Cool Hand Luke (16 page)

Luke followed one of them up the curving stairway as she tried to escape the mob carousing in the hall below, screaming, giving the Nazi salute, cheering, bellowing their drunken laughter as Luke followed behind her, playing a hoe-down melody on his banjo. Trying to cover herself with the torn remains of her clothing she fled from floor to floor, screeching as the haunting strings pursued her with relentless purpose. Reaching the top of the tower she locked herself in a room. But Luke followed, never missing a note, kicking the door open and entering the small dark cell fitted out with medieval furnishings.

The girl lay curled up in a heap on the floor, burying her face in her arms, refusing to look at the bewhiskered, muddy enemy soldier who stood in the doorway playing his fiendish instrument.

Then Luke stopped. High on the wall was a huge crucifix, the figure of Christ carved in the crude, macabre style of the Middle Ages, the wood dark and stained and splintered by the years, the face gaunt and tormented.

Luke stood there and looked at it. He looked down at the girl. He waited for a long time, hanging his head and thinking and quietly slung his banjo over his shoulder and left the room.

13

S
O WE WORKED OUR WAY THROUGH THE spring, building our Time on The Hard Road. But music had come into our lives and we began our days with a new feeling, not at all afraid of the heat and the labor, the ant and the mosquito bites, the cramps and callouses. For Luke's music had taught us to understand the melody of the leg chains, the rhythm of the Floorwalker's feet, the wind of the passing traffic. And for once all was harmony. We knew that our yells to count off, to pour it out, to move
on up or dig a hole were just part of a prolonged and complicated hymn.

Then the season began for using bush axes to clear away the underbrush from the Shit Ditches. A bush axe has a four-foot handle. At the end is an eighteen-inch blade, double-edged and with a hooked bill at the end. And with the bush axe Luke had found his natural instrument, wading through the chest-deep stagnant water and mud of the briars and vines, the palmettos, the weeds and the swamp willows, every stroke seeming to communicate a vibrant tremor of wild joy that went tingling up his arms and shoulders into his brain.

And that was a hot summer. We were always bear-caught, the axes moving by themselves as we stumbled blindly through the heat, somehow making it to the end of each day and then loading up into the truck, riding back to Camp with our heads drooping and our shoulders slumped, our legs kicking out from under the benches in convulsive spasms, our shoes and pants and bodies covered with muck.

But this was the kind of work that Luke liked best. The supple, long, hooked blade of his bush axe flashed as he brought it down and around, forehand and backhand. The rest of us did what we had to do, working up to our belts in the putrid water, the mosquitoes and horse flies, swarming over us in great clouds as we swung our tools, slapped at the insects, floundered in the mire, sweated, swore, scratched and itched in our agony.

But Luke ignored the blisters and the scratches, the
callouses and the heat as he lopped off the branches and fronds, jerking each fallen piece out of the way and wading farther into the tangled thicket, pirouetting, struggling, decapitating and trampling down those shadowed demons that rose up writhing all around him.

Invariably he took a stretch much longer than anyone else's. Then he managed to finish first, eagerly climbing up the bank and swaggering down the road to the head of the line with long, rapid steps, his shoes and pants sloshing and dripping as he went.

Spinning the handle of his bush axe with a fast twist, the burnished metal of the blade sparkled in the sunlight. Exulting in his strength, he defied that sun and the sun-god alike, his voice booming out over the countryside,

Movin‘ up here, BOSS!

But all the while Boss Godfrey was watching Luke. Some of us began to feel the Heat that was emanating from the smooth, anonymous mirrors of his sunglasses. But he gave no sign, until that day he stood on the edge of the pavement way ahead of the squad, one hand jingling the change in his pocket, the other leaning on his cane. Slowly we hacked and slashed our way towards him, that Shit Ditch running along the edge of a cypress swamp.

Drawling, barely raising his voice, he called out,

Rabbit? Yo! Rabbit! Bring my rifle over here to me.

Waiting for a car to pass, Rabbit then crossed the road to the cage truck, opened the door and dragged out the rifle lying on the floorboards. Again watching the
traffic, Rabbit crossed over and approached the Walking Boss, holding out the rifle horizontally, resting on the open palms of both hands.

Boss Godfrey took his Walking Stick and with a twisting, grinding motion he stuck it upright in the soft, wet ground. Then he lifted the rifle in his left hand, reaching in his hip pocket with his right. With practiced motions, the pieces making noises that sounded precise and well oiled, Boss Godfrey inserted the clip and the bolt assembly, pulled back the handle and rammed it forward again, a cartridge sliding forward into the breech.

With a smooth, diagonal sweep from over his left shoulder, Boss Godfrey brought the rifle down and around. Just that quick, he fired.

We heard the flat sound of the bullet ricocheting way off in the swamp. We stood and gawked, our ears ringing, smelling the burned powder. Boss Godfrey pulled back the bolt handle, ejecting the shiny cartridge case which spun out and fell to the ground. As he took out the clip and bolt and put them back in his pocket, Boss Godfrey spoke to Rabbit standing there beside him.

Go out yonder, behind that old log out there by the edge of the pond. Fetch me that turtle. And git Jim to cook it up for me at Bean Time.

Reluctantly Rabbit clambered down the bank and into the Shit Ditch, shrinking from the touch of the water and the mud. Then he slipped and floundered and managed to climb the opposite bank. Pulling apart two strands of the barbed wire fence, he ducked his way through. At
the edge of the pond he kept looking around for cottonmouths, testing his footing in the swampy ground. But he had to go on. He looked through the weeds near the dead tree that had fallen over into the pond and then gingerly started to wade out into the hyacinths. Reaching down, he picked up the dead turtle by the tail, holding it up and yelling,

I got him Boss! Deader'n a son of a bitch!

Boss Godfrey paid no attention, standing there with the rifle over his shoulder at a lazy angle, perhaps watching every member of the squad and then again, perhaps not. Everyone kept on working, finishing his section, clambering out of the ditch to the shoulder of the road, moving around the Walking Boss and up to the head of the line, climbing back in again and chopping away.

As always, the next man ahead had left Luke an extra-long stretch which he was cutting down with fast, frantic strokes. As it happened I was working behind Luke so that when Rabbit got back to the road I was the last man at the end of the squad. Rabbit stamped his feet, his pants wet and coated with black muck right up to his crotch. He handed the turtle to Jim who held it up with a grin. It was an alligator turtle, shot through the very center of the shell, a monstrous species of reptile with vicious, toothed jaws and an unbelievably large head. Jim grinned again and pushed it towards Rabbit who jerked away. Then he picked up a stick and rapped it against the turtle's nose. Although it was quite dead, the jaws opened by
reflex, biting down on the stick and resisting when Jim tried to pull it out.

Boss Godfrey handed his rifle to Rabbit and he and Jim crossed the road towards the cage truck. Again Jim swung the turtle towards Rabbit who shrank back, complaining with a whine.

Aw, come on. Quit, willya?

I finished my strip and clumsily waded out of the mire, picking my way through the piles of cut bushes. Reaching high ground, I paused to rearrange my cap, slung my bush axe over my shoulder and began moving forward, water sloshing out of my shoes with every step. Luke had finished at the same time and reached the shoulder of the road just ahead of me. Boss Godfrey was standing a few feet away, lighting up a fresh cigar.

Suddenly Luke reached over and pulled Boss Godfrey's cane out of the ground, brazenly holding it out.

Don't forget your Walking Stick, Boss.

I stopped right where I was, rooted to the ground. Boss Godfrey hesitated, holding the burning match, his sightless face turned directly towards Luke who stood there relaxed and easy, smiling as he looked into Boss Godfrey's glasses. I looked too. But all I could see was the reflection of the flames. Instinctively, I looked away and called out to the guards, loud and clear,

Movin‘on up here,
Boss!

Yeah, Sailor. Move on up.

I stepped out on the road and moved in a circle
around the two of them, discreetly turning my head to look but only when I was well on the other side. Luke still stood there, smiling, holding the cane in one hand, the bush axe in the other. But Boss Godfrey continued to light his cigar, puffing on it several times, blowing out the smoke, then putting the flame to the tip once again. Satisfied, he tossed away the match and put the box in his shirt pocket. He shifted the cigar in his mouth, licking the side of it twice and then replacing it. Without a word, he reached out and took the Walking Stick from Luke's hand, putting the end on the edge of the road, shifting his weight and leaning on it. Luke called out to the guards and moved forward, his shoes slurping and clumping behind me.

I went back to work, not daring to ogle or show any signs of wonder at the phenomenal event I had just witnessed. I kept my eyes on the ground. I cut bushes and said nothing.

It was nearly Bean Time. Jim and Rabbit moved the two trucks to a dry spot a few blocks up the road and got things ready. With his pocket knife and with an axe from the tool truck, Jim cut the bottom of the alligator turtle's shell and dressed out the meat. Sticking the chunks on a green branch, he began to cook it over the fire that Rabbit had built, preparing it for the Free Man's dinner.

The Bull Gang was quiet as we ate our beans. Working in a Shit Ditch was a demoralizing job and despite the heat we were waterlogged and chilled, slimy and
disgusted. Once in a while a man would stand up to get the file and begin sharpening his bush axe. But the rest of us just sat, lay back on our jackets, stared up at the sky and smoked. Onion Head and Stupid Blondie stacked up the bean plates in the box and put away the corn bread and molasses. Then Onion Head went over to the remains of the turtle's carcass, squatting down to poke at the shell and the intestines with a stick and then nudging the severed head through the grass.

Look! Look at that son of a bitch! Lookee here!

Again the turtle's mouth had opened, the big eyes staring as slowly the jaws began to shut, clamping down hard. Onion Head raised up the stick, looking at the ferocious head which clung to it, blood still dripping from the severed neck.

Cool Hand Luke lay on the ground leaning on one elbow. He looked over and muttered half aloud.

Bite it brother. Bite hard. Real hard.

Then the stick cracked and broke, the turtle's head falling to the ground.

We went back to work. But for the rest of the day I tried to stay away from Luke. He scared me. I didn't like his carelessness, his sense of humor or his sacrilege.

But a few days later I found myself once again working just behind him and over to his right. We were sent out to the Rattlesnake Road, right out there where we were this morning. And again we were yo-yoing, working in an echelon formation.

It was a damp and foggy morning. About two hours after we started working we came to a patch of swamp, the ditch filled with marsh grass, the water just deep enough to reach our ankles. Rhythmically we swung our tools back and forth, our feet cold, our shoes heavy and slimy, our thoughts dim and far away.

Luke stopped in mid-stroke and quickly jabbed his tool into the water, holding the blade of his yo-yo down on the head of a rattlesnake whose long yellow and brown body rose to the surface not six feet in front of me, thrashing wildly. I leaped back, nearly getting hit by the yo-yo swinging behind me. But Luke just stood there. Grinning, he called out to Boss Paul—

 

Pickin‘ it up here,
Boss!

Boss Paul didn't answer, just standing with his shotgun under the crook of his arm and smiling. Luke reached down, grabbed the snake by the tail and picked it up as cool as you please, holding it a long moment as it twisted and curled. Swinging it gently back and forth, he called out to Rabbit who was coming up the road with his water bucket.

Hey, Rabbit! Catch!

Luke tossed the snake up on the shoulder, spinning it towards Rabbit who dropped his bucket, let out a screech and ran across the road towards Boss Godfrey who stood there in front of the truck without moving, one hand in his pocket rattling his change, the other hand leaning on his Walking Stick.

And I will always remember Luke the way he
looked that foggy morning: lazily holding a deadly serpent in his hand, its jaws agape and hissing as it twisted and knotted and struck at the dim and hazy sun. For that was an exact portrait of the man named Cool Hand Luke.

THAT SATURDAY MORNING LUKE TOOK OUT his banjo right after breakfast and began playing a tune. I lay on my bunk, listening in wonder to the way he could carry two different melodies at the same time. I could never understand how so many different sounds could come from only four strings. But there was something magical in everything Luke did. And if he had been just another ordinary convict I wouldn't have said anything. But I liked Luke. I had to warn him.

Luke? Listen. It's none of my business what you do. But I've been chain ganging a long time and I'd just like to tip you off. That was a bad thing you did the other day. Picking up the Man's cane like that. Hell. You might just as well walk up to him, grab him by the balls and pull.