Praise for The Year of Jubilo
A New York Times Notable Book
“A sweeping, cinematic story of rebellion, loyalty, revenge, and reawakened romance.” —The New York Times Book Review
“In its gravity and ambition, The Year of Jubilo is a novel that William Faulkner might have written, but Faulkner never wrote as beautifully as Howard Bahr.” —Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Exceedingly well-written … With complex, well-crafted, often beautiful prose, Howard Bahr spins the multiple threads of this story to a violent climax.” —The Seattle Times
“Bahr is able to move—sometimes within the space of just a sentence or two—from the harsh language of brutal events to the poetry of enduring beauty.” —The Boston Globe
“A writer of uncommonly beautiful phrases and compelling characters, [Bahr] has … managed to convey truths about the human condition within the confines of the American Civil War.” —The Christian Science Monitor
“A cast of characters worthy of a Larry McMurtry novel … [Bahr has] amazing knowledge of and insight into the period.” —Newsday
“A moving account of the South just after surrender and before Reconstruction, a time of terror, turmoil, and heartbreak.” —Baltimore Sun
“The Year of Jubilo and Bahr’s first novel The Black Flower … are achievements of a singular order. A strong, sharp vision casting light on whatever it touches; resonant, glittering language; living characters, unforgettable even in swift glimpses; and a heartbreaking intertwining of pain and beauty make these books gleam among the workshopped novels like lilies among the thorns.” —The News & Observer (Raleigh)
“Like Wolfe and Faulkner, Bahr has a poet's heart, a philosopher's mind, and artist's spirit, and a lover's soul.” —The Tennessean (Nashville)
“[A] sweeping, lyrical tale … Bahr has crafted an unforgettably powerful and original Civil War story.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review
“The story is a fascinating one, the prose absolutely superb; stylistically, Howard Bahr is on a level with Cormac McCarthy. I think even William Faulkner and James Street would have tipped their hats to this one.” —James Lee Burke
The Year of Jubilo
A Novel of the Civil War
Howard Bahr
For Laura and Kathleen
Well, it must be now that the kingdom’s coming,
In the Year of Jubilo.
—HENRY CLAY WORK
And as to you Death, and you bitter hug
of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
—WALT WHITMAN
“Song of Myself”
June 1864
In the last week of May, Willy Landers passed his twelfth birthday, and on that day his mother presented him a pretty doorknob, broken from its shaft, that she’d found in the ruins of a burned house hard by the southerly road. He could not see the delicate flowers entwined on the cracked white curve of porcelain, but she told him they were there, and how they were pink and blue and yellow. He listened, and knew the gift was magic even before he closed his own hand around it.
In the days since then, he had carried his token everywhere, savoring the weight of it, and the coolness and smoothness of it. Sometimes he would speak to it, believing that deep inside lay a miniature realm where spirits dwelt who would listen. He could imagine them there, going about their business, recording all that he said in great leathern books like the ones he remembered in the courthouse when his father was clerk.
Willy Landers had been five years old when he lost his sight to the scarlet fever, so the images he relied on to give shape to the world were out of date. For seven years he had not seen the sky, nor any person, house, tree, fence—had not seen the rain nor the glitter of leaves nor the frost. He had these things in his memory, but he had changed many of them to suit his own sense (snow, for example, which he could hear falling softly on some winter nights, was golden; fire was a weaving, threadlike creature of silver), and he had never accounted for his own growth, so that people, to Willy Landers, were gaunt, towering things, and the rooms of his house were like great caverns.
He was compensated somewhat by a keen sense of hearing, of touch, and of smell, and these he used to illustrate his imagination. When a wren sang in her clarion voice, Willy saw her as a great bird with extravagant plumage, weighing down the branch where she perched. A hawk, on the other hand, which he never heard except in its distant keening, was small and fragile and shy. He would lay his hand on the rough bark of the oak that grew in the yard and allow the carpenter ants to crawl over his fingers. He would move his hands over the hard-packed earth until he found a feather, a leaf, a cob, a bit of stone, and his mind would fashion these things into shapes that pleased him. So he was content, and hardly missed the light.
On this sunny afternoon, a week after his birthday, Willy sat cross-legged in the yard, rubbing the doorknob against his cheek. Willy left the yard rarely, and never alone; it was a place he knew well, defined by the rough planks of the fence, with the big oak in the center and nothing worse to harm than the chickens that now and then pecked at Willy’s bare feet. He liked the chickens but had missed them lately, had not heard their gabbling nor sensed the musty smell of them, and he thought he might ask Mother about it after a while. But for now he wanted to sit with the sun full on his face. He could hear a squirrel moving in the oak leaves, a woodpecker tapping, the dogs snoring under the porch. He smelled the mud of the road and the smoke from the fire under the great iron pot where his mother was washing clothes. His mother was singing to herself, and under her voice was the crackling and snapping of the silver fire. Then he heard the horses.
They were a great way off when he first noticed the sound; he could hear them drumming over the creek bridge where his father took him sometimes, then the muted thump of their hooves coming closer and closer on the road. Willy did not like horses. He remembered them as monstrous tall creatures with rolling eyes and stamping hooves, and whenever one would come around, his mother would warn him to stay away. Now here came a bunch of them, sure enough, and running.
“Mother?” he said, but his mother was singing and didn’t hear.
He stood then, and turned his face toward the sound of the horses. He put all else out of the darkness behind his eyes and tried to imagine them running. He remembered the way they looked: their great long strides and their tails streaming out behind, heads tossing, the muscles moving in their flanks. Sometimes, he knew, men rode their backs, and perhaps men were riding these as they pounded up the road.
Closer they came, and closer. Now he could hear them breathing—a hack-hack sound as they ran—and the voices of men. And now Mother had quit her singing, though the fire still crackled.
Willy stood rigid in the yard, clutching the smooth, cool doorknob painted with flowers. He heard the horses stop outside the place where the fence was, a jangling and thudding and muttering so confused he could not begin to fashion a picture of it. He heard the door of the house open, heard his father’s shoes on the porch; meanwhile the dogs were barking and howling, the horses blowing, and somewhere among it all the reedy piping of the bird his mother called a redwing. Then Mother was there, her hands rough and smelling of soap. Get in the house she said, her voice urgent, harsh. But Willy couldn’t move. His mother stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Then Father was there, too. Willy had not heard him come, but knew he had by the smell of tobacco and shaving soap.
His father stood between them and the commotion in the road. You all get in the house his father said in the same voice, but Willy’s mother only gripped him tighter. No she said. “No,” said Willy.
The gate opened, creaking as it always did, and a man came in. There was a jangling about him, a smell
of horses. The dogs were frantic in their barking now, and Father hushed them. Willy could hear their whining as they gathered close. The man spoke now, a pleasant voice. Well, Simon
He is a friend of Father’s, Willy thought, and wondered why they were all afraid.
What you all want Father asked.
Other men were coming in now, shuffling, leather creaking, their pants legs whisking together. Their smell was sour, all sweat and horses and something the boy smelled on his father’s breath sometimes. Willy’s heart beat faster in the darkness as the sound of them made a circle all around, and their words came to him from here, from there: Look at him—Who stepped in dog shit—Hey Lily how’s the Judge—Damn it’s hot
Now Simon said the pleasant-voice man, you know what we are here for It’s been a long time coming but the day is here at last and you must answer for it You have hid behind the Judge’s shirttail long enough
Please Mother said. We haven’t ever hurt anybody
Shut up Lily for God’s sake Father said.
Show a little gratitude Simon said the pleasant-voice man. She’s the reason you have lasted as long as you have
Solomon Gault said Mother, You are not a soldier This trash is not soldiers How dare you
Well there is no time for discussion in any case said the pleasant-voice man. Sergeant Stutts
Right here, Cap’n
A rustling then, a rattling of paper, then the pleasant-voice man: Simon Landers you stand here convicted of high treason against the Confederate States of America during the time of war for which crime you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead God rest your soul Signed this date Captain K S Gault, CSA—Sergeant Stutts take the prisoner
Now wait a minute hold on began Father.
No Mother cried. You get out of our yard This is our yard and Mother’s hands left Willy’s shoulders then and he heard the rustling of her skirts as she moved, and the pleasant-voice man said Goddammit
Don’t you Father said.
There was a sound Willy had heard before. He remembered a long time ago, back in the light, when he hit a little girl at the church and Mother said, Willy, don’t hit the other children. Willy thought: That is the sound of hitting. Sometimes it came at night; Willy could hear it from his bed up in the loft. It was always followed by the sound of crying. Now he heard it, and heard it again: hitting, no crying like before but an animal snarling with his mother’s voice. He moved toward the sound but the men were scuffling and Willy was pushed aside; he stumbled and struck the ground hard. He put his hands over his head as the noise and the voices closed around him. She raked him good—Hold ’er Bill—Come on darlin Ow son bitch she bit me Looky there
The men laughed, and under it his mother’s voice snarling, and Father’s voice saying Don’t now Wait a minute Let me talk
And the pleasant-voice man: No Simon you have done enough talking Goddammit get this woman off me
His mother’s voice rose in a long shriek then stopped all at once, and a sound then like when Father split a melon, and Father crying Lily Lily
At the sound of his mother’s name, Willy struggled to his feet. He felt the doorknob in his hand, hot now from where he’d held it tight.
Aw, Cap’n, how come you done that We might’ve had some sport—
“Mother!” cried the boy, and pushed into the men, flailing. They pushed him back, flung him to the ground again; he scrambled to his feet again, seeing the men as a high wall of long, leering faces, tall bodies with big hands. He drew back his arm and threw the doorknob as hard as he could toward the place where the faces were; he heard it strike, and a howl of pain. Now it’s gone, he thought. Then he was struck himself, harder than his father ever did, and he reeled back, the lights sparkling in the dark.
Little son bitch—String him up too—Aw hell he’s blind as a newt Look at him
Never mind the boy I’ll deal with him Here Stop that man Don’t let him Get hold of him can’t you That’s it hold him Get him over here
His father’s voice, moving away among the shuffling: No now boys I swear to God No don’t do that No please I
More hitting, only like none he’d ever heard. Willy pressed his hands to his ears. The voices swirled around him, and the smell of the men. The dogs were barking again, roiling and lathering.
God damn these dogs—Well, shoot em if you don’t like it—I ain’t wastin powder on—God almighty Tom she’s dead—Hell, it’s still warm ain’t it—I swear that Tom Beard would poke a snake wouldn’t he
“Mother!” cried Willy. He was turning now, losing his father’s voice among the voices swarming in his head, and the barking of the dogs, and the shuffling. Then he found his father’s voice again, a long way off now. That is over by the oak tree, thought Willy. He knew the yard so well, and the sunlight, and the chickens.
Na na na said Father. Flee plee don’t
Kick you son of a bitch—What’s the matter Simon you ain’t talking now
Let him down said the pleasant-voice man.
Aw Cap’n
Let him down I said You think I came all this way just to hang him once
Willy had lost the place where his mother was. In his turning he had lost everything, and now he stumbled ahead, his hands outstretched, until he came up against the boards of the fence. The voices were behind him. He huddled against the fence where the grass was, time passing.
Burn it Burn it all I’ll kill the man tries to bring anything out The pleasant-voice man, only not pleasant now but shouting.
You want to th’ow em in there
Leave him right where he is The pleasant voice again, like it was just talking. Willy could tell the voice was coming closer; he tried to burrow into the grass. Cover up the woman Shoot the dogs so they don’t get her Leave the Judge something to bury Then the sound of shooting, yelping, the men laughing—then the voice, right in his ear: Get up
Willy felt himself lifted by the collar. It nearly choked him, and he coughed and put his hands back and grabbed the man’s wrists, but the man dragged him along, moving toward a new sound, a new smell: fire, only not the fire under the pot, and not the one on the hearth. This was a fire turned loose, growling like an animal, and it smelled sharp, foul, like when they scalded the bristles off a hog. Willy saw the silver threads, thick as rope now, coiling toward the sky. Willy could feel the heat on his face. The voice came right in his ear again, whispering You feel it That’s your house then lifting to a shout: Mount up Lieutenant Beard
Hey Cap
We camp at the Big Spring See you are there by sundown
Too many voices now, shuffling, jangling, the horses stamping their hooves. Willy was choking, tried to pry the fingers from his collar but suddenly he was being dragged again, stumbling, pulled up, stumbling, pulled up, going toward the horses. He could hear the man breathing hard. Then the horses were going away, back down the road in the direction they’d come, and only one horse was left; Willy could hear it snort, heard the silky whisk of its tail. Whoa you the man said, and Willy thought If he gets up on the horse he will have to let me go, and then he thought If I can get back in the yard—but the man didn’t let him go. Willy felt him rise, heard the leather creak in the saddle. Then the grip tightened and Willy was jerked off his feet and thrown across the back of the horse. He could feel the hair of the mane, and something hard pressed against his chest and shut off his breathing. He struggled, and the man pulled him off the hard place and Willy thought he was going to go off the other side, but the man had him tight by his suspenders now. Come up said the man sharply, and they were moving.
The hooves thudded under him, and clods of mud struck him in the face. He scrabbled for something to hold on to; his hands passed over the bristly hairs of the horse’s shoulder, and he could feel the muscles moving under the hide. He finally found the man’s leg, but he couldn’t hold it. He cried out. They ran on, time passing.
Then they stopped. The horse was breathing heavy—huff huff—and Willy was wet with the hot
sweat of him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the man hoisted on Willy’s suspenders and flung him off the horse. He seemed to fall a long way; he was shocked when he hit the ground. He was in grass. He could smell it, and hear the grasshoppers buzzing.
Willy rose to his feet, turning toward the place where the horse was breathing. Nothing happened. The saddle creaked. The horse stamped once, and off somewhere was the croak of a bird Willy knew was a crow. Then the voice came from somewhere up above, pleasant and unhurried as ever: Your mother nearly clawed my eyes out it said. And your father Well it is useless to try to explain all that to you Nevertheless I am inclined to be merciful I have set you free You may go now You have all points of the compass to choose from And if you should chance to meet anyone along the way which is unlikely you may tell them that Captain Gault paid a call Can you remember that
Willy made no reply. He wasn’t listening to the voice anyway. After another moment, the pleasant-voice man said Very well and Willy heard the horse champing, the leather creaking, then the horse running again, through the grass that whispered with its passing. He could hear it a long time, and then he heard it no more.
Now the crow was talking somewhere, and the grass buzzed, but over these things lay a deep silence. For the first time in his life, Willy was alone. He stood a while longer, then knelt and began to move his hands over the ground. He crawled a little way, sweeping with his hands, until he found a clear place in the grass. Stones lay clustered here, smooth and round, and he chose one. This will be the doorknob, he thought. Then he stood up. He was dizzy for a moment, but the feeling passed. He lifted his face; he could smell the burning, but it seemed to come from all around, and he couldn’t tell which way it was. He turned until he felt the sun on his face, and it was then he heard his mother. Come this way she said.
The sudden rush of joy was like a blow to him. “Mother!” he cried. He put out his hands and began to walk toward her voice. The crow was there too, talking. This way, Willy his mother said. She was moving away, and Willy knew he must follow.
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