Those old bosses had been listening to the sound of those axes for so long, they could almost tell when all the axes weren’t hitting. The horses were no dummies either. They knew how to get out of the way when one of those big trees was falling. Of course, sometimes we did get lucky when a horse and boss were napping so serenely neither reacted quickly enough to avoid getting brush whipped by a falling tree everybody “forgot” to yell “TIM-BERRRR!” for.
Huge brush fires were burning all along the massive clearing we left behind. We continued plodding through the dense underbrush native to the Brazos River bottoms, felling tree after tree. After the axe teams cut down “enuff” trees and the brush pullers finished their tree trimming work, the axe teams pulled back and began cutting the trees into sections for the sawmill. Whenever Big Louzanna got on a fallen tree, he took the “butt cut,” the largest part of the tree trunk. He and the other three cutters perched themselves atop the fifty footer and began chopping away at each section.
A couple of squads away Little Alfonso, a lifer, started up a river song, “Black Betty’s in the bottoms, let yo hammer rang. Black Betty’s in the bottoms, let yo hammer rang.” Little by little we began to join in. Our axe licks harmonized more and more as we cut with a steady rhythm to the beat of the song. “Black Betty’s in the bottoms, let yo hammer rang, let yo hammer, hammer rang. Great God Amighty! Let yo hammer rang. They ain’ gon be no jackin [brushing chips out of the way before continuing to cut the tree down—used as a rest break] til we hear the butt cuts crackin.”
By now, I knew the work songs and sang along with the two hundred con choir. We echoed back, “Let yo hammer, hammer rang, great God Amigh—ty! Let yo hammer rang.”
“I wanna drank o’ water.”
“Let yo hammer, hammer rang.”
“I want a drank o’ water.”
“Let yo ham—mer rang.”
“I don’t wanna drank it.”
“Let yo ham-mer rang.”
“I wanna spit it on my hammer, cause my hammer’s strikin fi—re!”
All of us sang and cut in a frenzy to keep up with the beat. Working much faster now, we had a steady flow of chips flying as we chiseled deeper and deeper into those about to become logs.
Over all the chopping and singing, Big Louzanna cut loose with “Loucindy,” slowing everything down. His BOOMING, heavy baritone voice completely drowned Little Alfonso’s lead. By the time he let go with the second heavy moan, “Oooh! Loucindy! Loucindy! won’tcha cum by heah,” the choir switched over and joined in with him. Humming and moaning the background, we slowed our axes to half the previous pace to keep beat with Big Louzanna’s axe and began to “rock” in the bottoms.
“Oooh! Loucindy! Loucindy! won’tcha cum by heah. Oooh! Loucindy! Loucindy! won’tcha cum by heah. An let me rock you mama whilst yo man ain’ heah,” he led.
“God-a-might-y God knows, God-a-might-y God knows.”
“Now I ain’ never been ta Houston, but I been tole. Never been ta Houston, but I been tole. The women in dat Houston town got sum sweet jelly roll.”
“Sweet jelly roll! Dey got sum sweet jelly roll!”
“Dey say dat when dey walks, dey reels an rocks behinddd! Now ain’ that enuff ta worry a convict’s minddd.”
“A convict’s mind.”
“Oooh! Loucindy! won’tcha cum by heah, an let me rock you mama whilst yo man ain’ heah. It rangs lak silver an it shines lak gold.”
“Rangs lak silver an it shines lak gold.”
“But th’ price uv my hammer ain’ never been tole.”
“Ain’ never been tole.”
We all sang the last stanza together,
“So les raisem up together, an then drop ‘em on downnnn! Dey can’t tell the diffunce when the sun goes downnn! Dey can’t tell the diffunce when the sun goes downn.”
Singing very low now, we faded out,
“When th’ sun goes down. When th’ sun goes down. When th’ sun goes downnn.”
Every axe was hitting in rhythm. Boss Deadeye sat on his horse contented. “When them ol’ nigguhs is sangin, everthang’s awright.” I doubt, though, if he understood the song. Two hundred cons in those godforsaken woods, all hitting with Big Lou. With his shotgun lying across his arm, he listened as we sang and sang.
Chapter 11
Spring had sprung. Oh, spring! And with it, Boss Deadeye’s field of agitation bloomed. “You Gotdam, shit-eatin sonsabitches! Move them Gotdam rows on away frum heah! Gotdam rotten-ass’d bastards, wanna jes drag them ol’ asses roun. Don’t wanna do no wek. But I tell you mawdickers one damn thang, y’all Gotdam sho won’t eat no seppa tonite. Y’all Gotdam sho gonna miss that ol’ hog an bread. Jes cum on back heah ever Gotdam one uv y’all, an ketch in on the end uv them rows an start ‘em over again.
“Aw, I know you sonsabitches wanna go down thru thar buck-jumpin an leavin half a them Gotdam weeds! I spose you rotten bastards is leavin that fuckin grass fer me ta git! I wants four stalks ta a hill [thinning the row—leaving four cotton stalks to a group a hoe blade apart]. An I wants ever fuckin blade uv grass out uv that man’s cotton. Not sum uv it, ever fuckin blade uv it!”
Then he singled out a slower worker. “Aw, I know you don’t wanna do nuthin ‘sociated wit wek. You got yore fuckin mind on that ol’ nappy-head, snuff-drippin whore you lef out thar in that free world. Ain’ no needa thankin bout her cawse sum other mule-dickted nigguh’s bogged up ta his belly in her rat now. An she damn sho ain’ thankin bout yore rotten black ass. Aw, I know you don’t lak it bout sum other nigguh fuckin yore ol’ whore. I might even drap by her house this Sadday nite mysef.”
On and on, “I know you wanna hit that Gotdam Brazie. Well, I tell you whut, why don’tcha hit it? I ain’ lookin atcha. This ol’ raggedy shotgun ain’ even loaded. Hell, only reason I tote it is so I kin fan away suma these Gotdam gnats. Go ‘Head!”
Knowing we were hot and thirsty, “Water nigguh!! Brang me sum water.” We could hear the ice rattling in the gallon syrup bucket each time Water Boy Brown hopped over the freshly chopped cotton rows. After he drank, rinsed his mouth and spat water on the ground, Boss Deadeye dismounted and poured it down. The horse pissed too.
He got the kerosene-soaked rag from his saddlebag and wiped around the horse’s eyes and underneath his belly to help keep away the gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. After completing his pissing and horse wiping ritual, he got back in the saddle, unloaded a round of buckshot into the ground to tighten us up a notch, and picked up his agitating rhetoric right where he left off. All day long, every day.
Spring was almost over and so was cotton chopping time. Hallelujah! The next phase in the work cycle was picking the white gold. I kept hearing the cons in the tank talking about the hog law so much until one night I asked Beer Belly, who was in the Number 4 squad, what it meant. He was a talker, and began his explanation by saying that Cap’n Smooth decided who made it through the backgate every evening based on how much cotton each picked that day. The weights were recorded in the Hog Law book. If a con didn’t pick “enuff” he didn’t eat. Besides missing the evening meal, the con hung on the cuffs or spent time in the pisser.
He told me cons try everything to beat the Hog Law during cotton picking season, “Dey piss on th’ ground, make big mudballs an cover ‘em wit cotton an throw ‘em in dey sacks. One time a nigguh weighed up Big Devil’s dawg in his sack,” chuckling. “He let ‘em out on th’ way to th’ dump sheets.” He went on to say Cap’n Smooth even based his decision to punish on the condition of the cotton. If it was “dirty” it was the cuffs. A mudball brought an ass whipping and the pisser. It sounded to me like we were fucked from the get-go.
From what Beer Belly said, cotton was picked on an average in the “bull” squads, Numbers 1, 2, and 3. “Ta keep frum gittin punished, you hafta stay within fifty pouns uv whutever th’ highest weight in th’ squad wuz fo dat day. Dey puts th’ high rollers, best pickers, in dem three squads. Dey even sews three extra foots onto dey cotton sacks
so dey kin hold mo.” I damn sure wasn’t a “high roller” and began to worry about the Hog Law book.
“Y’know whut? We be sendin so much cotton to dat gin over at th’ Ramsey camp, dey runs outta storage space an dey send word back by th’ truck drivers ta tell us ta hold up fo a while. Thas when we git sum rest. Sumtimes we set rat down on our sacks in th’ middle uv th’ fields fo nelly a hour ta give th’ gin a chance ta ketch back up wit us.” He went on to say Numbers 4, 5, and 6 squads didn’t have to pick as much as Numbers 1, 2, and 3. And the “pull-do’s” (older cons with a physical disability i.e., a finger missing, a limp, heart trouble, high blood pressure) in Numbers 7 and 8 pick less than all the squads. Adding, “Don’t be fooled cuz suma dem ol’ fuckers kin pick a whole lotsa cotton.
“Durin pickin time we weks seven days a week. We gits a short half on Sunday, knocks off roun three. You sho do hafta watch yo cotton, cuz dem nigguhs’ll sho try ta steal it. Dey haves mo fights out dere bout dat den a liddle bit. Specially when we leaves our sacks on th’ ends ta cum in ta eat. When we git back, nigguhs be grabbin th’ fullest-lookin sacks dey kin find. Cap’n Smooth say ain’ no such thang as a nigguh whut can’t pick cotton—an a whole bunch uv it.
“An man, dey haves dat field s’rounded! Dat high rider [additional field guard armed with a rifle who watches the squads from a distance] be settin off over yonner wit dat 30-30, an th’ dawg sergeant brangs fo packs [four dogs to a pack] uv dem ol’ skinny houns to th’ fields ‘stead uv th’ usual two packs. He pistol whups his hoss, so whut he thanks bout us ain’ shit. Dem dawgs an th’ dawg boys who hannel ‘em be layin off to th’ side under a tree in th’ cool, jes waitin fo sum nigguh ta run off. Dem ol’ dawgs is so po, don’t look lak dey could run fifty foots. Hell, all dey feeds ‘em is conebread an blue john [watery, blue-colored fat-free milk], but dem bastards’ll run a nigguh long as Luke run John.”
Beer Belly hardly paused to catch his breath. “Dey got one name Ol’ Rattler who got two open-face crowns on his front teefs, a reward fo trackin down convicts. One time dey wuz runnin a nigguh, an all th’ rest uv dem ol’ dawgs had give up on th’ trail. But Ol’ Rattler wouldn’ quit. He kep on sniffin fo two days an nites. Th’ track led ‘em to th’ airport. When Ol’ Rattler got dere, he sot rat down in th’ middle uv th’ runway, looked up in th’ air howlin, an pointed to th’ sky wit one uv his front foots. Dey checked whut airplant jes lef, when it landed in Memphus an dat nigguh stepped off, dey grabbed him an brung his ass back. So don’t even thank bout leavin cuz dey ain’ bout ta lose no nigguhs cum cotton pickin time. We needs all th’ hep we got.”
After he finished his tall dog tale, I asked, “Kin you pick good?”
“I picks enuff ta make it thru th’ backgate. I can’t ‘ford not to,” he joked while patting his big belly. “Man, when it cum time ta weigh up, Big Devil an th’ resta dem muthafuckas gang up roun dem fuckin scales lak flies roun a fresh pile uv shit. I’ve saw th’ cap’n stop weighin cotton rat in th’ middle uv everthang jes ta pistol whup a nigguh fo not havin enuff. Seem lak dey jes goes plumb crazy at cotton pickin time roun heah. Nigguhs ‘n all.”
“I never picked cotton in my life,” I confessed. “Hell, I ain’ even been in a cotton patch til I cum to Retrieve.”
“Aw shit, well, you sho ain’ got no bizness in One Hoe. All dem nigguhs is sum cotton pickin muthafuckas. You miss enuff meals, you gon learn or you gon starve. Das why dey calls it th’ hog law cuz it mess witcha meat an bread. But das awright, you needn’ worry. You git use to it.”
“I hope so, man.”
“You be surprised how much dem miss-meal cramps make a nigguh’s cotton weights go up.”
The constant humming of sewing machines operated by the night laundry crew could be heard all through the night. They were sewing on the three-foot extensions to the bull squads’ sacks. As I lay on my bunk with my hands folded underneath my head, I became very anxious anticipating the morrow’s coming. I could just imagine what it was going to be like for an amateur such as myself to be picking cotton under Boss Deadeye. When the dim ceiling lights gave way to the glare of the 100-watt bulbs, it was still pitch black outside.
“Chowtime, les go eat!” In the messhall the only sound was tin pans scraping on the marble-top tables as each of us tried to hem up the blackstrap molasses with our “dobies” (biscuits), wolfing it down in the allotted fifteen minutes. Back on the tank I got a long drink at the sink, grabbed my hat from underneath my mattress and went to the front to be closer to the tank door.
Someone over in Number 4 tank hollered, “Heah they cum,” referring to Cap’n Smooth and his entourage, Lieutenant Sundown and Buzzard. The front office could be seen from the Number 4 tank windows. Thirty seconds later Big Tom rang and the tank doors opened. This time, instead of Cap’n Smooth waiting at the end of the hall by the back door to count us as we went streaking by, he stood underneath the inside picket.
“Whenever you nigguhs git outta that back door, I want ever squad to stop by in front uv ‘at laundry, an ever nigguh gitta sack! First nigguh I ketch ‘thout a sack when we git to ‘at field is gon git sump’n dun to his goat-smellin ass,” and strutted down the hall to take his position at the back door. Aiming his voice back up the corridor, “Lemme have ‘em, Boss!”
“Number 1!”
We hit the yard following Road Runner to the bundles of neatly stacked cotton sacks piled on the ground in front of the laundry. He grabbed a fourteen-footer from the first pile and took off. The rest of us followed suit. Boss Deadeye was loping his horse to keep up as we sailed through the backgate, “Go ‘Head!”
Ol’ Sol was just showing its huge orange face over the eastern horizon by the time we crossed the main turnrow. As far as the eye could see was row after row of blossoming cotton bolls. It looked like an endless plain of freshly popped popcorn. We turned off the main turnrow which led into the camp onto the Williamson turnrow. Each squad stayed about twenty-five yards behind the next. We trotted straight down the Williamson turnrow to catch our sets of rows. The rest of the field workforce would string out to catch theirs after we did.
“Count off twenny-seven rows Ol’ Chinaman,” Boss Deadeye hollered to our tail row man, who worked the last row and was responsible for spotting and counting off rows. Chinaman began to step them off, calling out the number of each as he went. As soon as he hollered out the number, the con who had been assigned that number got on it and began picking. “You sonsabitches ketch ‘em Gotdam rows an gitcha mawdickin asses offa this turnrow!”
I caught cotton row number fourteen. By the time I picked the cotton from two stalks, the rest of the squad was already twenty or thirty feet ahead of me. I raised my head up for a moment and couldn’t even see the end of my row, it was so long. The squad was continuously moving ahead of and away from me.
My row was in the swing, middle of the squad, and the worst place to be. That’s where the bosses ride while watching the squads work. Boss Deadeye was walking his horse right beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him leaning forward in his saddle eyeballing my every move as I carefully plucked each boll from the stalks. The faster I tried to pick it, the more I dropped. The more I dropped, the more time I wasted trying to get all the dirt, leaves, stems, and sticks out before putting it into my sack. Deadeye was so close I heard the crying of his saddle each time he shifted positions.
“Ol’ Cap Rock,” Deadeye hollered, “hit this sorry bastard’s row a lick up thar an hep him git th’ end uv his sack off ‘is Gotdam turnrow.”
Cap Rock was the push row man who worked the second row in the squad. He picked up his sack, walked across the twelve rows, and started picking cotton ahead of me on my row.
Then Deadeye started on me, “Nigguh, you betta go to feedin ‘at bag, an movin them shit scratchers lak you aim to do sump’n! Aw, I know a-pickin cotton’s ‘neath yore style. I betcha a few weeks in ‘at pisser jes might hep you tighten yore sorry ass up a notch.”
It was open season on my
row for Cap Rock, who picked a long strip and went back to his row. I finally picked my way up to the cottonless stalks he left. Just to be able to walk down the middle of the rows and straighten my back up for a minute was a blessed relief. When I leaned back down I rested one elbow on my knee while I picked, to take some of the strain off my back. The skip Cap Rock picked in my row caught me up with the squad momentarily, but in no time I had fallen way behind again.
It wasn’t long before some of the cons in my squad yelled for Water Boy Brown to bring them another sack. He brought an armload from the water wagon. Those pickers who needed them got out of their full sacks, tied knots in the strap part, and with green cotton bolls marked their prison names on them. Water Boy Brown draped the full ones over his water wagon and hauled them off to the scales. Most of the squad had filled up a sack and the other few, excluding me, would be getting one in a very short time.
About an hour later, “Awright, Ol’ Road Runner, y’all raisem up an head on to them scales.”
We picked up our sacks, slung them across our shoulders, and ran behind Road Runner down several turnrows. We crossed over quite a few more before reaching the area where the scales had been set up. Huge sheets were spread out on the turnrow for us to dump our cotton onto after our sacks had been weighed. The sheets would be tied up, loaded onto trucks and hauled to the gin over on the Ramsey Unit.
By the time we reached the scales, the full sacks were waiting on the turnrow. Road Runner hung his two stovepipe-looking sacks on the scales first. After the scale man hooked the rope around them, he hoisted the load so the sacks didn’t touch the ground.
Cap’n Smooth hollered out his weight, “He’s got 235 pounds uv cotton.” He continued to call out the weights of the pickers as their sacks were hung on the scales, and a convict weight keeper logged them. After emptying, they went to the water wagon, got a drink and waited for the rest of us to weigh up.
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