by Mae Berry
I duck behind a broken barrel as he and his men come around the fence row. His overalls are dusty from the day’s work. Never understood him. Man has a half dozen hands, yet works his farm harder than anyone. Oh well. I’m counting on the confusion of comin’s and goin’s to hide me leaving.
The sound of jawin’ grows fainter until the back door’s final slam. Good, they’re all to supper. The wagon door on the barn ain’t closed proper so I slide through. The smell of manure, sweaty horse and hay calms me. I breathe deep. It’s darker in here. Lucky for me I know my way around. I could find the tack room with my eyes closed. And Blue’s stall. Blue is who I need, not Mr. Phelps’ prize thoroughbred, Sheik of the Valley. No, tempting as it is, I know not to mess with a man’s pride. I’m jist gonna borrow Old Blue Thunder. A good horse, but not one to get all worked up over. ‘Sides, Mr. Phelps won’t care. I’ve helped him out a time or two. He is always askin’ what he can do for me. Well here it is, let me borrow Old Blue. Without asking. Without telling my pa.
I grab Blue’s tack and an apple from a barrel and make my way over to his stall. He nickers a greeting. Sheik lets out a snort and paws his hay. Have to work fast afore he gits hisself all up in a lather. I lead Blue into the aisle and saddle him. He’s content to munch his apple but old Sheik gets all bothered and raises a ruckus. I barely git the bit in Blue’s mouth before Sheik sets into it serious like. The other horses get restless too. I lead Blue to the wagon door and peer outside. So far no one is paying Sheik any mind. I let out a deep sigh. Guess his fussin’ is nothing to interrupt supper over. I swing into the saddle, stay low and turn Blue’s head toward the woods.
My plan is to cut down south and hide out in the Amarugia Highlands ‘til folks stop lookin’ for me. I am free. Finally free! I can go anywhere. Do anything. Don’t have that devil of a man dogging my every step. I skirt around town and head back toward the main road. There is a full moon and I figure I’ll put some distance ‘tween myself and the Phelps’ place.
✽✽✽
After a few days of riding all day and camping at night, I ache bad. The rain ain’t helping. It’s slowed me up. Everything I own is wet right down to my skin. Need a hot bath, soft bed and some good food. I plan on crossing the river at Liberty Landing. Jist know I’ll feel better with the Missouri River between me and pa.
The closer I git to town, the more folks are on the road; farmers hauling wagons, men on horseback, some carriages. I pat Blue on the neck. He’s done a right fine job. I stretch out a crick in my neck. My ribs don’t hurt as bad. Must of jist bruised ‘em. I touch my eyebrow and wince. Probably leave a scar. I’m sure one of my upper teeth is loose too. Least my fingers ain’t as stiff.
As Blue plods on, wagons ahead slow down. Town must be close now. I pull Blue into the line, my attention on a farmer in front of me. Poor man, his overloaded wagon, recent storms and contrary mules are giving him fits. I smile. I notice two men atop horses down aways sitting beside the road. They’re rough. Weathered. Like they’re outdoors a lot. They seem to be looking everyone over real careful like. Another walks around a wagon. Huh, that’s the slow down. I frown, a niggle starts in my belly when I notice one man has a star. A lawman. I duck my head and slouch in my saddle. The farmer ahead is still having trouble with his mules. Seems stuck. I dismount and walk up to him.
“Can I give ya a hand sir?” I pull my hat low so he kain’t see me too good.
“Why thank ya, son. Jezebel there seems to be havin’ one of her contrary days.” He snaps the lead over the ornery Jezebel’s back to emphasis the point. With a name like that, what’d he expect?
“How ‘bout I push?” Head down, I tie Blue to the wagon and put my shoulder to the back. The farmer lays into poor Jezebel and her mate and the wheels catch and wobble forward.
“Thank ya kindly, son.” The farmer waves me off. I stumble after him.
“Would ya like me to lead her, sir? Jist into town. Might keep her going? He cocks his head to the side considering my words. I see him take in the cut on my face. I duck my head and try to look sincere.
“Might be a help,” he drawls, “careful, though, she likes to get her nips in.” I run around to the front of the wagon and grab the team’s harness. I give ‘em a quick tug and they reluctantly plod forward again.
“That’s it! Git along, now.” The farmer snaps the reins and smiles, happy to be moving. I turn forward still leading the team. I pull my brim low over my forehead, flip up the collar of my coat and slouch. I keep walking. The fickle Jezebel keeps trying to bite any part of me that gets too close. We’re even with the men on horseback, but I don’t check. The farmer choses this moment to snap the lead across Jezebel’s withers. She protests by reaching out and giving me a nip in the side. I yelp. The men look over. I freeze.
“You, you with the wagon. Stop.” Icy cold prickles go up my back as my stomach drops to my toes.
“Sure sheriff, what is it?” The farmer pulls the team to an obliging halt. “Trouble?” One man circles the wagon to git to Blue. The one with the badge rides to the front and stops next to me. I watch him from under the brim of my hat while he tries to peer in my face. He spits a stream of tobacco making Jezebel side step. I grab for her harness.
“What’s your name son?” he asks.
“John, ah John Gibson” I fumble, grabbing a childhood friend’s name.
“John, huh?” He considers me further.
“Could be,” the man in back calls. “Could be the horse were lookin’ fer.” The lawman’s attention shifts back.
“I need you to look at me son.” He drops his hand to the holster at his side. I hesitate. “Drop the harness. Put your hands in the air. Look at me. Now!. I ain’t gonna ask again.”
I raise both my hands and my head.
“It’s him. There’s a cut on his head. Right above his eye,” he says swinging off his horse. He grabs my hands and cuffs my wrists together. The farmer in his seat is staring slack jawed at the happenings. The other man unties Blue and leads him to the front of the wagon.
“You’re wanted back in Kearney, son,” the lawman says leading me away.
Bates
October 11, 1877
Missouri State Penitentiary
I walk two steps behind the black-and-white striped man in front of me, my left hand on his left shoulder. Careful like. Eyes on the ground. Don’t want no trouble. The man in front stumbles. I freeze, waiting for the blow. It comes. He tries to curl up. Don’t do no good. Jist makes the guard mad. I keep shuffling. The sound bounces off the limestone walls. Walls so thick you can’t hear nothin’ from the yard. I shiver. The walls hold on to the icy air something fierce. It’s frigid in the main hall, open all the way to the roof. Cell doors open off at each level along both sides of the long walls. One hundred forty-four cells, eighteen on each side, stacked four high like cord wood. The three stoves running down the middle of the main room don’t come close to putting out enough heat. And it’s only October. The two short walls are full of windows.
I glance to the end, opposite the main door. The stairs ‘re pulled up. Stairs on a pulley leading down to the dungeon. The place you go if you cause trouble. I shudder. Ain’t had no call to go down there, don’t want none. No light, always dark. Seen guys come out of there stumblin’ around blind until their eyes adjust. No sound in them cells neither. Walls is too thick. Eight cells there each with a four foot door and a slot. Your bread and water put through once a day. A man goes crazy left there too long. So I bin told.
My line heads out the main door. As soon as I step outside the wind whips through my thin jacket like a lash. The man in front of me curses. The guard is quick and merciless. Talking ain’t allowed. Lookin’ up ain’t allowed. Thinking ain’t allowed. We shuffle through the yard, pass the sheds and workshops, headed fer the quarry. The Missouri State Penitentiary is growing. Soon it will have even more ways to keep us busy and supply local business men with cheap labor. We work as long as there’s light. We’re punished if
a guard thinks we’re slacking. The government may’ve passed laws ending slavery, but they don’t apply to us. Convicts are slaves. Just keep yer head down and do what yer told.
All this construction needs bricks and the bluffs along the Missouri river is full of limestone. The wind howls over the cliffs and off the surrounding walls, sending bits of grit into our faces. The guards make up crews, assign tools and take us to our areas. Today I chisel. At least I don’t have to load slabs of limestone onto the wagon. Just lay down the guide, chisel around it and-
“Psst, farm boy,” the man to my left whispers, “pass me that sliver.” Dreyfus. He’s always boasting how he’s “gonna bust outta here”. How he’ll “bust open heads” when he goes. He jerks his chin at a long thin slice of rock that come off the edge of my brick. “Quick, like,” He looks up and around.
I slowly pick up the sliver as he impatiently gestures. I feel the edge. It cuts my skin, clean. Blood oozes making a trail in the grime of my thumb. I squint at him.
“You dumb cuss,” he says, eyes blazing and fist’s clenched. “Hand. It. Over.”
“What’s goin’ on boys?” Ventz. One of Warden Sebree’s lead men. He’s meaner’n a snake, and he hates cons. Dreyfus shoots me a nasty glare. A warning in his eyes. I glance at the sliver in my hand. I’m angling for a three-fourths out. If I keep my nose clean, don’t cause no trouble, do what I’m told, I’ll be eligible for an early out and a pardon from the Governor. Be just three-fourths of my original sentence. Tomorrow I’m up to six months. Three-fourths is at eighteen months. Sometimes though, just doing things right ain’t enough. Help the ones with the power, well now, sometimes that goes further. They remember. Sometimes. Ain’t good to appear smart. They like their cons slow and dimwitted. I’d figured that out watching others. I raise my eyes. Stare at Ventz’s chest.
“Don’t” hisses Dreyfus.
“Well sir,” I say all respectful like, “this here sliver done chipped off of my block.”
“Huh,” Ventz’s eyes narrow as he bends over to look, “Whatcha gonna do with it?”
“Well sir, turn it over to you. But this here fella,” I point at Dreyfus, “wants it fer some reason.”
“For some reason?” Ventz says, “Now why do you suppose he’d want something like that? Hmm? Souvenir?”
“Don’t know,” I lower my eyes. Outta the side I see Dreyfus grovel.
“It’s not like that,” he begins, “I was just gonna… I mean I wasn’t gonna start no trouble… He’s jist tryin’ to stir things up. I… I never said nothin’!”
“Seems,” says Ventz, “you best take a minute to decide which story you wanna go with.” He stands up and whistles to two guards. “Take Dreyfus to the dungeon.”
“Naaoo!” Dreyfus kicks his legs trying to keep the guards off. Kain’t blame him. Men leap off the fourth floor of the building to get outta going.
“You son of a—” Dreyfus’ tirade is cut short by a backhand. The two guards grab him under the arms and haul him to the cell block.
“Better him than you, huh” says Ventz as he meanders on down the line of working convicts. I’ll probably get my face beat in for this, but if Ventz believes I’m helpful, he can sway the Warden into getting me out. Twelve months to go.
✽✽✽
Four and a half steps by six. Tile floor. Limestone walls. Arched ceiling. I’ve walked my cell enough to know fer certain. I stop at the narrow double window slits and peer out. The niggling in my belly is building to a low rumble. None of the other five men that share my cell have come back after supper. I know they all can’t be in the dungeon. Turnkey had locked my door hours ago. I’d said something, but he’d just smirked at me. Don’t like this. Not. At. All. Lantern light appears down the center hall coming my way. A guard stops at the door of my cell. Hard to see him. The crisscrossed iron straps of the door are like a checkerboard. Ain’t easy to see out. The top of the door is low so we cons have to duck. I kain’t even see the guard’s head. He stoops to peer in. He holds the lantern so I kain’t see his face. He stares at me for a spell.
“Well now, looky here. A big ole dumb pap lap.” The key rattles in the lock. I swallow. “Move on to the back, farm boy.” I do as I’m told. The guard sets the lantern on the floor and opens the door, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders.
“It’s like this ya big dumb hick, Dreyfus is one of mine. You having him put in the dungeon keeps him from working for me. Work I need done.” He starts toward me step by step. I back up and try to keep him from me. My backbone slams into the frigid wall. I shiver.
“Sssorry sir… I dddidn’t know… I—” Everything in me freezes.
“Sssorry? Dumb cracker. Kain’t even talk right. You kin be as sssorry as you want. Don’t care. Facts is facts. I’m put out. Don’t like it. Someone’s gotta pay. And that be you.”
My head slams into the wall as his fist hits my chin. Over and over. Face, ribs, stomach. I feel my nose burst. A tooth pops outta my mouth. I can’t breath. He steps away, breathing heavy. I slide to the floor an’ fall on my side.
“All right farm boy, yer time here jist got bad. Real bad. You’re mine now.” He wipes his knuckles on the back of my shirt and leaves the cell. He don’t say another word.
I curl into a ball trying to ease the pain. I hurt all over. I turn my head and spit blood. The guard is right. Someone’s gotta pay.
Bates
January 21, 1878
Missouri State Penitentiary
Rucker. I found out the guard’s name the next day. It weren’t his bruised knuckles. No, it’s the smirk. Same look my pa got after he’d whooped me good. I also knew ‘cause he dogged me. Every day for almost three months. His squinty pig eyes follow me whenever I come around. His too big head moves like a snake tracking on his too scrawny turkey neck. Rucker ain’t no better than a mad dog. A vicious mad dog. I hear him boasting to the other guards ‘bout his lady friends. He has several. He talks mean to ‘em. Some he brags about hitting. Most of the other guards keep a distance from him. Even his cons stay as far away as they can. He jist seems to like hurting folks. Some are jist that way. Full of just plain cussedness. Ain’t no use to nobody.
Ventz is using me to run errands. I figure the more useful I am to him, the more likely he will help me out later. Ventz don’t like Rucker none. He knows Rucker has it in for me and he enjoys messing up his plans so most times he has me do things just to make Rucker hopping mad. ‘Course Rucker can’t do nothing about it while Ventz is around. Afterward, I try to stay out of his way.
We was having a warm spell, but today it be colder than death. That’s Missouri weather, fickle as a woman. The sky is gray, the clouds hang low. The wind like to knock ya over it blows so fierce. Rucker is PK today. He loves being the principal keeper. He decides its bath time.
“Ya’ll smell like bear turds! Git yerself a bucket and line up. We’s going to the river!” The other guards grumble. None of them want to go traipsing down to the river on a day like today and watch us break ice and fill buckets with water. The work detail will fill the horse trough today then tomorrow we all take turns having our bath. Every single one of us. Course last man comes out is dirtier than when he goes in, but this time a year no one wants to be first. After that water sits all night in freezing temperatures the first in will break ice. I have a good idea who that’ll be. ‘Course I wind up on the water bucket detail. Six of us head out, one of ‘em a new body. I was young comin’ here, but this guttersnipe is barely shaving. He’s scrawny too. Just the type Rucker likes to pick on.
Rucker walks behind the gang with a smirk and a swagger. I can’t help myself, I keep looking back to check on him. It’s like keeping an eye on a wildcat, never know when it might pounce. I’m sure he knows he’s getting to me. He’s preenin’ something fierce but I can’t help myself. The path to the river is worn smooth from years of cons walking down here. There’s a stretch steeper than the rest. It’s a switchback. It’s a mite tricky if you ain’t use
to it. I make the turn and glance up at Rucker. I’m jist in time to see the barrel of his gun thump the newbie on the back. The kid don’t stand a chance. His scrawny arms pinwheel and he falls over the side of the path just missing the cons on the stretch below him. He rolls a time or two and comes to rest in a stand of poison sumac growing out of a patch of dried weeds. One guard scrambles after him.
The boy lies still on the ground. It’s hard to tell if he’s breathing. The guard pokes him with the butt of his gun and he groans.
“Git that slacker on his feet,” yells Rucker. The guard hesitates. “If’n he kain’t walk without trippin’ over his dang feet, we need to give him a reason to be more careful. Git. Him. Up.” The guard grabs the boy’s armpits and yanks him to a stand. The newbie yells in pain, as his right leg give out.
“Think his leg may be broke.” The guard arches his eyebrow at Rucker. He’s new and not sure. The other guard is fat and lazy and don’t give a damn ‘bout nothin’. Rucker makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and strides toward the newbie pushing those on the path outta his way.
“Boy, you better have somethin’ seriously wrong with you if you make me walk all the way down there.” Rucker puffs up, his swagger makes his bandy legs appear even more bowed. He reaches the boy and roughly runs his hand up and down his leg.
“See his ankle,” hisses the guard. I can tell from where I am that it’s bent at a funny angle. The boy can’t put no weight on it. Rucker grabs the boys foot and yanks. The newbie lets out a sobbing howl.
