Roll Out the Barrel

In John D. MacDonald's The Executioners, the tune "Roll Out the Barrel" functions as a quiet but persistent musical motif, threading through the novel's darkest and most intimate moments. It first appears in the memory of Sam Bowden, the novel's protagonist, as the soundtrack to a night that would define his moral character. Later, its echoes return in the context of Carol Bowden's psychological breakdown and the family's tentative steps toward healing, linking the song to both the origin of Sam's protective instincts and the emotional toll of the siege that Max Cady brings upon the Bowden household.

The Melbourne Alley and the Origin of the Motif

The song enters the narrative through Sam Bowden's recollection of a night in Melbourne during World War II. Sam, then a young soldier, had been drinking Australian ale with several companions in a hotel room, and he described the drink as being made of "distilled sledgehammers." On a cold June night, at two in the morning, he decided to walk back to his ship, and as he became thoroughly lost in the great stone city with its wide, deserted streets and only a few lights burning, he found himself humming "Roll Out the Barrel." The tune became nicely resonant when he was opposite the mouths of the alleys, and the sound of his heels echoing coin sounds from the empty walls accompanied his humming.

It was in this state that Sam heard a whimpering in an alley, which he initially mistook for a puppy or a kitten. He decided that such a small creature could be smuggled onto the ship, but when he stopped and stared without comprehension, he saw the pale tumbled legs of a fourteen-year-old girl and the brute rhythm of her attacker. He heard the animal whining and the meaty crack of the man's fist against her face. With comprehension came a high-wild anger. Sam wrested the soldier away from her, struck wildly with all his strength, and hit the hard shelf of the man's jaw. The man grappled weakly, slid down, rolled onto his back, and, to Sam's astonishment, began to snore. Sam ran out and hailed a Shore Patrol jeep. The special half-drunken flavor of that night, with "Roll Out the Barrel" as its refrain, would never leave his memory.

The Merry-Go-Round and Carol's Breakdown

The motif of music and motion recurs in a very different register during Carol Bowden's emotional collapse. In a conversation with Sam, Carol recalls a childhood memory from when she was about seven years old, when her mother was still alive. At a carnival, her father lifted her onto a big white horse on a merry-go-round. She held the brass pole and the horse went up and down, and it was wonderful for a while. She did not know until later that her father had paid the man to make it a long, long ride. After a while, the faces of the people began to blur, and the music seemed to get louder. When she looked out, all she could see was streaks. She wanted it to stop, and when she shut her eyes she felt she was going to fall off. Nobody could hear her yell. She had the feeling it was going faster and faster, the music getting louder and louder, and that she was going to be hurled off.

Carol's plea to Sam — "I want it to stop, Sam. I want it to stop going around and around. I want to stop being scared" — is a direct articulation of her psychological state under the siege. The merry-go-round, with its relentless circular motion and swelling music, becomes a metaphor for her anxiety, a feeling of being trapped in a cycle of fear that she cannot escape. Sam, who had never felt so helpless in his life, or loved her so much, could only listen as she turned her face away from him, her voice far away.

The Resolution and the Delicate Web

The motif of music and circular motion also shadows Sam's own internal struggle. In the days following Carol's breakdown, the family swam in sunlight, in a heavy rain, and once by moonlight, ate hugely, and slept long hours. Slowly, hour by hour, a resolution grew in Sam's mind, one he found almost impossible to face at first. The concept was so alien to his nature as to revolt him, for it meant a reversal of all his values, of all the things he lived by. This inner combat made visible changes in his manner, and several times he saw Carol looking at him speculatively, knowing he seemed moody and absentminded.

On an oppressively hot Monday, in midmorning, Sam took Carol away from her tennis game and rowed her out into the middle of the mile-long lake in one of the yellow rowboats. The sky in the east had a coppery and ominous look, and a moist infrequent wind would ripple the water and then die into a waiting stillness. Carol sat in the stern in white shorts and a red halter, trailing her fingertips in the water. Sam boated the dripping oars, and as the boat moved smoothly along until the momentum died, he lighted two cigarettes and handed one to her. In this stillness, the circular motion of the oars and the lake's expanse offered a counterpoint to the spinning merry-go-round of Carol's fear.

The Lesson of Incredulity and the Web of Incidence

The novel's final reflection on the motif comes in a conversation between Sam and Carol, where she takes his hand and holds it hard. She tells him that the little thing she has learned is that all over the world, right now, people are dying, or their hearts are breaking, or their bodies are being broken, and while it is happening they have a feeling of complete incredulity. "This can't be happening to me. This isn't the way it was meant to be." Sam replies simply, "I know." Carol then says she thinks maybe she is stronger and braver, and hopes she is, because she knows that everything they have is balanced on such a delicate web of incidence and coincidence. She flushes, and says, "Your turn now."

This closing exchange reframes the song's significance. The tune that once accompanied Sam's act of rescue in Melbourne, and the music that swelled around Carol's childhood terror, both give way to a quieter understanding of fragility and resilience. "Roll Out the Barrel," with its jaunty, circular melody, becomes an ironic counterpoint to the novel's central themes: the randomness of violence, the precariousness of safety, and the slow, deliberate work of rebuilding a sense of normalcy after the siege has ended.