The Saints of Swallow Hill(48)

He laughed at his little play on words before snapping the whip at her. It struck her right shoulder, barely grazing it, and she couldn’t help but let out a little yelp. She understood immediately how she sounded. Not like a man. Crow looked at the others in surprise, and when he turned back to her, he moved his arm back, readying it to strike again. The workers appeared as stunned as she was.

I ain’t a man! I’m a woman! The truth almost flew out of her mouth, only there was something about the fact she was alone. With all these men. Could she trust any one of them? She could Ballard, but he was dead. Del Reese and Peewee might be fine, but they weren’t here. Crow raised his eyebrows, whip poised, waiting on her to speak. Something ran down the shoulder he’d struck, whether sweat or blood, she didn’t know, but she knew she didn’t want to be whipped.

Careful with her tone, she said to no one in particular, “I been doing the best I can.”

A few men behind Crow shook their heads as Crow guffawed, slapping a hand on his thigh. He pointed at her with the handle of the whip.

“He says he’s doing his best. What y’all think?”

Discomfited, they fell silent.

Crow said, “Aw, come on. We done discussed how y’all go out in the woods every day, make your numbers, and here’s this young whippersnapper coming along, thinking he can do like he wants. He needs a taste of this, or the box.”

Rae Lynn said, “It ain’t true. I . . .”

Crow said, “What? You what?”

“I’ll take the box.”

Crow narrowed his eyes. He turned to the work hands and pointed at her.

“What y’all reckon? Is that fair?”

They mumbled, but it was hard to tell what they said. This was all new territory, and they were unused to having much say about anything, particularly when it came to the business of white men. It was usually taboo for them to speak out against one. Crow looked disgusted.

“Let me clarify it for y’all. What we got here is a shirker. Something else I can’t abide. Come on, now’s your chance. Speak up!”

Finally, someone from the back said, “Three days is what we get.”

Crow grinned big at Rae Lynn.

“Walk,” he said.

Rae Lynn did as she was told and made her way toward the camp while Crow whistled a tune, like this trouble made him happy. She contemplated running. She looked to the left, and to the right. Nothing but trees, and more trees. There was swampland to the east, filled with patches of tea-colored water and cypress trees. What lay to the west was probably more of the same. She plodded along, going slow, hoping Del Reese and Peewee would come back, but delivering such news to a family couldn’t be done quick. Behind her Crow carried on like he had not a care in the world. She was developing an intense dislike for the man, but her fear was even bigger. She’d gone and got herself into a real mess here. No one else she knew of could stop what was happening. She heard hammering from the cooper’s shed, and this was met with the distinct odor of wood smoke from the distillery. Meanwhile, a mockingbird sang from a nearby tree, and cicadas worked themselves into a frenzy, their buzzing ending on a pulsing drone, only to begin again.

The heavy air was laden with the sharp scents of pitch, tar, turpentine, and the sweat of men as they went along the path. Soon enough, she saw it, appearing as inoffensive as any other wooden structure unless you understood the use. Some ways away, a handful of colored women went about the business of ending the day. She focused on them and slowed down more, until Crow prodded her in the back.

“Keep moving, kid.”

The sight of it, the knowledge of no food or water, or any way to take care of the most basic needs, was enough to make her consider trying to run again, or tell him she’d changed her mind, to whip her instead.

“Kin I have some water before I get in?”

It came out rough with emotion, and she figured at this point she had nothing to lose.

Crow mocked her.

“A drink of water?” And then with more incredulity, “A drink of water?” He turned to his workers, “Does anybody ever get a drink of water?”

There was no answer, only the scuffling of feet, like they were uncomfortable facing what they all feared. Like they wished they could get on home, get to their suppers, forget what was happening.

Crow said, “It ain’t only about them numbers, boy. It’s about getting out of line with nature, same as I told your buddy, Del Reese. Now, why don’t you hop on in and get comfortable.”

As she faced the moment of truth, she spoke her mind. “He ain’t gonna take kindly to you telling one a his men what to do. It ain’t your job.”

Crow hooted. “Hell, he ain’t gonna know. He’s gonna think you run off. Ain’t that the way of it, men? Let me hear you say it, ’cause if I catch any one of you nigras telling anybody about this, you won’t last long. I’ll see to it.”

The work hands stood in a semicircle around the box, and other than the insects zipping around them, nothing moved. Each man was as still as a stone on the ground, the stark fear evident on their faces, whether for her, for themselves, maybe both. There wasn’t any choice here. She could do nothing but get in. A tornado of bottle flies flew out. She swatted them away, sat, and tried not to stare at the stains of unknown origin, tried not to think about what they were, why they were there. She took her hat off and placed it where her head would rest.