The Black Train Part 20

"Hey!" Cricket wailed now. "What'choo doin'?"

The dog frolicked in the water, chasing plops of floating shave cream. It seemed to be trying to eat them.

"He's a silly dog," Mary offered.

"Sometimes real silly..."

Now the dog yipped, thras.h.i.+ng circles in the woods. At one point it stopped abruptly, to defecate. It seemed to look right at Collier.

"He's p.o.o.pin'!"

"I have to go-good-bye," Collier said quickly and began to walk off.

"Don't go yet!" Cricket objected. "Don't'cha wanna watch Mary shave her..."

Collier lengthened his strides.

As he made off, he heard: scritch-scritch-scritch He walked straight in spite of the dizziness: half drunk, half hungover. He slowed his pace up the hill he hoped to G.o.d would take him back to the inn. White-trash kids or something, he guessed. Poor, negligent parents, no decent role models. It happened everywhere. Then he thought: Or maybe...

Maybe it was another hallucination.

The finger clips? The dog? A young girl shaving her legs in a creek?

The half-heard sound of giggling stopped him. But he must be a hundred yards away now.

Some perverted gremlin in his psyche made him turn against his will.

And peer back down into the woods.

The girls were still at the creek. "Dirty dog!" Cricket reveled amid a flood of more giggling that could only be Mary's.

Collier's stomach turned at what he saw, or thought he saw. Then he jogged as best he could for the inn.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

I.

1861.

"Good work, men!" Morris barked to slaves and white men alike. He stood before the work site on the back of the rear guiding car for the pallet train. Then he s.h.i.+elded his eyes and looked down the line as dusk approached. "I say it looks to me like some mighty good work! Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Poltrock?"

Poltrock stood aside, distracted. He was looking at the numbers: how many iron track rails and fish-bolt plates the crew had consumed since last Friday. Can that be right?

Morris grinned at him, hands on hips. "I guess Mr. Poltrock didn't hear me-" All the rest of the men, the Negroes included, laughed.

Poltrock snapped out of it. "Yes, Mr. Morris. Perhaps even better than mighty fine..."

Morris's long hair lifted in a breeze. "Until Sunday mornin' then"-one of the strong-armers clanged the bell-"we are all off s.h.i.+ft!"

Roughly a hundred and fifty men disbanded from their ranks, s.h.i.+ning in sweat, bent by fatigue, but cheering as they broke away for the campsites. The bell clanged on, jarring Poltrock's brain.

"End of another week." Morris rubbed his hands together. "Hard to believe we're deep in Georgia territory now. Goin' on four years, ain't it? Seems like 'bout six, eight months, if you ask me."

Poltrock barely heard him. Only then did he notice a long side-knife in a tin scabbard flapping on Morris's hip. "Mr. Morris, what is that thing on your hip? Looks part sword, part D-guard knife."

The blade whispered when Morris unsheathed the fourteen-inch tool. "It's called a saber-bayonet, sir. Fancy, ain't it? It's made'a folded steel from the Kenansville Armory. They add somethin' called chromium to the metal-s.h.i.+t won't rust even if ya leave it in a bucket'a water overnight. And the bra.s.s hilt's so hard you can use it for a hammer."

"Why's a crew chief need a knife that long?"

"Don't really need it at all-" Morris turned the blade till it flashed. "It's just...pretty, I guess. Women got their fussy jewelry, but men got their guns and knives, I suppose."

The point had never crossed Poltrock's mind, but it was novel. "Now that you mention it, I guess I feel much the same 'bout my Colt .36," he said, and gestured to the revolver on his hip. "Don't have much real use for it neither, not with this army of strong-armers Mr. Gast's hired on. If the slaves were gonna rebel, they'd've tried that a long time ago."

"They'd have to be crazy to rebel," Morris said. "They'll be free men when we're done. A'course, there are still some Indians who get their dander up. All of us'd be wise to always carry somethin' for protection."

"Forearmed is forewarned...Or is it the other way around?"

"Speakin' of Indians-" Morris peered out past the work site.

Poltrock saw some figures straggling toward them.

"Beggars, probably. Or maybe some wh.o.r.es for tonight," Morris presumed. "But gettin' back to what we were talkin' 'bout-time's goin' by so fast. I wanted to ask how many miles'a track have we laid so far? Bet we're surely past 350, don'tcha think?"

"I only add the monthlies up twice a year, but-s.h.i.+t-yeah. Fast as it seems we're goin' we could be close to 350. We could be."

"You fixin' to count up the week now?"

"Yes, but don't let Mr. Fecory leave till I get back. Probably take me a half hour."

"I'll tell him," Morris said. He was squinting at the slow approaching figures. "It'll take him more than that to pay the white crew anyhow." Now Morris slapped some dust from his beard. "And I am ready for some whiskey tonight. How 'bout you?"

Poltrock closed his notebook, still perplexed by his numbers. "What's that? Oh, yeah, maybe..."

Mr. Gast gave everyone Sat.u.r.day off, but Poltrock often wondered about the man's choice of days.

Sunday was the typical day of rest.

Nevertheless, things could get fairly wild. Whiskey was brought in, and several head of cattle. And some squaws were allowed on the grounds, too. Eshquas, they were called. Mr. Gast didn't mind some wh.o.r.e tents being set up for Friday nights, for the whites to use to relieve their tensions.

Poltrock's mind snagged on something. "Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, I remember the quartermaster tellin' me earlier that no whiskey had been delivered today. I didn't see any supply train come in earlier, did you?"

"d.a.m.ned to h.e.l.l. No, I didn't." Morris appeared as though a bad taste had come into his mouth.

"I know that a coupla times, Mr. Gast bought kegs of whiskey from the nearby towns. Don't make sense to train it in from home every week-"

"In Georgia? s.h.i.+t, Mr. Poltrock. Georgia don't know from whiskey any more than G.o.dd.a.m.n Ma.s.sachusetts knows from cotton."

Poltrock smiled, perhaps for the first time in a week. "I guarantee, after a week'a hard work like this, it'll do just fine."

"I hope you're right. Probably tastes like somethin' from a p.i.s.s barrel." Morris sighed, putting a closer eye on the figures coming forward. "But a coupla wh.o.r.es will surely get the ticket. Here come some now, I'd say."

Poltrock could see them even in the dimming light: some Indian women in st.i.tched leggings and sleeveless yokes fas.h.i.+oned from tattered hide. Their eyes looked huge on flinty faces. "Just what kind'a Indians are they anyway?"

"Nantic.o.ke," Morris answered. "They was mainly in Maryland until the state militias killed 'em off 'bout fifty years ago. Most of 'em headed north-and froze to death-but some of 'em drifted south. Georgia gave 'em some reservations just like they done up in New York with the Iroquois. Some'a these here squaws look d.a.m.n good, too. They f.u.c.k for ten cents and a swig, then take the money back to their men." Morris rocked on his tiptoes a moment. "Yes, sir, I'll have my c.o.c.k in some'a that tonight."

Poltrock had to credit the strange women for their resilience at least. He counted exactly four of them, and he knew they'd be taking on fifty h.o.r.n.y white men till late tomorrow night. A lot of the men would go four or five times. Like Morris, he knew. Morris had a thing for wh.o.r.es. A lot of the men did.

"Look at that 'un there," Morris said. "That's the one I'se gettin' first..."

Poltrock squinted. It was easy to tell which squaw Morris was highlighting. Three looked older and weatherworn, but a fourth appeared quite a bit younger and more endowed. The girl/woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s were so large they strained the rawhide strings that held the yoke together.

"That's some t.i.ts on that Injun, huh, Mr. Poltrock?" Morris made the useless query. "A fella could do all kinds'a things with some t.i.ts like that." Morris waved mockingly at the girl, and said under his breath, "Hey there, ya dirty little b.i.t.c.h. You's'll be all full up with my s.p.u.n.k a right shortly."

Poltrock felt tired, and maybe coming down with a cold. He didn't share his colleague's l.u.s.ty zeal at all.

"Here comes Cutton," Morris noticed.

"I need to talk to him," Poltrock said, and stepped down off the guiding car.

"Afternoon to ya, Mr. Poltrock," the younger man greeted. "Or-d.a.m.n-I should say good evenin'! Where the days been goin' lately?"

Poltrock pulled out a panatela that he was ent.i.tled to from Mr. Gast's private stock. They came all the way from Florida. Before he could reach for a match, Cutton had one burning for him.

"Thank you," he puffed. "And I wanted to ask you somethin', Mr. Cutton." He held up his record book. "We seem to be goin' through rail and fish bolts a right fast. Did somebody increase the order for the last s.h.i.+pment?"

Cutton nodded, then took a chew of tobacco himself. "Yes, sir, they did."

"Who? The supply master?"

"No, sir. Mr. Gast. He mentioned to me-oh, I'm not exactly sure when-but he said he'd been bringin' in 10 or 15 percent more the past coupla weeks. Rail, too, a'course. There's a new iron works in Kentucky he's buyin' it from, he told me. Tredegar's runnin' 'cos the clock makin' cannons in case there's a war."

Poltrock filtered out the useless details. "Ten to fifteen percent more? No wonder my figures didn't seem right..."

"The men are workin' hard, so far as I can see. If you were a slave with freedom at the end of the line, wouldn't you work extra hard?"

"Yes, I surely would-" Poltrock scratched his ear. Hard work was one thing. But...this? He knew he'd need to work the numbers again. This could be very interesting...

"Would you round up my horse, please, Mr. Cutton? I'm going to go count the rails."

"Yes, sir. We all know it's Friday when Mr. Poltrock counts the rails. Sure I can't be of a.s.sistance to ya?"

"No, no, it's somethin' I need to do by myself."

"I'll fetch your horse..."

Cutton jogged off. Morris cut him a silent grin, then climbed down himself. "What's that about fish bolts, Mr. Poltrock?"

"Oh, nothing. Probably just some bad accounting."

A big man with a pistol in his hand followed a small man in a red derby. Mr. Fecory, Poltrock saw. Fecory's face looked shriveled, and his odd gold nose flashed.

"Well, I say hey there, Mr. Fecory!" Morris greeted loudly.

"Mr. Morris," the little man replied. He nodded as if he had a kink in his neck, and carried a leather suitcase that everyone knew was full of cash. "Are you happy to see me, or just happy that it's payday?"

"Why, I'm happy to see you, sir!"

"Um-hmm." The weaselish man nodded to Poltrock, too.

"I don't suppose you could just slip Mr. Poltrock and me our pay right now so's we don't have to wait in line," Morris gestured next.

"I am certain, Mr. Morris, that you work as hard as everybody else; therefore, you can wait in line-like everybody else."

"I knew you'd say that..."

Fecory dipped a finger up and down like a teacher. "This isn't a chow line, you know. You need to sign your receipt, sir, just like-"

"Everybody else," Morris finished. "s.h.i.+t," he muttered to Poltrock after the paymaster crossed the track toward the camp.

"We're in no hurry, Mr. Morris," Poltrock reminded.

"I know, sir. It's just that we'se rail men-we live for our Fridays, and I can tell you that I am all riled up for some drinkin' and carryin'-on."

Poltrock was no different from any man, but since he'd signed on with Gast, he seemed to notice some conflict within himself. He barely drank on Fridays-hadn't in months-and he couldn't remember the last time he'd solicited a wh.o.r.e. Even during the three-day respites Gast granted them the first of every month-sometimes Poltrock would retreat to the bunkhouse and recheck his inventory book, leaving the revel to everyone else. Guess I'm just gettin' old, he told himself too often, or was it something more? Behind his spirit, something glowered, as if to whisper, This is all wrong and you know it. You ain't the Christian your fine upright parents raised. They'd be ashamed...

Would they? What was it?

Morris's mood was feisty as always, but his eyes looked dark. Poltrock didn't know if it was his imagination but sometimes the eyes of the other men s.h.i.+ned in a dull brown-yellow cast...

"And you can bet," Morris continued, "that I am lookin' forward to the next respite."

"Ain't even been two weeks since the last one," Poltrock reminded him. "Honestly, Mr. Morris, you're like a kid in a rock candy shop."

Morris's grin sharpened. "Yeah, but it ain't candy that this rail man needs to get his hands on." Morris was about to say something else, but then his eyes shot wide. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"Something wrong?"

"Look at that there-that strong-armer-"

One of Gast's big security men seemed to be rousting the four squaws, waving them off and yelling, "Not tonight! Get your a.s.ses out'a here!"

"What the h.e.l.l's he doin' runnin' off our wh.o.r.es!" Morris exclaimed. "Hey, you there! Don't run them Injun girls off! We need 'em for tonight!"