Nor did they; the rest of that afternoon and all the next day too, while old Alec still smoked his pipe in front of his smoldering log, the settlement’s sheepish and raging elders hunted for it, with (by now: the next afternoon) Ikkemotubbe’s Chickasaws helping too, or anyway present, watching: the wild men, the wilderness’s tameless evictant children looking only the more wild and homeless for the white man’s denim and butternut and felt and straw which they wore, standing or squatting or following, grave, attentive and interested, while the white men sweated and cursed among the bordering thickets of their punily-clawed foothold; and always the rider, Pettigrew, ubiquitous, everywhere, not helping search himself and never in anyone’s way, but always present, inscrutable, saturnine, missing nothing: until at last toward sundown Compson crashed savagely out of the last bramble-brake and flung the sweat from his face with a full-armed sweep sufficient to repudiate a throne, and said,
“All right, god damn it, we’ll pay him for it.” Because they had already considered that last gambit; they had already realised its seriousness from the very fact that Peabody had tried to make a joke about it which everyone knew that even Peabody did not think humorous:
“Yes—and quick too, before he has time to advise with Pettigrew and price it by the pound.”
“By the pound?” Compson said.
“Pettigrew just weighed it by the three hundred miles from Nashville. Old Alec might start from Carolina. That’s fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Oh,” Compson said. So he blew in his men by means of a foxhorn which one of the Indians wore on a thong around his neck, though even then they paused for one last quick conference; again it was Peabody who stopped them.
“Who’ll pay for it?” he said. “It would be just like him to want a dollar a pound for it, even if by Pettigrew’s scale he had found it in the ashes of his fireplace.” They—Compson anyway—had probably already thought of that; that, as much as Pettigrew’s presence, was probably why he was trying to rush them into old Alec’s presence with the offer so quickly that none would have the face to renege on a pro-rata share. But Peabody had torn it now. Compson looked about at them, sweating, grimly enraged.
“That means Peabody will probably pay one dollar,” he said. “Who pays the other fourteen? Me?” Then Ratcliffe, the trader, the store’s proprietor, solved it—a solution so simple, so limitless in retroact, that they didn’t even wonder why nobody had thought of it before; which not only solved the problem but abolished it; and not just that one, but all problems, from now on into perpetuity, opening to their vision like the rending of a veil, like a glorious prophecy, the vast splendid limitless panorama of America: that land of boundless oppportunity, that bourne, created not by nor of the people, but for the people, as was the heavenly manna of old, with no return demand on man save the chewing and swallowing since out of its own matchless Allgood it would create produce train support and perpetuate a race of laborers dedicated to the single purpose of picking the manna up and putting it into his lax hand or even between his jaws—illimitable, vast, without beginning or end, not even a trade or a craft but a beneficence as are sunlight and rain and air, inalienable and immutable.
“Put it on the Book,” Ratcliffe said—the Book: not a ledger, but the ledger, since it was probably the only thing of its kind between Nashville and Natchez, unless there might happen to be a similar one a few miles south at the first Choctaw agency at Yalo Busha—a ruled, paper-backed copybook such as might have come out of a schoolroom, in which accrued, with the United States as debtor, in Mohataha’s name (the Chickasaw matriarch, Ikkemotubbe’s mother and old Issetibbeha’s sister, who—she could write her name, or anyway make something with a pen or pencil which was agreed to be, or at least accepted to be, a valid signature—signed all the conveyances as her son’s kingdom passed to the white people, regularising it in law anyway) the crawling tedious list of calico and gunpowder, whiskey and salt and snuff and denim pants and osseous candy drawn from Ratcliffe’s shelves by her descendants and subjects and Negro slaves. That was all the settlement had to do: add the lock to the list, the account. It wouldn’t even matter at what price they entered it. They could have priced it on Pettigrew’s scale of fifteen pounds times the distance not just to Carolina but to Washington itself, and nobody would ever notice it probably; they could have charged the United States with seventeen thousand five hundred dollars’ worth of the fossilised and indestructible candy, and none would ever read the entry. So it was solved, done, finished, ended. They didn’t even have to discuss it. They didn’t even think about it any more, unless perhaps here and there to marvel (a little speculatively probably) at their own moderation, since they wanted nothing—least of all, to escape any just blame—but a fair and decent adjustment of the lock. They went back to where old Alec still sat with his pipe in front of his dim hearth. Only they had overestimated him; he didn’t want any money at all, he wanted his lock. Whereupon what little remained of Compson’s patience went too.
“Your lock’s gone,” he told old Alec harshly. “You’ll take fifteen dollars for it,” he said, his voice already fading, because even that rage could recognise impasse when it saw it. Nevertheless, the rage, the impotence, the sweating, the too much—whatever it was—forced the voice on for one word more: “Or—” before it stopped for good and allowed Peabody to fill the gap:
“Or else?” Peabody said, and not to old Alec, but to Compson. “Or else what?” Then Ratcliffe saved that too.
“Wait,” he said. “Uncle Alec’s going to take fifty dollars for his lock. A guarantee of fifty dollars. He’ll give us the name of the blacksmith back in Cal’lina that made it for him, and we’ll send back there and have a new one made. Going and coming and all’ll cost about fifty dollars. We’ll give Uncle Alec the fifty dollars to hold as a guarantee. Then when the new lock comes, he’ll give us back the money. All right, Uncle Alec?” And that could have been all of it. It probably would have been, except for Pettigrew. It was not that they had forgotten him, nor even assimilated him. They had simply sealed—healed him off (so they thought)—him into their civic crisis as the desperate and defenseless oyster immobilises its atom of inevictable grit. Nobody had seen him move yet he now stood in the center of them where Compson and Ratcliffe and Peabody faced old Alec in the chair. You might have said that he had oozed there, except for that adamantine quality which might (in emergency) become invisible but never insubstantial and never in this world fluid; he spoke in a voice bland, reasonable and impersonal, then stood there being looked at, frail and child-sized, impermeable as diamond and manifest with portent, bringing into that backwoods room a thousand miles deep in pathless wilderness, the whole vast incalculable weight of federality, not just representing the government nor even himself just the government; for that moment at least, he was the United States.
“Uncle Alec hasn’t lost any lock,” he said. “That was Uncle Sam.”
After a moment someone said, “What?”
“That’s right,” Pettigrew said. “Whoever put that lock of Holston’s on that mail bag either made a voluntary gift to the United States, and the same law covers the United States Government that covers minor children: you can give something to them, but you can’t take it back, or he or they done something else.”
They looked at him. Again after a while somebody said something; it was Ratcliffe. “What else?” Ratcliffe said. Pettigrew answered, still bland, impersonal, heatless and glib: “Committed a violation of act of Congress as especially made and provided for the defacement of government property, penalty of five thousand dollars or not less than one year in a Federal jail or both. For whoever cut them two slits in the bag to put the lock in, act of Congress as especially made and provided for the injury or destruction of government property, penalty of ten thousand dollars or not less than five years in a Federal jail or both.” He did not move even yet; he simply spoke directly to old Alec: “I reckon you’re going to have supper here same as usual sooner or later or mor
e or less.”
“Wait,” Ratcliffe said. He turned to Compson. “Is that true?”
“What the hell difference does it make whether it’s true or not?” Compson said. “What do you think he’s going to do as soon as he gets to Nashville?” He said violently to Pettigrew: “You were supposed to leave for Nashville yesterday. What were you hanging around here for?”
“Nothing to go to Nashville for,” Pettigrew said. “You dont want any mail. You aint got anything to lock it up with.”
“So we aint,” Ratcliffe said. “So we’ll let the United States find the United States’ lock.” This time Pettigrew looked at no one. He wasn’t even speaking to anyone, any more than old Alec had been when he decreed the return of his lock:
“Act of Congress as made and provided for the unauthorised removal and or use or willful or felonious use or misuse or loss of government property, penalty the value of the article plus five hundred to ten thousand dollars or thirty days to twenty years in a Federal jail or both. They may even make a new one when they read where you have charged a postoffice department lock to the Bureau of Indian Affairs.” He moved; now he was speaking to old Alec again: “I’m going out to my horse. When this meeting is over and you get back to cooking, you can send your nigger for me.”
Then he was gone. After a while Ratcliffe said, “What do you reckon he aims to get out of this? A reward?” But that was wrong; they all knew better than that.
“He’s already getting what he wants,” Compson said, and cursed again. “Confusion. Just damned confusion.” But that was wrong too; they all knew that too, though it was Peabody who said it:
“No. Not confusion. A man who will ride six hundred miles through this country every two weeks, with nothing for protection but a foxhorn, aint really interested in confusion any more than he is in money.” So they didn’t know yet what was in Pettigrew’s mind. But they knew what he would do. That is, they knew that they did not know at all, either what he would do, or how, or when, and that there was nothing whatever that they could do about it until they discovered why. And they saw now that they had no possible means to discover that; they realised now that they had known him for three years now, during which, fragile and inviolable and undeviable and preceded for a mile or more by the strong sweet ringing of the horn, on his strong and tireless horse he would complete the bi-monthly trip from Nashville to the settlement and for the next three or four days would live among them, yet that they knew nothing whatever about him, and even now knew only that they dared not, simply dared not, take any chance, sitting for a while longer in the darkening room while old Alec still smoked, his back still squarely turned to them and their quandary too; then dispersing to their own cabins for the evening meal—with what appetite they could bring to it, since presently they had drifted back through the summer darkness when by ordinary they would have been already in bed, to the back room of Ratcliffe’s store now, to sit again while Ratcliffe recapitulated in his mixture of bewilderment and alarm (and something else which they recognised was respect as they realised that he—Ratcliffe—was unshakably convinced that Pettigrew’s aim was money; that Pettigrew had invented or evolved a scheme so richly rewarding that he—Ratcliffe—had not only been unable to forestall him and do it first, he—Ratcliff—couldn’t even guess what it was after he had been given a hint) until Compson interrupted him.
“Hell,” Compson said. “Everybody knows what’s wrong with him. It’s ethics. He’s a damned moralist.”
“Ethics?” Peabody said. He sounded almost startled. He said quickly: “That’s bad. How can we corrupt an ethical man?”
“Who wants to corrupt him?” Compson said. “All we want him to do is stay on that damned horse and blow whatever extra wind he’s got into that damned horn.”
But Peabody was not even listening. He said, “Ethics,” almost dreamily. He said, “Wait.” They watched him. He said suddenly to Ratcliffe: “I’ve heard it somewhere. If anybody here knows it, it’ll be you. What’s his name?”
“His name?” Ratcliffe said. “Pettigrew’s? Oh. His christian name.” Ratcliffe told him. “Why?”
“Nothing,” Peabody said. “I’m going home. Anybody else coming?” He spoke directly to nobody and said and would say no more, but that was enough: a straw perhaps, but at least a straw; enough anyway for the others to watch and say nothing either as Compson got up too and said to Ratcliffe:
“You coming?” and the three of them walked away together, beyond earshot then beyond sight too. Then Compson said, “All right. What?”
“It may not work,” Peabody said. “But you two will have to back me up. When I speak for the whole settlement, you and Ratcliffe will have to make it stick. Will you?”
Compson cursed. “But at least tell us a little of what we’re going to guarantee.” So Peabody told them, some of it, and the next morning entered the stall in the Holston House stable where Pettigrew was grooming his ugly hammer-headed ironmuscled horse.
“We decided not to charge that lock to old Mohataha, after all,” Peabody said.
“That so?” Pettigrew said. “Nobody in Washington would ever catch it. Certainly not the ones that can read.”
“We’re going to pay for it ourselves,” Peabody said. “In fact, we’re going to do a little more. We’ve got to repair that jail wall anyhow; we’ve got to build one wall anyway. So by building three more, we will have another room. We got to build one anyway, so that dont count. So by building an extra three-wall room, we will have another four-wall house. That will be the courthouse.” Pettigrew had been hissing gently between his teeth at each stroke of the brush, like a professional Irish groom. Now he stopped, the brush and his hand arrested in midstroke, and turned his head a little.
“Courthouse?”
“We’re going to have a town,” Peabody said. “We already got a church—that’s Whitfield’s cabin. And we’re going to build a school too soon as we get around to it. But we’re going to build the courthouse today; we’ve already got something to put in it to make it a courthouse: that iron box that’s been in Ratcliffe’s way in the store for the last ten years. Then we’ll have a town. We’ve already even named her.”
Now Pettigrew stood up, very slowly. They looked at one another. After a moment Pettigrew said, “So?”
“Ratcliffe says your name’s Jefferson,” Peabody said.
“That’s right,” Pettigrew said. “Thomas Jefferson Pettigrew. I’m from old Ferginny.”
“Any kin?” Peabody said.
“No,” Pettigrew said. “My ma named me for him, so I would have some of his luck.”
“Luck?” Peabody said.
Pettigrew didn’t smile. “That’s right. She didn’t mean luck. She never had any schooling. She didn’t know the word she wanted to say.”
“Have you had it?” Peabody said. Nor did Pettigrew smile now. “I’m sorry,” Peabody said. “Try to forget it.” He said: “We decided to name her Jefferson.” Now Pettigrew didn’t seem to breathe even. He just stood there, small, frail, less than boysize, childless and bachelor, incorrigibly kinless and tieless, looking at Peabody. Then he breathed, and raising the brush, he turned back to the horse and for an instant Peabody thought he was going back to the grooming. But instead of making the stroke, he laid the hand and the brush against the horse’s flank and stood for a moment, his face turned away and his heat bent a little. Then he raised his head and turned his face back toward Peabody.
“You could call that lock ‘axle grease’ on that Indian account,” he said.
“Fifty dollars’ worth of axle grease?” Peabody said.
“To grease the wagons for Oklahoma,” Pettigrew said.
“So we could,” Peabody said. “Only her name’s Jefferson now. We cant ever forget that any more now.” And that was the courthouse—the courthouse which it had taken them almost thirty years not only to realise they didn’t have, but to discover that they hadn’t even needed, missed, lacked; and which, before they had owned it six mo
nths, they discovered was nowhere near enough. Because somewhere between the dark of that first day and the dawn of the next, something happened to them. They began that same day; they restored the jail wall and cut new logs and split out shakes and raised the little floorless lean- to against it and moved the iron chest from Ratcliffe’s back room; it took only the two days and cost nothing but the labor and not much of that per capita since the whole settlement was involved to a man, not to mention the settlement’s two slaves—Holston’s man and the one belonging to the German blacksmith—; Ratcliffe too, all he had to do was put up the bar across the inside of his back door, since his entire patronage was countable in one glance sweating and cursing among the logs and shakes of the half dismantled jail across the way opposite—including Ikkemotubbe’s Chickasaw, though these were neither sweating nor cursing: the grave dark men dressed in their Sunday clothes except for the trousers, pants, which they carried rolled neatly under their arms or perhaps tied by the two legs around their necks like capes or rather hussars’ dolmans where they had forded the creek, squatting or lounging along the shade, courteous, interested, and reposed (even old Mohataha herself, the matriarch, barefoot in a purple silk gown and a plumed hat, sitting in a gilt brocade empire chair in a wagon behind two mules, under a silver-handled Paris parasol held by a female slave child)—because they (the other white men, his confreres, or—during this first day—his co-victims) had not yet remarked the thing—quality—something—esoteric, eccentric, in Ratcliffe’s manner, attitude,—not an obstruction nor even an impediment, not even when on the second day they discovered what it was, because he was among them, busy too, sweating and cursing too, but rather like a single chip, infinitesimal, on an otherwise unbroken flood or tide, a single body or substance, alien and unreconciled, a single thin almost unheard voice crying thinly out of the roar of a mob: “Wait, look here, listen—”
The Essential Faulkner Page 7
