The Cove

by Ron Rash

  The camp entrance was between the hotel and the barracks, so Chauncey had parked, gathered his notebook and pen, and crossed the perimeter road. Two guards with shotguns slouched in chairs outside the open gate. Neither bothered to look up until Chauncey was right in front of them. The shorter man raised his right hand slightly, unsure if he was expected to salute.

  What can we do for you, sir? the shorter man had asked and Chauncey answered that he’d wanted to see if the prison camp was as disgraceful as he’d been hearing and he’d already seen enough to confirm that it was. You don’t know the half of it, the shorter guard said as a farmer passed through the gate with a basket of tomatoes. Us red-blooded Americans is so rationed out we’re near starving and these Huns get plenty to eat. They even got hot water.

  Chauncey nodded at the Hun and the local girl, who still had their fingers twined, and asked what the hell kind of prison camp it was that allowed such a thing. This ain’t no prison camp, the taller guard had answered, saucy like, it’s for internees, not soldiers nor spies. Then the guard had given pretty near a speech about how the Germans never caused a bit of trouble and that there were musicians amongst them who played concerts folks in Hot Springs came to and how when the bridge got washed out the Germans rebuilt it. The other guard piped in and said he did have to admit the Germans had done a crackerjack job on the bridge. Chauncey had finally quit listening and started writing notes for his report. When he asked the guards their names, the shorter one said what for and Chauncey answered for being two of the sorriest guards he’d ever seen in his life. Of course the tall one bowed up and said there’d been nary an escape on his watch. Chauncey had answered that the Huns were afraid if they did get out they might end up in a real prison camp instead of a health resort.

  Chauncey had driven back to Mars Hill that June Sunday and gone straight to his office and typed up a full report on the camp and sent it to Captain Arnold, who sent the report on to his superior. Chauncey hadn’t been asked for any further information or been called to Washington to testify or anything like that, but now it was November, and the Hot Springs Germans had been hauled down to Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia, a real prison camp where they had machine guns and a dead line on the perimeter and the prisoners weren’t mollycoddled but made to work in a rock quarry all day.

  Chauncey raised his eyes from the newspaper. He looked out the window and watched a farmer enter the post office. A fish wrapper, that was all the good the Marshall Sentinel was. From what he’d just read, the German who’d escaped in August did so to keep from going to Fort Oglethorpe, which just confirmed what Chauncey had told that smartass guard. The Hun still hadn’t been recaptured and could be anywhere by now, maybe even sneaked back to Germany in a U-boat.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Above the article was a photograph of Commodore Ruser shaking a guard’s hand. The old fool was still wearing his white uniform and Chauncey remembered how Ruser had stood on the hotel’s front porch with a pipe in his mouth and his hands behind his back, looking out like he was still on the prow of the Vaterland. When the commodore and his crew first came to Madison County, the Sentinel had made a big to-do over them and the tub they’d been on, spouting off about the Vaterland being the biggest ship ever built and there were three million rivets and fifteen thousand electric lights and so on. It was nothing but Hun propaganda, complete with a picture of the Vaterland in New York Harbor, a German flag clear as day on the ship’s masthead.

  Chauncey himself had to set the record straight, doing his own interviewing by telephone. He’d found plenty the newspaper didn’t bother to mention, like how the crew had sabotaged the Vaterland, everything from hacksawing piston rods to throwing machine parts overboard. Or that the Vaterland’s crew rigged steam pipes so they’d bust once enough pressure built up, the vilest sort of treachery because they hoped to sink the ship with a bunch of Americans onboard. Then, to top it all, once the United States made its declaration of war, Ruser complained it was wrong to arrest German civilians—this after his country sank the Lusitania and drowned a thousand American and British civilians, most of them women and children. Chauncey had written it all up and taken it to the Sentinel’s office and demanded they print it and they damn well had.

  Chauncey laid the newspaper on his desk and went to the window and again looked across the street. Two old women gabbed on the post office steps so he sat back down. He folded the newspaper and dropped it in the trash can. Chauncey wondered if it had been his report that had gotten the Hot Springs camp closed. No one had ever given him credit as such, but what was the surprise in that. At least the Huns were gone. The only shame was Miss Yount and that professor hadn’t been hauled off with them.

  The tower clock rang ten times and Chauncey got up and looked toward the post office again. What’s got you so all-fired interested in the mail of a sudden? Marvin Alexander had asked three weeks ago. Before he’d thought better, Chauncey answered he was expecting a letter from Governor Bickett. When he’d entered the post office the next morning and found his mailbox empty, Marvin had winked at Georgina Singleton. Guess the governor has a few other matters to attend to before he writes his pen pal, Marvin had said, and Georgina Singleton thought it quite the josh. After that, Chauncey thought about sending one of the boys to check his box and not give the postmaster the satisfaction of seeing him disappointed, but that meant waiting until late afternoon. Each morning Chauncey would look out his window, knowing the governor’s letter could be just across the street, not even a stone’s throw away, waiting for him. After an hour or two he’d not be able to stand it and would go check, but only when Marvin Alexander and his big mouth were in the post office alone.

  Chauncey did the same this morning, waiting awhile then crossing the street, expecting yet another smartass smile or quip. But today Marvin Alexander told Chauncey his letter had come and handed it to him. At first Chauncey thought it might be a jape on the postmaster’s part, but then he saw the gold seal and typed return address. His own name was typed too, Sergeant Chauncey Feith, followed by Mars Hill North Carolina.

  “You going to open it?” Alexander asked.

  Where are your smartass words and smile now, Chauncey almost answered but instead placed the letter in his uniform’s shirt pocket, like it was nothing more than a ticket stub, and walked out. In the office, he sat at his desk and laid the letter before him. He read the addresses again, then turned the letter over and let his index finger rub the gold imprint of the statehouse seal. He opened his drawer and took out a brass letter opener, decided it was too blunt so took out his penknife instead. He placed the blade tip on the fold’s edge and slowly let the steel slit the letter’s top. Outside, a gangly youth read a recruitment poster on the window, but Chauncey ignored him and carefully unfolded the letter.

  Dear Sergeant Feith,

  It is with great regret that I will be unable to attend your homecoming parade honoring one of our heroic soldiers, but the exigencies of office will not allow my participation. Nevertheless, I wish to inform you and the citizens of Mars Hill and Madison County that there will be an official proclamation recognizing the celebration, and it will be read in the statehouse chambers. Thank you for your gracious invitation and your hard work on behalf of our brave soldiers. Americans such as yourself are, too often, the unsung heroes of our country’s fight against the Central Powers. Therefore, the proclamation will honor you by name as well as Paul Clayton.

  Sincerely,

  Governor Thomas Walter Bickett

  Chauncey knew he should be disappointed by the governor’s response, but as he reread the letter it was hard to be. At the homecoming they could have the proclamation read aloud by Senator Zeller, though perhaps not the part about Chauncey himself. After all, the event was to honor Paul. Yes, he decided, he’d have the part about himself left out, insist it be left out. Still, he would have the letter framed, and he was going to hang it on the wall directly behind where he now
sat, or better, on the wall next to the window. It would give people like Marvin Alexander and anybody else pause before they disrespected him again. Though what they thought didn’t matter. Why care what a bunch of mountain grills thought when the governor of North Carolina had called Sergeant Chauncey Feith a hero.

  Chapter Twenty

  I figure us to hit the real water today,” Hank said as they stepped off the porch. “We’ll be ever glad of that, won’t we?”

  Walter nodded. The last three weeks had been the hardest work in his life. They had labored from early morning to dusk each day and almost all that time he was in the hole’s darkness. Pointless work too, though Walter wasn’t as convinced of that as he had once been. Hank spoke of a future in the cove so idyllic, for all of them, that Laurel might waver. After all the work the three of them had done, even he felt some attachment to the farm.

  Walter was about to get in the barrel when he saw Slidell tethering his horse to the porch rail. The older man set two burlap sacks on the steps.

  “Brought some apples besides the horsehair for your batter,” Slidell said as he joined them. “I reckon you about done since you need it.”

  “We got some seep two days ago so we’ll soon be there,” Hank said, “but it’s been some onerous work, especially for Walter. He’s the one wallering down in the dark. Thank the Lord that place on Balsam has a good well. I’d rather fight a hellcat than do another.”

  “Come hard weather it’ll be a blessing though,” Slidell said.

  “I told Walter the same.”

  Slidell let his gaze sweep over the pasture.

  “It’s a wonder how much you two have got done since August. You’ve turned this place into a real farm. It’s good to see such a thing after all these years. Anyway, I wanted to tell you I’m going to those big doings for Paul Clayton tomorrow, so if you want to ride with me you’re welcome.”

  “I may take you up on that,” Hank said. “I ordered my pulley from Neil Lingefelt and it might be in.”

  “Just be at my place midmorning,” Slidell said. “If you don’t go and it’s in, I’ll fetch your pulley back.”

  “If I go, you mind if Laurel tags along, maybe even this fellow here?” Hank asked, and turned to Walter. “I’m thinking it cause enough to finally get you to town.”

  “That’s going to be a crowd of folks,” Slidell said. “He might rather go when there’s not such a ruckus.”

  Walter nodded.

  “Okay,” Hank said, “but you need to leave this cove sometime. People can’t get to know you if you don’t.”

  “I need to get on back,” Slidell said. “Looks to be Indian summer’s set in, so it’s a good day to cut firewood, maybe clean out my spring.”

  “If you’ve not had breakfast, Laurel can fix you some eggs, gravy you some cornbread too.”

  “I ate but I’ll go in and say howdy,” Slidell said, and went on to the cabin.

  “I guess we better get at it,” Hank said. “Standing in that water will be the worst part, but you only got to dig waist deep and we’ll be done but for the walling. Warm as it is, at least you won’t sprout icicles when you come back up.”

  Walter climbed into the barrel and settled his feet on the bottom. He grasped the rope and, as he did every time, studied its twines for fraying. He looked at the ridge above the creek. The trees had shed most of their leaves and the lack of greenery made the mountains starker, more firmly locked to the land. The oldest mountains in the whole world, one of the guards had claimed, and today they looked it, stark and gray-brown as a daguerreotype. As the winch creaked and groaned, Walter watched the farm sink into the ridge and the ridge sink into the wedge of sky and then before him was only the well wall darkening more with each turn of the winch.

  When the barrel finally hit bottom, the hole above was no bigger than a button. The air was moldy at this depth, like behind a long-shut cellar door. Walter pulled himself out of the barrel and began digging. The dirt gave easily with each stab of the shovel. He thrust the curved point deeper and it broke through the last damp soil into mud. His boots were soon submerged and he had to crouch instead of kneel. The shovel’s lift no longer rasped but made a sucking sound followed by the soil’s soggy clap as it fell into the barrel.

  It was disconcerting to feel but not see water rising over his ankles and then calves. The water was not the teeth-chilling cold of a brook but it was cold enough. Walter made good time for a while, but by late morning water reached his knees. He immersed his arms deeper with each gouge, trying to balance the mud on the curved steel as he lifted it to the barrel. Water sloshed on him each time he raised the shovel.

  When he hauled Walter up for lunch, Hank judged the depth by the waterline on Walter’s waist and declared the well deep enough. Hank asked if he wanted to change into dry clothes but Walter shook his head.

  “Yeah,” Hank said, “I guess it don’t much matter since they’ll be soppy soon as you’re back in there.”

  Laurel brought their lunch and the three of them sat on the grass. The wet clothes clung to him, and though the food was warm, several times he shivered. Hank noticed and offered to go into the well, but Walter shook his head, as he did when Laurel said she’d get him a dry shirt.

  “Slidell told me Paul Clayton’s homecoming is tomorrow,” Laurel said as they finished.

  “You of a mind to go?” Hank asked. “It’s a good time for a holiday with this well all but done.”

  “No, but I was thinking that if you were Walter and me might have us a picnic.”

  Hank shook his head.

  “I pondered it, but the thought of Chauncey Feith speechifying in front of Paul has soured me on it. I’ll go see Paul once the hubbub is over. He’ll need a visit more then than tomorrow. But you all go ahead and do your picnic while you have a nice day. Soon as this warm spell ends the hard weather’s coming.”

  Laurel started to gather the dishes.

  “You mind helping a few minutes before you go back in?” Hank asked. “I’d feel better with your hands on that far winch.”

  They filled the barrel and Hank placed his hand on the lip, pushed so the barrel swayed back and forth a few moments, a scraping within as one rock shifted against another.

  “You don’t need but a foot or so above the waterline, Walter,” Hank said. “Just start at the bottom and press them in the mud good slantways. After that, the water will hold them in place.”

  Walter nodded.

  “Keep a high grip too, what with the weight of the rocks in it,” Hank added. “That way even if something gives way you’ll dangle until I get you back up.”

  Laurel set herself in front of the far winch, hands already on the handle. Walter reached for the rope with his right hand.

  “This is the last time you’ll be in that hole,” Hank said. “Get this done and all that’s left is corbelling the well guard and building a scaffold. That’s a trifle after all this.”

  Walter set his right foot onto the iron lip. The barrel dipped and for a moment his left foot touched only air. A rock tumbled out and he did not hear it hit the well floor. Then both feet were on the lip, his hands holding so tight that Walter felt the twists of the hemp, even individual strands, as the barrel swayed back and forth, finally stilled. Only then did he move his feet inside the barrel, rocks shifting to accommodate his weight.

  “You’re sure it’s safe, Hank?” Laurel asked.

  “Safe as it can be,” Hank answered, “especially if you keep your hands on the winch. Ready, Walter?”

  He nodded and Hank cranked the winch counterclockwise. Walter heard the extra weight in the rub of the twine, the louder creak of the windlass. He tightened his grip to take as much weight off his feet as possible, because what frightened him most was the barrel’s bottom giving way like a trapdoor. Walter closed his eyes, though even open there wasn’t light enough to see. He tried
to breathe slower, calmer. A rock shifted and he caught his breath.

  Finally, the barrel touched water. The rope slackened and Walter gave two quick jerks. He let go of the rope and lowered himself into the seep as the bucket drifted upward to give him room to work. The water felt colder than when he had quit earlier. Deeper too. Not a lot deeper, just a few inches, but enough to notice. He took a stone from the barrel, shifted it to his right hand, and immersed his arm and shoulder while looking upward to keep his face dry. He pressed the rock firmly against the wall. He took another and did the same and after the eleventh he had the first layer. The cold water had not bothered him while shoveling but now chill bumps covered his arms. He began the second tier, not having to immerse himself quite as deep, though that did not lessen the cold.

  Walter was halfway through the last tier when the rocks ran out. He swung the barrel back and forth and it rose. As he waited for Hank to refill the barrel, he could not stop shivering. The water felt colder by the second and he wondered what that meant. Finally, the barrel began descending. Walter whispered for it to hurry, but it seemed to be moving through amber. He touched his waist and it appeared the water was higher than just minutes before. He remembered what the guard had said about caves and underwater rivers with trout pale and blind from the lack of light. The guard had said one moment you were on solid footing and then you were in water so dark and deep you would never find your way back to the surface.

  Finishing the last tier should have been the easiest part, but his hands shook so much the rocks were slippery as fish. Walter dropped a rock and did not try to find it, just reached for another. He finally finished the last tier and swung the barrel to signal Hank. Five minutes and you will be out, Walter told himself, but as he was getting in the barrel he lost his grip, fell backward and was immersed head to toe. He came up sputtering water as the barrel rocked back and forth and began ascending. Walter grabbed the rim to pull himself in but his hands slipped free and the barrel rose out of his grasp. No face above parsed the button of light.