Blood on the Forge

by William Attaway

  “Beat it. Ain’t nobody allowed to hang around,” said the guard.

  They walked slowly away.

  They were topping a little rise when the string of railroad cars came down the river front. There was something familiar about this train. They could not quite place the feeling. Then Melody knew.

  “Say, Mat,” he said. “I know. Them boxcars is filled with men.”

  Mat looked.

  “They ain’t full of freight,” he said. “Don’t see no consignment tags.”

  “They full of men,” flatly stated Melody.

  “Niggers?”

  “Guess so. Ain’t no need to bring white men in that-a-way.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stood on the little knoll and watched the boxcar maneuver through the maze of tracks along the river front. They could tell which rails the toy-like engine would choose. The right of way gleamed brighter than the less-used tracks. The train made its way up these brighter tracks. And, by some strange parallel, their minds also chose brighter tracks. Through the things under their vision they sensed the relationship of themselves to the trouble in the mills. They knew all of those men herded in the black cars. For a minute they were those men—bewildered and afraid in the dark, coming from hate into a new kind of hate.

  Then the brighter tracks of their minds faded, and what they felt was lost. The fact that both of them had experienced a similar feeling was not strange. Always there had been a harmony between them. They continued homeward. They had been too long away from Chinatown.

  But the train came to a stop. It discharged its black cargo. Tomorrow the tension in the town would be heightened. Here was another trainload, an afternoon load. The morning load was already settled in a specially built bunkhouse. And the Negroes were grouped sullenly around the leaders of the moment. They were here for four dollars a day and a chance to fight with white men. They did not care what the issue.

  Through August and into September things were different on the job. Melody and Big Mat knew hardly anyone now. They could not tell exactly who was missing from the job. It was just that every now and then the thought would come: “There’s one I never saw before.” That new face would be disturbing, because it had taken the place of one so familiar that it had ceased to exist. Those new men did not respect hot metal. The clang of the ambulances became a daily sound.

  “Watchin’ these guys scares me,” confessed Melody one day.

  “How come?” asked Big Mat.

  “Makes me see how near death I was when I first come round here.”

  But steel had to be made. No matter how many men were hurt, the furnaces must be kept going. A furnace that lost its fire was like a dead thing. It had to be torn down to the ground and built anew. That cost money. So the new men, like the new men before them, worked, and some of them died. But the flow of steel did not stop.

  Somehow it seemed to the men from the red hills that the idea of flesh-and-blood striking was a crazy thing. The fire and flow of metal seemed an eternal act which had grown beyond men’s control. It was not to be compared with crops that one man nursed to growth and ate at his own table. The nearness of a farmer to his farm was easily understood. But no man was close to steel. It was shipped across endless tracks to all the world. On the consignment slips were Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, rails for South America, tin for Africa, tool steel for Europe. This hard metal held up the new world. Some were shortsighted and thought they understood. Steel is born in the flames and sent out to live and grow old. It comes back to the flames and has a new birth. But no one man could calculate its beginning or end. It was old as the earth. It would end when the earth ended. It seemed deathless.

  But men were going to strike against steel and the way it was made. That was sure to be. The talk of stool pigeons and the discharging of union men did not stop the meetings of the steel men. The threats of the police and the arrest and fining of union organizers did not stop the threat against steel. Steel would not bend, and the men who made steel became as hard as that metal. Yes, there was going to be a strike.

  The union organizers made a desperate effort to induce the black men to join the movement toward a strike. But the steel interests had bought the black leaders. Big Mat and Melody found that out through Bo. Bo had brought two Negro politicians to speak to their own. These politicians both said the same thing. A victory for the mill owners would be a victory for the Negro worker. The black worker, they said, had never advanced through unions. He had only advanced fighting alongside of the owners. “Do not forget,” they said, “that the men who now ask for your help in a strike are the men who have spit at you on the streets because of your color.” Melody and Big Mat had been deeply impressed by that talk from black men who used big words. They said as much to Bo. Bo was contemptuous.

  “Them bastards use big words but they don’t know much as me. And I ain’t paid off for what I say.”

  “You mean, they git paid for talkin’?”

  “Sure, they paid off. Maybe they talkin’ facts, but it’s all the same to them. They tell a lie for the same money.”

  Melody and Big Mat could not believe it.

  “I know,” said Bo. “I work in with the office myself but I ain’t paid.”

  Melody hung on Bo’s words. An old suspicion became a certainty.

  “Then you did git them guys fired,” he accused.

  Bo was on the defensive.

  “Maybe them guys was fired ’cause I said I seen ’em goin’ in the union place. But hell! I got to keep my job. I got to do what they say. Don’t forget I’m the only nigger in the mill got micks under him.”

  That was true. Bo was a big man in the mill. Melody did not want Bo against him. If Bo was able to get white men put off the job he could even more easily do the same to black men. Melody became afraid. He pulled Big Mat away, for fear of what might be said.

  “How come you pull me?”

  “This kinda got me all mixed up.”

  “I don’t like no stool pigeons,” grunted Big Mat.

  “But we on their side, looks like.”

  “I ain’t on no stool pigeon’s side.”

  “But you ain’t with the union.”

  “Naw, I guess I ain’t.”

  Melody thought a second. The puzzle brought lines to his forehead.

  “Bo stoolin’,” he mused. “Lots of these hunkies who gittin’ fired is all-right guys. Now them talkers gittin’ paid off.” He made a weak movement with his hand. “I reckon us best git along home an’ stay there.”

  Those were good words to Big Mat.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “the more I hears ’bout this here mess the less I know.”

  Big Mat and Melody were vastly different men. But both of them approached the world alike. Ideas of union and nonunion could only confuse them until that time when their own personal experience would give them the feeling necessary for understanding.

  So they went home and did not listen to any more talk. There were other meetings and other speakers, both for and against the union, but the Moss boys stayed by themselves. They kept away from the bunkhouse and its arguments. On the job there was whispered talk between spells, but they kept their ears closed against it. They no longer stopped at the lunch wagon. There was no good greeting for them at that place. They did not even walk in the town—the town was hostile to the point of danger.

  More than anything else, Big Mat spent his time watching Anna. Every little movement of her turned in his eye. He caught the slant of her big hip as she rested on one stiff leg and stirred in the cooking pots. He marked the way she sat, with her hands dangling loosely between her knees. He watched her comb her hair and bite her heavy underlip as the comb tore through the tangles. He watched her washing her face. Her body bent forward over the pan, her buttocks curved out over spread, arched thighs. He looked through the back door and saw her leave the house, the crinkled, gaudy dress clinging to her body as she walked.

  When Melody was not with Chinatown he w
as sitting close by Big Mat. He felt easier of mind when he was near his big brother. Melody was sensitive enough to feel the pain in Big Mat’s loins. And because of that Melody was drawn to him. Big Mat was full of pain for Anna. He, too, was full of pain for Anna. But Big Mat was now focused on something that he might, if he chose, take in his hands. Melody was full of emotions that fell and rose like clouds rolling in a still evening sky. Who could get his hands on a cloud? So Melody sat with him and felt with and through him and tried to get Big Mat’s simpler meanings to hitch onto the clouds.

  Those heavy clouds rolled in Melody and one day they woke him from his daytime sleep. Both he and Big Mat had been working the night shift. But he knew that Big Mat would not be abed. He doused his head in cold water and went into the kitchen. There was Big Mat sitting in his corner. There was Anna standing in front of the stove. There was Chinatown cleaning his rifle, his blind eyes following the work in mock sight. Melody took the guitar for the first time in a long while. He wanted to do no more than sit cross-legged on the floor near Big Mat. He wanted to hit soft chords that nobody would hear. But all he did was to feel where the corns should have been on his picking hand.

  The front and back doors were open, and a good breeze came through the house. The wind pressed at Anna’s skirt. It did not disturb her heavy oiled hair. A bit of straw caught in an updraft and settled on her face. She slapped at it absently. She smiled to herself.

  Melody could see one end of that smile. It displeased him. There was much trouble in this house. There was much trouble at the mills. What did Anna find to smile over? He watched her face. She had a bright look. Her eyes had been dull. Now they lay in her face like two bright toys. She looked as if she knew a secret. She had an air of biding her time.

  Chinatown began to fidget in his chair. He looked about helplessly.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Melody.

  “I got to go out back.” He got up from his chair, using the rifle as a walking stick.

  Anna moved to his side.

  “Leave him go by hisself,” said Big Mat.

  Anna looked at Melody.

  “He got to learn sometime,” said Big Mat.

  Melody nodded. Anna moved away.

  “I can’t find it,” wailed Chinatown.

  “Feel round the wall,” said Melody.

  With a terrified look Chinatown felt his way along the wall. At last he found the door. Backward, he made the step to the ground. Through the doorway they watched him. For a few steps he showed confidence. Then his foot rolled slightly on a stone. He was thrown slightly off balance. He did not regain that balance. Stepping very high, like a man about to climb a hill, he staggered about the yard. Every few seconds he would sway around, feeling for the familiar touch of the out-house. He began to cry.

  Anna could not endure it. She ran out into the yard and put his arm across her shoulders. Together they went into the outhouse.

  Big Mat and Melody stood in the doorway.

  Anna reappeared. She led Chinatown back to the stoop. He was still disorganized. He began to talk wildly about the rats he had heard the night before. They might come on him, he thought, and he would not be able to sight his rifle. Anna tried to reassure him, but he would not listen. He had begun to think that every night noise was made by the big rats.

  Anna said, “They are not rats. They are sparrows makin’ nest for the night.”

  “They was rats,” he cried. “You don’t know, ’cause you ain’t been round at night.”

  Anna looked up quickly, fear in her eyes. But Big Mat had not caught the words. To quiet Chinatown she took his hand and drew it into the bosom of her dress.

  Big Mat watched the bulge made by Chinatown’s hand. His eyes were red from want of sleep and a little mad. He choked over his feelings, trying to find the words to match them.

  Melody touched Big Mat and was almost physically hurt by the intensity of the jealous rage he felt through him.

  Big Mat said, “Git away from Chinatown. He got to learn to do for hisself.”

  Anna looked at Melody. He nodded. She got up and moved away. Chinatown began to moan in self-pity.

  Big Mat shuffled about. At last he left the house and Chinatown’s noises.

  Melody listened to Chinatown and tried to think of some help for his blind brother. The days were passing and Chinatown seemed to be becoming less and less confident of himself. He had progressed to a point, then he had begun to slide back into helplessness. The only thing that quieted him was the feel of Anna’s breast. Why was that? Maybe if Chinatown had a woman it would be good for him. That was something to think about. But who would sleep with a man with horribly dead eyes? Melody thought about that. But there must be a woman who needed money badly enough. He would find such a woman.

  Without a word Melody left the house. He had been so long away from the whoring places that he did not know just which way to go. Finally he decided to stop at the bunkhouse and question some of the men. They might save him the search.

  Melody kept a sharp lookout for trouble. But the streets were unusually quiet this afternoon. There were no children to be seen, and the vacant lots were empty. He wondered where the ball games were being played. In the Slav section of the town there were no young girls sitting on the porches. Most of the doors were closed. The day was hot. Except for an occasional face at a window, it was a dead town. But Melody was not fooled. The town was only playing dead. It had all the static violence of a crouching cat, a cat poised for a spring at some winged thing. The sound of the mills was unusually loud. It was a monotonous undertone through the still streets. At one corner there were broken beer bottles and rocks strewn about. A dried crust of black blood shown on a fence. There had been a fight. Some man had been hurt and had leaned against that fence for a minute. Then he had staggered off, or perhaps he had been carried. There were many strike posters along the way. Most of them had been covered by handbills printed by the mill interests. Melody saw that most of the handbills were written in two or more strange languages. He had been out of touch with recent developments in the town. But he needed no facts to tell him that something was going to happen soon. Something was going to be swift and bloody. The town spoke with the silence of a cocked rifle.

  Most of the men in the bunkhouse were sleeping, but there was a little knot of dice players by the doorway. They looked up in surprise.

  “Hallo,” said Melody.

  “Hallo,” they answered.

  “Boy, you got guts,” said one of the men, “out walkin’ today.”

  “What’s the matter with today?” asked Melody.

  The man laughed and rattled the dice.

  “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with the day.” He went back to playing.

  “Yeah, it sure is a fine day.” Another player laughed.

  “Somebody killed maybe?” guessed Melody.

  “Naw,” said the first speaker, “but somebody gonna be killed.”

  “How come?”

  “Where the hell you been? Man, today the day that the union give out its last word. If they don’t git what they want they goin’ to walk out sure this comin’ Monday.”

  “Well, how come ever’body off the streets?”

  “The mill owners ain’t takin’ no chances. They gittin’ set ahead o’ time. There a big trainload of armed deputies comin’ in on the afternoon train.”

  “In a couple o’ hours it be worth a man’s life to walk outside,” said one of the other players.

  “Reckon I better git on back then,” said Melody. “Reckon so.”

  The game clicked on. Melody stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He was undecided.

  One of the men said, “Git in or out.”

  Melody blurted, “Say, where the gals hang out now?”

  “What gals?” asked the dice thrower.

  “You know,” he said, “the gals.”

  “You mean the good-time gals?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  “We
ll,” said the man, “that’s kinda hard to say.”

  “What you mean?”

  “Most of ’em hangin’ out in Pittsburgh, I reckon. There been too little money and too much trouble around town.”

  “Oh.”

  “Some places in Mex Town still goin’,” somebody said.

  “They lays for guys outside o’ Mex Town,” said the thrower. “Never catch me in there at dark.”

  The game went on.

  “Well, much obliged,” said Melody. He started away.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” the dice thrower called. He passed the dice and walked outside with Melody. “You ain’t a bad guy. I let you in on somethin’ if you keep it quiet.”

  “Sure, I keep shut.”

  “Well, we don’t want too many guys to be up there,” said the man. “It’s a good thing.”

  “Won’t tell nobody,” promised Melody.

  “Okay then. You know that there dry-goods store out at the west edge o’ town?”

  Melody thought hard.

  “You know,” said the man. “Got a big square front. Only two-story buildin’ around there.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Well, you go out there. Not in the front, mind. The steps to that second floor is on the outside o’ the buildin’, right up the side wall. Well, jest rap, and there you are.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “When you git out there you see why we want to keep it kinda to ourself.” He gave Melody a twisted wink. “They ain’t regulars. They town gals out to pick up some change.”

  Melody hurried on the way home. He had seen how the deputies acted around the mill. He did not want to be caught in the streets when they were patrolling the entire town. When those gunmen started beating heads with their gun butts they did not stop to ask which side you were on. They were like the posses he had seen in the South—they struck with blood lust, not wanting to quit until they had made a kill.

  When he came in sight of the house he slowed his pace. He began to think about the dry-goods store at the west edge of town. It might be a good thing if Big Mat made a trip to that place.