JC2 The Raiders Read Online Free PDF Page B

yard, a
short distance from the whipping post. The cage was so small the man
could not stand up and could not stretch out. He was curled in a
fetal position in a corner of the cage, confined with his own
excrement, which lay about him on the ground. He seemed oblivious to
the flies that crawled over his sweating body.
    When the work crews were all in, fifty or sixty men formed a circle
around the whipping post to witness the lashing about to be given to
Maurie Cohen. His knees kept buckling, and he hung on the rope that
bound his wrists to the post. He glistened with sweat, and when the
wind blew he shivered. He knew he was earning the contempt of the men
he was going to be locked up with for a year. He dreaded that, but he
couldn't do anything about it. When he saw the warden step out on the
porch, his bladder let go. They all laughed.
    Then Mike, the big Negro, stepped up behind him. Maurie twisted his
neck and looked. Mike was carrying the snake, a fearsome, threatening
instrument of torture.
    Maurie looked at the warden. The warden nodded, and instantly Maurie
felt the snake crack across his shoulders. It hurt like being seared
with a hot iron must hurt — worse because he felt its cut. He
opened his mouth to scream —
    Cold water crashed against his face. A lithe, muscular man with black
hair stood staring curiously at him, empty bucket in hand. Oh, God,
he'd passed out, and they'd revived him so he'd feel the remaining
nine stripes! The man with the bucket wore a small quizzical smile.
Maurie glanced around. The warden was gone from the porch. The
convicts were in a moving line, going in the mess shack to pick up
their food. All wore stripes the same as his. All wore leg irons.
Except for the man with the bucket, no one was paying attention to
him anymore. Maurie was still tied to the post. His back was ... What
was it? It felt like it was on fire, and yet it ached, too, a deep,
agonizing ache in swelling flesh.
    "Felt that fust one, din't ya?" asked the man. "But
none of the rest. Like Mike tol' ya, he knows how to do what he does.
That first shot went across your shoulders all right. But when he
give ya the second one he made the tip hit ya sharp and hard on the
back of the head an' knock ya out. Ya got th' other nine while ya
wasn't feelin' nothin'. Ya didn't even have to feel the sting of the
liniment Mike poured on to keep th' stripes from festerin'. You
lucky. You git stripes ag'in, y'll git 'em the reg'lar way. Think
on't."
    Maurie moaned.
    "It was nothin' special, got nothin' to do with you bein' a
Jew-boy. They done it to me my first day here. My name's Max Sand.
The Man ordered me to take care of you fer a while."
    Max untied him, and Maurie dropped to his knees.
    "That's th' way, boy. Pull them pants up and come on."
    Maurie followed him. He couldn't imagine trying to pull the shirt on
over his back. Max led him to a shack, where there was a cot and a
bucket. A chain ran from a ring set in a heavy block of concrete. Max
padlocked that to the chain between Maurie's leg irons, and he went
away and left him.
    Maurie sat on the cot. He couldn't lie down. He sat and wept.
    A little later Max returned. He brought a tin cup full of coffee and
a tin plate heaped with food. Without a word, he put the cup and
plate down and left, latching the door outside.
    Beans. Beans cooked in some kind of congealing grease that was almost
certainly lard. The few little flakes of meat among the beans were
undoubtedly pork. Forbidden food. But Maurie had learned from his
days in jail that even mildly suggesting they should not serve him
pork would win him laughter at best, a backhand slap across the mouth
more likely. He picked up the spoon that was the only utensil they
provided and ate a couple of mouthfuls of the unappetizing mess. He'd
starve if he didn't eat whatever they gave him; he knew that. God
forgive, he prayed as he shoved some more into his mouth.
    And then he wept some more.

3

    The horror of his year's imprisonment