Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  The heavy rain had stopped and was now just a drizzle. Once the hurricane moved farther inland, the locals in Angleton requested Big Devil’s help with some townspeople trapped by the flood waters in a nearby church on High Island. He was more than happy to accommodate and unhesitant to offer our services, knowing it was good for the prison’s image in the community.

  “Number 1!”

  Number 1 hoe squad ran down the hallway and out the back door.

  “Number 2!”

  We got our hoes at the hoe rack and loaded onto the cattle truck fitted with a metal cage specifically designed for transporting convicts. About an hour later, the transport truck arrived at High Island. Other trucks pulling horse trailers carrying the horses and dogs followed. Lieutenant Sundown, who was in charge of the operation and rode in the first truck, signaled the convoy to stop before getting bogged down in the mud.

  After the two bosses unloaded their horses and mounted, Sergeant Buzzard and the dog boys took the dogs a ways off into the woods. With the bosses saddled and ready, we unloaded. Number 1 hoe formed a line of twos while Boss Wilhite, “Cochise” the cons labeled him, was still trying to get his squad to line up.

  “Ol’ Racehoss, take them nigguhs on to that water!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  In mud to the top of our brogans, we plodded down the slippery embankment to reach the flooded road ahead. Even Boss Band’s horse was having trouble with his footing. Wherever we were going, it was a motherfucker just to get there. A few steps away from the truck, we were in water up to our bellies. Our assignment was to unblock the mountain of debris clogging one whole side of the road so the water could drain off into the Gulf. We made it to the road and into the chest-deep water. At the very end of the road I saw a little church with people waving handkerchiefs out the windows, glad to see help had arrived.

  Into the pit with the serpents. Holding our hoes above head, we waded side by side toward the church. Snakes swimming everywhere! Holyshit!! Mayhem and confusion broke out as cons panicked and hit at them with their hoes. This place should have been called Serpent Island! I yelled, “Don’t hit at ‘em! You’ll jes make the muthafuckas mad! They’ll wrap aroun yo hoes an you’ll be swingin ‘em above yo damn heads!”

  Using my hoe like a canoe oar I gently stroked the water, trying not to disturb it any more than necessary. With our hoes stroking in front of us, we pushed the snakes along on top of the water and nudged them away. We formed a slow moving fifty-hoe barricade with the blades barely skimming the top of the water, synchronizing our motion to keep the barricade intact and tight. I was steady telling them, “Y’all keep them Gotdam hoes together! Don’t be splashin that fuckin water!”

  We veered to the left to break open the levee of debris, and Boss Band hollered, “If you nigguhs let one uv them snakes bite my hoss, I’m gon kill ya!”

  I yelled at the two squads, “Hold that line! Keep them Gotdam hoes together! Move easy!” Somebody pulled a hoe back with a snake wrapped around his blade. When he jumped, I shouted, “Hold that line, muthafucka!”

  Up to their chests in water, the horses were splattering it on our backs while the two bosses kicked in it to keep the snakes away. The horses and bosses were splashing worse than we were. I called to Boss Band, “Oh Lawd! Speakin ta you, Boss!”

  “Whut?”

  “Boss, I think it’d be a lot betta if y’all wuz walkin yo hosses up on the bank.”

  From his expression he looked relieved by my suggestion, even if it didn’t come from Sundown, who sat atop his horse on the bank watching us. Without delay Boss Band said, “Hey Boss, let’s git outta this Gotdam water. We kin still see all these nigguhs jes as good up thar on the bank.” Cochise appeared equally grateful to get out of the snake-infested waters, seeing as their boots were waterlogged and they were having hell with their unruly horses.

  We used our hoes to direct the snakes the way gauchos use their horses to herd cattle. When we got closer to the wall of limbs and trash, we turned our blades upward and pushed against it, trying to make an opening. I urged, “Put some ass into it! Let’s tear this shit down!” The snakes began crawling all over the refuse. “Look out, Cap Rock, one’s comin straight atcha!” I yelled, then hacked the snake’s head off only a foot away from him.

  We kept pushing until we finally poked a hole in the wall and it gave way. At first only a heavy trickling flowed through, then the murky waters gushed forth, taking huge piles of trash from each side of the hole with it. Along the banks up ahead, the trees were filled with hundreds of snakes that had taken sanctuary to escape the flood. Looking like long bananas hanging from the limbs, they must have “heard” the rushing water and began dropping into it like autumn leaves. As the flow carried them toward the opening, we made a V-like trail with our blades turned downward to help guide them through it and out into the Gulf of Mexico.

  The water receded rapidly. Before long, most of it had drained off the road. We headed for the church, and the people started coming out. Boss Band hollered, “You nigguhs, jes hold it right thar!” Now that the water was no more than a foot high, he and Cochise rode their horses down the road to greet the crowd, which was making its way to the Red Cross truck parked on the embankment. Workers were handing out blankets, coffee, donuts, and drinking water. The church folks were grabbing with both hands, especially the water.

  Soaked to the bone, our two squads stood on the other side of the road and watched. It was late afternoon and we hadn’t had any food or water since we left the building. I pursed my lips. One of the Red Cross ladies turned away from the truck, facing our direction. Coffee thermos in one hand, donuts wrapped in tissue in the other, she asked Boss Band, “Would you like some hot coffee and donuts?”

  “You thank you got enuff uv that coffee to give my nigguhs a swallow?”

  “They’ve done such a tremendous job. I think I’ve got enough to give them some donuts too.”

  “Ol’ Racehoss, you an them nigguhs go on ovah thar to that wagon an git sum coffee an donuts.”

  Back on Number 3 tank that evening, Cap Rock said, “Say Race, lemme axe you sump’n, man. Where in th’ hell didja learn how ta herd snakes lak dat?”

  “Aw, I useta work on a snake ranch.”

  Once it dawned on him that I was just pulling his leg, he grinned and capped back, “Man, you fulla shit!”

  After four years under the Band, the Number 1 hoe members had become the devil’s advocates. Hardly a week passed without one of us getting into trouble on our tanks. We didn’t take any of the building tenders’ bulldogging shit and stopped them from ganging up on anybody on 3 tank. They knew we had nothing to lose. For us, going to solitary was merely a few days rest from dodging bullets.

  Everybody in my squad had a bad reputation. We were warring gladiators working under a cold-blooded killer. He kept on shooting, but finally the squad quit ducking and jumping. We had a pace and he would fire, and we kept the same gait as though we didn’t hear it. Even fear has its limits. The only expectation working under the Band was death, an elusive ally.

  Big Tom sounded and when we cleared the back steps, Cap’n Smooth motioned for us to stand to the side. After the other squads cleared the yard, Big Devil came out of the building. When he wanted special work done, he pulled us out of the field to do it.

  “Boss Band, take these Number 1 nigguhs up there by the entrance, an clean up that ol’ graveyard. I’m ‘spectin sum folks down heah an I want that thang cleaned up real good.” In an irritated tone, “I don’t know why’n hell they put a Gotdam graveyard right next to the entrance to begin wit. It ain’ nuthin but a eyesore!”

  We had cleaned it many times before. Maybe they were trying to sanctify our souls, or keep us aware that our asses could be six feet under at any moment.

  With the warden’s instructions over, “Ol’ Racehoss!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Head on ovah to that hoe rack. Evuh nigguh gitta hoe! Go ‘Head!”

  The graveyard w
as a half mile from the yard. In a few minutes we were opening the fence gate. Boss Band rode through behind us and walked his horse over to one of the fence corners. Facing us, he backed up until the horse’s tail was touching the barbed wire. He knew not to get too close when we worked away from the main workforce. Some of us were just as trigger happy and eager to sink our hoes into his skull as he was to put a bullet in ours.

  The Johnson grass was so tall it completely hid the graves. We started chopping, but he stopped us, “Ol’ Racehoss!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Y’all lay them aggies down. Pull all that grass up by the roots an throw it outta thar. I don’t aim fer us to havta cum back up heah day afta ‘morrow.”

  It didn’t matter if we had to do it with our hands. They were tough as mule hide anyway. Despite the earth’s unwillingness to yield her roots, we quickly uncovered the mounds. The markers bore no names, just dates. Some of them went back to the 1930s. I heard conflicting stories about who was buried in this old graveyard. Some said they were black, but others called it “peckerwood hill.” At first I wondered how could they be white, but then remembered this used to be an all-white camp once upon a time.

  After we pulled out all the grass, the sixteen mounds had to be reshaped and smoothed over. We picked up our hoes, but Boss Band stopped us again. “Y’all jes leave them hoes alone an start pattin that dirt back on them mounds by hand. I wont this thang to be real purty fer that warden,” he said with sarcasm. “Plus, it’ll give y’all a chance ta whisperrr …”

  Suddenly Boss Band leaned to one side, fell off his horse, and lay on the ground clawing at his chest and gasping for air. We looked at one another for a second in disbelief. Elefin Head whispered, “I bleeve Boss Band’s dyin.”

  We walked closer, circled his body like a bunch of buzzards, and stood watching. Cowfucker started calling his name, “Boss Band! Boss Band! Kin you hear me?”

  “Shit!” Bad Eye said. “You jest wastin yo breff. Dis bad muthafucka’s dead!” while poking him with his hoe. “Les take his shotgun an pistol an split! Hell, ain’ nobody up heah but us. We kin git a good head start if we leave now. C’mon y’all, whut th’ fuck we standin roun fo? Dis muthafucka can’t stop us.”

  Thirty-Five said, “If we leave heah wit this muthafucka dead, they gon swear up an down we had sump’n ta do wit it.” That froze everybody instantly.

  “Well, whut we spose ta do?” Bad Eye asked. “Jes stand heah an watch th’ fuckin flies blow his dead ass?”

  I said, “Naw, we ain’ gotta stand here an watch ‘em, but I agree with Thirty-Five, we sho oughta stay. I’m goin over there in the corner an sit down on my ass til somebody shows up.”

  The others agreed, and we finally convinced Bad Eye to go along. We sat down together in the farthest corner away from Boss Band. Glancing occasionally in his direction his shotgun and pistol looked very tempting, but Thirty-Five was right. Chinaman pulled out a fresh bag of “dust” (Bull Durham) and passed it around.

  Lieutenant Sundown, usually the officer who checked on us when we worked away from the other squads, rode up and saw the riderless horse standing inside the fence. Half-joking, he asked, “Whut y’all dun did wit Boss Band?”

  I answered, “We ain’ dun nuthin with him, Lieutenant. There he is layin over yonner.”

  Thirty-Five added, “We wuz wekin, an he jes up an fell off his hoss. We didn’ know whut wuz th’ matta wit ‘em.”

  Sundown trotted his horse around the outside of the fence to get a better look. “Cum on outta thar an line up out heah on this road so I kin count y’all. Ol’ Chinaman, git Boss Band’s hoss an walk him out heah.” After he counted, we sat down beside the road. Sundown radioed the warden on his walkie-talkie. Then he asked, “How long has he been layin thar?” He got several different time spans hurled at him all at once.

  Big Devil drove up quickly, got out of his car, and walked around the fence to look. “An ambulance is on the way, but that ain’ gonna hep him none. Didja talk to these nigguhs bout whut happen to ‘em?”

  “They all say that he wuz talkin to ‘em, an right in the middle uv it, he jes fell off his hoss. Sounds ta me lak he had a heart attack, Warden.”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  The ambulance arrived. While the attendants were loading him, Mae Widder mumbled, “That muthafucka sho died hard. He ain’ gon hav no hoss in th’ hell he goin to. Dey gon han dat muthafucka a hoe an put ‘em on th’ lead row wit all dem nigguhs he dun kilt ‘hind ‘em, drivin his ass. Thas where I wanna go when I die, so I kin hep ‘em.”

  After the ambulance drove away, Big Devil got back in his car. As he was turning it around to head back to the building, he hollered out the window, “You stay heah wit these nigguhs. When I git to the buildin, I’ll send Boss Nobles out heah to take over the squad.”

  Sundown waved an acknowledgement as the warden sped away. After firing up a Marlboro and exhaling a long stream of smoke, “Well, at least he died wit his boots on,” he said in his slow Texas twang. “I know y’all sho gon miss Boss Band. Ain’tcha?”

  His question drew only silence. And more silence. Nobody faded him on that shot.

  Chapter 15

  “When we treat man as he is, we make him worse than he is.

  When we treat him as if he already were what he potentially could be

  We make him what he should be.”

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  The following day in the fields he called the squad together. “My name’s Nobles. Y’all kin call me Mr. Nobles or Boss Nobles. I’m gonna call y’all by yore names afta I learn ‘em all. So don’t gitcha dander up if I say ‘hey you’ til I git a handle on ‘em. Okay? Anutha thang, I ain’ gonna be cussin y’all out. I don’t feel lak thas gonna be necessary. Do y’all?”

  A few heads shook in agreement.

  “If any uv you would ruther I call you by somethin other than yore name, thas fine by me.” I knew I didn’t have to tell him mine. Every boss that takes over a squad is told the lead row man’s name before he ever leaves the warden’s office. Of course, there’s no telling what all he was told about Number 1 hoe. “When we work off by ourselves, we kin let ‘em down.”

  He continued to speak in a manner we were very unaccustomed to hearing—no cursing, no threats. He was talking to us like men who were capable of understanding what he said. “Y’all do what yore supposed to do and act lak men. I’ll deal with the warden or anybody else I have to. Ain’t nobody gonna be tellin me who to cut out at that backgate. Somethin else too, none uv y’all don’t have to git permission befo you talk to me. But since Racehoss is our lead row man, I’d ‘preciate him doin most uv the talkin when it concerns this work. He knows more about it than I do.”

  Boss Nobles sounded too good to be true, a complete contrast to Boss Band and Deadeye. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, wasn’t a big man, standing about five feet seven, kinda chubby, and had a pleasant, friendly voice. There was no scowl of disdain on his face—yet. He carried no shotgun, just a six-shooter. He didn’t call us “nigguh” and encouraged us not to call one another that. He spoke a foreign language, one we had never heard before. He was a different breed from the other bosses, and I wondered how long it would last.

  I heard he was a recent hire and working with the fencing squad as a utility boss before Big Devil called on him to work our squad. We were just as surprising to him as he was to us, and we stupefied him with the way we worked. He soon learned that he had inherited a squad of “stone-down gorillas,” the highest compliment one con gives another. All he had to do was sit on his horse and keep up with us.

  Time would tell if he was who he said he was, and it didn’t take long to find out if he was for real or not. We were picking cotton with Number 4 hoe squad picking next to us. Their boss, Eatem Up, walked his horse over to shoot the breeze with Boss Nobles.

  “Howdy do, Boss.”

  Boss Nobles said “howdy,” very uninterested.

  But Boss Eatem Up wasn�
��t the type one could ignore when he wanted to talk. Walking their horses side by side, Eatem Up kicked off again, “Gotdam, it’s hot! Ain’t it?” he asked as he took his hat off to wipe his forehead.

  “Yep.”

  “Say, how’d you manage to git that Number 1 hoe squad? Damn, you mus know sumbody. I been carryin this Number 4 fer six years. I ask’d that man to give them nigguhs to me afta Boss Band died. I bleeve they worried that poor boss to death. I’d lak to carry them bastards fer jes one month.

  “Tell you one thang, you sho hafta watch them ol’ nigguhs, Boss. If you don’t watch yore bizness, suma them nigguhs’ll drap yore britches ‘n fuck you rat out heah in this field!”

  That got a quick, angry glance from Boss Nobles, but he held his peace.

  After cramming his jaw full of Red Man Chewing Tobacco, “Alla them ol’ nigguhs you got kin pick hell outta that cotton, but if you don’t prod an drive th’ shit out uv ‘em, they’ll jes tell you ta kiss they black asses an lay down on them sacks.”

  Boss Nobles continued looking straight ahead.

  “You gonna hafta fuck wit ‘em an have eight or ten uv ‘em put in that pisser or hung up on them fuckin bars. Jes ta hep keep th’ lead outta them ol’ asses ‘n let ‘em know you mean bizness. You gotta let ‘em know who’s runnin it. Don’t, an they’ll jes take ovah. Nigguhs is jes lak mules, you hafta make ‘em do whut you wont ‘em to. A little shower uv leather,” patting the eight-plait bullwhip he used on his squad, “’cross th’ fat part uv they ol’ stankin asses evah now an then is th’ best thang you kin do fer ‘em. Hell, they love it. You ain’ gonna bleeve this, but I had a nigguh cum up an thank me fer puttin this whup ta his ass.”

  Chinaman interrupted his conversation when he hollered out, “Gittin on th’ job ovah heah, Boss!”

  “See Boss, thas whut I mean. I betcha two bits ‘ginst a hoss turd that nigguh don’t bit mo need ta shit then I do. Thas they way uv fuckin roun. Evah time one a mine do’s it, I make ‘em brang sum back on a stick.” Shouting back at his squad, “You nigguhs betta git down on that ol’ head runnin an git sum Gotdam cotton in them sacks!”