The Unvanquished
Page 1
WILLIAM FAULKNER’S WORKS
THE MARBLE FAUN (1924)
SOLDIER’S PAY (1926)
MOSQUITOES (1927)
SARTORIS (1929) [FLAGS IN THE DUST (1973)]
THE SOUND AND THE FURY (1929)
As I LAY DYING (1930)
SANCTUARY (1931)
THESE 13 (1931)
LIGHT IN AUGUST (1932)
A GREEN BOUGH (1933)
DOCTOR MARTINO AND OTHER STORIES (1934)
PYLON (1935)
ABSALOM, ABSALOM! (1936)
THE UNVANQUISHED (1938)
THE WILD PALMS [IF I FORGET THEE JERUSALEM] (1939)
THE HAMLET (1940)
GO DOWN, MOSES AND OTHER STORIES (1942)
INTRUDER IN THE DUST (1948)
KNIGHT’S GAMBIT (1949)
COLLECTED STORIES OF WILLIAM FAULKNER (1950)
NOTES ON A HORSETHIEF (1951)
REQUIEM FOR A NUN (1954)
A FABLE (1954)
BIG WOODS (1955)
THE TOWN (1957)
THE MANSION (1959)
THE REIVERS (1962)
UNCOLLECTED STORIES OF WILLIAM FAULKNER (1979, POSTHUMOUS)
FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, OCTOBER 1991
Copyright © 1934, 1935, 1936, 1938 by William Faulkner
Copyright renewed 1961, 1962 by William Faulkner
Copyright renewed 1964, 1965 by Estelle Faulkner and Jill
Faulkner Summers
Notes copyright © 1990 by Literary Classics of the United States,
Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published by Random House, Inc., New York, in 1938. This revised text and the notes are reprinted from Novels 1936–1940 by William Faulkner, published by The Library of America, 1990, by permission.
“Ambuscade,” “Retreat,” “Raid,” “Riposte in Tertio” (under the title “The Unvanquished”), and “Vendée” appeared originally in The Saturday Evening Post. “Skirmish at Sartoris” was first published in Scribner’s Magazine.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Faulkner, William, 1897–1962.
The unvanquished / William Faulkner ; drawings by Edward
Shenton.
—1st Vintage international ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79219-8
I. Title.
PS3511.A86U5 1991
813′.52—dc20 91-50010
v3.1_r1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
An editor’s note on Noel Polk’s corrections to the text of The Unvanquished is set out at the end of this volume.
CONTENTS
Cover
William Faulkner’s Works
Title Page
Copyright
Publisher’s Note
I Ambuscade
II Retreat
III Raid
IV Riposte in Tertio
V Vendée
VI Skirmish at Sartoris
VII An Odor of Verbena
Editor’s Note
William Faulkner (1867-1962)
Also by William Faulkner
Academic Resources for Educators
Vintage International
THE
UNVANQUISHED
Drawings by
EDWARD SHENTON
Ambuscade
1.
Behind the smokehouse that summer, Ringo and I had a living map. Although Vicksburg was just a handful of chips from the woodpile and the River a trench scraped into the packed earth with the point of a hoe, it (river, city, and terrain) lived, possessing even in miniature that ponderable though passive recalcitrance of topography which outweighs artillery, against which the most brilliant of victories and the most tragic of defeats are but the loud noises of a moment. To Ringo and me it lived, if only because of the fact that the sunimpacted ground drank water faster than we could fetch it from the well, the very setting of the stage for conflict a prolonged and wellnigh hopeless ordeal in which we ran, panting and interminable, with the leaking bucket between wellhouse and battlefield, the two of us needing first to join forces and spend ourselves against a common enemy, time, before we could engender between us and hold intact the pattern of recapitulant mimic furious victory like a cloth, a shield between ourselves and reality, between us and fact and doom. This afternoon it seemed as if we would never get it filled, wet enough, since there had not even been dew in three weeks. But at last it was damp enough, damp-colored enough at least, and we could begin. We were just about to begin. Then suddenly Loosh was standing there, watching us. He was Joby’s son and Ringo’s uncle; he stood there (we did not know where he had come from; we had not seen him appear, emerge) in the fierce dull early afternoon sunlight, bareheaded, his head slanted a little, tilted a little yet firm and not askew, like a cannonball (which it resembled) bedded hurriedly and carelessly in concrete, his eyes a little red at the inner corners as negroes’ eyes get when they have been drinking, looking down at what Ringo and I called Vicksburg. Then I saw Philadelphy, his wife, over at the woodpile, stooped, with an armful of wood already gathered into the crook of her elbow, watching Loosh’s back.
“What’s that?” Loosh said.
“Vicksburg,” I said.
Loosh laughed. He stood there laughing, not loud, looking at the chips.
“Come on here, Loosh,” Philadelphy said from the woodpile. There was something curious in her voice too—urgent, perhaps frightened. “If you wants any supper, you better tote me some wood.” But I didn’t know which, urgency or fright; I didn’t have time to wonder or speculate, because suddenly Loosh stooped before Ringo or I could have moved, and with his hand he swept the chips flat.
“There’s your Vicksburg,” he said.
“Loosh!” Philadelphy said. But Loosh squatted, looking at me with that expression on his face. I was just twelve then; I didn’t know triumph; I didn’t even know the word.
“And I tell you nother un you aint know,” he said. “Corinth.”
“Corinth?” I said. Philadelphy had dropped the wood and she was coming fast toward us. “That’s in Mississippi too. That’s not far. I’ve been there.”
“Far dont matter,” Loosh said. Now he sounded as if he were about to chant, to sing; squatting there with the fierce dull sun on his iron skull and the flattening slant of his nose, he was not looking at me or Ringo either; it was as if his redcornered eyes had reversed in his skull and it was the blank flat obverses of the balls which we saw. “Far dont matter. Case hit’s on the way!”
“On the way? On the way to what?”
“Ask your paw. Ask Marse John.”
“He’s at Tennessee, fighting. I cant ask him.”
“You think he at Tennessee? Aint no need for him at Tennessee now.” Then Philadelphy grabbed him by the arm.
“Hush your mouth, nigger!” she cried, in that tense desperate voice. “Come on here and get me some wood!”
Then they were gone. Ringo and I didn’t watch them go. We stood there above our ruined Vicksburg, our tedious hoe-scratch not even damp-colored now, looking at one another quietly. “What?” Ringo said. “What he mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. I stooped and set Vicksburg up again. “There it is.”
But Ringo didn’t move, he just looked at me. “Loosh laughed. He say Corinth too. He laughed at Corinth too. What you reckon he know that we aint?”
“Nothing!” I said. “Do you reckon Loosh knows anything that Father dont know?”
“Marse John at Tennessee. Maybe he aint know either.”
“Do you reckon he’d be away off at Tennessee if there were Yankees at Corinth? Do you reckon that if there were Yankees at Corinth, Father and General Van Dorn and General Pemberton all three wouldn’t be there too?” But I was just talking too, I knew that, because niggers know, they know things; it would have to be something louder, much louder, than words to do any good. So I stooped and caught both hands full of dust and rose: and Ringo still standing there, not moving, just looking at me even as I flung the dust. “I’m General Pemberton!” I cried. “Yaaay! Yaay!” stooping and catching up more dust and flinging that too. Still Ringo didn’t move. “All right!” I cried. “I’ll be Grant this time, then. You can be General Pemberton.” Because it was that urgent, since negroes knew. The arrangement was that I would be General Pemberton twice in succession and Ringo would be Grant, then I would have to be Grant once so Ringo could be General Pemberton or he wouldn’t play anymore. But now it was that urgent even though Ringo was a nigger too, because Ringo and I had been born in the same month and had both fed at the same breast and had slept together and eaten together for so long that Ringo called Granny ‘Granny’ just like I did, until maybe he wasn’t a nigger anymore or maybe I wasn’t a white boy anymore, the two of us neither, not even people any longer: the two supreme undefeated like two moths, two feathers riding above a hurricane. So we were both at it; we didn’t see Louvinia, Joby’s wife and Ringo’s grandmother, at all. We were facing one another at scarcely arms’ length, to the other each invisible in the furious slow jerking of the flung dust, yelling “Kill the bastuds! Kill them! Kill them!” when her voice seemed to descend upon us like an enormous hand, flattening the very dust which we had raised, leaving us now visible to one another, dust-colored ourselves to the eyes and still in the act of throwing:
“You, Bayard! You, Ringo!” She stood about ten feet away, her mouth still open with shouting. I noticed that she did not now have on the old hat of Father’s which she wore on top of her head rag even when she just stepped out of the kitchen for wood. “What was that word?” she said. “What did I hear you say?” Only she didn’t wait to be answered, and then I saw that she had been running too. “Look who coming up the big road!” she said.
We—Ringo and I—ran as one, in midstride out of frozen immobility, across the back yard and around the house, where Granny was standing at the top of the front steps and where Loosh had just come around the house from the other side and stopped, looking down the drive toward the gate. In the spring, when Father came home that time, Ringo and I ran down the drive to meet him and return, I standing in one stirrup with Father’s arm around me, and Ringo holding to the other stirrup and running beside the horse. But this time we didn’t. I mounted the steps and stood beside Granny, and with Ringo and Loosh on the ground below the gallery we watched the claybank stallion enter the gate which was never closed now, and come up the drive. We watched them—the big gaunt horse almost the color of smoke, lighter in color than the dust which had gathered and caked on his wet hide where they had crossed at the ford three miles away, coming up the drive at a steady gait which was not a walk and not a run, as if he had held it all the way from Tennessee because there was a need to encompass earth which abrogated sleep or rest and relegated to some insulated bourne of perennial and pointless holiday so trivial a thing as galloping; and Father damp too from the ford, his boots dark and dustcaked too, the skirts of his weathered gray coat shades darker than the breast and back and sleeves where the tarnished buttons and the frayed braid of his field officer’s rank glinted dully, the sabre hanging loose yet rigid at his side as if it were too heavy to jounce or perhaps were attached to the living thigh itself and took no more motion from the horse than he did. He stopped; he looked at Granny and me on the porch and at Ringo and Loosh on the ground.
“Well, Miss Rosa,” he said. “Well, boys.”
“Well, John,” Granny said. Loosh came and took Jupiter’s head; Father dismounted stiffly, the sabre clashing dully and heavily against his wet boot and leg.
“Curry him,” Father said. “Give him a good feed, but dont turn him into the pasture. Let him stay in the lot.… Go with Loosh,” he said, as if Jupiter were a child, slapping him on the flank as Loosh led him on. Then we could see him good. I mean, Father. He was not big; it was just the things he did, that we knew he was doing, had been doing in Virginia and Tennessee, that made him seem big to us. There were others besides him that were doing the things, the same things, but maybe it was because he was the only one we knew, had ever heard snoring at night in a quiet house, had watched eating, had heard when he talked, knew how he liked to sleep and what he liked to eat and how he liked to talk. He was not big, yet somehow he looked even smaller on the horse than off of him, because Jupiter was big and when you thought of Father you thought of him as being big too and so when you thought of Father being on Jupiter it was as if you said, ‘Together they will be too big; you wont believe it.’ So you didn’t believe it and so it wasn’t. He came toward the steps and began to mount, the sabre heavy and flat at his side. Then I began to smell it again, like each time he returned, like the day back in the spring when I rode up the drive standing in one of his stirrups—that odor in his clothes and beard and flesh too which I believed was the smell of powder and glory, the elected victorious but know better now: know now to have been only the will to endure, a sardonic and even humorous declining of self-delusion which is not even kin to that optimism which believes that that which is about to happen to us can possibly be the worst which we can suffer. He mounted four of the steps, the sabre (that’s how tall he actually was) striking against each one of the steps as he mounted, then he stopped and removed his hat. And that’s what I mean: about his doing bigger things than he was. He could have stood on the same level with Granny and he would have only needed to bend his head a little for her to kiss him. But he didn’t. He stopped two steps below her, with his head bared and his forehead held for her to touch her lips to, and the fact that Granny had to stoop a little now took nothing from the illusion of height and size which he wore for us at least.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Granny said.
“Ah,” Father said. Then he looked at me, who was still looking at him, as Ringo at the foot of the steps beneath still was.
“You rode hard from Tennessee,” I said.
“Ah,” Father said again.
“Tennessee sho gaunted you,” Ringo said. “What does they eat up there, Marse John? Does they eat the same things that folks eat?”
Then I said it, looking him in the face while he looked at me: “Loosh says you haven’t been at Tennessee.”
“Loosh?” Father said. “Loosh?”
“Come in,” Granny said. “Louvinia is putting your dinner on the table. You will just have time to wash.”
2.
That afternoon we built the stock pen. We built it deep in the creek bottom, where you could not have found it unless you had known where to look, and you could not have seen it until you came to the new sap-sweating, axe-ended rails woven through and into the jungle growth itself. We were all there—Father and Joby and Ringo and Loosh and me—Father in the boots still but with his coat off now, so that we saw for the first time that his trousers were not Confederate ones but were Yankee ones, of new strong blue cloth, which they (he and his troop) had captured, and without the sabre now too. We worked fast, felling the saplings—the willow and pin oak, the swamp maple and chinkapin—and, without even waiting hardly to trim them, dragging them behind the mules and by hand too, through the mud and the briers to where Father waited. And that was it too; Father was everywhere, with a sapling under each arm going through the brush and briers almost faster than the mules; racking the rails into place while Joby and Loosh were still arguing about which end of the rail went where. That was it: not that Father worked faster and harder than anyone else, even though you do look bigger (to twelve, at least, to me and Ringo at twelve, at least) standing still and saying, ‘Do this or that’ to t
he ones who are doing; it was the way he did it. When he sat at his old place at the table in the dining room and finished the side meat and greens and the cornbread and milk which Louvinia brought him (and we watching and waiting, Ringo and I at least, waiting for night and the talking, the telling) and wiped his beard and said, “Now we’re going to build a new pen. We’ll have to cut the rails, too”; when he said that, Ringo and I probably had exactly the same vision. There would be all of us there—Joby and Loosh and Ringo and me on the edge of the bottom and drawn up into a kind of order—an order partaking not of any lusting and sweating for assault or even victory, but rather of that passive yet dynamic affirmation which Napoleon’s troops must have felt—and facing us, between us and the bottom, between us and the waiting sap-running boles which were about to be transposed into dead rails, Father. He was on Jupiter now; he wore the frogged gray field-officer’s tunic; and while we watched he drew the sabre. Giving us a last embracing and comprehensive glance he drew it, already pivoting Jupiter on the tight snaffle; his hair tossed beneath the cocked hat, the sabre flashed and glinted; he cried, not loud yet stentorian: “Trot! Canter! Charge!” Then, without even having to move, we could both watch and follow him—the little man (who in conjunction with the horse looked) exactly the right size because that was as big as he needed to look and—to twelve years old—bigger than most folks could hope to look) standing in the stirrups above the smoke-colored diminishing thunderbolt, beneath the arcy and myriad glitter of the sabre from which the chosen saplings, sheared trimmed and lopped, sprang into neat and waiting windrows, requiring only the carrying and the placing to become a fence.
The sun had gone out of the bottom when we finished the fence, that is, left Joby and Loosh with the last three panels to put up, but it was still shining up the slope of the pasture when we rode across it, I behind Father on one of the mules and Ringo on the other one. But it was gone even from the pasture by the time I had left Father at the house and returned to the stable, where Ringo already had a lead rope on the cow. So we went back to the new pen, with the calf following nuzzling and prodding at the cow every time she stopped to snatch a mouthful of grass, and the sow trotting on ahead. She (the sow) was the one who moved slow. She seemed to be moving slower than the cow even while the cow was stopped with Ringo leaned to the taut jerk of the rope and hollering at the cow, so it was dark sure enough when we reached the new pen. But there was still plenty of gap left to drive the stock through. But then, we never had worried about that.