be—exactly true. But Jess was still in the icehouse.

Cy felt the other boys' eyes on him. Wouldn't they be shocked to learn what was really in his mind? But a glance at Stryker, casually rolling a cigarette, told him now wasn't the time. Still, he had to say something. He was the leader again.

“We sure gon' miss West,” he began. “Warn't no boy in camp could make us laugh like he could. Always had somethin' funny to say. Always in a good mood. And could that boy eat? I seen him put stuff in his mouth didn't even
look
like food—”

Oscar and Davy laughed, remembering.

“West was always gnawin' on some sort o' root or leaf or berry, or somethin'. And I know some of y'all remember the time he ate them minnows—”

“Raw,” Oscar said. “And them little clams he found in the creek—made a mess tryin' to break 'em open with a rock.”

“And all kind o' mushrooms,” Mouse added.

“Miracle he didn't poison hisself,” Ring said. “He was always lookin' for somethin' good to eat—”

“Because he was always hungry,” Cy said quietly. The second the words were out, he felt nervous. What if Stryker had heard? But the man wasn't even looking in their direction.

Cy glanced at the other guys and realized that they agreed with what he had said.

“Yeah, he was always hungry,” Ring said. “Just like the rest of us. You tell it, Cy.”

“I still can't figure what went wrong with West,” Oscar said. “I know
somethin'
bad happen to him after he sick. He warn't never the same after that hoopin' cough.”

“It warn't the sickness that change him,” Ring replied. “It was Pook dyin'.”

“Yeah, that's it,” Cy said.

“'Cause Pook his brother?” Oscar asked.

“Yeah. Rosalee was West mama, so that made Pook his brother—”

“Half brother,” Ring corrected.

“Half brother,” Cy went on. “I reckon Rosalee planned on stayin' 'round here till West seven years be up, then she could go away, take her boys with her. When Pook die, all that fell apart. West just give up.”

“Maybe he saw some o' that stuff when he told his own fortune,” Billy put in. “You know, in the bowl with the blood and water. Scared him, so he wouldn't tell us 'bout it.”

Oscar shook his head. “None o' us ever gon' know the answers, not till we get up there and be with West on them streets o' gold.”

“Yes, Jesus,” Davy agreed.

“West gone to a better place,” Billy declared.

Cy wanted to tell them they were wrong. There was no better place, no city called heaven with streets of gold and gates of pearl.

“Gone right up to the golden throne where Father be sittin', sendin' his angels down to bring the dyin' home to him,” Ring exclaimed.

“Tell it!” Davy said.

“Yes, Lord!” Billy shouted.

They were making too much noise. Cy looked toward Stryker, sure that he would come over and break up their meeting. But Stryker had wandered away.

Billy's eyes were shining. “West done gone up to that throne, and bow low before Father God, and he see the four livin' creatures and the burnin' seraphim. And there, next to Father, on his own throne, he see Jesus!”

“Yes, Lord,” Cy heard himself cry with the others. Why? He'd just reminded himself he didn't believe any of that stuff. He looked into the happy faces of the others and, for a moment, wished that he had what they seemed to have, something to make this hell more bearable.

“And Father gon' wipe away all the tears from every eye,” Billy continued, his voice rising. “So I reckon West ain't cryin' none now—he ain't never gon' cry no more. He lookin' all around at them green pastures—”

“That's enough,” Stryker broke in. They hadn't noticed his return. “Y'all have had your time, so get back to whatever it is you were doing.”

Why did the white men always get the last word?

 

The next morning before breakfast, Cain had the boys stand in two lines at attention while Stryker brought Jess from the icehouse. His hands weren't cuffed now, but tied in front. Cain made him stand before them all. Cy had expected that Jess would be whipped again, but the post was not in sight.

As always, Cain had a speech to make. “Like I said yesterday, while we all regret Mr. Prescott's losing his temper the other day, we got to keep in mind that West ought not have provoked him. And neither should Jess, here, have taken it into his own hands to
judge
Mr. Prescott's behavior.”

Cain was just getting warmed up. He rocked back on his heels. “I reckon y'all understand a basic principle of incarceration.”

Mouse whispered at Cy, “What that mean?”

“Prison,” he whispered back.

“In a prison environment,” Cain went on, “the prisoners do not correct the officials placed in authority over them. The authorities are mandated by the state to impose correction on those who have broken the law. In other words, Jess had no right to go after Prescott, no matter how he felt about things. We ain't concerned here with how any of you feel! Y'all got that?”

A chorus of
yessir
s.

Cain looked satisfied. “Two times in recent memory, Jess has showed us all that he don't like how things are run in my camp. First, he interfered with Mr. Prescott, who was capably handling a runaway state prisoner by the name of Billy. Then, a couple days ago, he showed his displeasure with Mr. Prescott by trying to—inflict pain on him. First offense, Jess got the whippin' he deserved and my stern warning. Second offense, no more warnings. I can't and won't tolerate a boy in my camp who won't obey the rules. Therefore”—he turned to look at Jess—“this fellow gets to learn for himself how they dig coal over in Alabama. That oughtta keep him too busy to mess in things he got no business with.”

Love Davis came from the horse barn, driving one of the wagons. He stopped next to Cain.

“Say goodbye to Jess, boys,” Cain directed. “You want to see him again, just do the kind o' foolish stuff he did, and you can get yourselves a free ride over to Birmingham too.”

Davis jumped down from the wagon and approached Jess. “Let's go,” he ordered.

This whole time, Jess had been calm, his face sad. He moved toward the wagon. Suddenly, Billy raced to Jess and grabbed on to his arm.

Not again
, Cy thought. Billy had already acted crazy twice before, trying to escape on visiting day and then throwing himself at the doctor's feet when they were sick with whooping cough. Given Cain's mood, Billy might find himself getting his wish and going with Jess to the mines.

Screeching, kicking, biting, Billy hung on. Above the racket, Cy heard Jess calling his name. They locked eyes, and Jess called, “Look after Billy, and Mouse too.”

It took all three white men working together to finally pull Billy off Jess. “Throw this brat in the icehouse!” Cain ordered, and Stryker took Billy away.

Cain and Davis restored order. Jess climbed into the wagon and sat down. He gazed out sadly at the faces of the other boys.

Why don't you fight?
Cy wanted to shout.
Don't make it easy for 'em!

Davis climbed onto the wagon seat and told the horse to go. The wagon went through the gate and down the road. All the boys watched until it was gone. No one besides Billy had protested. All the other boys had allowed the white men to send Jess away to the mines and to death.

Cy hated them for that. He hated himself just as much.
You're still yellow
, he thought.
A kid like Billy got more guts than you
.

Cy took a step back out of his line. He waited for Cain or Stryker to tell him to get back in place, but neither one did. Cy looked at the others. They were all still boys. That was their problem. They thought like boys, acted like boys. Were scared like boys.

And boys weren't ever going to get free, no matter how old they got.

I's so sick o' bein' a boy
, Cy thought.
Of lettin' Cain and his men treat me like dirt under they feet
.

A resolve formed in the back of his mind. Small at first, it grew quickly, and it grew so large that it filled his thoughts. This new determination frightened him, but excited him too.

From now on, Cy Williams promised himself, he would do everything in his power to escape the hell of Cain's camp. If others wanted to risk it with him, they were welcome.

Starting now, he was no longer a boy.

He was a man.

I
N
M
ARCH, THE TIPS OF TREE BRANCHES BEGAN
to show deep red and yellowish green as new leaves sprouted. The first fiddlehead ferns poked through dry leaves on the forest floor. Flocks of robins, passing through to their northern nesting grounds, searched for bugs and worms after early morning rain showers.

Billy stuck to Cy like tar. He wanted to sleep next to him, work at his side when they went to shovel dirt at the railroad bed, sit next to him at meals. At first, Cy didn't want Billy hanging around him like a puppy. He wasn't interested in being a replacement for Jess. But it came to him that Billy's devotion might be useful when the moment came to escape. What he would need Billy to do—that he couldn't say. Hell, he didn't even have a plan yet, so how could he know what part Billy, or any of the other boys, would play in it? Still, it didn't cost anything to let the kid hang around. Even a puppy has sharp teeth, and it knows how to use them in a pinch.

Mouse had survived the whooping cough, but what little strength he'd had before was gone. For a while Cain sent him with the road gangs, only to have him collapse after an hour during which he hadn't accomplished anything. Threats made no difference. Mouse simply couldn't do hard labor, and Cain finally accepted that. Instead of sending Mouse away, Cain assigned him to help Rosalee and Sudie in the cookhouse.

Rosalee was in a bad way. Cy knew now that she was drugged. He guessed that Cain kept her doped up so she wouldn't carry on about losing both her sons. Or maybe she did whatever he wanted in exchange for the next dose of her “medicine.” Maybe that was why she stayed around.

Cy bided his time, waiting for a plan to come to him.

Day followed day as the springtime advanced. Dogwood and redbud frosted the woods white and pink. Climbing wisteria covered the tall pines in purple. And life dragged on, dull, hard, unchanging.

Then a boy in Cy's gang died—simply died. Darius. Quiet boy, no trouble, did his work without complaining. One morning he refused to get up, even when Stryker and Davis came in and promised a whipping. “I's done” is all he would say. He wouldn't leave his bed, eat, or drink. Just lay on his straw tick looking up at the roof of the bunkhouse. Three days later, he was gone.

A boy didn't have to come down with a sickness like whooping cough in order to end up dead. Or provoke a white man to kill him. Cy saw that he—any one of them—could die just by deciding that he'd had enough. The longer the boys were Cain's prisoners, the greater the chance that more of them would give up the way Darius had done.

In the cookhouse one morning, Cy glanced at Rosalee. All the boys had gone through the line, so she had a moment to herself. Standing over the empty pots of food, Rosalee had fixed her eyes on the table where Cain and his men were enjoying their fried eggs, potatoes, and coffee. Cy saw on her face an expression of such deep, bitter hatred that it startled him. And planted an idea in his brain.

So Rosalee hated Cain. Of course she did, after what he'd done to her children. The thought grew. Maybe Cy could make her hatred part of his plan.

The next afternoon at the railroad bed, as Cain was sauntering down the line of chained boys, laughing with the boss man of the other gang, Cy noticed two things: Cain's pistol and the keys that hung from a metal ring attached to his belt. Cy had been aware of the gun and the key ring every day for as long as he'd been at the camp, but it was as if he were seeing them today for the first time.

Cain's pistol. The keys. He had to have them. How to get them?

Rosalee.

 

Cy lay awake that night, and by dawn, he'd decided what to do. The plan sounded crazy, but he couldn't come up with anything better, and he'd decided that doing something,
anything
, was better than doing nothing.

He began the day pretending to have twisted his left ankle so badly that he could hardly walk. Cy put on such a good show that Cain said he could stay in camp and work in the cookhouse with Mouse and the two women. Davis would stay too, to make sure Cy and Mouse didn't “try anything.” But Cy already knew Davis well enough to be sure the white man would spend the day sitting in the sun whittling and depositing tobacco juice in his spit cup. He wouldn't show up in the cookhouse until it was time for dinner.