Please to recite the statistics concerning Macon, Miss Veronica.
Macon, Bibb County, has a population of two thousand, six hundred and thirty-five souls, according to the census of 1830. Of these there are whites to the number of one thousand, four hundred and fifty-two; blacks to the number of one thousand, one hundred and eighty-three.
Correct, Miss Veronica. Well done.
Had she said Well Done On the Whole, had Miss Benham said something about beetles? No, she spoke of sarcophagi.
There was a vacant mummy-case awaiting Lucy.
Come in . . . deep voice echoing through the hill. The stranger pointed with his cane. Best to tread in the direction indicated.
She slid from bed, making no noise as she went but the light whisper of skin-and-bone gliding over a sheet and out from under another sheet, stealthy murmur of sheets folded to allow her to pass from their prisoning. Her white hair clung heated on her shoulders, fire in her shoulders must set it to crackling. At least the bed, the griddle, claimed its suffering prey no longer. She was free but frying. She found annoyance in this realization—snarled about it, drawing back lips until the full pearliness of her teeth shone. Even this sound did not rouse Ninny. Veronica swept from the room, holding up the long crushed muslin of her gown daintily. She paced over shadowy air of the hall, walked on a cushion of air. . . . Ah, who’d left that candle at the head of the stair? It might cause a conflagration: she’d extinguish the candle. Puff.
There was a pool . . . spring . . . pool where slippery green frogs were captured by the boys. Always a cool pool. Could she find that pool she would lave herself in it, splash her face, wash off the scorching, expunge patterned streaks which the grid must have branded upon her.
Stay, twas a pan.
But wash off the burning.
Quietly, quietly down the stair, hands pressing the rail, bare foot after bare foot seeking the next lower step; how many feet did she possess? As many as a caterpillar owned, and each pair of delicate adhesive feet cushioned on a single segment. But, Badger, child—you are to fetch no more live worms into the house! I know, I know—twill make a butterfly in time—but do you go to your father, and he can grant you space for your treasures in one of the sheds—all for your own. Shall you call it the Claffey Museum? Ah, indeed, a Museum of World-Wide Wonders? A splendid designation; and I shall be delighted to view it when you have your specimens in place.
Empty pin, waiting for Lucy.
Quietly, quietly—turning of the knob after the bolt is drawn—quietly, quietly. They shall not hear me and pursue, I shan’t let Them pursue. It is incredible, but They might harm the children as They’ve sought to harm me.
Come in.
There was a star above stolid black heat, more stars yonder . . . tilt your head wisely and observe the combined low lamp of stars. They’ll guide you to pool and coolness. Softly, easily, walking on empty cotton of the air, feeling nothing, nothing underfoot.
O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! So said Ophelia, so said Ira Claffey in the game they played. Your turn is next and you must identify it, so name the hour and minute of Shakespeare: easy to do so, since Ira has used that quotation frequently in the past. Now, then: eye, and your own line must begin with an E. Inculcate lessons for the children, since they sit rapt and listening. Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right. There, younguns—tis Proverbs, Twenty, Eleven—but I’ll not tell you. The burden is yours, the guess and reckoning and bickering are yours also. A raw cold wet evening outside, and Christmas approaches—what a time that will be for all!—and the eldest boys home from school, and Moses shall enter when he is sixteen. Now they are rioting, the two eldest demanding more of the peach cider. Lucy, daughter, do not guzzle it; of course tis not fermented—but a trifle at the most: Ira has reassured me—but drink demurely, my daughter, drink demurely. Mere sips, the token of jollity, the barest token.
O heat, dry up my brains! There is too much heat, too persisting and head-twirling heat, so find the dark pool with dispatch . . . leaf mould making a cup above the soil, tiny scrolls of plants which swim and grow in their swimming, and Ira declared them to be algae. Unglimpsed, naturally, in this darkness and faint lamp of stars. But find the pool for its clamminess. The heat shall fade.
Halt, rang the changing voice of a young boy. Halt! Who goes there? His voice was a chicken-cry when he spoke so abruptly, he had the throat of a rooster.
What is a picket? I heard Them talking of pickets when They had me trapped in the pan. Once indeed there was mention of a war. . . . I have called, Mrs. Ladshaw, to pay my respects to you and to your husband, to offer what sympathy we may. We heard that your noble son gave a splendid account of himself before—before—
Someone else!
Yankees killed Moses. Yankees killed Suthy. Yankees killed my—my— Sally and Courtenay. They were but infants; the Yankees took them to the army and so they too—
Halt!
Sudden scratch of orange in the night, the singing and rush of some narrow pointed force close at hand.
Veronica continued walking the thick piled mass of dark air, her feet were unhurt by the pillow they trod. How strange that one foot should feel as if it were cut by a scrap of thrown-away metal or a splinter of wood, when her feet were swimming her forward to the pool and touching nothing, nothing.
Godsakes, Allie. What was that?
Me. Shot at something.
I heard you give a challenge. Who—?
Just seen something white. It kept a-moving and truly scairt the piss out of me.
Think you hit anything?
Didn’t hear no yell. Must have missed.
Better reload, cause the Captain of the Guard will—
I’m reloading right now. They any white mules around here?
I seen a gray one tother day. Might have been that, but I don’t see how you could have missed a mule.
Sure as hell I did miss. Else I kilt him dead.
Heat, dry up my brains. For the sake of pity do not keep pounding them. Do not continue your scourging, Heat. Above all do not continue your ringing of bells and pushing of coals within me; and do not continue your dryness, dryness, dryness, my hands are dry.
Explosion of that gunpowder, contained within a musket barrel and booming free on the slope east of the Claffey house, brought Lucy upright in bed. Oh, blame, she thought, probably another guard has shot another prisoner. I’m positive it was a shot which disturbed me, seems I can sense its echoing, echoing. Is it too late, have I overslept, did Ninny fail to obey orders? Or perhaps Poppy has come into the house at last and sits nodding by that bed yonder— Poor thing, he should be asleep. Poor Poppy, he must sleep— In light gown and wrapper she trotted along the hall, and a moment later was cuffing Ninny savagely.
You black wretch. You— Where is she, where is she?
Ninny blubbered, Mistess, I done know! She—she gone from her bed—
Run, get my father. Hear me? Run! Lucy swung the palm of her hand, her hand grazed Ninny’s hair and ear, the servant howled and went rushing. Through night below the rear windows Lucy could hear Ninny groaning her rapid way past cabins toward the cow shed, her cries of Mastah, Massstah growing more prolonged and growing in volume. Lucy ran from room to room, she lighted a candle here, a candle there, lighted a lamp. She dropped down to look into threatening space below each bed in turn. Even Harrell Elkins’s bed; it had not been made since he slept in it; she saw the creases his male body had put upon the sheet. . . . There were no closets in the house. Houses like the Claffeys’ were never built with closets; but Lucy banged open doors of every wardrobe which might have contained the shape of her mother, that desiccated form gone to eighty pounds or less. She held a frantic notion that her mother might have sought to immure herself in one of those chests dedicated to the
dead children; she beat fists against the chests; they were locked. Veronica was not above stairs. As Lucy sped down into the lower hall she heard Ira Claffey open the rear door with a crash. She floundered to meet him.
She’s gone, Poppy!
Not in one of the other bedrooms?
No, no, I’ve searched all. That shiftless wench was dozing, and Mother left her bed— Poppy, Poppy! I should never have lain down!
Together they hunted hastily through lower rooms, then in disorder realized that which they should have noticed all along: the front door stood open to the night. Ira fetched a lantern from the rear stoop. She may have gone over to The Pines, child. He said that, not wishing to mention the family burying-ground. Often they spoke of their cemetery as The Pines.
I’ll go see, said Ira.
Let Ninny rouse the hands!
But she’s suffering hysterics because you struck her, child— I reckon you’ve never struck her before. Jem is fussing with her. Do you clothe yourself at once.
Ira hunted with no result among the graves; he’d thought that surely he would find Veronica there. He went to the blacks’ cemetery, even to the pets’. Rouse up, old Deuce, and aid me in seeking your mistress, and he thought for a moment that Deuce came wagging. When he returned to the house Lucy had put on shoes and stockings, and a shawl over her wrapper. Already she had called Jonas and Coffee. Jem came lumbering a moment later. Ira told them off to the search. He warned the slaves about stopping in their tracks if challenged by pickets, and explained what they must say.
Lucy, you shall go with me. I can’t let you explore by yourself, not with these vagabond troops about. Though we should surely cover more ground if you— We’ll go toward the stockade.
Can’t you fetch Coz from the hospital, Poppy?
How could he aid, other than to seek as we are seeking? If we do not find your mother promptly I’ll appeal to the Officer of the Day.
One slave poked west toward the railroad, another (Jonas, the most trustworthy) moved among trees which screened the rifle pits and fort. They were told to cry, Mistress, Mistress, as they wandered. Also the black women were recruited; Orphan Dick wept along with Ninny, he did not know why. The women were ordered to investigate orchard and shrubbery, areas close to cabins and sheds. They went crying Mistess, Missstess. It was a strange fluting and rumble of calling voices spread farther and farther apart, muting in lonely black distance, small lights poking wan fluttering holes in the curtain of blackness, curtain of heat and decay.
Veronica Claffey discovered her pool. It had altered . . . oho, no frogs? Badger then shall have none to place in spirits, in glass jars within his Museum of World-Wide Wonders. Elsewhere he must collect his frogs. Veronica waded toward the pool, the earth grew spongier, looser, her bare torn feet began to slip through feather beds of air whereon she strolled, her feet began to splash. It was difficult to draw her feet free from ooze and plashing, they sucked deeply, something drew her feet down and mired them. This, she decided, is whence it cometh. The Yellow Smell. For it is here, and They must be here because it comes from Them. They make it.
They were a far different They from Those who’d baked her on the bed, on the griddle iron. They were Yankees.
Grid, pan, skillet?
A spider?
Come in.
Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. This she began to sing in a crusty sharp tone. Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
But although wetness smelled, although Veronica struggled amid reek, she struggled in comparative coolness. The marsh was soft . . . pool lay beneath, the pool would comfort her could she but reach it. O heat, a remembered voice was quoting. Assuredly heat would dry up her brains did she not lave and lave and lave. A slow gurgle sounded; why, the pool was moving. The collection of moisture would be treated serenely with moss and water bugs as she’d dreamed it; and Veronica Arwood was too wise a girl to be afraid of water bugs. Just skitter you hand, Mis Ronny, said Mammy Pen. Just skitter, skitter with you hand, child. Then all them bug they go a-fleeing.
Deep in the bog she squatted and began to skitter, and thought that bugs skated off from her disturbance.
...Halt!
I’ve halted, we’re halted.
Who goes there?
Mr. Claffey from the plantation. We’re hunting for Mrs. Claffey—she’s stricken with fever—ill—wandering somewhere.
Is it Mr. Claffey sure enough?
Here, I’m holding the light on my face.
Why, Mr. Claffey, we hain’t seen nobody.
Hold on there, Jeff, Allie done shot at something, while back.
Good God, did you—?
Yes, sir, I fired at something sure enough, but don’t reckon I hit nothing.
What was it, what did you see?
Just something white kept a-moving even when I’d challenged.
Where? Which way?
Right down that way, sir. On that path winds around there, going over south side the hospital.
In time Ira found the woman. His lantern picked out her fragile figure now not so white, crouched in muck and painted with muck, the wide-spread slime of the hospital’s drainage. He waded in, lifted the muttering creature, carried her out. So dry hot on that spider, she said distinctly. Shall need to drink more. The stuff dripped from her chin, plastered her night-dress, her babbling mouth was anointed with it. Ira strode lamely, carrying Veronica to her bed. Lucy scampered gasping ahead, she began to call to the black women before she entered the dooryard.
Come in.
Veronica went down those several steps as she had gone in fancy so many times. Smaller tombs within this larger edifice were open, and someone dressed in white lay within each marble shell. Or was it marble, was it granite? Off into nethermost reaches the bell-stroke of that voice resounded, and above outer roofs a sky must be painted mystically, yews or cedars must be black against retreating sunset.
Someone dressed in white sat up suddenly in one of the coffins.
A swathed arm stretched, grave-wrapped finger pointed, indicating the destination toward which Veronica must venture. In this instance she did not come from her dream. She thought of some great truth which she should announce, she should call it back to people behind her. Then she heard children running and laughing ahead, and began to laugh, herself, and to run toward the children.
XXXVI
John Winder stood with Henry Wirz on a sentry platform. John Winder did not see the bears witnessed by Henry Wirz; he saw scum, a marsh under the scum, pollywogs in the marsh. They were too thick, the marsh could not support their life, it was fated that many would die. Perhaps the survivors, if sufficiently cannabalistic, could sustain themselves directly by feasting on dead pollywogs. Or indirectly, as by swallowing fruits to be reared in a forest of growth which the dead creatures had manured.
I have not yet seen your most recent return, Captain.
General, that Gus Gleich he is sick. Ach, so much trouble I have with my office! And that Gus Moesner, he is good for the work, but with the English he is not so good. Slow he goes, ja. Tomorrow I present the return of prisoners to date.
Approximately . . . Captain?
Sir, it is maybe twenty-nine thousand now.
Because Winder was older in his mind than in his years, and sometimes worse than senile in his addiction to a crusty past, he sent Cadet Davis to the board again. Winder, aged perhaps twenty-seven, sat behind his small desk on a raised platform, and the cadets of this section sat before him, lining the sides of the long form—six on the left, five on the right, now that Mr. Davis had vacated his chair. Mr. Davis stood beside the easel which held the board, and gripped a pointer in one of his knotted bony young hands—the hand nearest the board, as prescribed.
Elementary tactical combinations of the Greeks were very simple, but they were methodical. An army corps was
composed of—
The pointer found the long printed word at the top.
A Tetraphalangarchia.
Sprightly young Mr. Wayland at the lower end of the form wished to make a joke about this, you could see mischief peppered in his eyes, you could see his naughty soul fairly writhing for release within his rigid body; but he had a dangerous weight of demerits already, and the tactical instructor’s hard eye was upon him.
This consisted of sixteen thousand, three hundred and forty-five Oplitai.
The pointer moved.
An Epitagma, numbering eight thousand, one hundred and ninety-two Psiloi; also an Epitagma of cavalry numbering four thousand and ninety-six men.
Might you explain to the section, Mr. Davis, the composition of the grand phalanx.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.
The tip of the pointer went walking. Tetraphalangarchia, four. Phalanxes, sixteen. Chiliarchiae, sixty-four. Syntagmata, two hundred and fifty-six.
...But in Andersonville these scraps of mouthing, hobbling, gurgling debris were neither Greeks nor Romans. Said old John Winder, They are Yankees, they are Nationalists; they must be treated so.
He cried at Henry Wirz, and so unexpectedly that Wirz’s nerves gave a leap— He cried, I haven’t yet set foot in this damnable place, nor do I intend to!
Ja, General. It is not good you do so. You they would attack!
Ah, I’m not afraid of the sons of bitches! Are you afraid?
No, no!
Ah, you fear them.
Sir, they are very bad. Like bears in Bern.
Where in hell’s that?
Sir— I mean— General Winder, so many we have now; not more should be sent by me here.
God damn it, you don’t send them.
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