The Black Train

CHAPTER EIGHT I

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 right…”

“The men are workin’ hard, so far as I can see. If you were a slave with freedom at the end of the line, wouldn’t you work extra hard?”

“Yes, I surely would—” Poltrock scratched his ear. Hard work was one thing. But…this? He knew he’d need to work the numbers again. This could be very interesting…

“Would you round up my horse, please, Mr. Cutton? I’m going to go count the rails.”

“Yes, sir. We all know it’s Friday when Mr. Poltrock counts the rails. Sure I can’t be of assistance to ya?”

“No, no, it’s somethin’ I need to do by myself.”

“I’ll fetch your horse…”

Cutton jogged off. Morris cut him a silent grin, then climbed down himself. “What’s that about fish bolts, Mr. Poltrock?”

“Oh, nothing. Probably just some bad accounting.”

A big man with a pistol in his hand followed a small man in a red derby. Mr. Fecory, Poltrock saw. Fecory’s face looked shriveled, and his odd gold nose flashed.

“Well, I say hey there, Mr. Fecory!” Morris greeted loudly.

“Mr. Morris,” the little man replied. He nodded as if he had a kink in his neck, and carried a leather suitcase that everyone knew was full of cash. “Are you happy to see me, or just happy that it’s payday?”

“Why, I’m happy to see you, sir!”

“Um-hmm.” The weaselish man nodded to Poltrock, too.

“I don’t suppose you could just slip Mr. Poltrock and me our pay right now so’s we don’t have to wait in line,” Morris gestured next.

“I am certain, Mr. Morris, that you work as hard as everybody else; therefore, you can wait in line—like everybody else.”

“I knew you’d say that…”

Fecory dipped a finger up and down like a teacher. “This isn’t a chow line, you know. You need to sign your receipt, sir, just like—”

“Everybody else,” Morris finished. “Shit,” he muttered to Poltrock after the paymaster crossed the track toward the camp.

“We’re in no hurry, Mr. Morris,” Poltrock reminded.

“I know, sir. It’s just that we’se rail men—we live for our Fridays, and I can tell you that I am all riled up for some drinkin’ and carryin’-on.”

Poltrock was no different from any man, but since he’d signed on with Gast, he seemed to notice some conflict within himself. He barely drank on Fridays—hadn’t in months—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d solicited a whore. Even during the three-day respites Gast granted them the first of every month—sometimes Poltrock would retreat to the bunkhouse and recheck his inventory book, leaving the revel to everyone else. Guess I’m just gettin’ old, he told himself too often, or was it something more? Behind his spirit, something glowered, as if to whisper, This is all wrong and you know it. You ain’t the Christian your fine upright parents raised. They’d be ashamed…

Would they? What was it?

Morris’s mood was feisty as always, but his eyes looked dark. Poltrock didn’t know if it was his imagination but sometimes the eyes of the other men shined in a dull brown-yellow cast…

“And you can bet,” Morris continued, “that I am lookin’ forward to the next respite.”

“Ain’t even been two weeks since the last one,” Poltrock reminded him. “Honestly, Mr. Morris, you’re like a kid in a rock candy shop.”

Morris’s grin sharpened. “Yeah, but it ain’t candy that this rail man needs to get his hands on.” Morris was about to say something else, but then his eyes shot wide. “What the hell?”

“Something wrong?”

“Look at that there—that strong-armer—”

One of Gast’s big security men seemed to be rousting the four squaws, waving them off and yelling, “Not tonight! Get your asses out’a here!”

“What the hell’s he doin’ runnin’ off our whores!” Morris exclaimed. “Hey, you there! Don’t run them Injun girls off! We need ’em for tonight!”

The strong-armer held his long rifle out like a barricade. “Mr. Gast’s orders, sir,” he shouted back. “No whore tents tonight, and no whiskey…”

Morris was outraged, his anticipations punctured.

“You heard him,” Poltrock said.

“Well—damn it all! It’s Friday! It ain’t like we don’t deserve it, hard as we worked this week. Why’s Mr. Gast cancelin’ our fun?”

“’cos he’s the boss, so the reason don’t matter.”

The squaws jabbered back in their own language, clearly irate.

“I said get out!”

Another security man rushed to assist. “Dahdeeya!” he yelled at the women, and pointed back to the range. “Nahah!”

Finally, the women got it, and began to skulk back the way they came.

“Aw, ain’t that a bust in the chops,” Morris lamented. “Now I might not never have a turn with that bigtitter…”

I wonder why Gast ordered them off, Poltrock thought. The sound of slow hooves grabbed his attention; Cutton was walking his horse over. “Here she is, sir.” He dismounted and passed the reins to Poltrock. “Too bad ’bout Mr. Gast callin’ off the Friday cookout’n all. Hope he ain’t disappointed with our work of late.”

“So you heard about it, too,” Poltrock said. “I’m a bit curious myself. It’s looking to me like this might’ve been one of our most productive weeks.”

“Feels like it in my bones, at least.” Cutton smiled forlornly. “Sure you don’t want me to help ya count rail, sir?”

“No.”

“Okay, then, Mr. Poltrock. I’m off to get my pay, not that I got anything to spend it on with no whores or whiskey tonight.” Cutton flagged Morris. “Come on, Morris! Let’s get in the pay line less’n we’ll be standin’ at the end of it!”

The two men departed. Poltrock could see across the track where Fecory and his security bulldog had set up the pay station. A rowdy line formed fast.

Poltrock walked his horse off. Was there something strange in the air tonight? In a sense, there always was; he could never put his finger on it.

Two younger white laborers bantered as they unloaded boxes of spikes from a ten-foot handcar. “So he told me he could see her up there in the window, prancin’ ’cos stark nekit.”

“Yeah?” the other kid said with a pervert’s leer.

“Said it looked like she were talkin’ to someone in the room, but he knowed that Mr. Gast was down South on the line—’bout the same time we startin’ laying the first track across the border—so he got to thinkin’—”

“If her husband ain’t in town, who’s she talkin’ to?” the second kid calculated.

“Yeah, and nekit ta boot!”

Poltrock hadn’t been listening at first, but as the boy yakked on, he halted the horse and canted an ear.

“And he already had a few in him when the shift broke and went to Cusher’s, so’s next thing he knowed, he’s climbin’ the trellis up to the balcony.”

“No!”

“Ain’t lyin’. Then he get up there’n looks in.”

“Well, damn, come on! What he see?”

The storyteller lowered his voice behind a sharp grin. “She’s buck nekit, all right’n; then she sits down in a big fancy armchair drinkin’ some wine and she’s sittin’ there with her legs spread, and ya knows what?”

“What? What!”

“She was all shaved down there. Not a single hair on her pussy nowheres.”

“You’re lyin’, Jory!”

“’S’the truth, so help me! And whiles she’s sittin there talkin’ to whoever it were she was talkin’ to, she gets to playin’ with herself a bit…”

“Aw, shit, man, I can’t stand it—”

“Then finally—” He leaned closer. “Finally, she walks over to the bed’n gets to fuckin’ a fella, like, real hard…and that’s when he seed that it was one’a the slaves.”

“Oh, man…What he do? Did he tell?”

“HELL, no, ya dimwit! If he done that he’d have to ’splain what he was doin’ up on Mrs. Gast’s balcony in the first place.”

“They’d put him in a pillory fer that, fer a week at least.”

“Think he didn’t know that? So, shit, he couldn’t say nothin’. But he did stay’n watch a whiles, and the—”

“You men!” Poltrock yelled. Both laborers looked up in dread. “You stop that trash talk right now, and stop it for good, you hear me?”

“Yuh-yes, sir, Mr. Poltrock. We was just—”

“Bullshit. You’re spreadin’ dirty, undignified talk like a coupla crackers, you were.” Poltrock jabbed one in the chest with his finger. “You don’t talk like that ever again. You don’t say nothin’ like that, to no one! Never! Things’re hard enough out here, and we don’t need no slander’n barroom talk. You boys are bein’ paid well so don’t you be disrepectin’ the fine man who’s payin’ you. Less’n you want me to tell him myself.”

One boy looked close to tears, while the other stammered, “Oh, no, no, sir, Mr. Poltrock, please don’t do that—”

“I’ve a mind to.”

“Please, please, by God we won’t never say nothin’ like that ag—”

“The strong-armers’d put a nine-tails across both your backs, then ya’d be fired and banished with no way to get back to Tennessee. You’d have to go live in the woods with the Injuns’n eat dog meat and grubs, and that’s only if they decides not to scalp your dumb white ass and eat you.”

“We swear, sir, we swear to God on high, we’se’ll never talk no trash like that again.”

“Ya best not. Now stack those fuckin’ boxes’a spikes and git into that pay line.”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, yes, sir—”

Poltrock mounted his horse, glared at them, then headed down the line. Put the fear’a God in ’em at least. He’d heard much of the same, though; the work site was a rumor mill, and so was the town, whether the entire crew was on respite or not. A number of men had been executed for daring to take a chance with the promiscuous Mrs. Gast. Then Poltrock thought, Mrs. Tinkle…He’d heard those rumors, too, and had even smelled piss anytime he’d had occasion to be in the house.

He cleared it from his head, taking the horse slowly north. It was time to get his mind off all the things that had been bothering him for the last four years—all the things he knew were wrong…

pullin’ two miles plus per week, Poltrock realized. His eyes followed the track, subconsciously counting each piece of rail. He’d done this every Friday night since 1857 when they’d started. Even the horse knew the task; it maintained a slow gait up the track bed as its master sat in the saddle, counting. Every so often, he jotted down the figures in his book, then blinked. This is some progress. Last week, we did 2.4 miles, and this week…

Poltrock pulled the horse to a stop at the sound of faster hooves. The Indians had been pacified in these parts, yet he’d already unholstered his .36-caliber Colt just in case. The sun was almost gone now, but after a moment he could see who it was: Morris.

“Hold up there, Mr. Poltrock!” Morris waved. Did he have a rider with him? “Just somethin’ I wanted to ask…”

Poltrock wasn’t interested. “Have you seen Mr. Gast?”

“Why, no, sir—”

“So you haven’t heard the reason for him cancelin’ the usual Friday night festivities…”

“No, sir, I ain’t, but—” Morris seemed giddy about something, and that’s when Poltrock noticed that he was indeed sharing his horse’s back with another rider.

That squaw…

The young Indian woman held fast around Morris’s waist.

“I caught up to them Injun whores ’fore they could get back to their reservation, and plucked me up this ’un here.”

“So I see,” Poltrock replied.

“Couldn’t stand the idea of a Friday night goin’ by without a whore.” Morris pulled alongside and stopped. “Ten cents a roll is what she charges, same as them other ones who’re older’n ugly…”

Poltrock couldn’t have been less in the mood, yet his eyes flicked up all the same. The squaw hugged against Morris’s back, shapely legs splayed, smooth unscarred skin showing in the wide-stitched seams of her leggings. Her bosom was overflowing in the deerskin yoke.

“She’s a looker, ain’t she, sir?” Morris acted like a dog bringing its owner a bone. He dismounted quickly, the long knife on his hip flapping, then lifted the girl down. “I mean, sir, you really need to see what she got under here,” he said, and then yanked open the yoke.

He turned her like a display piece. The desirousness of her youth seemed to glow beneath the smudged skin. The bare breasts raved, large as a pair of baby heads but buoyant, big nipples puckered up like dark gooseflesh.

Morris jiggled a breast with his hand. “Ain’t that somethin’, sir? I mean, have you ever seen a pair like these? Oh, and this is even better—” Morris twirled her around, pushed her pants down to bare her rump.

Morris whistled. “Shee-IT! Would you look at that!”

The girl knew what was going on; she leaned forward to intensify the display. Her rump was large and shapely, but tight, bereft of a single blemish.

“For the life’a me, Mr. Poltrock, I can’t tell which is better, her tits or her ass!”

Poltrock felt confounded. “Mr. Morris, did you bring that woman damn near two miles down the track bed just to show me her bosom and ass?”

“Well, I mean, I’se plannin’ on havin’ some fun with this ’un more than a few times, but since you’re my boss, I thought I’d offer you first crack.”

Amazing. “I appreciate your professional courtesy,” Poltrock responded. “That’s quite considerate—” Then his eyes went from the Indian woman’s fresh bosom to her face.

Wide, shining eyes on a dirty face. Wantonness reflected back through a smile that could only be described as counterfeit.

“No, no thank you, Mr. Morris,” Poltrock eventually said. “I’m not feelin’ up to it tonight. Got to finish counting these rails.”

“Aw, you sure, Mr. Poltrock?” Morris ran his hands over the plush rump. “This is prime stuff.”

“She is quite a handsome girl, Mr. Morris, but still, I must decline. You go have your fun now.”

Morris shrugged, astounded by his superior’s rejection. “Whatever you say, sir.” He looked aside and spotted a clearing in the high brush. “Right here, I say…I got me couple’a squaws last week in this selfsame place.” Morris shoved the girl toward the clearing, tying his horse off to a slim tree. Poltrock just shook his head as they disappeared behind the brush.

That’s one randy man, he thought, then gently stirrupped his horse. He continued down the track bed and resumed counting.

The figures still weren’t adding up. He’d built railroads all over the country, and he knew full well what a certain number of men could lay in a certain period of time. He knew that the marker for the beginning of the week must be coming up soon…

The horse shimmied; Poltrock looked up at the sudden tremble. A distant, rising roar; then the tracks began to vibrate, and at last, the sound of a steam whistle.

Poltrock knew a train was coming. He guided his horse off the track bed, then steadied it at the tree line. “Easy, easy now.” He tried to calm the animal, all the while thinking, The pallet train’s still at the end of the line. What’s THIS train coming?

The ground shook; it was all Poltrock could do to keep his horse from bucking. In moments, a very fast train tore by. It was back-riding; in other words, the engine was pushing the cars rather than pulling them. Poltrock had only a few seconds to count one coal hopper, five passenger cars, and a guide car up front. It was gone moments later in a great wake of dust and concussion, and in another minute he could hear its whistle blowing again as it slowed to stop at the work site.

What the hell’s goin’ on? He couldn’t imagine why Gast would bring up another train when their own supply haul was still parked at the site.

He supposed he’d find out in due time. He let his horse calm down a few minutes more, then continued to count the last rails of their week of work.

The sun had just sunk behind the mountain when Poltrock got to the red-flagged stake he’d sunk exactly one week ago. He had to focus on his figures now, so he dismounted and tied his horse off. He lit an oil lantern he’d brought along, then sat down on the very first piece of rail that had been spiked last Friday.

Jesus Lord, he thought, staring at his notebook.

It was just simple math, and by now he’d gone over the week’s numbers at least five times. Every single piece of rail was exactly twenty-two feet and six inches long. There could be no irregularities.

He was never aware of the figure looming over him.

“Working by lamplight,” the voice intoned. “A sign of diligence, I must say.”

Poltrock’s heart jolted. He looked up in shock.

It was Mr. Gast looking down at him from his great white steed.

“The rest of the men are preparing for revel, but you, Mr. Poltrock, are here working the numbers past dusk. I do not forget the men who give me their very best work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gast,” Poltrock uttered.

“I feel great things, wonderful things tonight.” The low moon was rising just behind Gast’s head, cutting his features in blade-sharp blackness. The steed stood still as a statue. “Do you have the week’s account for me yet, or have I interrupted you?”

Poltrock stood up and dusted himself off. “No, sir, in fact you’ve arrived at the perfect time. I have indeed finished my account of this week’s work, and…”

“And?”

Poltrock sighed. “I don’t know how to say this, Mr. Gast, but unless the rail you’re buyin’ is shorter than it’s supposed to be, we done laid 3.1 miles of track this week.”

A pause. Gast’s high silhouette didn’t move. “That’s outstanding.”

It’s either outstanding or just plain impossible, Poltrock thought to himself. “For the past two years, in fact, the crew’s been layin’ a minimum of a quarter mile extra per week, and some weeks more, like a half mile or sixtenths. Last week we laid a full mile more than quota, and now this week…” Poltrock stared at the numbers in his book. “An extra 1.2 miles. Just in one week.”

Gast’s voice was like a low throb. “What does this mean, Mr. Poltrock?”

“It means several things, sir. For one, it means that each man workin’ for you is doin’ the job of two. And when you add it all up, since we started, we’re fifty or sixty miles ahead of schedule.”

More silence. Silence was how Harwood Gast showed his jubilation. All he said was: “Thank you, sir.”

Poltrock stowed his book back in the saddlebag. “Mr. Gast, what was that train I just saw flyin’ by here a little while ago? We ain’t scheduled for no deliveries anytime soon, and, besides, it looked like a passenger train.”

“It is. I just bought it from the yards in Pittsburgh. It’ll move thirty miles an hour, they say.”

“I believe it, sir. So you’ll be going back home tonight for a visit?”

“Yes, and so will we all. I’ve decided to give the men another respite. The men deserve it…as you’ve just verified with your spectacular account of their progress.”

Well…Poltrock could use some rest. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Gast. We was all wonderin’ why the usual Friday night cookout’n all was canceled.”

“The train boards in a hour, Mr. Poltrock, and it will be takin’ us all back to Gast for a week of relaxation. Why, I haven’t even seen my own wife and children in several months. And as fast as that new steam car goes? We’ll be back home before noon tomorrow.”

“That’s great news, Mr. Gast. The men will be beside themselves.”

“So you best get back to the site soon, Mr. Poltrock. Oh, and here…A token of my appreciation for your work thus far.”

Poltrock took a small leather case from him. “Why, uh, thank you, sir.”

Gast looked to the stars. “Good things will continue to befall us, Mr. Poltrock. I can feel it down to the roots of my very soul. I can see it in the stars…”

Maybe he’s been drinkin’, Poltrock mused. The man sounded wild, loony even. But now that he thought of it, Poltrock had never once seen Mr. Gast take a drink.

“It’s the night for it, I can tell,” Gast went on with his obtuse talk. He looked once more down at Poltrock. “Yes!” he whispered. “Tonight!”

Gast turned his horse and trotted off.

Poltrock shook his head after the man. Well ain’t that the damnedest…He hefted the leather case.

When he looked inside, he couldn’t even speak.

The case contained five stout cigars, an ink pen studded with diamonds, and $500 in cash.

My God…

It was a fortune, added to the lofty salary he was already being paid. When this is over, I’m going to be a very rich man, and I owe it all to…Mr. Gast.

He climbed back on his horse and headed back to the site.

It’s the night for it, I can tell, Gast’s words came back to him.

A mile or so down, the horse stopped for no reason. “What’s the matter? Come on, I got a train to catch.” he said. But then he realized exactly where he was.

He was looking to the left, into a little clearing in the side brush.

That’s where Morris took the Injun girl…

Something compelled him to dismount, and he never even considered what it might be. Next, he was walking into the clearing, his oil lamp raised.

Morris must have already left; Poltrock could hear nothing within. When he entered farther, he stopped and stared.

He wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first. It was the girl, he could tell, but…

Something didn’t seem right.

The girl lay naked. He could see the backs of her legs, the bottoms of her bare feet, as well as her buttocks, which Morris had fussed about so.

But…Poltrock could also see her breasts…

He stepped closer. His cognizant mind shut off when he leaned over to see what had been done. Indeed, the well-endowed Indian girl lay on her belly. He need only lift her shoulder to realize exactly what Morris had used that fancy bayonet for.

She’d been skinned from collarbones to pubis, and it was an intricate job. Morris had managed to slough off her breasts and belly skin in one clean sheet, after which he’d flipped her over and laid the sheet across her back.

So he could sodomize her and look at her bosom at the same time…

Poltrock stared at the strange corpse for untold minutes, and as he held the lamp higher, he noticed several more dead Indian women deeper in the clearing.

He couldn’t think for the loud drone in his head that suddenly threatened to push his skull apart from the inside out. My God…

He was staring at the dead girl…

My God, he thought again. What am I…

The roar in Poltrock’s head began to abate when he realized he was unfastening his belt and lowering his trousers.

As Poltrock was stepping onto the train car, he noticed Morris sitting in the very first seat, the long brass-handled knife and scabbard hanging off his belt. “Mr. Poltrock! Now we know why no whiskey was delivered tonight!”

“Yes…”

“They say we’ll be back to town by noon tomorrow.” Morris winked as Poltrock passed.

He mentioned nothing of what he’d found in the clearing, nor what he’d done afterward. He preferred to fantasize that it was all a bad dream—of course it was. Since the moment he’d signed on with Mr. Gast, in fact, his life was a bad dream.

He followed the aisle down to the last block of seats, which were reserved for Mr. Gast and himself.

Bones creaked when he sat. Yes, it had been a hard week; moreover, it had been a hard four years. Poltrock suspected that once they got back to Gast, he’d spend most of the respite sleeping, while everyone else made revel. He sighed at the fancily cushioned seat and footrest, let himself sink.

Bad dream…

Through the window, he could see strong-armers with lanterns walking along the cars; only a few would stay behind to guard the work site and its heaps of construction materials. The lanterns cast misshaped yellow circles to and fro in the darkness. Poltrock squinted. When one of the strong-armers glanced up at him, his eyes looked a sickly yellow.

Poltrock pulled down the curtain.

Next, he looked across the aisle and saw Mr. Gast fast asleep in his seat. Minutes later, the whistle blew, and the train chugged off. Far enough away now, he reopened the curtain and stared into the nightscape sliding by. An oblong moon followed him, tingeing the countryside. When he found himself scrutinizing his reflection in the glass…

Did his own eyes look yellow?

The train clattered gently over the newly lain track; Poltrock could feel their speed. He could hear the Negroes singing from the last car, while the white men in the remaining cars sat in edgy silence. Poltrock slept in jags and fits, each time wakened by an impossibly sharp image: his own lips desperately sucking the nipples of a pair of severed breasts. Each time his eyes snapped open, he was terrified to look to his side, expecting to find the skinned Indian sitting next to him, holding his hand like a lover.

Later, he dreamed inexplicably of a great blast furnace…

The train chugged on, deep into the night. Many behind him were asleep now, too. Maybe I’m the only one awake, he considered.

“Yes!”

Poltrock’s eyes darted right.

It was Mr. Gast. He’d remained asleep as well, and had sleep-whispered the word.

“Yes!” Mr. Gast muttered again. “Tonight!”

When Poltrock got off the train the next day at noon—that’s when they all learned that Fort Sumter had been besieged two days ago by Confederate forces in South Carolina. The fort’s commander had surrendered last night.

At last, the war had begun.