The Saints of Swallow Hill(18)

He found a bucket, pulled the possum out of the stove, and dumped it in that. He shut the door to the shack, hurried down on the steps, noticing the turpentine work was starting back up. He tossed the possum into the woods, set the bucket inside his fence, and headed toward the voices echoing in a singsong like chant off in the distance. It was an old familiar rhythm he recollected from earlier times and as he came closer, call names like Sweet Thang, Big Time, and Dew Drop almost made him smile. There was usually meaning behind the names, nonsensical to anyone who didn’t do the work, but they delivered a hint of the owner’s personality, their dreams, their special loves, or whatever struck them. For the woods riders, or tally men, it was how they kept up with what was being done by each man. In between were snatches of songs. Near to the woods, he took note of a vacant section already worked and the timber cut. In the cleared area, in a remote spot away from the camp, was something he’d never seen. A wooden box sat in the hot sun, an oddity against the backdrop of nature. About the same length as a coffin, that’s exactly what it resembled. He’d heard of something like this being used as a disciplinary measure. It was called a sweatbox and for good reason.

Curious, Del looked around, then trotted over to it. He noted how the weather had allowed cracks in the wood. He squatted down and peered through them only to stand back up quick, startled by bloodshot, wild-looking eyes blinking at him. He backed away, then heard a scrape, and a soft whisper.

He said, “Hey. You all right?”

It came again, a whispered request. “Water.”

Who did they have in there, and what had he done? The nearest well was back the way he’d come, but he had to try to do something.

He said, “Hang on.”

Whoever was inside moaned. Del hustled along the path and slowed down at the sight of his new boss ahead.

Crow called out, “Hey! What’re you doing?”

Del pointed back at the box. “Thought I heard something.”

“That ain’t none of your business.”

Del didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, and changed the subject.

He said, “I just got hired, working for you, actually. I’m ready to start if you got something for me. I’ll chip, tack tin, dip gum, it don’t matter much to me.”

Crow raised his eyebrows and said, “What? That’s nigra work.”

Del felt compelled to explain. “Mr. Taylor, Peewee, said he ain’t looking for no boss men, and he said I could do what I wanted.”

He and Del assessed each other for a second or two, then Crow said, “Follow me.”

He took off, and Del fell in behind him, giving one last apologetic look over his shoulder. Neither of them spoke the entire time it took to get to the crop of longleaf. Once there, Del noticed the cleared bases and slashes on trunks to identify where to work. Crow retrieved a tool from a burlap bag near a tree and handed it to him.

He said, “What’s your call name gonna be?”

Del considered the question for a second, then said, “Butler.”

Crow scribbled it on a pad and said, “Show me.”

Del walked over to stand near the trunk of a longleaf pine, the strips of bark taken out previously beginning to reveal the telltale catface. It had been a while since he’d wielded a bark hack. He turned it so the sharp edge would hit the tree, and struck once above an old streak. The method came back to him quick. He swiped to the right. This created a new slash above the last. He moved it to the other side and did the same, the two streaks now meeting in that distinctive chevron. The newly made marks allowed gum to run toward the tin gutters positioned to guide the thick, syrupy runoff into a clay cup. He recognized the clay cups and gutters as a new technique invented by a man with the last name of Herty, known as the Herty system.

He pointed at a clay cup and said, “I’ve heard of this, but ain’t never seen no one using it. Some’s still using the box method.”

Crow lifted his gaze from his tally book and for the first time seemed interested in conversing. “I recommended it. I don’t like cutting boxes at the base of a tree. It tends to make’em go weak, makes’em susceptible to falling over during storms. Bad enough when a lumber company comes in to tear’em down, but ain’t no need in not giving the tree a chance, especially if there’s a better way.”

Del nodded. It made perfect sense to him. He moved to the next tree, working at waist level, where it was easy to leverage the tool so it wouldn’t go too deep. By the time he’d chipped his fifth tree, Crow left him to work alone, moving to a central vantage point so he could track Del and the others as they called out. Del saw this as a good sign. He timed how long it took him to complete chipping a catface, including walking to the next tree. Twenty seconds. That was three every minute. He’d have 720 by the end of the four hours. It might be good enough, but he could go faster, get 800 maybe.

He shouted, “Butler!” over and over, his voice blending with the others he couldn’t see, though he knew they were spread out in the other wooded areas.

After an hour, his clothes were soaked. He hadn’t seen any water carriers yet. They were often colored women or boys who went around with a bucket and a ladle. He kept working while thinking about that feller trapped in the box. It had to be like being buried alive. Hell, like being in the grain bin. An occasional puff of wind brought a few seconds of respite, and he hoped the man could at least feel it too, but most of the time, the air was perfectly still, not even a pine needle moving. Water finally came by way of a reticent, dark-skinned boy who refused to look at Del. He had thin scars running across the backs of his legs.