The Black Train

1861

“Good work, men!” Morris barked to slaves and white men alike. He stood before the work site on the back of the rear guiding car for the pallet train. Then he shielded his eyes and looked down the line as dusk approached. “I say it looks to me like some mighty good work! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Poltrock?”

Poltrock stood aside, distracted. He was looking at the numbers: how many iron track rails and fish-bolt plates the crew had consumed since last Friday. Can that be right?

Morris grinned at him, hands on hips. “I guess Mr. Poltrock didn’t hear me—” All the rest of the men, the Negroes included, laughed.

Poltrock snapped out of it. “Yes, Mr. Morris. Perhaps even better than mighty fine…”

Morris’s long hair lifted in a breeze. “Until Sunday mornin’ then”—one of the strong-armers clanged the bell —“we are all off shift!”

Roughly a hundred and fifty men disbanded from their ranks, shining in sweat, bent by fatigue, but cheering as they broke away for the campsites. The bell clanged on, jarring Poltrock’s brain.

“End of another week.” Morris rubbed his hands together. “Hard to believe we’re deep in Georgia territory now. Goin’ on four years, ain’t it? Seems like ’bout six, eight months, if you ask me.”

Poltrock barely heard him. Only then did he notice a long side-knife in a tin scabbard flapping on Morris’s hip. “Mr. Morris, what is that thing on your hip? Looks part sword, part D-guard knife.”

The blade whispered when Morris unsheathed the fourteen-inch tool. “It’s called a saber-bayonet, sir. Fancy, ain’t it? It’s made’a folded steel from the Kenansville Armory. They add somethin’ called chromium to the metal— shit won’t rust even if ya leave it in a bucket’a water overnight. And the brass hilt’s so hard you can use it for a hammer.”

“Why’s a crew chief need a knife that long?”

“Don’t really need it at all—” Morris turned the blade till it flashed. “It’s just…pretty, I guess. Women got their fussy jewelry, but men got their guns and knives, I suppose.”

The point had never crossed Poltrock’s mind, but it was novel. “Now that you mention it, I guess I feel much the same ’bout my Colt .36,” he said, and gestured to the revolver on his hip. “Don’t have much real use for it neither, not with this army of strong-armers Mr. Gast’s hired on. If the slaves were gonna rebel, they’d’ve tried that a long time ago.”

“They’d have to be crazy to rebel,” Morris said. “They’ll be free men when we’re done. A’course, there are still some Indians who get their dander up. All of us’d be wise to always carry somethin’ for protection.”

“Forearmed is forewarned…Or is it the other way around?”

“Speakin’ of Indians—” Morris peered out past the work site.

Poltrock saw some figures straggling toward them.

“Beggars, probably. Or maybe some whores for tonight,” Morris presumed. “But gettin’ back to what we were talkin’ ’bout—time’s goin’ by so fast. I wanted to ask how many miles’a track have we laid so far? Bet we’re surely past 350, don’tcha think?”

“I only add the monthlies up twice a year, but—shit—yeah. Fast as it seems we’re goin’ we could be close to 350. We could be.”

“You fixin’ to count up the week now?”

“Yes, but don’t let Mr. Fecory leave till I get back. Probably take me a half hour.”

“I’ll tell him,” Morris said. He was squinting at the slow approaching figures. “It’ll take him more than that to pay the white crew anyhow.” Now Morris slapped some dust from his beard. “And I am ready for some whiskey tonight. How ’bout you?”

Poltrock closed his notebook, still perplexed by his numbers. “What’s that? Oh, yeah, maybe…”

Mr. Gast gave everyone Saturday off, but Poltrock often wondered about the man’s choice of days.

Sunday was the typical day of rest.

Nevertheless, things could get fairly wild. Whiskey was brought in, and several head of cattle. And some squaws were allowed on the grounds, too. Eshquas, they were called. Mr. Gast didn’t mind some whore tents being set up for Friday nights, for the whites to use to relieve their tensions.

Poltrock’s mind snagged on something. “Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, I remember the quartermaster tellin’ me earlier that no whiskey had been delivered today. I didn’t see any supply train come in earlier, did you?”

“Damned to hell. No, I didn’t.” Morris appeared as though a bad taste had come into his mouth.

“I know that a coupla times, Mr. Gast bought kegs of whiskey from the nearby towns. Don’t make sense to train it in from home every week—”

“In Georgia? Shit, Mr. Poltrock. Georgia don’t know from whiskey any more than goddamn Massachusetts knows from cotton.”

Poltrock smiled, perhaps for the first time in a week. “I guarantee, after a week’a hard work like this, it’ll do just fine.”

“I hope you’re right. Probably tastes like somethin’ from a piss barrel.” Morris sighed, putting a closer eye on the figures coming forward. “But a coupla whores will surely get the ticket. Here come some now, I’d say.”

Poltrock could see them even in the dimming light: some Indian women in stitched leggings and sleeveless yokes fashioned from tattered hide. Their eyes looked huge on flinty faces. “Just what kind’a Indians are they anyway?”

“Nanticoke,” Morris answered. “They was mainly in Maryland until the state militias killed ’em off ’bout fifty years ago. Most of ’em headed north—and froze to death—but some of ’em drifted south. Georgia gave ’em some reservations just like they done up in New York with the Iroquois. Some’a these here squaws look damn good, too. They fuck for ten cents and a swig, then take the money back to their men.” Morris rocked on his tiptoes a moment. “Yes, sir, I’ll have my cock in some’a that tonight.”

Poltrock had to credit the strange women for their resilience at least. He counted exactly four of them, and he knew they’d be taking on fifty horny white men till late tomorrow night. A lot of the men would go four or five times. Like Morris, he knew. Morris had a thing for whores. A lot of the men did.

“Look at that ’un there,” Morris said. “That’s the one I’se gettin’ first…”

Poltrock squinted. It was easy to tell which squaw Morris was highlighting. Three looked older and weatherworn, but a fourth appeared quite a bit younger and more endowed. The girl/woman’s breasts were so large they strained the rawhide strings that held the yoke together.

“That’s some tits on that Injun, huh, Mr. Poltrock?” Morris made the useless query. “A fella could do all kinds’a things with some tits like that.” Morris waved mockingly at the girl, and said under his breath, “Hey there, ya dirty little bitch. You’s’ll be all full up with my spunk a right shortly.”

Poltrock felt tired, and maybe coming down with a cold. He didn’t share his colleague’s lusty zeal at all.

“Here comes Cutton,” Morris noticed.

“I need to talk to him,” Poltrock said, and stepped down off the guiding car.

“Afternoon to ya, Mr. Poltrock,” the younger man greeted. “Or—damn—I should say good evenin’! Where the days been goin’ lately?”

Poltrock pulled out a panatela that he was entitled to from Mr. Gast’s private stock. They came all the way from Florida. Before he could reach for a match, Cutton had one burning for him.

“Thank you,” he puffed. “And I wanted to ask you somethin’, Mr. Cutton.” He held up his record book. “We seem to be goin’ through rail and fish bolts a right fast. Did somebody increase the order for the last shipment?”

Cutton nodded, then took a chew of tobacco himself. “Yes, sir, they did.”

“Who? The supply master?”

“No, sir. Mr. Gast. He mentioned to me—oh, I’m not exactly sure when—but he said he’d been bringin’ in 10 or 15 percent more the past coupla weeks. Rail, too, a’course. There’s a new iron works in Kentucky he’s buyin’ it from, he told me. Tredegar’s runnin’ ’cos the clock makin’ cannons in case there’s a war.”

Poltrock filtered out the useless details. “Ten to fifteen percent more? No wonder my figures didn’t seem