The Cotton-Pickers Page 4

  “But don’t forget I’m neutral,” I protested.

  “All right, you’re neutral. But you can still open your mouth.”

  All he wanted was someone with whom to argue.

  Dick settled himself more comfortably in the truck and said slowly and deliberately, drawling out his words: “I’ll tell you something, Dad —”

  “You? You’re the right one to tell me something!”

  “All right then, I won’t. I’ve got time. It isn’t my cotton, you know, it’s yours.”

  Dick withdrew into sulky silence. The old man flew into a rage. “Well, damn it all, speak up! Or must I stand here until the cotton rots?”

  “You see, Dad, that’s exactly what I mean: until the cotton rots. If the men leave, we won’t get any more help from around here. And if we recruit men from the towns we’ll have to pay more in fares than the whole thing’s worth.”

  “Well, talk faster, can’t you?”

  “I must think what I’m going to say. Look here, Dad, it’s rained once already. And it looks as if we’re going to get a very early rainy season or maybe a whole week of strip rain. If we do, it’ll be good-bye to the cotton for good. It’ll all be beaten into the mud, and you’ll have to look for someone who’ll buy sand, let alone cotton. The quicker we get the cotton ginned and marketed, the better chance we’ll have on the price. Once the market is saturated we’ll be glad if we get rid of it at a loss of twenty or twenty-five centavos the bale; that is, if we can sell it at all. So far we’ve made very good time in picking, and should be among the first on the market.”

  “Damn it all, boy, you’re damned well right! Four years ago I had to sell at thirty centavos below the starting price and stood there like a beggar bumming for a bit of bread. But I’m not so mad that I’ll pay eight centavos! I used to pay only three, and when the cotton stood badly, four. No! I’d ten times rather leave it to rot than give in!”

  So saying he hit out at a shrub as though he wanted to raze the entire field with one swat. Then in his anger, another idea occurred to him.

  “It’s the foreigners who are to blame for this. They come here and incite our people. They can never get enough to stuff into their big mouths. Our people around here aren’t dissatisfied. Yes, and you too, Gales, you’re one of the agitators. You’re one of those bolshies who want to turn everything upside down and take our land away from us, and even pull our beds out from under our backsides. But you got the wrong man in me. I’ve been in that racket too. I know my way about and I know how it’s done. Only we didn’t have any IWW or any of that nonsense.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Shine, you’re quite at liberty to speak your mind. But, by the way, what makes you think I’m a Wobbly? I haven’t given you any indications.”

  “I know your kind. You’re trying to bring in your ideas here before this Revolution is over. It won’t be long, though, before it’ll have failed completely. Well, I didn’t mean you exactly. But I won’t pay eight and that’s that!”

  “Now listen, Dad” — Pete spoke without turning toward his father — “you’re wrong about the foreigners, absolutely wrong. The four foreigners are picking more than the natives, The Indians only pick a bit because they see the foreigners at work, but they don’t care about earning more. If they make one peso they’re quite content. They prefer to have a five-hour siesta — that’s much more important to them. You can bet your boots that without the foreigners we wouldn’t be able to get the cotton in before Christmas.”

  “But I’m not paying, and that’s the end of it.”

  “In that case I’ll start the engine and we can drive home,” Dick said dryly, and slowly came down from the truck.

  The two hours agreed on were far from over, but the “locals” were getting restless. They caught their mules and

  began to saddle them. Just as some of them were about to mount, Antonio and Gonzalo jumped up, threw their wide-brimmed sombreros high into the air, and began to sing the song of the cotton-pickers, which I had taught them during our evenings around the campfire.

  “Cotton is worn by king and prince,

  Millionaire and president,

  But the lowly cotton-picker

  Sweats to earn each bloody cent…”

  The men immediately ceased handling their animals and stood as still as soldiers under orders. They had never heard the song before but with the instinct of the burdened they felt that this was their song, and that it was as closely allied to their strike, the first strike of their experience, as a hymn is allied to religion. They didn’t know what the IWW was, what a labor organization meant, what class distinctions were. But the singing they heard went straight to their hearts. The words were as the breath of life to them, and the song welded them together as into a block of steel. A first dim awareness of the immense power and strength of the working people united in a common purpose was awakened in them.

  By the time the first refrain was repeated, the whole field was singing. I knew what was likely to happen if the last refrain were reached without the desired answer having been received. I knew it from experience.

  The song, so simple and monotonous in its melody, but in its resounding rhythm as springy as fine steel, infected me. I couldn’t help it. I began to hum it too.

  “Of course, you would!” said Mr. Shine, half sarcastically, half matter-of-factly. “I knew it!”

  At the second refrain the men, who had been standing around near their mules in a loosely formed group, turned toward Mr. Shine; they stood as one man, their song taking on a provocative, direct significance.

  Mr. Shine fumbled nervously at his belt to unfasten his revolver holster, only to fasten it again with a look of embarrassment, in which could be detected also shame, and even resignation.

  “Confound it all!” he exclaimed. “They look as if they mean business.”

  “So they do,” Pete said, still chewing. “And once they’ve gone, we’ll have the devil’s own job to get them to come back again.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Shine. “I’ll pay eight, but only from today. What’s paid is paid and there’s going to be no back pay. Gales,” he turned to me, “would you be good enough to call the men?”

  I ran over and called them together.

  “Well, what about it?” the men asked Mr. Shine as they approached the scales.

  “It’s all right, it’s settled,” he said, half irate and half condescending. “I pay eight per kilo, but—”

  Antonio didn’t let him finish: “And what about the kilos we’ve already picked?”

  “I’ll pay the difference of two centavos. But now get to work so we can get the cotton in before the rains come.” “Hurrah fo’ Mister Shine ! ” shouted Abraham.

  “Keep your mouth shut, damn you. Nobody’s asked you to shout!” roared the farmer in a fury.

  “But what am I going to do with you, Gales?” he asked, keeping me back as the men were leaving. “You’re already getting eight.”

  “Yes,” I said, “so that evens things up.”

  “No. One man’s pay won’t make much difference to me. After all, you’re the only white in the gang. I’ll give you ten.”

  “With back pay?” I laughed.

  “With back pay. I’m a fair businessman. Now, why are you hanging around? Hurry up, get along with the work. We’ve wasted, God knows, practically an hour talking. And any hour the rain might come.

  Then, turning to his two sons, who were just in the act of hanging up the scales, he said: “I’m going to make you pay, you two; take my word for it!”

  6

  Nothing much happened during the following three weeks. One day was like the next — picking cotton, cooking, eating, sleeping, picking cotton …

  Then one afternoon, when I got back from the cotton field, I went over to the big house to see if Mrs. Shine could sell me some bacon, or loan it to me until Sunday, as I’d forgotten to ask the fellows to get me some when they went shopping.

  “Certainly, Gale
s, you can have it for cash or on loan, just as you like.”

  “All right. I’ll buy it. The boss can charge it to me on pay day.”

  As she was weighing the bacon, Mr. Shine returned from town with the mail and a few purchases.

  “You’ve come just at the right moment, Gales,” he said. “I’ve got some news for you.”

  “For me? Where from?”

  “Direct from town. While I was at the store I met Mr. Beales, the crew manager from Oil Camp 97, an acquaintance of mine. He was sitting there drinking one bottle of beer after another, with a grim face. He’s in a fix. They’ve had some trouble at the derrick. It seems they were changing the drills — eights for tens — when one of the pipes kicked out and injured a driller’s right arm. One of the native laborers had been careless — nothing new, the same kind of thing has happened before — and didn’t secure the pipe in time. The driller’s an experienced man, a reliable fellow, and they don’t want to lose him. So they’re looking for a good temporary man to take his place until he can come back. It’ll be three or four weeks before he’s fit for work again. It’s a ticklish time for them just now. They’re drilled to seven hundred feet and are on clay, so if they don’t get a good driller they might get a bend in the bore pipe. You’ve worked in the oil fields and know what this would mean — expense and a loss of time. The drillers and tool dressers would have to be laid off — maybe the whole camp.”

  “You’re telling me,” I replied. “But it’s the sort of thing that can happen in the best-managed field, no matter how careful the men are.”

  “Could be. I don’t understand anything about drilling,” Mr. Shine said, anxious to go on. “Now the manager’s wondering what to do next. He’s already worked one shift himself, but he can’t carry on like that. If he telegraphs his company in the States it’ll take another three to four days before he gets a new man here, and then it’s not certain that he’ll get a good relief man. You know a good man normally won’t take on a job for three weeks and maybe risk missing out on a good, six-month job. So I said to the manager, ‘Mr. Beales, I’ve got just the man you’re looking for.’”

  “But I still don’t see where I come in,” I said. “Why do you do this for me? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Now, wait a minute, Gales. I’m on the level with you. In three, or at most four days we’ll have the cotton picked. What are you going to do then?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll wait and see. I may go north or south, or I may go east or west. Actually I was thinking of tramping down to Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Panama — maybe to Colombia. I’ve heard there’s a good deal of oil being pumped down there.”

  “Fine!” said Mr. Shine. “That’s just what I thought. It’s all the same to you where you go. There’ll be time enough, later on, to visit Guatemala and all the other beauty spots waiting just for you. So I said to the manager: `Well, I’ve got a fellow at the farm, helping me with my crop, , a white man, honest all through, a very reliable fellow, with experience in drilling, tool dressing, and all that goes with it.’ I had to lay it on a bit thick, you know, Gales, to get results. `Well, Mr. Beales,’ I said, `I’m going to send the man down to you!’ Now what do you say, old chap, eh?” Mr. Shine asked me, grinning all over his face. “So down you go to the store tomorrow morning. The storekeeper knows the way to the camp; he’ll direct you. You’ll be at the camp in time to sit right down to a full-sized meal.”

  The part about the meal was tempting.

  “If you find you can’t manage the job, you won’t have lost much. Whatever happens, you’ll get a day’s pay and on top of that you’ll have some good eats, for one day,” Mr. Shine added.

  I really didn’t have to waste much thought on the offer. There was only three or four days’ work left here, hard and ill-paid work. At the oil field you also had to work a twelve-hour day as there were only two shifts, but at least you were not working in that blistering sun. Moreover, you got ice water to drink, and as much of it as you wanted. But above all you got, as Mr. Shine had rightly said, decent food, with plate, knife, fork, spoon, cup, and glass on a table that might have been crudely knocked together but was a table all the same, and there was a real bench on which to sit. Black beans, hard as pebbles, would cease to be a major part of every meal. And they didn’t sleep without bedding on the bare floor, but in clean camp beds with soft mattresses and well protected by thin veils of mosquito netting. There would be a toilet. You could shower every day. I had quite forgotten that there were such things in the world. These workers lived in good houses, and had a hospital and all conveniences in their camps.

  So I thanked Mrs. Shine but changed my mind about the bacon. When I got back to the campfire the most important thing as far as I was concerned was to settle my egg account with Abraham. If I’d remained even ten centavos in his debt he’d have pursued me in my dreams right down to Cape Horn.

  I arrived at the oil camp and reported to the manager. He was an American. All the managers, high employees, and even specialized workers in the oil fields were mostly foreigners, as practically all the companies exploiting the oil in this country were either American, English, or Dutch and they preferred to give employment to their own compatriots. Mr. Beales didn’t look a bit surprised to see his new driller in such rags and tatters as no man in his own country would ever have dared walk around in. He obviously didn’t care what I wore; he needed a reliable driller.

  The workers at the camp were glad that Dick, the sick driller, had a substitute and would be coming back. He was a likable guy who had worked in the camp ever since the first planks went up. They fixed me up, one man bringing me a shirt, another pants, another socks, another working gloves and shoes.

  When I’d finished my first shift, Mr. Beales said: “You can stay on until Dick comes back, at full driller’s pay.”

  This certainly was very good news. But Dick recovered faster than anybody had expected, so at the end of a week’s work I had to be on my way again. When I left, Dick gave me twenty dollars extra out of his own pocket, for traveling expenses, and, as he said, to treat myself to something good.

  When the manager paid me off he said, “Listen, Gales, couldn’t you hang around in the vicinity for another week or so?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Easily. I could go to Mr. Shine’s and stay there for a while. Why?”

  “There’s a fellow in one of the fields here who wants to take a two-week vacation to go up to the States to see his folks. You could fill in as his substitute — beginning of the month.”

  “Agreed,” said I. “You can leave a message at the store for me, care of Mr. Shine, when you need me.”

  “Right, that’s settled!” said Mr. Beales.

  So I went back to Mr. Shine’s the next day and asked him if I could put up for a while in the shelter.

  “Certainly, Gales,” he said. “Stay as long as you like.”

  I told him about my oil field chance, and then asked about the other pickers, my former companions.

  “Oh, them. Well, the tall nigger went the day after you — up to Florida, I think. The short one, the one called Abraham, turned out to be a scoundrel —”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, he sold me some hens — good layers, he swore — that he’d bought from some peasants, I found out later, for one peso apiece. Sold them to me for two and a half pesos each. The hens were well fed, heavy, good to look at, so I paid the price. But that black devil, he got me on the part about layers. They’re not laying one egg among them. Oh, well — I s’pose they’re worth the price for meat.”

  “And what about the Chink and the two Mexicans?”

  “They walked by here — early — on Monday. I saw them from the window. As far as I know, they went to the Pozos station. By the way, why do you want to live in that shelter? You could stay in the house.”

  I laughed. “No, Mr. Shine, I had enough of that house. I wouldn’t stick the tip of my boot inside it. It’s a real mosquito hell.”


  “Well, suit yourself. I lived in it with my family for ten years and we weren’t troubled by mosquitoes. But you may be right. If a house like that hasn’t been used for some time, and isn’t properly aired, all sorts of vermin gather. Now and again I have the horses and mules driven up that way because of the good grass and the water hole. But I haven’t been up there for months and I’ve no idea what the place is like now. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me where you set up house. You’re no worry to me.”

  So once again I rigged myself up in my shelter. This time I made my fire right in front of it. There was no point in making it near the little house where we’d had our campfire discussions; no one was there to talk with now.

  7

  I lived in wonderful solitude, my sole companions the lizards. After I’d been there about three days, two lizards got so used to me they forgot their innate timidity and went after the flies that hovered around my feet in search of crumbs.

  I spent my days puttering around in the near bush, observing animals and their behavior; and the animals of the bush came and went through my open shelter, as was their right. I had brought back some old magazines from the oil camp and now had time for reading.

  I could wallow in water. There had been several good downpours and the water tank was a third full, for we’d mended the rain troughs, of course. I could wash; I could even afford the luxury of washing twice a day.

  Now I was able to buy what I wanted in the store; I had plenty of money and I treated myself well. I was neither thirsty nor hungry. I hadn’t a care in the world. I was a free man in the free bush, taking my nap when I pleased, roaming about when and where and as long as I liked. It was a good life and I enjoyed it to the full.

  I drew the water I needed from the tank that lay by the old house. It had been lively there while my companions lived in the house; there were arguments around the campfire, words over a pinch of salt that one had taken without asking the owner, endless wrangles about whose turn it was to bring firewood, and the like. As I thought back on those vivid scenes, the house seemed eerily lonely and still. Every time I went over there to get water I had the urge to look inside to see if anyone had left anything behind. But then again, I liked the spooky silence that brooded over the place, and I hesitated to disturb it. It fitted in with the solitariness of the surrounding bush, as well as with the seclusion of my own life. So I suppressed the desire to go up the ladder and peep in. Of course I knew that the house would be empty, absolutely empty. No one would have left anything behind, not even the rags of an old shirt; for, to fellows like us, everything has its value. I even began to grow used to the air of mystery that hung over the place. I liked to think that perhaps the ghost of an old Aztec priest, unable to rest, had now fled from the bush into the house to find some repose from his restless wanderings.