Cy in Chains (12 page)

“They was right kind, them folks. Got me back to McReynolds's place and told him what happen. Course he wouldn't speak nothin' bad 'bout his boy—they never do—but he did send for a doctor. He come right away, too, and set my leg. Hurt worse than anything I ever felt in my life. Took three men to hold me down. Leg healed up, sort of, but it ain't been right since then. I had to quit sharecroppin' and find some easier work in town. Done all sorts o' things, but finally earned that one hundred dollars. Then I made it back near Davisville and found the Sconyers boys. Paid 'em what they asked, and they told me how to find you.”

“You trusted 'em to tell you the truth?”

“I thought about that, son. Sorry crackers like them be just as likely to tell me a lie. But what other choice did I have?”

“I
hate
white folks,” Cy muttered.

Pete Williams spat in the grass. “We got plenty o' cause, don't we? I treated ol' Jupiter a hell of a lot better'n any white man ever treated me.”

“Better than Cain and his men treat us.”

“They rough on you fellows, ain't they?”

“You
got
to get me outta here, Daddy!”

The man glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear him. “That's why I's here. Listen to me now, Cy. Listen real careful. This is important. Listen and do just like I tell you, and be brave.” He reached into the carpetbag and brought out an apple. “Have one. They's real good. Little sour, but good.”

Cy took the apple and ran his fingers over its smooth green surface. He hadn't touched a piece of fresh fruit since the last time he and Travis had snitched peaches from the trees in Strong's orchard. Again, his mouth watered, even though he was stuffed with molasses cakes. The taste of that apple made him want to cry some more.

Cy could feel his heart beating. “What I got to do, Daddy?”

“I been 'round these parts a couple days, checkin' on things. I know where they got you boys workin', out in that pine wood. I even know how the day goes—at dinnertime, that Cain take a swig and gets in a nap, and them other sorry sons o' bitches tend to they own messes.”

“How'd you find all that out?”

“No matter. Tomorrow, keep a sharp eye at dinnertime. When Cain go down for his nap and them others ain't payin' much mind, pretend you got the stomachache and got to go off and do your business.”

“Okay.”

“Go toward a place where six pines grow thick together, almost in a circle, like someone planted 'em that way. You know where I's talkin' about?”

“No, but I can find it.”

“Go there. Then keep goin', quick as you can. You won't be missed right away. Past them pines, you come to a wet place where the palmetto is real thick. On the other side o' that, you gon' meet a colored man on a horse. Name's Arnold. You go with him. He gon' take you to a safe place off the main road toward Moultrie. You turn off to the right just past a little bridge over a creek, then keep goin' till you come to a dead oak tree, then take a right. That how you know Arnold be takin' you the right way. I be waitin' there for you. We can hide there a few days with the woman who own the place, name of Aunt Miriam. When they quit lookin' for you, she help us get away. You got all that?”

“What if this Arnold ain't there?”

“He be there. But if he ain't, you get on back to the camp, act like you done your business and that's that. But he
is
gon' be there, Cy. He
got
to be! I already done give him ten dollar to help us out. He an honest man.”

“Ten dollar? That ain't right! Why we got to pay for every damn thing?”

Pete Williams frowned. “Ain't
nothin'
free in this life, son. I know that now. Whatever you want, you got to pay for, one way or 'nother, 'specially if you a black man.”

Cy realized he'd always known that too.

“Can you do it?” his father asked. “Find Arnold and trust him to bring you to Aunt Miriam's?”

Suddenly, Cy knew the plan was crazy. Too many things could go wrong. His heart was still beating fast, but not from excitement.

From fear.

Pete Williams looked at his son hard. “Can you do it?”

Folks said that no one could survive in Cain's camp more than five years. Cy had been there three, going on four.

“Yes, sir. I can.”

Pete Williams held his son tight. “Then I'll see you at Aunt Miriam's. Tomorrow evenin', you gon' be free.”

That's what West had seen in blood and water: Cy Williams, free.

“H
OW YOU GET HERE
, D
ADDY
?” C
Y ASKED
, reaching for a second apple.

“Walked.”

“Walked?”

“Surprised? You mean how I get here with a bum leg, right?”

Cy felt embarrassed. “Yes, sir,” he answered, eyes on the ground.

“Man do what he got to do, I reckon. Good Lord gimme strength. Hitched some rides in wagons too. Folks is usually ready to help out a cripple' man.”

It hurt to hear his father use that word. “You ain't crippled, Daddy!”

“Try tellin' that to this ol' leg. Many's the time I's had to give it a good talkin' to, remind it of its duty, to help me find my boy.”

“How far you walk? I never could tell how long it was between Strong's place and here.”

“'Bout hundred seventy miles, they tells me.”

“That far? It a mighty long way.”
Especially for a . . . cripple
, he found himself thinking.

Pete Williams smiled a little. “Ain't nothin' compared to what slaves done back in the old days. Some of 'em run hundreds o' miles, by night, with only the North Star to guide 'em. Shucks, Cy. Any daddy'd do what I done. Anything to find his son.”

So his father hadn't forgotten him. Once again, white men were to blame for all the bad things that had happened. Cy felt the hatred rising up in him—hatred for John Strong, the Sconyers boys, Cain and his men. They could do whatever they wanted to black folks, and no one would stop them.

“Time's up,” Prescott called from across the camp.

“So soon?” Pete Williams said.

More than anything in the world, Cy wanted to walk through the gate with his father, leave Cain's camp forever. Maybe Pete Williams could say something, ask, beg. Surely Cy had long since paid for whatever crime the white men thought he'd committed.

If he let such thoughts take over, he'd fall to the ground, wailing. That wouldn't help. No—he'd have to wait, follow the plan his father had made. It would work; it had to.

Cy went behind a tree and put on the drawers and undershirt his father had brought him. They felt soft against his skin. Now the coarse material of his uniform wouldn't always be rubbing him wrong. Then he remembered: after tomorrow, he wouldn't have to wear that hated uniform ever again. If everything went the way his daddy promised it would . . .

Cy sat and put on the new stockings. He'd forgotten how it felt to have the soft padding of knitted cotton between the skin on his feet and cheap, brittle leather boots. “I's gonna need other pants and a jacket tomorrow,” he said. “I can't wear this uniform once I get outta here.”

“I thought o' that. I left some pants and a coat with Aunt Miriam.”

“What about my chains?”

“Don't worry. Arnold get 'em off you.”

“He don't have the key.”

“No matter. I seen how you boys is chained up. Shucks! Them leg irons is right pitiful. Won't take but a couple licks with a good, strong hammer and chisel to get 'em off. Cain too cheap even to buy decent stuff.”

“They ain't strong?”

“Hell, no! Any man who know what he doin' and what got a couple simple tools can get 'em off in a minute. And let's not even talk 'bout the sorry way you boys is bein' guarded. Three men for
forty
of y'all? When they take you out to work, at dinnertime Cain go to sleep, and them two sorry crackers use the time to slack off. Y'all could make a break for it then.”

Cy and some of the others had talked about that lots of times. Had made plans even more outlandish than his father's. Such scheming had helped pass many a long evening. But despite all their big talk, they always came back to the same reality, which stopped them cold. “Cain and his men got guns.”

“No matter. You think three men could stand up to forty? Make a plan, take a chance.”

“They'd shoot us!”

“Maybe—couple of y'all, at most. But you really think they could stop you? You bigger fellows go for the guns, while some others hustle the smaller boys away. You got tools right there—after you take care o' Cain and his men, you break off the chains—”

“We couldn't ever do that.”

“That way o' thinkin' is why y'all still here,” Pete Williams said quietly.

His father's words stung. “We ain't yellow, Daddy.”

But you ran from Strong that day at the river
, said a voice in his head.
You're yellow, all right, and see where it landed you
.

Cy felt he had to defend himself and the others too. “If we got away from Cain, the sheriff would hunt us down! We couldn't never escape.”

“You don't know till you try, son. Tomorrow you gon' be free, 'cause you got the courage. Maybe one day, them other boys'll find theirs, too.”

Then Prescott reappeared and said Williams had to go. Father and son followed him toward the gate and found Billy, still standing, waiting. Cy had forgotten all about him.

“Your daddy ain't here yet?”

Billy looked like he didn't understand the question. Then he turned back toward the road and declared, “Any minute now.”

Pete Williams walked Cy a few paces away from Prescott, hugged him hard, and whispered, “Be brave. Arnold bring you right to Aunt Miriam. I be waitin' there for you. Tomorrow evenin', you free.”

Cy wanted to believe him. Saying goodbye was hard.

When Prescott unlocked the gate to let Williams out, Billy bolted through it and started racing down the road.

“Stop, you!” Prescott shouted.

Billy kept running.

Prescott yelled for Cain and Stryker. All the boys in camp rushed toward the gate. They had a clear view of the road and Billy speeding away.

Prescott ran through the gate. “Stop, or I'll shoot!” he shouted. If Billy heard, he didn't respond. Just kept going.

As Prescott raised his rifle and took aim, Jess pushed through the crowd of boys, burst into the road, and grabbed Prescott's arm from behind. The rifle went off, and down the road, Billy dropped into the red mud. Cy couldn't tell if he'd been hit.

“Don't, Mr. Prescott!” Jess cried. “You don't got to kill him. He just upset 'cause his daddy ain't come to see him.”

Prescott pushed Jess away and whirled around, pointing the rifle at Jess's chest. “Get back! I swear to God, I'll shoot you dead if you make another move.”

Cain appeared, urging his horse forward. He galloped through the gate and down the road toward where Billy lay, unmoving.

Stryker hurried toward the gate, rifle in hand. Prescott kept his weapon trained on Jess. “Hands up,” he ordered. “And back inside.”

“I's sorry, Mr. Prescott,” Jess said. “I didn't mean to make no trouble. I just didn't want you to shoot Billy.”

Prescott gestured toward Pete Williams. “Get goin',” he said.

Williams squeezed Cy's shoulder and went through the gate. He stood in the road, looking back at Cy. Then he nodded. Cy understood what his father meant. Tomorrow . . .

“I told you to get!” Prescott shouted.

Cy watched Williams walk away until Prescott ordered everyone to form their lines. Cy half expected Cain to return with Billy's body, but before long, the man appeared, calmly sitting in the saddle. Behind his horse, a rope tied around his neck, stumbling, begging, was Billy.

 

Cain waited until dark. He had the boys build a bonfire by the whipping post and then lined everyone up to watch.

Billy had spent the afternoon locked with Jess in a tiny shed everyone called the icehouse. He didn't resist when Stryker led him to the post and pulled off his jacket. He let Stryker tie his hands to the post and stood there staring into space. Somehow, he wasn't there, even though his half-naked body was.

But he screamed when the whip hit him, and he kept it up the whole time Cain was lashing him.

Jess was standing between Stryker and Prescott, his hands tied behind his back. Cy stood with the other boys, Mouse on one side and West on the other. Rage boiled inside him. He remembered his father's words:
You think three men could stand up to forty?
Cy wanted to shout, urge the others to do something, anything, to stop the whipping.

What had Billy done to deserve this? He wanted what they all wanted: to go home. And he had been brave enough, or crazy enough, to make a break for it. “We ain't yellow,” Cy had told his father. But he felt yellow now, compared to Billy. He felt yellow, saying and doing nothing to try and save the kid. Then he reminded himself it was Billy's own fault. If he hadn't run, he wouldn't be under the whip.

Mouse buried his face in Cy's side. Cy made a move to push him away, then changed his mind. If Mouse could find some comfort that way, let him. It didn't cost Cy a thing.

When Cain was done, Stryker untied Billy, and he collapsed onto the ground. Prescott dragged him back to the line and dropped his jacket on him.

Jess never made a sound when Cain whipped him. Then Cain stood aside and let Prescott get his licks, too. When it was over, they cut Jess loose. He picked up his jacket and walked slowly to the line. In the firelight, his face was resigned.

Cain had a little speech to make. “I run a tight camp,” he began, “but I run a
fair
camp. State says I got to open the place to visitors, I obey the law. Give y'all clean uniforms, new boots, blankets, let you wash up, feed you as decent as I can—”