Collected Stories

by William Faulkner

  So I waited until daylight, until I hyeard the niggers stirring around in the kitchen; then I went back there. And there was old Ash, looking like he always did, oiling Major’s boots and setting them behind the stove and then taking up Major’s rifle and beginning to load the magazine. He just looked once at my face when I come in, and went on shoving ca’tridges into the gun.

  “So you went up to the mound last night,” I says. He looked up at me again, quick, and then down again. But he never said nothing, looking like a durned old frizzle-headed ape. “You must know some of them folks up there,” I says.

  “I knows some of um,” he says, shoving ca’tridges into the gun.

  “You know old John Basket?” I says.

  “I knows some of um,” he says, not looking at me.

  “Did you see him last night?” I says. He never said nothing at all. So then I changed my tone, like a fellow has to do to get anything outen a nigger. “Look here,” I says. “Look at me.” He looked at me. “Just what did you do up there last night?”

  “Who, me?” he says.

  “Come on,” I says. “Hit’s all over now. Mr. Provine has done got over his hiccups and we done both forgot about anything that might have happened when he got back last night. You never went up there just for fun last night. Or maybe hit was something you told them up there, told old man Basket. Was that hit?” He had done quit looking at me, but he never stopped shoving ca’tridges into that gun. He looked quick to both sides. “Come on,” I says. “Do you want to tell me what happened up there, or do you want me to mention to Mr. Provine that you was mixed up in hit some way?” He never stopped loading the rifle and he never looked at me, but I be dog if I couldn’t almost see his mind working. “Come on,” I says. “Just what was you doing up there last night?”

  Then he told me. I reckon he knowed hit wasn’t no use to try to hide hit then; that if I never told Luke, I could still tell Major. “I jest dodged him and got dar first en told um he was a new revenue agent coming up dar tonight, but dat he warn’t much en dat all dey had to do was to give um a good skeer en likely he would go away. En dey did en he did.”

  “Well!” I says. “Well! I always thought I was pretty good at joking folks,” I says, “but I take a back seat for you. What happened?” I says. “Did you see hit?”

  “Never much happened,” he says. “Dey jest went down de road a piece en atter a while hyer he come a-hickin’ en a-blumpin’ up de road wid de lant’un en de gun. They took de lant’un en de gun away frum him en took him up pon topper de mound en talked de Injun language at him fer a while. Den dey piled up some wood en fixed him on hit so he could git loose in a minute, en den one of dem come up de hill wid de fire, en he done de rest.”

  “Well!” I says. “Well, I’ll be eternally durned!” And then all on a sudden hit struck me. I had done turned and was going out when hit struck me, and I stopped and I says, “There’s one more thing I want to know. Why did you do hit?”

  Now he set there on the wood box, rubbing the gun with his hand, not looking at me again. “I wuz jest helping you kyo him of dem hiccups.”

  “Come on,” I says. “That wasn’t your reason. What was hit? Remember, I got a right smart I can tell Mr. Provine and Major both now. I don’t know what Major will do, but I know what Mr. Provine will do if I was to tell him.”

  And he set there, rubbing that ere rifle with his hand. He was kind of looking down, like he was thinking. Not like he was trying to decide whether to tell me or not, but like he was remembering something from a long time back. And that’s exactly what he was doing, because he says:

  “I ain’t skeered for him to know. One time dey was a picnic. Hit was a long time back, nigh twenty years ago. He was a young man den, en in de middle of de picnic, him en he brother en nudder white man—I fergit he name—dey rid up wid dey pistols out en cotch us niggers one at a time en burned our collars off. Hit was him dat burnt mine.”

  “And you waited all this time and went to all this trouble, just to get even with him?” I says.

  “Hit warn’t dat,” he says, rubbing the rifle with his hand. “Hit wuz de collar. Back in dem days a top nigger hand made two dollars a week. I paid fo’ bits fer dat collar. Hit wuz blue, wid a red picture of de race betwixt de Natchez en de Robert E. Lee running around hit. He burnt hit up. I makes ten dollars a week now. En I jest wish I knowed where I could buy another collar like dat un fer half of hit. I wish I did.”

  Two Soldiers

  ME AND PETE would go down to Old Man Killegrew’s and listen to his radio. We would wait until after supper, after dark, and we would stand outside Old Man Killegrew’s parlor window, and we could hear it because Old Man Killegrew’s wife was deaf, and so he run the radio as loud as it would run, and so me and Pete could hear it plain as Old Man Killegrew’s wife could, I reckon, even standing outside with the window closed.

  And that night I said, “What? Japanese? What’s a pearl harbor?” and Pete said, “Hush.”

  And so we stood there, it was cold, listening to the fellow in the radio talking, only I couldn’t make no heads nor tails neither out of it. Then the fellow said that would be all for a while, and me and Pete walked back up the road to home, and Pete told me what it was. Because he was nigh twenty and he had done finished the Consolidated last June and he knowed a heap: about them Japanese dropping bombs on Pearl Harbor and that Pearl Harbor was across the water.

  “Across what water?” I said. “Across that Government reservoy up at Oxford?”

  “Naw,” Pete said. “Across the big water. The Pacific Ocean.”

  We went home. Maw and pap was already asleep, and me and Pete laid in the bed, and I still couldn’t understand where it was, and Pete told me again—the Pacific Ocean.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Pete said. “You’re going on nine years old. You been in school now ever since September. Ain’t you learned nothing yet?”

  “I reckon we ain’t got as fer as the Pacific Ocean yet,” I said.

  We was still sowing the vetch then that ought to been all finished by the fifteenth of November, because pap was still behind, just like he had been ever since me and Pete had knowed him. And we had firewood to git in, too, but every night me and Pete would go down to Old Man Killegrew’s and stand outside his parlor window in the cold and listen to his radio; then we would come back home and lay in the bed and Pete would tell me what it was. That is, he would tell me for a while. Then he wouldn’t tell me. It was like he didn’t want to talk about it no more. He would tell me to shut up because he wanted to go to sleep, but he never wanted to go to sleep.

  He would lay there, a heap stiller than if he was asleep, and it would be something, I could feel it coming out of him, like he was mad at me even, only I knowed he wasn’t thinking about me, or like he was worried about something, and it wasn’t that neither, because he never had nothing to worry about. He never got behind like pap, let alone stayed behind. Pap give him ten acres when he graduated from the Consolidated, and me and Pete both reckoned pap was durn glad to get shut of at least ten acres, less to have to worry with himself; and Pete had them ten acres all sowed to vetch and busted out and bedded for the winter, and so it wasn’t that. But it was something. And still we would go down to Old Man Killegrew’s every night and listen to his radio, and they was at it in the Philippines now, but General MacArthur was holding um. Then we would come back home and lay in the bed, and Pete wouldn’t tell me nothing or talk at all. He would just lay there still as a ambush and when I would touch him, his side or his leg would feel hard and still as iron, until after a while I would go to sleep.

  Then one night—it was the first time he had said nothing to me except to jump on me about not chopping enough wood at the wood tree where we was cutting—he said, “I got to go.”

  “Go where?” I said.

  “To that war,” Pete said.

  “Before we even finish gettin’ in the firewood?”

  “Firewood, hell,” Pete said.


  “All right,” I said. “When we going to start?”

  But he wasn’t even listening. He laid there, hard and still as iron in the dark. “I got to go,” he said. “I jest ain’t going to put up with no folks treating the Unity States that way.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Firewood or no firewood, I reckon we got to go.”

  This time he heard me. He laid still again, but it was a different kind of still.

  “You?” he said. “To a war?”

  “You’ll whup the big uns and I’ll whup the little uns,” I said.

  Then he told me I couldn’t go. At first I thought he just never wanted me tagging after him, like he wouldn’t leave me go with him when he went sparking them girls of Tull’s. Then he told me the Army wouldn’t leave me go because I was too little, and then I knowed he really meant it and that I couldn’t go nohow noways. And somehow I hadn’t believed until then that he was going himself, but now I knowed he was and that he wasn’t going to leave me go with him a-tall.

  “I’ll chop the wood and tote the water for you-all then!” I said. “You got to have wood and water!”

  Anyway, he was listening to me now. He wasn’t like iron now.

  He turned onto his side and put his hand on my chest because it was me that was laying straight and hard on my back now.

  “No,” he said. “You got to stay here and help pap.”

  “Help him what?” I said. “He ain’t never caught up nohow. He can’t get no further behind. He can sholy take care of this little shirttail of a farm while me and you are whupping them Japanese. I got to go too. If you got to go, then so have I.”

  “No,” Pete said. “Hush now. Hush.” And he meant it, and I knowed he did. Only I made sho from his own mouth. I quit.

  “So I just can’t go then,” I said.

  “No,” Pete said. “You just can’t go. You’re too little, in the first place, and in the second place——”

  “All right,” I said. “Then shut up and leave me go to sleep.”

  So he hushed then and laid back. And I laid there like I was already asleep, and pretty soon he was asleep and I knowed it was the wanting to go to the war that had worried him and kept him awake, and now that he had decided to go, he wasn’t worried any more.

  The next morning he told maw and pap. Maw was all right. She cried.

  “No,” she said, crying, “I don’t want him to go. I would rather go myself in his place, if I could. I don’t want to save the country. Them Japanese could take it and keep it, so long as they left me and my family and my children alone. But I remember my brother Marsh in that other war. He had to go to that one when he wasn’t but nineteen, and our mother couldn’t understand it then any more than I can now. But she told Marsh if he had to go, he had to go. And so, if Pete’s got to go to this one, he’s got to go to it. Jest don’t ask me to understand why.”

  But pap was the one. He was the feller. “To the war?” he said. “Why, I just don’t see a bit of use in that. You ain’t old enough for the draft, and the country ain’t being invaded. Our President in Washington, D. C., is watching the conditions and he will notify us. Besides, in that other war your ma just mentioned, I was drafted and sent clean to Texas and was held there nigh eight months until they finally quit fighting. It seems to me that that, along with your Uncle Marsh who received a actual wound on the battlefields of France, is enough for me and mine to have to do to protect the country, at least in my lifetime. Besides, what’ll I do for help on the farm with you gone? It seems to me I’ll get mighty far behind.”

  “You been behind as long as I can remember,” Pete said. “Anyway, I’m going. I got to.”

  “Of course he’s got to go,” I said. “Them Japanese——”

  “You hush your mouth!” maw said, crying. “Nobody’s talking to you! Go and get me a armful of wood! That’s what you can do!”

  So I got the wood. And all the next day, while me and Pete and pap was getting in as much wood as we could in that time because Pete said how pap’s idea of plenty of wood was one more stick laying against the wall that maw ain’t put on the fire yet, Maw was getting Pete ready to go. She washed and mended his clothes and cooked him a shoe box of vittles. And that night me and Pete laid in the bed and listened to her packing his grip and crying, until after a while Pete got up in his nightshirt and went back there, and I could hear them talking, until at last maw said, “You got to go, and so I want you to go. But I don’t understand it, and I won’t never, and so don’t expect me to.” And Pete come back and got into the bed again and laid again still and hard as iron on his back, and then he said, and he wasn’t talking to me, he wasn’t talking to nobody: “I got to go. I just got to.”

  “Sho you got to,” I said. “Them Japanese——” He turned over hard, he kind of surged over onto his side, looking at me in the dark.

  “Anyway, you’re all right,” he said. “I expected to have more trouble with you than with all the rest of them put together.”

  “I reckon I can’t help it neither,” I said. “But maybe it will run a few years longer and I can get there. Maybe someday I will jest walk in on you.”

  “I hope not,” Pete said. “Folks don’t go to wars for fun. A man don’t leave his maw crying just for fun.”

  “Then why are you going?” I said.

  “I got to,” he said. “I just got to. Now you go on to sleep. I got to ketch that early bus in the morning.”

  “All right,” I said. “I hear tell Memphis is a big place. How will you find where the Army’s at?”

  “I’ll ask somebody where to go to join it,” Pete said. “Go on to sleep now.”

  “Is that what you’ll ask for? Where to join the Army?” I said.

  “Yes,” Pete said. He turned onto his back again. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

  We went to sleep. The next morning we et breakfast by lamplight because the bus would pass at six o’clock. Maw wasn’t crying now. She jest looked grim and busy, putting breakfast on the table while we et it. Then she finished packing Pete’s grip, except he never wanted to take no grip to the war, but maw said decent folks never went nowhere, not even to a war, without a change of clothes and something to tote them in. She put in the shoe box of fried chicken and biscuits and she put the Bible in, too, and then it was time to go. We didn’t know until then that maw wasn’t going to the bus. She jest brought Pete’s cap and overcoat, and still she didn’t cry no more, she jest stood with her hands on Pete’s shoulders and she didn’t move, but somehow, and just holding Pete’s shoulders, she looked as hard and fierce as when Pete had turned toward me in the bed last night and tole me that anyway I was all right.

  “They could take the country and keep the country, so long as they never bothered me and mine,” she said. Then she said, “Don’t never forget who you are. You ain’t rich and the rest of the world outside of Frenchman’s Bend never heard of you. But your blood is good as any blood anywhere, and don’t you never forget it.”

  Then she kissed him, and then we was out of the house, with pap toting Pete’s grip whether Pete wanted him to or not. There wasn’t no dawn even yet, not even after we had stood on the highway by the mailbox, a while. Then we seen the lights of the bus coming and I was watching the bus until it come up and Pete flagged it, and then, sho enough, there was daylight—it had started while I wasn’t watching. And now me and Pete expected pap to say something else foolish, like he done before, about how Uncle Marsh getting wounded in France and that trip to Texas pap taken in 1918 ought to be enough to save the Unity States in 1942, but he never. He done all right too. He jest said, “Good-by, son. Always remember what your ma told you and write her whenever you find the time.” Then he shaken Pete’s hand, and Pete looked at me a minute and put his hand on my head and rubbed my head durn nigh hard enough to wring my neck off and jumped into the bus, and the feller wound the door shut and the bus began to hum; then it was moving, humming and grinding and whining louder and louder; it was going fast, with two l
ittle red lights behind it that never seemed to get no littler, but just seemed to be running together until pretty soon they would touch and jest be one light. But they never did, and then the bus was gone, and even like it was, I could have pretty nigh busted out crying, nigh to nine years old and all.

  Me and pap went back to the house. All that day we worked at the wood tree, and so I never had no good chance until about middle of the afternoon. Then I taken my slingshot and I would have liked to took all my bird eggs, too, because Pete had give me his collection and he holp me with mine, and he would like to git the box out and look at them as good as I would, even if he was nigh twenty years old. But the box was too big to tote a long ways and have to worry with, so I just taken the shikepoke egg, because it was the best un, and wropped it up good into a matchbox and hid it and the slingshot under the corner of the barn. Then we et supper and went to bed, and I thought then how if I would ‘a’ had to stayed in that room and that bed like that even for one more night, I jest couldn’t ’a’ stood it. Then I could hear pap snoring, but I never heard no sound from maw, whether she was asleep or not, and I don’t reckon she was. So I taken my shoes and drapped them out the window, and then I clumb out like I used to watch Pete do when he was still jest seventeen and pap held that he was too young yet to be tomcatting around at night, and wouldn’t leave him out, and I put on my shoes and went to the barn and got the slingshot and the shikepoke egg and went to the highway.

  It wasn’t cold, it was jest durn confounded dark, and that highway stretched on in front of me like, without nobody using it, it had stretched out half again as fer just like a man does when he lays down, so that for a time it looked like full sun was going to ketch me before I had finished them twenty-two miles to Jefferson. But it didn’t. Daybreak was jest starting when I walked up the hill into town. I could smell breakfast cooking in the cabins and I wished I had thought to brought me a cold biscuit, but that was too late now. And Pete had told me Memphis was a piece beyond Jefferson, but I never knowed it was no eighty miles. So I stood there on that empty square, with daylight coming and coming and the street lights still burning and that Law looking down at me, and me still eighty miles from Memphis, and it had took me all night to walk jest twenty-two miles, and so, by the time I got to Memphis at that rate, Pete would ’a’ done already started for Pearl Harbor.