Cool Hand Luke (25 page)

He was given thirty days. But at the City Stockade they took his fingerprints and sent them in to the F.B.I. in Washington for a routine check. When they found out who he was they suspended the rest of his sentence. But they extradited him back to Florida immediately.

So that was it. We hung our heads, angry and disappointed. The First Bell rang and we prepared ourselves for bed, stretching out for a restless night of grappling with our visions. Luke had been recaptured, put in chains and thrown right back into the ditch with the rest of us. And then quite calmly he had told us that there was really no other world but this.

Out on the Road the next day we went to work as we always did. But before Smoking Period came around Boss Godfrey walked right up to Luke.

What were you lookin‘ at that there car for?

What car, Boss?

Don't you sass me! You hear? Didn't the Cap'n tell you to git your mind right?

With a whistling cut he brought his Walking Stick down sharply on Luke's head. Luke bent over, dropping his shovel and groaning with pain.

Did you say somethin‘ Luke? Huh? Answer me, damn it!

Again the Stick came down, blood spurting from reopened cuts, new bruises beginning to appear on his shaven white skull. The rest of us kept right on shoveling, our heads bowed, our eyes on the ground.

Now pick up that shovel and git back to work. Ah
ain't gonna put up with your fuckin‘ off no more. You hear?

That night they put him in the Box. After that the same procedure was followed every day. For no reason at all he was beaten and if there were moans or tears he was hit again. But if Luke made no outcry he was struck anyway for not answering promptly. Luke got weaker. He was barely able to finish out each day, his heavily shackled feet dragging in the dust. Every night he was denied his supper and locked up in the Box.

Again his beard grew. His body and clothes became filthy, his head encrusted with dried blood, his shaved and sunburned scalp a solid mass of bruises and cuts. But on the third night, from out of the darkness and from out of the depths of his wooden tomb, we could hear Luke singing that old mountain song called Little Liza Jane. We lay in our bunks listening, his voice making us tingle all over.

Every morning, five minutes before the First Bell and just after the other Chain Men had already been awakened, the door to the Building was opened and they brought in Luke in his nightshirt, holding his clothes heaped in his arms, his unsupported shackles dragging across the floor. There was no time to shave or take a shower. He barely had time to go through the complicated maneuvers of putting on his pants over his chains and fixing up his rig of harness and strings before the Second Bell.

Then the week was over. Luke had made it. Even if
they kept him in the Box all weekend at least he would have a chance to rest. And on Saturday morning they brought him into the Messhall and let him eat his breakfast.

But afterwards the Yard Man was waiting for him just outside the Messhall door. He took him over to the corner of the fence in front of the gun platform. Boss Paul was on guard and smiling. Boss Godfrey was there with his Walking Stick. A shovel stood leaning against the fence. There was a long pause. No one said anything. Then Boss Godfey strolled forward and with the point of his Stick he drew two long parallel lines on the ground. Turning to Cool Hand he jabbed at the ground with his cane.

Luke? You see that ditch? That's mah ditch. You see that dirt? That's your dirt. Now git you gawd damn dirt outta mah ditch!

And with that Boss Godfrey brought his Stick down hard on Luke's head. Jaws flexing and eyes watering, he staggered over without a word, took the shovel and began digging, hard, steadily, without looking up at any of the Free Men who stood there watching him.

Later the Yard Man and Boss Godfrey walked off and left Luke working under the smile of Boss Paul. We also watched, from the windows and from the porch, in silence and in wonder. By the time the morning was half gone Luke had dug a ditch that was twenty-five feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. Then the Yard Man entered the gate and walked over to Luke, looking down
at him with a sneer, nervously slapping a grubbing hoe handle against the calf of his leg.

Luke? What in the hell are you doin‘?

I'm diggin‘ this here ditch, Boss.

Who tole you to put that dirt in mah yard?

Boss Godfrey did. He said to git it outta his ditch.

With a swift backhand movement the Yard Man hit Luke a blow that knocked him over sprawling, leaning on the edge of the ditch for support, blood trickling down over his forehead.

Don't lie to me. Nobody tole you no such a gawd damn thing! Now git that fuckin‘ dirt off'n mah grass!

Weakly Luke clambered out of the ditch and began to shovel the pile of dirt back into the excavation. Once more the handle swung, whistling as it cut the air and whacked squarely across Luke's buttocks.

Hurry up! Roll, damn you! Let's see you roll!

And then, from out of the depths of the Building, a harmonica began playing softly, thoughtfully, with sadness and resignation. Dragline was sitting on the floor hunched over his crossed legs and playing an old country church hymn. Koko's guitar joined in with muted chords. Society Red sat on one of the commodes and jiggled his string up and down, making music the only way he knew how, by rattling his chain in a slow rhythm against the concrete floor. Blackie sat down beside him and did the same. Then Stupid Blondie, Four Eyed Joe and Gator began to sing in whining, nasal voices. Then all of us, those not knowing the words trying to hum it in the background.

At noon Boss Paul told Luke to go inside the Messhall and eat. Quickly he wolfed down three enormous platefuls of beans and two big bricks of corn bread dipped in cutback molasses. Throughout the meal the Dog Boy stood behind him and sneered.

Eat plenty, Double Gut. You probably won't git nothin‘ at all tonight. Eat up, you fuckin' hog. Stretch that hog belly real good.

When he finished Luke went out in the yard, washed his spoon and put it in his hip pocket. Getting down on his knees he wet his face and head under the faucet and then went back to work. He had almost finished filling the ditch when Boss Godfrey came through the gate with his Walking Stick and stood behind him for several minutes, silently watching him work. Again the hymn resounded from the Building, quietly and fearfully.

With a loud whack we heard the Stick land on Luke's head. He fell flat on his stomach, his fingers gripping the earth spasmodically, digging into it with trembling agony.

Luke. Ah done tole you to git your dirt outta mah ditch. Didn't ah? Didn't ah Luke?

Yes sir, Boss.

So how come you ain't done it yet? How come?

I don't know, Boss.

You don't know. You don't
know?
Well, you damn well better figure it out. And quick. Now git up on yore feet and git to work.

Again Luke rose and started digging. Again we
played and we rattled and we sang. Once more the ditch was dug and then filled up with curses and blows from the Yard Man. Just before supper time, when all of us were lined up waiting in front of the Messhall door, the Yard Man came inside and took Luke down to the Box.

Sunday was the same thing. Luke dug. The Free Men hit him and we sang and we played. But at three in the afternoon Luke fell to his knees in front of Boss Godfrey, moaning and choking in a beseeching sob.

Don't hit me no more, Boss! Please! Don't hit me no more! I'll do whatever you say. Just don't hit me no more.

The music stopped. Boss Paul smiled. The faintest trace of a grin moved at the corners of Boss Godfrey's lips. Bending over, he spoke quietly, anxiously, almost with tender concern.

Have you got your mind right, Luke?

Yes sir, Boss. I got it right. I got it right.

Are you sure, Luke? You ain't gonna backslide on me are yuh? You sure your mind's right?

Yes suh, Boss. Please. Please don't hit me no more!

All right Luke. All right. Ah won't hit you no more.

The Building was silent.

THE WALKING BOSS TOLD LUKE TO FINISH filling in the ditch and leveling off the dirt in the yard, standing nearby as he worked, leaning on his cane and watching. When Luke finished he stood there, waiting for instructions. The Walking Boss didn't move. For a full minute we sat inside the Building and waited.

Are you through, Luke?

Yes suh, Boss. I'm through.

Are you tired, Luke?

Yes suh. I am. I'm mighty tired.

All right then. Go on inside the Building. Take a hot shower and shave yourself up. Go to bed and git some sleep. As long as you got your mind right there ain't no reason why you cain't eat and sleep like everybody else.

I got it right, Boss. I got it right.

That's good Luke. Ah'm really mighty glad to hear that.

After that day they let Luke sleep in the Building with the rest of us and they let him have his meals. He was no longer beaten or abused and even the Dog Boy got the point and began to keep his mouth shut. Luke's wounds began to scab over and heal. His swollen lips went back to normal, his eye opened up and gradually faded. His hair grew out again, forming a ragged-looking crew cut spotted with bald places made by the scars. His hands hardened and his skin grew dark. The bridge of his nose mended with only a slight crook in it. He gained weight. His appetite rose to what it was during his Newcock days and his speed and endurance, his energy and strength resumed their legendary proportions.

But there was a difference. Luke no longer laughed and joked. He never sat in on the poker games. After he took a shower in the evenings he went straight to bed, looking off at nothing, silent and brooding. On weekends he would sometimes play his banjo but the music was different. There were no more of the virtuoso pieces, none of the Talking Blues. His repertory had been reduced to the plaintive and cajoling spirituals of the mountains, songs of humility, of regret and fatigue.

For Luke had been broken. His mind was right. His working partners tried to carry on as they had always done before, telling lies and exchanging insults, making phony bets and playing the Dozens. And none of the rest of us would have dared to make any comments on the changes in Luke. But even with Drag and Koko there was a difference. It just couldn't be helped.

One day in the middle of January, Boss Godfrey was strolling up and down the road as we were pitching up dirt to the washouts. Cool Hand exercised his prerogative as a Chain Man, brushing down the clumps as they were tossed up from the ditch bottom. Boss Godfrey stood nearby, smoking a cigar and leaning on his Stick. Without shifting his weight or changing his expression, he began to growl in a low, matter-of-fact voice—

Luke. Go get the water bucket.

Cool Hand glanced up. Then he stabbed his shovel in the ground and without hesitation he called out—

Boss Paul! Gettin‘ the water bucket over yonder!

For a moment there was no answer. The guards saw the Walking Boss standing beside Luke and knew it must have been his idea. But it was too much. Luke had been made a Water Jack? Cool Hand Luke?

Boss Hughes! Boss Brown! Gittin‘ the bucket here.

Yeah. Yeah. O.K. Git it.

Luke started down the road, his feet moving with that pigeon-toed, short-stepped gait as he hobbled towards the tool truck. The guards watched him closely
but Boss Godfrey turned and idly strolled up the road in the opposite direction.

Luke got the bucket and lugged it back, offering the first drink to the Walking Boss, looking down at the ground and waiting while Boss Godfrey gingerly sipped from the dipper.

Better give the guards a drink, Luke.

Luke started clambering down the shoulder of the road, across the ditch and up the back slope, pausing to call out in a clear, distinct voice,

Boss Brown! Bringin‘ the bucket over to you, Boss!

He moved closer. The guard flinched, drew nearer, hesitated. He swung his shotgun down from his shoulder and got a tight grip on it, hitched the pistol holster forward. Then he slowly reached out and took the dipper, looking right into Luke's face. Luke stood there without moving, patiently holding the bucket.

After the Free Men the whole squad was served a drink. And after that day, if Rabbit and Jim were busy doing something else, Luke was often sent for the water bucket. He was even sent ahead of the Bull Gang to move up the red warning flag as we advanced along the road.

At first we were flabbergasted that Boss Godfrey should let him go that far off without holding his rifle on him. Then we thought that
two
sets of chains would surely make a difference. But we were forced to admit that there were other reasons. There was an entirely different attitude in Luke's behavior. He was even becoming obsequious
to the Free Men; agreeing with their opinions, laughing when they laughed, walking and talking in such a way as to admit that he was merely a stupid country boy who only got into trouble because he didn't have good sense. And if they made any references to his former escapes and rebellions he began to whine out a feeble excuse, shuffling his feet on the ground with embarrassed humility.

One morning Boss Godfrey strolled over.

Luke. Ah'm gonna make you a Jack. But you'll have to keep them chains on though. Ah asked the Captain to take ‘em off but he said no. But ah told him you were gonna jack for me anyhow. But hear me out, Luke. If you ever run from me again ah'm gonna kill you. You hear me? Ah'll kill you dead.

We had to turn our heads when we heard Luke saying,

Don't worry Boss. I ain't gonna run no more. I done got my mind right.

A gloom hung over the whole camp, a despair, a lack of the lustiness and the gaiety of former times. We knew what had happened. The Free Men's revenge for the night of July the Fourth was now complete. They had captured and chained and punished the culprits. They had broken them down in order to prove to the rest of us what would be the inevitable results of defiance. Then they had taken the greatest rebel of them all and rewarded him to show us the fruits of obedience. And just for good measure they even began to use Dragline as a part-time Jack—even
though he had just had his parole turned down flat. The Parole Board said that his record had too many former arrests for drunkenness, assault and disorderly conduct; too many bad character references such as the one written up by the detectives in Miami who had investigated his case.