Cy in Chains Page 4

  The white men looked at him with cold eyes.

  “What you gon’ do with me?”

  Jeff Sconyers chuckled. “Ain’t you the curious one. Don’t worry, boy. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Kill me?”

  “Naw. Nothin’ bad as that.”

  Cy fought down a scream. He was desperate to escape. “Did Mist’ John tell you to do this?”

  Jeff snorted. “Keep your mouth shut and do like I say unless you want more trouble’n you can handle in a hundred years. Understand me?”

  Cy nodded. He yearned for his father. Surely Pete Williams would be wondering if he’d found Travis and brought him home. Surely he’d be back any moment to see.

  “We best be gettin’ on,” Burwell declared. “Strong said we got a lot o’ miles to cover.”

  What was he talking about?

  “The sack,” Jeff said.

  Burwell produced a small gunnysack and yanked it down over Cy’s head.

  “No!”

  Cy could feel a cord being wrapped around his neck, tight at first, and then tighter. Panic seized him. “Please, get it off!” he shouted. “I’s chokin’!”

  “No you ain’t,” Jeff assured him. “If you can yell, you can breathe. Just relax, boy. Fightin’ back and gettin’ all upset only gonna make it worse.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you! My daddy comin’ home any minute—”

  “Hey, what y’all doin’ in here? You git away from that boy!” It was Uncle Daniel’s voice. Relief swept over Cy. He would be rescued now. Uncle Daniel would save him.

  “This ain’t your concern, uncle,” Jeff growled. “Don’t try and stop us. We got our orders direct from John Strong.”

  “I won’t let you hurt that boy,” Uncle Daniel cried. “What happen at the river warn’t his fault.”

  “Stand aside,” Burwell said. “We ain’t got time to mess with you.”

  There were sounds of a scuffle, Uncle Daniel ordering the men to stop, the men trying to force him out of the cabin. Then the crack of a fist on flesh, a groan, and Cy heard a body hit the floor.

  “I told the ol’ fool to leave us alone,” Burwell declared.

  “They ain’t never gonna learn,” Jeff replied. “No wonder they live like they do. Animals, all of ’em.”

  “Come on,” Burwell told Cy. “On yer feet. We got to get goin’.”

  Cy was pulled up and dragged out of the cabin. Outside, he could tell it was still day; light filtered through the sack over his head. He started to yell for help.

  “Shut up, you!” Jeff cried. “I knowed we should of gagged him.”

  “It ain’t too late,” Burwell said. “Hold still,” he told Cy. The sack was untied and a cloth gag forced into Cy’s mouth. It was tied, and then the sack replaced.

  Cy tried again to shout, but he’d been silenced. Terror overwhelmed him, and he began to thrash, desperate to get his hands free, the choking gag out of his mouth, the stifling bag off of his head. Nothing helped. He gave up and dropped to the ground.

  “Let him be,” he heard Jeff say. “He’ll behave if he knows what’s good for him.”

  I got to get hold o’ myself, Cy thought. Figure this thing out. There got to be a way.

  But nothing came to him.

  “You ready to cooperate?” Burwell’s voice came from above him.

  Cy sat up and nodded.

  “Get up, then.” Cy struggled to his feet. Sweat was pouring into his eyes, and he had to keep swallowing so he wouldn’t choke on his own spit. Burwell prodded him to move, then after a few steps, ordered him to stop. “We’re at the wagon.”

  Wagon? Why is there a wagon?

  “You’re gonna get in, and you ain’t gonna cause no trouble, see?” Jeff told him. “Right here.”

  Cy was pushed forward until his chest hit what he guessed was the back of the wagon. Then the men hefted him up and onto a flat wagon bed. There they held him on his side while his ankles were tied.

  “Don’t try and get off,” Jeff warned him.

  “Like to see him try it,” Burwell said.

  “Just you lie still now,” Jeff advised. “Might as well catch you some sleep. We got a long ways to go.”

  Cy heard them climb onto the wagon seat. Then the horse was urged forward, the wagon jolted ahead, and the nightmare of that day resumed.

  They went without stopping for what seemed like hours. Eventually, Cy gave up the battle with his body and urinated in his pants. The scratchy cloth sack was torture against his face, and his hands throbbed from being tied so tightly. The gag was the worst. His stomach wanted to empty itself, but if he let it, he’d choke to death on his own vomit.

  More than anything he’d ever wanted in his life, Cy wanted his father. By now Pete Williams had gotten back from plowing, heard from Uncle Daniel what had happened, run to the big house, and forced Strong to tell him where to find his son. Hurry, Cy pleaded silently.

  Then Travis’s image rose up in Cy’s mind, the boy’s pale eyes staring into his own, his hands covering himself, embarrassed that Cy should see him naked and helpless. At last sleep came, and forgetfulness.

  Cy woke when the wagon stopped. It was full dark. The men pulled him out of the wagon bed, took the sack off his head, and unbound his gag. Right away, Cy began to dry heave. When he was done, they untied his wrists and let him go off a ways and relieve himself. When he returned, he was told to sit on the ground, and Jeff tied his ankles together. Burwell gave him water from a tin cup and a plate of cold beans. He was too upset to eat, but he drank cup after cup of water.

  Cy finally found the courage to ask a question. “Where we goin’?”

  “Nowhere that’d mean anything to you,” Jeff said. “You might call it a post office.”

  “Sir?”

  “Place to make deliveries!” Burwell exclaimed. “You.”

  “Don’t say too much,” Jeff warned.

  “My daddy’s comin’ after me,” Cy said.

  Jeff laughed. “Only if he figures a way to get outta that curing barn we locked him in!”

  Hope died. Cy knew they were telling him the truth. Strong had planned it all out.

  “You gon’ kill me, right?”

  “I told you not,” Jeff replied. “We ain’t no murderers.”

  “What then?”

  “Just wait and see,” Burwell said. “Wait and see.”

  Cy spent the night tied in the wagon bed. When Jeff said they wouldn’t make him have the gag and the sack on his head if he’d cooperate and keep his mouth shut, he almost cried. Not that it mattered—they were stopped way off in deep forest with nobody around to hear anything. As soon as it was quiet, Cy fell toward sleep, praying he wouldn’t dream. He didn’t.

  The next morning, he was allowed to relieve himself and was given water and bread, which he devoured. Again he was gagged, the hateful sack was pulled over his head, his hands were tied, and he was laid on the wagon bed. A tarpaulin was thrown over him, and another torturous day began. At midday they stopped in dense woods, and Cy was allowed to stand up, to quench his thirst, to gobble the food the brothers gave him.

  As the afternoon wore on, as the sack rubbed the skin of his face raw and the sweat poured off of him in the dense heat, the agony in Cy’s body crowded out the torment in his mind. More than anything now, he wanted relief from the gag and freedom from the sack over his head, the rope binding his hands, the suffocating cloth that concealed his body from any curious travelers his kidnappers might meet on the road.

  The next time they stopped, it was dark. Never had Cy been so thankful for ordinary things like relieving himself, stretching his arms and legs, and putting some food in his belly. Again, sleep brought forgetfulness.

  The third day, Cy began to believe that this journey was Strong’s revenge. The Sconyers boys would go on and on until he died, then throw him away into a shallow grave. Then they could say they hadn’t actually murdered him, he’d just—died. With the passing hours, any lingering
hope that his father would save him drained like water into dry sand, and he began to wish that he would die.

  This was his reward for being Travis’s friend. For finding him in the night and trying to get him to come home. For telling Strong to stop whipping him. And for almost drowning while trying to save him. If by some chance he lived, Cy promised himself, never again would he try and fix the messes of other people, especially white folks. From now on, he’d look out for himself, and other folks could do the same.

  On the third night, when Cy knew he wouldn’t last much longer, the wagon stopped and he could hear the men jump down. One began pounding on something; it sounded like a wooden door. Then strange voices, the sound of a lock clicking open, a heavy door or gate swinging on rusty hinges, and Jeff telling the horse to walk on. Cy was hauled out of the wagon bed. The sack was taken from his head, his gag removed, and he was made to step forward.

  He was in a large open space. In the dim light thrown by a single lantern, he could just make out a fence of barbed wire fastened to tall wooden poles. In front of him were a couple of long, low wooden buildings.

  Two white men, one holding a lantern, came forward and stood looking him over the way a horse breeder looks at a gelding up for sale. “So who’s this?” the man with the lantern said, touching Cy under the chin and making him raise his head. “And who might you fellas be?”

  “Our names ain’t important,” Jeff replied. “Let’s just say we work for a rich man up in Davis County. He hired us to deliver this nigger to you, and he don’t want no questions asked.”

  “Davis County? That’s a long ways from here. How’d this rich boss of yours find out about my place?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe you got a big reputation, Mr. Cain. Mr. Str—” He caught himself before he gave away the name. “He told us just where to find you. Said you’re famous all over for bein’ an old-time nigger catcher, like them patrollers before the war.”

  Cain threw him an ugly look. “Don’t try my patience if you want to do business. If I got a reputation, ain’t none of your affair how I come by it. Understand?”

  Jeff lowered his eyes. “Yessir.”

  “This big boss of yours . . . He send you with any . . . incentive for me to take this boy off his hands?”

  “If you mean money, yessir.”

  “Let’s see it, then.”

  Jeff dug in a pocket and came up with a pouch. Cain handed the lantern to his helper, untied the string, and poured some coins into his hand. “This boy ain’t sick, is he? Ain’t got the consumption or swamp fever?”

  “No, sir. He’s fit. Can put in a big day’s work. No doubt about that.”

  Cain jingled the coins. “Open your mouth,” he ordered Cy. His helper held the lantern close, and Cain peered down Cy’s throat. “Turn around.” Cy did. “Unhitch them britches so I can get a good look at you.”

  Cy obeyed. He hated the white men’s eyes on his body. Cain looked him over, again like he was inspecting a cow or hog. “He’ll do, I reckon . . .”

  “So you’ll take him?” Jeff Sconyers asked.

  “Yeah, just as soon as you boys give me the rest of the money your boss gave you. Ain’t no use tryin’ to hold out on me. My men got you covered.” Now Cy noticed that another man had joined the fellow with the lantern. Both had drawn pistols. Did every white man in the world own a gun?

  Jeff went to the wagon and returned with more coins. Cain took them, counted them, and seemed satisfied. “I reckon you two gentlemen got more stashed away, but, hell! I’m a fair man. Whoever sent you knows the cost of doin’ business.”

  “So now will you take him?” Jeff asked.

  “Yep. You can be on your way. My men and I can manage.” Cain looked Cy full in the face. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Cy, sir. Cy Williams.”

  “From now on, Cy’ll be good enough. Ain’t no place in this camp for the niceties of polite society.” One of Cain’s men chuckled. “Thanks, fellas, for the delivery. You can get on home now and tell your boss we’ll take good care of his boy. He won’t need to worry himself none about him anymore.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeff said. “Come on,” he told Burwell. “Sooner we get goin’, sooner we get home.”

  “Good luck, nigger,” Burwell told Cy. “You sure as hell gonna need it!”

  They climbed onto the wagon seat, backed up, and turned around in the road. Cy heard the gate swing shut and the lock click.

  He felt like he’d been saved from drowning. No more sack, no more gag. No more hands tied. No more Sconyers brothers, who could be dying and begging for his help, and he’d spit on them and keep going.

  Where was he now? Anyplace had to be better than that wagon bed, that sack, that gag.

  Cain told his men to escort “the new boy” to a bunkhouse and get him settled for the night. They walked him to a door at the end of the nearer building, and one of the men unlocked it. Inside, he held the lantern high, and in the shadows, Cy saw them. Boys, all black. Some older than he was, others about the same age. And some young, just children, smaller than Travis. All lying side by side on a long, low wooden platform. All dressed alike in black-and-white-striped pants and jackets. All wearing ankle irons. All bound together by one long, thick chain. All pairs of eyes staring at him.

  Horror washed over Cy. “What kind o’ place is this?” he whispered.

  One of the men laughed. “Ain’t they got none o’ these where you come from? Chain gang camp, some folks call it.”

  Five

  CY BATTLED THE CRUELLY COLD WATER OF THE Ogeechee. Something like the slimy mouth of a gigantic fish kept pulling him under. He’d fight back to the surface, his lungs bursting. On the far side of the river, his mother and father stood together, calling to him to come on, to get there so they could all go home. He swam hard but was pulled under again. When he came up, he found himself looking into the lifeless blue eyes of his friend Travis. The corpse clutched him and dragged him down again.

  “No!” he tried to scream, his lungs filling with water.

  Cy jolted awake, gasping for air, at first grateful but then disappointed to still be alive. The nightmare had haunted him now for more than three years, but it never grew less horrifying. Jess had promised him that prayer would make his bad dreams go away, and for a while, Cy had tried to pray. But prayer hadn’t worked because the “God of love” that Jess kept preaching about simply didn’t exist. Or if he did, he was busy with more important things than the bad dreams of one black boy. Perhaps he simply didn’t give a damn about black people. The world surely didn’t, and hadn’t God made the world, according to what Jess said? Or perhaps the white men who had taken charge of that sorry world were simply too strong for God. Even worse, maybe they worked for him.

  Cy was sick of trying to figure it out. One thing he did know, though: any God worth believing in would have killed Mr. Dathan Cain and his men a long time ago and done something to save the boys who were their slaves. Or at least saved Cy. The others could look out for themselves.

  He was desperate for more sleep, but he fought to stay awake. The dream was too much to face again. It was no comfort that some of the other boys were tormented by nightmares, too. Mouse would sometimes shout and wake up clawing at an invisible enemy. At first, Cy had felt sorry for him. Now Mouse and his dreams were just trespassing on Cy’s sleep. You had to have rest after twelve-hour days breaking rocks or shoveling heavy, wet clay. You needed a small place of peace where you didn’t have to deal with the nasty food, the reek of the outhouse, the stink of other boys who almost never got a bath. From the constant battles over the most ordinary things—an extra piece of cornpone, a blanket not yet infested with lice. From the need always to be looking over your shoulder, always to be protecting what few things you tried to pretend were your own. Rufus had pulled a knife—stolen from the kitchen—on High Boy in a fight over a worn-out cap. When it was over, High Boy had a three-inch slash across his left cheek, Rufus got twenty lashes, and the ca
p had been torn into worthless pieces.

  Even though the air was cold, Cy’s forehead and armpits were wet. He was glad no one near him was awake. You couldn’t risk anyone seeing you were afraid. If you did, you were in danger of the stronger guys messing with you. Cy was glad he was one of the biggest in the camp, and he had a reputation now. It hadn’t always been that way. When he first came to the camp, the older boys had beaten him, taken his boots, and mocked him for weeks after Bull found him crying. A year ago, Bull had picked on Cy one time too many and ended up with a broken arm. Cain got rid of him. Where he sent Bull and others who could no longer work, no one knew for sure. Cy hadn’t much minded the light whipping he received for hurting Bull. He’d gotten rid of an enemy and made himself a boy to fear. Since then, no one had found the guts to try anything with him.

  In the colorless shadows of dawn, Cy made out the gray shapes of sleeping boys stretched out on either side. Rain rattled against the roof and dripped through the holes in the rotting shakes. An icy drop hit his forehead.

  Shit! Did he have to be wet from rain as well as his own sweat?

  Cy tried to move out from under the leak, but there was nowhere to go. He and nineteen other boys were chained side by side on one long platform with only thin straw ticks between them and the wooden slats. Like everything else in the camp, there wasn’t enough of the platform for everyone, so the boys slept jammed against one another. On Cy’s left, Jess was dead asleep; he was big as a steer, and he took up a lot of room. More than his share. You could poke him, and he wouldn’t budge. It was like sleeping next to a boulder. Next to Jess, the new kid, Billy, lay like a corpse, except that his chest rose and fell underneath his blanket. On Cy’s right, Mouse pressed close, craving warmth.

  Cy couldn’t stand Mouse nestling against him. Sure, he made a little heat even though he was the smallest boy in camp, and yes, Jess kept preaching that they had to take care of him. Cy didn’t see it that way. It didn’t matter if you were huge, like Jess, or puny, like Mouse. When you got down to it, you had to take care of yourself, because no one else would. If you didn’t—or couldn’t—you were done for.