Otherwise, you might hurt somebody."
The boss's eyes flared with rage; clearly he had a petty vanity about his Thompson skills, and it was evidently part of his legend among the men, and a source of his power. He expected respect, admiration and fear from the men he commanded.
He reined his horse around, drew it steady, and, one-handed, fired another deafening burst, this time spattering up geysers on Earl's other side.
But Earl stood still.
Then he said, "I don't believe Bigboy wants me dead yet, so if you put one into me, he will whip on your ass for a month of Tuesdays. So as far as I am concerned, you are just wasting ammunition to no good point."
"You must want a taste of the stick, boy!"
"You want to come down here and give it to me, you come ahead."
"Your evil tongue will win you no favors here, boy. I swear on that."
He reined his horse over a bit, and turned to the men.
"Since y'all find this so amusing, I'm going to cancel the water break at three, goddammit, and you c'n work straight through till dark. You got any problems, you tell it to the white boy. Now, go on, back to work!"
"Men down," came the cry, and the men groaned as they rose and headed back down into the mud.
Earl headed back to the stump, and around him the black convicts sloshed and pushed along as well. At one point, someone bumped into him, and he went down briefly, but he rose, thinking it was going to be a fight or something. Instead, something was pressed into his hand by an unseen body, and he looked down and saw that it was a half-eaten biscuit. He stuffed it into his mouth, ground it with his teeth, and felt the pleasure of solid food.
Then it was back on the stump and back on the shovel.
Be my woman, gal, I be your man, By my woman, gal, I be your man, Every day is Sunday's dollar in your hand, In your hand, Lordy, in your hand, Every day is Sunday's dollar, in your hand.
That was Rosie. Rosie was their dream, their love, their inspiration.
Rosie got them through the long afternoon hours, otherwise unmarked by time or incident.
A man killed a snake.
A guard hit a loafer with a stick, or maybe he wasn't a loafer, maybe he was just sick.
The boss cursed out a lazy nigger.
The men just worked, that was all, without rest, without speeding up or slowing down, just abiding by the harsh rules imposed and finding instinctive ways beyond it, with the help of Rosie.
When she walks, she reels and rocks behind, When she walks, she reels and rocks behind, Ain't that enough to worry a convict's mind, Ain't that enough to worry a convict's mind.
And they loved her for worrying their minds, for when they worried about Rosie, they didn't think about the boss with his stick and gun, they didn't think about the blue ticks hungering for their flesh, they didn't worry about the strutting clown prince Fish, who sucked up to the guards and wore his petty gift of stature like a crown, and they didn't think about the heat, the mud, the sun, the mosquitoes, they didn't think about a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow of that same hard thing without end.
Earl slipped twice in the mud, and once hit his knee on a rock hard enough to bruise. He felt his hands pulping up in pain, swelling, and glanced at his palms, which were seared raw with his own blood.
"You, white boy, you keep on a-shoveling, you don't need to be looking at them purty hands, ' they ain't so purty now," the section boss called.
"You keep working, white boy," a voice crooned to him, "or they beat you silly and then they beat us just fo' the fun of it."
Earl took the advice to heart, and gave himself to the shovel, and never again that whole afternoon did he take a break or look away; he just gave himself to the rhythm of the labor, and like the men around him, tried to close it out.
Only one oddness struck him; he looked up late in the afternoon for the glinting of light on a lens far off. Sometimes early in the war the Japs gave away their positions that way, and the brief flash would be answered with a long belt of.30-caliber machine gun fire or a mortar barrage. So he knew: someone was watching from far away, with binoculars, steadily and professionally.
Section Boss worked them hard that day, as he would all days, and after dark they shuffled back to the Ape House. There were no showers or mercies or softnesses waiting for them there, either. They stripped and ran naked through hoses held by white guards, that was the shower, and then pulled the same foul clothes on. The food was cold grits, coffee, a biscuit, some beans ladled out in the cook house on tin plates, gobbled quickly under the watch of men with guns. They ate with their hands, squatting in the yard, then went back to soak the tin plates in a cauldron of boiling water.
Then they went back to the Ape House, and the card players took up the game and the talkers started up reveries about '-towns they'd visited, and the crazies and the sick ones retreated to their corner of hell to gibber irrationally, and Earl pulled his bunk against the corner and slept lightly.
The next morning at 4:00 it started all over again, the same thing, exactly, and on and on it went, the hot mornings, the jabbering torture of the monkey Fish, the baleful stares of Moon, the visits in song of Rosie and the escape she brought. On and on. Over and over. There was nothing else, except now and then he'd catch the flash of light off lenses. Whoever was watching from afar was making a consistent, scientific job of it. Meanwhile, he lost track of the time. A week, a month, a year? It felt the same.
And then one day as they were climbing from the pit, a weariness on their bones so powerful they could hardly speak of it, somebody brought himself close to Earl. It was a man who'd never acknowledged him, one of the card players, but he whispered something fierce, and then slid away, and nobody had seen him do it.
He whispered, "They gon' cut you tonight, white boy. Moon and his fellas. Cut you to death." sam stared at the photo. The man was extraordinarily handsome, and if one had the inclination to imbue beauty with more substantive virtues, he was possibly noble.
The late David Stone, M. D." Ph. D." Maj." United States Army Medical Corps stared back at Sam from his formal studio setting, tinted vaguely sepia after the fashion of 1943, when the shot had been taken. He wore his uniform proudly, with the entwined staff and serpent of the medical corps glinting on his lapels next to a block of ribbons that testified to a career that mattered. He wore a pencil-thin moustache, and had pearly teeth, his hair pomaded back neatly. He looked like a philosopher prince of some sort.
"He was a very good man," said the widow Stone, sitting across from him in her apartment, which overlooked a rolling splurge of meadow, pond and tree called Druid Hill Park in Baltimore, eight stories below.
She was a lovely woman, too. There was something aquiline in her facial features, and her eyes were darkness embodied, but lively, merry, so intelligent. They were eyes made for laughter, but not raucous yuks; rather, for the laughter of wit, of erudition, of the bon mot.
He could see them as a married couple, how they fit together, how well they set each other off, what a center to a set they'd be, with his dashing nobility, her brilliance and beauty. It seemed so Eastern some how, something Sam had glimpsed in his time in New Jersey and New Haven, a brilliant world, but one sealed off; you couldn't get into it without fabulous talent or fabulous success or fabulous family. Lacking all three, and moreover aware that he lacked something more―a capacity to dazzle seemed to be it―he knew he'd never move in such a society. He wanted to prosecute rapists and bank robbers in a little county in western Arkansas. No Eastern woman could understand such a thing, and he was hopeless when it came to articulating it. Only a Connie Longacre, stuck there in her tragic marriage, could understand, after much hard study.
"Harvard, as I understand it?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, second generation. David's father was a doctor before him on New York's Park Avenue. Society, that sort of thing, and with it all the expectations that David lived up to without even breaking a sweat.
He had a moral in
vestment in life, if I may say. So David did his undergraduate school at New Haven, then Harvard for medical school, just like his father. Then, after a few years of residency and a fellowship, he came here, to Baltimore, and got his advanced degree in public health at Johns Hopkins."
"You'll have to forgive me, ma'am, I'm just a humble country lawyer.
It would seem he could have gone anywhere in the world with those credentials and had a very nice life. An opulent life. Even while doing good practicing medicine. Yet he went into public health, which, if I'm not mistaken, is not the most remunerative of fields. And if I'm not mistaken, he spent the early thirties in Africa and Asia."
"That is correct, Mr. Vincent. David wasn't interested in money. As I say, he was a moral man. He was in some way obsessed with goodness, with progress, with doing well for the world. The money was nothing.
He'd grown up with it, he had a private income, a small one, so possibly he took it for granted, and simply earning money for the sake of earning money held no magic for him. I had some money, too, from my family. We wanted interesting and useful lives, not big houses. This apartment was fine for us. We never wanted a spread in the valley."
It was a four- or five-bedroom apartment in what had to be the city's best building, a castle overlooking a deer park. What Sam experienced was some sort of tabernacle to a life of the intellect, of stimulation of imagination and eye and mind: it was a book-lined warren, with eclectic furniture and a medical library as large as some small college's, Sam guessed. But there was also literature and poetry on the shelves, and modern art on the walls, and crazed sculptures here and there, and a great many African and Asian artifacts and pieces, as well as a riot of textures and colors from various forms of textile art. The view of the park, Sam had noted, was magnificent.
"You must have been so happy," Sam said.
"Yes. But it was hard. David was a man of work, of duty. He wanted to bring mercy into the world. He wanted to cure the great tropical diseases, yellow fever, malaria, rickets, all the terrible ulcerations and cataracts of the eye, the lack of nutrition and sanitation. He wanted to make all those faraway dark places light and clean and full of healthy babies and smiling mothers. I can't say I was as idealistic as he was, and it cost us. It cost us a child, a family. After we lost the first one, I couldn't have any more. Not that you asked, and not that I give up such information to any person that comes along. But you have to know how hard it can be to live with a saint."
"I'm very sorry for your hardships, ma'am. I truly am."
"Now, you wanted to talk about the war? That was your original line of questioning?"
"Yes, ma'am. I represent a client who is suing the State of Mississippi over the death of a Negro at a prison farm called Thebes in 1948. But Thebes was the site of the research station which the late Dr. Stone directed when he was a major in the―" he made a show of checking notes, though he knew it by heart―"the medical corps, in that unit, the 2809th Tropical Disease Research Unit."
"Yes, that is what it was."
"And as you might expect, the state of Mississippi isn't being particularly helpful. It's not much interested in being sued. So I'm hoping to uncover testimony that shows that the situation in Thebes under Army control was quite benign and it turned somewhat ugly when the prison reverted to state control, under a civilian warden, and such things could occur too often."
"I would very much like to help. I'm a great believer, along with dear Mrs. Roosevelt, in the plight of the American Negro. It is a shame on the bosom of our country."
"I agree, ma'am, and possibly the work I'm involved in"―Sam half-hated himself for the nobility he was pretending to, particularly in the presence of the widow of a man who was genuinely noble―"will help advance that cause."
"You are a man of stern belief, Mr. Vincent."
"No, ma'am. Your husband was a man of stern belief. I'm just a country lawyer, taking a deposition. May I ask, how did he die, if it's not too indelicate a subject?"
"It was a disease. He wanted to destroy it; it destroyed him."
"I'm so sorry."
"No need to apologize. It was a mighty enemy, and he lost a noble battle. I think of Hector and Achilles. He was Hector. Heroic, but sadly human, at war with one of God's most favored killing machines.
He'd never been dipped in immortality. It ravaged him and he died, that's all. Some bug stung him, some dying patient breathed on him, some germ crept into his water or food. It's very tragic. He could have done so much more than he got to do. He wanted to help so much."
"I take it the Department of the Army was very aggressive in setting up this project."
"As you might imagine, tropical diseases weren't of much interest in this country until the war came along. Then our boys started suffering from them in the Pacific. So of course it all changed, and David was suddenly very popular. He was commissioned directly, given a budget and an agenda. I'm not sure why Mississippi was chosen as opposed to Florida, the Everglades or something, which at least would have been close to a sophisticated city, Miami. But for some reason, he had to go to God's Little Acre, Mississippi. I gather its impenetrability was part of its allure. The conditions were primitive in that part of the state.
It was much like being in an African jungle. And you couldn't fly there or drive there; just getting in was arduous enough. But he loved the work, and he was very optimistic about his research."
"I'm sorry, but wasn't there a road? I mean, couldn't you have flown to New Orleans, traveled to Pascagoula, then driven up the road parallel to the river?"
"Well, there was, until the Army Engineers destroyed it."
"They destroyed it?"
"They cut it off. I suppose it had to do with security. Possibly they were worried about German or Japanese spies, or inquiring newspaper men, or whatever. But they went to a great deal of trouble to isolate it."
This was new. The people in the area believed the road had just been destroyed naturally. But now the government was destroying it, to protect whatever Dr. Stone was working on.
Sam wrote down this development.
"Do you know, exactly, what it was he was studying?"
"You know, I haven't a head for medicine. I believe it was malarial virus work of some sort. He may have explained it to me at one point or other, but if I understood it then, I honestly can't say I do today."
"Did he ever specify the exact nature of the work? I mean, was he treating patients? Was he examining blood? Was he looking for cures and running a medicine test of some sort?"
"As I understand it, they had volunteers who agreed to be infected with various strains so that their progress could be monitored and cures tried. The whole point was to do it quickly, to arrive at some kind of cure or medical protocol years in advance of the normal techniques. It was very accelerated, that I know."
"Would they have used prisoners?"
"I'm sure they were volunteers, Mr. Vincent. It would be very dangerous work, and you couldn't possibly force a man to risk his health, his body, his life like that, now could you?"
"No, ma'am. Well, then, would he have sent back photographs of any sort?
I'm looking for a way to document the changes at Thebes Penal Farm."
"No, Mr. Vincent. David was not a photographer, I'm afraid. He was caught up entirely in his work."
"I see." "Now," she said, "there were letters. Lots of letters."
Sam swallowed and hoped he didn't give away both his surprise and his idiocy for not having come up with this possibility on his own. He finally said, "I suppose you've got them?"
"Of course, Mr. Vincent."
"Would it be all right if―"
"Of course, "she said.
IN the dark, men breathed heavily as they snored through sleep painfully earned. Some farted away the pressures of a bean-rich diet, some moaned in pain or dread, and occasionally someone cried out from the unconscious but far more pleasant other world for a Rosie or a Mama or an Alberta.
But e
ven in this darkness there were gradients in the shadings, as there always were in any darkness. That deeper patch over there, was it the shape of a man, prowling, hunting? Or was it a discoloration on the wall, the play of obscure shadow? That small ticking sound: the ancient timbers settling yet again, another tiny degree? Or a man opening a secret pocketknife to do some powerful cutting?
He watched, waiting for movement, waiting for some indication of assault, trying to control his breathing.
Earl had slipped from his bed an hour after lights out, and oozed with a sniper's patience slowly along the floor an inch or so at a time, until he crouched a few feet from the mattress where he'd been sleeping these past nights. He was in his underwear but had his heavy work boots on. He tried to be soundless as he cocked his legs for a spring and readied himself for a fight.
He even had a weapon, for he could not fight in the dark without one.
It was a knot of branch, secreted into his pants late in the day, heavy for clubbing, pointed and broken for stabbing.
But what if they didn't come tonight?
If they didn't, he'd lose the sleep and he'd never gain it back; the work in the hole was grinding him down inexorably, and he could feel his strength ebbing. And with his strength, his will was going.
He'd been thinking about one thing: escape.
But it seemed impossible.
The problem wasn't the fences or the guns or even the swamp; he could slide under the fence, he could evade the guns, he could navigate the swamp. He'd already figured two ways to escape the barracks at night.
No, the problem was those goddamn dogs, who'd hunt him down long before he could reach the only fair chance at escape, which was the river.
Before, he'd been able to plan, to build traps and switchbacks to throw the hounds off. No chance of that here: he'd be blind in the swamp, and the dogs would be on him in no time.
Yet that wasn't the worst. He knew the worst: it was that each day he was here, he lost a little strength, a little spirit, a little hope. He had to move soon or he'd never move. It was too much. It was horrible.
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