When Eagles Die

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The only factual names in the novel are those of historic military and political leaders. All organizations described in this work including media networks, colleges, and universities are also fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual organization is equally unintentional and entirely coincidental.

© 2004 Robert Ambros

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/08/04

ISBN:1-4184-8988-3 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4184-8987-5 (dj)

ISBN: 9781468517583 (ebk)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1

Dale LaFave

Adams County, Georgia

July 1921

Dale LaFave dreamt he was skipping stones on the riverbank with his brother Zach. Growing up in New Orleans, they’d spent countless hours fishing and watching the steamers on the Mississippi River.

I got a feeling, Zach told him. I got a feeling there’s a St. Louis steamboat coming.

Dale looked up the river and thought, Die out or run out. He saw an old barge in the distance, but no steamboat. Die out or run out, he thought again.

Something suddenly pulled Dale’s legs out from under him. His left shoulder hit the wooden floor hard; his torso hit the base of an adjacent bunk. It’s the building chain, he realized. He had not heard the guard announce morning and had to act fast to avoid punishment. He sat up and reached for the building chain as fast as he could.

Iron shackles around each of Dale’s ankles were connected to each other by a strad chain. The strad chain had only thirteen links, making it impossible to take a full step forward. Dale, with his tall, thin, nineteen-year-old frame, shuffled awkwardly within the strad chain’s constraints. A three-foot chain connected to the middle of the strad chain ended with a wide-open ring. This was the upright chain. At night, the building chain ran through the ring of the upright chain of each prisoner in the barrack, connecting them all.

The guards pulled on the building chain; with a growling clatter, it slid through the rings holding the upright chains and was replaced by a squad chain binding twenty men together. It was 3:30 a.m. and still dark.

Dale shuffled to the mess hall with the others. Sudden pain in his left knee made him look down. The striped prison clothes were dirty to begin with, but now a layer of dried blood had stained the material brown and adhered it to his knee. The dirt and stain would remain until Sunday, when he’d be allowed to remove the clothes for washing. It was the fall, he abruptly remembered. He had fallen in the quarry the day before.

A portion of hoecake and three pieces of fried pork fat were flopped onto his tin plate. When he arrived at Stillwood Penitentiary three months ago, the sight of the smelly food made him feel sick. But now all he could think about, other than escaping, was the food in the mess hall. He shoved the first piece of pork fat in his mouth and swallowed before he reached the wooden table. This would be the best meal of the day. Lunch consisted only of dried cowpeas, and for supper he would have corn pone and maybe some more pig fat.

The men devoured the bread and fat in minutes. Then they were called into the yard. Dale’s squad followed the others into an open area surrounded by a series of single-story wooden buildings. An eight foot-high barbed wire fence surrounded the entire compound.

Show me, two guards yelled repeatedly in the center of the yard. Two squads at a time approached the guards, who examined each prisoner’s chains.

Dale’s squad was led to the back of an open truck together with a squad of white men. When Dale arrived at the chain gang, he was surprised to see the white prisoners treated just as harshly as the black men. Later, he learned there was one difference; all the white men had committed crimes.

The engine roared and the truck started down the dirt road toward the quarry. It was still dark. Dale rubbed his face and tried not to think of the day that lay ahead for him. He either would be hammering or shoveling from daybreak to 6:00 p.m., with only one break for some cowpeas. In the evening, he would eat his corn pone and lie down exhausted in his bunk until 3:30 the next morning.

Only several months ago, Dale had been riding on a bus on his way to Savannah, searching for work on the docks. He had to change buses in Adams County, and was waiting patiently at the bus stop when the police came and arrested him for vagrancy. The judge asked him if he had the fifteen dollars for a trial. He answered no, and was given ten years at hard labor.

Dale once heard Artie, the oldest prisoner in the camp, say that the stones from the quarry were being used to build roads to Florida. Artie said many Negroes, like Dale, were arrested for no crime because the county needed men to build the roads. Break ’em up, boys, Artie would mumble as he hit the rocks. Rich white folk got to git to Florida.

Artie also said this was nothing new. A black stranger could be stopped on any road at any time in Georgia by a white interrogator and be arrested simply for being too independent or seeming too sassy. But now, it seemed they were more actively looking for slave labor.

The men sat in silence until the truck left the road, swerved sharply, and halted.

The head guard, a man of medium build with short blonde hair named Harris, appeared at the back of the truck. Two at a time, he mumbled as the prisoners got off. Two at a time.

Dale stood and dragged the twenty pounds of chains with him off the truck, then limped along with the others as they shuffled to the quarry’s pit. The squads sat in the dark and rested. Only one man stood waiting, a new prisoner named Parker. It was his first day; Dale had heard the men warning him to work hard or the guards would give it to him at the end of the day.

Sit down, man, someone yelled to Parker. The new convict looked around nervously, then sat down. Dale heard someone mumble something about old Artie but he couldn’t make out the meaning.

The sun cracked its first light. Pick ’em up! Harris yelled. And gimme a good day.

Dale reached for a pick and the day began. His first swing left a minor impression in a boulder. He hit it repeatedly until the boulder cracked in half, then he pulverized the pieces into small stones and went on to the next boulder. He eventually felt the sun burning his shoulders and knew the worst part of the day approached.

He turned to the guard standing about thirty yards away with his rifle held at his waist—Kippen. Wipin’ it off, Dale yelled.

Wipe it off, Kippen yelled back.

Dale put down the pick and wiped his forehead with his sleeves.

Sam the water boy approached the squad with a water bucket. Waterin’ it down, the men yelled in unison.

Water it down, yelled Kippen.

The men took turns, first swallowing several cups of water, then pouring it over their heads.

As Dale took his turn, Sam looked to the ground and whispered, Hey, Craw. Old Artie wants to see ya. It was Artie who came up with the name Crawfish. He’d asked Dale why he had a crazy last name like LaFave, and Dale had answered that he was from New Orleans. From then on, Artie called him Crawfish.

Artie? Dale reached for the bucket. Where’s he at?

In the sick hall, answered Sam. He’s dyin’ and he’s askin’ for ya.

Dale had not seen old Artie in over a month, not since he’d been taken to the sick hall with shackle fever. The shackles sometimes caused sores on the ankles that, when severe enough, would not heal.

How’m I gonna get in there? whispered Dale. He took a swallow from the cup.

Don’t know, answered Sam. He picked up the bucket and moved away from the squad.

Dale thought of old Artie as he reached for his pick and swung it at another boulder. Artie once said he’d been a prisoner back in the days when the county leased prisoners to private companies. He’d said that was even worse than the chain gang. Dale wondered how that could possibly be, until one Sunday when he heard a conversation between Artie and another convict named John.

Convict leasing, they called it, Artie told John. County sent us all out to some company that made turpentine. Beat you daily—daily, even if you did your work. Some days, they wouldn’t even feed ya.

I know all about that, said John. Saw it with my own eyes. One summer, I was bringing bushels with a mule team out of a plantation back in Alabama. The county lent out over a hundred prisoners to this plantation. What they did to those women to make ’em work harder! Beat ’em daily with leather whips. Hung ’em by the wrists and beat ’em like they was slaughterin’ hogs. I’ve seen girls with wounds so big they had no chance of healin’. So big, some girls died.

Artie would have done his time by now, had he not tried to escape. Now, there was only one way out for him. There were only four ways out of the chain gang, Artie had told Dale; you work out by doing your time, you buy out by having your family pay, you die out, or you run out.

***

It was dusk; Dale was lying in his bunk when he saw Harris, the head guard, appear at the door with the warden behind him. Dale’s muscles tensed as they entered the barrack to start their nightly routine.

The warden, a heavyset, middle-aged white man, asked, Okay, which ones?

Harris looked around and pointed at Parker, the new convict. That one, he said. Harris’ blonde head turned toward Dale. Dale looked at the ground. And that one, he heard. He jerked his head up and saw Harris pointing in the opposite direction. Dale sighed in relief.

The warden stared at the ground as if in deep thought. His chin rose and he looked at the two men. I said it a million times—you boys got to give me a good day.

The two prisoners shuffled out.

Dale felt his back muscles loosen as he laid back on the metal cot. He heard the crack of the leather whip and a scream, coming from the yard. It was Parker, the new prisoner. When he’d first arrived at the prison, Dale would cover his ears with his dirty pillow to avoid hearing the screams. Now he just stared at the ceiling, his mind blank.

I’ll learn ya to work for me boy, Dale heard Harris yell. Parker yelled something at the guards but the whipping continued. Parker doesn’t know, thought Dale, the yelling just makes it worse.

The two prisoners staggered back into the barrack with red streaks running down their pant legs. Dale’s eyes followed the two men until Harris’ face blocked his vision. The guard stood right in front of his cot.

Get up, LaFave, Harris said to Dale.

Dale froze.

I said, get up, boy.

Dale’s heart pounded as pulled the shackles across the cot and rose to his feet. Yes, sir.

Come with me, boy, muttered Harris and turned toward the door.

Dale held the upright chain up with both hands and followed. His mind raced through the possibilities. There was only one—he was going to be whipped. But why didn’t they take me out with the other two? Why didn’t Harris point me out to the warden?

They left the barrack and Dale’s eyes turned to the whipping post as he shuffled out. There was no one there.

Keep up with me, boy, Harris mumbled. They passed the post. This way. Harris pointed.

They headed toward a wooden building Dale had never been in. He wondered if he was going to the sweatbox he’d heard about. He followed Harris as he swung open a wooden door and stepped through. Inside, Harris opened another door, dragged Dale forward by his chains, and pushed him in. Dale fell to the ground.

You got ten minutes, Harris said and closed the door as he left.

Dale looked up. He was in a small room containing only two cots. A foul odor in the air. Only one cot was occupied. Dale looked at the man’s face and recognized old Artie. Dale slowly rose.

Artie’s head didn’t turn toward Dale; his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling. That you, Craw? asked Artie in a barely audible voice.

Dale walked over and knelt in front of Artie’s cot. Artie’s breathing sounded labored. Thick gray whiskers covered his face and his forehead was drenched in sweat. It’s me, whispered Dale.

Artie’s eyes turned toward Dale. His finger pointed toward a small wooden table. Get me some water, will ya?

Dale reached for an old tin cup on the table and dunked it in a water pail. He held the cup to Artie’s lips. Artie drank three cups in a row. He caught his breath after drinking the third and said, I called for ya, Craw. I’m getting’ my out, Craw, and I want you to get yours.

Why they letting me see ya? asked Dale.

You a good boy, Craw, said Artie. I gotta tell ya about getting your out.

Dale still thought something didn’t figure. How come I get to see ya?

Don’t know, answered Artie. I asked ’em and here ya are. Maybe they’s ascared of a dyin’ man.

What you mean, getting my out? asked Dale.

You a good boy, Craw. I want you to get your out. Help me up, will ya?

Dale lifted Artie’s chest and propped the pillow behind his back. He thought of the guards. This is the first kindly act they’ve shown, he concluded. He looked down at Artie’s legs and found the source of the foul odor. Large ulcers covered both his ankles. Yellow-green pus dripped from the sores and covered most of the shackles.

Artie’s head turned down toward Dale. His eyes cleared and his voice seemed a little stronger. You got to get your out, Craw, he repeated.

I know I gotta get it, said Dale. But how am I gonna do that?

I never told you about me runnin’ out.

You told me, said Dale. I remember you telling me how you bent the shackles with a hammer.

Listen to me, boy. I never told you the whole thing. I’ve been here longer than anyone—and I mean the guards, too. It was done after I tried—I’ve seen men run out of here. But you gotta know the key. Artie raised his head. The dogs is the key. You can make it if you get to the river. The guards know that no man can make it to the river because of the dogs. That was my mistake—I thought I could outrun the dogs, but it ain’t so.

How you gonna get your out? asked Dale

Shut up and listen to me. What you got to do is make the dogs think you is part of the hunt. Hold a stick, point ahead, and yell at ’em like you their master. Dogs don’t know what your stripes mean.

Dale listened in silence. He reached for the cup and dipped it into the pail.

Artie went on. There’s more. Always one or two dogs too sassy, and keep after ya. This what you do—in the morning before you run, put your vittles in your mouth like you’re gonna eat ’em. Keep ’em in your mouth and when you get a chance, hide ’em in your stripes. When a dog won’t let go of ya, rub a piece of that pork fat against his mouth, then throw it as far as you can. They’ll chase the fat, believe me. It’s been done. The guards don’t even know. It was done before this bunch got here.

Dale took a sip of water. Artie looked at the cup. Give me some more of that water, will ya? Dale handed over the cup and Artie drank it in one swallow.

Artie handed back the cup and dropped his head to rest against the pillow. Once you in the river, you swim with the flow—swim hard with the current. After a couple a miles, there’ll be a bridge for the railroad. Don’t stop there. That’s what they’ll think—that you’ll get out of the river and try and catch a freight. You stay in that water. ’Bout another twenty miles, there’ll be another bridge. Twenty miles, boy. Remember that. Once you there, don’t get out of the water until you hear a train comin’—a train comin’ from the south.

They kill you in the sweatbox if you get caught. Ain’t it so? asked Dale.

Artie ignored the question. Take your run on a Monday morning after you get your Sunday rest. Best wait till you get a good downpour on a Sunday—give ya a nice strong current in that river.

Dale sat in silence. Artie suddenly raised his head. Don’t disappoint me, boy. You take your chance and get your out.

Artie put his head back down and the two sat in silence. Don’t head back to Orleans, Artie eventually said. They’ll be lookin’ for you in Orleans for sure. You go north. I got a brother in Philadelphia. You know where Philadelphia at?

Where’s this river? interrupted Dale.

’Bout five miles north of the quarry. First there’ll be fields. When you git to a forest, you is close. Now listen to me. You go to Pine Street in West Philly and you ask around for my brother Billy. You tell Billy all the stories I told you so he knows I sent you. And tell Billy I got my out.

Artie tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead but his arm was too weak. Dale picked up a rag from the table and wiped Artie’s forehead dry. Don’t let them catch you, Craw. Artie paused for a second. If they catch up, you hold out a stick like you got a rifle. Let them shoot you, Craw. Better than dying in the box.

Why you telling me all this? asked Dale.

Artie stared at the ceiling. Years and years go by and we still ain’t got no vision, he whispered. What we need is vision, Craw. You go to Philly and learn to write and vote. Find out about those Negro colleges I’ve been hearin’ about.

Dale heard footsteps beyond the door.

Give me some more water before ya go, will ya? asked Artie. Dale handed Artie a full cup as the door opened.

Time’s up, boy, Harris said. Let’s go.

Dale lifted his upright chain and rose to his feet. He took one last look at old Artie as Harris shoved him out the door.

Harris kept pushing Dale to his left as he shuffled out of the building. This way, boy, Harris muttered.

They were not going back to the barrack. Dale wanted to ask where he was going, but that was not allowed. He was only allowed to say yes sir or no sir. Dale was even more mystified when Harris marched him up to a guard at the back gate of the compound.

Evenin’, Tom, the guard said as he opened the gate.

Evenin’, replied Harris.

Dale’s eyes wandered as he and Harris walked through the gate. He made out a building he had not known about, wooden like the other structures, but taller and better kept. Dale had no idea what to think. He started up the small staircase leading to the front door but tripped on the second step; he had never before tried climbing stairs while wearing the shackles and chains.

Get up, boy. The warden’s waitin for ya.

Harris flung open the screen door and pushed Dale into a large room with paneled walls and a thick carpet that covered almost the entire floor. Behind a large oak desk on the opposite wall sat the rotund Warden Crandell, staring at some papers and scratching his large red nose. He looked up and smiled when he saw Dale.

Good, good. Sit him down, said the warden.

Harris dragged a wooden chair over in front of the warden’s desk. Sit ’em down, boy.

The warden put his arms behind his head and rocked in his chair. How’s old Artie doin’? he asked.

Dale did not know what to say.

Answer the warden, Harris said.

He’s fine, Dale managed.

Good, good, said the warden. What you and Artie talk about?

Nothin’, said Dale.

The warden leaned forward. His greasy face filled Dale’s eyes. Don’t get cute with me, boy. I want to know everything Artie told ya.

Dale’s mind raced. He… he told me he was gonna git his out.

Get his what?

His out. He’s gonna die out of here.

What else did he say?

That was about it.

The warden jerked his chin to Harris. A hard slap to the side of Dale’s head almost knocked him out of the chair. Tell me, boy, Crandell said.

He told me he had a brother. That when I get my out I should go see him and tell him Artie got his out.

Where his brother at? asked the warden.

Savannah, answered Dale.

What he tell ya about the jewelry? the warden asked.

He didn’t say nothing ’bout no jewelry, Dale said.

The warden jerked his chin and another blow landed on Dale’s head.

Nothin’, huh? asked the warden. What’s he gonna do with jewels he hid thirty years ago when he’s dyin’? Only one thing—tell one of you where they are.

Dale shook his head. He didn’t say nothing about jewels, he repeated.

Look, boy. Now’s your chance to make it easy. We know all about the jewelry he stole. The warden picked up some papers from his desk and shook them