Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge

  —Ah, God, the Perfessor was saying in a low, terrible voice, if there were just some way to keep from going down into that Great Dismal Swamp!

  Beneath his shut eyes, with startling vividness, Mr. Shawnessy beheld the form of Professor Jerusalem Webster Stiles sinking, pincenez glasses and all, into the muck of the Great Swamp. The Perfessor seemed to be taking it placidly enough and made no struggle as the mud climbed up his white linen suit. Down he went deeper and deeper, weakly waving the malacca cane, his mouth submerged and bubbling slime. Attempting to rescue him, Mr. Shawnessy felt himself also plucked into the heaving pool, and in a fit of anger at the Perfessor’s resignation, he caught the linen collar in his right hand and angrily shook it. The Perfessor tried vainly to escape. He wriggled and ducked and squeaked, he shrivelled and wept and pleaded. Then in swift succession, he changed into a grinning skull. a wood nymph, a revival preacher, the Pope of Rome, a bony goat, a Republican Fourth of July Orator, a Democratic Congressman from the Deep South, a Certain Eminent Statesman, an Exceedingly Rich Man, an Illustrious Commander, a gray rat, a mortuary effigy, a bottle of rotgut whiskey, a book with ELBIB gilded on the cover, a hissing serpent, a copy of the News-Historian, a classroom pointer, a glistening black insect, and at last a small darkhaired boy, sobbing and trying to pull an old oaken bucket out of a well.

  Mr. Shawnessy looked sharply at the collapsed form of the Perfessor on the porchswing and shook him gently by the shoulder.

  —Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear

  To dig the dust enclosed here,

  groaned the Perfessor.

  —Wake up, Professor. It’s about time for the fireworks.

  There is a music on the ties of time. The clock in the Court House Tower is telling the time of day. Come back. Come back to Raintree County. Come down the branchlines of the past and take another turning. Wake from thy hero grave, belovéd boy.

  For resurrections! For homecomings! For heroes! A last inscription! For soldiers who died for the Republic! For warwounded, casualties, homeless ones! For amputees of legs, arms, eyes, and hopes! For those who were falsely reported missing in action! For those who were truly reported missing in action! For all the Americans who tried to find their way back to youth and hope!

  For all the converts and disciples who hunted for the Master! For all the mothers who waited in the night and never gave up hoping! For all who were once living in Raintree County! For all the lost souls hunting for each other and reaching out hands and touching each other with words! A last inscription.

  For all who wait for the millennium, for all the campers on the hills waiting for the world to end, for all the revivalists and resurrectionists! A last inscription! O, I shall make a last inscription for all the passengers on trains crisscrossing on the roads to home. O, I shall make inscriptions and inscriptions for a lost young man, the father and preserver of Raintree County, returning out of windless days in summer, and I shall tell the story of a day

  May 31—1865

  WHEN JOHNNY CAME MARCHING HOME AGAIN (HURRAH, HURRAH)

  or—more accurately—riding on a train, it was a day in the late spring, and the weather was fine. As the train approached Freehaven, after a brief stop at Three Mile Junction, he stood up and went to the cardoor, craning for a look at the Court House cupola, which he hadn’t seen for nearly two years. But now the train had turned and was running directly toward the center of town. There were few people in his coach, and none besides himself who intended to get off. He decided that he still had a long way to go to recover from his sickness, for his legs were weak and trembly, and his heart beat uncontrollably fast. He had to sit down after all.

  He could see his face dimly reflected in the smokebleared window, a thin, curiously youthful face. Though his uniform had looked smart when he left Washington, two days and nights on trains had made it slovenly. Despite the heat, Johnny buttoned it to the neck and set his cap straight.

  A wild young happiness flowed over him, and he turned his face toward the front of the car so that people couldn’t see his emotion. Everything was soft and radiant in the spring light. It was morning. Out of thousands, he had come back. Out of thousands and hundreds of thousands, he had been chosen.

  He had a few more minutes to live in his private never-never-land of suspension between two worlds, war and peace, wandering and homecoming, death and life.

  He leaned back against the seat and shut his eyes. He took a guilty pleasure in thinking of the sensation that his return would cause. He could already see the headlines. . . .

  LOCAL HERO BACK FROM THE GRAVE

  (Epic Fragment from the Mythic Examiner)

  Over six months ago, young Johnny Shawnessy was reported killed in action. Today he is back in the land of the living. At exactly ten thirty yesterday, he stepped down from a train into a community as much thunderstruck as if the Judgment Day had come and yielded up its harvest. Words fail to describe the sensation caused when . . .

  But he hadn’t been able to banish an undercurrent of anxiety felt ever since a stranger in Washington had confidently pronounced him dead. Could the soldier whom seven months ago the newspapers had interred in fragrant prose really come home? Was it possible to find one’s way back to the gentle County of the elder days? And which had changed more—himself or Raintree County?

  He touched his righthand coatpocket to reassure himself. In it, he had a dozen letters that Nell Gaither had faithfully written to him during his days at the front.

  Dearest Johnny, I seat myself and take my pen in hand. . . . My darling, I think of you all the time. I hope these few words find you well and strong. . . . Johnny, come back safe, and don’t forget one who . . .

  They had been in strange places—these letters. They were worn from rereading and stained with fingerprints. These letters had gone from Atlanta to the Sea. A couple of them were smeared with blood.

  But then he had heard of boys who had come home with letters like these to find the girl married to a fat civilian and insisting that she had merely done her duty and had written the same stuff to lots of boys to help bring them through the fray. Girls were incurable sentimentalists and would write nearly anything in a letter to a soldier of the Republic a thousand miles away.

  Nevertheless, if all went well, he would come back a hero, and he would get his marriage to Susanna annulled, and he would take Nell away from Garwood Jones. It was no more than Garwood deserved for writing that repulsively sincere poem. Yes, if necessary, he would take Nell Gaither and go West and start up a new life. Lots of the boys were going West, and he had always wanted to go himself. Not that he would be in any great hurry to leave the County right after getting back to it. It looked plenty good to him. His tastes had been simplified by two years of soldiering.

  His excitement went up as the whistle shrilled at the crossings and the moments ebbed away. Green, fragrant, familiar, the fields of Raintree County flowed by him in the sunlight. Here was a house that he knew, and here a little leaning shed that had been slowly decaying for as far back as he could remember. A barn just outside town still had a familiar legend little faded in two years’ time:

  BUY DOCTOR HOSTETTER’S STOMACH WATERS

  He could see the houses of Freehaven and among the roofs and trees a steeple.

  The churchbells, they will ring with joy,

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  To welcome home our darling boy—

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  He went out to the observation platform and leaning out a little looked down the tracks to the station. The train began to slow down, bell clanging. There were some people standing on the platform. He couldn’t keep from grinning. Probably someone would recognize him.

  HUGE DELEGATION GREETS RETURNING HERO

  (Epic Fragment from the Mythic Examiner)

  It was a gala day in the old home town. The whole dern county, as the poet says, turned out to welcome back Raintree County’s distinguished soldier-poet, Corporal John Wickliff Shawnessy. When the youn
g man descended from the train, he was overwhelmed with the scene that greeted his optics. One thousand people had somehow managed to cram themselves onto the platform and into the station yard, and were backed up several hundred yards on the walks and streets leading down to the station. A brass band played appropriate national airs, and his honor the Mayor was on hand to confer upon the young soldier the key to the City. Our manly hero, as bashful as he is brave, is reported to have said, upon seeing this acclamatory multitude, ‘Shucks, I’d rather face Rebel musketballs.’

  He tried to slip away from the scene unnoticed, but the crowd would not permit it. Hoisting the young Cincinnatus to their shoulders, they bore him off to the Square, where . . .

  Corporal Johnny Shawnessy got down into the station and looked around. The people who had been waiting on the platform boarded the train without noticing him.

  An enigma presented itself to him. He had marched hundreds of miles, emancipated a race, and saved a republic; and when he came back, he found the station hardly changed at all. The brute immutability of physical things appalled him and yet filled him with strong excitement.

  He walked out into the street and started toward the Square, carrying his suitcase. It was a usual summer weekday in town. Hardly anyone was on the streets. When he reached the Square, he understood why he had been unable to see the cupola from the train.

  Where the Court House had been, there was a sunken pile of fireblackened bricks and timbers. What was left of the cupola lay on its side, half sunken in the middle of the pile. The Court House had evidently burned down months ago, for weeds were growing in its grave.

  The four sides of the Square were visible all at once. The little shops, stores, banks were naked and dingy. In fact, the Square as he had known it was simply not there at all any longer.

  He walked to the ruined yard and sat on his suitcase in the shade of a tree. It was a much hotter day than he had supposed at first, a real Indiana scorcher.

  There was no use kidding himself. Everything would be changed more or less. In the ashes of the Court House, of its Grecian columns and white cupola, in the ashes of its chaste republican design, a great many memories were inurned—memories of the old hitching-post days, the Fourth of July celebrations, the platform speakers, the county fairs, the barkers for the sideshows, the medicine venders, the phrenologists, the footraces, the temperance rallies.

  All he needed was a rusty gun, and they would take him for Rip Van Winkle.

  Nevertheless, he was feeling pretty good. It was fun to prolong the suspense a little before really coming home. After all, people came home to people, not to places. There was no memory in the earth. There was no memory in trees, buildings, houses. He had remembered them, but they hadn’t remembered him. Shucks, they could burn down the whole town as far as he cared. But there were people who couldn’t easily have forgotten Johnny Shawnessy, he of the affectionate smile and the innocent young eyes, he of the fleet legs and the gifted speech.

  Just then a middle-aged man walked past, eyeing Johnny curiously. He stopped and came back. Johnny remembered the man’s name, though he hadn’t known him well. A little sorry that he was going to be greeted home by someone besides a close friend, he waited for the man to speak.

  —Hello, there, the man said. Say, ain’t you one of the Shawnessy boys?

  —Yes, sir, Johnny said, standing up crisply, as if coming to attention.

  —Well, I see you’re back from the War, the man said, jedgin’ by yer uniform.

  He kept peering at Johnny, almost suspiciously.

  —Yes, sir, I’m back, Johnny said.

  —Well, sir, it’s been a long war, the man said. How long you been back?

  —Just got back, Johnny said.

  —Well, well, the man said. I reckon you don’t remember me.

  He watched Johnny closely, trying to size him up.

  —Sure, Johnny said. Harley Walters.

  —You do sure enough, the man said. I know your pa well. Well, I reckon you saw considerable fightin’.

  —Quite a bit, Johnny said.

  —Lots a boys been comin’ back lately, the man said. We had quite a cellybration just yestiddy, welcomin’ General Jake Jackson back. They had a lot of troops up from Kentucky. You remember young Garwood Jones?

  —Sure, Johnny said.

  —Well, he led them boys, and say, they was somethin’ to see! I never seen sich a smart bunch in my life. He marched them around the Square several times, and right here where we’re a-standin’ they had up a platform. Colonel Jones got up and made a speech recitin’ the deeds of General Jackson and tracin’ the course of the War, and say, I want to tell you it was a humdinger! Then General Jackson got up spite of wounds that hadn’t healed yit and give a grand speech. We hain’t had sich a cellybration fer back as I kin remember. It practically laid us all out.

  The man stopped and eyed Johnny a little suspiciously.

  —What campaigns did you fight in? he said.

  —Chattanooga, Johnny said, Atlanta campaign, and the March to the Sea.

  —Yes, we’ve had several boys back from those, the man said. You look a little peaky and kinder washed out. Must have been hard on you.

  —Yes, sir, Johnny said. I’ve been a little sick.

  —Well, sir, the man said. Well, anyways, you ain’t dead. Lots of boys died.

  Johnny knew then that the man didn’t really remember him or must be taking him for one of his brothers. He decided to let it pass.

  —Well, sir, the man said, I got to be runnin’ along now. Good day to ye.

  —Good day, Johnny said.

  He stood a moment, watching the man walk off. Panic went over him. He had had dreams of returning home and not finding anyone who knew him or cared about him any longer.

  He picked up the suitcase and went over to the office of the Free Enquirer. The door was open, but the office was empty. Johnny went in. He set the suitcase down and peered around. The office had the old inky smell. There were scraps of papers everywhere. His own old desk was littered as if someone had just been working there.

  In a corner of the office was a table piled up with copies of past issues, an accumulation of seven or eight months.

  A strong curiosity caused him to go over to the pile. Here was the record of a Raintree County that had given him up for dead. Here was the history of the earth after his demise, the record of a world that had gone on without him.

  He felt a feverish excitement. He was about to cheat death and read forbidden words.

  He plucked up a huge flexible load of papers and read the date on the earliest. November 12, 1864. It was full of news about the Election and President Lincoln’s victory over McClellan. He remembered the date spoken by the stranger in Washington—November 18. He leafed through and found the paper for that day, turning the others upside down on his old desk.

  Sure enough, here was the news of his death. He turned more papers, running his eyes up and down the columns. Except for the war news, the columns carried the usual diet of deaths, marriages, births, society news, reports from surrounding communities, personal notices, poems. His death had certainly not put the institution of newsprint out of business.

  He turned pages rapidly. Yes, here were other mentions of his name. On November 25, Garwood’s poem appeared, borrowed from the Clarion, but with typographical errors and on the back page. Johnny was a little hurt, but supposed that the position was dictated by political considerations and lack of space. After the appearance of Garwood’s poem there was no further mention of John Wickliff Shawnessy. Other war dead were mentioned, among them two or three boys he had known, and there were other poems. He read some of them. He derived a wan satisfaction from the fact that they were neither so eloquent nor so metrically perfect as Garwood’s poem.

  He kept turning pages. He ran his eyes up and down, hunting familiar words, almost afraid of what he might find. He turned a week of papers, reading less and less carefully. Then on the front page of the paper for D
ecember 5, he saw a headline:

  JONES-GAITHER RITES SOLEMNIZED

  He drank the article down at a gulp. It had been a church wedding with the usual embellishments. The bride had worn a simple but fetching white dress. The groom, who had been on leave for three weeks following his successful campaign for County Prosecutor, was resplendent in his Colonel’s uniform. There was to be a brief honeymoon before the Colonel returned to pressing duties at (or adjoining) the front. Cassius P. Carney had been best man, and the bride’s father had given Nell away. At the reception afterwards, Mrs. Garwood Jones had received a host of friends and well-wishers at her father’s estate in Shawmucky Township and had left with the groom for parts unknown in a simple goingaway gown of green brocade and a bonnet trimmed with flowers. Rough military friends of the Colonel had planned a chivaree, but the Colonel fooled the whole bunch by a cleverly timed getaway. Guests at the wedding and the reception had included . . .

  Corporal Johnny Shawnessy lifted the heavy load of papers and carefully put them back on the table. He picked up his suitcase and left the office. His throat felt hot and choky, and his eyelids burned. He walked across the street and put his suitcase down in the shade of the tree again. He sat down on it and stared at the ground.

  When Johnny comes marching home again (hurrah, hurrah). . .

  The first wave of anger and disbelief passed and left him pale and weak. After all, what did the dead expect? Did the dead have any rights? Besides, long ago, he had said good-by to a tearstained face on a rainy night in December, and the next day he had left Raintree County with a bride, though the getaway hadn’t been very cleverly timed.

  It occurred to Corporal Johnny Shawnessy that his anger was the first sign that he was getting well and becoming a civilian again. In a few days, he would have all his old vanities and vices back. The purity of the soldier was already passing. But what about the yellow corpses in the Soldiers’ Hospital, the mouldering form of Flash Perkins on the edge of a forest near Columbia, South Carolina? What was a newspaper article more or less to the dead? After all, he couldn’t expect to come back and have the world at his feet. Who did he think he was anyway?