Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  Meanwhile, Cap’n Smooth told the bosses, “Roun ‘em all up in one bret an gather up them cane knives.” Then he ordered security phase two, “Y’all drive ‘em tractors an trailers up heah alongside these nigguhs an park ‘em,” talking to the convict tractor drivers who were hauling the cane to the syrup mill. They quickly obeyed his orders and, soon as they completed the operation, he ordered them to sit with us.

  “Suma you bosses wit them shotguns, tie yore hosses an git up on ‘em trailers.” Like commandos, they responded and took their posts. Boss Nobles was excluded, he only carried a revolver. The “commandos” took it a step further and laid the hammers back.

  With all secured, Cap’n Smooth directed his attention to us. “If you nigguhs don’t git up offa y’all’s asses an git back to wek, you gonna wish you hadda.” He walked Ol’ Cherry, his big strawberry roan, right into the crowd. We shifted and slid left and right to keep from being stepped on. He stopped in the center of the circle, “You Gotdam impudent bastards betta git up offa y’all’s asses an git back to wek! Y’all hear me?!”

  We didn’t budge. He walked Cherry throughout the crowd. We squirmed, twisted, and reshuffled to stay out of her path. He shot a glance at some of the other bosses who were still on horseback. They got the message and began walking their horses in and out of the crowd, hitting us with the reins, “Git up offa y’all’s asses an git to wek!” They quickly got back in their positions by the trailers when they saw Big Devil’s car coming, which left Cap’n Smooth in the center of the circle alone.

  Dust was still flying when Big Devil and three pickups loaded with officers and bosses halted on the turnrow in front of us. Some were carrying baseball bats and axe handles. Big Devil sure didn’t have on the right kind of shoes for the terrain because he kept tripping over the cane stubs. When he got to us, “Who started this shit?!” After no reply, “Cap’n, you know who started it?”

  “Well, Warden, that Number 1 hoe wuz the one to quit first, if thas whutcha mean.”

  He tried to get Boss Nobles to single one of us out, but he wouldn’t. He told the warden we all quit at the same time. Determined to find out “who,” he used another tactic. “Alla you Number 1 nigguhs that wanna go back to wek, stand up.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Any the resta you nigguhs that wanna go back to wek, stand up,” surveying us.

  We all remained still. He motioned back to the waiting bosses to move in closer with their bats and axe handles, then told Cap’n Smooth to “git outta the middle uv ‘em.” Every available man had been brought along, even the mess steward. Big Devil called to Cap’n Foots, “Cap’n Franklin, brang ‘em cattle prods outta the back seat uv my car.”

  Hearing that, we nervously shifted positions a little. Cap’n Foots delivered the half-dozen or so “stingers,” and Big Devil handed one to whatever bosses happened to be standing nearest him and ordered “use ‘em.” Armed with a bat in one hand and a battery-operated cattle prod in the other, this bunch started kicking and jabbing those on the outer perimeter.

  Then they moved into the inner circle and poked us with indiscriminately, trying to elicit a response of some kind they could really attack. After this failed, Big Devil ordered them to stop. He pulled back most of his key officers for a conference and decided it was best for us to stay in the field until things were resolved. “Don’t want them nigguhs a-tearin up ‘at buildin.” A good two hours had passed since the sit-down began and nobody had asked us why yet.

  I suppose it was prison policy to report a mass rebellion such as this to the bigwigs at the Walls, because before long we heard a plane buzzing overhead. It was the Texas Prison System’s own. The horses stirred uneasily as the small aircraft circled the field at low altitude and landed on one of the turnrows about a mile away. Big Devil was there waiting A man got out, hurriedly entered the awaiting vehicle and they drove away from us.

  The unit’s entire security force had assembled in the field, forming a huge ring around us. The bosses pulled some trailers together on the turnrow and formed a platform. Car doors opened, the visitor and Big Devil slowly walked briskly toward the platform and mounted.

  “My name is Jack Heard. I’m the Assistant Director. I’m here to find out why y’all refuse to work. I talked to the warden, now I wanna hear what you men gotta say. I want somebody to tell me why you quit.”

  Silence. He must be crazy asking someone to stand up and talk in front of all these guards and Big Devil to boot. What’s going to happen to the one that does it? He sure as hell won’t fly back to the Walls with him.

  He repeatedly asked that somebody stand up and speak, but nobody would. Finally, “If somebody wants to speak up, I give you my word nothing’s gonna happen to you for it. Is anybody gonna come forward and speak up or am I gonna have to issue orders to put y’all back to work?”

  Most of the cons in my squad cast their glances at me. I took a moment to weigh the promise he had made and stood up. One hoe became the voice for every hoe.

  He beckoned me to come forward. “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Racehoss, Sir.”

  Big Devil added, “This is the lead row nigguh in the Number 1 hoe squad.”

  “You wanna tell me why you refuse to work?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, tell me then.”

  “Sir, I ain’ sittin down cuz I don’t wanna work. It’s cuz my hands is all cut up,” showing them to him. To my surprise, Cap Rock walked up and showed his. Then all the rest raised theirs to show.

  “How’d this happen? Why don’t y’all use gloves?”

  “Whut caused it is the sharp edges on the cane leaves, Sir. When they wet, it’s hard to strip ‘em off without cuttin our hands and fingers nearly to the bone. We don’t have no gloves, Sir. They don’t sell ‘em in our commissary, an even if they did, mosta us couldn’ buy a pair.”

  He looked at Big Devil, “How come you don’t have gloves for this type of work?”

  Big Devil squirmed, “We got ‘em on order Mr. Heard, we ain’ received ‘em yet.”

  His decision was quick, “Take these men to the building. I don’t want ‘em back out here til you get gloves. Is that clear?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Heard,” Big Devil answered in a hurry.

  After the head count we started walking down the turnrow. Mr. Heard stopped us, “Hey! Y’all come on back here and get on these trailers.” We wheeled around like a bunch of show horses, made a dash for the trailers, and loaded onto them for our first ride ever from the fields to the building.

  For supper that evening we got two pork chops apiece, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, and apple pie for dessert. All we could eat!

  This strike ended quite unlike the “buck” that time when it was freezing and we refused to go to the spinach patch to pick the frozen shit. After they rang the turnout bell, the inside picket boss hollered, “Number 1!”

  Since I was supposed to be the first man out, I said, “I ain’t goin.”

  “One!”

  “I ain’t goin.”

  “I’m gonna call that number again an you nigguhs betta git to goin! ONE!!”

  I didn’t move and no one else did, except Hollywood. He was the only man standing in the hallway. Cap’n Smooth told him to go on back in his tank and took me to the pisser for “agitating.” When Big Devil found out about it, he gave Hollywood a job in the building and punished all the hoe squads.

  No doubt Jack Heard’s presence had an influence on the outcome, but the 100 percent seemed to make a difference. We stopped fighting among ourselves long enough to enter into an unknown territory—unity—and become a force with which to be reckoned.

  About nine thirty the following morning, a truck arrived from the Walls. The commissary clerk (Hollywood) and the turnkey unloaded a dozen cardboard boxes full of cloth gloves made by the Goree girls. We were each issued a pair, and we waited for the turnout bell while reading our love notes written inside the fingers.

  Once out
the backgate, Boss Nobles had me head for the trailers. We were going to ride to the field! Big Devil purposely had them parked a good three or four city blocks from the backgate, just to show he was still on the throne. As we rode to the field, I thought about Boss Band. He had probably turned over in his grave!

  The work situation in the fields changed dramatically. Boss Nobles always had treated us like men, but now he acted proud to be our boss. The other squads looked up to and admired us. We became the big brothers in the field. I was able to slow the work pace down so all the squads could keep up. Something totally unacceptable in the past.

  Boss Nobles lifted the silent system that we had worked under for so long, and, as a result, there was no longer the threat of death if one of us stopped working long enough to roll a cigarette. He streamlined the row-hacking operation too. He stopped us from hacking down one side of our row all the way to the end and hacking down the other side coming back. Since we walked right down the top of the row anyway, he convinced Cap’n Smooth we could cover more ground if allowed to slow down a little and hack both sides of our rows while going down them. He was more concerned with the quality of our work than how fast we did it. Of course, picking cotton was still every man for himself and we still had to face the Hog Law.

  Boss Nobles struck up a mild friendship with the old boss over the Number 5 hoe squad. Boss Leaks was too funny to pass up and I liked to listen to him when we worked beside his squad. They weren’t anything to compare to us, but they were good workers.

  He never stayed close to them like the other bosses did. He’d be at least twenty-five yards behind. His dialogue was filled with threats. By two o’clock he’d cut all his cons out for the day. But rarely did he ever do it at the backgate.

  Totally unconcerned, “You nigguhs betta blacken dem rows, blacken ‘em, I tell you. You nigguhs go ta sinkin dem hoes up to th’ eye. Go to movin dat dirt roun lak you aim ta do sump’n. Now I know y’all is all bad an I’m makin suma y’all mad. But I don’t give a damn. Y’all ain’ th’ baddest nigguhs I dun evuh seed. I seed a whole lotsa nigguhs badder’n y’all is.

  “I bet evuh one a you ol’ thangs is down heah fer murder ta let y’all tell it. Shit, th’ only thang y’all evuh dun kilt is biscuits in dat man’s messhall. Git ta wek an git dem rows on ‘way frum heah!! I bet y’all thank I’m gon follow y’all’s black asses all over dis man’s plantation an not do sump’n ta you. I kin tell you rat now, thas a damn lie! Jes wait til we git ta dat backgate.”

  Boss Leaks had been carrying the Number 5 hoe squad for many years, but he couldn’t name four cons who worked under him. Well beyond the sixty-year mark, he had a grubby old prospector look about him. He always needed a shave and his clothes were always dirty, stained with missed tobacco spits. He had a terrible odor and a running sore on the right cheek of his ass. A big wet spot showed through the seat of his pants whenever he wasn’t in the saddle.

  He had worked around black cons for so long he developed the mannerisms and even talked like them. He had more experience guarding convicts than any of the field bosses. Prior to coming to Retrieve, he served twenty years as a guard at Angola Prison in Louisiana, had retired and drew a pension. He didn’t talk much with the other bosses, but when he did he loved to talk about Louisiana. The cons in his squad who had served time in Angola or happened to be from Louisiana had it made. All they had to do was let him talk and throw in an occasional “thas right Boss,” and go through the motions of working.

  That is, until he saw Big Devil’s car in the fields. When that happened, he immediately shifted his conversation to chewing the con out for “laggin back,” threatening to cut him out at the backgate if he didn’t tighten up.

  I overhead him doing that one day with Braggs, one of the few he knew by name. He was carrying on a two-to-five-year Louisiana conversation with him. Somehow, Big Devil’s car got by him and he didn’t see it in time to straighten his act. He pulled his car right behind our two squads and parked.

  “Boss Leaks!” the warden shouted. He didn’t hear and kept right on talking. “Boss Leaks!” a little louder this time.

  Somebody in his squad finally said, “Boss Leaks! Boss Leaks!”

  “Whut th’ hell you wont, nigguh?! Can’t you see I’m talkin? Thas whut’s wrong wit you nigguhs now, always buttin in sumbody’s bizness!”

  The con finally got a word in, “Boss, I wuz jes tryin ta tell you th’ warden is back dere callin you.”

  “Ol’ Braggs, whut’s wrong wit you, nigguh?!”

  “Nuthin, Boss.”

  “Drap dat mouf! Ol’ Braggs, you bout th’ sorriest nigguh I evuh seed,” leaning forward in his saddle to really let him have it. “Don’t you thank I gits tired uv watchin you drag yore ass aroun? Whut’d you say?! Nigguh, you bet not open yore mouf!

  “How cum you won’t go ta wek? How cum you make me beg you ta wek, nigguh? Why you so bitterly ‘ginst it? Is wek evuh kilt anybody in yore family? Is you evuh heard tell uv anybody dyin frum it?”

  “Nawsuh, Boss,” Braggs answered and kept on working. He, like the rest of the squad, knew it was all just a charade.

  “I tell you whut nigguh, I’m damn sho gon see if I can’t BEG dat man into doin sump’n ta yore rotten ass when we gits back ta dat house!”

  Big Devil sat on the hood of his car trying to keep a straight face. After thoroughly chewing out Braggs, “Did I hear suma y’all say sump’n bout dat warden ‘while ago?”

  “Yessuh, Boss, we been tryin ta tell you th’ warden’s been callin you.”

  “Well, why in th’ hell didn’ y’all say so!?” Shifting all blame onto the squad, “You damned ol’ thangs be runnin dem ol’ moufs so Gotdam much, a man can’t hear hissef fart. Git ta wek!”

  Removing his hat quickly was the fastest move he’d made all day. He slowly turned his horse around and began walking it toward the car. Hat in hand, he greeted, “How you feelin, Warden, Suh? You doin awright today, Suh? Sorry I tuk so long in a-comin, I didn’ know you wuz back heah. But as you knows, dese ol’ nigguhs be runnin dem ol’ moufs worse’n a bell clappin in a goose’s ass. I jes got thru tellin one uv ‘em he betta quit runnin his ol’ head. I’m sho glad you showed up. He’ll take his ass ta wek now.”

  “Whut nigguh is it thas givin you trouble?”

  “Warden, Suh, you know whut I cum ta learn?”

  “Whut’s that Cliff?”

  “Alla dem ol’ wide-mouf apes look so much alak I can’t hardly tell ‘em apart.” Scratching his stubby chin, “I can’t thank uv dat nigguh’s name to save my life. But I know whut I’m gon do, I’m gon cut th’ whole damn batch out, dat way I’ll git dat rotten bastard. Whut wuz it you wonted ta see me bout, Warden?”

  Big Devil had as much fun as anybody listening to his thigh-slapping humor, but wasn’t about to let him off the hook for not adequately guarding his squad. “Leaks, you betta go to watchin ‘em nigguhs an make ‘em go to cleanin them rows. Yore nigguhs is goin down thru there leavin half a that wek.”

  “I’m sho glad you seed dat, Warden! I been callin dem rotten bastards back all day. I’m so tired uv it I jes don’t know whut ta do. Dey won’t lissen ta me, Warden. Warden, now dat you is heah, kin I axe you a favor, Suh?”

  “Yeah, whut is it Cliff?”

  “Warden, would you take my hoss an ride out in dat field an tell dem rotten bastards o’ mine how BAD you wont sump’n dun to dey black asses?”

  Nobody was about to sit in the saddle after him, above all, the warden. “Cliff, whut I called you fer is to tell you I kin see y’all’s rows a mile away. Them nigguhs o’ yourn is jes flat out big-assin you.”

  “You right, Warden, you sho right! Only thang keepin me frum killin sum uv dem rotten bastards is I don’t wanna give yore farm no bad name.”

  “Whutta you mean?”

  “Whut I means is th’ way you runs th’ damn thang. You th’ bess warden I evuh been under. Ain’ no ‘mounts o’ money dat could git me ta take on yore worries. Thas why I do’s evuh
thang I kin ta try not ta worry you no more’n I hafta. Is sump’n worryin you, Warden?”

  “Yeah! Sump’n’s worryin me. It’s worryin hell outta me the way you let them ol’ nigguhs o’ yourn jes drag ‘long, lak they waitin fer the damn flies to blow ‘em.”

  “Warden, I’m soooooo glad you said dat I don’t know whut to do!! Jes soon as you leave I’m goin over yonder an put dem rotten sonsabitches ta wek, one way or anutha. You kin bet yore boots on dat. I dun had enuff.”

  “How cum you can’t do it while I’m heah Cliff?”

  “Well, Warden,” looking at him point blank, “I respects you too much, I don’t wont you no where round when I gits back ta dat squad. I couldn’ stand fer you ta see whut all I’m gon do. ‘Sides, I couldn’ sleep tonite knowin I dun messed up yore suppa.”

  Big Devil didn’t have a comeback for that much tarnished humility. Shaking his head, he got in the car and drove away.

  We were almost to the end of our rows by the time Boss Leaks walked his horse over to his squad. All the squads got to the end in good succession and we quickly lined up and headed back. I set a steady chopping cadence, slowing it down a notch to allow Number 8 to work their way up even with the rest of us. We were still snickering at Boss Leaks’ conversation with Big Devil.

  When all the squads got lined up and were working side by side again, I looked over at Cap Rock, “Les rock ‘em.” Cap Rock picked up the lick, and the con next to him, and the next, and so on down the line until our two hundred hoes were hitting together thunderously, causing the earth to tremble beneath our feet. I cut loose with one of our work songs:

  “We got forty-fo hammers rangin in one line.”

  “Forty-fo hammers rangin in one line.”

  “Ain’ no hammer heah that rangs lak mine.”

  “Rangs lak mine.”

  “It rangs lak silver, an it shines lak golddddd.”

  “Rangs lak silver, an it shines lak gold.”

  “The price for my hammer rangin ain’ never been told.”

  “Ain’ never been told.”