“Yessum.”
“If you want to play soldier, you go off somewhere with Bayard and do it. I can raise flowers without any help from the army,” she added, turning to the guest with her handful of larkspur. “And what are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“You both look so funny,” the younger woman explained. “You looked so much more like a soldier than poor Isom, for all his uniform.” She touched her eyes with her fingertips. “I’m sorry: please forgive me for laughing.”
“Hmph,” Miss Jenny sniffed. She put the larkspur into the basket and went on to the sweet peas and snipped again, viciously. The guest followed, as did Isom with the basket; and presently Miss Jenny had done with sweet peas and she moved on again with her train, pausing to cut a rose here and there, and stopped before a bed where tulips lifted their bright inverted bells. She and Isom had guessed happily this time; the various colors formed an orderly pattern.
“When we dug ’em up last fall,” she told her guest, “I’d put a red one in Isom’s right hand and a yellow one in his left. Then I’d say, ‘All right, Isom, give me the red one.’ He’d never fail to hold out his left hand, and if I just looked at him long enough, he’d hold out both hands, ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold that red one in your right hand?’ I’d say. ‘Yessum, here ’tis,’ and out would come his left hand again. ‘That ain’t your right hand, stupid,’ I’d say. ‘Dat’s de one you said wuz my right hand a while ago,’ Isom says. Ain’t that so, nigger?” Miss Jenny glared at Isom, who again performed his deprecatory effacing movement behind the slow equanimity of his grin.
“Yessum, I ’speck it is.”
“You’d better,” Miss Jenny rejoined warningly. “Now, how can anybody have a decent garden, with a fool like that? I expect every spring to find corn or lespedeza coming up in the hyacinth beds or something.” She examined the tulips again, weighing the balanced colors one against the other in her mind. “No, you don’t want any tulips,” she decided, moving on.
“No, Miss Jenny,” the guest agreed demurely. They went on to the gate, and Miss Jenny stopped and took the basket from Isom.
“And you go home and take that thing off, you hear?”
“Yessum.”
“And I want to look out that window in a few minutes and see you in the garden with that hoe again,” she added. “And I want to see both of your hands on it this time, and I want to see it moving, too. You hear me?”
“Yessum.”
“And tell Caspey to be ready to go to work in the morning. Even niggers that eat here have got to work some.” But Isom was gone, and they went on and mounted to the veranda. “Don’t he sound like that’s exactly what he’s going to do?” she confided as they entered the hall. “He knows as well as I do that I won’t dare look out that window, after what I said. Come in,” she added, opening the parlor doors.
This room was open but seldom now, though in John Sartoris’ day it had been constantly in use. He was always giving dinners, and balls too on occasion, with the folding doors between it and the dining room thrown open and three negroes with stringed instruments on the stairway and all the candles burning, surrounding himself with a pageantry of color and scent and music against which he moved with his bluff and jovial arrogance. He lay also overnight in this room in his gray regimentals and so brought to a conclusion the colorful, if not always untarnished, pageant of his own career, contemplating for the last time his own apotheosis from the jocund mellowness of his generous hearth.
But during his son’s time it fell less and less into use, and slowly and imperceptibly it lost its jovial but stately masculinity, becoming by mutual agreement a place for his wife and his son John’s wife and Miss Jenny to clean thoroughly twice a year and in which, preceded by a ritualistic unswaddling of brown holland, they entertained their more formal callers. This was its status at the birth of his grandsons and it continued thus until the death of their parents, and later, to that of his wife. After that Miss Jenny bothered with formal callers but little and with the parlor not at all. She said it gave her the creeps.
And so it stayed closed nearly all the time, and slowly acquired an atmosphere of solemn and macabre fustiness. Occasionally young Bayard or John would open the door and peer into the solemn obscurity in which the shrouded furniture loomed with a sort of ghostly benignance, like albino mastodons. But they did not enter; already in their minds the room was associated with death, an idea which even the holly and tinsel of Christmastide could not completely obscure. They were away at school by the time they reached party age, but even during vacations, though they had filled the house with the polite bedlam of their contemporaries, the room would be opened only on Christmas Eve, when the tree was set up and a fire lighted, and a bowl of eggnog on the table in the center of the hearth. And after they went to England in ’16 it was opened twice a year to be cleaned after the ancient ritual that even Simon had inherited from his forefathers, and to have the piano tuned, or when Miss Jenny and Narcissa spent a forenoon or afternoon there, but formally not at all.
The furniture loomed shapelessly in its dun shrouds. The piano alone was uncovered, and Narcissa drew the bench out and removed her hat and dropped it beside her. Miss Jenny set the basket down and from the gloom back of the instrument she drew a straight, hard chair, uncovered also, and sat down and removed her felt hat from her trim white head. Light came through the open door, but the windows were shuttered behind heavy maroon curtains, and it served only to enhance the obscurity and to render more shapeless the hooded anonymous furniture.
But behind these dun bulks and in all the corners of the room there waited, as actors stand within the wings beside the waiting stage, figures in crinoline and hooped muslin and silk; in stocks and flowing coats, in gray too, with crimson sashes and sabers in gallant, sheathed repose; Jeb Stuart himself, perhaps, on his glittering garlanded bay or with his sunny hair falling upon fine broadcloth beneath the mistletoe and holly boughs of Baltimore in ’58. Miss Jenny sat with her uncompromising grenadier’s back and held her hat upon her knees and fixed herself to look on as her guest touched chords from the keyboard and wove them together, and rolled the curtain back upon the scene.
In the kitchen Caspey was having breakfast while Simon his father, and Elnora his sister, and Isom his nephew (in uniform) watched him. He had been Simon’s understudy in the stables, and general handy man about the place, doing all the work that Simon managed, through the specious excuse of decrepitude and filial gratitude, to slough on to his shoulders and that Miss Jenny could devise for him and he could not evade. Old Bayard also employed him in the fields occasionally. The draft had got him and bore him to France and the Saint Sulpice docks as one of a labor battalion, where he did what work corporals and sergeants managed to slough on to his unmilitary shoulders, and that white officers could devise for him and he could not evade.
Thus all the labor about the place devolved on Simon and Isom. But Miss Jenny kept Isom piddling about the house so much of the time that Simon was soon as bitter against the War Lords as any professional Democrat. Meanwhile Caspey was working a little and trifling with continental life in its martial phases rather to his future detriment, for at last the tumult died and the captains departed and left a vacuum filled with the usual bitter bickerings of Armageddon’s heirs-at-law: and Caspey returned to his native land a total loss, sociologically speaking, with a definite disinclination toward labor, honest or otherwise, and two honorable wounds incurred in a razor hedged crap game. But return he did, to his father’s querulous satisfaction and Elnora’s and Isom’s admiration, and he now sat in the kitchen, telling them about the war.
“I don’t take nothin’ fum no white folks no mo’,” he was saying. “War done changed all dat. If us cullud folks is good enough ter save France fum de Germans, den us is good enough ter have de same rights de Germans is. French folks think so, anyhow, and ef America don’t, dey’s ways of learnin’ ’urn. Yes, suh, it wu
z de cullud soldier saved France and America bofe. Black regiments kilt mo’ Cermans dan all de white armies put together, Jet ’lone unloadin’ steamboats all day long fer a dollar a day.”
“War ain’t hurt dat big mouf o’ yo’n, anyhow,” Simon said.
“War unloosed de black man’s’ mouf,” Caspey corrected, “Give him de right to’ talk. Kill Germans, den do yo’ oratin’, dey tole us. Well, us done it.”
“How many you kilt, Unc’ Caspey?” Isom asked deferentially.
“I ain’t never bothered to count ’um up. Been times kilt mo’ in one mawnin’ dan dey’s folks on dis whole place. One time we wuz down in de cellar of a steamboat tied up to de bank, and one of these submareems come up and stopped, and all de white officers run up on de bank and hid. Us boys downstairs didn’t know dey wuz anything wrong ’twell folks started clambin’ down de ladder. We never had no guns wid us at de time, so when we seed dem green legs comin’ down de ladder, we crape up behin’ ’um, and ez dey come down one of de boys would hit ’um over de haid wid a piece of scantlin’ and another would drag ’um outen de way and cut dey th’oat wid a meat-plow. Dey wuz about thirty of ’um. . . . Elnora, is dey any mo’ of dat coffee lef’?”
“Sho,” Simon murmured. Isom’s eyes popped quietly and Elnora lifted the coffee pot from the stove and refilled Caspey’s cup.
Caspey drank coffee for a while.
“And another time me and a boy wuz gwine along a road. We got tired unloadin’ dem steamboats all day long, so one day de Captain’s dog-robber faun’ whar he kep’ dese here unloaded passes and he tuck a han’ful of ’um, and me and him wuz on de road to town when a truck come along and de boy axed us did us want a lif’. He wuz a school boy, so he writ on three of de passes whenever we come to a place dat mought be M.P. infested, and we got along fine, ridin’ about de country on dat private truck, ’twell one mawnin’ we looked out whar de truck wuz and dey wuz a M.P. settin’ on it whilst de truck boy wuz tryin’ to explain to him. So we turned de other way and lit out walkin’. After dat we had to dodge de M.P. towns, ’case me and de other boy couldn’t write on de passes.
“One day we wuz gwine along a road. It wuz a busted-up road and it didn’t look like no M.P. country. But dey wuz some of ’em in de las’ town we dodged, so we didn’t know we wuz so close to whar de fightin’ wuz gwine on ’twell we walked on to a bridge and come right on a whole regiment of Germans, swimmin’ in de river. Dey seed us about de same time we seed dem and div under de water, and me and de other boy grabbed up two machine guns settin’ dar and we sot on de bridge rail, and ev’y time a German stuck his haid up fer a new breaf, us shot ’im. It wuz jes’ like shootin’ turkles in a slough.
I reckon dey wuz close to a hund’ed us kilt ’fa’ de machine guns run dry. Dat’s whut dey gimme dis fer.” He drew from his pocket a florid, plated, medal of Porto Rican origin, and Isom came quietly up to see.
“Umumuh,” Simon said. He sat with his hands on his knees, watching his son with rapt astonishment. Elnora tame up also, her arms daubed with flour.
“Whut does dey look like?” she asked. “Like folks?”
“Dey’s big,” Caspey answered. “Sort of pink lookin’ and about eight foot tall. Only folks in de whole American war dat could handle ’um wuz de cullud regiments.”
Isom returned to his corner beside the wood box. “Ain’t you got some gyardenin’ to do, boy?” Simon asked him.
“Naw, suh,” Isom answered, his enraptured gaze still on his uncle. “Miss Jenny say us done caught up dismawnin’.”
“Well, don’t you come whinin’ ter me when she jumps on you,” Simon warned him. “Whar’d you kill de nex’ lot?” he asked his son.
“Us didn’t kill no mo’ after dat,” Caspey said. “We decided dat wuz enough and dat we better leave de rest of ’um fer de boys dat wuz gittin’ paid fer killin’ ’um. We went on ’twell de road played out in a field. Dey wuz some ditches and ole wire fences and holes in de field, wid folks livin’ in ’um. De folks wuz white American soldiers and dey egvised us to pick out a hole and stay dar fer a while, ef us wanted de peace and comfort of de war. So we picked us out a dry hole and moved in. Dey wasn’t nothin’ to do all day long but lay in de shade and watch de air balloons and listen to de shootin’ about fo’s miles up de road. De boy wid me claimed it wuz rabbit hunters, but I knowed better. De white boys could write, so dey fixed up de passes and we tuck time about gwine to whar de army wuz and gittin’ grub. When de passes give out we faun’ whar a French army wid some cannons wuz livin’ over in de woods a ways, so we went over whar dey wuz and et.
“Dat went on fer a long time, ’twell one day de balloons wuz gone and de white boys says it wuz time to move again. But me and de other boy didn’t see no use in gwine nowhar else, so us stayed. Dat evenin’ we went over to whar de French army wuz fer some grub, but dey wuz gone too. De boy wid me says de Germans done caught ’um, but we didn’t know; hadn’t heard no big racket since yistiddy. So we went back to de hole. Dey wuzri’t no grub, so we crawled in and went to bed and slep’ dat night, and early de nex’ mawnin’ somebody come in de hole and tromped on us and woke us up. It wuz one of dese army upliftin’ ladies’ huntin’ German bayonets and belt-buckles. She say, ‘Who dat in here?’ and de other boy says, ‘Us shock troops.’ So we got out, but we hadn’t gone no piece ’fa’ here come a waggin-load of M.P.’s. And de passes had done give out.”
“Whut you do den?” Simon asked. Isom’s eyes bulged quietly in the gloom behind the woodbox.
“Dey tuck us and shut us up in de jailhouse fer a while. But de war wuz mos’ th’ough and dey needed hands to load dem steamboats back up, so dey sont us to a town name’ Bres’. . . . I don’t take nothin’ offen: no white man, M.P. er not,” Caspey stated again. “Us boys wuz in a room one night, shootin’ dice. De bugle had done already played de lights out tune, but we wuz in de army, whar a man kin do whut he wants to es long es dey’ll let ’im, so when de M.P. come along and says, ‘Put out dat light,’ one of de boys says, ‘Come in here, and we’ll put yo’n out.’ Dey wuz two of the M.P.’s and dey kicked de do’ in and started shootin’, and somebody knocked de light over and we run. Dey foun’ one of de M.P.’s de nex’ mawnin’ widout nothin’ to hole his collar on, and two of de boys wuz daid, too. But dey couldn’t fin’ who de res’ of us wuz. And den we come home.”
Caspey emptied his cup. “I don’t take no thin’ offen no white man no mo’, lootenant ner captain ner M.P. War showed de white folks dey can’t git along widout de cullud man. Tromple him in de dus’, but when de trouble bust loose, hit’s ‘Please, suh, Mr. Cullud Man; right dis way whar de bugle blowin’, Mr. Cullud Man; you is de savior of de country.’ And now de cullud race gwine reap de benefits of de war, and dat soon.”
“Sho,” murmured Simon.
“Yes, suh. And de women, too. I got my white in France, and I’m gwine git it here, too.”
“Lemme tell you somethin’, nigger,” Simon said. “De good Lawd done took keer of you fer a long time, now, but He ain’t gwine bother wid you always.”
“Den I reckon I’ll git along widout Him,” Caspey retorted. He rose and stretched. “Reckon I’ll go down to de big road and ketch a ride to town. Gimme dem clothes, Isom.”
Miss Jenny and her guest stood on the veranda when he passed along beside the house and crossed toward the drive.
“There goes your gardener,” Narcissa said. Miss Jenny looked.
“That’s Caspey,” she corrected. “Now, where do you reckon he’s headed? Town, I’ll bet a dollar,” she added, watching his lounging khaki back, by means of which he contrived to disseminate in some, way a sort of lazy insolence. “You, Caspey!” she called.
He slowed in passing Narcissa’s small car and examined it with a disparagement too lazy to sneer even, then he slouched on.
“You, Caspey!” Miss Jenny repeated, raising her voice. But he went steadily on
down the drive, insolent and slouching and unhurried. “He heard me,” she said ominously. “We’ll see about this when he comes back. Who was the fool anyway, who thought of putting niggers into the same uniform with white men? Mr. Vardaman knew better; he told those fools at Washington at the time it wouldn’t do. But politicians!” She invested the innocent word with an utter and blasting derogation. “If I ever get tired of associating with gentlefolks, I know what I’ll do: I’ll run for Congress. . . . Listen at me!—tiradin’ again. I declare, at times I believe these Sartorises and all their possessions just set out to plague and worry me. Thank the Lord, I won’t have to associate with ’em after I’m dead. I don’t know where they’ll be, but no Sartoris is going to stay in heaven any longer than he can help.”
The other laughed. “You seem very sure of your own destination, Miss Jenny.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? Haven’t I been laying up crowns and harps for a long time?” She shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed down the drive. Caspey had reached the gate and he now stood beside the road, waiting for a wagon to pass. “Don’t you stop for him, you hear?” she said suddenly. . . . “Why won’t you stay for dinner?”
“No,” the other answered, “I must get on home. Aunt Sally’s not well today.” She stood for a moment in the sunlight, her hat and her basket of flowers on her arm, musing. Then with a sudden decision she drew a folded paper from the front of her dress.
“Got another one, did you?” Miss Jenny asked, watching her. “Lemme see it.” She took the paper and opened it and stepped back out of the sun. Her nose glasses hung on a slender silk cord that rolled on to a spring in a small gold case pinned to her bosom. She snapped the cord out and set the glasses on her high-bridged nose. Behind them her eyes were cold and piercing as a surgeon’s.
The paper was a single sheet of foolscap; it bore writing in a frank, open script that at first glance divulged no individuality whatever; a hand youthful, yet at the same time so blandly and neatly unsecretive that presently you wondered a little:
Sartoris Page 6
