While the men sprinted, I walked confidently, smoking away at a homemade cigar. The straps, chains, collars of the harnesses remained on the ground in impossibly complex piles. The key was to know how to untangle the mess, quickly. In order to do so, you really had to know your stuff.
I calmly lifted the leather straps and brass chains, analyzed the mess, and began solving the riddle. The other men thrashed away, pulling the straps, dropping the chains, and generally succeeding at making the complex tangle of equipment into even bigger messes. Some of the men cursed. Others stopped to collect their thoughts. Still others consulted members of the audience for tips on what to do to solve the riddle. None of it worked. I was in the lead.
I segregated my equipment into clean rows, leather straps in one row, chains in another, yokes, hames, and the rest of the harness in the proper order. I was already ready to hitch the team. I walked the first pair of horses back to the equipment. The horses stood proudly erect, ears twitching, necks bowed, fully compliant. The triumphant process of hitching the first pair of horses of my team was already underway.
The nuns cheered.
Meanwhile, only one of the young men had brought his harness even close to order. The others were making little, if any, progress.
“Two back, two back, two back now,” I whispered to the horses.
It was a special code between horse woman and horse. The team understood the code quite well. It was a mysterious language. The nuns had heard it before on Mission grounds. The rest of the crowd, and probably the other contestants as well, didn’t have the foggiest idea of what the code meant. They had as much hope of breaking the code as they had of solving the riddle of the harnesses.
The harnesses, including brass hames, spider, hip drops, breachings, turnbacks, tug chains, quarter straps, girth bands, belly bands, butt straps, bottom hames straps, and bridles, including bits, tongue chains, reins, and blinders, were organized and thrown over the backs of the beasts, and cinched, and then I backed the team into position to hitch the whole affair to the shaft of the coach.
I had hitched the remaining four horses, side by side, six horses in all standing in two horse pairs. All of the near side horses, the horses standing on the left side of the pairs, and the off’s, the horses standing on the right side of the pairs, stood motionless, peaking out of the slits in their blinkers.
My stagecoach was ready to roll. I had won, and won easily. I sat triumphantly on the box. I blew a kiss up to the sky over Montana that is high and deep and all around. I had won!
A cheer went up from the nuns. In a way, they had won, too.
Several competitors threw their hats down in disgust. Others looked at their feet as they shuffled off and disappeared in the crowd. Still others talked excitedly to their backers, searching for an excuse, any excuse, to explain how they had lost the contest to a woman.
Mysteriously, I had disappeared. When the nuns rushed up to the stagecoach to congratulate me, they couldn’t solve the mystery of my disappearance any more than my competitors could solve the riddle of the harnesses. I was gone, and they didn’t have a clue about where to look to find me.
The only person who had any idea where to find me was Sister Amadeus. She marched off to the local saloon. There, she found me seated at the bar.
Mother Superior didn’t upset the Risen Christ, or soil her spirit, by entering the saloon. She didn’t need to set foot in the saloon. She could see me through the bat wing doors. The trail of cigar smoke in the street had led her to the spot.
I had already thrown back my first shot of whiskey. I slammed the empty glass on the bar. That was my signal to the bartender to pour more whiskey. Sister Amadeus didn’t intervene. She simply left me alone to celebrate.
Shortly after that day, the paperwork was completed, and I was awarded a contract by the United States Postal Service to become a Star Route carrier. This made me the first colored woman in American history to be so honored. I was indeed something of a pioneer.
I performed my duties with distinction. I was never late to meet the mail delivery at the railroad stations, even when I had to wear snow shoes to hitch the team. I never lost a day to illness, even when the temperatures were sub-zero, the wind was cruel, and the winters were long. I protected the mail against attacks by thieves and bandits.
The evolution of the region depended on mail delivery. It was our only link to the civilized world. The mail contained news, letters, money, and other items. I protected those precious items for nearly eight years of my life. I carried a shotgun and pistol to get the job done.
If weapons didn’t discourage those looking to make a fortune by subverting the mail deliveries, I was known to stand up on the box to show the full extent of my six-foot frame. I was more than enough woman to get the job done. I was more than enough woman to intimidate. By doing so, a woman who was born a slave in Hickman County, Tennessee, a woman who appreciated that Mr. Lincoln had brought the Civil War to the doorstep of the South, a very black woman who sometimes wore men’s clothing, often cursed and smoked cigars, and always welcomed a fist fight and a stiff drink, had finally become financially independent. I was finally able to donate to charitable causes. I was finally free.
Chapter Nineteen
I exercised my newly found financial independence to donate generously to the one thing I loved unconditionally, the game of baseball.
Cascade fielded a baseball team of exactly nine players. No substitutes. We dressed our nine players in baggy wool uniforms adorned with a fancy letter “C” embroidered across the chest. We were called the Cascade Kings.
The players bloused their trousers at the knee, exposing high white stockings. Their white caps matched the stockings. The bills of their caps were grey, and every player possessed his own leather mitt, which was an oddity at the time. In those days, the fingers of the mitts were splayed, untethered. There was no webbing between the fingers.
We suffered great expense to outfit our team with genuine Louisville Slugger bats, white ash tooled on a lathe in an actual woodworking shop. The manufactured bats were weighed, measured, and balanced to specification, and the John Hillerich label was proudly burned into the wood. At the time, other town teams still sported an odd assortment of handmade bats. We paid handsomely to use the same bats as professional teams.
I loved watching our boys confidently loosen up prior to the start of games. They played catch along the sidelines. The sounds of the game of baseball were intoxicating, the sound the ball makes when it pops the pocket of the mitt, the chatter between players, the crack of the bat during batting practice. I also loved watching the arc of fly balls to the deepest parts of the outfield, especially on cloudless days.
The Cascade Kings took on all comers. We even barnstormed across the Pacific Northwest looking for competition. We were that good. In fact, I argued we were on par with more than a few major league teams.
Whenever “Steamboat” Billy Wall was on the mound, our team was nearly invincible. If a major leaguer could hit Billy, I’d have to see it with my own eyes to believe it. He was that good.
Billy was at least a head taller than the other players. His eyes were the color of the sky, and he had a mop of strawberry blonde hair he controlled by repeatedly taking off his cap, rubbing the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his uniform, combing back his flowing hair, and fitting his cap over the back of his head again. He had the fluid, poetic movements of a born athlete.
There was music in even his ordinary movements, like simply walking off the field, working his fingers into a mitt, or sitting on the bench with his legs crossed. All eyes were on Billy. Above all else, he wasn’t merely handsome. He was a heart throb, a natural, a cinch as leading man for any photographer. Billy had it all.
However, the best part of Billy, the part that made him the talk of baseball, was the way he pitched the ball. He could really hum it. He threw it so fast you could hear it hissing as it cut the air on its way to home plate. The batters he faced out in Mo
ntana couldn’t catch up to his fast ball no matter how hard they tried, because his fastball didn’t cut the air flat. Instead, it danced around in the air before it popped the catcher’s mitt.
Nobody could hit that pitch. Nobody. The opposing players made themselves look silly trying to make contact. Actually, it was hard to even find a catcher who could catch it.
When the batters got wise and started looking for the fast ball, Billy would fool them by throwing his knuckle curveball. You could actually hear that pitch change speeds in midair before it reached home plate. It was comical watching batter after batter swing so hard, and so futilely, that they often lost their caps in the process. Imagine the ignominy of stooping to pick up your cap out of the dust after Billy struck you out.
Billy threw strike after strike and pitched no hitter after no hitter. That boy could really throw. He was a legend.
Now, if nobody could hit Billy’s fast ball, how could anyone score a run to beat Cascade? It didn’t matter what color uniform the opposition wore while they were sent out of the batter’s box cursing. It could have been the red stockings of the Boston Red Sox, the blue jerseys of Cleveland, the white stockings of Chicago, or even the red interlocking “N” and “Y” of the New York Cubans. It didn’t matter. Nobody hit Billy. Nobody.
I didn’t coach the team, but I felt that I could have coached the team. I posed for all team photographs wearing my finest pressed dresses. I arrogantly smoked a cigar and didn’t bother taking it out of my mouth for the photographer, like I was the team owner.
The Cascade side was unquestionably sharp, strictly major league grade. I argued with anyone who would listen that Cascade, assuming Billy was pitching, was better than half the teams in the major leagues. I dreamed of the day we could take on a major league team and prove the point. Then, one day I got my wish.
The Louisville Colonels of the National League were in town. They were at the bottom of the standings that year, but they were still technically a major league team. When they agreed to play us, they had no way of knowing if we were up to par. Of course, we planned to pitch Billy against them. The Louisville Colonels didn’t know what was about to hit them.
The Colonels looked magnificent in their wonderfully tailored flannel uniforms. They spread out across the outfield grass during pre-game warmups, like a mirage. The uniforms were of the highest-quality flannel. It was the kind of fabric you’d expect to see in the finest men’s three-piece suits sold in New York, Philadelphia, or Boston, the kind of suits you see featured in newspaper advertisements for elegant young men able to pay a handsome price. The uniforms were probably made by a famous designer in a tailor’s shop. The heavy wool of our baggy outfits was completely outclassed.
The major league uniforms featured a red shirt collar, red bow tie, a wide red belt, high red stockings, and an embroidered red team insignia over the breast pocket. Their shoes were made of soft leather, thin leather soles, and sharp silver cleats. The shoes looked more like elegant, polished dress shoes than anything you’d expect to see on a baseball diamond. The players hats were grey with flaming red bills. The players not wearing hats showed finely trimmed mustaches and fresh haircuts.
The Colonels looked good. They weren’t merely a baseball team. They were an entire baseball operation. The arrogance of major leaguers showed in their very manner.
The Colonels spread out across the outfield during pre-game warmups and effortlessly caught towering batting practice fly balls. Some of the fly balls hit our rickety clapboard outfield fence with a hollow thud. The outfield fence stood a distance of a little over three hundred fifty feet away from home plate.
I knew every inch of that fence. I raised the money from our local businessmen to build it. The clapboards were slopped with green paint. There were colorful signs painted on parts of the fence advertising the Cascade Courier, the Silver Dollar Saloon, and other local businesses.
On the infield, the Colonels executed their practice drills seamlessly, fielding ground balls smoothly, wheeling, and throwing the balls with purpose and accuracy to first base. The first baseman expertly caught each throw, turned, and fired the ball back to home plate. Louisville’s warmup drills were a thing of beauty.
After the drills had reached a conclusion, Louisville surrendered the field to the home team. None of the Colonels bothered to even wonder if any of our local players showed talent. Instead, they talked confidently among themselves on the third baseline without bothering to acknowledge that they even had competition. They momentarily lost sight of the truth that all teams are inherently equal—at least, until the first pitch is thrown. However, Louisville’s overconfident demeanor vanished the instant it was Billy’s turn to take the mound.
Billy cut loose several warmup pitches. The ball popping the mitt was so loud it seemed like the report of gunfire. This caught the attention of everyone on Louisville’s side of the field. Now, with the audience spellbound, Billy teased its sense of intrigue by ceasing to throw, breaking his routine, turning his back on home plate while walking over the rubber on the top of the mound, tipping his cap, holding the ball in his meat hand, and working a very long time at digging a hole near the rubber with his cleats.
It seemed as though Billy wanted it to be a perfect hole, so he spent plenty of time digging away. After he was satisfied, he brushed the top of the rubber with his cleats, tipped his cap yet again, signaled to the catcher that he was ready to throw more warmup pitches, leaned forward, sighted the target, and cut loose his legendary fast ball.
Now that he was loose, Billy tipped his cap and strode off the mound. He stood on the infield grass. The Colonels went on about their business at the bench, hefting bats, tossing aside gloves, searching for balls. Their confident demeanor had been restored. This lasted ever so briefly, until Billy began to throw again.
The sound of the ball hissing through the air on the way to popping the catcher’s mitt caught their attention yet again. They gawked. That’s when the confidence seemed to melt away. The Colonels began to whisper to each other and steal looks at Billy’s fluid, effortless windup.
I walked behind home plate to get a better look. Billy was throwing magnificently. His fast ball hopped before it got to home plate. The breaking ball changed speed in midair and looked like it dropped off the edge of a table. These pitches looked unhittable. The sound of the fast ball popping the catcher’s mitt needed no interpretation.
I walked across the field to the third baseline side of home plate. There, I met a gentleman wearing an expensive suit. There was a fake yellow carnation stuck in his left lapel button. He must have been a scout, an agent, a sportswriter, one of the team managers, or something important. He wore a straw boater with a hat band that matched Louisville’s team colors.
“Don’t worry, boys!” the gentleman said just loud enough to be heard over the pop of the catcher’s mitt. “I’ve seen this type of boy before. Morning glory! Looks good warming up, but can’t get anybody out in the hillbilly league. That’s why he’s here.”
“What’s that mean, mister?” I asked.
“What’s what mean?”
“You called him a morning glory.”
“Oh, that. That means he’s a rummy, a loser, a flashy sort who looks fabulous in warmups, but can’t pitch a lick in the game, not to the likes of the Colonels, anyway. They’re big leaguers.”
“You calling us hillbillies?”
“Why yes, madam, I believe I am. That’s a fact. The way I see it—”
I dropped the gentleman with two swift punches.
I didn’t bother to spit the cigar out of my mouth while doing so. There was no use in ruining a perfectly good cigar. The punches that did the job were thrown in combination, an uppercut followed by an overhand right.
As the punches landed, the gentleman’s straw hat with the fancy silk hat band popped off his head. He made the mistake of misunderstanding that a challenge to our brand of baseball was more than a challenge involving only the game of baseball. It wa
s a challenge to who we were as a people. It was a challenge to whether we were worthy to dream of progress with the rest of the nation. It was a suggestion that we were somehow inferior and rightfully excluded from the promise of an evolving nation. For the folks of Cascade, baseball wasn’t only a game, but a plot played out across nine innings. In this way, the gentleman’s challenge cut far too close to our character to ignore.
The gentleman nervously tried to collect his wits and struggle to his feet, but instead sort of clawed at my legs to help orient himself. He felt his mouth for blood. There was no blood. There was only ignominy.
I enjoyed the pleasure of hitting him with two punches, one for Cascade and one for me. I suppose the gentleman was lucky I didn’t decide to hit him with a third and fourth punch, one for Montana and the fourth for the entire Pacific Northwest.
“Hey, you okay over there partner?” one of the Colonels yelled from the third baseline.
“Slip. It was just a slip,” the gentleman said, picking up his straw hat and rising to his feet. “I am fine, just fine.”
“Why’re you touching your mouth then?” The player’s question wasn’t answered.
The gentleman’s eyes were wide open. He looked me up and down, all six feet and two hundred pounds of me. He appeared unwilling to admit that he had been knocked down by a woman. So, he nervously walked away, looking over his shoulder as if to convince himself that what happened was not real.
Everybody else on the grounds, including the players, coaches, and the spectators, was mesmerized by Billy’s warmup pitches. So, nobody saw the punch. They only saw the aftermath of the punch. Therefore, the gentleman’s pride was intact.
I wondered how long Louisville’s pride would remain intact. How many innings would it take for Louisville to lose its arrogance? I knew the chances were slim that a local team would have any success at all against a National League team. It didn’t matter. I was free to dream.
Tony Mullane, on loan to Louisville from the Baltimore Orioles, was named the starting pitcher for Louisville.
Stagecoach Justice Page 10