The Year of Jubilo

by Bahr, Howard;

  BEN LUKER LIVED in a shebang he had built among the ruins of the courthouse. He was sitting on an overturned nail keg in the doorway, his mule tethered nearby, going over in his mind the incident at the Citadel. How much to tell the Captain? Maybe nothing. Maybe if he kept out of it, the thing would settle itself. As for the man Stribling, he, Ben Luker, could take care of that. He wouldn’t be caught out like that again, and shoved around, and made a fool of. He was thinking about ways to do it when he became aware that men were running, shouting, and over the rise to the south, a column of smoke was beginning to boil skyward. He stood up, peering down South Street; he could see the Shipwright house, and the next thing beyond that was the Citadel. “Well, by God,” he said, and was moving to his mule when Lieutenant von Arnim rode up. The man’s horse was lathered, her eyes rolling; von Arnim pulled her up and slid out of the saddle, and Luker watched in astonishment as the Lieutenant pulled his pistol and stalked through the rubble of the courthouse toward him.

  “Hey, Cap—,” Luker began, but von Arnim was already there, and the pistol’s muzzle was already thrust deep into Luker’s belly so that he grunted in pain. “What—”

  But von Arnim put out his hand and clamped it on Luker’s jaws, twisting his head around. Von Arnim thrust his face an inch from Luker’s ear and snarled into it, “You goddamned sorry son of a bitch, you have one minute—one, mind you—to tell me who—”

  “It was Gault!” cried the sheriff, pulling away. “Gault done it! Him and Wall Stutts! I never knowed a thing about it!”

  THE REFUGEES FROM the Citadel of Djibouti, gathered in the yard of the Carter house, could not see the smoke rising to the south. Mostly, they wanted to get out of the yard, and to that end, Stribling was approaching Judge Rhea. The judge stood on the gallery, a walking stick in his hand. Behind him, Morgan Rhea stood in the doorway.

  “What is all this about, Captain Stribling?” asked the Judge.

  “We are a delegation, sir,” said Stribling.

  The Judge regarded the men in the yard. “A delegation?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Stribling. “Can we come inside?”

  “Inside?” the Judge said. “Captain Stribling, this is not my house. I do not know these men. I—”

  “Great God, Papa,” said Morgan, sweeping onto the gallery. “You know Captain Stribling, and I know some of these others. I know him.” She pointed at Peck, who grinned and lifted his cap, a greasy Mexican War relic with a blue-jay feather stuck in the band.

  “Miss Rhea,” said Stribling, “it is a joy to see you again, though I must say that the occasion is—”

  “Come on, Harry,” said Carl Nobles, “quit foolin around.”

  “Quite right,” said Stribling. “Judge, we got to come inside right away. The yankees are after us.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so,” said the Judge.

  “I LIKE TO come out here and hunt ’sang,” Old Hundred-and-Eleven was saying. “Ain’t had much luck, though. I ain’t found enough to physic a snipe. What you doin, settin in the middle of the railroad anyhow? You gon’ get runned over.”

  Gawain was loading the pistol. He had rammed the powder and ball, and now was ramming the wads, in the hopes that he might avoid the simultaneous ignition he expected. Old Hundred-and-Eleven had descended the bank and was watching from beneath his umbrella. “Well, I was gon’ try this pistol,” said Gawain. “What you want with ginseng, anyway? I heard it was good for the brain, and as long as I’ve known you, you ain’t had one.”

  Old Hundred-and-Eleven grinned. “Naw,” he said. “I’m to use it for a love potion.”

  “Go on!” said Gawain in surprise. “Who is the candidate?”

  The other hunched his shoulders and looked around, up and down the rails and over the lip of the cut. Then he came close and sat down facing Gawain and crossed his legs. He put his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said.

  “I won’t tell nobody,” said Gawain.

  “You promise?” said the other.

  Gawain nodded.

  Old Hundred-and-Eleven leaned close and tapped a yellow nail on Gawain’s knee. “It’s for Judge Rhea’s gal,” he said. “I think she likes me.”

  ALEX RHEA STOOD on the porch of the Harper house, drinking a glass of water. Aunt Vassar sat in her rocker. “I am sure Mister Gawain will be back directly,” she said. She leaned toward the boy. “You didn’t say what you wanted him for.”

  “Captain Stribling sent me to fetch him,” said Alex.

  “Ah,” said Aunt Vassar, rocking.

  “Yes’m. He told me Mister Gawain must come right away. Captain Stribling was in our yard with a band of pirates; I believe they are formin a gang to rob and pillage, and I am to be a member, and he said I might ride the horse as long as I could stand it.” The boy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his cousin’s shirt.

  “Well, of course,” said Aunt Vassar. “I can envision that.”

  Uncle Priam came around the end of the porch carrying a banjo. When he saw Aunt Vassar, he held the instrument up by its neck. The head was broken, and it had only one string. “I been lookin for this,” he said by way of explanation.

  “And I been prayin you wouldn’t find it,” said Aunt Vassar. “Do you know where Mister Gawain went off to? This boy is huntin him.”

  “I asked Mist’ Gawain that same question when he left the house,” said Priam. He tipped his battered hat to Alex. “How you doin, young master? I ain’t seen you lately.”

  “What is that you got?” said Alex.

  “A banjer,” said Priam. He plucked at the single string, evoking a melancholy note. “I got to fix it, though.”

  “Well, where did he go?” asked Aunt Vassar.

  “You mean Mister Gawain?” said Priam. “Lord Jesus, they always gone off someplace, these young peoples. Seem like they be wore out.”

  Aunt Vassar slapped her palms on the arms of the rocker. “Where did he go, dad blame it,” she said.

  Priam looked at her. “Said he was goin to the cut. Said to tell you that, if you asked.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?”

  “Well, you ain’t asked ’til now,” said Priam.

  In a moment, Alex Rhea was on his way to the railroad cut. He walked along, enjoying the warm sun and the smell of the broomsage. He kept his eyes on the ground, hoping he might find a snake. He did not see the man watching from the clump of trees. Uncle Priam, however, who had been sent to watch after the boy, saw him plain as day.

  “WELL, MY GOD,” said Gawain to Old Hundred-and-Eleven. “You can’t court Morgan Rhea—she is spoken for.”

  “Rah!” spat the old man. “That don’t matter to me. Hit’s foredoomed. I seen it in the Testyment, in the pitchers. Say—” He cocked a red eye at Gawain. “It ain’t that Stribling feller, is it?”

  A little flame of devilment winked on in Gawain’s head. “Well,” he began, “it might very well be—” And stopped.

  The old man was watching him, the umbrella shading his pale face where he sat between the rails. His ragged, buttonless frock coat was patched with mattress ticking; from the cuffs of his greasy leather breeches thrust the old man’s bitten ankles, and his slablike feet twitched nervously. Once, years before, Gawain had seen Old Hundred-and-Eleven (he was old then, too; he had always been old, it seemed) from the cab of a moving train passing over the Leaf River trestle. Down below, Old Hundred-and-Eleven was preaching to a collection of negro children on the bank. Even over the steam and the clank and rattle of the cars, Gawain could hear the old man talking. The children, in their tattered burlap and flour-sack dresses, were wrapped in the cadences of the old man’s voice, so that not a one of them raised his eyes to the marvel of the train passing overhead. Then, just before the locomotive cleared the trestle, Old Hundred-and-Eleven himself looked up—not at the train, but at Gawain—and when he did, all the little black faces turned that way. Gawain had never forgotten the sight of them, nor the penetration of their gaze, nor the way he had ducked b
ack in the cab, clear to the other side, with the sense that he had been found out in some indeterminate sin.

  “No,” he said at last. “No, it ain’t Stribling.” He rose stiffly to his feet. “Come on,” he said, “let’s see if this pistol will shoot. You can try it, too.”

  “Rapidan!” said the other, grinning.

  They found some rocks and set them up on the bank for marks. Gawain backed away a dozen paces. “That ain’t very far,” said Old Hundred-and-Eleven.

  “My friend,” said Gawain, “if I got any farther away, you could pose an elephant over there in perfect safety. Now, stand back.” Gawain raised the pistol and cocked it.

  “An elephant!” said the old man as Gawain was about to squeeze the trigger. “You ever see one of them?”

  Gawain raised the muzzle. “Yes.” He aimed again.

  “Around here?” said the old man in astonishment.

  Gawain raised the muzzle again. “No, they don’t grow around here. This one was in a menagerie.” Gawain set the front sight on the largest of the rocks and aligned it with the notch in the hammer. He drew a breath, let it out, tightened on the trigger—

  “Well, what’d it look like?”

  Gawain pointed the pistol skyward and turned to the old man. “Like an elephant, dammit,” he said. “Now, how am I supposed to shoot if you keep botherin me?”

  “Well, I just wanted to know.”

  “All right,” said Gawain.

  “You ort not to bring it up if you don’t want to talk about it,” said Old Hundred-and-Eleven.

  “All right,” said Gawain. “I will tell you all about it later. Now, you stand over yonder; this thing’s liable to go off in all directions.”

  Old Hundred-and-Eleven took a step back. Gawain aimed the pistol again. His hand was not steady, and the brass bead of the front sight wandered over the target. Gawain took a breath.

  “Mister Gawain!” said Alex from the lip of the cut.

  Gawain sighed. He let the hammer down and turned and saw the boy. “Young Alex. What you want, lad?”

  “Mister Gawain!” said the boy breathlessly. “Captain Stribling said you got to come to our house right away there is brigands in the yard and a one-legged man on a horse he said come quick so I could ride it is that a pistol?”

  “Brigands?” said Gawain.

  “Arrah!” said Old Hundred-and-Eleven. “That Stribling feller again!”

  Gawain was about to question the boy when Uncle Priam appeared against the sky. “Mist’ Gawain,” he said, “you better come up here right away.”

  “I done told him!” said Alex.

  “Well, good God,” said Gawain. He gathered up his loading materials and, with the pistol in his left hand, grabbed the bony wrist of Old Hundred-and-Eleven with his right. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll help you up.”

  “Ain’t we gon’ shoot?” said the old man, but Gawain was already pulling him up the bank. At the top, Alex started to speak again, but Uncle Priam put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and hushed him. “Mist’ Gawain,” he said, “you better step over here with me. I got to tell you somethin.”

  THE AFTERNOON WAS growing long in shadow. Already the sun had left the clearing at the old Wagner place, though it still lingered in the tops of the trees, and the clouds overhead were bright with it. The two horses cropped the grass, shaking their heads now and then, and whisking their tails at the flies. Among the cedars, mosquitoes were swarming, and already the two men in the clearing were slapping at their ears and the backs of their hands.

  “Have you ever thought to write your own memoir?” asked Solomon Gault. He was sitting on the cookpot; in his hand was a handkerchief that he used to wave at the mosquitoes. “I should think you would have a great deal to say.”

  Burduck was pacing. At first, he had been irritated to find the stranger in this secret place, but as they talked, the Colonel found his new acquaintance engaging. Gault had introduced himself as a planter lately returned from the war in the East, who came to this place from time to time for solitude. They had spoken of the weather, of course, and the storm, and horses, and the prospects for a late corn crop. Burduck thought he was successful in steering the talk away from the war; then Gault had brought up the subject of his manuscript, though he had not let Burduck examine it, explaining that it was only a rough sketch and not yet fit for reading. For his part, Burduck was glad the man had not offered.

  “No,” said Burduck. “I am more disposed to forgetting all that. Maybe when I am old, and nothing is left but a tranquil recollection. Maybe then—and only for my grandchildren, if I have any, so they can know how unspeakably brave and noble I was.”

  Gault laughed. “You have a sense of irony, commendable in a soldier, and rare in—if I may say so—one of your exalted rank. As for me, I was only a humble private of the line, where irony was more regular than rations ever were.”

  If you were a private, thought Burduck, that horse there was a Major General.

  “Speaking of matters military,” Gault went on, “please allow me to compliment you on the splendid performance of your troops this morning.”

  Burduck looked up in surprise. “My troops?”

  “At the graveside. Oh, I was among the civilian spectators—happened to be in town for church. You go to church, Colonel?”

  “Not often,” said Burduck.

  “Let me see,” said Gault, cradling his chin in his hand. “Your accent is Eastern, but not New England—not Unitarian country. Your surname is—Baltic? Russian perhaps? That means Orthodox, but you don’t have the whiskers for that. Let me guess—Roman Catholic?”

  “Very good,” said Burduck.

  “Pax Domine vobiscum,” said Gault, smiling, but Burduck did not wish to play. “And with thy spirit,” he said.

  Gault nodded. “I attend strictly for diversion, having long ago learned to trust only myself in regard to destiny. But anyway, your troops are firstrate at drill. Disciplined. Well-equipped. Would that I had served with such a command.”

  “You could have,” said Burduck.

  Gault laughed outright, then grew serious. “A pity about that boy—the one who was murdered. A drunken brawl, perhaps? Any ideas?”

  “None,” said Burduck. “How do you know he was murdered?”

  Gault shrugged. “You can’t hide such things,” he said.

  “Well,” said Burduck, wanting to change the subject. “How fares it with your people? You say your place is nearby?”

  “Yes, a mile or two. As for my people, they are … comfortable, I should say. In fact, when I saw them last, they were sleeping, and had not a care in this world.”

  “Well, I envy that,” said Burduck.

  “Do you?” said Gault. “Do you really?”

  Burduck looked at his companion, aware that some unheard note had been struck, and wished he had not mentioned the matter of family. Gault smiled at him, but Burduck sensed a watchfulness, as if the man were waiting for the chance to turn them both down a darker path. It seemed inevitable, in fact, and all at once, Burduck was uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said. “I envy anyone who has found peace. It seems in short supply these days.”

  Gault lowered his head. “On the contrary,” he said. “A great many have found it.”

  Now Burduck laughed. “In the grave, maybe,” he said.

  The other rose and began to pace, his hands clasped behind him. In a moment, he turned and looked at the Colonel. “Have you considered how strange it is we should meet like this? Only yesterday, we were enemies, and now … ? I wonder if we could ever talk on the same plane, you and I? The victor, the vanquished, eh?”

  “You don’t look vanquished to me,” said Burduck, irritated. “And, frankly, I do not feel victorious. But in one thing you are correct. It’ll be many a day before we can talk about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I must be on my way back to town.”

  “Oh, don’t go,” said Gault. “Maybe we can find a way to bridge the gap. Maybe I can even help you un
derstand the peculiar nature of our hatred.”

  Burduck turned on him then. “Hatred?”

  “Beg pardon,” said Gault quickly. “I do not mean of you personally.”

  Burduck snorted. “No offense,” he said. “As long as you remember who started it.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Gault. “But an educated man like yourself must surely recognize that knowledge, understanding, is power. You might use me to your advantage.”

  Burduck smiled. “Mister Gault,” he said, “I am very tired. Come see me when I am in a better humor; I should be glad to hear what you have to say. For now, good evening, sir.”

  Burduck turned toward his horse. He paused to tighten the cinch strap, his back to Solomon Gault so that he did not see the man reach inside his frock coat, nor the curious light that had come into his eyes.

  LIEUTENANT VON ARNIM slammed open the door of the Shipwright house so hard that the oval ruby-glass pane shattered and fell around him like fragments of frozen blood. Old Mister Shipwright, just coming down the stairs, howled and put his hands to his head.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said von Arnim. He brushed glass from his uniform and strode past the man and into the parlor where the sergeant of the guard and officer of the day were staring at him open-mouthed. The officer was the same young Lieutenant who had kept watch under the bridge.

  “Where is the Colonel?” said von Arnim without preamble.

  Lieutenant Osgood paled. “I—he—I don’t know,” he stammered.

  “You don’t know?” said von Arnim. He turned to the sergeant. “Turn out your guard,” he said. “All of them. Kick the musicians out of their blankets and have them sound the long roll. Take five men to the tavern and bring back Sergeant Deaton—”