Cy in Chains (22 page)

Her words pierced him. The woman was most likely right. But if he died—that would at least end this hell. And if she was wrong . . .

 

Cy managed to have himself chained at the end of the row of boys that night, Billy next to him. He lay motionless, terrified of what lay ahead, but desperate for it to happen.

After hours, he heard what he'd been both wanting and dreading to hear: the sound of the chain being unlocked outside. A minute later, Rosalee crept through the bunkhouse door and found him in the darkness.

“You do it?” Cy whispered.

“Yeah.” Although they did not touch, Cy could feel her trembling. “I's gonna pull the chain through the wall, then you get free of it. We gotta put it back through, though, keep the rest of 'em here till you done.”

She went to the wall and began to pull the chain. It scraped, but Cy was surprised how silently Rosalee did it. He kept glancing down the row of sleeping boys, dreading that someone would wake up and cause trouble. When the chain was pulled all the way through, Cy eased off the sleeping platform and freed himself.

That's when Billy woke up. “Cy?” he asked. “What's goin' on?”

In a second, Cy was at Billy's side, his hand over his mouth. “Shhh!” he warned. “Cain sent Rosalee to get me. Somethin' important at his cabin. I be back soon.”

Billy tried to push Cy's hand away.

“You got to trust me,” Cy whispered fiercely. “Don't wake up the others. I be back soon. I promise. All right?”

Billy nodded.

“Now, lay back down and wait. If anybody else wakes up, you tell 'em everything all right.”

Rosalee went back outside and Cy fed the chain to her. Then he went outside too. They relocked the chain, and then Rosalee unlocked Cy's leg irons.

Overhead, the night sky was clear, and the stars glittered. They moved away from the bunkhouse. Every second, Cy expected to see Stryker and Davis headed their way, rifles in hand. But there was nothing. The camp was dark and silent.

“You sure Cain dead?” Cy asked.

“Would I be here if he warn't?”

He wanted to ask her how she'd done it, where she'd stabbed him. But this wasn't the time. “You got his pistol?”

Without a word, she handed it to him. It was heavier than he expected, and he almost dropped it. His hand was shaking.

“How many bullets?”

“Six. I counted 'em. Checked out the whole thing. It ready to go. You do know how to use it, don't you?”

“Yeah. Daddy had one, and he use to let me shoot.”

“All right. Once you do it, then what?”

“No time now. Let me go.”

Together, they made their way to the cabin where Stryker and Davis slept. At the door, Cy listened. The sound of snoring came even through the wooden door. A good sign. He peered through the front window. An oil lamp was glowing dimly on a table. Another good sign: he'd be able to see once he got inside.

“They beds is to the right,” Rosalee told him, “by the back corner.”

He nodded. In his right hand, the pistol felt heavy, its metal cool in the night air.

“You best hurry,” she told him. “Ain't no goin' back now.” She moved off into the darkness.

Around him, all was silence, but in his head, Cy seemed to hear a horrible mixture of sounds that grew louder and louder. Cain's voice intoning his endless speeches. Billy screaming when they took Jess away. Prescott saying, “Drop them pants and turn around.” And beneath the rising shriek of voices, the never-ending clanking of chains.

He stood, panting, struggling to clear his mind. To make himself take the next step.

Please let the door not be locked
, Cy thought as he put his hand on the latch. It lifted, and the door yielded to his pressure. The hinges didn't creak, and Cy eased himself into the room. His heart was pounding so violently that he almost believed he could hear it. Any second, the white men would wake up. Surely they slept with pistols under their pillows. They'd grab them and shoot him dead.

But there was no movement, only the sound of two men snoring.

Cy's eyes adjusted to the gloom. Yes, in the far corner were two beds, pushed together so that their heads touched. He cocked the pistol; its click sounded like a scream in the silence. Still the sleeping men did not move.

Cy took a silent step forward, then another. His right hand would not stop shaking, so he pulled the pistol toward himself and steadied it against his chest.

Another step forward, and now he could see the shapes of the men. They were sprawled on their beds, Stryker fully clothed, Davis stark naked.

Another step, then another, and Cy stood directly above Stryker. For a moment, he felt something like pity for the sleeping man. Stryker had been the best of them all, had even shown moments of concern when they were so sick with the whooping cough. He hadn't agreed with what Prescott had done, murdering West that way. He'd lost the girl he called Mary Elizabeth—his sister?—when he was just a kid himself.

None of that mattered now.

All at once, the coiled tension in Cy's body was released. He knelt down, shoved the barrel of the pistol against the side of Stryker's head, and pulled the trigger. The noise was like a clap of thunder. Cy jumped to his feet. Davis jerked awake and turned toward him just in time to take a bullet in the forehead. He collapsed back on his pillow as blood began pouring from the hole above his eyes.

Cy gripped the pistol in both hands now. He felt certain both men were alive; it had been too easy to destroy each one with a single bullet. But there was no movement, and the only sound was the hiss of the breath emptying out of Stryker's lungs.

Cy moved back, waiting. Nothing. He lowered the pistol and let it drop on the table. Then he began to sob. It had all happened in a moment, like a dream. Surely
he
had not done this thing. No, he had stood back, watching someone like himself, but
not
himself, send bullets into the brains of two white men, bringing their lives crashing down in the mess of blood that had darkened his imagination.

With a shaking hand, he picked up the lamp, turned its wick higher, and approached the beds again. Were they truly dead? He held up the light above them. Stryker's wound oozed dark blood. Davis's eyes were open in surprise, and blood was running down his forehead and pooling in the left eye before continuing its way down into his beard.

They
were
dead. He, Cy, had killed them. On impulse, he grabbed Davis's bedsheet and pulled it over him, hiding his nakedness.

A sound behind him made him jump. It was Rosalee at the door. “They dead?”

“Yeah.” Another wave of panic surged over him, and he dropped onto a chair by the table, his head touching his knees.

“No time for that,” Rosalee said. “Whatever else you got in mind, you got to do it
now
.”

Now.
He could grab different clothes, some food, whatever money he could find, bullets, and leave with Rosalee.

He heard shouting. Rosalee went to the door and listened. “Boys in the bunkhouses. They done heard the shots and is wonderin' what's goin' on.”

Grab what you can and run
, Cy thought.
The others ain't your concern
.

“Cy!” Rosalee exclaimed. “Tell me yo' plan.”

He jumped up, his decision made. “Come on,” he told her.

She followed him to the bunkhouse. The boys were gabbling with fright, but silence fell when they walked in.

“Cy!” Billy cried. “What's happenin'?”

He held the lamp high. “Y'all hush, now! I got somethin' to say. Somethin' important.”

Cy could feel many eyes on him. A sense of his own power ran through him, and he felt brave. Strong as Teufel.

“Listen to me, and listen good. After you hear what I got to say, be steady, 'cause they's a lot to do.”

Murmured questions hummed in the air until Cy silenced them again. “Okay, here it is: Cain and his men is all dead.”

The murmurs turned to shouts.

“Quiet!” Cy yelled. “I's tellin' you the truth. They's dead. Rosalee and me got the keys. Any o' you who wants to get outta here, now's the time. We gonna find the regular clothes Cain got stashed, get all the food and stuff we can carry, and head out. We got to go in small groups, go in different directions, stay off the roads, try and find black folks to help us. Then maybe we got a chance.”

Shouted questions and protests answered him. A couple of boys started to cry. In the middle of everything, Cy noticed Billy staring at him with adoring eyes.

“I got to go tell the other guys what I just told you,” he finished. “I be back soon.”

“Unlock us!” someone shouted.

“Not yet,” Rosalee told Cy quietly. “Not till we get charge o' the whole thing.”

They left the boys chained up and went to the other bunk. Cy told the same story, met with the same reactions, and explained the same plan of escape.

Leaving them chained too, Cy and Rosalee headed to Cain's cabin. Rosalee spat on Cain's body as she passed the bed. She went to a cupboard and started emptying its contents into a saddlebag. She took bottles of liquid, which Cy figured to be her dope. She came up with a second pistol and bullets and a large wad of cash, which she split with Cy. Then she went to the cookhouse to finish gathering her things.

Cy was eager to search Cain's cabin, but to his surprise, he couldn't stand the sight of Cain, no matter how often he'd wished him dead.

He grabbed a quilt and covered the body. Once again, horror swept over him at what he and Rosalee had done, even as he ransacked the cabin. He found some of Cain's shirts and pants, which he thought might fit some of the bigger boys.

Cy went to the cookhouse next. He had to find where Cain kept the boys' other clothes, the ones they had when they first came to his camp. Rosalee led him to a locked room. She found the right key, and inside they discovered what they were looking for: all kinds and sizes of clothing. Pants, shirts, jackets, boots. Even stockings and drawers.

Cy began rooting through the clothing. Somehow, it seemed utterly necessary to find his own things, even if it took time to locate them. Then he remembered he'd been delivered to Cain wearing only drawers and a pair of overalls. On a day so long ago, John Strong had grabbed Cy's shirt to cover Travis's body, and Cy had never gotten it back.

I gotta find
them overalls
, he thought. Would he even recognize them? Yes. He had patched the right knee himself, using scraps of feed sack. Sewing on that patch had taken him a long time. He'd know it anywhere.

And suddenly, at the bottom of a pile of pants, he found what he was looking for. Not caring that Rosalee was in the room, he pulled off his uniform pants and stepped into the overalls. They were so small that he couldn't get the straps over his shoulders to fasten them to the bib.

A wave of disappointment washed over him. So much had happened since the last time he wore that tattered and faded garment. So much had happened, almost all of it bad.

“Run back and get some o' Cain's things,” Rosalee told him. “And quit wastin' time!”

Cy hurried back to the cabin and grabbed trousers, a shirt, and a jacket. They all fit him tolerably well, although the touch of Cain's clothes made his skin crawl.

He had lost track of time. How long had it been since they'd killed the white men, and how long was it until dawn? They had to be scattered and making their various ways through the woods well before then.

Cy pulled on Cain's boots, which fit him, too. He went back to the cookhouse and helped Rosalee finish scavenging. Then they went to Cy's bunkhouse. Rosalee held the lamp high, and Cy did the same with Cain's pistol. “We found clothes and food for everyone,” he began. “We gonna unlock you, and then we gonna find different stuff for y'all to wear. Then hand out what food they is and send y'all on your ways. They ain't gonna be no trouble, understand? No runnin' every which way. Not while I got this.” He brandished the pistol. “Y'all give me your word?”

Many voices agreed.

“After we take off yo' chains, meet us outside and we get rid of these goddamn leg irons once and for all.”

That brought a cheer.

Billy grabbed Cy's sleeve. “I's comin' with you, right?”

“Me too,” Mouse added.

Cy pulled himself free of Billy's grasp. “I dunno, Billy . . .”

“We can go to Moultrie!” Billy went on. “It ain't far. Daddy an' them can help us.”

“We'll see,” Cy said, heading for the door. “Let's get outta here first.”

He hadn't planned to take anyone with him. While he'd never allowed himself to decide that for sure, now he admitted that's what had been in his mind all along. Alone, he had a better chance. No one to slow him down, no one to look after. He would make his way to the woman called Aunt Miriam. She would hide him, like she'd promised to hide his father and him before. Then he'd find his way back home. Wherever that was.

Cy repeated his speech in the other bunkhouse, and soon all the boys were gathered in the yard. One by one, Rosalee unlocked their leg irons. Cy had anticipated trouble, especially from Jack, but the sight of Cain's pistol and Cy's promise to use it if necessary made everyone obey him.

Then Ring stepped forward. “I ain't in this,” he declared. “Ain't no way we can escape from here. Only take 'em a day or two to round up anybody try an' escape. Then they gonna be hell to pay.”

Ring's words took Cy by surprise. He had to stop this now, before other boys agreed.

“I thought you be glad for what I done,” Cy told him. “I figured you want us to do anything to get outta here. And you got the best chance to escape.”

“How so?”

“Look at yo'self. You as white as Cain or any of 'em. Get into some different clothes and ain't nobody gon' suspect you. By tomorrow, you be long gone.”