Jordan County

by Shelby Foote

  SHELBY FOOTE

  Jordan County

  Shelby Foote came from a long line of Mississippians. He was born in Greenville, Mississippi, and attended school there until he entered the University of North Carolina. During World War II he served in the European theater as a captain of field artillery. He wrote six novels: Tournament, Follow Me Down, Love in a Dry Season, Shiloh, Jordan County, and September September. He was awarded three Guggenheim fellowships during the course of writing his monumental three-volume history, The Civil War: A Narrative. He died in 2005.

  ALSO BY

  SHELBY FOOTE

  Tournament

  Follow Me Down

  Love in a Dry Season

  Shiloh

  September September

  The Civil War: A Narrative

  VOLUME I. Fort Sumter to Perryville

  VOLUME II. Fredericksburg to Meridian

  VOLUME III. Red River to Appomattox

  First Vintage Books Edition, June 1992

  Copyright © 1954 by Shelby Foote

  Copyright renewed 1982 by Shelby Foote

  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 distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published in hardcover by The Dial Press, New York, in 1954.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Foote, Shelby.

  Jordan County : a landscape in narrative / Shelby Foote. – 1st Vintage Books ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77927-4

  1. Mississippi–History–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3511.0348J67 1992

  813′.54–dc20 91-50723

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Rain Down Home

  Ride Out

  A Marriage Portion

  Child by Fever

  The Freedom Kick

  Pillar of Fire

  The Sacred Mound

  RAIN DOWN HOME

  Dawn broke somewhere up the line, pearly under a drizzle of rain, but presently the rain left off and the flat eastern rim of earth was tinted rose. The sun came up fast, dark red while still half hidden, the color of blood, then fiery as it bounced clear of the landline, shining on the picked-over cotton that hung in bluing skeins on dead brown stalks. Ahead the engine was rounding a curve and suddenly a plume of steam was balanced on the whistle; it screamed, much as a hound will bay once in full course for no reason at all; then the plume disappeared and it hushed. The rain returned but the sun still shone, pale yellow through the mizzle. “I ought to watch,” the young man told himself. He spoke aloud. But that was the last he remembered. He slid back into drowsiness and slumber, taking with him only the present sensations of dusty plush and cinders and vibration.

  “Dont,” he said. The hand nudged at his shoulder again and the voice came back, as if from a long way off.

  “Bristol,” it said. “All out.”

  He saw the hand, the black cuff with its gold-thread stars and bars of longterm service toward retirement, and looking up he saw the conductor himself, the face with its halo of white hair, the broken veins of the nose, the jowls and dewlap. “Hey?”

  “End of the line. All out for Bristol.”

  Then he woke. It was there, outside the window, in broad open daylight. He had stayed awake all night, riding south out of Memphis through the hundred-odd miles of blackness, with only the soft gold gleam of cabin lanterns scattered at random across the fields and the infrequent sudden garish burst of streetlights announcing towns, and then had slept through the arrival. “Thanks,” he said.

  Rising — he was about twenty-five, rumpled and unshaven after the all-night trainride — he took his suitcase from the overhead rack and carried it down the aisle of the empty coach. At the door onto the rear platform he turned suddenly, looking back, and saw what he had known he would see. The conductor stood there, watching him, the ticket punch in his left hand glinting highlight. He narrowed his eyes and pulled his chin down. “Whats the matter?” he said. “You think I’m drunk or something?” The conductor shrugged and turned away. He smiled, swung the door ajar, and stepped onto the platform.

  Brilliant early morning sunlight struck him across the eyes as he came down the iron steps to where the flagman stood on the concrete quay, the brass buttons on his coat as bright as the sun itself. “Mississippi, hey?” the young man cried. He smiled as he spoke.

  “Thats right,” the flagman said. “Home again.”

  “Jordan County. You think itll rain?”

  “Oh sure. Cotton’s all in: why not?”

  “Why not,” he said, waving his hand, and went into the depot.

  He intended to leave his bag with the ticket agent, but the agent was busy at his window with three Negroes. Grave-faced, they wore funeral clothes, dark suits with heavy watch chains and boiled collars. The agent was scratching his head, grave-faced too. They had accompanied a dead friend to the station; they wanted to ship him to Vicksburg in his coffin. That was easy enough. The problem was they wanted him sent back two days later for a second funeral. He had lived both in Vicksburg and in Bristol, with lodge brothers and relatives in each, and since the widow insisted on burial here, they figured it would be cheaper, more convenient all around, that is, to send him to Vicksburg so his friends could see him there, laid out in style, than it would be for all those people to leave their jobs and buy railroad tickets to come up here and see him. Then they would ship him back to Bristol for the second funeral and the burial. That made sense; the trouble lay in the question of fares. First-class was the normal rate, but the agent was not so sure about the propriety of selling a round-trip ticket to a corpse. His friends maintained he was entitled to it, but the agent was doubtful; he was not even sure but what it might be sacrilegious. “I’ll call the office and get a ruling,” he was saying, still scratching his head, as the young man left with the suitcase.

  Again in brilliant sunlight he walked westward down the main street of the town. Cars went past or paused at intersections, obedient to the traffic lights suspended between poles, the lidless glare of red and green, the momentary blink of amber, relaying the orders of some central brain, peremptory, electric, and unthinking. The young man frowned. When he had gone two blocks he stopped and gazed across the street at a department store with a new façade of imitation marble that was mottled like a pinto; Goodblood’s it said in a flowing script across the pony-colored front. He shook his head. Then as he stood looking down the line of bright new parking meters, each with its clockwork entrails ticking off the time between now and the red flag of violation, he saw a man coming toward him. The man walked with his head tipped forward, a worried expression on his face. He stopped, patting his pockets, preoccupied, and the young man spoke.

  “They changed it,” he said to the man. “They changed it on me while my back was turned.”

  “How’s that?” The worried look did not leave the man’s face.

  “The town. They changed it. It’s all new.”

  “Yes; it’s growing,” the man said. He nodded once and hurried on, preoccupied, patting his pockets.

  “Hey!” The man did not glance back; he was already out of earshot. “You didnt know me, did you?” the young man said, standing at the curb with the suitcase held against his leg. “You didnt know little Pauly Green that used to deliver your paper. Did you, Mr Nowell?”

  Just then a cloud blew past the sun. The glitter left the rain-washed streets but then came back as bright a
s ever; the cloud was gone and the parking meters twinkled in steady metallic progression along the curb. He turned to go, swinging the suitcase clear of his leg, and as he turned he saw an envelope lying face-down on the sidewalk. Something was written on the flap. Bending forward Pauly read the almost childish script. Write soon!! PS. I am seventeen now. My birthday was Fri 13, I hope not bad luck. He picked it up. When he turned it over he saw that the stamp had not been canceled and the address, damp from contact with the sidewalk, was written in the same adolescent scrawl. Miss Norma Jean Purdy, Box 221 Route 7, Indemnity, Miss. He turned it over again. The flap had come unglued, so he opened it and took out a sheet of blue-lined paper with three loose-leaf holes down the left margin. Another cloud blew past the sun while he read. The paper went from dazzling white to gray, then back to dazzling.

  Dear Norma Jean:

  I was glad to get your letter. I am sorry I havent written you before now. I guess my letter got pretty dull, no exciting news. But I will try to write more intresting letters so you wont mind writing.

  I had a grand time at Ole Miss. If you had been there it would have been complete.

  We went Fri morning, got there about 10:00. We rehersed so much I cant hardly talk now. There was a party at the gym Friday night. I had a good time. I met a boy from Isstabula I think you spell it. He asked me to walk back to the dormitory but I refused because I do not like to go with just anybody. Saturday I had a real good time but made my self so tired walking and seeing everything on the campus. The boys were so nice, college boys. Sometimes we would be walking down the side walk and they would whistle at us.

  I wish you could come see me sometimes, I sure would enjoy your visit. It wont be long until Xmas. I hope you can come and stay with me some. We could go on a shopping spree or something, so please come to see me when you can.

  Hope you have good luck with your new boy friend. Hope you will get or got to go on the hay ride with him. Write me real soon. Love,

  ALICE

  Please write soon!! I am trying to make my letters more intresting.

  Love & xxxx.

  PS. Went to the revile last night. That sure is a good preacher that is holding it. His name in Juny Lynch. He is a Methodist.

  Pauly smiled. The post office was one block farther; as he went past the mailbox he sealed the sticky flap again and dropped the letter into the slot. “Go where you belong, where youre not wanted,” he told it as it fell from sight. As always, when he turned it loose there was the sense of having done something irretrievable. Another cloud went over the sun, but this time it did not pass. Rain began to fall and he hurried to the door of a café in the middle of the block. Inside, he sat on a stool at the counter, the suitcase up-ended on the floor beside him. “What will it be?” the waitress said.

  “Whats good?”

  “You want breakfast?”

  “Breakfast.” He nodded and the waitress watched him across the glass of water she had brought. “Whats good?” He smiled but she did not smile back. Her nails were coral; they looked detachable, like earrings bought in a shop. She was no longer young and crow’s feet were etched at the outward corners of her eyes.

  “It’s all good.”

  “Is the bacon good?”

  “It’s all good,” she said mournfully.

  “O.K. Give me ham and eggs. Coffee now.”

  “How you want the eggs?”

  “What?”

  “How you want them fixed?”

  “Mm — I dont care. Looking at me, I reckon.”

  “Two!” she cried over her shoulder, in the direction of the order window. “Straight up, with ham!”

  “Yao,” a voice said from the kitchen.

  When she returned from the coffee urn and set the thick white cup and saucer on the counter, he was waiting. He leaned forward and asked her, stiff-lipped with the steam from the coffee rising about his face: “Why doesnt everybody love each other?”

  “Do what?”

  “Love each other. Why dont they love each other?”

  “Say, what are you anyhow? Some kind of a nut?”

  “No — really. Why not?” He was not discouraged. He spoke stiff-lipped, his face wreathed with steam. “Were you ever wrapped in wet sheets, wrapped up tight? Thats what they need, and then theyd love each other. I’m telling you. Wrap them up, good and tight, leave them there for a while like that, then turn them loose, and believe me theyd love each other.”

  “Look,” she said. “I’m busy.”

  She went on down the counter and did not come near him again until she brought the ham and eggs. Then she only set them down in passing; she kept moving, out of reach. He ate hungrily, all of it, including three slices of toast, and when he had finished he took up the suitcase and started for the door. The Greek proprietor stood at the cash register. He had the drawer open, looking at his money. Pauly paid for the meal and turned to leave. Then he turned back. He was blond and short, with wide shoulders, small gray eyes, and an aggressive chin. “Say,” he said. The Greek looked up from the cash drawer. “Could I leave this here for a while?” He raised the suitcase and lowered it again.

  “All right,” the Greek said. “Put back here. But not responsible, unnerstand?”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  “Ho K.”

  When he had put the suitcase behind the plywood partition he went to the front door and stood looking through the glass. A fine rain was still falling but there were pale gray shadows on the sidewalk. Pauly opened the door and saw the sun through the mizzling rain. “What do you know,” he cried over his shoulder. “The devil is beating his wife.”

  He turned up the collar of his coat and went out into the rain, going west still, toward the river. The levee was a block and a half away, with the veterans’ sign in front of it, blue and white except for the red stars and stripes on the flag in the middle. He walked fast and soon he stood in front of it, holding his collar with both hands at his throat. The sign had words in big letters on both sides of the flag. To the left it said: IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO SERVED IN WORLD WAR TWO, and on the opposite side, in balance: MAY THE SPIRIT OF OUR BOYS WHO FELL IN BATTLE LIVE FOREVER. He had heard about that. Originally it was intended to put the names of the war dead on the signboard, the whites down one side and the Negroes down the other, with the American flag between. But the notion of having them all on one board caused so much ugly feeling — there was even some talk of dynamite, for example — that the service club whose project it was took a vote and decided that it would be better just to say something fitting about the spirit of our boys. That was what they did, and already it had begun to look a bit weathered around the edges. Pauly stood in the rain, looking at it and holding his collar close at the throat. His hair was all the way wet by now and the rain ran in trickles down his face.

  Presently he walked around the sign and climbed the levee, no easy job for the grass was slippery and under it there was mud. When he reached the crest the rain stopped as if by signal; his shadow darkened on the grass, and below him lay the river, the Mississippi. Tawny, wide, dimpled and swirled by eddies, it sparkled in the sunlight as it swept along to the south. Pauly was alone up here and a cold wind blew against his face. Behind him Bristol thrust its steeples through the overarching trees. “Hello, big river,” he said. He felt better now. He came down, slipping and smiling. “Thats one big river,” he said.

  He did not stop at the base of the levee; he kept going east, back past the café where he had left his suitcase, past the depot — wondering if the corpse had got its round-trip ticket — past the courthouse where the Confederate soldier watched from his marble shaft, past the ramped tracks of the C&B, and on out that same street, until finally he came to a park: WINGATE PARK it was called on a wrought-iron arch above the entrance. Sunlight glittered on the rain-washed gravel paths; the grass was still green after the first cold snap of late November. He entered the park and sat on a circular bench that was built around the trunk of a big oak. Despi
te the coolness he took off his damp coat and sat with it folded across his lap. The stubble of beard was more obvious now, with a coppery glint in the sunshine. His clothes were even more rumpled. The whites of his eyes were threaded with red and each lid showed the edge of its red lining. He leaned back against the tree, and almost immediately he was asleep.

  Singing woke him. At first he did not know where he was, nor then how long he had been there. The singer was a little girl who was playing with two dolls about five yards from the bench. She wore a short wool skirt, a beret, and a corduroy jacket. “Hello,” Pauly said. She did not hear him. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and said it again. “Hel-lo.”

  Turning her head she looked at him and her eyes were large and dark. She was very pretty. “Hello,” she said.

  “What are you playing?”

  “Dolls.”

  “Oh. Have they got names?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, are they nice names?”

  “Nice,” she said.

  “What, for instance?”

  “I’m sorry. Mummy says I mustnt talk to strangers.”

  “Well, you just tell your mummy I said she’s wrong. Some of the nicest people I ever knew were strangers.”

  She smiled at this and he smiled back. Then: “Sal Ann,” they heard a flat voice say, and Pauly saw a young Negress sitting on a nearby bench, holding a multicolored booklet in both hands. She wore loafers with new pennies in the flaps and bright green socks. “Come play over here,” she said. Her voice was expressionless; she did not look at Pauly. Sally Ann took up her dolls.

  “I have to go.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh yes. She’s my nurse.”

  “I know,” he said. “Ive had them myself. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He watched her go, and suddenly feeling the chill he put his coat on. Presently, when the nurse had finished her comic book — Bat Man was its title; she seemed to have derived small pleasure from it — she rose and beckoned to the little girl. “Time for your nap,” she said. Leaving by way of the arch they passed a man who walked bent forward, leaning on a cane. As he drew closer Pauly saw that he was old and there was pain in his face. Then he saw Pauly and turned aside, taking the bench where the nurse had read through Bat Man. He sat with the cane planted stiffly between his shoes, both hands on the crook, and his face was empty except for the lines of pain.