The Year of Jubilo

by Bahr, Howard;

  He had asked about his sister and was told that she was at the Harper house, visiting. His father had wanted to go fetch her, but Mother was in a terrible nervous state, so the Judge had shut himself in the room with her. That left only Cousin Carter to talk to, and Alex tried, but the old man thought the boy was Cousin Bushrod again and chastised him for letting the horses get loose, though they hadn’t any horses that Alex knew about, except Zeke, who hadn’t gone anywhere, and whom he had not yet been permitted to ride as Captain Stribling had promised. So he was sitting with Beowulf on the shady gallery, even after the firing had stopped, hoping he might see some soldiers, when the gentleman rode into the yard.

  THE DEAD REBELS were laid in a row in the sun, ankles crossed, hands on their breasts, in the way that Gawain knew so well. He estimated twenty-five, then counted thirteen. It did not surprise him: dead men always appeared more numerous than they really were. In fact, he thought, just one of them seemed like a lot. He watched Morgan move along the row, the hem of her dress brushing the muddy bare feet or broken-down brogans. She looked at each of their faces, even lifted the handkerchief that veiled the face of one. When she reached the end, she turned to Gawain. “Solomon Gault is not here,” she said.

  “I did not suppose he would be,” said Gawain.

  “No, of course he wouldn’t,” she said. She crossed her arms on her breast and looked around, as if she might find Gault standing in the yard. “The prisoners?” she said, walking back along the row of dead to the place where Gawain waited.

  “They all down by the creek,” said Gawain. “Harry and I looked already. He ain’t there either.”

  Gawain put his arms about her and she pressed against him, though her arms were still crossed on her breast. “Where, then?” she said.

  “Some of em got away,” said Gawain. “Maybe he’s gone back in the woods. Maybe he’s on his way to Texas right now, or turned into a frog, or—”

  “No,” she said. She was tense, and Gawain could feel the muscles in her jaw working. He knew by instinct not to pet her, and understood that whatever he might say would only sound stupid. So he held on to her, just that, letting her have her own thoughts. In a moment, she relaxed a little; he could feel her playing with the beads around his neck.

  Over the top of her head, Gawain could see the line of dead men, their pinched, twisted faces and motionless hands. He knew many of them: they were men with whom he’d watched the horses run on Wagner’s Stretch, or coon hunted with, or bought corn whiskey from. One of them had been a stoker on the cars, another a noted cock fighter. That one yonder—a sleet storm had caught Gawain rabbit hunting once, and that one had taken him in, and his wife had fixed coffee and corn cakes for supper. Now they were dead, for reasons that none of them, perhaps, could have named. But perhaps only, Gawain thought, for they might have felt deeply, might have chosen gladly, and maybe dying in this muddy yard was not so bad an end. He wanted to say these things to Morgan, was already thinking how to frame them, when he felt her stiffen in his arms. She pushed away, her eyes suddenly quick with light.

  “Papa!” she said.

  TIME MOVED DOWN its seamless corridor, away from the bruise of morning, and all persons followed as they must. After the fight, L. W. Thomas collapsed in the yard and, in a little while, woke dimly on the surgeon’s table. “Ah, there you are,” said the doctor, and slapped the ether pad over Thomas’ nose. While Terence heated the ramrod, and the surgeon irrigated his wound, Thomas dreamed of fantastic illuminations, of landscapes rising against skies of impossible blue, of maidens dancing. At one point, an enormous flower of fire blossomed, and the sky turned orange and yellow and was filled with birds whose plumage were flames, and who cried in the pain of their burning. Then cool darkness dropped down like a curtain, and Thomas stood with his back to it, bowing, the audience rising and filling the hall with wild applause. Then he passed through, and found quiet streets where lamps flickered in a slick of rain.

  Carl Nobles had surrendered his musket and accoutrements and was sitting against the wall of the old Brummett Livery with Marcus Peck and three Federal soldiers. They were watching the artillerymen secure their guns and limbers.

  “I wisht them cavalry hadn’t burned the Citadel,” said one soldier. “I could surely use a cool jolt.”

  “That von Arnim done it,” said another. “He is your pyrotechnic wonder.”

  “Was,” said the third man.

  “Come again?”

  The soldier, who had been standing near the gallery when the provost was killed, told the story.

  “Well, I am sorry to hear it,” said the first man. “I knowed him since Jeff Barracks, a long time ago.”

  They were silent for a moment, saying to themselves all the things it would sound so foolish to say aloud. Then the soldiers began to talk of the other men who had died that morning, raising their comrades’ names to light for the last time, rounding out their lives and letting them go to catch up with the long, dusty column of the dead. Nobles and Peck listened, heard the names and marked them; it made no difference that they had no faces to go with them, nor voices, nor memories of brave or foolish or funny things the men had done in life. The names alone would do. Then, as the soldiers’ talk moved to other things, Peck tapped Nobles on the leg.

  “What you gon’ do now, Carl?” he asked.

  The other shook his head. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll cull out one of these loose horses and go to Mexico.”

  “What’s down there?” asked Peck.

  Nobles shrugged. “Freedom, maybe.”

  “No,” said Peck.

  “No?”

  “Nope,” said Marcus Peck. “Either you got it, or you don’t.” He laughed then, and adjusted the stump of his leg. “If I went to Mexico, I’d have to take a steamboat, so I ain’t goin.”

  “What you gon’ do, then?”

  Peck thought a moment. “Well, I might see if Thomas needs a partner. We might build a new tavern—a real one—and paint it blue.” He looked at Nobles. “You think we might?”

  “I wouldn’t paint it blue,” Nobles said.

  While Nobles and Peck argued about the color of the new tavern, Craddock and Bloodworth were walking northward toward the square. They ignored the citizens streaming toward the scene of the fight and walked in silence until the wreck of the courthouse came into view. Then Bloodworth stopped and spoke.

  “What?” asked Craddock. His ears were still ringing from the muzzle blast of the guns.

  “I said I got to wash my hands!” shouted Bloodworth. “I can’t stand it.” He held up his hands, smeared with the dried blood of Bill Huff.

  “What?” said Craddock.

  They found the old watering trough still intact by the courthouse fence. It was filled with rainwater, leaves, tadpoles, and mosquito wigglers. While Bloodworth washed his hands, Craddock plunged his head into the water and stayed under nearly half a minute. He came up spluttering, tossing his head, the silver drops scattering in the sunlight.

  “I’ll be glad to get home,” said Bloodworth, wiping his hands on his breeches. “No matter what.”

  “Ah, shit,” said Craddock, laughing. “Let us go home then, and die like men.” So they went on, and on the north side of the square they parted, each passing out of one dream and into another down the seamless corridor of time.

  After his face was bandaged, Old Hundred-and-Eleven picked up a canteen of water and went hunting Molochi Fish. He found him in the grove across the road, sitting cross-legged on the soft ground, his back to the Shipwright house. His face was turned up to the dark canopy of the cedar trees. “You want some of this?” the old man said, and held out the canteen. Molochi took it and drank, the water running down his chin.

  “Godfrey! I thought I was a goner!” exclaimed Old Hundred-and-Eleven, wanting to tell of his adventures, but Molochi made no reply. “Well,” said the old man after a moment, “I reckon we never will catch old Solomon Gault now. He have slipped the traces.
He have—”

  “You see them?” asked Molochi, pointing upward.

  “What?” said the old man.

  “Them birds.”

  Old Hundred-and-Eleven searched the cedars, saw only a wren flitting nervously above them. “I see that little one yonder,” he said.

  Molochi stood up then. “I wisht I had a gun,” he said.

  “Well, they’s a God’s plenty back ’ere in the yard,” said the other.

  “Go fetch one,” said Molochi Fish.

  THE SUN, FOLLOWING time, was climbing toward noon in a cloudless sky. No breeze shivered the leaves, and the rain and the cool night were a distant memory now. Only the hot sunlight remained, flat and bright, drying the mud, crusting the blood on wounds, glistening in the metallic bodies of flies.

  Morgan Rhea was frantic. She had broken away from Gawain, seemed to have forgotten him, was running toward the road, shaking her hands as if they’d been stung. “He will go after Papa,” she said to no one.

  “How do you know that?” Gawain said, following along, thinking That was stupid because Solomon Gault was more alive to her than any who were standing visible in the sunlight, including Gawain himself, and so of course she knew. And so did he. Then he caught up with her, took her arm and jerked her to a halt. “We got to tell the Colonel,” he said, and knew at once, even as he spoke, that he’d really made a mistake now, had misjudged her and dishonored himself. So he was not surprised, was almost grateful, when she spun on him, her eyes shining with anger, and slapped him so hard across the face that he reeled backward, shame bursting like a Congreve rocket in his head.

  “No!” she cried, and pushed him so that he fell in the mud. Somewhere a man laughed. Gawain turned his head, caught sight of Old Hundred-and-Eleven humping across the road, carrying his Bible and a Short Enfield carbine, heading for the cedar grove. Strange, he thought, as if nothing else was happening. But Morgan was standing above him now, pointing her finger at his face. “No!” she said. “Who are you? You dared to come back here, dared to present yourself to me as a living man and damn you talk about honor damn you and you made a bargain damn you! You remember that? You made a bargain and now you must stand to it!”

  “Morgan!” he said, struggling to his feet. But she was on him again, striking him.

  “No!” she cried. “I want you to find him. Don’t you see we got to find him before—”

  Then Stribling was there, behind her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her wrists, saying Easy, easy, easy, and she drew her arms in tight and raised her face to the sweet blue sky. “Why can’t he die!” she sobbed. “All you men, and he just goes on and goes on and goes on—”

  “All right,” said Stribling. “It’s all right.”

  “That’s a goddamned lie,” she said, and twisted away, and stood between them with her teeth clenched, her fists raised as if she would strike the very air she breathed.

  “Where?” said Stribling. “Where is Gault?”

  “Judge Rhea,” said Gawain, wiping his face on his sleeve.

  “Of course,” said Stribling. “Come quick.”

  Gawain took Morgan by the hand—she resisted, but only a little—and together they followed Harry Stribling toward the trees along Town Creek. They passed Professor Brown sitting in the shade, waving at flies with his straw hat. “Got to borrow your cart,” said Stribling. Brown did not reply, only waved his hand in acknowledgment.

  A STILLNESS CAME with the gentleman. He rode a great brown horse, but the horse made no sound, not even a creak of leather. The trees in the yard seemed to bend toward him listening, and the insects were stilled, and the birds. Beowulf stirred on the porch, shook his jowls, but made no bark.

  “Hidy,” said Alex, and his voice sounded flat in the heat, the stillness. The gentleman nudged his horse closer. He was holding a rifle down along his right leg; the weapon was short and ugly, of a kind the boy had not seen before. The man watched for a moment, not moving his head but moving his eyes, from the boy to the dog to the windows of the house, his mouth pursed in contemplation. When he spoke at last, his voice was soft, pleasant. “I bet you are young Alex Rhea,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. “Hot, ain’t it?”

  The man nodded. “Who’s here with you?”

  The boy shrugged. “Papa, Mama, Cousin Carter, Zeke, and Beowulf. And a cat somewheres.”

  “I see,” said the man. “Who’s Zeke?”

  “A horse,” said the boy.

  “And Beowulf?”

  “That’s him yonder.”

  “Ah,” said the man. “And your cousin—that would be old Tom Carter?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s in the back.”

  “Call your daddy,” said the gentleman in his pleasant voice. “Tell him an old friend is here to see him. Tell him I have word from Lily.”

  “Oh,” said the boy. “Ain’t you heard? Aunt Lily is—”

  “Just call your daddy,” said the gentleman.

  The boy backed away toward the door. The stillness seemed to follow him, push against him, as if it, too, wanted in the house. Then he heard the click of the latch behind him, and turned, and there was his father in his shirtsleeves, his eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose. “Solomon Gault,” the old man said.

  The gentleman bowed in the saddle.

  “Alex, you get in the house—go in where your mama is,” said the Judge.

  “No,” said the gentleman, bringing the ugly rifle into view. “I insist the boy stay.” Then he laughed, and his voice was smooth and cool as pond-water. “If he moves, I’ll kill him,” he said.

  BEHIND THE CEDAR grove lay a patch of young corn, bright green in the sunlight, tall from the rain. From the center of it rose the chimney of a burned cabin, hump-shouldered and black, the corn rustling all around. Someone had driven spikes in the chimney and hung tin pans to scare the birds away; in a little breeze, the pans flashed in the sunlight and danced against the bricks: clank, clank, clank.

  Sometimes, off in the night, Molochi Fish could hear the mill machinery on Mister Pershing’s place. The mill itself had burned long ago, but the sound still lived in the air: the clanking and grinding, and the groan of the waterwheel, and sometimes even the hiss of the milled corn as it poured from the hopper. The rank, dark cabin would be filled with the sound, and Molochi would lie on his cot and wait for it to slow. That meant something was caught down in the shaft tunnel, down among the gears. But the wheel would keep on turning—the buckets going shush-shush-shush in the cool green water—and the white ducks in the grass, and the bloody corn.

  Molochi and Old Hundred-and-Eleven moved through the corn, following the birds who were not scared by the silver pans flashing, or the noise from the machinery. Molochi had no idea where they were going; he understood only that the Mover was guiding them, and ail they had to do was follow. But there was something else now, something drawing, like leaves were drawn down the millrace. Molochi daubed his eyes against his sleeve and wished it was dark.

  “Cassiopeia!” declared Old Hundred-and-Eleven. “Where you goin, anyhow?” But the other made no answer, only pushed through the rustling corn.

  Old Hundred-and-Eleven had torn off the bandage on his cheek, with the result that he was pestered by gnats and horseflies and regular flies buzzing around his head. Moreover, the deep slice in his palm stung with sweat, and that hand was getting stiff. In his other hand, he carried the musket he had picked up in the yard near the artillery piece. His Bible was tucked under his arm. “You! Molochi Fish!” he said. “Where you goin?” But again no answer. The other man went on as if he hadn’t heard a thing Old Hundred-and-Eleven was saying.

  When they emerged from the corn, they found themselves behind the buildings on the south side of the square. From this side they looked all right, except you could see the sky through the back windows. “I never will get used to that,” Old Hundred-and-Eleven said, but the other had already passed through an open door, and by the time the old man caught up, Mo
lochi was halfway across the square. A good many people were gathered there, and they moved away as Molochi passed among them, and moved further still when Old Hundred-and-Eleven came stalking in his bare feet and frock coat and gun and Bible. They passed on through the hoots of children, through the stares and whispers of the citizens, and in a moment turned down the cemetery road.

  THE OLD MARE would trot, but she would not run. Stribling slapped her with the lines and used all the invective he thought Morgan could stand, but the animal was satisfied with its gait. “Well, it ain’t far anyhow,” said Gawain. “Let her jog as she will.”

  Morgan sat between them, staring over the horse’s ears at the road. She would have willed the horse to fly if she could, but she couldn’t, so she just sat and listened to the voices in her head. Maybe they should have told the soldiers after all. No, they would just fool around and have to get orders from this one or that one, and the day would come and go before they did anything. But now Gawain and Captain Stribling were going in harm’s way. Well, they’d been there before, and anyhow, Gawain pledged his honor. Well, fine—but Saturday you told him—Well, that was Saturday. Well, but—

  Shut up, she told herself. Just shut up, can’t you? But, voices or not, the pictures remained. She saw herself by the gallery while Vassar Bishop fired her pistol into the melee. She had as much as promised Gawain—led him to believe, anyway—that she would keep his aunt safe, and herself as well. Then that business in the yard. She had slapped him, shamed him in front of all those men, said terrible things to him. Well, you can’t go back, she told herself. You were an ass then; don’t be one now.