Unforgettablewritingaboutthemanyfacesof

war…

“THEBURNING”byEUDORAWELTY

TwoSouthernladiesreacttotheburningoftheirhomebyYankeeswithahorrificcourage…andan

actoffataldesperation.

“CHICKAMALIGA”byTHOMASWOLFEAninety-five-year-oldConfederateveteranremembersthestrangebattleofStoneMountain,thetragedyofShiloh,andthesoul-changingexperienceofChickamauga.

“MYGRANDMOTHERMILLARDANDGENERALBEDFORDFORRESTAND

THEBATTLEOFHARRYKINCREEK”byWILLIAMFAULKNER

Partfarce,partdrama,thistaleaddsanunexpectedtwisttoawartimeromanceandan

enterprisingmatriarchdeterminedtosavethefamily’svaluables.

“PILLAROFFIRE”bySHELBYFOOTE

AdisfiguredUnionofficercarriesoutacampaignofretributionalongtheMississippiandburnsdownanoldman’shomewithchillingresults.

“SECONDINAUGURAL”byABRAHAMLINCOLNThissuccinctaddress,writtenwiththesame

impassioned,pain-filledvoiceheardintheGettysburgAddress,

remindsthenationoftherightnessoftheUnion’s

cause.

ADeltaBookPublishedbyDellPublishingadivisionofBantamDoubledayDellPublishingGroup,Inc.1540BroadwayNewYork,NewYork10036

“TheNightofChancellorsville”ReprintedwithpermissionofCharlesScribner’sSonsanimprintofMacmillanPublishingCompany,fromTAPSATREVEILLEbyF.Scott

Fitzgerald.Copyright1935,andrenewed1963,byFrancisScottFitzgeraldLanahan.OriginallyappearedinEsquiremagazine.

“Chickamauga”Copyright1937,EstateofThomasWolfe.

“MyGrandmotherMillardandGeneralBedfordForrestandtheBattleofHarrykinCreek”FromCOLLECTEDSTORIESOFWILLIAMFAULKNERbyWilliamFaulkner.Copyright1943byWilliamFaulkner.Reprintedbypermission

ofRandomHouse,Inc.

“Fish-HookGettysburg”from“JohnBrown’sBody”byStephenVincentBenétfromTHESELECTEDWORKSOFSTEPHENVINCENTBENÉT,Holt,Rinehart,andWinston.Copyright1927,1928byStephenVincentBenét.Copyrightrenewed1955,1956byRosemaryCarrBenét.ReprintedbypermissionofBrandtandBrandt,LiteraryAgents.

“TheBurning”fromTHEBRIDEOFINNISFALLENANDOTHER

STORIES.Copyright1951andrenewed1979byEudoraWelty.ReprintedbypermissionofHarcourtBraceandCompany.

“PillarofFire”FromJORDANCOUNTYbyShelbyFoote.Copyright1954.ReprintedbypermissionofRLRAssociates,Ltd.

ExcerptfromOURSELVESTOKNOW.FromOURSELVESTOKNOWbyJohnO’Hara.Copyright1960byJohnO’Hara.ReprintedbypermissionofRandomHouse,Inc.

Copyright©1993byShelbyFoote

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronicormechanical,includingphotocopying,recording,orbyanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,withoutthewrittenpermissionofthePublisher,exceptwherepermittedbylaw.ForinformationaddressAddison-WesleyPublishingCompany,Reading,Massachusetts.

ThetrademarkDeltaisregisteredintheU.S.PatentandTrademarkOffice.

LibraryofCongressCataloginginPublicationData

ChickamaugaandotherCivilWarstories/editedbyShelbyFoote.

p.cm.

Contents:Introduction—Provisionalinaugural/JeffersonDavis—Ayoungsoldier’sfirstbattle/StephenCrane—The

nightofChancellorsville/F.ScottFitzgerald—Chickamauga/ThomasWolfe—AnoccurrenceatOwlCreekBridge/AmbroseBierce—MyGrandmotherMillardandGeneralBedfordForrestandtheBattleofHarrykinCreek/WilliamFaulkner—Fish-HookGettysburg/StephenVincentBenét—Theburning/EudoraWelty—Pillaroffire/ShelbyFoote—Homecoming/JohnO’Hara—Aprivatehistoryofa

campaignthatfailed/MarkTwain—Secondinaugural/AbrahamLincoln.

eISBN:978-0-307-77923-6

1.UnitedStates—History—CivilWar,1861-1865—Fiction.2.Warstories,American.I.Foote,Shelby.

PS648.C54C451993

813’0108358—dc20

93-879

v3.1

CONTENTS

CoverTitlePageCopyrightIntroduction

ProvisionalInauguralJEFFERSONDAVIS

AYoungSoldier’sFirst

BattleSTEPHENCRANE

TheNightofChancellorsvilleF.SCOTTFITZGERALD

ChickamaugaTHOMASWOLFE

AnOccurrenceatOwl

CreekBridgeAMBROSEBIERCE

MyGrandmotherMillardandGeneralBedfordForrestandtheBattleofHarrykinCreekWILLIAMFAULKNER

Fish-HookGettysburgSTEPHENVINCENT

BENET

TheBurningEUDORAWELTY

PillarofFireSHELBYFOOTE

Homecoming:AnExcerptfromOurselvestoKnowJOHNO’HARA

ThePrivateHistoryofaCampaignThatFailedMARKTWAIN

SecondInauguralABRAHAMLINCOLN

AbouttheAuthor

Introduction

In the summer of 1862,following McClellan’smauled retreatfrom thegates of Richmond, JamesRussell Lowell’s reply tohis editor’s request for apoem was that he was“cleardowntothebottomofthewell,whereIseethe

Truth too near to makeverses of.” Similarly,Harriet Beecher Stowe—saluted by Lincoln inperson as “the little ladywho started this bigwar”—responded, whenasked why she had notwritten a wartime sequelto Uncle Tom’s Cabin:“Who could write fictionwhenlifewassoimperiousand terrible?” Nathaniel

Hawthorne, on the otherhand, felt “mentally andphysically languid” underpressure from the conflict,and though he diedwhileGrantwasoutmaneuveringLee down in Virginia, justshort of a year before thefinish, he did manage toproduce an essay titled“Chiefly About WarMatters” in which heconfessed that “the

Present, the Immediate,theActual,hasprovedtoopotent for me. It takesaway not only my scantyfaculty,butevenmydesirefor imaginativecomposition, and leavesmesadlycontenttoscattera thousand peacefulfantasies upon thehurricane that is sweepingus all along with it,possibly, into a Limbo

where our nation and itspolity may be as literallythe fragments of ascattered dream as myunwrittenRomance.”Nor did the end of the

war provide any suddencorrectionofthisblockage.Two years afterAppomattox,WilliamDeanHowells—assistant editorof the Atlantic Monthly atthirty,soontobeeditor-in-

chief, and for the nextforty years theacknowledged dean ofAmericanletters—declaredthat the war “has laidupon our literature achargeunderwhich it hasstaggered very lamely.”Crane’s The Red Badge ofCourage, published ageneration later in 1895,was the exception thatprovedtherule; thesluice

gate opened only to closeagain. Indeed, Howell’scomplaint is nearly asvalidtodayasitwaswhenhe made it, just over 125yearsago.In this country,historical fiction has ingeneral been left tosecond-raters and hiredbrains, and this isparticularly true of thosewhohavechosentheCivil

War as a major subject.AsidefromCrane,ourbestfiction writers have givenit mere incidentalattention or none at all.Hemingway is a case inpoint; so is Henry James.This is regrettable onseveral counts, especiallyto those who wouldunderstand our nation bylearning just whathappened during that

blood-drenched era—goodand bad things, both inabundance—to make uswhat we are. Facts wehave had and are havingin ever greater numbers,perhapsaglut,throughtheyears leading up to andaway from the Sumtercentennial, whenbiographies, overallexplications, andbrochurescamepouringin

a torrent from the pressesandbinderies.Yet there isa multifaceted truthoutside the facts—beyondthem, so to speak, orhidden inside them—andofthiswehavehadalltoolittle, because in thisrespect our novelists havelet us down. “I wouldrather have The Iliad,” arecenttranslatorofHomerhas said, “than a whole

shelf of Bronze Age warreports.”Sotoo,nodoubt,wouldwe; but there is noAmerican Iliad, JohnBrown’s Bodynotwithstanding.This collection is an

attempt, on a small scale,toexaminewhathasbeendonetolessenthegapourbest creative writers leftunfilled in dealing withthe four-year segment of

history connectingJefferson Davis’sProvisional Inaugural atMontgomery in mid-February of 1861 andAbraham Lincoln’s SecondInaugural at Washingtonin early March of 1865.Scarcity made the task ofselection difficult in onesenseandeasy inanother.Asitturnedout—AmbroseBierce being the earliest

author represented—thewriting span was reducedto the near-seventy years(1891-1960) that fellbetween Tales of Soldiersand Civilians and JohnO’Hara’sOurselvestoKnow,from which I snipped thesingle page I sometimesthink is perhaps the bestsingle page in the wholecollection.However that may be,

the test for inclusionapplied in each case wasneitherthesubjectnortheeventdescribed,nomatterhowdesirableorattractivefrom a historical point ofview, but rather thequalityofthewritingitself—a criterion that cost methe northern realist JohnW. De Forest, along withthe southern romanticistJohnEstenCooke, aswell

as a goodmanyothers onboth sides. Only this, itseemstome—thewayandtone of the telling—canmake a story memorableor true in the real sense.TheMonitor-Merrimacduelin Hampton Roads, theheadlong charge upMissionary Ridge, thedeath of Pat Cleburne atFranklin, Grant in hisrumpled clothes at

Appomattox: these and ahost of other occurrences,worthyastheyareintheirown right, are not herebecause I could not findthem measured up to, oreven approximated, in thewriting.What we have in their

stead is a series of eventstotally unlike the onesmentioned above: acoachload of whores on a

sidingduringagreatbattlein Virginia, an old manrememberinghisparticularcornerofabloodyfieldinGeorgia, a pioneer beingsuffocatedinthebackwashof war in the Mississippidelta, a young slave girlwading into the Big BlackRiver with the gatheredbonesofthechildsheboreher dead master’s missingson, a gallant Confederate

lieutenant losing the seatof his trousers as herescuesa fairdamsel fromthe wreckage of anouthouse, a spy’s thoughtsashisUnioncaptorsbreakhisneckbelowabridgeinAlabama, the balefulwelcome-homeofapairofshattered Pennsylvaniaveterans,aNewYorkfarmboylookingforwardtothetest of combat and then

running when it comes,and Mark Twain on theeveofhis skedaddle. (Theone exception is Benét’spanoramic view of Fish-HookGettysburg;butIhadtogotoepicpoetrytofindit.)These are what remain

after the winnowing: asorry-enougharray,ontheface of it, out of an erathat is supposed to have

been, and in large partwas,wildly romantic. Yet,such is the power andglory of art, bytransmutation they are nolessnoble, evenasevents,than the ones that had tobe left out because goodwritersfailedtotakethemup. Of the ten authorsrepresentedinthesepages,halfareNorthern,halfareSouthern, and if any bias

favoring the latter issuspected or detected, Ican promise you’ll findprecious little moonlightandnomagnoliasatall.Asfortheinclusionofastorybythecompiler,Icanonlysay that, for one thing, Irather think it belongshere, and for another—whichgladdenedtheheartof the publisher—it wasfree.

Otherwisenoapology iscalled for, as anyone whoreadsaheadwillsee.Eventhe incidental attention ofwriters likeFitzgeraldandWolfe produces for us aninsight we otherwisewould lack. The hookerson the day coach, the oldman lookingback throughtime to Chickamauga:these show us dimensionsofthattragicconfrontation

we might never haveknown if something hadnot drawn these twowriters’ attention, evenincidentally. And ifselections predominatetoward the near end ofthat seven-decade span,this too can be taken notonlyasasignthat, inoneregard at least, Americanwriting has improved inthe main with age, but

alsoasanindication,orinanycasegroundsforhope,that the best is yet tocome.

ProvisionalInaugural

JEFFERSONDAVIS

Montgomery,AlabamaFebruary18,1861

Friends and Fellow-Citizens:Ourpresentpoliticalpositionhas been achieved in amannerunprecedentedinthe

history of nations. ItillustratestheAmericanideathatgovernmentrestsontheconsentofthegoverned,andthat it is the right of thepeople to alter or abolishthem at will whenever theybecome destructive of theends for which they wereestablished. The declaredpurpose of the compact ofthe Union from which wehave withdrawn was to

“establish justice, insuredomestic tranquillity,provide for the commondefense,promotethegeneralwelfare, and secure theblessings of liberty toourselvesandourposterity”;and when, in the judgmentof the sovereign Statescomposing thisConfederacy,it has been perverted fromthepurposesforwhichitwasordained, and ceased to

answertheendsforwhichitwas established, a peacefulappeal to the ballot-boxdeclaredthat,sofarastheyare concerned, theGovernment created by thatcompact should cease toexist.In this they merelyasserted the right which theDeclarationof Independenceof July 4, 1776 defined tobe“inalienable.”Ofthetime

and occasion of its exercisethey as sovereigns were thefinal judges, each for itself.The impartial andenlightened verdict ofmankind will vindicate therectitude of our conduct;and He who knows thehearts of men will judge ofthe sincerity with which wehave laboredtopreserve theGovernmentofourfathersinitsspirit.

An agricultural people,whose chief interest is theexport of commoditiesrequired in everymanufacturing country, ourtruepolicyispeace,andthefreest trade which ournecessities will permit. It isalikeourinterestandthatofallthosetowhomwewouldsell, and from whom wewouldbuy,thatthereshouldbe the fewest practicable

restrictions upon theinterchange of thesecommodities. There can,however,bebutlittlerivalrybetween ours and anymanufacturing or navigatingcommunity, such as theNortheastern States of theAmerican Union. It mustfollow, therefore, thatmutual interestwill invite togood-willandkindofficesonboth parts. If, however,

passion or lust of dominionshouldcloudthejudgmentorinflame the ambition ofthose States, we mustprepare to meet theemergencyandmaintain,bythe final arbitrament of thesword,thepositionwhichwehave assumed among thenationsoftheearth.Wehaveentereduponthe

career of independence, anditmustbeinflexiblypursued.

Through many years ofcontroversy with our lateassociates of the NorthernStates, we have vainlyendeavored to securetranquillity and obtainrespect for the rights towhichwewereentitled.Asanecessity, not a choice, wehave resorted to the remedyof separation, andhenceforthourenergiesmustbedirectedtotheconductof

our own affairs, and theperpetuity of theConfederacywhichwe haveformed. If a just perceptionof mutual interest shallpermit us peaceably topursueourseparatepoliticalcareer, my most earnestdesire will have beenfulfilled.Butifthisbedeniedto us, and the integrity ofourterritoryandjurisdictionbe assailed, it will but

remain for us with firmresolve to appeal to armsand invoke the blessing ofProvidenceonajustcause.Should reason guide the

action of the Governmentfrom which we haveseparated, a policy sodetrimental to the civilizedworld, the Northern Statesincluded, could not bedictated by even thestrongest desire to inflict

injury upon us; but, if thecontrary should prove true,a terrible responsibility willrest upon it, and thesuffering of millions willbear testimony to the follyand wickedness of ouraggressors.Itisjoyousinthemidstof

perilous times to lookarounduponapeopleunitedin heart,where one purposeofhighresolveanimatesand

actuates the whole; wherethesacrificestobemadearenot weighed in the balanceagainsthonorandrightandliberty and equality.Obstacles may retard, buttheycannotlongprevent,theprogress of a movementsanctified by its justice andsustained by a virtuouspeople. Reverently let usinvoke the God of ourFathers toguideandprotect

us in our efforts toperpetuate the principleswhich by His blessing theywere able to vindicate,establish, and transmit totheir posterity. With thecontinuance of His favorever gratefullyacknowledged, we mayhopefully look forward tosuccess, to peace, and toprosperity.

AYoungSoldier’sFirstBattle

STEPHENCRANE

At nightfall the columnbroke into regimentalpieces, and the fragmentswent into the fields tocamp.Tentsspranguplike

strangeplants.Campfires,likered,peculiarblossoms,dottedthenight.The youth kept fromintercourse with hiscompanions as much ascircumstanceswouldallowhim. In the evening hewanderedafewpacesintothegloom.Fromthis littledistance the many fires,with the black forms ofmen passing to and fro

before the crimson rays,made weird and sataniceffects.He lay down in the

grass. The blades pressedtenderlyagainsthischeek.The moon had beenlightedandwashung inatreetop.Theliquidstillnessof the night envelopinghim made him feel vastpityforhimself.Therewasa caress in the softwinds;

andthewholemoodofthedarkness, he thought, wasone of sympathy forhimselfinhisdistress.He wished, withoutreserve, that he was athome again making theendless rounds from thehouse to the barn, fromthebarntothefields,fromthefieldstothebarn,fromthe barn to the house.Heremembered he had often

cursedthebrindlecowandher mates, and hadsometimes flung milkingstools. But, from hispresent point of view,there was a halo ofhappiness about each oftheir heads, andhewouldhave sacrificed all thebrass buttons on thecontinent to have beenenabledtoreturntothem.He told himself that he

was not formed for asoldier. And he musedseriously upon the radicaldifferences betweenhimself and those menwho were dodging imp-likearoundthefires.As he mused thus he

heard the rustle of grass,and, upon turning hishead, discovered the loudsoldier.Hecalledout,“Oh,Wilson!”

The latter approachedand looked down. “Whyhello, Henry; is it you?Whatyoudoinghere?”“Oh, thinking,” said theyouth.The other sat downcarefully lighted his pipe.“You’re getting blue, myboy. You’re lookingthundering peaked. Whatthe dickens iswrongwithyou?”

“Oh, nothing,” said theyouth.The loud soldier

launched then into thesubject of the anticipatedfight. “Oh, we’ve got ’emnow!” As he spoke hisboyish face was wreathedin a gleeful smile, andhisvoicehadanexultantring.“We’ve got ’em now. Atlast, by the eternalthunders, we’ll lick ’em

good!“If the truth was

known,” he added, moresoberly, “they’ve licked usabout every clip up tonow; but this time—thistime,we’lllick’emgood!”“I thought you was

objecting to this march alittle while ago,” said theyouthcoldly.“Oh, it wasn’t that,”

explained the other. “I

don’t mind marching, ifthere’sgoingtobefightingat the end of it. What Ihate is this gettingmovedhere and moved there,withnogoodcomingofit,as far as I can see,excepting sore feet anddamnedshortrations.”“Well, Jim Conklin says

we’ll get aplenty offightingthistime.”“He’s right for once, I

guess, though I can’t seehow it come. This timewe’re in for a big battle,andwe’vegotthebestendofit,certainsure.Geerod!howwewillthump’em!”He arose and began to

pace to and fro excitedly.The thrill of hisenthusiasm made himwalk with an elastic step.Hewassprightly,vigorous,fiery in his belief in

success.Helookedintothefuture with clear, proudeye,andhesworewiththeairofanoldsoldier.The youth watched him

for a moment in silence.When he finally spoke hisvoice was as bitter asdregs.“Oh,you’regoingtodogreatthings,Is’pose!”The loud soldier blew a

thoughtful cloudof smokefromhispipe.“Oh,Idon’t

know,” he remarked withdignity; “I don’t know. Is’poseI’lldoaswellastherest. I’m going to try likethunder.” He evidentlycomplimented himselfupon the modesty of thisstatement.“Howdoyouknowyouwon’t run when the timecomes?”askedtheyouth.“Run?” said the loudone; “run?—of course

not!”Helaughed.“Well,” continued the

youth, “lots of good-a-’nough men havethought theywasgoing todo great things before thefight, but when the timecometheyskedaddled.”“Oh, that’s all true, I

s’pose,” replied the other;“but I’m not going toskedaddle. The man thatbets on my running will

losehismoney,that’sall.”Henoddedconfidently.“Oh, shucks!” said the

youth. “You ain’t thebravestman in theworld,areyou?”“No, I ain’t,” exclaimed

the loud soldierindignantly; “and I didn’tsay Iwas thebravestmanin the world, neither. Isaid Iwasgoing todomyshare of fighting—that’s

whatIsaid.AndIam,too.Who are you, anyhow?Youtalkas ifyouthoughtyou was NapoleonBonaparte.” He glared atthe youth for a moment,andthenstrodeaway.The youth called in a

savage voice after hiscomrade: “Well, youneedn’t gitmad about it!”Buttheothercontinuedonhis way and made no

reply.He felt alone in space

when his injured comradehad disappeared. Hisfailure to discover anymite of resemblance intheir view points madehim more miserable thanbefore. No one seemed tobe wrestling with such aterrific personal problem.Hewasamentaloutcast.He went slowly to his

tent and stretched himselfonablanketbythesideofthe snoring tall soldier. Inthe darkness he sawvisions of a thousand-tongued fear that wouldbabble at his back andcause him to flee, whileothers were going coollyabout their country’sbusiness.Headmittedthathe would not be able tocopewiththismonster.He

feltthateverynerveinhisbody would be an ear tohear the voices, whileother men would remainstolidanddeaf.Andashe sweatedwith

thepainofthesethoughts,he could hear low, serenesentences. “I’ll bid five.”“Make it six.” “Seven.”“Sevengoes.”He stared at the red,

shivering reflection of a

fire on the white wall ofhis tent until, exhaustedandillfromthemonotonyof his suffering, he fellasleep.

2

When another night camethe columns, changed topurplestreaks, filedacrosstwo pontoon bridges. Aglaringfirewine-tintedthe

waters of the river. Itsrays, shining upon themoving masses of troops,brought forth here andthere sudden gleams ofsilver and gold. Upon theother shore a dark andmysterious range of hillswas curved against thesky. The insect voices ofthenightsangsolemnly.After this crossing theyouthassuredhimselfthat

atanymomenttheymightbe suddenly and fearfullyassaultedfromthecavesofthe lowering woods. Hekept his eyes watchfullyuponthedarkness.But his regiment went

unmolested to a campingplace,anditssoldierssleptthebravesleepofweariedmen. In the morning theywereroutedoutwithearlyenergy, and hustled along

a narrow road that leddeepintotheforest.It was during this rapid

march that the regimentlostmany of themarks ofanewcommand.The men had begun to

countthemilesupontheirfingers, and they grewtired. “Sore feet an’damned short rations,that’s all,” said the loudsoldier. There was

perspiration andgrumblings. After a timethey began to shed theirknapsacks. Some tossedthemunconcernedlydown;others hid them carefully,asserting their plans toreturn for them at someconvenient time. Menextricatedthemselvesfromthick shirts. Presently fewcarried anything but theirnecessary clothing,

blankets, haversacks,canteens, and arms andammunition.There was a suddenchange from theponderous infantry oftheory to the light andspeedy infantry ofpractice. The regiment,relieved of a burden,received a new impetus.Buttherewasmuchlossofvaluable knapsacks, and,

on the whole, very goodshirts.But the regiment was

not yet veteranlike inappearance. Veteranregiments in the armywere likely to be verysmallaggregationsofmen.Once,when the commandhadfirstcometothefield,some perambulatingveterans,notingthelengthof their column, had

accosted them thus: “Hey,fellers, what brigade isthat?” Andwhen themenhad replied that theyformedaregimentandnota brigade, the oldersoldiers had laughed andsaid,“OGawd!”Also,therewastoogreata similarity in the hats.The hats of a regimentshould properly representthehistoryofheadgearfor

a period of years. And,moreover, there were noletters of faded goldspeaking from the colors.They were new andbeautiful, and the color-bearerhabituallyoiledthepole.Presentlythearmyagainsat down to think. Theodorof thepeaceful pineswas in the men’s nostrils.Thesoundsofmonotonous

axe blows rang throughthe forest,and the insects,nodding upon theirperches, crooned like oldwomen. The youthreturnedtohistheoryofabluedemonstration.One gray dawn,

however,hewaskickedinthe legby the tall soldier,and then, before he wasentirely awake he foundhimself running down a

woodroad in themidstofmen who were pantingfrom the first effects ofspeed.Hiscanteenbangedrhythmically upon histhigh, and his haversackbobbed softly. His musketbounced a trifle from hisshoulderateachstrideandmade his cap feeluncertainuponhishead.He could hear the men

whisper jerky sentences:

“Say—what’s all this—about?”“Whatth’ thunder—we—skedaddlin’ thiswayfer?”“Billie—keepoffm’ feet. Yeh run—like acow.” And the loudsoldier’s shrill voice couldbe heard: “What th’ deviltheyinsichahurryfor?”The youth thought thedampfogofearlymorningmoved from the rush of agreatbodyoftroops.From

the distance came asuddenspatteroffiring.He was bewildered. Ashe ran with his comradeshe strenuously tried tothink,butallheknewwasthat if he fell down thosecoming behind wouldtread upon him. All hisfaculties seemed to beneeded to guide him overand past obstructions. Hefelt carried along by a

mob.The sun spread

disclosing rays, and, oneby one, regiments burstinto view like armedmenjustbornoftheearth.Theyouth perceived that thetime had come. He wasabout tobemeasured.Fora moment he felt in thefaceofhisgreattriallikeababe, and the flesh overhisheartseemedverythin.

He seized time to lookabouthimcalculatingly.Butheinstantlysawthat

itwouldbe impossible forhim to escape from theregiment. It inclosed him.And therewere ironwallsof tradition and law onfour sides. He was in amovingbox.Asheperceivedthisfact

it occurred tohim thathehadneverwishedtocome

to the war. He had notenlistedofhisfreewill.Hehad been dragged by themercilessgovernment.Andnowtheyweretakinghimouttobeslaughtered.The regiment slid down

a bank and wallowedacross a little stream. Themournful current movedslowly on, and from thewater, shadedblack, somewhite bubble eyes looked

atthemen.As theyclimbed thehillonthefarthersideartillerybegan to boom. Here theyouth forgot many thingsashefeltasuddenimpulseof curiosity.He scrambledup the bank with a speedthatcouldnotbeexceededbyablood-thirstyman.He expected a battlescene.There were some little

fields girted and squeezedby a forest. Spread overthegrassandinamongthetree trunks, he could seeknots and waving lines ofskirmishers who wererunninghither and thitherand firing at thelandscape. A dark battleline lay upon a sunstruckclearing that gleamedorange color. A flagfluttered.

Other regimentsfloundered up the bank.Thebrigadewasformedinline of battle, and after apause started slowlythrough the woods in therear of the recedingskirmishers, who werecontinually melting intothe scene to appear againfarther on. They werealways busy as bees,deeply absorbed in their

littlecombats.The youth tried toobserveeverything.Hedidnotusecaretoavoidtreesand branches, and hisforgotten feet wereconstantly knockingagainst stones or gettingentangled in briers. Hewas aware that thesebattalions with theircommotions were wovenred and startling into the

gentle fabric of softenedgreens and browns. Itlookedtobeawrongplaceforabattlefield.The skirmishers inadvance fascinated him.Their shots into thicketsand at distant andprominent trees spoke tohim of tragedies—hidden,mysterious,solemn.Once the lineencountered thebodyofa

dead soldier. He lay uponhisbackstaringatthesky.He was dressed in anawkward suit of yellowishbrown. The youth couldsee that the soles of hisshoes had been worn tothe thinness of writingpaper, and from a greatrent in one the dead footprojectedpiteously.Anditwasasiffatehadbetrayedthe soldier. In death it

exposed to his enemiesthat poverty which in lifehe had perhaps concealedfromhisfriends.The ranks openedcovertly to avoid thecorpse. The invulnerabledeadmanforcedawayforhimself. The youth lookedkeenly at the ashen face.Thewindraisedthetawnybeard. It moved as if ahand were stroking it. He

vaguely desired to walkaround and around thebody and stare; theimpulseofthelivingtotryto read in dead eyes theanswertotheQuestion.

3

During the march theardorwhichtheyouthhadacquiredwhenoutofviewof the field rapidly faded

to nothing. His curiositywas quite easily satisfied.If an intense scene hadcaught him with its wildswing as he came to thetop of the bank, hemighthavegoneroaringon.Thisadvance upon Nature wastoo calm. He hadopportunity to reflect. Hehad time in which towonder about himself andto attempt to probe his

sensations.Absurd ideas took holduponhim.Hethoughtthathe did not relish thelandscape. It threatenedhim.Acoldnesssweptoverhisback,anditistruethathistrousersfelttohimthatthey were not fit for hislegsatall.A house standingplacidly in distant fieldshad to him an ominous

look. The shadows of thewoods were formidable.Hewascertainthatinthisvista there lurked fierce-eyed hosts. The swiftthought came to him thatthe generals didnot knowwhat they were about. Itwas all a trap. Suddenlythose close forests wouldbristle with rifle barrels.Ironlike brigades wouldappear in the rear. They

were all going to besacrificed. The generalswere stupid. The enemywould presently swallowthe whole command. Heglared about him,expecting to see thestealthy approach of hisdeath.Hethoughtthathemustbreak from the ranks andharangue his comrades.Theymustnotallbekilled

like pigs; andhewas sureit would come to passunless theywere informedof these dangers. Thegenerals were idiots tosendthemmarchingintoaregularpen.Therewasbutone pair of eyes in thecorps.Hewouldstepforthandmake a speech. Shrilland passionate wordscametohislips.The line, broken into

moving fragments by theground, went calmly onthrough fields and woods.The youth looked at themennearesthim,andsaw,for the most part,expressions of deepinterest, as if they wereinvestigating somethingthat had fascinated them.One or two stepped withovervaliant airs as if theywere already plunged into

war. Others walked asupon thin ice.Thegreaterpart of the untested menappeared quiet andabsorbed.Theyweregoingto look at war, the redanimal—war, the blood-swollen god. And theywere deeply engrossed inthismarch.As he looked the youthgripped his outcry at histhroat.Hesawthatevenif

the men were totteringwithfeartheywouldlaughat his warning. Theywould jeer him, and, ifpracticable, pelt him withmissiles.Admittingthathemightbewrong,afrenzieddeclamation of the kindwould turn him into aworm.He assumed, then, the

demeanor of one whoknows that he is doomed

alone to unwrittenresponsibilities.Helagged,with tragic glances at thesky.He was surprisedpresently by the younglieutenantofhiscompany,whobeganheartilytobeathim with a sword, callingout ina loudand insolentvoice: “Come,youngman,getupintotheranksthere.Noskulking’lldohere.”He

mended his pace withsuitable haste. And hehated the lieutenant, whohadnoappreciationoffineminds. He was a merebrute.Aftera timethebrigadewashaltedinthecathedrallight of a forest. Thebusyskirmishers were stillpopping. Through theaislesofthewoodcouldbeseen the floating smoke

from their rifles.Sometimes it went up inlittle balls, white andcompact.During this halt many

menintheregimentbeganerecting tiny hills in frontofthem.Theyusedstones,sticks,earth,andanythingthey thoughtmight turn abullet. Some builtcomparatively large ones,while others seemed

contentwithlittleones.Thisprocedurecausedadiscussionamongthemen.Some wished to fight likeduelists, believing it to becorrect to stand erect andbe,fromtheirfeettotheirforeheads, a mark. Theysaid they scorned thedevices of the cautious.But the others scoffed inreply, and pointed to theveteransontheflankswho

werediggingatthegroundlike terriers. In a shorttime there was quite abarricade along theregimentalfronts.Directly,however, they wereordered to withdraw fromthatplace.This astounded theyouth. He forgot hisstewing over the advancemovement. “Well, then,what did they march us

out here for?” hedemanded of the tallsoldier. The latter withcalm faith began a heavyexplanation, although hehad been compelled toleave a little protection ofstonesanddirttowhichhehad devoted much careandskill.When the regiment was

aligned in anotherposition, each man’s

regard for his safetycaused another line ofsmall intrenchments. Theyatetheirnoonmealbehinda third one. They weremoved from this one also.They were marched fromplace to place withapparentaimlessness.The youth had beentaught thatamanbecameanother thing in a battle.He saw his salvation in

such a change.Hence thiswaiting was an ordeal tohim.Hewas in a fever ofimpatience. He consideredthat there was denoted alackofpurposeonthepartof the generals. He beganto complain to the tallsoldier. “I can’t stand thismuch longer,”he cried. “Idon’t see what good itdoes tomake uswear outour legs for nothin’.” He

wished to return to camp,knowing that this affairwasabluedemonstration;or else to go into a battleand discover that he hadbeen a fool in his doubts,andwas,intruth,amanoftraditional courage. Thestrain of presentcircumstanceshefelttobeintolerable.The philosophical tallsoldier measured a

sandwich of cracker andporkandswalloweditinanonchalantmanner.“Oh,Isuppose we must goreconnoitering around thecountry jest to keep ’emfrom getting too close, orto develop ’em, orsomething.”“Huh!” said the loudsoldier.“Well,” cried the youth,still fidgeting, “I’d rather

doanything,’mostthangotramping ’round thecountry all day doing nogood to nobody and jesttiringourselvesout.”“So would I,” said the

loudsoldier.“Itain’tright.I tell you if anybodywithany sense was a-runnin’thisarmyit—”“Oh, shut up!” roared

thetallprivate.“Youlittlefool.Youlittledamn’cuss.

You ain’t had that therecoatandthempantsonforsix months, and yet youtalkasif—”“Well, I wanta do somefighting anyway,”interrupted the other. “Ididn’tcomeheretowalk.Icould’avewalkedtohome—’round an’ ’round thebarn, if I jest wanted towalk.”The tall one, red-faced,

swallowed anothersandwich as if takingpoisonindespair.But gradually, as hechewed, his face becameagainquietandcontented.Hecouldnotrageinfierceargument in the presenceof such sandwiches.During his meals healways wore an air ofblissful contemplation ofthe food he had

swallowed. His spiritseemed then to becommuning with theviands.He accepted new

environment andcircumstance with greatcoolness, eating from hishaversack at everyopportunity.Onthemarchhe went along with thestride of a hunter,objecting to neither gait

nor distance. And he hadnot raised his voice whenhehadbeenorderedawayfromthreelittleprotectivepiles of earth and stone,eachofwhichhadbeenanengineeringfeatworthyofbeing made sacred to thenameofhisgrandmother.In the afternoon theregiment went out overthe same ground it hadtaken in themorning.The

landscape then ceased tothreatentheyouth.Hehadbeen close to it andbecomefamiliarwithit.When, however, theybegan to pass into a newregion, his old fears ofstupidity andincompetence reas-sailedhim, but this time hedoggedly let them babble.He was occupied with hisproblem, and in his

desperation he concludedthat the stupidity did notgreatlymatter.Oncehethoughthehad

concludedthatitwouldbebettertogetkilleddirectlyand end his troubles.Regarding death thus outofthecornerofhiseye,heconceived it tobenothingbut rest,andhewas filledwith a momentaryastonishment that he

should have made anextraordinary commotionover the mere matter ofgetting killed. He woulddie; he would go to someplace where he would beunderstood. It was uselessto expect appreciation ofhis profound and finesenses from such men asthe lieutenant. He mustlook to the grave forcomprehension.

The skirmish fireincreased to a longclattering sound. With itwas mingled far-awaycheering.Abatteryspoke.Directly the youthwould see the skirmishersrunning. They werepursued by the sound ofmusketryfire.Afteratime,the hot, dangerous flashesof the rifles were visible.Smoke cloudswent slowly

and insolently across thefields like observantphantoms.Thedinbecamecrescendo, like the roarofanoncomingtrain.Abrigadeaheadofthemandontherightwentintoactionwitharendingroar.It was as if it hadexploded.Andthereafteritlay stretched in thedistance behind a longgray wall, that one was

obligedtolooktwiceattomake sure that it wassmoke.Theyouth,forgettinghis

neatplanofgettingkilled,gazedspellbound.Hiseyesgrew wide and busy withtheactionofthescene.Hismouth was a little waysopen.Of a sudden he felt a

heavy and sad hand laidupon his shoulder.

Awakeningfromhistranceof observation, he turnedand beheld the loudsoldier.“It’s my first and last

battle, old boy,” said thelatter,with intensegloom.Hewasquitepale,andhisgirlishlipwastrembling.“Eh?” murmured the

youth in greatastonishment.“It’s my first and last

battle,oldboy,”continuedthe loud soldier.“Somethingtellsme—”“What?”“I’m a gone coon this

first time, and—and I w-want you to take thesehere things—to—my—folks.” He ended in aquavering sob of pity forhimself. He handed theyouth a little packet doneupinayellowenvelope.

“Why,whatthedevil—”begantheyouthagain.Buttheothergavehimaglance as from the depthsof a tomb, and raised hislimp hand in a propheticmannerandturnedaway.

4

The brigadewas halted inthe fringe of a grove. Themen crouched among the

trees and pointed theirrestless guns out at thefields. They tried to lookbeyondthesmoke.Out of this haze theycould see running men.Some shouted informationand gestured as theyhurried.The men of the newregiment watched andlistenedeagerlywhiletheirtonguesranoningossipof

the battle. They mouthedrumorsthathadflownlikebirdsoutoftheunknown.“They say Perry has

been driven in with bigloss.”“Yes, Carrottwent t’ th’

hospital. He said he wassick.Thatsmartlieutenantis commanding ‘G’Company. Th’ boys saythey won’t be underCarrottnomoreiftheyall

have t’ desert. They allusknewhewasa______.”“Hannises’ batt’ry is

took.”“It ain’t either. I saw

Hannises’batt’ryoffonth’left not more’n fifteenminutesago.”“Well—”“Th’general,hesesheis

goin’t’ take th’ hullcommand of th’ 304thwhen we go inteh action,

an’ then he ses we’ll dosech fightin’ as neveranother one reg’mentdone.”“Theysaywe’recatchin’

itoveronth’left.Theysayth’ enemy driv’ our lineinteh a devil of a swampan’tookHannises’batt’ry.”“No sech thing.

Hannises’batt’rywas’longhere’boutaminuteago.”“That youngHasbrouck,

he makes a good off’cer.Heain’tafraid’anothin’.”“I met one of th’ 148th

Maine boys an’ he ses hisbrigade fit th’ hull rebelarmy fer four hours overon th’ turnpike road ’nkilled about five thousandof ’em. He ses one moresech fight as that an’ th’war’llbeover.”“Bill wasn’t scared

either. No, sir! It wasn’t

that. Bill ain’t a-gittin’scared easy. He was jestmad, that’s what he was.When that feller trod onhis hand, he up an’ sedthat hewaswillin’ t’ givehishandt’hiscountry,buthe be dumbed if he wasgoin’ t’ have every dumbbushwhacker in th’ kentrywalkin’’roundonit.Sohewent t’ th’ hospitaldisregardless of t’ fight.

Three fingers wascrunched. Th’ dern doctorwantedt’amputate’m,an’Bill, he raised a helluvarow, I hear. He’s a funnyfeller.”Thedin in frontswelledto a tremendous chorus.The youth and his fellowswere frozen to silence.Theycould see a flag thattossed in the smokeangrily. Near it were the

blurredandagitatedformsof troops. There came aturbulent stream of menacrossthefields.Abatterychanging position at afranticgallopscatteredthestragglersrightandleft.A shell screaming like a

storm banshee went overthe huddled heads of thereserves. It landed in thegrove,andexplodingredlyflung the brown earth.

There was a little showerofpineneedles.Bullets began towhistle

among the branches andnipatthetrees.Twigsandleaves came sailing down.It was as if a thousandaxes, wee and invisible,werebeingwielded.Manyofthemenwereconstantlydodgingandducking theirheads.The lieutenant of the

youth’s companywas shotin the hand. He began toswear so wondrously thata nervous laugh wentalong the regimental line.The officer’s profanitysounded conventional. Itrelieved the tightenedsenses of the newmen. Itwas as if he had hit hisfingers with a tackhammerathome.He held the wounded

member carefully awayfrom his side so that thebloodwouldnotdripuponhistrousers.The captain of thecompany, tucking hissword under his arm,produced a handkerchiefand began to bindwith itthe lieutenant’s wound.And they disputed as tohowthebindingshouldbedone.

The battle flag in thedistance jerked aboutmadly. It seemed to bestruggling to free itselffrom an agony. Thebillowingsmokewasfilledwithhorizontalflashes.Men running swiftlyemerged from it. Theygrew in numbers until itwas seen that the wholecommandwasfleeing.Theflag suddenly sank down

asifdying.Itsmotionasitfell was a gesture ofdespair.Wild yells came from

behindthewallsofsmoke.A sketch in gray and reddissolved into a moblikebodyofmenwhogallopedlikewildhorses.The veteran regiments

ontherightandleftofthe304th immediately beganto jeer. With the

passionate song of thebullets and the bansheeshrieks of shells weremingled loud catcalls andbits of facetious adviceconcerning places ofsafety.But the new regiment

was breathless withhorror. “Gawd! Saundersgot crushed!” whisperedthe man at the youth’selbow. They shrank back

and crouched as ifcompelled to await aflood.The youth shot a swift

glance along the blueranksoftheregiment.Theprofiles were motionless,carven; and afterward herememberedthatthecolorsergeantwasstandingwithhis legs apart, as if heexpected to be pushed totheground.

The following throngwent whirling around theflank.Hereandtherewereofficers carried along onthe stream likeexasperated chips. Theywere striking about themwiththeirswordsandwiththeir left fists, punchingevery head they couldreach. They cursed likehighwaymen.A mounted officer

displayedthefuriousangerof a spoiled child. Heraged with his head, hisarms,andhislegs.Another,thecommanderof the brigade, wasgalloping about bawling.His hat was gone and hisclothes were awry. Heresembled amanwhohascome frombed to go to afire.Thehoofsofhishorseoftenthreatenedtheheads

of the running men, butthey scampered withsingular fortune. In thisrush theywere apparentlyall deaf and blind. Theyheedednotthelargestandlongest of the oaths thatwerethrownatthemfromalldirections.Frequently over thistumult couldbeheard thegrim jokes of the criticalveterans;buttheretreating

men apparently were noteven conscious of thepresenceofanaudience.Thebattlereflectionthat

shoneforaninstantinthefaces on the mad currentmade the youth feel thatforceful hands fromheaven would not havebeenabletohaveheldhimin place if he could havegot intelligent control ofhislegs.

There was an appallingimprint upon these faces.The struggle in the smokehad pictured anexaggeration of itself onthebleachedcheeksandinthe eyes with one wilddesire.The sight of this

stampede exerted afloodlikeforcethatseemedable to drag sticks andstones and men from the

ground. They of thereserves had to hold on.They grew pale and firm,andredandquaking.The youth achieved one

little thought in themidstof this chaos. Thecomposite monster whichhad caused the othertroopstofleehadnotthenappeared. He resolved togetaviewof it,andthen,he thought,hemightvery

likely run better than thebestofthem.

5

There were moments ofwaiting. The youththought of the villagestreet at home before thearrivalofthecircusparadeonadayinthespring.Heremembered how he hadstood, a small, thrillful

boy, prepared to followthe dingy lady upon thewhitehorse,orthebandinits faded chariot. He sawthe yellow road, the linesof expectant people, andthe sober houses. Heparticularly rememberedanold fellowwhoused tosit upon a cracker box infrontofthestoreandfeignto despise suchexhibitions. A thousand

details of color and formsurged in his mind. Theold fellow upon thecracker box appeared inmiddleprominence.Someone cried, “Here

theycome!”There was rustling and

mutteringamongthemen.They displayed a feverishdesire to have everypossiblecartridgereadytotheir hands. The boxes

were pulled around intovarious positions, andadjustedwithgreatcare.Itwas as if seven hundrednew bonnets were beingtriedon.The tall soldier, having

prepared his rifle,produced a redhandkerchiefofsomekind.He was engaged inknottingitabouthisthroatwithexquisiteattention to

its position, when the crywasrepeatedupanddownthe line in amuffled roarofsound.“Here they come! Here

they come!” Gun locksclicked.Across the smoke-

infested fields came abrown swarm of runningmen who were givingshrillyells.Theycameon,stooping and swinging

their riflesatallangles.Aflag, tilted forward, spednearthefront.As he caught sight of

them, the youth wasmomentarily startled by athought that perhaps hisgun was not loaded. Hestood trying to rally hisfaltering intellect so thathe might recollect themoment when he hadloaded,buthecouldnot.

A hatless general pulledhis dripping horse to astand near the colonel ofthe 304th. He shook hisfist in the other’s face.“You’ve got to hold ’emback!” he shoutedsavagely; “you’ve got tohold’emback!”In his agitation thecolonelbegan to stammer.“?-all r-right, General, allright, by Gawd! We-we’ll

do our we-we’ll d-d-do—doourbest,General.”Thegeneralmadeapassionategesture and gallopedaway. The colonel,perchance to relieve hisfeelings, began to scoldlike a wet parrot. Theyouth, turning swiftly tomake sure that the rearwas unmolested, saw thecommander regarding hismen in a highly resentful

manner, as if he regrettedabove everything hisassociationwiththem.The man at the youth’s

elbowwasmumbling,asifto himself, “Oh, we’re inforitnow!Oh,we’reinforitnow!”The captain of the

company had been pacingexcitedly toandfro in therear. He coaxed inschoolmistress fashion, as

to a congregation of boyswithprimers.His talkwasan endless repetition.“Reserve your fire, boys—don’tshoottillItellyou—save your fire—wait tilltheygetcloseup—don’tbedamnedfools—”Perspiration streamed

down the youth’s face,whichwas soiled like thatof a weeping urchin. Hefrequently,withanervous

movement,wipedhis eyeswith his coat sleeve. Hismouth was still a littlewaysopen.Hegottheoneglanceat

the foe-swarming field infrontofhim,andinstantlyceased to debate thequestionofhispiecebeingloaded. Before he wasready to begin—before hehad announced to himselfthathewasabout to fight

—he threw the obedient,well-balanced rifle intoposition and fired a firstwild shot.Directlyhewasworkingathisweaponlikeanautomaticaffair.He suddenly lostconcern for himself, andforgot to look at amenacing fate.Hebecamenot aman but amember.He felt that something ofwhich he was a part—a

regiment, an army, acause, or a country—wasinacrisis.Hewasweldedintoacommonpersonalitywhichwasdominatedbyasingle desire. For somemomentshecouldnotflee,nomorethanalittlefingercan commit a revolutionfromahand.If he had thought theregiment was about to beannihilated perhaps he

could have amputatedhimself from it. But itsnoise gave him assurance.The regiment was like afirework that, onceignited, proceeds superiorto circumstances until itsblazing vitality fades. Itwheezed and bangedwitha mighty power. Hepicturedthegroundbeforeit as strewn with thediscomfited.

There was aconsciousness always ofthe presence of hiscomrades about him. Hefelt the subtle battlebrotherhood more potenteven than the cause forwhich they;were fighting.It was a mysteriousfraternity born of thesmoke and danger ofdeath.Hewasatatask.Hewas

like a carpenter who hasmademanyboxes,makingstill another box, onlytherewas furious haste inhismovements. He, in histhought,was careering offinotherplaces,evenasthecarpenter who, as heworks,whistlesand thinksofhisfriendorhisenemy,hishomeorasaloon.Andthese jolted dreams werenever perfect to him

afterward, but remained amassofblurredshapes.Presently he began to

feel the effects of thewaratmosphere—a blisteringsweat,asensation thathiseyeballs were about tocrack like hot stones. Aburningroarfilledhisears.Following this came a

redrage.Hedevelopedtheacute exasperation of apestered animal, a well-

meaning cow worried bydogs.Hehadamadfeelingagainst his rifle, whichcouldonlybeusedagainstone life at a time. Hewished to rush forwardand strangle with hisfingers.Hecravedapowerthat would enable him tomake a world-sweepinggestureandbrushallback.Hisimpotencyappearedtohim, and made his rage

intothatofadrivenbeast.Buried in the smoke ofmany rifles,hisangerwasdirected not so muchagainst themenwhom heknewwererushingtowardhim, as against theswirling battle phantomswhich were choking him,stuffing their smoke robesdown his parched throat.He fought frantically forrespite for his senses, for

air, as a babe beingsmothered attacks thedeadlyblankets.There was a blare of

heated rage mingled witha certain expression ofintentness on all faces.Many of the men weremaking low-toned noiseswith their mouths, andthese subdued cheers,snarls, imprecations,prayers, made a wild,

barbaricsongthatwentasan undercurrent of sound,strangeandchantlike,withthe resounding chords ofthewarmarch.Themanatthe youth’s elbow wasbabbling. In it there wassomethingsoftandtender,like the monologue of ababe. The tall soldier wasswearing in a loud voice.Fromhislipscameablackprocession of curious

oaths.Ofasuddenanotherbroke out in a querulousway, like a man who hasmislaidhishat.“Well,whydon’t they support us?Why don’t they sendsupports?Dotheythink—”The youth in his battle

sleep heard this as onewhodozeshears.

6

There was singularabsence of heroic poses.The men, bending andsurging in their haste andrage, were in everyimpossible attitude. Thesteel ramrods clanked andclangedwithincessantdinas themen pounded themfuriously into thehot riflebarrels. The flaps of thecartridge boxes were allunfastened, and bobbed

idiotically with eachmovement.Therifles,onceloaded,were jerked to theshoulderandfiredwithoutapparent aim into thesmoke or at one of theblurred and shifting formswhich, upon the fieldbefore the regiment, hadbeen growing larger andlargerlikepuppetsunderamagician’shands.The officers, at their

intervals, rearward,neglected to stand inpicturesqueattitudes.Theywere bobbing to and fro,roaring directions andencouragements. Thedimensions of their howlswere extraordinary. Theyexpended their lungswithprodigal wills. And oftenthey nearly stood upontheirheadsintheiranxietyto observe the enemy on

the other side of thetumblingsmoke.The lieutenant of the

youth’s company hadencountereda soldierwhohad fled screaming at thefirst volley of hiscomrades.Behindthelinesthese two were acting alittle isolated scene. Theman was blubbering andstaringwithsheeplikeeyesatthelieutenant,whohad

seized him by the collarand was pommeling him.He drove him back intothe ranks with manyblows. The soldier wentmechanically, dully, withhis animal-like eyes uponthe officer. Perhaps therewas to him a divinityexpressed in the voice ofthe other—stern, hard,with no reflection of fearinit.Hetriedtoreloadhis

gun,buthisshakinghandsprevented. The lieutenantwasobligedtoassisthim.The men dropped here

andtherelikebundles.The captain of the

youth’scompanyhadbeenkilled in an early part ofthe action. His body laystretched out in theposition of a tired manresting, but upon his facethere was an astonished

and sorrowful look, as ifhe thought some friendhad done him an ill turn.The babbling man wasgrazedbyashotthatmadethe blood stream widelydownhis face.He claspedboth hands to his head.“Oh!” he said, and ran.Another grunted suddenlyasifhehadbeenstruckbya club in the stomach.Hesat down and gazed

ruefully. In his eyes therewas a mute, indefinitereproach. Further up theline a man, standingbehindatree,hadhadhisknee joint splintered by aball. Immediately he haddropped his rifle andgrippedthetreewithbotharms. And there heremained,clingingdesperately and crying forassistance, that he might

withdraw his hold uponthetree.At last an exultant yell

went along the quiveringline. The firing dwindledfrom an uproar to a lastvindictive popping.As thesmoke slowly eddiedaway, the youth saw thatthe charge had beenrepulsed.The enemywerescattered into reluctantgroups. He saw a man

climb to the top of thefence, straddle the rail,and fire a parting shot.The waves had receded,leavingbits of darkdebrisupontheground.Some in the regiment

began to whoopfrenziedly. Many weresilent. Apparently theyweretryingtocontemplatethemselves.After the fever had left

his veins, the youththoughtthatatlasthewasgoing to suffocate. Hebecame aware of the foulatmosphere in which hehad been struggling. Hewas grimy and drippinglikealaborerinafoundry.He grasped his canteenandtookalongswallowofthewarmedwater.A sentence with

variations went up and

down the line. “Well,we’vehelt’emback.We’vehelt’emback;dernedifwehaven’t.” The men said itblissfully, leering at eachotherwithdirtysmiles.The youth turned tolookbehindhimandofftothe right and off to theleft. He experienced thejoy of a man who at lastfinds leisure in which tolookabouthim.

Underfoot there were afew ghastly formsmotionless. They laytwisted in fantasticcontortions. Arms werebent and heads wereturned in incredibleways.It seemed that the deadmenmusthavefallenfromsome great height to getinto such positions. Theylooked to be dumped outupon the ground from the

sky.From a position in the

rearofthegroveabatterywas throwing shells overit. The flash of the gunsstartled the youth at first.He thought they wereaimed directly at him.Through the trees hewatched the black figuresof the gunners as theyworked swiftly andintently. Their labor

seemed a complicatedthing. He wondered howthey could remember itsformula in the midst ofconfusion.The guns squatted in a

row like savage chiefs.They argued with abruptviolence. It was a grimpow-wow. Their busyservants ran hither andthither.A small procession of

wounded men were goingdrearilytowardtherear.Itwas a flow of blood fromthe torn body of thebrigade.To the right and to the

leftwere thedark lines ofother troops. Far in fronthe thought he could seelighter masses protrudingin points from the forest.They were suggestive ofunnumberedthousands.

Once he saw a tinybattery go dashing alongthe line of the horizon.The tiny riders werebeatingthetinyhorses.Fromaslopinghillcame

the sounds of cheeringsandclashes.Smokewelledslowlythroughtheleaves.Batteries were speaking

withthunderousoratoricaleffort.Hereandtherewereflags,theredinthestripes

dominating.Theysplashedbits of warm color uponthedarklinesoftroops.The youth felt the oldthrill at the sight of theemblem. They were likebeautiful birds strangelyundauntedinastorm.Ashelistenedtothedinfromthehillside,toadeeppulsating thunder thatcamefromafartotheleft,and to the lesser clamors

which came from manydirections, it occurred tohim that they werefighting too, over there,and over there, and overthere. Heretofore he hadsupposedthatallthebattlewas directly under hisnose.Ashegazedaroundhim

the youth felt a flash ofastonishment at the blue,pure sky and the sun

gleaming on the trees andfields. It was surprisingthat Nature had gonetranquilly on with hergolden process in themidst of so muchdevilment.

7

The youth awakenedslowly.Hecamegraduallyback to a position from

which he could regardhimself. For moments hehad been scrutinizing hispersoninadazedwayasifhe had never before seenhimself.Thenhepickeduphis cap from the ground.He wriggled in his jacketto make a morecomfortable fit, andkneeling, replaced hisshoe. He thoughtfullymopped his reeking

features.Soitwasalloveratlast!

The supreme trial hadbeen passed. The red,formidable difficulties ofwarhadbeenvanquished.Hewent into an ecstasy

of self-satisfaction.Hehadthe most delightfulsensations of his life.Standing as if apart fromhimself, he viewed thatlast scene. He perceived

that the man who hadfought thus wasmagnificent.He felt that he was a

finefellow.Hesawhimselfeven with those idealswhich he had consideredas far beyond him. Hesmiled in deepgratification.Upon his fellows he

beamed tenderness andgood will. “Gee! ain’t it

hot, hey?” he said affablyto a man who waspolishing his streamingfacewithhiscoatsleeves.“You bet!” said the

other,grinningsociably.“Inever seen sech dumbhotness.” He sprawled outluxuriouslyontheground.“Gee, yes! An’ I hope wedon’t have no morefightin’ till a week fromMonday.”

There were some hand-shakings and deepspeeches with men whosefeatureswerefamiliar,butwithwhomtheyouthnowfelt the bonds of tiedhearts.Hehelpedacursingcomrade to bind up awoundoftheshin.But,ofasudden,criesof

amazement broke outalongtheranksofthenewregiment.“Heretheycome

ag’in! Here they comeag’in!” The man who hadsprawledupon thegroundstarted up and said,“Gosh!”The youth turned quick

eyes upon the field. Hediscerned forms begin toswell in masses out of adistant wood. He againsaw the tilted flagspeedingforward.The shells, which had

ceased to trouble theregiment for a time, cameswirling again, andexploded in the grass oramong the leaves of thetrees. They looked to bestrange war flowersburstingintofiercebloom.The men groaned. The

luster faded from theireyes. Their smudgedcountenances nowexpressed a profound

dejection. They movedtheir stiffened bodiesslowly, and watched insullen mood the franticapproach of the enemy.The slaves toiling in thetemple of this god beganto feel rebellion at hisharshtasks.They fretted and

complained each to each.“Oh, say, this is toomuchofagoodthing!Whycan’t

somebody send ussupports?”“Weain’t never goin’ to

stand this secondbanging.Ididn’tcomeheretofightthe hull damn’ rebelarmy.”There was one who

raised a doleful cry. “IwishBillSmithershadtrodonmyhand, insteadermetreddin’onhis’n.”Thesorejoints of the regiment

creaked as it painfullyflounderedintopositiontorepulse.The youth stared.

Surely, he thought, thisimpossible thing was notabout to happen. Hewaited as if he expectedthe enemy to suddenlystop, apologize, and retirebowing. It was all amistake.But the firing began

somewhere on theregimental lineandrippedalong in both directions.The level sheets of flamedeveloped great clouds ofsmoke that tumbled andtossed in the mild windnear the ground for amoment, and then rolledthrough the ranks asthroughagate.Thecloudswere tinged an earthlikeyellow in the sunrays and

in the shadows were asorry blue. The flag wassometimes eaten and lostin thismass of vapor, butmore often it projected,sun-touched,resplendent.Into the youth’s eyestherecamealookthatonecan see in the orbs of ajaded horse.His neckwasquivering with nervousweakness,andthemusclesof his arms felt numband

bloodless. His hands, too,seemed large andawkward, as if he waswearing invisible mittens.And there was a greatuncertaintyabouthiskneejoints.The words that

comrades had utteredprevious to the firingbegan to recur to him.“Oh, say, this is toomuchof a good thing!What do

they take us for—whydon’ttheysendsupports?Ididn’t come here to fightthe hull damned rebelarmy.”He began to exaggerate

the endurance, the skill,andthevalorofthosewhowere coming. Himselfreeling from exhaustion,hewas astonished beyondmeasure at suchpersistency. They must be

machines of steel. It wasvery gloomy strugglingagainstsuchaffairs,woundup perhaps to fight untilsundown.Heslowlyliftedhisrifle

and,catchingaglimpseofthe thickspread field, heblazed at a canteringcluster. He stopped thenand began to peer as besthe could through thesmoke. He caught

changing views of theground covered with menwhowere all running likepursuedimps,andyelling.To the youth it was an

onslaught of redoubtabledragons. He became likethemanwho lost his legsat theapproachof theredand green monster. Hewaited in a sort ofhorrified, listeningattitude. He seemed to

shut his eyes and wait tobegobbled.Amannearhim,whoup

to this time had beenworking feverishly at hisrifle,suddenlystoppedandran with howls. A ladwhose face had borne anexpression of exaltedcourage, the majesty ofhim who dares give hislife, was, at an instant,smitten abject. He

blanchedlikeonewhohascometotheedgeofacliffat midnight and issuddenly made aware.There was a revelation.He, too, threw down hisgunandfled.Therewasnoshame in his face. He ranlikearabbit.Othersbegantoscamper

away through the smoke.Theyouthturnedhishead,shaken fromhis trance by

this movement as if theregiment was leaving himbehind. He saw the fewfleetingforms.He yelled then with

fright, and swung about.Foramoment,inthegreatclamor, he was like aproverbialchicken.Helostthe direction of safety.Destruction threatenedhimfromallpoints.Directly he began to

speed toward the rear ingreat leaps. His rifle andcap were gone. Hisunbuttonedcoatbulged inthe wind. The flap of hiscartridge box bobbedwildly,andhiscanteen,byitsslendercord,swungoutbehind.Onhisfacewasallthe horror of those thingswhichheimagined.

TheNightofChancellorsville

F.SCOTTFITZGERALD

ItellyouIdidn’thaveanynotion what I was gettinginto or Iwouldn’t of gonedownthere.Theycanhavetheirarmy—itseemstome

theywereallacting likeabunch of yellow bellies.Butmy friendNell said tome:“Lookhere,Nora,PhillyisasdeadasBaltimoreandwe’ve got to eat thissummer.” She’d just got aletter fromagirl that saidtheywerelivingfinedownthere in “old Virginia.”The soldiers were gettingbig pay offs and figuring

maybethey’dstaythereallsummer, till the JohnnyRebs gave up. They gottheir pay regular too, anda good clean-looking girlcould ask—well, I forgetnow, because after whathappenedtousIguessyoucan’t expect me torememberanything.I’vealwaysbeenusedto

decent treatment—somehow when I meet a

man, nomatter how freshhe is in the beginning, hecomestorespectmeintheend and I’ve never hadthings done to me likesomegirls,gettingleftinastrange town or had mypursestolen.Well,Istartedtotellyouhow I went down to thearmy in “old Virginia.”Never again!Wait till youhear.

I’m used to travellingnice—once when I was alittle girl my daddy tookme on the cars toBaltimore—we lived inYork, Pa.—and wecouldn’t have been morecomfortable; we hadpillowsandthemencamethrough with baskets oforanges and apples, youknow,singingout:“Want to buy some

oranges or apples—orbeer.”Youknowwhattheysell

—but I never took anybeerbecause—Oh I know, I’ll go on—

You only want to talkaboutthewar,likeallyoumen. But if that’s theirideawhatawaris—Well,theystuckusallin

one car and a fresh guytook our tickets and

winkedandsaid:“Oh, you’re going downtoHooker’sarmy.”Thelightswasterribleinthe car, smoky and notcleaned so everythinglookedsortofyellow.Andsay that car was so old itwasfallingtopieces.There must have beenforty girls in it, a lot ofthem from Baltimore andPhilly. Only there were

three or four that weren’tgay—I mean they weremore, oh you know, richpeople that sat up front;every once in a while anofficer would pop in hisheadfromthenextcarandask them if they wantedanything.Iwasintheseatbehind with Nell and weheardhimwhisper:“You’reinprettyterrible

companybutwe’llbethere

inafewhoursandwe’llgoright to headquarters, andI’ll promise you solidcomfort.”I never will forget that

night.Noneofushadanyfood except some girlsbehind us had somesausage and bread, andthey gave us what theyhad left. There was aspigot you turned but nowater came out. After

about two hours, stoppingevery two minutes itseemedtome,acoupleoflieutenants, loaded to thegills, came in from thenext car and offered Nellandme somewhiskey outofabottle.Nelltooksomeand I pretended to andtheysatonthesideofourseats.Oneof them startedtomakeuptoherbutjustthen the officer that had

spoken to the women,pretty high up I guess, amajor or a general, camebackagainandasked:“Youallright?Anything

Icando?”Oneoftheladieskindof

whispered to him, and heturned to the drunk thatwas talking to Nell andmade him go back in theother car. After that therewas only one officer with

us; he wasn’t really sodrunk,justfeelingsick.“This certainly isa jolly

looking gang,” he says.“It’s good you can hardlyseetheminthislight.Theylookas if theirbest friendjustdied.”“What if they do,” Nell

answered back. “Howwouldyoulookyourself ifyoucomeallthewayfromPhillyandthenclimbedin

acarlikethis?”“IcomeallthewayfromtheSevenDays,Sister,”heanswered; pretty soon heleft and said he’d try andget us some water orcoffee,whichwaswhatwewanted.Thecarkeptrockinganditmadeusbothfeelfunny.Someof thegirlswas sickand some was soundasleep on each other’s

shoulders.“Hey, where is this

army?” Nell demanded.“DowninMexico?”Iwaskindofhalfasleep

myself by that time anddidn’tanswer.Thenext thing I knew I

was woke up by a storm,the carwas stopped againandIsaid,“It’sraining.”“Raining!” said Nell.

“That’s cannon—they’re

havingabattle.”“Oh.Well,afterthisride

Idon’tcarewhowins.”It seemed to be getting

louderallthetime,butoutthe windows you couldn’tseeanythingonaccountofthemist.In about half an hour

anotherofficercameinthecar—he looked prettymessy as if he’d justcrawled out of bed: his

coat was still unbuttonedand he kept hitching uphis trousers as ifhedidn’thaveanysuspenders.“Allyou ladiesoutside,”

he said, “weneed this carforthewounded.”“What?”“Hey!”“Wepaidforourtickets,

didn’twe?”“I don’t care. We need

all the cars for the

wounded and the othercarsareaboutfilledup.”“Hey! We didn’t come

down to fight in anybattle!”“It doesn’t matter what

you came down for—you’reinabattle,ahellofabattle.”I was scared I can tell

you. I thought maybe theRebswouldcaptureusandsend us down to one of

those prisons you hearabout where they starveyou to death unless yousingDixieallthetimeandkissniggers.“Hurryupnow!”But another officer had

come inwho lookedmorenice.“Stay where you are,

ladies,” he said, and thenhe said to the officer,“Whatdoyouwant todo,

leavethemstandingonthesiding! If Sedgewick’sCorps is broken like theysaytheRebsmaycomeupinthisdirection!”Someofthe girls began crying outloud. “These are northernwomenafterall.”“Theseare—”“Ohshutup—gobackto

your command. I’mdetailed to thistransportationjob,andI’m

taking these girls toWashingtonwithus.”I thought they weregoingtohiteachotherbutthey both walked offtogether, and we satwondering what we weregoingtodo.What happened next Idon’tquiteremember.Thecannon were sometimesvery loud and thensometimesmore far away,

but there was firing ofshots right near us and agirl down the car had herwindow smashed. I hearda whole bunch of horsesgallopbyourwindowsbutI still couldn’t seeanything.Thiswentonforhalfanhour—gallopingsandmoreshots.Wecouldn’ttellhowfarawaybuttheysoundedlikeupbytheengine.

Then it got quiet andtwoguyscameintoourcar—we all knew right awaythey were rebels, notofficers, just plain privateones with guns. One hadonabrownblouseandonea blue blouse and I wassurprised because Ithought they always woregrey.Theyweredisgustinglookingandverydirty;onehad a big pot of jam he’d

smeared all over his faceandtheotherhadaboxofcrackers.“Hi,ladies.”“What you gals doin’

downhere?”“Kaint you see, Steve,

this is old Joe Hooker’sstaff.”“Reckin we ought to

take ’em back to theGeneral?”They talked outlandish

like that—I could hardlyunderstand they talked sofunny.One of the girls gothysterical, she was soscaredandthatmadethemkindofshy.Theywerejustkids I guess, under thosebeards, and one of themtippedhishatorwhatevertheoldthingwas:“We’renot fixin’ tohurtyou.”

At that moment therewas a whole bunch moreshooting down by theengineandtherebsturnedand ran. We were glad Icantellyou.Then about fifteenminutes later in came oneof our officers. This wasanothernewone.“Youbetterduckdown!”he shouted to us, “theymayshell thistrain.We’re

startingyouoffassoonaswe load two moreambulancesonboard.”Half of us was on the

floor already. The richwomen sitting ahead ofNell andmewent up intothe car ahead where thewounded were—I heardone of them say to see ifthey could do anything.Nell thought she’d look intoo, but she came back

holdinghernose—shesaiditsmelledawfulinthere.It was lucky she didn’tgo in because two of thegirlsdidtryandseeiftheycould help, but the nursessent themrightback,as ifthey was dirt under theirfeet.After I don’t know howlong the train began tomove. A soldier came inand poured the oil out of

all our lights except oneand took it into thewounded car, so now wecouldhardlyseeatall.If the trip down wasslow the trip back wasterrible. The woundedbegan groaning and wecould hear in our car, sonobody couldn’t get adecent sleep. We stoppedeverywhere.When we got in

Washington at last therewas a lot of people in thestation and they were allanxious about what hadhappenedtothearmy,butI said you can searchme.All Iwantedwasmy littleoldroomandmylittleoldbed. I never been treatedlikethatinmylife.Oneofthe girls said she wasgoingtowritetoPresidentLincolnaboutit.

And in the papers nextday they never saidanything about how ourtraingotattackedoraboutus girls at all! Can youbeatit?

Chickamauga

THOMASWOLFE

On the seventh day ofAugust, 1861, I wasnineteen years of age. If Ilive to the seventh day ofAugust this year I’ll beninety-five years old. And

thewayIfeelthismornin’I intend to live. Now Iguessyou’llhave toadmitthat that’s goin’ a goodwaysback.I was born up at theForks of the Toe River in1842. Your grandpaw,boy,wasbornatthesameplace in 1828. His father,and mine, too, BillPentland—your great-grandfather, boy—moved

into that regionway backright after theRevolutionary War andsettledattheForksofToe.The real Indian name ferhit was Estatoe, but thewhitemenshortenedhittoToe,andhit’sbeenknownasToeRivereversince.Of course hit was all

Indian country in thosedays. I’ve heared that theCherokees helped Bill

Pentland’sfatherbuildthefirst house he lived in,where some of us wasborn.I’veheared,too,thatBillPentland’sgrandfathercame from Scotland backbeforetheRevolution,andthat thar was threebrothers. That’s all thePentland’s that I everheared of in this country.If you ever meet aPentland anywheres you

can rest assured he’sdescended from one ofthosethree.Well, now, as I was

tellin’ you, upon theseventh day of August,1861,Iwasnineteenyearsof age. At seven-thirty inthe mornin’ of that day Istartedoutfromhomeandwalked the whole way into Clingman. Jim Weaverhad come over from Big

Hickorywherehelivedthenight before and stayedwithme.Andnowhewentalongwithme.Hewasthebest friend I had.We hadgrowed up alongside ofeachother:nowwewastomarch alongside of eachother fermanya longandweary mile—how manyneither of us knowed thatmornin’ when we startedout.

Hit was a good twentymileaway fromwherewelived to Clingman, and Ireckon young folksnowadays would considertwenty mile a right smartwalk. But fer people inthose days hit wasn’tanything at all. All of uswas good walkers. WhyJim Weaver could keepgoin’ without stoppin’ alldaylong.

Jim was big and I waslittle, about the way yousee me now, except thatI’ve shrunkupabit, but Icould keep up with himanywhere he went. Wemade hit into Clingmanbefore twelve o’clock—hitwas a hot day, too—andby three o’clock thatafternoon we had bothjoinedupwiththeTwenty-ninth. That was my

regiment from then on,right on to the end of thewar. Anyways, I was anenlisted man that night,thedaythatIwasnineteenyears of age, and I didn’tsee my home again ferfourlongyears.Your Uncle Bacchus,

boy, was already inVirginny: we knowed hewastharbecausewe’dhada letter from him. He

joineduprightatthestartwith the Fourteenth. He’dalready been at FirstManassas and I reckonfrom then on he didn’tmissabigfightinVirginnyfer the next four years,except after Antietamwherehegotwoundedandwas laid up fer fourmonths.Evenway back in those

days your Uncle Bacchus

had those queer religiousnotionsthatyou’vehearedabout. The Pentlands aregoodpeople,buteveryonewho ever knowed ’emknows they can go queeron religion now and then.That’s the reputation thatthey’ve always had. Andthat’s the way Back was.HewasaRusselliteeveninthosedays:accordin’tohisnotions the world was

comin’ to an end and hewasgoin’toberightinonhit when hit happened.That was the way he hadhit figgered out. He wasalways prophesyin’ andpredictin’evenbackbeforethewar,andwhenthewarcame, why Back justknowedthatthiswashit.Why law! He wouldn’t

have missed that war feranything.Backdidn’tgoto

warbecausehewanted tokill Yankees. He didn’twant to kill nobody. Hewasastender-heartedasababy and as brave as alion. Some fellers told hit:on him later how they’dcome on him atGettysburg,shootin’overastone wall, and his riflebar’lhadgotsohothehadto put hit down and rubhishandsontheseatofhis

pants because they got soblistered. He was singin’hymns, they said, withtears a-streamin’downhisface—that’s the way theytold hit, anyway—andevery time he fired he’dsing another verse. And Ireckon he killed plentybecause when Back had arifleinhishandshedidn’tmiss.Buthewasagoodman.

He didn’t want to hurt afly. And I reckon thereasonthathewenttowarwas because he thoughthe’d be at Armageddon.That’s theway he had hitfiggered out, you know.When thewar came,Backsaid:“Well,thisishit,andI’ma-goin’tobethar.Thehour has come,” he said,“whentheLord isgoin’ toset up His Kingdom here

on earth and separate thesheepupontherighthandandthegoatsupontheleft—jest like hit waspredicted long ago—andI’ma-goin’tobetharwhenhithappens.”Well,we didn’t ask him

whichsidehewasgoin’tobe on, butwe all knowedwhich side without havin’to ask. Back was goin’ tobe on the sheep side—

that’s the way he had hitfiggered out. And that’sthe way he had hitfiggeredoutrightuptothedayof his death ten yearsago. He kept prophesyin’and predictin’ right up tothe end. No matter whathappened,nomatterwhatmistakeshemade,hekeptrightonpredictin’.Firsthesaid the war was goin’ tobe the Armageddon day.

And when that didn’thappen he said hit wasgoin’tocomealongintheeighties. And when hitdidn’t happen then hemoved hit up to thenineties. And when thewarbrokeoutin1914andthewholeworldhadtogo,why Bacchus knowed thatthatwashit.And no matter how hit

all turnedout,Backnever

would give in or own uphe was wrong. He’d sayhe’dmadeamistakeinhisfiggers somers, but thathe’d found out what hitwas and that next timehe’d be right. And that’stheway hewas up to thetimehedied.I had to laugh when I

heared the news of hisdeath, because of course,accordin’ to Back’s belief,

after you die no thin’happens to you fer athousand years. You jestlayinyourgraveandsleepuntil Christ comes andwakes you up. So that’swhy I had to laugh. I’d a-give anything to’ve beenthere the next mornin’when Back woke up andfound himself in heaven.I’d’ve give anything justto’ve seen the expression

onhis face. Imayhavetowaitabitbut I’mgoin’ tohave some fun with himwhenIseehim.ButI’llbetyou even then he won’tgive in. He’ll have somereason fer hit, he’ll try toarguehewasrightbutthathe made a little mistakeabout hit somers in hisfiggers.But Back was a goodman—a better man than

Bacchus Pentland neverlived. His only failin’ wasthe failin’ that so manyPentlands have—he wentand got queer religiousnotions and he wouldn’tgivethemup.Well, like I say then,

Back was in theFourteenth. Your UncleSamandUncleGeorgewaswith the Seventeenth, andall three of them was in

Lee’s army in Virginny. Inever seed nor hearedfrom either Back or Samfer the next four years. Inever knowed what hadhappened to them orwhether theywas dead orlivin’untilIgotbackhomein ’65. And of course Inever heared fromGeorgeagain until theywrotemeafter Chancellorsville. AndthenIknowedthathewas

dead. They told hit laterwhen I came back homethathittooksevenmentotake him. They asked himto surrender. And thenthey had to kill himbecause he wouldn’t betaken. That’s the way hewas. He neverwould giveup. When they got to hisdead body they told howthey had to crawl over awhole heap of dead

Yankeesbeforetheyfoundhim. And then theyknowed hit was George.That’s thewayhewas,allright.Heneverwouldgivein.He is buried in theConfederate cemetery atRichmond, Virginny.Bacchuswentthroughtharmore than twenty yearsagoonhisway to the bigreunion up at Gettysburg.

He hunted up his graveand found out where hewas.That’s where Jim and

me thought that we’d betoo. I mean with Lee’smen, in Virginny. That’swherewethoughtthatwewasgoin’whenwejoined.But, like I’m goin’ to tellyou now, hit turned outdifferent from thewaywethought.

Bob Saunders was ourCaptain;L.C.MclntyreourMajor; andLeanderBriggsthe Colonel of ourregiment. They kept usthar at Clingman fer twoweeks.Thentheymarchedus into Altamont anddrilledus fer thenext twomonths. Our drillin’ground was right up anddownwhere Parker Streetnow is. In thosedays thar

wasnothingtharbutopenfields. Hit’s all built upnow. To look at hit todayyou’d never know thar’dever been an open fieldthar. But that’s where hitwas,allright.Late in October wewasready and they moved uson.Theday theymarchedus out, Martha Pattoncame in all the way fromZebulontoseeJimWeaver

beforewewentaway.He’dknown her fer jest twomonths; he’d met her thevery week we joined upand Iwaswith himwhenhemether.ShecamefromoutalongCaneRiver.Tharwasacamprevivalmeetin’goin’ on outside ofClingmanat the time,andshe was visitin’ this othergal in Clingmanwhile therevival lasted; and that

was how JimWeavermether.Wewaswalkin’alongone evenin’ toward sunsetand we passed this housewhereshewasstayin’withthisothergal.Andbothofthem was settin’ on theporch as we went past.Theothergalwasfair,andshe was dark: she hadblack hair and eyes, andshewasplumpandsortoflittle, and she had the

pertiest complexion, andthepertiestwhiteskinandteeth you ever seed; andwhenshesmiledtherewasadimpleinhercheeks.Well, neither of usknowed these gals, and sowe couldn’t stop and talktothem,butwhenJimsawthe little ’un he stoppedshort in his tracks like hewas shot, and then helooked at her so hard she

hadtoturnherface.Well,then,wewalked on downthe road a piece and Jimstopped and turned andlookedagain,andwhenhedid,why, sure enough,hecaught her lookin’ at himtoo.Andthenherfacegotred—she looked awayagain.Well, that was whereshe landed him.He didn’tsayaword,butLord!Ifelt

him jerk there likea troutupon the line—and Iknowed right then andthar she had him hooked.We turned andwalked ondowntheroadaways,andthen he stopped andlookedatmeandsaid:“Did you see that gal

backthar?”“Do youmean the light

oneorthedarkone?”“You know damn good

and well which one Imean,”saidJim.“Yes, I seed her—what

abouther?”Isaid.“Well,nothin’—only I’m

a-goin’ to marry her,” hesaid.I knowed then that she

hadhimhooked.AndyetIneverbelievedatfirstthathitwouldlast.FerJimhadhad so many gals—I’dnever had a gal in my

wholelifeuptothattime,but Lord! Jimwould havehimanewgaleveryotherweek. We had some fine-lookin’ fellers in ourcompany, but JimWeaverwas the handsomest fellerthatyoueverseed.Hewastallandleanandbuiltjustright, and he carriedhimself as straight as arod:hehadblackhairandcoal-black eyes, andwhen

he lookedatyouhecouldburn a hole through you.And I reckon he’d burneda hole right through theheartofmanyagalbeforehefirstsawMarthaPatton.Hecouldhavehadhispickof the whole lot—a bornlady-killerifyoueverseedone—and that was why Inever thought that hit’dlast.And maybe hit was a

pity that hit did. Fer JimWeaver until the day thathemetMarthaPattonhadbeen the most happy-go-lucky feller that you everseed.Hedidn’thaveacareinthewholeworld—fulloffun—ready fer anythingand into every kind ofdevilment and foolishness.But from that moment onhe was a different man.And I’ve always thought

thatmaybe hitwas a pitythat hit hit him when hitdid—that hit had to comejestatthattime.Ifhithadonly come a few yearslater—if hit could onlyhave waited till the warwas over! He’d wanted togo so much—he’d lookedatthewholethingasabiglark—but now! Well shehad him, and he had her:the day they marched us

out of town he had herpromise, and in hiswatchhe had her picture and alittle lock of her blackhair, andas theymarchedusout,andhimbesideme,we passed her, and shelooked at him, and I felthim jerk again andknowed the look she gavehimhadgonethroughhimlikeaknife.From that time on he

was a differentman; fromthattimeonhewaslikeaman in hell. Hit’s funnyhowhitallturnsout—hownoneofhitislikewhatweexpect. Hit’s funny howwar and a little black-haired gal will change aman—but that’s the storythat I’m goin’ to tell younow.Thenearest rail head inthosedayswaseightymile

away at Locust Gap. Theymarched us out of townrightuptheFairfieldRoadalong the river up pastCrestville,andrightacrossthe Blue Ridge there, anddown the mountain. Wemade Old Stockade thefirst day’s march andcampedthar fer thenight.Hit was twenty-four milesof marchin’ right acrossthe mountain, with the

roadsthewaytheywasinthosedays,too.Andletmetellyou,fernewmenwithonly two months’ trainin’thatwasdoin’good.Wemade LocustGap inthreedaysandahalf,andI wish you’d seed thewelcome that they gaveus! People were hollerin’and shoutin’ the wholeway. All the women folkandchildernwerelinedup

along the road, bands a-playin’,boysrunnin’alongbesideus,goodshoes,newuniforms,thefinest-lookin’setof fellersthatyoueverseed—Lord! You’d a-thoughtwewasgoin’ toapicnic from the way hitlooked. And I reckon thatwasthewaymostofusfeltabouthit,too.Wethoughtwewasgoin’offtohavealot of fun. If anyone had

knowedwhathewasinferor could a-seed the passelo’ scarecrows that camelimpin’ back barefoot andhalfnakedfouryearslater,I reckon he’d a-thoughttwicebeforehe’listedup.Lord, when I think ofhit! When I try to tellabout hit thar jest ain’twordsenoughtellwhathitwaslike.AndwhenIthinkof the way I was when I

joined up—and the way Iwas when I came backfour years later! When Iwent away I was anignorant country boy, sotenderhearted that Iwouldn’t harm a rabbit.And when I came backafter the war was over Icould a-stood by and seeda man murdered rightbefore my eyes with nomore feelin’ than I’d have

had fera stuckhog. Ihadno more feelin’ abouthuman life than I had ferthe life of a sparrer. I’dseed a ten-acre field sothick with dead men thatyoucouldhavewalkedallover hit without step-pin’on the ground a singletime.And that was where I

made my big mistake. IfI’d only knowed a little

more, if I’d only waitedjest a little longer after Igot home, things wouldhavebeenall right.That’sbeen the big regret ofmywhole life. I neverhadnoeducation. I never had achance to git one before Iwent away. And when Icame back I could a-hadmy schoolin’ but I didn’ttakehit.The reasonwas Inever knowed no better:

I’d seed so much fightin’and killin’ that I didn’tcare fer nothin’. I jest feltdeadandnumblikeallthebrains had been shot outofme. I jestwanted togitme a little patch of landsomewheres and settledownand fergitabout theworld.That’swhereImademybig mistake. I didn’t waitlongenough.Igotmarried

toosoon,andafterthatthechilderncameandhitwasroot,hawg,ordie:Ihadtogrubferhit.ButifI’donlywaited jest a little whilehit would have been allright. In less’n a year hitall cleared up. I got myhealthback,pulledmyselftogether and got my feetback on the ground, andhad more mercy andunderstandin’ in me, jest

on account of all thesufferin’ I’d seen, than Iever had. And as fer myhead, why hit was betterthanhiteverwas:withallI’d seen and knowed Icould a-got a schoolin’ inno time. But you see Iwouldn’t wait. I didn’tthink thathit’d ever comeback. I was jest sick of livin’.But as I say—they

marched us down toLocust Gap in less’n fourdays’ time, and then theyput us on the cars ferRichmond. We got toRichmond on the mornin’ofoneday,anduptothatvery moment we hadthought that they wassendin’ us to join Lee’sarmyinthenorth.Butthenext mornin’ we got ourorders—and they was

sendin’ us out west. Theyhad been fightin’ inKentucky: we was introuble thar; they sent usouttostoptheArmyoftheCumberland.Andthatwasthe last I ever saw of oldVirginny. From that timeonwefoughtitouttharinthewestand south.That’swhere we war, theTwenty-ninth, from thenontotheend.

We had no real bigfights until the spring of’62. And hit takes a fighttomakeasoldierofaman.Before that, thar wasskirmishin’ and raids inTennessee and inKentucky. That winter weseed hard marchin’ in thecold and wind and rain.We learned to knowwhathunger was, and what hitwas to have to draw your

bellyintofityourrations.I reckon by that time weknowedhitwasn’tgoin’tobeapicniclikewethoughtthathitwouldbe.Wewasa-learnin’all the time,butwe wasn’t soldiers yet. Ittakes a good big fight tomake a soldier, and wehadn’t had one yet. Earlyin ’62wealmosthadone.They marched us to therelief of Donelson—but

law! They had taken herbefore we got thar—andI’mgoin’totellyouagoodstoryaboutthat.U. S. Grant was thar totake her, and we wasmarchin’ to relieve herbefore old Butcher couldgit in.Wewas sevenmileaway, and hit was comin’ontosundown—we’dbeenmarchin’hard.Wegot theorder to fall out and rest.

And that was when Iheared the gun andknowedthatDonelsonhadfallen. Tharwas no soundof fightin’.Everythingwasstill as Sunday. We wassittin’ thar aside the roadand then I heared acannonboom.Hitboomedfivetimes,realslowlike—Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! And themomentthatIhearedhit,I

had a premonition. Iturned to Jim and I said:“Well,tharyouare!That’sDonelson—and she’ssurrendered!”Cap’n Bob Saunders

heared me, but hewouldn’t believe me andhesaid:“You’rewrong!”“Well,”saidJim,“Ihope

to God he’s right. Iwouldn’tcareif thewholedamn war had fallen

through. I’m ready to gohome.”“Well, he’swrong,” saidCaptain Bob, “and I’ll betmoneyonhitthatheis.”Well,Itellyou,thatjestsuited me. That was thewayIwas in thosedays—rightfromthebeginnin’ofthewartotheveryend.Ifthar was any fun ordevilment goin’ on, anycard playin’ or gamblin’,

or any other kind offoolishness, I was right inonhit.I’da-betamanthatredwas greenor that daywasnight,andifagalhadlooked at me from apersimmontree,why,law!I reckon I’d a-clumb thetree to git her. That’s jestthe way hit was with meall through the war. Inever made a bet orplayed a gameof cards in

my life before the war orafter hit was over, butwhilethewarwasgoin’onIwasreadyferanything.“How much will youbet?”Isaid.“I’ll bet you a hundreddollars even money,” saidBob Saunders, and nosooner got the words outof hismouth than the betwason.We planked the money

down right thar and gavehit to Jim to hold thestakes.Well, sir,wedidn’thave towait half an hourbefore a feller on a horsecameridin’upandtoldushit was no use goin’ anyfarther—Fort Donelsonhadfallen.“Whatdid I tell you?” Isaid to Cap’n Saunders,andIputthemoneyinmypocket.

Well, the laugh was onhimthen.Iwishyoucoulda-seen the expression onhisface—helookedmightysheepish,Itellyou.Butheadmittedhit,youknow,hehadtoownup.“You were right,” he

said. “You won the bet.But—I’ll tell you what I’lldo!”He put his hand intohispocketandpulledoutaroll of bills. “I’ve got a

hundred dollars left—andwith me hit’s all ornothin’! We’ll draw cardsferthislasthundred,mineagainst yorn—high cardwins!”Well, I was ready ferhim. I pulled out myhundred, and I said, “Gitoutthedeck!”So they brought thedeck out then and JimWeaver shuffled hit and

heldhitwhilewedrawed.Bob Saunders drawed firstandhedrawedtheeightofspades.When I turnedmycard up I had one of thequeens.Well, sir, you shouldhave seen the look uponBob Saunders’ face. I tellyou what, the fellerswhooped and hollered tillhe looked like he wasready to crawl through a

hole in the floor. We allhad some fun with him,andthen,ofcourse,Igavethe money back. I neverkept a penny in my life Imadefromgamblin’.But that’s the way hit

waswithmeinthosedays—I was ready fer hit—feranything. If any kind ofdevilment or foolishnesscameup Iwas right inonhitwiththeringleaders.

Wellthen,FortDonelsonwasthefunniest fightthatI was ever in because hitwasallfunfermewithoutno fightin’. And that jestsuited me. And StoneMountain was the mostpeculiarfightthatIwasinbecause—well, I’ll tellyoua strange story and youcan figger fer yourself ifyou ever heared about afightlikethatbefore.

Did you ever hear of abattle in which one sidenever fired a shot andyetwon the fight and didmore damage and moredestruction to the otherside thanall thegunsandcannonintheworldcoulddo? Well, that was thebattle of Stone Mountain.Now, I was in a lot ofbattles. But the battle ofStone Mountain was the

queerest one of thewholewar.I’lltellyouhowhitwas.Wewasupontopofthe

MountainandtheYankeeswas below us tryin’ todrive us out and take theMountain.We couldn’t gitour guns up thar, wedidn’t try to—we didn’thave to git our guns upthar. The only gun I everseed up thar was a little

brass howitzer that wepulled up with ropes, butweneverfiredashotwithhit.Wedidn’tgitachanceto use hit. We no more’ngothitinpositionbeforeashellexplodedrightontopof hit and split that littlehowitzerplumbintwo.Hitjestfellintotwoparts:youcouldn’t have made aneater job of hit if you’dcut hit down the middle

withasaw.I’llneverfergitthatlittlehowitzerandthewaytheysplithitplumbintwo.As for the rest of thefightin’ on our side, hitwas done with rocks andstones. We gatheredtogether a great pile ofrocks and stones andboulders all along the topoftheMountain,andwhenthey attacked we waited

andlet’emhavehit.TheYankeesattackedinthree lines, one after theother.Wewaiteduntil thefirst line was no more’nthirty feetbelowus—untilwecouldseethewhitesoftheir eyes, as the sayin’goes—andthenwelet’emhave hit. We jest rolledthose boulders down on’em, and I tell you what,hit was an awful thing to

watch. I never saw noworse destruction thanthatwithgunsandcannonduringthewholewar.You could hear ’em

screamin’ and hollerin’until hitmade your bloodruncold.Theykeptcomin’on and we mowed ’emdownbythehundreds.Wemowed ’emdownwithoutfirin’ a single shot. Wecrushedthem,wipedthem

out—jest by rollin’ thosebig rocks and bouldersdownonthem.Therewasbiggerbattles

in the war, but StoneMountainwasthequeerestoneIeverseed.

***

Fort Donelson cameearlyinthewar,andStoneMountain came later

toward the end. And onewas funny and the otherwaspeculiar,buttharwasfightin’ in between thatwasn’t neither one. I’mgoin’ to tell you aboutthat.Fort Donelson was the

first big fight thatwewasin—andasIsay,wewasn’treally in hit because wecouldn’tgittoherintime.And after Donelson that

spring, in April, thar wasShiloh.Well—allthatIcantellyouis,wewastharontime at Shiloh.Oh Lord, Ireckon that we was!Perhaps we had beencountry boys before,perhaps some of us stillmade a joke of hit before—but after Shiloh wewasn’t country boys nolonger. We didn’t make ajokeabouthitafterShiloh.

They wiped the smile offofourfacesatShiloh.Andafter Shiloh we was boysno longer:wewas vet’ranmen.From then on hit wasfightin’ to the end. That’swherewelearnedwhathitwas like—at Shiloh. Fromthen on we knowed whathitwouldbeuntiltheend.JimgotwoundedtharatShiloh. Hit wasn’t bad—

notbadenoughtosuithimanyways—fer he wantedto go home fer good. Hitwas a flesh wound in theleg,buthitwassometimebefore they could git tohim,andhewaslayin’outthar on the field and Ireckon that he lost someblood. Anyways, he wasunconscious when theypicked him up. Theycarried him back and

dressed his wound rightthar upon the field. Theycleaned hit out, I reckon,and they bandaged hit—thar was so many of ’emthey couldn’t do muchmore than that. Oh, I tellyou what, in those daystharwasn’tmuchthattheycould do. I’ve seed thesurgeons workin’underneath an open shedwith meatsaws, choppin’

off the arms and legs andthrowin’ ’emout thar inapileliketheywassticksofwood, sometimes withoutno chloroform or nothin’,and the screamin’ and thehollerin’ of the men wasenoughtomakeyourheadturngray.Andthatwasasmuchasanyonecoulddo.Hit was live or die andtake your chance—andthar was so many of ’em

wounded so much worsethan Jim that I reckon hewas lucky they didanythingferhimatall.I heared ’em tell about

hit later,howhecame to,a-lyin’ stretched out tharonanolddirtyblanketonthe bare floor, and anarmy surgeon seed himlookin’ at his leg allbandagedupand I reckonthoughthe’dcheerhimup

and said: “Oh, that ain’tnothin’—you’ll be up andfightin’Yanksagainintwoweeks’time.”Well, with that, theysaid,Jimgottocursin’anda-takin’ on somethingterrible. They said thelanguage he used wasenough tomakeyourhairstanduponend.Theysaidhe screamed and ravedand reached down thar

and jerked that bandageoff and said—“Like hell Iwill!”They said thebloodspouted up thar like afountain, and they saidthat army doctor was somadhethrowedJimdownupon his back and sat onhim and he took thatbandage, all bloody as hitwas, and he tied hit backaround his leg again andhe said: “Goddam you, if

you pull that bandage offagain, I’ll let youbleed todeath.”And Jim, they said,

came ragin’ back at himuntil you could havehearedhimferamile,andsaid:“Well,byGod,Idon’tcare if I do; I’d rather diethanstayhereanylonger.”They say they had hit

back and forth thar untilJim got so weak he

couldn’t talk no more. IknowthatwhenIcometoseehimadayortwolaterhe was settin’ up and Iasked him: “Jim, how isyour leg? Are you hurtbad?”And he answered: “Not

badenough.Theycantakethe whole damn leg off,”he said, “as far as I’mconcerned, and bury hithere at Shiloh if they’ll

only letmegobackhomeand not come back again.Me and Martha will gitalong somehow,” he said.“I’dratherbeacrippletherestofmylifethanhavetocomebackandfightinthisdamnwar.”Well,Iknowedhemeant

hit too. I looked at himand seed how much hemeant hit, and I knowedtharwasn’tanythingthatI

could do. When a manbegins to talk that way,thar hain’t much you cansay to him. Well, sureenough, inaweekortwo,theylethimgouponatwomonths’ furlough and hewent limpin’awayuponacrutch. He was thehappiest man I ever seed.“They gave me twomonths’ leave,” he said,“but if they jest letmegit

back home old Bragg’llhave to send his wholedamn army before he gitsmeoutoftharagain.”Well, he was gone twomonths or more, and Inever knowed whathappened—whetherhegotashamed of himself whenhis wound healed up allright, or whether Marthatalked him out of hit. Buthewasbackwithusagain

by late July—thegrimmest, bitterest-lookin’man you ever seed. Hewouldn’t talk tome abouthit, he wouldn’t tell mewhat had happened, but Iknowedfromthat timeonhe’dneverdrawhisbreathin peace until he left thearmy and got back homefergood.Well, that was Shiloh,

that was the time we

didn’t miss, that waswhere we lost our grin,where we knowed at lastwhat hit would be untiltheend.I’ve told you of three

battles now, and one wasfunny, one was strange,and one was—well, oneshowed us what war andfightin’ could be like. ButI’lltellyouofafourthonenow. And the fourth one

wasthegreatestofthelot.Weseedsomebigfights

inthewar.Andwewasinsome bloody battles. Butthebiggestfightwefoughtwas Chickamauga. Thebloodiest fight I ever seedwas Chickamauga. Tharwasbigbattlesinthewar,but tharneverwasa fightbefore, thar’ll never be afight again, likeChickamauga. I’m goin’ to

tell you how hit was atChickamauga.All through the spring

and summer of that yearOld Rosey follered usthroughTennessee.Wehadhimstoppedthe

year before, the time wewhupped him at Stone’sRiverattheendof’62.Wetardhimoutsobadhehadtowait.Hewaitedtharsixmonths at Murfreesboro.

Butwe knowedhewas a-comin’ all the time. OldRoseystartedattheendofJune and drove us out toShelbyville. We fell backonTullahoma in rains thelike of which you neverseed.TherainsthatfellthelastweekinJunethatyearwas terrible. But Roseykepta-comin’on.He drove us out ofTullahoma too. We fell

back across theCumberland, we pulledbackbehindthemountain,buthefolleredus.Ireckontharwasfellersthat was quicker when afight was on, and whenthey’d seed just what hitwas they had to do. Butwhen it came to plannin’and a-figgerin’, Old RoseyRosecrans took the cake.Old Rosey was a fox. Fer

sheer natural cunnin’ Inever knowed the beat ofhim.While Bragg was

watchin’ him atChattanooga to keep himfrom gittin’ across theTennessee, he sent somefellers forty mile upstream. And then he’dmarch ’em back and forthand round the hill andback in front of us again

where we could look at’em, until you’d a-thoughtthat every Yankee in theworldwasthere.Butlaws!All thatwas just a dodge!He had fellers a-sawin’tand a-hammerin’, a-buildin’ boats, a-blowin’bugles and a-beatin’drums,makin’allthenoisethey could—you couldhear ’em over yondergittin’ ready—and all the

time Old Rosey was fiftymileormoredownstream,tenmilepastChattanooga,a-fixin’ to git over waydown thar. That was thekindoffellerRoseywas.WereachedChattanooga

early in July and waitedfertwomonths.OldRoseyhadn’t caught up with usyet. He still had to crossthe Cumberland, push hismen and pull his trains

across the ridges andthroughthegapsbeforehegottous.Julywentby,wehad no news of him. “OhLord!” said Jim, “perhapshe ain’t a-comin!” Iknowed he was a-comin’,butIletJimhavehisway.Some of the fellerswould git used to hit. Afeller’dgit intoa frameofmind where he wouldn’tlethitworryhim.He’dlet

termorrer look out ferhitself. That was the wayhitwaswithme.With Jim hit was theother way around. Nowthat he knowed MarthaPatton he was a differentman. I think he hated thewarandarmylifefromthemoment that he met her.From that time he waslivin’ only fer one thing—to go back home and

marrythatgal.Whenmailwould come and some ofus was gittin’ letters he’dbe the first in line; and ifshe wrote him why he’dwalkawaylikesomeoneinadream.And if she failedto write he’d jest go offsomers and set down byhimself: he’d be in such astate of misery he didn’twanttotalktonoone.Hegotthereputationwiththe

fellers fer bein’ queer—unsociable—always a-broodin’ and a-frettin’about somethin’ and a-wantin’ to be left alone.And so, after a time, theylet him be. He wasn’tpopularwithmostofthem—but they never knowedwhat was wrong, theynever knowed that hewasn’treallythewaytheythought hewas at all. Hit

wasjestthathewashitsodesperate hard, theworst-in-love man that I everseed. But law! I knowedwhatwasthetroublefromthestart.Hit’s funny how war

took a feller. Before thewar Iwas theseriousone,andJimhadbeen theonetoplay.I reckon that I’d had to

worktoohard.Wewasso

poor. Before the war hitalmost seemed I neverknowed the time I didn’thave to work. And whenthewar came,why I onlythoughtof all the funandfrolic Iwas goin’ to have;and then at last, when Iknowedwhathitwaslike,whyIwasusedtohitanddidn’tcare.I always could git used

to things. And I reckon

maybe that’s the reasonthatI’mhere.Iwasn’toneto worry much, and nomatter how rough thegoin’gotIalwaysfiggeredI could hold out if theothers could. I lettermorrer look out ferhitself.Ireckonthatyou’dhave to say I was anoptimist.Ifthingsgotbad,well,Ialwaysfiggeredthattheycouldbeworse;andif

they got so bad theycouldn’tbenoworse,whythen I’d figger that theycouldn’t last this wayferever, they’d have to gitsomebettersometimelateron.I reckontoward theendthar,whentheygotsobadwedidn’tthinkthey’devergit no better, I’d reachedthe place where I jestdidn’tcare.Icouldstilllay

downandgo to sleep andnot worry over what wasgoin’ to come termorrer,because I never knowedwhatwastocomeandsoIdidn’t let hit worry me. Ireckon you’d have to saythat was the Pentland inme—ourbeliefinwhatwecallpredestination.Now, Jim was jest the

otherway.Before thewarhewashappyasalarkand

thought of nothin’ excepthavin’ fun. But then thewarcameandhitchangedhim so you wouldn’t a-knowed he was the sameman.And, as I say, hit didn’t

happen all at once. Jimwas the happiest man Ieverseedthatmornin’thatwestartedoutfromhome.Ireckonhethoughtofthewaraswealldid,asabig

frolic. We gave hit jestabout six months. Wefiggered we’d be back bythen,andofcourseallthatjest suited Jim. I reckonthat suited all of us. Itwouldgiveusallachanceto wear a uniform and tosee the world, to shootsome Yankees and to run’em north, and then tocome back home and lordit over those who hadn’t

been and be a hero andcourtthegals.That was the way hitlooked to us whenwe setout from Zebulon. Wenever thought about thewinter. We never thoughtabout the mud and coldand rain. We neverknowedwhathitwouldbeto have to march on anempty belly, to have tomarch barefoot with

frozen feet and with nocoat upon your back, tohave to lay down on bareground and try to sleepwith no coverin’ aboveyou,and thankfulhalf thetime if you could finddrygroundtosleepupon,andtoo tard the rest of hit tocare.Weneverknowedorthought about such thingsasthese.Weneverknowedhowhitwouldbe there in

the cedar thickets besideChickamaugaCreek.Andifwe had a-knowed, ifsomeone had a-told us,why I reckon thatnoneofuswould a-cared.Wewastooyoungand ignorant tocare. And as fer knowin’t—law! The only troubleabout knowin’ is thatyou’ve got to know whatknowin’s like before youknow what knowin’ is.

Thar’snoonethatcantellyou. You’ve got to knowhitferyourself.Well, like I say, we’d

been fightin’ all this timeand still thar was no signof the war endin’. OldRosey jest kept a-follerin’us and—“Lord!” Jimwould say, “will it neverend?”I never knowed myself.

We’dbeen fightin’ fer two

years, and I’d given overknowin’ long ago. WithJimhitwasdifferent.He’dbeen a-prayin’ and a-hopin’ from the first thatsoon hit would be overand thathecouldgobackand get that gal. And atfirst, fer a year ormore, Itried to cheer him up. Itold him that it couldn’tlast forever. But after awhilehitwasn’tnouse to

tell him that.Hewouldn’tbelievemeanylonger.Because Old Rosey kept

a-comin’ on. We’d whuphimandwe’dstophimfera while, but then he’d githis wind, he’d be on ourtrail again, he’d drive usback.— “Oh Lord!” saidJim,“willhitneverstop?”That summer I been

tellin’youabout,hedroveus down through

Tennessee. He drove usoutofShelbyville, andwefellbackonTullahoma,tothe passes of the hills.When we pulled backacross the Cumberland Isaid to Jim: “Now we’vegot him. He’ll have tocross the mountains nowto git at us. Andwhen hedoes, we’ll have him.That’sallthatBragg’sbeenwaitin’fer.We’llwhupthe

daylights out of him thistime,” I said, “and afterthat thar’ll be nothin’ leftof him.We’ll be home byChristmas, Jim—you waitandsee.”And Jim just looked atmeandshookhisheadandsaid: “Lord, Lord, I don’tbelieve this war’ll everend!”Hit wasn’t that he wasafraid—or, if he was, hit

made a wildcat of him inthe fightin’. Jim could getfightin’ mad like no oneelse I ever seed.He coulddothings,takechancesnoone else I ever knowedwould take. But I reckonhit was jest because hewassodesperate.Hehatedhit so much. He couldn’tgitusedtohitthewaytheothers could. He couldn’ttake hit as hit came. Hit

wasn’t so much that hewas afraid to die. I guesshitwasthathewasstillsofull of livin’. He didn’twant to die because hewanted to live so much.And he wanted to live somuch because he was inlove. … So, like I say, Old

Rosey finally pushed usback across theCumberland. He was in

Chattanooga in July, andfer a few weeks hit wasquietthar.ButallthetimeI knowed that Roseywouldkeepcomin’on.Wegot wind of him againalong in August. He hadstarted after us again. Hepushed his trains acrossthe Cumberland, with theroads so bad, what withtherains,hiswagonssunkdowntotheaxlehubs.But

he got ’em over, camedown in the valley, thenacrosstheridge,andearlyin September he was onourheelsagain.We cleared out ofChattanoogaontheeighth.And our tail end waspullin’ out at one end ofthetownasRoseycameinthrough the other. Wedropped down around themountain south of town

andRosey thoughthehadusontherunagain.But this time he wasfooled. We was ready ferhimnow,a-pickin’outourspot and layin’ low. OldRosey follered us.He sentMcCook around downtoward the south to headus off.He thought he hadus in retreat but whenMcCookgottharwewasn’tthar at all. We’d come

down south of town andtaken our positions alongChickamauga Creek.McCook had gone too far.Thomas was follerin’ usfrom the north and whenMcCook tried to git backto join Thomas, hecouldn’t pass us, fer weblockedtheway.Theyhadto fight us or be cut intwo.We was in position on

the Chickamauga on theseventeenth. The Yankeesstreamed in on theeighteenth, and took theirposition in the woods a-facin’ us. We had ourbackstoLookoutMountainand the ChickamaugaCreek. The Yankees hadtheir line thar in thewoodsbeforeusonarise,with Missionary Ridgebehindthemtotheeast.

The Battle ofChickamauga was foughtin a cedar thicket. Thatcedar thicket, fromwhat Iknowed of hit, was aboutthree miles long and onemile wide. We fought fertwodaysallupanddownthatthicketandtoandfroacross hit.When the fightstarted that cedar thicketwassothickanddenseyoucould a-took a butcher

knifeanddrovehitintharanywheres and hit woulda-stuck. And when thatfight was over that cedarthicket had been sodestroyed by shot andshellyoucoulda-lookedinthar anywheres with yournakedeyeandseedablacksnakerunahundredyardsaway. If you’d a-lookedatthat cedar thicket the dayafter that fight was over

you’d a-wondered how ahummin’ bird the size ofyour thumb-nail could a-flown through tharwithout bein’ torn intopiecesbythefire.Andyetmore than half of us whowent into that thicketcame out of hit alive andtoldthetale.Youwouldn’thave thought that hitwaspossible. But I was tharandseedhit,andhitwas.

A little aftermidnight—hit may have been abouttwo o’clock that mornin’,whilewe lay therewaitin’for the fight we knowedwas bound to come nextday—Jim woke me up. Iwokeup like a flash—yougot used to hit in thosedays—and though hit wasso dark you could hardlyseeyourhandafootaway,Iknowedhis faceatonce.

He was white as a ghostand he had got thin as arail in that last year’scampaign. In the dark hisface looked white aspaper. He dug his handinto my arm so hard hithurt. I roused up sharp-like; then I seed him andknowedwhohitwas.“John!” he said

—“John!”—andhedughisfingers inmyarmsohard

hemade hit ache—“John!I’veseedhim!Hewashereagain!”Itellyouwhat,theway

hesaidhitmademybloodrun cold. They say wePentlands are asuperstitious people, andperhapsweare.They toldhit how they saw mybrother George a-comin’up the hill one day atsunset, how they all went

out upon the porch andwaited fer him, howeveryone,thechildrenandthe grown-ups alike, allseed him as he clumb thehill, and how he passedbehind a tree anddisappeared as if theground had swallered him—and how they got thenews ten days later thathe’d been killed atChancellorsville on that

very day and hour. I’veheared these stories and Iknowtheothersallbelievethem, but I never put nostock in themmyself.Andyet, I tell you what! Thesight of that white faceand those black eyes a-burnin’ at me in the dark—thewayhe saidhit andthe way hit was—fer Icouldfeelthemenaroundme and hear somethin’

movin’ in the wood—Ihearedatracechainrattleand hit was enough tomakeyourbloodruncold!I grabbed hold of him—Ishook him by the arm—Ididn’twanttherestof’emto hear—I told him tohushup—“John,hewashere!”hesaid.I never asked himwhathe meant—I knowed too

well to ask. It was thethird timehe’dseedhit ina month—a man upon ahorse.Ididn’twanttohearno more—I told him thathitwasadreamandItoldhimtogobacktosleep.“Itellyou,John,hitwas

no dream!” he said. “OhJohn, I heared hit—and Iheared his horse—and Iseed him sittin’ thar asplainasday—andhenever

saidawordtome—hejestsat thar lookin’down,andthen he turned and rodeaway into the woods.…John, John, I heared himandIdon’tknowwhathitmeans!”Well, whether he seed

hit or imagined hit ordreamedhit,Idon’tknow.But the sight of his blackeyes a-burnin’ holesthrough me in the dark

mademe feel almost as ifI’dseedhit,too.Itoldhimto lay down by me—andstill I seed his eyes a-blazin’ thar. I know hedidn’tsleepawinktherestof that whole night. Iclosed my eyes and triedto make him think that Iwassleepin’buthitwasnouse—we lay thar wideawake.Andbothofuswasgladwhenmornin’came.

The fight began uponour right at ten o’clock.Wecouldn’t findoutwhatwas happenin’: the woodstharwassocloseandthickwe never knowed fer twodays what had happened,and we didn’t know fercertain then. We neverknowedhowmanywewasfightin’ or how many wehad lost. I’veheared themsay that even Old Rosey

himself didn’t know jestwhat had happened whenhe rode back into townnextday,anddidn’tknowthat Thomas was stillstandin’likearock.AndifOldRosey didn’t knownomore than this about hit,what could a commonsoldier know? We foughtback and forth across thatcedarthicketfortwodays,and thar was times when

youwould be right up ontop of them before youeven knowed that theywas thar. And that’s thewaythefightin’went—thebloodiest fightin’ that wasever knowed, until thatcedar thicket was soakedred with blood, and tharwas hardly a place left intharwhereasparrercouldhaveperched.Andas I say,weheared

’em fightin’ out upon ourright at ten o’clock, andthen the fightin’ cameourway. I heared later thatthis fightin’ started whenthe Yanks come down tothe Creek and run into abunchofForrest’smenanddrove ’em back. And thenthey had hit back andforth until they got droveback themselves, andthat’s thewaywe had hit

all day long. We’d attackand then they’d throw usback, then they’d attackand we’d beat them off.And that was the way hitwent from mornin’ tillnight. We piled up thereupon their left: theymowed us down withcanister and grape untilthe very grasswas soakin’with our blood, but wekept comin’ on. We must

have charged a dozentimes that day—I was infour of ’em myself. Wefought back and forthacross that wood untiltherewasn’tapieceofhitasbigasthepalmofyourhandwehadn’tfoughton.We busted through theirright at two-thirty in theafternoon and got wayover past the WidderGlenn’s, where Rosey had

his quarters, and beat ’emback until we got thewhole way ’cross theLafayette Road and tookpossession of the road.And then they drove usout again. And we keptcomin’ on, and both sideswere still at hit afterdarknessfell.We fought back and

forth across that road alldaywithfirstonesideand

thenthet’otherholdin’hituntil that road hitselfwassoaked in blood. TheycalledthatroadtheBloodyLane,andthatwasjestthenameferhit.Wekeptfightin’anhour

or more after hit hadgottendark,andyoucouldseetheriflesflashin’inthewoods, but then hit alldieddown.Itellyouwhat,that night was somethin’

to remember and tomarvel at as long as youlive. The fight had set thewood afire in places, andyou could see the smokeand flames and hear thescreamin’andthehollerin’of the wounded until hitmadeyourbloodruncold.We got as many as wecould—butsomewedidn’teventrytogit—wejestlet’em lay. It was an awful

thing to hear. I reckonmanyawoundedmanwasjest left to die or burn todeathbecausewe couldn’tgit’emout.Youcouldseethenurses

and the stretcher-bearersmovin’throughthewoods,and each side huntin’ ferhits dead. You could seethemmovin’ in the smokean’ flames, an’ you couldsee the dead men layin’

there as thick as wheat,withtheircorpse-likefaces’n black powder on theirlips, an’ a little bit ofmoonlight comin’ throughthe trees, and all of hitmore likeanightmareoutof hell than anything Ieverknowedbefore.But we had other work

to do. All through thenight we could hear theYanks a-choppin’ and a-

thrashin’ round, and weknowed that they wasfellin’ trees to block uswhen we went fer themnext mornin’. Fer weknowedthefightwasonlyjest begun. We figgeredthat we’d had the best ofhit,butweknowednoonehadwonthebattleyet.Weknowed the second daywouldbeatthefirst.Jim knowed hit too.

Poor Jim, he didn’t sleepthat night—he never seedthe man upon the horsethatnighthejestsatthere,a-grippin’ his knees andstarin’, anda-sayin’; “LordGod, LordGod,whenwillhiteverend?”Then mornin’ came at

last.This timeweknowedjest where we was andwhathitwaswehadtodo.Our linewas fixedbythat

time.Braggknowedatlastwhere Rosey had his line,and Rosey knowed wherewe was. So we waitedthere, both sides, tillmornin’ came. Hit was afoggy mornin’ with mistupon the ground. Aroundten o’clockwhen themistbegan to rise, we got theorder and we wentchargin’throughthewoodagain.

We knowed the fightwas goin’ to be upon theright—uponourright,thatis—onRosey’sleft.Andweknowed that Thomas wasin charge on Rosey’s left.And we all knowed thathit was easier to crack aflint rock with your teeththan to make old Thomasbudge. But we went afterhim, and I tell you what,thatwas a fight! The first

day’s fight had been likeplayin’ marbles whencomparedtothis.We hit old Thomas onhis left at half-past ten,and Breckenridge camesweepin’roundandturnedold Thomas’s flank andcame in at his back, andthen we had hit hot andheavy. Old Thomaswhupped his men aroundlikehewouldcrackaraw-

hide whup and droveBreckenridge back aroundthe flank again, but wewas back on top of himbefore you knowed thefirstattackwasover.The fight went ragin’

down the flank, down tothe center of Old Rosey’sarmy and back and forthacross the left, and all upand down old Thomas’sline. We’d hit him right

andleftandinthemiddle,and he’d come back at usand throw us back again.And we went ragin’ backand forth thar like twobloody lions with thatcedarthicketsotoreup,sobloody and so thick withdeadbythattime,thathitlooked as if all hell hadbrokenlooseinthar.Rosey kept a-whuppin’

men around off of his

right, to help old Thomason the left to staveusoff.And then we’d hit oldThomas left of center andwe’d bang him in themiddle and we’d hit himonhis leftagain,andhe’dwhup those Yankees backand forth off of the rightintohis flanks andmiddleas we went fer him, untilwe run those Yankeesragged. We had them

gallopin’ back and forthlike kangaroos, and in theendthatwasthethingthatcookedtheirgoose.The worst fightin’ had

been on the left, onThomas’s line, but toholdus thar they’d thinnedtheir right out and hadfailed to close in on thecenteroftheirline.Andattwoo’clock that afternoonwhen Longstreet seed the

gap inWood’s positiononthe right, he took fivebrigades of us and pouredusthrough.Thatwhuppedthem.Thatbroketheirlineand smashed their wholeright all to smithereens.Wewentafter themlikeapack of ragin’ devils. Wekilled’emandwetook’emby the thousands, andthose we didn’t kill andtake right thar went

streamin’ back across theRidge as if all hellwas attheirheels.ThatwasaroutifeverI

heared tell of one! Theywentstreamin’backacrossthe Ridge—hit was eachman fer himself and thedevil take the hindmost.They caughtRosey comin’up—he rode into them—hetriedtocheck’em,face’em round, andget ’em to

come on again—hit waslike tryin’ to swim theMississippi upstream on aboneyard mule! Theyswepthimbackwiththemas if he’d been a woodenchip. They went streamin’intoRossville like the rag-tag of creation—theworstwhupped army that youever seed, and Old Roseywasalongwithalltherest!He knowed hit was all

upwithhim,orthoughtheknowedhit, foreverybodytold him the Army of theCumberland had beenblowedtosmithereensandthathitwasageneralrout.AndOldRoseyturnedandrode to Chattanooga, andhewasabeatenman. I’veheared tell that when herode up to hisheadquarters thar inChattanooga they had to

help him from his horse,and that he walked intothe house all dazed andfuddled-like, like he neverknowed what hadhappened to him—andthathejestsattharstruckdumbandneverspoke.Thiswas at four o’clock

of that same afternoon.And then the news wasbrought to him thatThomaswasstilltharupon

the field and wouldn’tbudge.OldThomasstayedthar like a rock. We’dsmashed the right, we’dsent it flyin’ back acrossthe Ridge, the wholeYankee right was brokeninto bits and streamin’back to Rossville for dearlife. Then we bent oldThomasbackuponhisleft.We thought we had him,he’dhavetoleavethefield

or else surrender. But oldThomas turned and fellback along the Ridge andput his back against thewallthar,andhewouldn’tbudge.Longstreet pulled usbackatthreeo’clockwhenwe had broken up theright and sent themstreamin’ back across theRidge.Wethoughtthathitwas over then.Wemoved

back stumblin’ like menwalkin’ in a dream. And Iturned to Jim—I put myarm around him, and Isaid:“Jim,whatdidIsay?Iknowedhit,we’velicked’emandthis is theend!” Inever even knowed if heheard me. He wentstumblin’ on beside mewith his face as white aspaper and his lips blackwith the powder of the

cartridge-bite, mumblin’and mutterin’ to himselflike someone talkin’ in adream.Andwefellbacktoposition, and they told usall to rest. Andwe leanedtharonourrifleslikemenwhohardlyknowediftheyhad come out of that hellaliveordead.“Oh Jim, we’ve got ’em

andthisistheend!”Isaid.He leaned thar swayin’

onhisrifle,starin’throughthe wood. He jest leanedand swayed thar, and henever said a word, andthose great eyes of his a-burnin’throughthewood.“Jim, don’t you hear

me?”—andIshookhimbythearm. “Hit’sover,man!We’ve licked ’em and thefight is over!—Can’t youunderstand?”And then I heared them

shoutin’ on the right, theword came down the lineagain,andJim—poorJim!— he raised his head andlistened,and“OhGod!”hesaid, “we’ve got to goagain!”Well, hit was true. The

word had come thatThomashadlinedupuponthe Ridge, and we had togo fer him again. Afterthat I never exactly

knowed what happened.Hit was like fightin’ in abloody dream—like doin’somethin’ in a nightmare—only the nightmare waslike death and hell.Longstreet threw us upthathillfivetimes,Ithink,before darkness came.We’dchargeuptotheverymuzzlesof theirguns,andthey’d mow us down likegrass, and we’d come

stumblin’ back—or whatwas left of us—and formagain at the foot of thehill, and then come onagain. We’d charge rightuptheRidgeanddrive’emthrough the gap and fight’em with cold steel, andthey’d come back againandwe’dbraineachotherwith the butt end of ourguns.Thenthey’dthrowusbackandwe’dre-formand

comeonafter’emagain.The last charge

happened jest at dark.Wecame along and strippedthe ammunition off thedead—we took hit fromthe wounded—we hadnothin’leftourselves.Thenwe hit the first line—andwe drove them back. Wehit the second and sweptover them.Wewere goin’up to take the third and

last—they waited till theysaw the color of our eyesbeforetheyletushavehit.Hitwaslikeariverofred-hotleadhadpoureddownonus:thelinemeltedtharlike snow. Jim stumbledand spun round as ifsomethin’ had whuppedhim like a top. He fellright towardme, with hiseyes wide open and theblood a-pourin’ from his

mouth. I took one look athimandthensteppedoverhimlikehewasalog.Tharwas no more to see orthinkof now—nomore toreach—except that line.We reached hit and theylet us have hit—and westumbledback.Andyetweknowedthat

we had won a victory.That’s what they told uslater—and we knowed hit

must be so because whendaybreak came nextmornin’ the Yankees wasall gone. They had allretreated into town, andwe was left there by theCreek at Chickamauga inpossessionofthefield.I don’t knowhowmanymen got killed. I don’tknow which side lost themost. I only know youcould have walked across

the dead men withoutsettin’ foot upon theground. I only know thatcedar thicket which hadbeen so dense and thicktwo days before youcould’vedroveaknifeintohitandhitwouldofstuck,hadbeensoshottopiecesthat you could’ve lookedintharonMondaymornin’with your naked eye andseed a black snake run a

hundredyardsaway.I don’t knowhowmany

menwe lostorhowmanyof the Yankees we mayhave killed. The Generalsonbothsidescanfiggerallthatouttosuitthemselves.ButIknowthatwhenthatfight was over you couldhave looked in thar andwondered how a hummin’bird could’ve flownthrough that cedar thicket

and come out alive. Andyet that happened, yes,and something more thanhummin’ birds—fer mencameout,alive.And on that Monday

mornin’,whenIwentbackuptheRidgetowhereJimlay, thar just beside himon a little torn piece ofbough, I heard a redbirdsing.IturnedJimoverandgot his watch, his pocket-

knife,andwhatfewpapersandbelongin’sthathehad,and some letters that he’dhad from Martha Patton.And I put them in mypocket.And then I got up and

looked around. It allseemedfunnyafterhithadhappened, like somethingthat had happened in adream. Fer Jim hadwanted so desperate hard

to live, and hit had nevermattered half so much tome, and now I was a-standin’ thar with Jim’swatchandMarthaPatton’slettersinmypocketanda-listenin’ to that littleredbirdsing.And I would go all

through the war and goback home and marryMartha later on, andfellers like poor Jim was

layin’tharatChickamaugaCreek.Hit’s all so strange now

whenyouthinkofhit.Hitall turned out so differentfrom thewaywe thought.And that was long ago,and I’ll be ninety-fiveyears old if I am livin’ ontheseventhdayofAugust,of this present year. Nowthat’s goin’ back a longways, hain’t hit? And yet

hitallcomesbacktomeasclear as if hit happenedyesterday.Andthenhitallwill go away and be asstrange as if hit happenedinadream.ButIhavebeeninsome

big battles I can tell you.I’ve seen strange thingsandbeen inbloody fights.ButthebiggestfightthatIwaseverin—thebloodiestbattle anyone has ever

fought—was atChickamaugainthatcedarthicket—at ChickamaugaCreekinthatgreatwar.

AnOccurrenceatOwlCreekBridge

AMBROSEBIERCE

A man stood upon arailroadbridgeinnorthernAlabama, looking downintotheswiftwatertwentyfeet below. The man’s

hands were behind hisback, the wrists boundwithacord.Aropecloselyencircled his neck. It wasattached to a stout cross-timberabovehisheadandtheslackfelltothelevelofhis knees. Some looseboards laid upon thesleepers supporting themetals of the railwaysupplieda footing forhimand his executioners—two

private soldiers of theFederal army, directed byasergeantwhoincivillifemay have been a deputysheriff. At a short removeupon the same temporaryplatformwas an officer inthe uniform of his rank,armed. He was a captain.A sentinel at each end ofthe bridge stood with hisrifleinthepositionknownas“support,”thatistosay,

vertical in frontof the leftshoulder, the hammerresting on the forearmthrown straight across thechest—a formal andunnatural position,enforcinganerectcarriageof the body. It did notappear to be the duty ofthese two men to knowwhatwasoccurring at thecentre of the bridge; theymerely blockaded the two

ends of the foot plankingthattraversedit.Beyond one of the

sentinels nobody was insight; the railroad ranstraightaway intoa forestforahundredyards, then,curving, was lost to view.Doubtless there was anoutpost farther along. Theother bank of the streamwasopenground—agentleacclivity topped with a

stockade of vertical treetrunks, loop-holed forrifles, with a singleembrasure through whichprotruded themuzzle of abrass cannon commandingthebridge.Midwayof theslope between bridge andfortwerethespectators—asinglecompanyofinfantryinlineat“paraderest,”thebutts of the rifles on theground, the barrels

incliningslightlybackwardagainst the right shoulder,the hands crossed on thestock. A lieutenant stoodattherightoftheline,thepoint of his sword uponthe ground, his left handrested upon his right.Excepting the group offour at the centre of thebridge, not amanmoved.The company faced thebridge, staring stonily,

motionless. The sentinels,facing the banks of thestream, might have beenstatues to adorn thebridge. The captain stoodwith folded arms, silent,observing the work of hissubordinates, but makingno sign. Death is adignitary who when hecomes announced is to bereceived with formalmanifestations of respect,

even by those mostfamiliar with him. In thecode of military etiquettesilenceandfixityareformsofdeference.The man who was

engaged in being hangedwas apparently aboutthirty-fiveyearsofage.Hewasacivilian,ifonemightjudge from his habit,which was that of aplanter. His features were

good—astraightnose,firmmouth, broad forehead,fromwhich his long, darkhair was combed straightback, falling behind hisears to the collar of hiswell-fitting frock-coat. Hewore a mustache andpointed beard, but nowhiskers; his eyes werelarge and dark gray, andhad a kindly expressionwhich one would hardly

have expected in onewhose neck was in thehemp. Evidently this wasno vulgar assassin. Theliberalmilitarycodemakesprovision for hangingmany kinds of persons,and gentlemen are notexcluded.The preparations being

complete, the two privatesoldiers stepped aside andeachdrewawaytheplank

upon which he had beenstanding. The sergeantturned to the captain,salutedandplacedhimselfimmediately behind thatofficer, who in turnedmoved apart one pace.These movements left thecondemned man and thesergeant standing on thetwo ends of the sameplank, which spannedthree of the cross-ties of

the bridge. The end uponwhich the civilian stoodalmost, but not quite,reached a fourth. Thisplank had been held inplacebytheweightofthecaptain; it was now heldbythatofthesergeant.Ata signal from the formerthelatterwouldstepaside,the plank would tilt andthe condemned man godown between two ties.

The arrangementcommended itself to hisjudgment as simple andeffective.His facehadnotbeen covered nor his eyesbandaged. He looked amoment at his“unsteadfast footing,”thenlethisgazewander to theswirling water of thestream racing madlybeneathhisfeet.Apieceofdancing driftwood caught

his attention and his eyesfollowed it down thecurrent. How slowly itappearedtomove!Whatasluggishstream!He closed his eyes in

order to fix his lastthoughtsuponhiswifeandchildren. The water,touched to gold by theearly sun, the broodingmists under the banks atsome distance down the

stream, the fort, thesoldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him.And now he becameconscious of a newdisturbance. Strikingthroughthethoughtofhisdear ones was a soundwhich he could neitherignore nor understand, asharp, distinct, metallicpercussion like the strokeof a blacksmith’s hammer

upon the anvil; it had thesame ringing quality. Hewonderedwhatitwasandwhether immeasurablydistant or near by—itseemed both. Itsrecurrence was regular,but as slow as the tollingof a death knell. Heawaited each stroke withimpatience and—he knewnot why—apprehension.The intervals of silence

grew progressively longer;the delays becamemaddening. With theirgreater infrequency thesounds increased instrength and sharpness.They hurt his ear like thethrustofaknife;hefearedhewould shriek.What heheard was the ticking ofhiswatch.He unclosed his eyes

and saw again the water

belowhim.“IfIcouldfreemyhands,” he thought, “Imight throwoff thenooseandspringintothestream.By diving I could evadethebulletsand, swimmingvigorously,reachthebank,take to thewoodsandgetaway home. My home,thank God, is as yetoutsidetheirlines;mywifeand little ones are stillbeyond the invader’s

farthestadvance.”Asthesethoughts,whichhave here to be set downinwords,wereflashedintothe doomed man’s brainratherthanevolvedfromitthe,captainnoddedtothesergeant. The sergeantsteppedaside.

2

Peyton Farquhar was a

well-to-do planter, of anold and highly respectedAlabama family. Being aslaveownerandlikeotherslave owners a politicianhe was naturally anoriginal secessionist andardently devoted to theSouthern cause.Circumstances of animperiousnature,whichitis unnecessary to relatehere, had prevented him

from taking service withthe gallant army that hadfought the disastrouscampaignsendingwiththefall of Corinth, and hechafed under theinglorious restraint,longing for the release ofhisenergies,thelargerlifeof the soldier, theopportunityfordistinction.That opportunity, he felt,wouldcome,asitcomesto

allinwartime.Meanwhilehe didwhat he could. Noservicewastoohumbleforhim to perform in aid ofthe South, no adventuretoo perilous for him toundertake if consistentwith the character of acivilianwhowasatheartasoldier, and who in goodfaith and without toomuch qualificationassented to at least a part

of the frankly villainousdictum that all is fair inloveandwar.One evening whileFarquhar and his wifewere sitting on a rusticbenchneartheentrancetohis grounds, a gray-cladsoldierrodeuptothegateand asked for a drink ofwater. Mrs. Farquhar wasonly too happy to servehim with her own white

hands. While she wasfetching the water herhusband approached thedusty horseman andinquired eagerly for newsfromthefront.“TheYanksarerepairingthe railroads,” said theman, “and are gettingreadyforanotheradvance.They have reached theOwlCreekbridge,putitinorderandbuiltastockade

on the north bank. Thecommandanthasissuedanorder, which is postedeverywhere,declaringthatany civilian caughtinterfering with therailroad, its bridges,tunnels or trains will besummarily hanged. I sawtheorder.”“HowfarisittotheOwl

Creek bridge?” Farquharasked.

“Aboutthirtymiles.”“Istherenoforceonthissideofthecreek?”“Only a picket post halfamileout,ontherailroad,and a single sentinel atthisendofthebridge.”“Suppose a man—acivilian and student ofhanging—shouldeludethepicket post and perhapsget the better of thesentinel,” said Farquhar,

smiling, “what could heaccomplish?”The soldier reflected. “Iwas there a month ago,”he replied. “I observedthat the flood of lastwinter had lodged a greatquantity of driftwoodagainstthewoodenpieratthisendofthebridge.Itisnow dry and would burnliketow.”The lady had now

brought the water, whichthe soldier drank. Hethanked herceremoniously, bowed toher husband and rodeaway.An hour later, afternightfall, he repassed theplantation, goingnorthwardinthedirectionfromwhich he had come.HewasaFederalscout.

3

As Peyton Farquhar fellstraight downwardthrough thebridgehe lostconsciousness and was asone already dead. Fromthisstatehewasawakened—ages later, it seemed tohim—by the pain of asharp pressure upon histhroat,followedbyasenseof suffocation. Keen,poignant agonies seemedto shoot from his neck

downward through everyfibre of his body andlimbs. These painsappeared to flash alongwell-defined lines oframification and to beatwith an inconceivablyrapid periodicity. Theyseemed like streams ofpulsating fire heating himto an intolerabletemperature. As to hishead, hewas conscious of

nothing but a feeling offulness—of congestion.These sensations wereunaccompanied bythought. The intellectualpart of his nature wasalready effaced; he hadpower only to feel, andfeeling was torment. Hewas conscious of motion.Encompassed in aluminous cloud, of whichhe was now merely the

fiery heart, withoutmaterial substance, heswung throughunthinkable arcs ofoscillation, like a vastpendulum. Then all atonce, with terriblesuddenness, the lightabout him shot upwardwith the noise of a loudplash; a frightful roaringwasinhisears,andallwascold and dark. The power

of thought was restored;heknewthattheropehadbroken and he had fallenintothestream.Therewasno additionalstrangulation; the nooseabouthisneckwasalreadysuffocating him and keptthe water from his lungs.To die of hanging at thebottom of a river!—theidea seemed to himludicrous. He opened his

eyes in the darkness andsawabovehimagleamoflight,buthowdistant,howinaccessible! He was stillsinking, for the lightbecame fainterand fainteruntil it was a mereglimmer.Then itbegan togrowandbrighten,andheknew that he was risingtoward the surface—knewit with reluctance, for hewasnowverycomfortable.

“To be hanged anddrowned,” he thought,“that is not so bad; but Idonotwishtobeshot.No;I will not be shot; that isnotfair.”Hewasnotconsciousofaneffort,butasharppainin his wrist apprised himthat hewas trying to freehis hands. He gave thestruggle his attention, asanidlermightobservethe

feat of a juggler, withoutinterest in the outcome.What splendid effort!—what magnificent, whatsuperhuman strength! Ah,that was a fine endeavor!Bravo!Thecordfellaway;his arms parted andfloated upward, the handsdimlyseenoneachsideinthe growing light. Hewatched themwith a newinterest as first one and

then the other pouncedupon the noose at hisneck. They tore it awayandthrustitfiercelyaside,its undulations resemblingthose of a water-snake.“Put it back, put it back!”He thought he shoutedthese words to his hands,for the undoing of thenoosehadbeen succeededby thedirestpang thathehad yet experienced. His

neck ached horribly; hisbrain was on fire; hisheart, which had beenfluttering faintly, gave agreat leap, trying to forceitselfoutathismouth.Hiswhole body was rackedand wrenched with aninsupportableanguish!Buthisdisobedienthandsgaveno heed to the command.They beat the watervigorously with quick,

downward strokes, forcinghim to the surface.He felthis head emerge; his eyeswere blinded by thesunlight; his chestexpanded convulsively,and with a supreme andcrowning agony his lungsengulfedagreatdraughtofair, which instantly heexpelledinashriek!He was now in fullpossession of his physical

senses.Theywere, indeed,preternaturally keen andalert. Something in theawful disturbance of hisorganic system had soexalted and refined themthat they made record ofthings never beforeperceived. He felt theripples upon his face andheard their separatesounds as they struck. Helookedattheforestonthe

bank of the stream, sawthe individual trees, theleaves and the veining ofeach leaf—saw the veryinsects upon them: thelocusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the grayspiders stretching theirwebsfromtwigtotwig.Henoted the prismatic colorsinallthedewdropsuponamillion blades of grass.Thehummingofthegnats

that danced above theeddies of the stream, thebeatingofthedragon-flies’wings, the strokes of thewater-spiders’ legs, likeoarswhichhadliftedtheirboat—all these madeaudible music. A fish slidalongbeneathhiseyesandhe heard the rush of itsbodypartingthewater.He had come to the

surface facing down the

stream; in a moment thevisible world seemed towheel slowly round,himself the pivotal point,andhesawthebridge,thefort, the soldiers upon thebridge, the captain, thesergeant, the twoprivates,his executioners. Theywere in silhouette againstthebluesky.Theyshoutedand gesticulated, pointingat him. The captain had

drawn his pistol, but didnot fire; the others wereunarmed. Theirmovementsweregrotesqueand horrible, their formsgigantic.Suddenly he heard asharp report andsomethingstruckthewatersmartly within a fewinches of his head,spattering his face withspray. He heard a second

report,andsawoneofthesentinels with his rifle athis shoulder, a light cloudof blue smoke rising fromthe muzzle. The man inthe water saw the eye ofthe man on the bridgegazing into his ownthrough the sights of therifle. He observed that itwas a gray eye andremembered having readthat gray eyes were

keenest, and that allfamous marksmen hadthem. Nevertheless, thisonehadmissed.A counter-swirl hadcaught Farquhar andturned himhalf round; hewasagainlookingintotheforestonthebankoppositethe fort. The sound of aclear, high voice in amonotonous singsong nowrang out behind him and

came across the waterwith a distinctness thatpierced and subdued allother sounds, even thebeating of the ripples inhis ears. Although nosoldier, he had frequentedcampsenoughtoknowthedread significance of thatdeliberate, drawling,aspirated chant; thelieutenant on shore wastaking a part in the

morning’s work. Howcoldlyandpitilessly—withwhat an even, calmintonation, presaging, andenforcingtranquilityinthemen—with whataccurately measuredintervals fell those cruelwords:“Attention,company! … Shoulderarms!…Ready!…Aim!…Fire!”Farquhar dived—dived

asdeeplyashecould.Thewater roared in his earslike the voice of Niagara,yet he heard the dulledthunderof the volley and,rising again toward thesurface,metshiningbitsofmetal,singularlyflattened,oscillating slowlydownward. Some of themtouched him on the faceandhands,thenfellaway,continuing their descent.

One lodged between hiscollar and neck; it wasuncomfortably warm andhesnatcheditout.As he rose to the

surface,gaspingforbreath,hesawthathehadbeenalong timeunderwater; hewas perceptibly fartherdown stream—nearer tosafety. The soldiers hadalmost finished reloading;themetal ramrods flashed

allatonceinthesunshineas they were drawn fromthe barrels, turned in theair, and thrust into theirsockets. The two sentinelsfired again, independentlyandineffectually.Thehuntedmansawallthis over his shoulder; hewas now swimmingvigorously with thecurrent. His brain was asenergetic as his arms and

legs; he thought with therapidityoflightning.“The officer,” hereasoned, “will not makethat martinet’s error asecond time. It is as easyto dodge a volley as asingle shot. He hasprobablyalreadygiventhecommand to fire at will.God help me, I cannotdodgethemall!”An appalling plash

within two yards of himwas followed by a loud,rushingsound,diminuendo,which seemed to travelbackthroughtheairtothefort and died in anexplosionwhichstirredthevery river to its deeps! Arising sheet of watercurvedoverhim,felldownupon him, blinded him,strangledhim!Thecannonhad taken a hand in the

game. As he shook hishead free from thecommotion of the smittenwater he heard thedeflected shot hummingthroughtheairahead,andin an instant it wascrackingandsmashingthebranches in the forestbeyond.“They will not do thatagain,” he thought; “thenext time they will use a

charge of grape. I mustkeepmyeyeuponthegun;thesmokewillappriseme—the report arrives toolate; it lags behind themissile. That is a goodgun.”Suddenlyhe felthimselfwhirled round and round—spinning like a top. Thewater, the banks, theforests, the now distantbridge, fort and men—all

were commingled andblurred. Objects wererepresentedbytheircolorsonly; circular horizontalstreaks of color—that wasall he saw. He had beencaughtinavortexandwasbeing whirled on with avelocity of advance andgyration that made himgiddy and sick. In a fewmoments he was flunguponthegravelatthefoot

of the left bank of thestream—thesouthernbank—and behind a projectingpointwhichconcealedhimfrom his enemies. Thesudden arrest of hismotion, the abrasion ofone of his hands on thegravel, restored him, andhe wept with delight. Hedug his fingers into thesand,threwitoverhimselfin handfuls and audibly

blessed it. It looked likediamonds, rubies,emeralds; he could thinkofnothingbeautifulwhichit did not resemble. Thetrees upon the bank weregiant garden plants; henoted a definite order intheirarrangement, inhaledthe fragrance of theirblooms.A strange, roseatelight shone through thespaces among their trunks

and the wind made intheirbranchesthemusicofaeolian harps. He had nowish to perfect his escape—wascontenttoremaininthat enchanting spot untilretaken.A whiz and rattle ofgrapeshot among thebranches high above hishead roused him from hisdream. The baffledcannoneerhadfiredhima

random farewell. Hesprang to his feet, rushedup the sloping bank, andplungedintotheforest.Allthatdayhetraveled,laying his course by therounding sun. The forestseemed interminable;nowheredidhediscoverabreak in it, not even awoodman’s road. He hadnotknownthathelivedinso wild a region. There

wassomethinguncannyintherevelation.By nightfall he was

fatigued, footsore,famishing. The thought ofhis wife and childrenurged him on. At last hefound a road which ledhiminwhatheknewtobethe right direction. It wasas wide and straight as acity street, yet it seemeduntraveled. No fields

bordered it, no dwellinganywhere.Notsomuchasthe barking of a dogsuggested humanhabitation. The blackbodiesof the trees formeda straight wall on bothsides, terminating on thehorizon in a point, like adiagram in a lesson inperspective. Overhead, ashe looked up through thisrift in the wood, shone

great golden stars lookingunfamiliar and grouped instrange constellations. Hewas sure they werearranged in some orderwhich had a secret andmalign significance. Thewood on either side wasfull of singular noises,among which—once,twice, and again—hedistinctly heard whispersinanunknowntongue.

Hisneckwasinpainandlifting his hand to it hefound it horribly swollen.He knew that it had acircle of black where therope had bruised it. Hiseyes felt congested; hecould no longer closethem. His tongue wasswollen with thirst; herelieved its fever bythrusting it forward frombetweenhis teeth into the

cold air. How softly theturf had carpeted theuntraveled avenue—hecould no longer feel theroadwaybeneathhisfeet!Doubtless, despite hissuffering, he had fallenasleep while walking, fornowheseesanotherscene—perhaps he has merelyrecoveredfromadelirium.Hestandsatthegateofhisownhome.Allisasheleft

it, and all bright andbeautiful in the morningsunshine. He must havetraveled the entire night.Ashepushesopenthegateand passes up the widewhite walk, he sees aflutteroffemalegarments;hiswife,lookingfreshandcoolandsweet,stepsdownfrom the veranda to meethim.At the bottomof thesteps she stands waiting,

with a smile of ineffablejoy, an attitude ofmatchless grace anddignity.Ah,howbeautifulshe is!He springs forwardwithextendedarms.Asheis about to clasp her hefeelsastunningblowuponthe back of the neck; ablindingwhite lightblazesallabouthimwithasoundliketheshockofacannon—then all is darkness and

silence!Peyton Farquhar was

dead; his body, with abrokenneck,swunggentlyfrom side to side beneaththe timbers of the OwlCreekbridge.

MyGrandmotherMillardandGeneralBedfordForrestandtheBattleof

HarrykinCreek

WILLIAMFAULKNER

It would be right aftersupper,beforewehad leftthe table. At first,

beginningwiththedaythenews came that theYankees had takenMemphis, we did it threenights in succession. Butafterthat,aswegotbetterand better and faster andfaster, once aweek suitedGranny.ThenafterCousinMelisandre finally got outof Memphis and came tolive with us, it would bejust once a month, and

when the regiment inVirginia voted Father outof the colonelcy and hecame home and stayedthree months while hemade a crop and got overhismadandorganizedhiscavalry troop for GeneralForrest’s command, wequitdoingitatall.Thatis,we did it one time withFathertheretoo,watching,andthatnightRingoandI

heardhim laughing in thelibrary, the first time hehadlaughedsincehecamehome,untilinaboutahalfaminuteGrannycameoutalready holding her skirtsupandwentsailingupthestairs. So we didn’t do itanymoreuntilFatherhadorganized his troop andwasgoneagain.Granny would fold hernapkin beside her plate.

Shewould speak toRingostanding behind her chairwithout even turning herhead:“Go call Joby and

Lucius.”And Ringo would go

back through the kitchenwithout stopping. Hewould just say, “All right.Look out,” at Louvinia’sback and go to the cabinand come back with not

only Joby and Lucius andthe lighted lantern butPhiladelphia too, eventhough Philadelphiawasn’t going to doanything but stand andwatch and then follow tothe orchard and back tothe house until Grannysaidweweredoneforthattime and she and Luciuscould go back home tobed. And we would bring

down from the attic thebig trunk (we had done itsomanytimesbynowthatwe didn’t even need thelantern anymore to go totheatticandgetthetrunk)whose lock it wasmy jobto oil every Mondaymorning with a featherdipped inchicken fat, andLouvinia would come infrom the kitchenwith theunwashed silver from

supper inadishpanunderone arm and the kitchenclock under the other andset the clock and thedishpan on the table andtake from her apronpocket a pair of Granny’srolled-up stockings andhand them to Granny andGranny would unroll thestockings and take fromthe toe of one of them awadded rag and open the

ragandtakeoutthekeytothe trunk and unpin herwatchfromherbosomandfolditintotheragandputthe rag back into thestocking and roll thestockings back into a balland put the ball into thetrunk. Then with CousinMelisandre andPhiladelphia, watching,andFathertooonthatonetime when he was there,

Grannywouldstandfacingtheclock,herhandsraisedand about eight inchesapartandherneckbowedshecouldwatchtheclock-face over her spectacles,untilthebighandreachedthenearesthour-mark.The rest of us watched

her hands. She wouldn’tspeak again. She didn’tneed to. There would bejust the single light loud

popofherpalmswhenthehand came to the nearesthour-mark; sometimes wewould be alreadymoving,even before her handscame together, all of usthatisexceptPhiladelphia.Granny wouldn’t let herhelp at all, because ofLucius,eventhoughLuciushad done nearly all thedigging of the pit and didmostofthecarryingofthe

trunk each time. ButPhiladelphia had to bethere. Granny didn’t haveto tell her but once. “Iwant the wives of all thefree men here, too,”Grannysaid.“Iwantallofyou free folks to watchwhat the rest of us thatain’t free have to do tokeepthatway.”That began about eight

monthsago.Onedayeven

I realized that somethinghad happened to Lucius.Then I knew that Ringohad already seen it andthatheknewwhat itwas,so that when at lastLouvinia came and toldGranny, it was not as ifLucius had dared hismothertotellherbutasifhe had actually forcedsomebody, he didn’t carewho, to tell her. He had

said itmore thanonce, inthe cabin one nightprobablyforthefirsttime,then after that in otherplacesandtootherpeople,to Negroes from otherplantationseven.Memphiswas already gone then,and New Orleans, and allwe had left of the Riverwas Vicksburg andalthoughwedidn’tbelieveit then, we wouldn’t have

that long. Then onemorningLouvinia came inwhereGrannywas cuttingdown the worn-outuniform pants Father hadworn home from Virginiaso theywould fitme, andtold Granny how Luciuswas saying that soon theYankeeswouldhaveallofMississippi andYoknapatawpha Countytoo and all the niggers

would be free and thatwhen that happened, hewasgoingtobelonggone.Luciuswasworking in thegarden that morning.Granny went out to theback gallery, still carryingthe pants and the needle.She didn’t even push herspectacles up. She said,“You, Lucius,” just once,andLuciuscameoutofthegarden with the hoe and

Granny stood lookingdown at him over thespectacles as she lookedover them at everythingshe did, from reading orsewing to watching theclock-faceuntil theinstantcame to start burying thesilver.“You can go now,” she

said.“Youneedn’twaitontheYankees.”“Go?” Lucius said. “I

ain’tfree.”“You’ve been free for

almost three minutes,”Grannysaid.“Goon.”Lucius blinked his eyes

while you could havecounted about ten. “Gowhere?”hesaid.“I can’t tell you,”

Grannysaid.“Iain’tfree.Iwould imagine you willhave all Yankeedom tomovearoundin.”

Lucius blinked his eyes.He didn’t look at Grannynow. “Was that all youwanted?”hesaid.“Yes,” Granny said. So

he went back to thegarden. And that was thelastwe heard about beingfree from him. That is, itquitshowinginthewayheacted,andifhetalkedanymore of it, even Louvinianeverthoughtitwasworth

bothering Granny with. ItwasGrannywhowoulddothe reminding of it,especially to Philadelphia,especially on the nightswhenwewouldstand likeracehorses at the barrier,watching Granny’s handsuntil they clappedtogether.Each one of us knewexactlywhathewastodo.I would go upstairs for

Granny’s gold hatpin andhersilver-headedumbrellaand her plumed Sundayhat because she hadalready sent her ear-ringsandbroochtoRichmondalong time ago, and toFather’s room for hissilver-backed brushes andto Cousin Melisandre’sroom after she came tolivewithus forher thingsbecause the one time

Granny let CousinMelisandretrytohelptoo,CousinMelisandrebroughtall her dresses down.Ringo would go to theparlor for the candlesticksandGranny’sdulcimerandthe medallion of Father’smother back in Carolina.Andwewouldrunbacktothe dining-room whereLouviniaandLuciuswouldhavetheside-boardalmost

cleared, and Granny stillstanding there andwatching the clock-faceand the trunk both nowwith her hands ready topopagainand theywouldpopandRingoandIwouldstopatthecellardoorjustlong enough to snatch upthe shovels and run on totheorchardandsnatchthebrush and grass and thecriss-crossed sticks away

andhavethepitopenandreadyby the timewe sawthem coming: firstLouviniawith the lantern,thenJobyandLuciuswiththe trunk and Grannywalking beside it andCousin Melisandre andPhiladelphia (and on thatone time Father, walkingalong and laughing)following behind. And onthatfirstnight,thekitchen

clock wasn’t in the trunk.Granny was carrying it,while Louvinia held thelantern so that Grannycould watch the hand,Granny made us put thetrunkintothepitandgrassback over it again andthendigup the trunk andcarryitbacktothehouse.And one night, it seemedlikewehadbeenbringingthe trunk down from the

atticandputtingthesilverinto it and carrying it outto the pit and uncoveringthe pit and then coveringthe pit again and turningaround and carrying thetrunk back to the houseand taking the silver outand putting it backwherewe got it from all winterandallsummer,too;—thatnight, and I don’t knowwho thought of it first,

maybe it was all of us atonce. But anyway theclock-hand had passedfour hour-marks beforeGranny’s hands evenpopped for Ringo and meto run and open the pit.And they came with thetrunk and Ringo and Ihadn’t even put down thelast armful of brush andsticks, to save having tostoop to pick it up again,

andLuciushadn’tevenputdownhisendof the trunkfor the same reason and Ireckon Louvinia was theonly one that knew whatwas coming next becauseRingo and I didn’t knowthat thekitchenclockwasstill sitting on the dining-room table. Then Grannyspoke.Itwasthefirsttimewe had ever heard herspeak between when she

would tell Ringo, “Go callJobyandLucius,”andthentell us both about thirtyminutes later: “Wash yourfeetandgotobed.”Itwasnotloudandnotlong,justtwowords: “Bury it.”Andwe lowered the trunk intothe pit and Joby andLucius threwthedirtbackin and even then RingoandIdidn’tmovewiththebrush until Granny spoke

again, not loud this timeeither: “Go on. Hide thepit.”Andweputthebrushback and Granny said,“Digitup.”Andwedugupthe trunk and carried itback into the house andput the thingsbackwherewegotthemfromandthatwas when I saw thekitchen clock still sittingon the dining-room table.And we all stood there

watching Granny’s handsuntiltheypoppedtogetherandthattimewefilledthetrunkandcarrieditouttotheorchardandlowereditinto the pit quicker thanwehadeverdonebefore.

2

And then when the timecame to really bury thesilver,itwastoolate.After

itwasalloverandCousinMelisandre and CousinPhilipwerefinallymarriedand Father had got donelaughing, Father said thatalways happened when aheterogeneous collectionof people who werecohered simply by anuncomplex will forfreedom engaged with atyrannous machine. Hesaid they would always

losethefirstbattles,andifthey were outnumberedandoutweighedenough,itwouldseemtoanoutsiderthat they were going tolose them all. But theywouldnot.Theycouldnotbe defeated; if they justwilled that freedomstrongly and completelyenoughtosacrificeallelsefor it—ease and comfortand fatness of spirit and

all, until whatever it wasthey had left would beenough, no matter howlittle it was—that veryfreedom itself wouldfinally conquer themachine as a negativeforce like drouth or floodcouldstrangleit.Andlaterstill, after twomore yearsand we knew we weregoing to lose the war, hewas still saying that. He

said, “I won’t see it butyouwill.Youwillseeitinthenextwar,andinallthewars Americans will haveto fight from then on.There will be men fromthe South in the forefrontof all the battles, evenleading some of them,helping those whoconquered us defend thatsame freedom which theybelieved they had taken

from us.” And thathappened: thirty yearslater, and GeneralWheeler, whom Fatherwould have calledapostate, commanding inCuba, and whom oldGeneral Early did callapostateandmatricidetooin the office of theRichmond editor when hesaid:“Iwouldliketohavelived so that when my

time comes, I will seeRobertLeeagain.ButsinceI haven’t, I’m certainlygoing to enjoy watchingthe devil burn that bluecoatoffJoeWheeler.”Wedidn’thavetime.Wedidn’t even know therewere any Yankees inJefferson, let alonewithina mile of Sartoris. Therenever had been many.Therewasnorailroadthen

and no river big enoughfor big boats and nothingin Jefferson they wouldhave wanted even if theyhad come, since this wasbeforeFatherhadhadtimetoworry them enough forGeneral Grant to issue ageneral order with areward for his capture. Sowe had got used to thewar. We thought of it asbeing definitely fixed and

establishedasarailroadora river is, moving eastalong the railroad fromMemphis and south alongthe River towardVicksburg. We had heardtalesofYankeepillageandmostofthepeoplearoundJefferson stayed ready tobury their silver fast too,though I don’t reckon anyof thempracticeddoing itlike we did. But nobody

we knewwas even kin toanyone who had beenpillaged, and so I don’tthink that even Luciusreally expected anyYankees until thatmorning.It was about eleveno’clock. The table wasalready set for dinner andeverybody was beginningto kind of ease up so wewould be sure to hear

whenLouviniawentouttothe back gallery and rangthe bell, when Ab Snopescame inatadead run,ona strange horse as usual.He was a member ofFather’s troop. Not afightingmember;hecalledhimself father’s horse-captain, whatever hemeant by it, though wehad a pretty good idea,and none of us at least

knew what he was doingin Jefferson when thetroop was supposed to beup in Tennessee withGeneral Bragg, andprobably nobodyanywhereknew theactualtruthabouthowhegotthehorse,gallopingacrosstheyardandrightthroughoneof Granny’s flower bedsbecauseIreckonhefiguresthatcarryingamessagehe

could risk it, and onaround to the backbecause he knew that,messageornomessage,hebetter not come toGranny’s front doorhollering that way, sittingthat strange blown horsewithaU.S.armybrandonit you could read threehundred yards and yellingupatGrannythatGeneralForrest was in Jefferson

but there was a wholeregiment of Yankeecavalry not a half a miledowntheroad.So we never had time.AfterwardFatheradmittedthat Granny’s error wasnot in strategy nor tacticseither, even though shehad copied from someoneelse.Becausehesaidithadbeen a long time nowsince originality had been

a component of militarysuccess. It just happenedtoo fast. I went for Jobyand Lucius andPhiladelphia becauseGranny had already sentRingo down to the roadwith a cup towel towavewhen they came in sight.Then she sent me to thefront window where Icould watch Ringo. WhenAbSnopescamebackfrom

hiding his new Yankeehorse, he offered to goupstairs to get the thingsthere. Granny had told usa long time ago never toletAbSnopesgoanywhereabout the house unlesssomebody was with him.She said shewould ratherhaveYankeesinthehouseany day because at leastYankeeswould havemoredelicacy, even if it wasn’t

anything but good sense,than to steal a spoon orcandlestickandthentrytosell it to one of her ownneighbors, as Ab Snopeswould probably do. Shedidn’t even answer him.She just said, “Stand overthere by that door and bequiet.” So CousinMelisandre went upstairsafter all and Granny andPhiladelphia went to the

parlor for the candlesticksandthemedallionandthedulcimer, Philadelphia notonlyhelpingthistime,freeor not, but Grannywasn’tevenusingtheclock.It just all happened atonce. One second Ringowas sitting on the gate-post, looking up the road.The next second he wasstandingon it andwavingthe cup towel and then I

wasrunningandhollering,back to the dining-room,andIrememberthewhitesofJoby’sandLucius’sandPhiladelphia’s eyes and Iremember CousinMelisandre’s eyes whereshe leaned against theside-board with the backof her hand against hermouth, and Granny andLouvinia and Ab Snopesglaring at one another

across the trunk and Icould hear Louvinia’svoice even louder thanmine:“Miz Cawmpson! MizCawmpson!”“What?” Granny cried.“What? Mrs. Compson?”Then we all remembered.It was when the firstYankee scouting patrolentered Jefferson over ayear ago. The war was

new then and I supposeGeneral Compson was theonlyJeffersonsoldier theyhadheardofyet.Anyway,the officer asked someonein the Square whereGeneral Compson livedand old Doctor HolstonsenthisNegroboybybackalleys and across lots towarn Mrs. Compson intime, and the story washow the Yankee officer

sent some of his menthrough the empty houseandhimselfrodearoundtothe back where old AuntRoxanne was standing infront of the outhousebehind the closed door ofwhich Mrs. Compson wassitting, fully dressed eventoherhatandparasol,onthe wicker hampercontaining her plate andsilver. “Miss in dar,”

Roxannesaid.“Stopwhereyouis.”Andthestorytoldhow the Yankee officersaid, “Excuse me,” andraised his hat and evenbacked the horse a fewstepsbeforeheturnedandcalled his men and rodeaway.“Theprivy!”Grannycried.“Hell fire,MizMillard!”Ab Snopes said. AndGranny never said

anything.Itwasn’tlikeshedidn’t hear, because shewas looking right at him.Itwaslikeshedidn’tcare;that she might have evensaid it herself. And thatshows how things werethen: we just never hadtime for anything. “Hellfire,” Ab Snopes said, “allnorth Missippi has doneheard about that! Thereain’tawhiteladybetween

here and Memphis thatain’t setting in the backhouse on a grip full ofsilverrightthisminute.”“Then we’re alreadylate,” Granny said.“Hurry.”“Wait!” Ab Snopes said.“Wait! Even the Yankeeshave done caught on tothatbynow!”“Then let’s hope theseare different Yankees,”

Grannysaid.“Hurry.”“But Miz Millard!” AbSnopes cried. “Wait!Wait!”But then we could hearRingo yelling down at thegateand I rememberJobyand Lucius andPhiladelphia and Louviniaand the balloon-likeswaying of CousinMelisandre’s skirts as theyran across the back yard,

the trunk somewhereamong them; I rememberhow Joby and Luciustumbledthetrunkintothelittle tall narrow flimsysentry-box and Louviniathrust Cousin Melisandrein and slammed the doorand we could hear Ringoyelling good now, almostto the house, and then Iwas back at the frontwindow and I saw them

just as they swept aroundthe house in a kind ofstraggling-clump—six menin blue, riding fast yetwith something curious intheactionofthehorses,asif they were not onlyyoked together in spansbut were hitched to asingle wagon-tongue, thenRingoonfootrunningandnot yelling now, and lastof all the seventh rider,

bareheaded and standingin his stirrups and with asabreoverhishead.ThenIwas on the back galleryagain, standing besideGrannyabovethatmoilofhorses and men in theyard, and she was wrong.Itwasasifthesewerenotonly the same ones whohad been at Mrs.Compson’s last year, butsomebody had even told

them exactly where ourouthouse was. The horseswereyokedinpairs,butitwasnotawagon-tongue,itwas a pole, almost a log,twenty feet long, slungfrom saddle to saddlebetween the three span;and I remember the faces,unshavenandwanandnotso much peering asfrantically gleeful, glaringup at us for an instant

before the men leapeddownandunslungthepoleandjerkedthehorsesasideand picked up the pole,three toa side,andbegantorunacrosstheyardwithit as the last rider camearound the house, in gray(an officer: it was CousinPhilip, though of coursewe didn’t know that then,and therewasgoing tobea considerable more

uproar and confusionbefore he finally becameCousin Philip and ofcoursewedidn’tknowthateither), the sabre stilllifted and not onlystandinginthestirrupsbutalmost lying down alongthe horse’s neck. The sixYankees never saw him.And we used to watchFatherdrillinghistroopinthe pasture, changing

themfromcolumntotroopfront at full gallop, andyou could hear his voiceeven above the sound ofthegallopinghoovesbutitwasn’t a bit louder thanGranny’s. “There’s a ladyinthere!”shesaid.ButtheYankees never heard herany more than they hadseenCousinPhilipyet,thewhole mass of them, thesix men running with the

pole and Cousin Philip onthe horse, leaning outabove them with a liftedsabre, rushing on acrossthe yard until the end ofthe pole struck theouthouse door. It didn’tjust overturn, it exploded.One second it stood there,tallandnarrowandflimsy;the next second it wasgoneand therewasaboilof yelling men in blue

coats darting and dodgingaround under CousinPhilip’s horse and theflashing sabre until theycouldfindachancetoturnandrun.Thentherewasascatter of planks andshingles and CousinMelisandre sitting besidethe trunk in themiddleofit, in the spread of herhoops, her eyes shut andher mouth open, still

screaming, and after awhile a feeble popping ofpistol-shots from downalongthecreekthatdidn’tsound any more like warthan a boy withfirecrackers.“I tried to tell you towait!” Ab Snopes saidbehind us, “I tried to tellyou them Yankees haddonecaughton!”After Joby and Lucius

and Ringo and I finishedburying the trunk in thepit and hiding the shovel-marks, I found CousinPhilip in the summerhouse. His sabre and beltwere propped against thewall but I don’t reckoneven he knew what hadbecomeofhishat.Hehadhis coat off too and waswiping it with hishandkerchiefandwatching

the house with one eyearound the edge of thedoor. When I came in hestraightened up and Ithought at first he waslookingatme.ThenIdon’tknowwhathewaslookingat.“Thatbeautifulgirl,”hesaid.“Fetchmeacomb.”“They’rewaitingforyou

in the house,” I said.“Granny wants to knowwhat’sthematter.”Cousin

Melisandre was all rightnow. It took Louvinia andPhiladelphia both andfinally Granny to get herinto the house butLouvinia brought theelder-flower wine beforeGranny had time to sendher after it and nowCousin Melisandre andGranny were waiting intheparlor.“Your sister,” Cousin

Philip said. “And a hand-mirror.”“No, Sir,” I said. “She’sjust our cousin. FromMemphis. Granny says—”Because he didn’t knowGranny.Itwasprettygoodfor her to wait any timeforanybody.Buthedidn’tevenletmefinish.“That beautiful, tendergirl,”hesaid.“Andsendanigger with a basin of

waterandatowel.”Iwentback toward the house.This time when I lookedbackIcouldn’tseehiseyearound the door-edge.“And a clothes brush,” hesaid.Granny wasn’t waitingverymuch.Shewasatthefront door. “Now what?”she said. I toldher. “Doesthe man think we aregiving a ball here in the

middle of the day? Tellhim I said to come on inand wash on the backgallery like we do.Louvinia’s putting dinneron, and we’re alreadylate.” But Granny didn’tknowCousinPhilipeither.I told her again. Shelooked at me. “What didhesay?”shesaid.“He didn’t say

anything,” I said. “Just

thatbeautifulgirl.”“That’sallhesaidtome

too,” Ringo said. I hadn’theardhimcomein.“Sidesthe soap and water. Justthatbeautifulgirl.”“Was he looking at you

eitherwhen he said it?” Isaid.“No,”Ringosaid.“I just

thought for a minute hewas.”Now Granny looked at

Ringoandmeboth.“Hah,”she said, and afterwardwhen I was older I foundout that Granny alreadyknew Cousin Philip too,that shecould lookatoneof them and know all theother Cousin Melisandresand Cousin Philips bothwithout having to seethem. “I sometimes thinkthat bullets are just aboutthe least fatal things that

fly,especially inwar.—Allright,”shesaid.“Takehimhis soap and water. Buthurry.”We did. This time hedidn’t say “that beautifulgirl.”He said it twice.Hetook off his coat andhandedittoRingo.“Brushit good,” he said. “Yoursister,Iheardyousay.”“No,youdidn’t”Isaid.“Nomatter,” he said. “I

want a nosegay. To carryinmyhand.”“Those flowers areGranny’s,”Isaid.“Nomatter,”hesaid.Herolled up his sleeves andbegan to wash. “A smallone. About a dozenblooms. Get somethingpink.”I went and got theflowers. I don’t knowwhether Granny was still

at the front door or not.Maybeshewasn’t.Atleastshe never said anything.So I picked the ones AbSnopes’newYankeehorsehad already trampleddown and wiped the dirtoff of them andstraightened themoutandwent back to the summerhouse where Ringo washolding the hand-glasswhile Cousin Philip

combed his hair. Then heput on his coat andbuckledonhissabreagainand held his feet out oneatatimeforRingotowipehis boots off with thetowel, andRingo saw it. Iwouldn’t have spoken atall because we werealready later for dinnerthan ever now, even ifthere hadn’t never been aYankeeontheplace.“You

toreyourbritchesonthemYankees,”Ringosaid.So I went back to the

house. Granny wasstanding in the hall. Thistime she just said, “Yes?”Itwasalmostquiet.“He tore his britches,” I

said. And she knew moreabout Cousin Philip thanevenRingo could find outbylookingathim.Shehadthe needle already

threaded in the bosom ofherdress.AndIwentbackto the summer house andthenwe cameback to thehouse and up to the frontdoorand Iwaited forhimto go into the hall but hedidn’t, he just stood thereholdingthenosegayinonehand and his hat in theother, not very old,looking at that momentanyway not very much

older than Ringo and mefor all his braid and sashand sabre and boots andspurs, and even after justtwo years looking like allour soldiers and most ofthe other people too did:as if it had been so longnow since he had had allhe wanted to eat at onetimethatevenhismemoryandpalatehadforgottenitand only his body

remembered, standingtherewithhisnosegayandthat beautiful-girl look inhis face like he couldn’thaveseenanythingevenifhehadbeenlookingatit.“No,” he said.“Announce me. It shouldbe your nigger. But nomatter.” He said his fullname, all three of them,twice, as if he thought ImightforgetthembeforeI

couldreachtheparlor.“Go on in,” I said.

“They’re waiting for you.They had already beenwaiting for you evenbefore you found yourpantsweretorn.”“Announceme,”hesaid.

He said his name again.“OfTennessee.Lieutenant,Savage’s Battalion,Forrest’s Command,Provisional Army,

DepartmentoftheWest.”SoIdid.Wecrossedthe

hall to the parlor, whereGranny stood betweenCousin Melisandre’s chairand the table where thedecanter of elder-flowerwine and three freshglassesandevenaplateoftheteacakesLouviniahadlearned to make fromcornmeal and molasseswere sitting, and he

stoppedagainatthatdoortooandIknowhecouldn’teven see CousinMelisandre for a minute,even thoughheneverhadlookedatanythingelsebuther. “Lieutenant Philip St-Just Back-house,” I said. Isaid it loud, because hehadrepeatedittomethreetimessoIwouldbesuretogetitrightandIwantedtosayittosuithimtoosince

even if he hadmade us agood hour late for dinner,at least he had saved thesilver. “Of Tennessee,” Isaid. “Savage’s Battalion,Forrest’s Command,Provisional Army,DepartmentoftheWest.”While you could countmaybe five, there wasn’tanything at all. ThenCousin Melisandrescreamed. She sat bolt

upright on the chair likeshe had sat beside thetrunkinthelitterofplanksand shingles in the backyard this morning, withher eyes shut and hermouth open again,screaming.

3

So we were still anotherhalf an hour late for

dinner.ThoughthistimeitneverneededanybodybutCousinPhiliptogetCousinMelisandreupstairs.Allheneeded to do was try tospeak to her again. ThenGranny came back downandsaid,“Well,ifwedon’twant to justquitandstartcalling it supper, we’dbetter walk in and eat itwithinthenexthourandahalf at least.” So we

walked in.Ab Snopeswasalready waiting in thedining-room. I reckon hehad been waiting longerthan anybody, becauseafterallCousinMelisandrewasn’t any kin to him.RingodrewGranny’schairandwesatdown.Someofit was cold. The rest of ithad been on the stove solong now that when youate it it didn’t matter

whetheritwascoldornot.But Cousin Philip didn’tseem tomind.Andmaybeit didn’t take his memoryvery long to rememberagain what it was like tohaveallhewanted toeat,butIdon’tthinkhispalateever tasted any of it. Hewouldsit thereeating likehehadn’tseenanyfoodofany kind in at least aweek, and like he was

expecting what was evenalready on his fork tovanishbeforehecouldgetit intohismouth.Thenhewould stop with the forkhalfway to hismouth andsittherelookingatCousinMelisandre’s empty place,laughing. That is, I don’tknow what else to call itbutlaughing.UntilatlastIsaid,“Why don’t you change

yourname?”ThenGrannyquiteatingtoo.Shelookedatmeoverher spectacles. Then shetookbothhandsandliftedthe spectaclesuphernoseuntil shecould lookatmethrough them. Then sheevenpushedthespectaclesup intoher fronthair andlooked at me. “That’s thefirst sensible thing I’veheard said on this place

since eleven o’clock thismorning,”shesaid.“It’ssosensible and simple that Ireckon only a child couldhave thought of it.” Shelookedathim.“Whydon’tyou?”He laughed some more.That is, his face did thesamewayandhemadethesame sound again. “Mygrandfather was at King’sMountain,withMarionall

through Carolina. Myuncle was defeated forGovernor of Tennessee bya corrupt and traitorouscabal of tavern-keepersand RepublicanAbolitionists, and myfatherdiedatChapultepec.After that, the name theyboreisnotminetochange.Evenmylifeisnotminesolong as my country liesbleeding and ravished

beneath an invader’s ironheel.” Then he stoppedlaughing, or whatever itwas. Then his face lookedsurprised. Then it quitlooking surprised, thesurprise fading out of itsteady at first andgradually faster but notvery much faster like theheatfadesoutofapieceofiron on a blacksmith’sanvil until his face just

looked amazed and quietand almost peaceful.“UnlessIloseitinbattle,”hesaid.“You can’t verywell do

that sitting here,” Grannysaid.“No,” he said. But I

don’t think he even heardher except with his ears.He stood up. Even AbSnopes was watching himnow, his knife stopped

halfwaytohismouthwithawadofgreensontheendoftheblade.“Yes,”CousinPhilip said. His face evenhad the beautiful-girl lookonitagain.“Yes,”hesaid.HethankedGrannyforhisdinner. That is, I reckonthat’swhathehadtoldhismouth to say. It didn’tmake much sense to us,but I don’t think he waspaying any attention to it

at all. He bowed. Hewasn’t looking at Grannynor at anything else. Hesaid “Yes” again. Then hewent out. Ringo and Ifollowed to the frontdoorand watched him mounthis horse and sit there fora minute, bareheaded,looking up at the upstairswindows. It was Granny’sroom he was looking at,with mine and Ringo’s

roomnexttoit.ButCousinMelisandre couldn’t haveseen him even if she hadbeenineitheroneofthem,since she was in bed ontheothersideofthehousewithPhiladelphiaprobablystill wringing the clothsoutincoldwatertolayonherhead.Hesatthehorsewell.He rode itwell, too:lightandeasyandbackinthe saddle and toes in

perpendicular from ankleto knee as Father hadtaught me. It was a goodhorsetoo.“It’s a damn good

horse,”Isaid.“Git the soap,” Ringo

said.But even then I looked

quick back down the hall,even if I could hearGranny talking to AbSnopesinthedining-room.

“She’sstillinthere,”Isaid.“Hah,” Ringo said. “I

done tasted soap in mymouthforacussIthoughtwasaheapfurtheroffthanthat.”Then Cousin Philip

spurredthehorseandwasgone. Or so Ringo and Ithought. Two hours agonone of us had ever evenheard of him; CousinMelisandre had seen him

twiceandsatwithhereyesshutscreamingbothtimes.But after we were older,Ringo and I realized thatCousin Philip wasprobably the only one inthe whole lot of us thatreally believed even forone moment that he hadsaid goodbye forever, thatnot only Granny andLouvinia knew better butCousinMelisandredidtoo,

no matter what his lastnamehad the bad luck tobe.We went back to thedining-room. Then Irealized that Ab Snopeshadbeenwaitingforustocome back. Thenwe bothknewhewas going to askGrannysomethingbecausenobodywantedtobealonewhen they had to askGranny something even

when they didn’t knowthey were going to havetrouble with it. We hadknownAb for over a yearnow.Ishouldhaveknownwhat it was like Grannyalready did. He stood up.“Well, Miz Millard,” hesaid. “I figger you’ll besafeallrightfromnowon,with Bed Forrest and hisboys right there inJefferson. But until things

quiet down a mite more,I’ll justleavethehorsesinyourlotforadayortwo.”“What horses?” Granny

said. She and Ab didn’tjust look at one another.Theywatchedoneanother.“Them fresh-captured

horsesfromthismorning,”Absaid.“What horses?” Granny

said.ThenAbsaidit.“My horses.” Ab

watchedher.“Why?” Granny said.

But Ab knew what shemeant.“I’m the only grown

man here,” he said. Thenhesaid,“Iseenthemfirst.They were chasing mebefore—” Then he said,talking fast now; his eyeshad gone kind of glazedforasecondbutnowtheywerebrightagain, looking

in the stubbly dirty-colored fuzz on his facelike two chips of brokenplate in a worn-out door-mat: “Spoils of war! Ibroughtthemhere!Itolledthem in here: a militaryand-bush!Andas theonlyand ranking Confedritmilitarysoldierpresent—”“You ain’t a soldier,”

Granny said. “Youstipulated that to Colonel

Sartoris yourself while Iwas listening. You toldhimyourselfyouwouldbehis independent horse-captainbutnothingmore.”“Ain’t that just exactlywhat I am trying to be?”hesaid.“Didn’t Ibringallsixof themhorses inhereinmyownpossession, thesame as if I was leadingthemonarope?”“Hah,” Granny said. “A

spoil of war or any otherkind of spoil don’t belongto a man or a womaneither until they can takeit home and put it downand turn their back on it.Youneverhadtimetogethome with even the oneyou were riding. You ranin the first open gate youcame to, nomatterwhosegateitwas.”“Except it was the

wrong one,” he said. Hiseyes quit looking likechina. They didn’t looklikeanything.ButIreckonhis face would still looklike an old door-mat evenafterhehadturnedallthewaywhite. “So I reckon Igot to even walk back totown,” he said. “Thewomanthatwould…”Hisvoice stopped. He andGranny looked at one

another.“Don’t you say it,”

Grannysaid.“Nome,” he said. He

didn’tsayit.“…amanofsevenhorsesain’tlikelytolendhimamule.”We all went out to the

lot. I don’t reckon thateven Ab knew until thenthat Granny had alreadyfoundwherehethoughthehad hidden the first horse

and had it brought up tothe lotwith the other six.Butatleasthealreadyhadhis saddle andbridlewithhim. But it was too late.Six of the horses movedaboutlooseinthelot.Theseventh one was tied justinside the gate with apiece of plow-line. Itwasn’t the horse Ab hadcome on because thathorsehadablaze.Abhad

known Granny longenough too. He shouldhave known. Maybe hedid. But at least he tried.Heopenedthegate.“Well,” he said, “it ain’t

gettingnoearlier.IreckonIbetter—”“Wait,” Granny said.

Then we looked at thehorse which was tied tothefence.Atfirstglanceitlooked thebestoneof the

seven. You had to see itjust right to tell its nearleg was sprung a little,maybe frombeingworkedtoo hard too young undertoo much weight. “Takethatone,”Grannysaid.“That ain’t mine,” Absaid.“That’soneofyourn.I’lljust—”“Takethatone,”Grannysaid.Ablookedather.Youcould have counted at

leastten.“Hell fire,MizMillard,”hesaid.“I’ve told you beforeabout cursing on thisplace,”Grannysaid.“Yessum,”Absaid.Thenhe said it again: “Hellfire.”Hewent into the lotand rammed the bit intothetiedhorse’smouthandclapped the saddleonandsnatched the piece of

plow-line off and threw itover the fence and got upand Granny stood thereuntilhehad riddenoutofthe lot and Ringo closedthe gate and thatwas thefirst time I noticed thechain and padlock fromthe smokehouse door andRingo locked it andhanded Granny the keyand Ab sat for a minute,looking down at her.

“Well, good-day,” he said.“Ijusthopeforthesakeofthe Confedricy that BedForrest don’t never tanglewith you with all thehorses he’s got.” Then hesaiditagain,maybeworsethis time because now hewas already on a horsepointed toward the gate:“Or you’ll damn shoreleave him just one morepasselofinfantrybeforehe

canspittwice.”Then he was gone too.

Except for hearing CousinMelisandre now and then,and those six horses withU.S.brandedon theirhipsstanding in the lot, itmight never havehappened. At least Ringoand I thought thatwasallof it. Every now and thenPhiladelphia would comedownstairs with the

pitcher and draw somemorecoldwaterforCousinMelisandre’sclothsbutwethought that after awhileeven thatwould justwearout and quit. ThenPhiladelphia came downagain and came in towhereGrannywas cuttingdown a pair of YankeepantsthatFatherhadwornhome last time so theywouldfitRingo.Shedidn’t

say anything. She juststood in the door untilGranny said, “All right.Whatnow?”“She want the banjo,”Philadelphiasaid.“What?” Granny said.“My dulcimer? She can’tplayit.Gobackupstairs.”But Philadelphia didn’tmove.“CouldIaxMammytocomehelpme?”“No,” Granny said.

“Louvinia’s resting. She’shadaboutasmuchof thisas Iwanther tostand.Goback upstairs. Give hersome more wine if youcan’t think of anythingelse.” And she told Ringoand me to go somewhereelse, anywhere else, butevenintheyardyoucouldstill hear CousinMelisandre talking toPhiladelphia.Andoncewe

evenheardGrannythoughit was still mostly CousinMelisandre telling Grannythat she had alreadyforgiven her, that nothingwhatever had happenedand that all she wantednowwas peace. And afterawhile Louvinia came upfrom the cabin withouteven being sent for andwent upstairs and then itbegantolooklikewewere

goingtobelateforsuppertoo. But Philadelphiafinally came down andcooked it and carriedCousin Melisandre’s trayup and then we quiteating; we could hearLouvinia overhead, inGranny’s room now, andshecamedownandsettheuntasted tray on the tableand stood besideGranny’schair with the key to the

trunkinherhand.“Allright,”Grannysaid.

“GocallJobyandLucius.”Wegotthelanternandtheshovels. We went to theorchard and removed thebrush and dug up thetrunkandgotthedulcimerand buried the trunk andput the brush back andbrought the key in toGranny. And Ringo and Icould hear her from our

room and Granny wasright. We heard her for alongtimeandGrannywassurelyright;shejustneversaid but half of it. Themoon came up after awhile and we could lookdown from our windowinto the garden, atCousinMelisandre sitting on thebench with the moonlightglintingon thepearl inlayof the dulcimer, and

Philadelphia squatting onthesillofthegatewithherapron over her head.Maybe she was asleep. Itwas already late. But Idon’tseehow.So we didn’t hearGranny until she wasalready in the room, hershawl over her nightgownand carrying a candle. “InaminuteI’mgoingtohaveabout all of this I aim to

stand too,” she said. “Gowake Lucius and tell himto saddle the mule,” shetold Ringo. “Bringme thepenandinkandasheetofpaper.” I fetched them.She didn’t sit down. Shestood up at the bureauwhile I held the candle,writing even and steadyand not very much, andsigned her name and letthe paper lie open to dry

until Lucius came in. “AbSnopes said that Mr.ForrestisinJefferson,”shetold Lucius. “Find him.Tellhim Iwill expecthimhere for breakfast in themorning and tobring thatboy.” She used to knowGeneral Forrest inMemphis before he got tobe a general. He used totrade with GrandfatherMillard’ssupplyhouseand

sometimeshewouldcomeouttositwithGrandfatheron the front gallery andsometimes he would eatwith them. “You can tellhim I have six capturedhorses for him,” she said.“And never mind patter-rollers or soldiers either.Haven’t you got mysignatureonthatpaper?”“I ain’t worrying about

them,” Lucius said. “But

supposethemYankees—”“I see,” Granny said.“Hah. I forgot. You’vebeen waiting for Yankees,haven’tyou?Butthosethismorning seemed tobe toobusy trying to stay free tohave much time to talkaboutit,didn’tthey?—Getalong,” she said. “Do youthink anyYankee is goingto dare ignore what aSouthernsoldierorevena

patter-roller wouldn’t—And you go to bed,” shesaid.Welaydown,bothofuson Ringo’s pallet. Weheard the mule whenLuciusleft.Thenweheardthe mule and at first wedidn’t know we had beenasleep, the mule comingback now and the moonhadstarteddownthewestandCousinMelisandreand

Philadelphia were gonefromthegarden, towherePhiladelphiaat leastcouldsleepbetterthansittingonasquaresillwithanapronover her head, or at leastwhere itwas quieter. Andwe heard Lucius fumblingupthestairsbutweneverheard Granny at allbecauseshewasalreadyatthe top of the stairs,talking down at the noise

Lucius was trying not tomake. “Speak up,” shesaid. “I ain’t asleep but Iain’t a lip-reader either.Notinthedark.”“Genl Fawhrest say he

respectful compliments,”Lucius said, “and he can’tcome to breakfast thismorningbecausehegontertobewhuppinGenlSmithat Tallahatchie Crossingabout that time. But

providin’ he ain’t too furaway in the wrongdirection when him andGenlSmithgitdone,hebeproud to accept yourinvitation next time he inthe neighborhood.And hesay‘whutboy.’”While you could count

about five, Granny didn’tsay anything. Then shesaid,“What?”“He say ‘whut boy,’ ”

Luciussaid.Then you could have

counted ten. All we couldhearwasLuciusbreathing.Then Granny said: “Didyouwipethemuledown?”“Yessum,”Luciussaid.“Did you turn her back

intothepasture?”“Yessum,”Luciussaid.“Then go to bed,”

Granny said. “And youtoo,”shesaid.

General Forrest foundout what boy. This timewe didn’t know we hadbeen asleep either, and itwasnoonemulenow.Thesun was just rising.Whenwe heard Granny andscrambled to the window,yesterday wasn’t a patchon it. There were at leastfiftyofthemnow,ingray;the whole outdoors wasfullofmenonhorses,with

Cousin Philip out in frontof them, sitting his horseinalmostexactlythesamespot where he had beenyesterday, looking up atGranny’s window and notseeing it or anything elsethis time either.He had ahatnow.Hewasholdingitclampedoverhisheartandhe hadn’t shaved andyesterday he had lookedyounger than Ringo

becauseRingo always hadlooked about ten yearsolder than me. But now,with the first sun-raymakingalittlesoftfuzzinthe gold-colored stubbleonhisface,helookedevenyounger than I did, andgauntandworninthefacelike he hadn’t slept anylast night and somethingelseinhisfacetoo:likehenot only hadn’t slept any

last night but by godfreyhe wasn’t going to sleeptonighteitheraslongashehadanythingtodowithit.“Goodbye,” he said.“Goodbye,” and whirledhis horse, spurring, andraisedthenewhatoverhishead like he had carriedthe sabre yesterday andthe whole mass of themwent piling back acrossflower beds and lawn and

all and back down thedrive toward the gatewhileGrannystillstoodather window in hernightgown, her voicelouder than any man’sanywhere, I don’t carewho he is or what hewould be doing:“Backhouse! Backhouse!You,Backhouse!”So we ate breakfast

early. Granny sent Ringo

in his nightshirt to wakeLouvinia and Lucius both.So Lucius had the mulesaddled before Louviniaeven got the fire lit. ThistimeGrannydidn’twriteanote. “Go to TallahatchieCrossing,” she toldLucius.“Sitthereandwaitforhimifnecessary.”“Suppose they done

alreadystartedthebattle?”Luciussaid.

“Suppose they have?”Granny said. “Whatbusinessisthatofyoursormine either? You findBedford Forrest. Tell himthis is important; it won’ttake long. But don’t youshowyour facehereagainwithouthim.”Lucius rode away. He

was gone four days. Hedidn’t even get back intime for the wedding,

coming back up the driveabout sundown on thefourth day with twosoldiers in one of GeneralForrest’s forage wagonswith the mule tied to thetailgate. He didn’t knowwherehehadbeenandhenever did catch up withthe battle. “I never evenheardit,”hetoldJobyandLouvinia and Philadelphiaand Ringo and me. “If

warsalwaysmovesthatfarand that fast, I don’t seehow they ever have timetofight.”Butitwasalloverthen.

Itwas thesecondday, thedayafterLuciusleft.Itwasjust after dinner this timeandbynowwewereusedtosoldiers.Buttheseweredifferent,justfiveofthem,andweneverhadseenjustthat few of them before

andwehadcometothinkof soldiers as eitherjumpingonandoffhorsesin the yard or going backand forth throughGranny’s flower beds atfull gallop. Thesewere allofficers and I reckonmaybe I hadn’t seen somany soldiers after allbecause I never saw thismuch braid before. Theycame up the drive at a

trot,likepeoplejusttakinga ride, and stoppedwithout trompling evenone flower bed andGeneral Forrest got downand came up the walktoward where Grannywaitedonthefrontgallery—abig,dustymanwithabig beard so black itlooked almost blue andeyes like a sleepy owl,already taking off his hat.

“Well, Miss Rosie,” hesaid.“Don’t call me Rosie,”

Granny said. “Come in.Ask your gentlemen toalightandcomein.”“They’ll wait there,”

General Forrest said. “Weare a little rushed. Myplans have …” Then wewere in the library. Hewouldn’t sit down. Helooked tired all right, but

therewassomethingelseagooddeallivelierthanjusttired. “Well, Miss Rosie,”hesaid.“I—”“Don’t call me Rosie,”

Granny said. “Can’t youeversayRosa?”“Yessum,” he said. But

he couldn’t. At least, henever did. “I reckon weboth have had aboutenough of this. That boy—”

“Hah,” Granny said.“Night before last youwere saying what boy.Where is he? I sent youword to bring him withyou.”“Under arrest,” GeneralForrest said. It was aconsiderable more thanjust tired. “I spent fourdays getting Smith justwhereIwantedhim.Afterthat, this boy here could

havefoughtthebattle.”Hesaid ‘fit’ for fought just ashe said ‘druv’ for droveand‘drug’fordragged.Butmaybe when you foughtbattles like he did, evenGranny didn’t mind howyoutalked.“Iwon’tbotheryouwithdetails.Hedidn’tknow them either. All hehad to do was exactlywhat I told him. I dideverything but draw a

diagramonhiscoat-tailofexactlywhathewastodo,nomoreandnoless, fromthe time he left me untilhe saw me again: whichwas to make contact andthen fall back. I gave himjust exactly the rightnumberofmen so thathecouldn’t do anything elsebutthat.Itoldhimexactlyhow fast to fall back andhowmuch racket tomake

doing it and even how tomaketheracket.Butwhatdoyouthinkhedid?”“I can tell you,”Granny

said. “He sat on his horseat five o’clock yesterdaymorning, with my wholeyard full of men behindhim, yelling goodbye atmywindow.”“Hedividedhismenand

sent half of them into thebushes to make a noise

and took the other halfwho were the nearest tocomplete fools and led asabre charge on thatoutpost. He didn’t fire ashot. He drove it cleanback with sabres intoSmith’s main body andscared Smith so that hethrew out all his cavalryand pulled out behind itand now I don’t knowwhetherI’mabouttocatch

himorhe’sabouttocatchme. My provost finallycaught the boy last night.Hehadcomebackandgottheotherthirtymenofhiscompany and was twentymiles ahead again, tryingto find something to leadanother charge against.‘Doyouwanttobekilled?’I said. ‘Not especially,’ hesaid. ‘That is, I don’tespeciallycareonewayor

theother.’ThenneitherdoI,’Isaid.‘Butyouriskedawhole company of mymen.’‘Ain’tthatwhattheyenlisted for?’ he said.‘They enlisted into amilitary establishment thepurpose of which is toexpendeachmanonlyataprofit.Ormaybeyoudon’tconsider me a shrewdenough trader in humanmeat?’ ‘I can’t say,’ he

said. ‘Since day beforeyesterday I ain’t thoughtverymuchabouthowyouor anybody else runs thiswar.’ ‘And just what wereyou doing day beforeyesterday that changedyour ideas and habits?’ Isaid. ‘Fighting some of it,’he said. ‘Dispersing theenemy.’ ‘Where?’ I said.‘At a lady’s house a fewmiles from Jefferson,’ he

said. “One of the niggerscalledherGranny like thewhite boy did. The otherscalled her Miss Rosie,”“This time Granny didn’tsay anything. She justwaited.“Goon,”shesaid.“ ‘I’m still trying towin

battles, even if since daybeforeyesterdayyouain’t,’I said. I’ll send you downto Johnston at Jackson,’ I

said. ‘He’ll put you insideVicksburg, where you canlead private charges dayandnighttooifyouwant.’‘Like hell you will,’ hesaid. And I said—excuseme—‘Like hell I won’t.’ ”And Granny didn’t sayanything. It was like daybefore yesterday with AbSnopes:notlikeshehadn’theardbutasifrightnowitdidn’tmatter,thatthiswas

no time either to botherwithsuch.“Anddidyou?”shesaid.“I can’t. He knows it.

Youcan’tpunishamanforrouting an enemy fourtimes his weight. Whatwould I say back inTennessee,wherewebothlive,letalonethatuncleofhis,theonetheylickedforGovernorsixyearsago,onBragg’s personal staff now

with his face over Bragg’sshoulder every timeBraggopens a dispatch or picksup a pen. And I’m stilltryingtowinbattles.ButIcan’t. Because of a girl,one single lone youngfemale girl that ain’t gotanything under the sunagainst him except that,sinceitwashismisfortuneto save her from a passelof raiding enemy in a

situation that everybodybuther is tryingto forget,she can’t seem tobearhislast name. Yet because ofthat, every battle I planfromnowonwillbeatthemercy of a twenty-two-year-old shavetail—excuseme again—who mightdecide to lead a privatecharge any time he canholler at least twomen ingray coats into moving in

the same direction.” Hestopped. He looked atGranny.“Well?”hesaid.“So now you’ve got to

it,” Granny said. “Wellwhat,Mr.Forrest?”“Why, just have done

withthisfoolishness.Itoldyou I’ve got that boy, inclose arrest, with a guardwith a bayonet. But therewon’tbeanytroublethere.I figured even yesterday

morning that he hadalreadylosthismind.ButIreckon he’s recoveredenough of it since theProvosttookhimlastnightto comprehend that I stillconsider myself hiscommander even if hedon’t. So all that’snecessarynowisforyoutoputyourfootdown.Put itdown hard. Now. You’reher grandma. She lives in

your home. And it lookslike she isgoing to live init a goodwhile yet beforeshe gets back toMemphistothatuncleorwhoeveritis that calls himself herguardian. So just put yourfoot down. Make her. Mr.Millard would havealreadydonethatifhehadbeen here. And I knowwhen. Itwould have beentwodaysagobynow.”

Granny waited until hegot done. She stood withher arms crossed, holdingeach elbow in the other.“IsthatallI’mtodo?”shesaid.“Yes,” General Forrest

said. “If shedon’twant tolisten toyou rightat first,maybe as his commander—”Granny didn’t even say

“Hah.” She didn’t even

send me. She didn’t evenstop in the hall and call.She went upstairs herselfand we stood there and Ithought maybe she wasgoing to bring thedulcimertooandIthoughthow if I was GeneralForrest I would go backand get Cousin Philip andmakehimsitinthelibraryuntil about supper-timewhile Cousin Melisandre

played the dulcimer andsang. Then he could takeCousinPhiliponbackandthen he could finish thewarwithoutworrying.She didn’t have the

dulcimer. She just hadCousin Melisandre. Theycame inandGrannystoodtoonesideagainwithherarms crossed, holding herelbows. “Here she is,” shesaid. “Say it—This is Mr.

Bedford Forrest,” she toldCousin Melisandre. “Sayit,” she told GeneralForrest.He didn’t have time.

When Cousin Melisandrefirst came, she tried toread aloud to Ringo andme. It wasn’t much. Thatis, what she insisted onreading to us wasn’t sobad, even if itwasmostlyabout ladies looking out

windows and playing onsomething (maybe theywere dulcimers too)whilesomebody else was offsomewherefighting.Itwasthewayshereadit.WhenGranny said this is MisterForrest, CousinMelisandre’s face lookedexactly like her voicewould sound when sheread to us. She took twosteps into the library and

curtsied, spreading herhoopsback,and stoodup.“General Forrest,” shesaid. “I am acquaintedwith an associate of his.Will the General pleasegive him the sincerestwishes for triumph inwarand success in love, fromone who will never seehim again?” Then shecurtsied again and spreadher hoops backward and

stood up and took twostepsbackwardandturnedandwentout.After a while Grannysaid,“Well,Mr.Forrest?”GeneralForrestbegantocough. He lifted his coat-tail with one hand andreached the other into hiship pocket like he wasgoing to pull at least amusket out of it and gothis handkerchief and

coughed into itawhile. Itwasn’t very clean. Itlooked about like the oneCousinPhilipwastryingtowipe his coat off with inthe summer house daybefore yesterday. Then heputthehandkerchiefback.Hedidn’tsay“Hah”either.“Can I reach the HollyBranch road withouthaving to go throughJefferson?”hesaid.

Then Granny moved.“Openthedesk,”shesaid.“Lay out a sheet of note-paper.” I did. And Iremember how I stood atone side of the desk andGeneral Forrest at theother, and watchedGranny’s hand move thepen steady and not veryslow and not very longacrossthepaperbecauseitnever did take her very

long to say anything, nomatter what it was,whethershewastalkingitor writing it. Though Ididn’tseeitthen,butonlylater,whenithungframedunder glass above CousinMelisandre’s and CousinPhilip’s mantel: the finesteady slant of Granny’shandandGeneralForrest’ssprawlingsignaturesbelowitthatlookeditselfagood

deal like a charge ofmassedcalvary:

Lieutenant P. S. Backhouse,Company D, TennesseeCavalry,wasthisdayraisedto the honorary rank ofBrevet Major General andkilled while engaging theenemy.VicewhomPhilipSt-Just Backus is herebyappointed Lieutenant,

Company D, TennesseeCavalry.

N.B.ForrestGeni

I didn’t see it then.General Forrest picked itup. “Now I’ve got tohaveabattle,”hesaid.“Anothersheet,son.”Ilaidthatoneoutonthedesk.“Abattle?”Grannysaid.“To give Johnston,” he

said. “Confound it, MissRosie, can’t youunderstandeitherthanI’mjust a fallible mortal mantrying to run a militarycommand according tocertain fixed andinviolable rules,nomatterhow foolish the businesslooks to superior outsidefolks?”“Allright,”Grannysaid.

“You had one. I was

lookingatit.”“So I did,” General

Forrest said. “Hah,” hesaid. “The battle ofSartoris.”“No,”Granny said. “Not

atmyhouse.”“They did all the

shooting down at thecreek,”Isaid.“Whatcreek?”hesaid.So I told him. It ran

through the pasture. Its

namewasHurricaneCreekbut not even the whitepeople called it hurricaneexcept Granny. GeneralForrest didn’t eitherwhenhe sat down at the deskand wrote the report toGeneral Johnston atJackson:

A unit of my command ondetached duty engaged a

body of the enemy anddrovehimfromthefieldanddispersed him this day 28thult. April 1863 at HarrykinCreek.Withlossofoneman.

N.B.ForrestGenl

I saw that. I watchedhim write it. Then he gotup and folded the sheetsinto his pocket and wasalready going toward the

tablewherehishatwas.“Wait,” Granny said.

“Lay out another sheet,”she said. “Come backhere.”General Forrest stopped

and turned. “Anotherone?”“Yes!” Granny said. “A

furlough, pass—whateveryou busy militaryestablishments call them!SoJohnSartoriscancome

home long enough to—”andshesaiditherself,shelooked straight at me andeven backed up and saidsome of it over as thoughto make sure therewouldn’t be any mistake:“—can come back homeand give away that damnbride!”

4

And thatwas all. Thedaycame and Granny wakedRingo and me beforesunup and we ate whatbreakfastwehadfromtwoplates on the back steps.And we dug up the trunkand brought it into thehouse and polished thesilver and Ringo and Ibroughtdogwoodandred-bud branches from thepastureandGrannycutthe

flowers, all of them,cutting them herself withCousin Melisandre andPhiladelphia just carryingthe baskets; so many ofthem until the house wasso full that Ringo and Iwould believe we smelledthem even across thepastureeachtimewecameup. Though of course wecouldn’t—it was just thefood—the last ham from

the smokehouse and thechickens and the flourwhichshehadbeensavingalong with the bottle ofchampagne for the daywhen the Northsurrendered—whichLouviniahadbeencookingfor two days now, toremind us each time weapproached the house ofwhat was going on andthat the flowers were

there.As ifwecouldhaveforgotten about the food.And they dressed CousinMelisandre and, Ringo inhisnewbluepantsandIinmy gray ones whichwerenot so new, we stood inthe late afternoon on thegallery—Granny andCousin Melisandre andLouvinia and Philadelphiaand Ringo and I—andwatched them enter the

gate. General Forrest wasnot one. Ringo and I hadthought maybe he mightbe, ifonlytobringCousinPhilip. Then we thoughtthat maybe, since Fatherwas coming anyway,General Forrest would letFather bring him, withCousin Philip maybehandcuffed to Father andthe soldier with thebayonet following, or

maybestilljusthandcuffedto thesoldieruntilheandCousin Melisandre weremarried and Fatherunlockedhim.But General Forrest

wasn’t one, and CousinPhilip wasn’t handcuffedto anybody and therewasnobayonetandnotevenasoldierbecausethesewereall officers too. And westood in the parlor while

the home-made candlesburnt in the last of sunsetin the bright candlestickswhich Philadelphia andRingo and I had polishedwith the rest of the silverbecause Granny andLouvinia were both busycooking and even CousinMelisandrepolishedalittleof it although Louviniacouldpickouttheonesshepolished without hardly

looking and hand them toPhiladelphia to polishagain:—Cousin Melisandrein the dress which hadn’tneeded to be altered forher at all because Motherwasn’t much older thanCousin Melisandre evenwhen shedied,andwhichwould still button onGranny too just like itdidthe day shemarried in it,and the chaplain and

Father and Cousin Philipandthefourothersintheirgray and braid and sabresand Cousin Melisandre’sfacewasallrightnowandCousin Philip’s was toobecause it just had thebeautiful-girl look on itand none of us had everseen him look any otherway. Then we ate, andRingo and I anyway hadbeen waiting on that for

threedaysandthenwediditandthenitwasovertoo,fadingjustalittleeachdayuntil the palate no longerremembered and only ourmouths would run a littlewater as we would namethe dishes aloud to oneanother, until even thewater would run less andless and less and itwouldtake something we justhoped to eat some day if

they ever got donefighting, tomake it runatall.And that was all. Thelast sound of wheel andhoof died away,Philadelphiacame in fromthe parlor carrying thecandlesticks and blowingout the candles as shecame,andLouviniasetthekitchen clock on the tableand gathered the last of

soiled silver from supperinto the dishpan and itmight never have evenbeen.“Well,”Grannysaid.She didn’t move, leaningherforearmsonthetablealittle and we had neverseenthatbefore.Shespoketo Ringo without turningher head: “Go call Jobyand Lucius.” And evenwhen we brought thetrunk in and set it against

the wall and opened backthe lid, she didn’t move.She didn’t even look atLouvinia either. “Put theclock in too,” she said. “Idon’t thinkwe’llbother totimeourselvestonight.”

Fish-HookGettysburg

STEPHENVINCENTBENET

TwomonthshavepassedsinceJacksondiedinthewoods

AndtheybroughthisbodybacktotheRichmondStateHouse

Toliethere,heapedwithflowers,whilethebellstolled,

Twomonthsoffeintsandwaiting.Andnow,atlength,

TheSouthgoesnorthagaininasecondraid,

Inthelastcastforfortune.Atwo-edgedchance

Andyetachancethatmayburnishafailingstar;

Fornow,onthewideexpanseoftheWesternboard,

StrongpiecesthatfoughtfortheSouthhavebeensweptaway

OrpennedupinhollowVicksburg.OnecoolSpringnight

Porter’sironcladsruntheshore-batteries

Throughavelvetstabbedwithhotflashes.Grantlandshis

men,Drivestherelievingforceof

JohnstonawayAndsitsatlastinfrontofthe

hollowtownLikeahugebrownbearonits

haunches,terriblywaiting.

Hisgunsbegintopeckatthepillaredporches,

Thesleepy,sun-spattered

streets.Hissiegehasbegun.

Forty-eightdaysthatsiegeandthosegunsgoon

Likeaslowhandclosingaroundahungrythroat,

Evermorehungry.Thehungerofthehollowtowns,

Thehungerofsieges,thehungeroflosthope.

Asdaygoesbyafterdayandthe

shellsstillwhineTillthetownisagreatmole-

burrowofpitsandcavesWherethethinwomenhide

theirchildren,wherethetiredmen

Burrowawayfromthedeaththatfallsfromtheair

Andthecommonskyturnedhostile—andstillnohope,

Stillnosightintheskywhen

themorningbreaksButthebrownbearthereonhis

haunches,steadfastlywaiting,

WaitinglikeTimeforthehoney-treetofall.

Thenewscreepsbacktothewatchersoversea.

Theyponderonit,aloofandirresolute.

Thebalancetheywatchis

dippingagainsttheSouth.Itwilltakegreatstrokesto

redressthatbalanceagain.Therewillbeonemoremoment

ofshakenscalesWhentheLairdramsalmost

altertheschemeofthings,Butitisdistant.Thewatchers

stareattheboardWaitingasureromenthan

Chancellorsville

OranybattlewononaSouthernground.

Leeseesthatdipofthebalanceandsoprepares

Hiscastforthesureromenandhislaststroke

Atthesteel-bossedNorthernshield.Oncebeforehetried

Thatspear-rushNorthandwashalted.Itwasachance.

Thisisachance.Heweighsthechanceinhishand

Likeastone,reflecting.FouryearsfromHarper’sFerry,

TwoyearssincetheFirstManassas—andthislastyear

Strokeafterstrokesuccessful—butstillnoend.

Heisamanwithaknottyclubinhishand

Beatingoffbullsfromthebreaksinthepasturefence

Andhehasbeatenthembackateachfreshassault,

McClellan—Burnside—HookeratChancellorsville—

PopeattheSecondManassas—BanksintheValley—

Butthepastureistrampled;hisarmyneedsnewpasture.

Anarmymoveslikealocust,

eatingthegrain,Andthisgrainiswell-nigh

eaten.HecannotmendThebreaksinhisfencewith

famineorstarvinghands,Andifhewaitsthewheelof

anotheryearThebullswillcomebackfull-

fed,shakingsharperhornsWhilehefacesthemempty,

armedwithahunger-

crackedUnmagicstick.Thereisonlythis

thingtodo.Tostrikeattheshieldwiththe

strengththathestillcanuse

Hopingtoburstitasunderwithonestiffblow

AndcarrythewarupNorth,totheuntouchedfields

Wherehistatteredmencanfeed

onthebull’sowngrain,Getshoesandclothes,take

Washingtoniftheycan,Holdingthefighting-gaugein

anyevent.HeweighsThechanceinhishand.Ithink

thatheweigheditwellAndfeltahigh-tiderisenupin

hisheartAndinhismenahightide.Theywereveterans,

Theyhadneverbeenbeatenwhollyandblockedbutonce,

HehaddrivenfourUnionarmieswithinayear

Andbrokenthreebluecommandersfromtheircommand.

Evennowtheywerefreshfromtriumph.Hecasthisstone

Clangingatfortune,andsethisfateontheodds.

2

LincolnhearstherumorinWashington.

TheyaremovingNorth.ThePennsylvaniacities

Hearitandshake,theyareloose,theyaremovingNorth.

Callupyourshotgun-militia,buryyoursilver,

Shoulderagunorrunaway

fromtheState,Theyareloose,theyaremoving.

FightingJoeHookerhasheardit.

HeswingshisarmybackacrossthePotomac,

Rapidlyplanning,whileLeestillvisionshimSouth.

Stuart’shorseshouldhavebroughtthenewsofthatmove

ButStuartisoffonalastandlucklessraid

FartotheEast,andthegreyhostmoveswithouteyes

Throughcrucialdays.TheyareintheCumberlandnow,

Takingminortowns,feedingfatforalittlewhile,

Pressinghorsesandshoes,payingoutConfederatebills

ToslowDutchstorekeeperswhogroanatthemoney.

Theyareloose,theyareintheNorth,theyarehereandthere.

Halleckrubshiselbowsandwonderswhere,

Lincolnissleepless,thetelegraph-soundersclick

IntheWarOfficedayandnight.Thereareliesandrumors,

TheyareonlyamilefromPhiladelphianow,

TheyareburningYork:—theyaremarchingonBaltimore—

Meanwhile,LeeridesthroughtheheartoftheCumberland.

Agreathotsunsetcolorsthemarchingmen,

Colorsthehorseandthesword

andthebeardedfaceButcannotchangethatface

fromitsstrongrepose.And—milesaway—JoeHooker,

bytelegraphCallsforthegarrisonleftat

Harper’sFerryTojoinhim.Elbow-rubbing

Halleckrefuses.Hookerresignscommand—and

fadesfromtheEast

TotravelWest,fightkeenlyatLookoutMountain,

FollowSherman’smarchasfarasAtlanta,

BerankedbyHoward,andtartlyresignsoncemore

BeforetheendandthefameandtheGrandReview,

Todieaslowdeath,inbed,withhisfiregoneout,

Acampfirequenchedand

forgotten.HedeservedAbetterandbrusquerendthat

marchedwithhisnickname,

Thisdisappointed,hot-tempered,mosthumanman

Whohadsuchfaithinhimselfexceptforonce,

Andtheonce,beingChancellorsville,wipedouttherest.

Hewasoftentouchyandlifewastouchywithhim,

Butthelastrevengewasatrifleoutofproportion.

Suchthingswillhappen—Jacksonwentinhisstrength,

Stuartwasridinghishorsewhenthebullettookhim,

AndCusterdiedtothetrumpet—DutchLongstreetlived

Toquarrelandfightdeadbattles.Leepassedinsilence.

McClellantalkedonforeverinwordandprint.

GrantlivedtobePresident.Thomasdiedsickatheart.

SoHookergoesfromourpicture—andaspentaide

ReachesMeade’shutatthreeo’clockinthemorning

Towakehimwithunexpectednewsofcommand.

ThethinPennsylvanianputsonhisspectacles

Toreadtheorder.Tall,sad-faced,andaustere,

Hehasthesharp,longnoseofafighting-bird,

Aprudentmouthandacool,consideringmind.

Aniron-graymanwithnoneof

Hooker’spanache,Butresoluteandable,well

skilledinwar;Theycallhim“thedamnedold

goggle-eyedsnapping-turtle”

Attimes,andhedoesnotcallouttheidol-shout

Whenherideshislines,buthisprudenceisahardprudence,

Andcanlastoutstormsthatbreakthemenwithpanache,

Thoughitsummonsnocounter-stormwhenthestormisdone.

Hissombreschoolmaster-eyesreadtheorderwell.

Itisthreedaysbeforethebattle.Hethinksatfirst

Ofagrandreview,givesitup,

andbeginstoact.

ThatmorningaspybringsnewstoLeeinhistent

ThattheUnionarmyhasmovedandisonthemarch.

LeecallsbackEwellandEarlyfromtheirforays

Andsummonshishosttogetherbythecross-roads

WhereGettycamewithhisox-cart.Sonowwesee

Thesetwocrab-armiesfumblingforeachother,

Asifthroughafogofrumorandfalsereport,

Theselasttwodaysofsleepy,hay-harvestJune.

HotJunelyingasleeponashockofwheat

Wherethepollen-windblowsovertheburnt-goldstubble

Andthethirstymenmarchpast,stirringthickgreydust

Fromthetroddenpikes—tillatlast,thecrab-clawstouch

AtGetty’stown,andclutch,andthepeachesfall

Cutbythebullets,splashingunderthetrees.

Thatmeetingwasnotwilledbyahumanmind,

Whenwecometosiftit.Yousay

afaterodeahorseAheadofthoselumberinghosts,

andineitherhandHecarriedaskeinofomen.And

when,atlast,Hecametoacertainumbrella-

copseoftreesThatneverhadheardacannon

orseendeadmen,Heknottedtheskeinstogether

andflungthemdown

Withasoundlikemetal.Perhaps.Itmayhavebeenso.

Allthatweknowis—Meadeintendedtofight

SomefifteenmilesawayonthePipeCreekLine

AndwhereLeemeanttofighthim,ifforcedtofight,

Wedonotknow,butitwasnottherewheretheyfought.

Yettheridingfate,Blindanddeafandadoomona

lunginghorse,Threwdownhisskeinsand

gatheredthebattlethere.

3

BufordcametoGettysburglatethatnight

RidingWestwithhisbrigadesofbluehorse,

WhilePettigrewandhisNorthCarolinians

WeremovingEasttowardthetownwithawagon-train,

Hopingtocaptureshoes.Thetwocameintouch.

Pettigrewhaltedandwaitedformenandorders.

Bufordthrewouthispicketsbeyondthetown.

ThenextmorningwasJulyfirst.

Itwashotandcalm.Onthegreyside,Heth’sdivision

wasreadytomarchAnddrivethebluepicketsin.

TherewasstillnothoughtOfaplannedanddecisivebattle

oneithersideThoughBufordhadseenthe

strengthofthosetwohill-ridges

Soonenoughtobefamous,and

markedonedownAsaplacetorallyifheshould

bedrivenback.

Hetalkswithhisstaffinfrontofatavernnow.

AnofficerridesupfromthenearFirstCorps.

“Whatareyoudoinghere,sir?”Theofficer

Explains.He,too,hascometheretolookforshoes.

—FabulousshoesofGettysburg,deadmen’sshoes,

Didanyoneeverwearyou,whenitwasdone,

Whenthemenweregone,whenthefarmswerespoiledwiththebones,

Whatbecameofyournailsandleather?Theswordswenthome,

Theswordswentintomuseumsandneatglasscases,

Theswordslookwellthere.Theyarecleanfromthewar.

Youwouldn’t:putoldshoesinaneatglasscase,

Stillstuckwiththemudofmarching.

Andyet,amanWithatasteforsuchstrawsand

fables,blownbythewind,Mighthideapairinalabelled

casesometimeJusttoseehowtheleather

looked,setdownbytheswords.

Theofficerishardlythroughwithhistale

WhenBufordordershimbacktohiscommand.

“Why,whatisthematter,general?”Ashespeaks

Thefar-offhollowslamofa

singlegunBreaksthewarmstillness.The

horsesprickuptheirears.“That’sthematter,”saysBuford

andgallopsaway.

4

Thebattleofthefirstdaywasaminorbattle

Assucharecounted.Thatis,itkilledmanymen.

KilledmorethandiedatBullRun,leftthousandsstricken

Withwoundsthattimemighthealforalittlewhile

Orneverhealtillthebreathwasoutoftheflesh.

TheFirstCorpslosthalfitsnumberinkilledandwounded.

Thepale-facedwomen,huddledbehinddrawnblinds

Backinthetown,orinapple-cellars,hiding,

Thoughtittheendoftheworld,nodoubt.Andyet,

Asthebooksremark,itwasonlyaminorbattle.

TherewereonlytwocorpsengagedontheUnionside,

Longstreethadnotyetcomeup,norEwell’swholeforce,

Hill’scorpslackedadivisiontill

eveningfell.Itwasonlyaminorbattle.When

thefirstshotClangedout,itwasfiredfroma

clumpofUnionvedettesHoldingafarminthewoods

beyondthetown.Thefarmerwastheretohearit

—andthentoseeThetroopersscramblebackon

theirrestlesshorses

Andgooff,firing,asagreymasscameon.

Hemusthavebeenapeaceableman,thatfarmer.

Itissaidthathediedofwhathehadheardandseen

Inthatonebriefmoment,althoughnobulletcamenearhim

Andthestormpassedbyanddidnotburstonhisfarm.

Nodoubthewaseasilyfrightened.Heshouldhavereflected

Thatevenminorbattlesarehardlytheplace

Forpeaceablemen—buthediedinstead,itissaid.

Therewereotherdeathsthatday,asofSmithsandClancys,

Otises,Boyds,Virginiaand

Pennsylvania,NewYork,Carolina,Wisconsin,

thegatheredWest,ThetatteredSouthernmarchers

deadonthewheat-shocks.Amongthesedeathsafew

famous.Reynoldsisdead,Themodelsoldier,gallantand

courteous,Shotfromhissaddleinthefirst

ofthefight.

HewasDoubleday’sfriend,butDoubledayhasnotime

Togrievehim,theUnionrightbeingdrivenin

AndHeth’sConfederatespressingontowardthetown.

HeholdstheonrushbacktillHowardcomesup

Andtakescommandforawhile.Thefightingisgrim.

Meadehasheardthenews.HesendsHancockuptothefield.

Hancocktakescommandinmid-combat.Thegreycomeson.

Fivecolor-bearersarekilledatoneUnioncolor,

Thelastman,dying,stillholdsupthesaggingflag.

Thepale-facedwomencreepingoutoftheirhouses,

Pleadwithretreatingbluecoats,“Don’tleaveus,boys,

Staywithus—holdthetown.”Theirfacesarethin,

Theirwordscometumblingoutofafrightenedmouth.

Inafield,faroff,apeaceablefarmerputs

Hishandstohisears,stillhearingthatonesharpshot

Thathewillhearandheartillhediesofit.

ItisHillandEwellnowagainstHancockandHoward

Andaconfused,wildclamor—andthehighkeen

OftheRebelyell—andtheshrill-edgedbulletsong

Beatingdownmenandgrain,whilethesweatyfighters

Gruntastheyramtheircharges

withblackenedhands.TillHancockandHowardare

beatenawayatlast,Outnumberedandoutflanked,

cleanoutofthetown,Retreatingasbesttheycantoa

fish-hookridge,Andtheclamordiesandthesun

isgoingdownAndthetiredmenthinkabout

food.Thedust-bittenstaff

OfEwell,ridingalongthroughthecapturedstreets,

Hearthethudofabulletstrikingtheirgeneral.

Fleshorbone?Death-woundorrubofthegame?

“Thegeneral’shurt!”Theygaspandvolleytheirquestions.

Ewellturnshisheadlikeabird,“No,I’mnothurt,sir,

But,supposingtheballhad

struckyou,GeneralGordon,

We’dhavethetroubleofcarryingyoufromthefield.

YoucanseehowmuchbetterfixedforafightIam.

Itdon’thurtamitetobeshotinyourwoodenleg.”

Soitends.Leecomesonthefieldintimetosee

Thevillagetaken,theUnionwaveinretreat.

Meadewillnotreachthegroundtillonethenextmorning.

Soitends,thislesserbattleofthefirstday,

Starklydisputedandpiecemealwonandlost

Bycorps-commanderswhocarriednomagicplans

Stowedintheirsleeves,but

foughtandheldastheycould.

Itispast.Theboardisstakedforthegreatergame

Whichistofollow—ThebeatenUnionbrigades

Recoilfromthecross-roadstownthattheytriedtohold,

Andsorecoiling,restonadestinedground.

Whochosethatground?There

areclaimantsenoughinthebooks.

HowardthankedbyCongressforchoosingit

Asdoubtless,theywouldhavethankedhimaswellhadhe

Chosenanother,oncethebattlewaswon,

AndthereareadozenifsontheSouthernside,

How,inthatfirstday’sevening,ifonehadknown,

IfLeehadbeenthereintime,ifJacksonhadlived,

Theheightsthatcostsomuchbloodinthevainattempt

Totakedayslater,couldhavebeentakenthen.

Andtheifsandthethanksandtherestarealltrueenough

Butwecanonlysay,whenwe

lookattheboard,“Thereithappened.Thereisthe

wayoftheland.Therewasthefate,andthere

theblindswordswerecrossed.”

5

Drawaclumsyfish-hooknowonapieceofpaper,

Totheleftoftheshank,bythe

bendofthecurvinghook,DrawaMaltesecrosswiththe

topblockcutaway.Thecrossisthetown.Nine

roadsstaroutfromitEast,West,South,North.And

now,stillmoretotheleftOfthelopped-offcross,onthe

othersideofthetown,Drawalong,slightly-wavyline

ofridgesandhills

Roughlyparalleltothefish-hookshank.

(Thehookofthefish-hookisturnedawayfromthecross

Andthewavyline.)Thereyourgroundandyourridgeslie.

Thefish-hookisCemeteryRidgeandtheNorth

Waitingtobeassaulted—thewavyline

SeminaryRidgewhencetheSouthernassaultwillcome.

Thevalleybetweenismorethanamileinbreadth.

Itissomethreemilesfromthelowestjutofthecross

Tothebuttonatthefarendofthefish-hookshank,

BigRoundTop,withLittleRoundTopnotfaraway.

Bothridgesarestrongandrocky,wellmadeforwar.

ButtheNorthernoneisthestrongershorterone.

Lee’sarmymustspreadoutlikeanuncoiledsnake

Lyingalongafence-rail,whileMeade’scancoil

Orhalfwaycoil,likeasnakepartclungtoastone.

Meadehasthemoremenand

theeasiershiftstomake,Leetheoldprestigeoftriumph

andhistriedskill.Histaskis—tocoilhissnake

roundtheothersnakeHalfwayclungtothestone,and

shatteritso,Ortobreaksomepointinthe

shankofthefish-hooklineAndsocutthesnakeintwo.

Meade’staskistohold.

Thatisthechessandtheschemeofthewoodenblocks

Setdownonthecontourmap.Havinglearnedsomuch,

Forgetitnow,whiletheripplelinesofthemap

Ariseintoboulderedridges,tree-grown,bird-visited,

Wherethegnatsbuzz,andthewrenbuildsahollownest

Andtherocksaregreyinthe

sunandblackintherain,Andthejacks-in-the-pulpitgrow

inthecool,damphollows.Seenonamesofleaderspainted

upontheblocksSuchas“Hill,”or“Hancock,”or

“Pender”—butseeinsteadThreemilesoflivingmen—

threelongdoublemilesOfmenandgunsandhorsesand

firesandwagons,

Teamsters,surgeons,generals,orderlies,

Ahundredandsixtythousandlivingmen

Asleeporeatingorthinkingorwritingbrief

Notesinthethoughtofdeath,shootingdiceorswearing,

Groaninginhospitalwagons,standingguard

Whiletheslowstarswalk

throughheaveninsilvermail,

Hearingastreamorajokeorahorsecroppinggrass

Orhearingnothing,beingtootiredtohear.

Allnighttilltheroundsuncomesandthemorningbreaks,

Threedoublemilesoflivemen.Listentothem,theirbreathgoes

upthroughthenightInagreatchordoflife,inthe

sighingmurmurOfwind-stirredwheat.A

hundredandsixtythousand

Breathingmen,atnight,ontwohostileridgessetdown.

6

Thefiringbeganthatmorningat

nineo’clock,Butitwasthreebeforethe

attackswerelaunchedThereweretwoattacks,onea

driveontheUnionleftTotaketheRoundTops,the

otheroneontheright.Leehadplannedthemtostrike

togetherand,strikingso,CuttheUnionsnakeinthree

pieces.Itdidnothappen.

Ontheleft,DutchLongstreet,slow,pugnaciousandstubborn,

Hardtobeatandjustashardtoconvince,

Hashisownideasofthebattleanddoesnotmove

ForhoursafterthehourthatLeehadplanned,

Though,whenhedoes,hemoveswithpugnaciousstrength.

Facinghim,inthevalleybeforetheRoundTops,

Sicklesthrustsoutbluetroopsinaweakrightangle,

SomedistancefromtheRidge,bytheEmmettsburgpike.

Thereisapeachorchardthere,afieldofripewheat

Andotherpeaceablethingssoonnottobepeaceful.

Theysaythebluecoats,

marchingthroughtheripewheat,

Madeablue-and-yellowpicturethatmenremember

Evennowintheirage,intheircrack-voicedage.

Theysaythenoisewasincessantasthesound

Ofallwolveshowling,whenthatattackcameon.

Theysay,whenthegunsall

spoke,thatthesolidground

Oftherockyridgestrembledlikeasickchild.

Wehavemadethesickearthtremblewithothershakings

Inourtime,inourtime,inourtime,butithasnottaughtus

Toleavethegraininthefield.Sothestormcameon

Yellingagainsttheangle.The

menwhofoughtthereWerethetiredfighters,the

hammered,theweather-beaten,

Theveryhard-dyingmen.Theycameanddied

Andcameagainanddiedandstoodthereanddied,

Tillatlasttheanglewascrumpledandbrokenin,

Sicklesshotdown,Willard,

BarlowandSemmesshotdown,

Wheatfieldandorchardbloodyandtrampledandtaken,

AndHood’stallTexanssweepingontowardtheRoundTops

AsHoodfellwounded.OnLittleRoundTop’sheight

Standsalonelyfigure,seeingthatrushcomeon—

Greek-mouthedWarren,Meade’schiefofengineers.

—Sometimes,andinbattleeven,amomentcomes

Whenamanwitheyescanseeadipinthescales

And,soseeing,reverseafortune.Warrenhaseyes

Andsuchamomentcomestohimnow.Heturns

—Inaclearflashseeingthe

crestsoftheRoundTopstaken,

Thegreyartillerythereandthebattlelost—

Andridesoffhell-for-leathertogathertroops

Andbringthemupintheverynickoftime,

Whilethegreyrushstilladvances,keeningitscry.

Thecrestisthreetimestaken

andthenretakenInfiercewolf-flurriesofcombat,

ingaspingIliadsToorapidtonoteorremember,

tooobscuretofreezeinasong.

Butatlast,whentheroundsundrops,whenthenun-footednight,

Dark-veiledwalker,holdingthefirstweakstars

Likechildrenagainstherbreast,spreadsherpureclothsthere,

TheUnionstillholdstheRoundTopsandthetwohardkeysofwar.

Nightfalls.TheblooddripsontherocksoftheDevil’sDen.

Themurmurbeginstorisefromthethirstyground

Wherethetwentythousanddeadandwoundedlie.

SuchwasLongstreet’swar,andsuchwastheUniondefence,

Thedeathsandthewoundings,thevictoryanddefeat

Attheendofthefish-hookshank.AndsoLongstreetfailed

EreEwellandEarlystruckthefish-hookitself

AtCulp’sHillandtheRidgeandatCemeteryHill,

Withbetterfortune,thoughnotwithfortuneenough

Toplanthardtriumphdeeponthesharp-edgedrocks

Andbreakthescalesofthesnake.…

Thusendedtheseconddayofthelockedbull-horns

Andthewoundingorslayingof

thetwentythousand.Andthusnightcametocoverit.

SothefieldWasaliveallnightwith

whispersandwordsandsighs,

SotheslowblooddrippedintherocksoftheDevil’sDen.

Lincoln,backinhisWhiteHouse,asksfornews.

TheWarDepartmenthaslittle.

TherearereportsOfheavyfiringnearGettysburg

—thatisall.Davis,inRichmond,knowsas

littleashe.InhollowVicksburg,theshells

comedownandcomedown

Andtheendisbuttwodaysoff.Onthefielditself

Meadecallsacounciland

considersretreat.HislefthasheldandtheRound

Topsstillarehis.Buthisrighthasbeenshaken,

hiscentrepiercedforatime,

TheenemyholdspartofhisworksonCulp’sHill,

Hislosseshavebeenmoststark.Hethinksofthesethings

Anddecidesatlasttofightitout

wherehestands.

7

AnothercleardawnbreaksoverGettysburg,

Promisingheatandfairweather—andwiththedawn

Thegunsarecrashingagain.Itisthethirdday.

ThemorningwearswithastubbornfightatCulp’s

HillThatendsatlastinConfederate

repulseAndthatbarb-endofthefish-

hookclearedofthegrey.

Leehastriedhisstrokesontherightandleftoftheline.

Thecentreremains—thatcentreyesterdaypierced

Forabrief,wildmomentinWilcox’sattack,

Butsincethentrenched,reinforcedandalivewithguns.

Itisachance.Allwarisachancelikethat.

Leeconsidersthechanceandtheforcehehaslefttospend

Andstateshiswill.DutchLongstreet,theindependent,

Demurs,ashehasdemurred

sincethefightbegan.Hehaddisapprovedofthis

battlefromthefirstAndthatdisapprovalhadadded

andistoaddAnotherweightinthebalance

againstthegrey.Itisnotourtasktotryhimfor

senseorfolly,Suchmenarethementheyare

—butanhourcomes

Sometimes,tofixsuchmeninmostfatefulparts,

AsnowwithLongstreetwho,ifhehadhisorders

Astheyweregiven,neitherobeyedthemquite

Norquiterefusedthem,butactedashethoughtbest,

Sodidthehalf-thing,failedashethoughthewould,

Feltjustifiedandwroteallofhis

reasonsdownLaterincontroversy.Wedonotneed

Suchcontroversiestoseethatpugnaciousman

TalkingtoLee,astubbornlineinhisbrow

Andthatunseenfatebetweenthem.Leehearshimout

Unmoved,unchanging.“Theenemyisthere

AndIamgoingtostrikehim,”saysLee,inflexibly.

8

Atoneo’clockthefirstsignal-gunwasfired

Andthesolidgroundbegantobesickanew.

Fortwohoursthenthatsickness,theunhushedroar

Oftwohundredandfiftycannonfiringlikeone.

ByPhiladelphia,eighty-oddmilesaway,

Anoldmanstoopedandputhiseartotheground

Andheardthatroar,itissaid,likethevaguesea-clash

Inahollowconch-shell,there,inhisflowerbeds.

Hehadplantedtrumpet-flowers

forfifteenyearsButnowtheflowerswere

blowinganironnoiseThroughearthitself.Hewiped

hisfaceonhissleeveAndtotteredbacktohishouse

withfearinhiseyes.

ThecaissonsbegantoblowupintheUnionbatteries.…

Thecannonadefellstill.All

alongthefish-hookline,Thetiredmenstaredatthe

smokeandwaitedforittoclear;

Themeninthecentrewaited,theirriflesgrippedintheirhands,

Bythetreesoftheridingfate,andthelowstonewall,andtheguns.

ThesewereHancock’smen,themenoftheSecondCorps,

ElevenStatesweremixedthere,whereMinnesotastood

Inbattle-orderwithMaine,andRhodeIslandbesideNewYork,

ThemetalsofalltheNorth,cooledintoanaxeofwar.

ThestrongsticksoftheNorth,boundintoafasces-shape,

Thehardwintersofsnow,thewindwiththecutting

edge,Andagainstthemcamethat

summerthatdoesnotdiewiththeyear,

MagnoliaandhoneysuckleandtheblueVirginiaflag.

TallPickettwentuptoLongstreet—hishandsomefacewasdrawn.

GeorgePickett,oldfriendofLincoln’sindaysgoneby

withtheblast,Whenhewasacourteousyouth

andLincolnthestrangeshawledman

WhowouldtalkinaSpringfieldstreetwithaboywhodreamtofasword.

Dreamtofamartialsword,asswordsaremartialindreams,

Andthecourtesytouseit,inthe

oldbrightwayofthetales.Thosedaysaregonewiththe

blast.Hehashisswordinhishand.

Andhewilluseittoday,andrememberthatusinglong.

HecametoLongstreetfororders,butLongstreetwouldnotspeak.

HesawOldPeter’smouthandthethoughtinOldPeter’smind.

Heknewthetaskthatwassetandthementhathehadtolead

AndapridecameintohisfacewhileLongstreetstoodtheredumb.

“Ishallgoforward,sir,”hesaid,andturnedtohismen.

Thecommandswentdowntheline.Thegreyranksstartedtomove.

Slowlyatfirst,thenfaster,inorder,steppinglikedeer,

TheVirginians,thefifteenthousand,theseventhwaveofthetide.

Therewasadeath-tornmileofbrokengroundtocross,

Andalowstonewallattheend,andbehindittheSecondCorps,

Andbehindthatforceanother,

freshmenwhohadnotyetfought.

Theystartedtocrossthatground.Thegunsbegantotearthem.

Fromthehilltheysayitseemedmorelikeaseathanawave,

Aseacontinuallytornbystonesflungoutofthesky,

Andyet,asitcame,stillclosing,

closingandrollingon,Asthemovingseaclosesover

theflawsandripsofthetide.

Youcouldmarkthepaththattheytookbythedeadthattheyleftbehind,

Spilledfromthatdeadlymarchasacartspillsmealonaroad,

Andyettheycameonunceasing,thefifteen

thousandnomore,AndtheblueVirginiaflagdidnotfall,didnotfall,didnotfall.

Theyhaltedbutoncetofireastheycame.Thenthesmokecloseddown

Andyoucouldnotseethem,andthen,asitclearedagainforabreath,

Theywerecomingstillbut

divided,gnawedatbyblueattacks,

Oneflankhalf-severedandhalted,butthecentrestilllikeatide.

Cushingrandownthelastofhisgunstothebattleline.

TheresthadbeensmashedtoscrapbyLee’sartilleryfire.

Heheldhisgutsinhishandasthechargecameuptothe

wallAndhisgunsspokeoutforhim

oncebeforehefelltotheground.

Armisteadleaptthewallandlaidhishandonthegun,

ThelastofthethreebrigadierswhoorderedPickett’sbrigades,

Hewavedhishatonhisswordand“Give’emthesteel!”

hecried,Afewmenfollowedhimover.

Therestwerebeatenordead.

Afewmenfollowedhimover.Therehadbeenfifteenthousand

Whenthatseabeganitsmarchtowardthefish-hookridgeandthewall.

Sotheycameoninstrength,light-footed,steppinglike

deer,Sotheydiedorweretaken.So

theironenteredtheirflesh.

Lee,amileaway,intheshadeofalittlewood,

Stared,withhismouthshutdown,andsawthemgoandbeslain,

Andthensawforasinglemoment,theblueVirginia

flagPlantedbeyondthewall,bythat

otherflagthatheknew.

Thetwoflagsplantedtogether,oneinstant,likehostileflowers.

Thenthesmokewrappedbothinamantle—andwhenithadblownaway,

Armisteadlayinhisblood,andtherestweredeador

down,Andthevalleygreywiththe

fallenandthewreckofthebrokenwave.

Pickettgazedaroundhim,theboywhohaddreamtofasword

AndtalkedwithamannamedLincoln.Theswordwasstillinhishand.

Hehadgoneoutwithfifteen

thousand.Hecamebacktohislineswithfive.

Hefoughtwelltillthewarwasover,butathingwascrackedinhisheart.

9

Thenightofthethirddayfalls.Thebattleisdone.

LeeentrenchesthatnightuponSeminaryRidge.

Allnextdaythebatteredarmiesstillfaceeachother

Likeenchantedbeasts.Leethinkshemaybeattacked,

Hopesforit,perhaps,isnot,andprepareshisretreat.

Vicksburghasfallen,hollowVicksburghasfallen,

Thecavedwellerscreepfromtheircavesandblinkatthesun.

ThepanoftheSouthernbalancegoesdownanddown.

Thecottoniswithering.

ArmyofNorthernVirginia,haggardandtattered,

Trampingbackonthepikes,throughthedust-whitesummer,

Withyourwoundsstillfresh,yourburdenofprisoners,

Yourburdenofsickand

wounded,“Onelonggroanofhuman

anguishsixmileslong.”YoureachtheswollenPotomac

atlonglast,Afoebehind,arisenriverin

front,Andfordingthatswollenriver,

inthedimstarlight,Intheyellowandearlydawn,Stillhaveheartenoughforthe

tall,long-stridingsoldiersTomocktheshort,halfswept

awaybythestream.“Betterchangeyournameto

Lee’sWaders,boys!”“Comeonyoushorty—getaride

onmyback.”“Aw,it’sjustweain’thadabath

insevenyearsAndGeneralLee,heknowswe

needagoodbath.”

Soyousplashandslipthroughthewaterandcomeatlast

Safe,totheSouthernside,whileMeadedoesnotstrike;

Safetotakeotherroads,safetomarchuponroadsyouknow

Fortwolongyears.Andyet—eachroadthatyoutake,

EachdustyroadleadstoAppomattoxnow.

TheBurning

EUDORAWELTY

Delilahwasdancingup tothe front with a message;that was how shehappenedtobetheonetosee.Ahorsewascominginthe house, by the front

door. The door had beenshovedwideopen.Andallbehind thehorse,a crowdwithalongtailofdustwascoming after, all the wayuptheirroadfromthegatebetweenthecedartrees.She ran on into theparlor, where they were.They were standing upbefore the fireplace, theirwhitesewingdroppedovertheir feet, their backs

turned, both ladies. MissTheohadeyesinthebackofherhead.“Back you go, Delilah,”

shesaid.“It ain’t me, it’s them,”

cried Delilah, and nowtherewererunning feet toanswer all over thedownstairs; Ophelia andall hadheard.Outside thedogs were thundering.MissTheoandMissMyra,

keepingtheirbacksturnedtowhatevershapeorghostCommotion would takewhen it came—as long asit was still in the yard,mounting the steps,crossing the porch, oreven, with a smell ofanimalsuddenasthesmellof snake, planting itself inthe front hall—they stillhad to see it if it came inthe parlor, the white

horse.Itdrewupjustoverthe ledge of the doubledoors Delilah had pushedopen, and the ladies liftedtheir heads together andlooked in the mirror overthe fireplace, the onecalledtheVenetianmirror,andthereitwas.It was a white

silhouette, like somethingcutoutoftheroom’sdark.Julywassobrightoutside,

and theparlor so dark forcoolness, that at firstnobody but Delilah couldsee. Then Miss Myra’sracing speech interruptedeverything.“Will you take me on

the horse? Please takemefirst.”It was a towering,

sweating, grimacing,uneasywhitehorse.Ithadbrought in two soldiers

with red eyes and clawed,mosquito-racked faces—one a rider, hang-jawedandhead-hanging,andtheother walking by its side,all breathing in here nowasloudastrumpets.Miss Theo with shuteyes spoke just behindMissMyra. “Delilah, whatisityoucameinyourdirtyaprontotellme?”The sisters turned with

linkedhandsandfacedtheroom.“Cometotellyouwegot

the eggs away from blackbroody hen and sureenough, they’s addled,”saidDelilah.She saw the blue rider

drop his jaw still lower.That was his laugh. Butthe other soldier set hisboot on the carpet andheard the creak in the

floor. As if reminded bytell-tale, he took anotherstep,andwithhisredeyesstickingouthewentasfarasMissMyraandtookheraround that little bendingwaist. Before he knew it,hehadherliftedashighasa child, she was so light.The other soldier with agruntcamedownfromthehorse’s back and wenttowardMissTheo.

“Step back. Delilah, outof harm’s way,” saidMissTheo, in such a company-voice thatDelilah thoughtharmwasoneoftwomen.“Holdmyhorse,nigger,”

saidthemanitwas.Delilah took the bridle

as if she’d always donethat, and held the horsethat loomed there in themirror—she could see itthere now, herself—while

more blurred and blind-likeintheroombetweenitand the door the firstsoldier shoved the tablesand chairs out of thewaybehind Miss Myra, whoflitted when she ran, andpushed her down whereshe stood and dropped ontop of her. There in themirror the parlorremained, filled up withdusted pictures, and

shuttered since six o’clockagainst the heat and thatsmell of smoke they wereall so tired of, stillglimmering with precious,breakable things whiteladies were never tired ofand never broke, unlessthey were mad at eachother.Behindher,thebareyawnofthehallwasatherback, and the front stair’sshadow, big as a tree and

empty. Nobody went upthere without being seen,and nobodywas supposedto come down. Only if acupor a silver spoonor alittle string of spools on ablue ribbon camehoppingdownthestepslikeafrog,sometimesDelilahwastheone to pick it up and runback up with it. Outsidethemirror’sframe,theflatofMiss Theo’s hand came

down on mankind with aboisteroussound.Then Miss Theo lifted

Miss Myra withoutspeakingtoher;MissMyraclosed her eyes but wasnot asleep. Her bands ofblack hair awry, herclothes rustling stiffly asclothes through winterquiet, Miss Theo strodehalf-carryingMissMyra tothe chair in the mirror,

and put her down. It wasthe red, rubbed velvet,pretty chair like MissMyra’sringbox.MissMyrathrewher head back, faceup to the little plasterflowers going around theceiling. She was asleepsomewhere, if not in hereyes.Oneof themen’s voices

spoke out, all gone withrighteousness. “We just

comeintoinspect.”“You presume, you

dare,”saidMissTheo.HerhandcamedowntostrokeMiss Myra’s back-flunghead in a strong,forbidding rhythm. Fromupstairs, Phinny threwdown his breakfast plate,but Delilah did notmove.MissMyra’s hair streamedloose behind her, brightgold, with the combs

caught like leaves in it.Maybe it was to keep herlike this, asleep in theheart, that Miss Theostrokedheronandon,toohard.“It’s orders to inspect

beforehand,” said thesoldier.“Then inspect,” said

MissTheo.“Noone in thehouse to prevent it.Brother—no word. Father

—dead. Mercifully so—”She spoke in an almostrough-and-rumble kind ofway used by ladies whodidn’t like company—never did like company,foranybody.Phinny threw down his

cup. The horse, shivering,nudged Delilah who washoldinghim there, a goodobedientslaveinherfresh-ironed candy-stripe dress

beneath her black apron.She would have had herturban tied on, had sheknown all this ahead, likeMiss Theo. “Never isPhinnyaway.Phinnyhere.Heahe,”shesaid.Miss Myra’s face was

turned up as if she weredead, or as if she were afierce and hungry littlebird.MissTheo restedherhand for amoment in the

airaboveherhead.“Is it shame that’sstoppingyourinspection?”Miss Theo asked. “I’mafraidyoufoundtheladiesofthishouseatrifleoutofyour element. My sister’sthe more delicate one, asyou see. May I offer youthis young kitchen Negro,as I’ve always understood—”That Northerner gave

Miss Theo a serious,recording look as thoughshe had given away whatdaythemailcamein.“My poor little sister,”MissTheowentontoMissMyra, “don’t mind whatyou hear. Don’t mind thisoldworld.”ButMissMyraknocked back the strokinghand. Kitty came pickingherwayintotheroomandsat between the horse’s

frontfeet;Friendlywashername.One soldier rolled his

head toward the other.“What was you saying tome when we come in,Virge?”“I was saying I opined

theywasn’tgoneyet.”“Wasn’tthey?”Suddenly both of them

laughed,joltingeachothersohardthatforasecondit

looked like a fight. Thenonesaidwithstraightface,“We come with orders toset the house afire,ma’am,”andtheotheronesaid,“GeneralSherman.”“Ihearyou.”“Don’t you think we’re

going to do it? We donejust burnt up Jacksontwice,” said the firstsoldier with his eye onMissMyra.Hisvoicemade

a man’s big echo in thehall, like a long time ago.The horse whinnied andmovedhisheadandfeet.“Like I was telling you,you ladies ought to beenout. You didn’t get noword here we wascoming?”Theothersoldierpointedone fingeratMissTheo.Sheshuthereyes.“Lady, they told you.”MissMyra’ssoldier looked

hard at Miss Myra there.“And when your ownpeople tell yousomething’s coming toburnyourhousedown,thebusiness-likethingtodoisget out of the way. Andthe right thing. I ain’tbeholden to tell you nomoretimesnow.”“Thengo.”“Burning up people’sfurther’nIgoyet.”

Miss Theo stared himdown.“Iseenodegree.”So it was Miss Myra’s

soldier that jerkedDelilah’s hand from thebridle and turned heraround, and cursed theBedlam-like horse whichbegantobeatthehallfloorbehind. Delilah listened,but Phinny did not throwanything more down;maybehehadcrepttothe

landing, and now lookedover.Hewasscared,ifnotofhorses,thenofmen.Hedidn’t know anythingaboutthem.Thehorsedidget loose; he took aclattering trip through thehall and dining room andlibrary, until at last hisrider caught him. ThenDelilah was set on hisback.She looked back over

her shoulder through thedoorway, and saw MissTheoshakeMissMyraandcatchthepeakedfacewithitspurpleeyesandslapit.“Myra,” she said,“collect your senses. Wehave to go out in front ofthem.”Miss Myra slowly liftedherwhitearm, likea ladywho has been asked todance, and called,

“Delilah!” Because thatwastheoneshesawbeingliftedontothehorse’shillyback and ridden offthrough the front door.Skittering among the ironshoes, Kitty came after,trotting fast as a littlehorse herself, and ranaheadtothewoods,whereshewas never seen again;but Delilah, from whereshe was set up on the

horse and then draggeddown on the grass, nevercalledafterher.She might have been

saving her breath for thescreams that soon tookover the outdoors andcircled that house theywere going to finish forsure now. She screamed,youngandstrong,forthemall—for everybody thatwanted her to scream for

them, for everybody thatdidn’t; and sometimes itseemedtoherthatshewasscreaming her loudest forDelilah,whowaslostnow—carriedoutofthehouse,not knowing how to getback.

Still inside, the ladieskeptthemwaiting.Miss Theo finally

brought Miss Myra outthrough that wide-openfront door and across theporchwiththestillperfectand motionless vineshadows.Thereweresomecatcalls and owl hootsfromunderthetrees.“Now hold back, boys.They’s too ladylike foryou.”“Ladiesmustneeds taketheirtime.”

“And then they’re nodamn good at it!” came aclear, youthful voice, andunder the branchessomewhere a banjo wasstroked to call up thecampfires furtheron, laterin the evening, when allthis would be over anddone.The sisters showed no

surprisetoseesoldiersandNegroesalike(oldOphelia

in the way, talking,talking)strikeintoandoutof the doors of the house,the frontnowthe sameastheback,tocarryoffbeds,tables, candlesticks,washstands,cedarbuckets,china pitchers, with theirbacks bent double; or thehorses ready to go; or thefood of the kitchen bolteddown—and so much of itthrownaway,thismustbe

a second dinner; or theunsilenceabledogs,theoldpack mixed with thestrangersandfightingwithalltheirheartsoverbones.Thelastskinnysackswerethrown on the wagons—the last flour, the lastscrapingandclearingfromOphelia’sshelves,evenherpepper-grinder. The silverDelilah could count wascounted on strange

blankets and then,knocking against theteapot, rolled together,tieduplikeabagofbones.A drummer boy with hisdrum around his neckcaught both Miss Theo’speacocks,MarcoandPolo,and wrung their necks inthe yard. Nobody couldlook at those bird-corpses;nobodydid.Thesisterslefttheporch

like one, and in step,hands linked, camethrough the high grass intheir crushed and onlydresses, andwalkedunderthe trees. They came to astopasifitwasmoonlightunder the leafy frame ofthe big tree with theswing, without anydespisingleftintheirfaceswhich were the same asone,asonefacethatdidn’t

belong to anybody. Thisone clarified face, lookingboth left and right, couldmake out every one ofthose men through thebushes and tree trunks,and mark every lootingslave also, as all stoodmomently fixed likeserenadersbythelightofamoon.Only old Ophelia wastalkingallthetime,allthe

time, telling everybody inher own way about thetroublehere,butofcoursenobodycouldunderstandathingthatdayanywhereintheworld.“Whataretheyfixingtodonow,Theo?”askedMissMyra, with a frown abouttoburn intoher too-whiteforehead.“What they want to,”MissTheosaid,foldingher

arms.To Delilah that housethey were carrying thetorchestowaslikeonejustnow coming into being—like the showboat thatslowly came through thetreesjustonceinhertime,at the peak of high water—bursting with theunknown, sparking inruddylight,withaminuteto go before that ear-

achingcryofthecalliope.When it came—but itwas a bellowing like abull,thatcamefrominside—Delilahdrewclose,withMiss Theo’s skirt to peeparound, and Miss Theo’sface looked down likedeath itself and said,“Rememberthis.Youblackmonkeys,” as the blazeoutdidthemall.

A while after theburning, when everybodyhadgoneaway,MissTheoand Miss Myra, findingandtakingholdofDelilah,who was face-down in aditch with her eyesscorched open, did at lastgo beyond the tramped-down gate and awaythrough the grandworthless fields theythemselves had had

burnedlongbefore.It was a hot afternoon,

hot out here in the open,and it played a trick onthem with a smell andprophecy of fall—it wasthe burning. The brownwet standing among thestumps in thecrackedcupof the pond tasted as hotas coffee and as bitter.Therewasstillandalwayssmoke between them and

thesun.After all the Julymiles,there Jackson stood,burned twice, or whoknew if it was a hundredtimes, facing them in theroad. Delilah could seethrough Jackson like ahaunt,itwasallchimneys,all scooped out. Therewere soldiers with gunsamongtheashes,buttheseasheswerecold.Sooneven

these two ladies,whohadbeeneverywhereandonceknew theirway, told eachothertheywerelost.Whilesomesoldiers lookedthemover,theypointedatwhatthey couldn’t see, tracedgone-away spires, while ahorse without his riderpassed brushing his sideagainst them and randown a black alley softly,anddidnotreturn.

They walked here andthere, sometimes over thesame track, holding handsall three, like the timelesstime it snowed, andwhiteand black went to playtogether inhushedwoods.They turned loose only topointandname.“The State

House.”—“Theschool.”“The Blind

School.”—“The

penitentiary!”“The big stable.”—“TheDeaf-and-Dumb.”“Oh! Remember whenwe passed three of them,sitting on a hill?” Theywent on matching eachother, naming andclaimingruinforruin.“The lunaticasylum!”—“The StateHouse.”“No, I said that. Now

where are we? That’ssurely Captain JackCalloway’shitchingpost.”“But why would thehitching post be standingandtherestnot?”“Andoursnot.”“I think I should havetoldyou,Myra—”“Tellmenow.”“Wordwas sent tous togetoutwhenitwassenttothe rest on Vicksburg

Road. Two days’ warning.Ibelieve itwasamessagefromGeneralPemberton.”“Don’t worry about itnow.Oh no, of coursewecouldn’t leave,” said MissMyra. A soldier watchedher in the distance, andsherecited:

“There was amaninourtownAnd he was

wondrouswise.He jumped intoabramblebushAnd scratchedout both hiseyes.”

Shestopped,lookingatthesoldier.“He sent word.” MissTheo went on, “GeneralPemberton sent word, forus all to get out ahead of

what was coming. Youwere in the summerhousewhen it came. It was twodays’ warning—but Icouldn’t bring myself tocall and tell you, Myra. Isuppose I couldn’tconvince myself—couldn’tquite believe that theymeant to come and visitthatdestructiononus.”“Poor Theo. I could

have.”

“No you couldn’t. Icouldn’t understand thatmessage, any more thanDelilah here could have. Ican reproach myself now,of course, witheverything.” And theybegan to walk boldlythrough and boldly out oftheburnttown,singlefile.“Not everything, Theo.Who had Phinny?Remember?” cried Miss

Myraardently.“Hush.”“If I hadn’t had Phinny,that would’ve made it allright. Then Phinnywouldn’thave—”“Hush, dearest, thatwasn’t your baby, youknow. It was BrotherBenton’s baby. I won’thaveyournonsensenow.”Miss Theo led the waythrough the ashes,

marching in front. Delilahwas in danger of gettingleftbehind.“—perished. Dear

Benton. So good. Nobodyelse would have felt sobound,”MissMyrasaid.“Not after I told him

whatheowedalittlelife!Each little life is a mansfault. I said that. Oh,who’ll ever forget thatawfulday?”

“Benton’s forgotten, ifhe’sdead.Hewassogoodafter that too, nevermarried.”“Stayedhome,tookcareofhissisters.Onlywantedtobeforgiven.”“There has to besomebody to take care ofeverybody.”“I told him, he mustnever dream he wasinflicting his sisters. That’s

whatwe’refor.”“And it never wouldhaveinflictedus.Wecouldhave lived anddied.Untiltheycame.”“In at the front door onthe back of a horse,” saidMiss Theo. “If Benton hadbeenthere!”“I’ll never know whatpossessed them, riding inlike that,” saidMiss Myraalmost mischievously; and

MissTheoturned.“Andyousaid—”“I said something

wrong,” said Miss Myraquickly. “I apologize,Theo.”“No, I blame only

myself. That I let youremain one hour in thathouseafteritwasdoomed.IthoughtIwasequaltoit,andIprovedIwas,butnotyou.”

“Oh, to my shame yousawme,dear!Whydoyousayitwasn’tmybaby?”“Now don’t start thatnonsenseoveragain,”saidMissTheo,goingaroundahole.“IhadPhinny.Whenwewere all at home andhappy together. Are yougoingtotakePhinnyawayfrommenow?”Miss Theo pressed her

cheekswithherpalmsandshowed her pressed,pensive smile as shelooked back over hershoulder.Miss Myra said, “Oh,don’t Iknowwhoit reallybelonged to, who it lovedthebest,thatbaby?”“I won’t have youmisrepresentingyourself.”“It’s never what Iintended.”

“Then reason dictatesyouhush.”Both ladies sighed, andso did Delilah; they wereso tired of going on.MissTheo still walked in frontbut she was lookingbehind her through theeyes in the back of herhead.“You hide him if youwant to,” saidMiss Myra.“Let Papa shut up all

upstairs.Ihadhim,dear.Itwas an officer, no, one ofour beaux that used tocome out and hunt withBenton. It’s because I wasalwaystheimpetuousone,highstrung and so easilycarried away.… And ifPhinnywasmine—”“Don’t you know he’sblack?”MissTheoblockedthepath.“He was white.” Then,

“He’s black now,”whispered Miss Myra,dartingforwardandtakingher sister’s hands. Theirshoulders were pressedtogether, as if they werelaughing or waiting forsomethingmoretofall.“IfIonlyhadsomething

toeat!”sobbedMissMyra,and once more let herselfbe embraced. One eyeshowed over the tall

shoulder.“Oh,Delilah!”“Could be he got out,”called Delilah in a highvoice.“Hestrong,he.”“Who?”“Could be Phinny’s outloose.Don’tcry.”“Lookyonder.WhatdoIsee? I see the Dicksons’perfectly good hammockstill under the old pecantrees,” Miss Theo said toMissMyra,andspreadher

hand.

There was some littleround silver cup, familiarto the ladies, in thehammockwhentheycameto it down in the grove.Lying on its side with afew drops in it, it madethemsmile.The yard was chargedwith butterflies. Miss

Myra, as if she couldwaitnolonger,climbedintothehammock and lay downwith ankles crossed. Shetook up the cup like astory book she’d begunand left there yesterday,holding it before her eyesin those freckling fingers,slowly picking out theants.“So still out here and

all,”MissMyrasaid.“Such

a big sky. Can you getused to that? And all thefigs dried up. I wish itwouldrain.”“Won’t rain tillSaturday,”saidDelilah.“Delilah,don’tgo’way.”“Don’tyoutry,Delilah,”saidMissTheo.“No’m.”Miss Theo sat down,restedawhile, thoughshedidnotknowhowtositon

thegroundandwasafraidof grasshoppers, and thenshe stood up, shook outher skirt, and criedout toDelilah, who had backedoff far to one side, wheresome chickens wererunningaroundloosewithnobodytocatchthem.“Come back here,Delilah!Toolateforthat!”She said to Miss Myra,“The Lord will provide.

We’vestillgotDelilah,andas long as we’ve got herwe’lluseher,mydearie.”Miss Myra “let the cat

die”inthehammock.Thenshegaveherhandtoclimbout,MissTheohelpedher,and without needing anyhelp for herselfMiss Theountied the hammock fromthe pecan trees. She waslongbentoverit,andMissMyra studied the

butterflies.Shehadleftthecup sitting on the groundintheshadeofthetree.AtlastMissTheohelduptwolengthsofcottonrope,thered and the white strandsuntwistedfromeachother,bentlikethehairofladiestaken out of plaits in themorning.Delilah,giventhesignal,

darted up the tree andhookinghertoesmadethe

ropes fast to the twobranches a sociabledistanceapart,whereMissTheo pointed. When sheslid down, she stoodwaiting while they settledit, until Miss Myrarepeated enough times, inaspoiledsweetway,“Ibidto be first.” It was whatMiss Theo wanted all thetime. Then Delilah had tosquat and make a basket

withher fingers, andMissMyra tucked up her skirtsandsteppedherashyshoeintheblackhands.“Tuckunder,Delilah.”Miss Myra, who hadordered that, steppedoverDelilah’s head and stoodon her back, and Delilahfelt her presence tuggingthere as intimately as afish’s on a line, eachlongingMiss Myra had to

draw away from MissTheo, draw away fromDelilah, away from thattree.Delilah rolled her eyes

around. The noose wasbeing tied by Miss Theo’spuckered hands like abonnet on a windy day,and Miss Myra’s young,liftedfacewaslookingout.“Ilearnedasachildhow

totie,fromapicturebook

inPapa’s library—not thatIeverwascalledon,”MissTheo said. “I guess I wasalways something of atomboy.” She kissed MissMyra’shandandatalmostthe same instant Delilahwasseizedbytheribsanddragged gigglingbackward, out fromunder—not soon enough, forMiss Myra kicked her inthe head—a bad kick,

almostasifthatwereMissTheo or a man up in thetree, who meant what hewasdoing.MissTheostoodholding

Delilah and looking up—helpingherselftogrief.NowonderMissMyrausedtohide in the summerhousewith her reading,screaming sometimeswhen there was nothingbut Delilah throwing the

dishwater out on theground.“I’ve proved,” said MissTheo to Delilah, draggingher by more than mainforce back to the tree,“what I’ve alwayssuspicioned:thatI’mbraveasalion.That’sright:lookat me. If I ordered youback up that tree to helpmy sister down to thegrass and shade, you’d

turnandrun:Iknowyourminds. You’d desert mewithyourworkhalfdone.So I haven’t said a wordabout it. Aboutmercy. Assoon as you’re through,you can go, and leave uswhere you’ve put us,unspared, just alike. Andthat’s the way they’ll findus.The sightwillbegoodfor them for what they’vedone,” and she pushed

Delilah down and walkedup on her shoulders,weightingherdown likearock.Miss Theo looped her

own knot up there; therewas nomirror or sister toguide her. Yet she wasquicker this timethan lasttime, but Delilah wasquicker too. She rolledoverinaball,andthenshewas up running, looking

backward, crying. BehindherMissTheocamesailingdown from the tree. Shewas always too powerfulforalady.Eventhosehenswent flying up with ashriek, as if they felt hershadow on their backs.Now she reached in thegrass.There was nothing for

Delilah to do but hide,down in the jungly grass

choked with bitterweedand black-eyed susans,wild to the pricking skin,withmanyheadsnodding,cauldrons of ants, withbutterflies riding them,grasshoppers hoppingthem, mosquitoes makingthe air alive, down in theloud and lonesome grassthat was rank enoughalmost to matt the skyover. Once, stung all over

and wild to her hair’sends, she ran back andasked Miss Theo, “Whatmust I do now? WheremustIgo?”ButMissTheo,whose eyes from theground were lookingstraight up at her,wouldn’t tell. Delilahdanced away from her,back to her distance, andcrouched down. ShebelievedMissTheotwisted

in the grass like a deadsnake until the sun wentdown.Sheherselfheldstilllike a mantis until thegrass had folded andspread apart at the fallingofdew.Thiswasafter thechickenshadgonetoroostin a strange uneasy treeagainst the cloud wherethe guns still boomed andthe way from Vicksburgwas red. Then Delilah

couldfindherfeet.She knew where MissTheo was. She could seethe last white of MissMyra,thestockings.Later,down by the swamp, in awading bird tucked in itswing for sleep, she sawMissMyra’sghost.

After being lost a dayand a night or more,

crouching awhile, stealingawhile through thesolitudes of briar bushes,she came again to RoseHill. She knew it by thechimneysandbythecrapemyrtle off to the side,where the bottom of thesummerhousestoodemptyas an eggbasket. Someofthe flowers looked tasty,like chicken legs fried alittleblack.

Goingaroundthehouse,climbing over the barrierof the stepless backdoorsill, and wading intoashes, she was lost still,inside that house. Shefound an iron pot and aman’s long boot, adoorknobandalittlebookfluttering, its leavesspotted and fluffed likeguinea feathers. She tookup the book and read out

from it, “Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba—trash.”ShewasbeingMissTheo taking away MissMyra’s reading. Then shesaw the Venetian mirrordown in the chimney’scraw, flat and face-up inthecinders.Behind her the one

standingwallofthehouseheldnotchedandlisteninglike the big ear of KingSolomon into which

pouredtherepeatedaskingof birds. The tree stoodand flowered. What mustshe do? Crouchingsuddenly to the ground,she heard the solidcannon, the galloping, thelow fast drum of burning.Crawlingonherkneesshewent to the glass andrubbed it with spit andleaned over it and saw afaceallneckandears,then

gone.Beforeitsheopenedand spread her arms; shehad seen Miss Myra dothat,trythat.Butitsgleamwasaddled.Though the mirror didnot know Delilah, Delilahwould have known thatmirror anywhere, becauseit was set between blackmen. Their arms wereraised to hold up themirror’s roof, which now

the swollen mirrorbrimmed, among goldleaves and gold heads—blackmendressedingold,looking almost into theglass themselves, as if tolook back through a door,men now half-split away,flattened with fire,bearded, noseless as themoss that hung fromswamptrees.Where the mirror did

not cloud like the horse-trampled spring, goldgathered itself from thewindingwater, and honeyunder water started toflow, and then the goldfields were there,hardening gold. Throughthewater,goldandhoneytwisted up into houses,trembling. She sawpeoplewalking the bridges inearly light with hives of

housesontheirheads,menin dresses, some with redbirds; and monkeys invelvet; and ladies withmaskslaidovertheirfaceslooking from pointedwindows.Delilahsupposedthat was Jackson beforeSherman came. Then itwas gone. In this noonquiet, here where all hadpassedby,unlessindeedithadgonein,shewaitedon

herknees.The mirror’s cloudy

bottom sent up minnowsof light to thebrimwherenow a face pure as awater-lily shadow wasfloating. Almost too smalland deep down to see,they were quivering,leaping to life, fighting,aping old things Delilahhad seen done in thisworld already, sometimes

what men had done toMiss Theo and Miss Myraand the peacocks and toslaves, and sometimeswhataslavehaddoneandwhat anybody now coulddo to anybody. Under theflicker of the sun’s licks,thenunder itswholeblowandblare, likeanunheardscream, like an act ofmercy gone, as the wall-less light and July blaze

struck through from theopened sky, the mirrorfelledherflat.She put her arms overher head and waited, forthey would all be comingagain,gatheringunderherand above her, beessaddled like horses out ofthe air, butterfliesharnessed to one another,bats with masks on, birdstogether, all with their

weapons bared. Shelistenedfortheblows,anddreaded that whole armyof wings—of flies, birds,serpents, their glowingenemy faces and brightkings’ dresses, thatbannerof colors forked out, allthisworld thatwas flying,striking, stricken, falling,gilded or blackened,mortally splitting andfalling apart, proud

turbans unwinding,turning like the spotteddying leaves of fall,spiraling down tobottomless ash; shedreadedthefuryofallthebutterflies and dragonfliesintheworldriding,bladesunconcealed and at point—descending, and risingagain from the watersbelow, down under, onewhale made of his own

grave, opening his mouthto swallow Jonah onemoretime.Jonah!—a homely face

toher,thatcouldstilllookback from the red lanehe’dgonedown,even if itwas too late to speak. Hewas her Jonah, herPhinny,herblackmonkey;she worshiped him still,though itwas longagohewas taken from her the

firsttime.Stiffly,Delilahgottoherfeet.Shecockedherhead,looked sharp into themirror, and caught themotherly image—headwagging in the flayedforehead of a horse withearsandcrestup stiff, theshieldandthedrumofbigswamp birdskins, thehornsofdeersharpenedtocut and kill with. She

showed her teeth. Thenshe looked in the featheryashes and found Phinny’sbones.Sherippedasquarefromhermanifold fullnessof skirts and tied up thebonesinit.She set foot in the roadthen, walking stilted inMiss Myra’s shoes andcarryingMissTheo’sshoestied together around herneck,hertrainintheroad

behindher.SheworeMissMyra’s willing rings—hadfilledup two fingers—-butshehadhadatlasttogiveup the puzzle of MissTheo’s bracelet with thechain. They were twostones now, scalding-white. When the combswerebeing lifted fromherhair,MissMyrahad comedown too, beside hersister.

Light on Delilah’s headthe Jubilee cup was set.She paused now and thento lick the rim and tasteagain the ghost of sweetthat could still make hertongue start clinging—some sweet lapped upgreedily long ago, only amysterynowwhenorwhoby. She carried her ownblack locust stick to drivethesnakes.

Following the smell ofhorses and fire, to men,she kept in the wheeltrackstilltheybrokedownat the river. In the shadeunderneath the burnedand fallen bridge she satonastumpandchewedfora while, without dreams,the comb of a dirtdauber.Then once more kneeling,shetooka.drink fromtheBig Black, and pulled the

shoes off her feet andwadedin.Submerged to thewaist,

to the breast, stretchingherthroatlikeasunflowerstalk above the river’sopaque skin, she kept on,hertreasurestackedontheroof of her head, handslaced upon it. She hadforgottenhoworwhensheknew, and she did notknow what day this was,

but she knew—it wouldnot rain, the river wouldnotrise,untilSaturday.

PillarofFire

SHELBYFOOTE

Ankle deep in the dustyplaces,theroadledtwelvemiles from the landing,around the head of ahorseshoe lake and downitseasternslopewherethe

houses were. We left thegunboatat eightoclock inbrilliant sunlight, twomounted officers wearingsabers and sashes andthirty Negro infantrymenin neat blue uniforms; atnoon the colonel haltedthe column before a two-story frame structurewitha brick portico and squat,whitewashed pillars. Hesatahammer-headedroan,

an early-middle-aged manwith a patch across oneeye.“Looks old,” he said,

rolling his cigar along hislower lip. He faced front,addressingthehouseitself.“Oughttoburnpretty,”headded after a pause,perhapstoexplainwhyhehadnotchosenoneof thelarger ones in bothdirections. I saw that he

was smiling, and thatwasasusualatsuchatime,thehead lifted to expose themouth beneath the widepepper-and-salt mustache.Behindus the troopswerequiet: so quiet that whenthe colonel turned in thesaddle, leather squeaked.“Walk up there, Mr.Lundy, and give them thenews.”Thetroopsstoodatease

in a column of fours, therifle barrels slanting andglinting. Above theirtunics, which werepowderedwithdustexceptwheretheyweresplotchedadarkerblueatbacksandarmpitsfromfourhoursofhardmarching, their facesappeared cracked as if byerosion where sweat hadrun.“Orderly,” I said. A

soldier stepped out ofranks and held the reinsnear the snaffle while Idismounted on the offside,favoringmystiffrightleg. I went up toward thehouse. When the colonelcalledafterme,somethingI could not distinguishabove the sound of myboots crunching gravel onthedriveway,Ihaltedandfacedabout.“Sir?”

“Tell them twentyminutes!”WithonearmhemadethesweepinggestureI had come to know sowell. “To clear out!” Iheardhimcall.I went on—this wasnothingnew;itwasalwaystwenty minutes—remembering, as I haddonenowforthepasttwoyears whenever Iapproached a strange

house, that I had lost afriend this way. It was inVirginia, after SecondBullRun, the hot first day ofSeptember,’62.Thetwoofus, separated from ourcommand in the retreat,walked up to a roadsidecabin to ask theway, andsomeone fired at us frombehind a shutteredwindow.Iranoutofrangebefore the man (or

woman; I never knew)could reload, and by thetime I got up courageenoughtocomeback,halfan hour later, no onewasthere except my friend,lying in the yard in hisgaudy zouave uniformwith his knees drawn upand both hands clappedtight against his beltbuckle. He looked pinch-facedandverydead,andit

seemed indeed a uselesswaytodie.That was while I was

still just Private Lundy,withinamonthofthedayI enlisted back home inCashtown; that was mybaptismoffire,astheyliketo call it. After that cameAntietam andFredericksburg, where Iwon my stripes. The warmoved fast in those days

and while I was inWashington recoveringfrom my Chancellorsvillewound I received mycommission and orders toreport directly to theWarDepartmentafteratwenty-day convalescent leave. Ienjoyed the visit home,limping on a cane andhaving people admire mynew shoulder straps andfire-gilt buttons. “Adam,

you’re looking fit,” theysaid, pretending not tonotice the ruined knee.‘Fit’ was their notion of asoldier word, though infact the only way anysoldiereveruseditwasasthepasttenseoffight.WhenIreportedbackto

the capital I was assignedto the West, arrivingduring the siege ofVicksburg and serving as

liaison officer on one ofthe gunboats. Thus Imissed the fighting atGettysburg,upnearhome.Itwasnotunpleasantduty.I had a bed to sleep in,withsheets,andthreerealmeals every twenty-fourhours, plus coffee in thegalley whenever I wantedit. We shot at them, theyshot at us: I could tellmyself I was helping to

winthewar.IndependenceDay the city fell, and inearlyAugustIwasorderedto report for duty withColonel Nathan Frisbieaboard the gunboatStarlight.Uptillthenithadall been more or lessaverage, including thewound; there werethousands like me. Butnow it changed, and Iknewitfromthefirsttime

Isawhim.He looked at me hard

with his one gray eyebeforereturningthesalute.“Glad to have youaboard,”he saidat last.ANegrocorporalwasbracedin a position ofexaggerated attentionbesideastandofcolorsatthe rear of the cabin.“Orderly,” the colonelsaid. The corporal rolled

his eyes. “Show thelieutenanthisquarters.”Next morning at six

o’clock the corporalrapped at the door of mycabin, then entered andgave me the colonel’scompliments, along withinstructions to report totheorderlyroomforatourof inspection beforebreakfast.I’dbeenasleep;Idressed in a hurry,

flustered at being late onmy first day of duty.Colonel Frisbie waschecking the morningreportwhenIcamein.Heglanced up and saidquietly, “Get your saber,Mr Lundy.” I returned tomy cabin, took the saberout of its wrappings, andbuckled it on. I hadntworn it since theconvalescent leave, and in

facthadntthoughtI’deverwearitagain.The troops were on the

after deck, each manstanding beside his pallet;thecoloneland I followedthefirstsergeantdowntheaisle. From time to timeColonel Frisbie wouldpause and lift an articlefrom the display ofequipment on one of thepads, then look sharply at

the owner before passingon. “Take his name,Sergeant.”Theirdarkfaceswere emptyof everything,but I saw that each mantrembledslightlywhilethecolonelstoodbeforehim.After breakfast Colonel

Frisbie called me into theorderly room for aconference. This was thefirstofmany.Hesatathisdesk, forearms flat along

its top, the patch over hiseye dead black like atarget center, his lipshiddenbeneaththeblousy,slightlygrizzledmustache.There was hardly anymotion in his face as hespoke.WhenVicksburgfell,thecolonel said, Mr Lincolnannounced that theMississippi “flowed unvexedtothesea.”But,like

so many politicalannouncements, this wasnotstrictlytrue;therewasstill considerable vexationintheformofsnipingfromthe levee, raids by bodiesof regular and irregularcavalry—bushwhackers,the colonel called them—and random incidentsinvolving plunder anddisrespect to the flag. SowhileShermansidestepped

his way to Atlanta,commanders of districtsflanking the river wereinstructed to end all suchtroubles. On the theorythat partisan troops couldnot function without thesupportof thepeoplewholived year-round in thetheater, the commandersadopted a policy ofholding the civilianpopulationresponsible.

“Theystartedthisthing,Mr Lundy,” the colonelsaid. “They began it, sir,and while they had theupperhandtheythoughtitwas mighty fine.Remembertheplumesandroses in those days?Well,we’re top dog now, Eastand West, and we’ll givethem what they blusteredfor. Indeed. We’ll givethem war enough to last

thetimeofman.”He brooded, his face inshadow, his hands restingwithinthecircleofyellowlamplight on his desk. Iwondered if this silence,which seemed long,wasasign that the conferencewasover.ButjustasIwasabouttoexcusemyself,thecolonel spoke again. Hecleared his throat.“Lieutenant, does that

kneebotheryou?”“Not often, sir. Justwhen—”“Never you mind,”Colonel Frisbie said, andmovingonehandsuddenlyto the lamphe turned thewickup fullandtiltedtheshadesothatthelightwasthrown directly on hisface. His expression wasstrained, the patch neatand exact. “Theyll pay for

that knee, lieutenant. Andtheywillpayforthis!”Helifted the patch onto hisforehead. The emptysocket pulsed as red andraw as when the woundwasnew.During the year that

followed, the colonelspoketomeoftenoftheseand other things. Everymorning there was ameeting in the orderly

room after breakfast—‘conferences’ he calledthem, but he did thetalking. I understood howhe felt about the eye, thedesire to make someonepayforitsloss;Ihadfeltitmyself about the ruinedknee and the death ofmyfriend in Virginia, until Ireminded myself, in thecase of the knee, that thebullets flew both ways,

and in the case of myfriendthatitwasprimarilyaquestionofwhosehomewas being invaded. I hadmoreor lessput it behindme, this thought ofrepayment; but withColonel Frisbie it wasdifferent, and for manyreasons. He was a NewEnglander, a lawyer incivilian life, an originalabolitionist. He had been

active in the undergroundrailroad during the ’50s,and when war came heentered the army as acaptain under Frémont inSaint Louis. These werethings he told me fromtime to time, but therewerethingshedidnottell,thingsIfoundoutlater.He had been with

Sherman at Shiloh, amajorby then,adjutant in

anIndianaregimentwhichbroke badly under theSunday dawn attack. Hewas near the bluff abovePittsburg Landing, usingthe flat of his saber onstragglers, when a strayminiécamehiswaywithaspent whine and took outhislefteye:whereuponhewent under the bluff, toreoffhisshoulderstraps,andlay down among the

skulkers. There were tenthousand others downthere, including officers,and only a few of themwounded; he had betterprovocationthanmost.Yethe could not accept it inthe way those othersapparently could. Whenthe battle was over hebandaged his eye with astrip from his shirt,rejoinedhis regiment, and

later was commended inreports.Thereweremeninhis outfit, however,includingsomeofhisownclerks,who had also beenunder the bluff, and hesaw them looking at himas if to say, “If you wonttellonme,Iwontonyou.”Soon afterwards he wasassigned to courts martialduty with the AdjutantGeneral’s Department.

WhenthearmyadopteditsreprisalpolicyinthelowerMississippi Valley, he wasgiven another promotionandagunboatwithspecialtroopsaboardtoenforceit.Patrollingtheriverfrom

Vicksburg north toMemphis, two hundredandfiftyair-linemilesandalmost twice that far bywater,One-EyeFrisbieandthe Starlight became well

known throughout thedelta country. Wherepartisan resistance hadonce been strongest, soonthere was little activity ofany kind. It became ableak region, populatedonly by women andchildren and oldmen andhouse servants too feebleto join the others gone as‘contraband’ with theUnion armies. The fields

lay fallow, last year’scotton drooping on deadbrown stalks. Even thebirds went hungry, whatfew remained. The landwas desolated as if byplague.The only protest now

was an occasional shotfromthe levee,whichwasfollowed by instantreprisalinaccordancewiththe Army policy. Colonel

Frisbiewouldtieupatthenearestrivertown,sendingword for evacuationwithin twenty minutes,and then would give theStarlight gunners half anhour’sbriskdrill,throwingexplosive shells over thelevee and into the emptybuildings and streetswhere chickens and dogsfluttered and slunk andsquawked and howled. Or

he would tie up at thepoint where the snipingoccurred, lead the troopsashore, and march themoverland sometimes as faras a dozen miles to burnan isolated plantationhouse.IwaswithhimfromthebeginningandIrememberhimmainlyasstraddledinsilhouette before the lickand soar of flames.

Dispossessed, the familyhuddledsomewhereinthebackground. At first theyhad been arrogant,threatening reprisal byForrestorJamesonorVanDorn. “You had betterburn the trees as well,”onewomantoldus.“Whenwe first came there wasnothingbutwoodsandwebuilt our homes. We’llbuild them again.” But

whenAtlantawasbesiegedtheirdefiancefaltered,andwhen Sherman had takenthecityandwaspreparingfor the march that would“makeGeorgiahowl,”theyknew they were beatenand their armies wouldnever return. There hadbeen a time when theysent their plantation bellsand even their brassdoorknobstobemeltedfor

cannon;butnotanymore.Now the war had leftthem. They were facedwith the aftermath beforethefinish.Colonel Frisbie lookeduponall this as indemnitycollectible for the loss ofhiseyeandhiscourageatShiloh.Saberandsashandgray eye glinting firelight,he would watch a houseburnwithasmilethatwas

more like a grimace, liplifted to expose the whiteteeth clamping the cigar.That was the way Irememberedhimnowas Icontinued to walk up thedriveway toward thehouse. Around one of itscorners I saw that theoutbuildings had alreadyburned,and Iwondered ifit had been done byaccident—a not

uncommon plantationmishap—or by one of ourarmies passing through atthe time of the Vicksburgcampaign. Then, nearingtheportico, I saw that thedoorwasajar.Beyond it Icould see into a high dimhallwhereastaircaseroseinaslowcurve.Istoodinthe doorway, listening,thenrapped.The rappingwas abrupt

and loud against thesilence. Then there wasonly vacancy, somehoweven more empty thanbefore.“Hello!” I cried, my

voiceasreverberantasifIhad spoken from thebottomofawell.“Hellointhere!”Ihadamomentofsharp

fear, a sudden vision ofsomeone crouched at the

top of the staircase,sighting down a riflebarrel at me with a hot,unwinkingeye.ButwhenIbent forward and peered,therewasnoone,nothing.Iwentin.Through a doorway ontherightIsawatallblackman standing beside anarmchair.Heworearustyclaw-hammer coat withbuttonsof tarnishedbrass,

andonhisheadtherewaswhatappearedtobeapairof enormous white horns.Looking closer I saw thatthe Negro had bound adinner napkin about hisjaws, one of which wasbadly swollen, and hadtied it at the crownof hishead so that the cornersstood up stiffly from theknot like the ears on arabbit. The armchair was

wideanddeep;itfacedthecold fireplace, its high,fan-shaped back turnedtowardthedoor.I said, “Didnt you hear

me calling?” The Negrojust stood there, sayingnothing. Itoccurred tomethenthathemightbedeaf;he had that peculiar,vacant look on his face. Icame forward. “I saiddidnt…”

ButasIapproachedhim,obliquing to avoid thechair, I saw somethingelse.Therewasahandonthechairarm.Paleagainsttheleather and mottled withdark brown liver spots, itresembled the hand of amummy, the nails longand narrow, almond-shaped. Crossing to thehearth I looked down at

theman in the chair, andtheman lookedup atme.He was old—though oldwas hardly word enoughto express it; he wasancient—with sunkencheeksandamassofwhitehairlikeamane,obviouslya tallmanandprobablyabig one, once, but thinnow to the point ofemaciation, as if he hadbeen reduced to skin and

skeletonandonlythemostessentialorgans,heartandlungs and maybe bowels,though not very much ofeither—‘Except heart;there’s plenty of that,’ Ithought, looking into thecold green eyes. His chin,resting upon a high stock,trembledashespoke.“Have you brum to runmyhowl?”hesaid.I stared at him. “How’s

that?”Iasked.Buttheoldmandidnotanswer.“He hyar you, captain,”the Negro said. Hisenormous horns bobbedwiththemotionofhisjaw.“Hehyaryouwellenough,but something happen tohim lately he caint talkright.”

ThiswasIsaacJameson,

who was born in awilderness shack besidetheTracewhilehisfather,a South Carolinamerchant, was removinghisfamilyandhisbusinessto the Natchez District aspartofacaravanwhichheand other Loyalists hadorganized to escape theRevolution on theseaboard. Thus in lateryears, like somanyof the

leaders of his time, Isaacwas able to say in truththat he was a log cabinboy.Butitwasmisleading,for his father, who hadprospered under theCrown back east, becameevenwealthierinthewest,andIsaacgrewupinafinebig house on the bluffoverlooking the river.From the gallery he couldwatch Spanish sentries

patrollingthewharfwheresteamboats, up from NewOrleans,putinwithgoodsfor the Jamesonwarehouse.Hewasgrown,twenty years old and fourinches over six feet tall,when John Adams senttroopstotakeoverfortheUnited States and createdthe Mississippi Territory.The Republic, which hisfather had come seven

hundred miles to escape,haddoggedhisheels.Isaac was sixth among

eight sons, and he wasunlike the others. It wasnotonlythathestoodhalfa head taller; there wassome intrinsic difference.They were reliable men,eventhetwoyoungeroneswhofollowedtheremoval.But Isaacwould not standatadesktottingfiguresor

checkingbillsoflading.Hewas off to cockfights orhorseraces, and he spentmore evenings in theUnder-the-Hillsectionthanhe did in Natchez proper.His father, rememberingtheshackbytheTrace,thepanthers screaming in theoutward darkness whilehis wife was in labor,believed that his son—wildernessborn,conceived

in a time of revolution—had received in his blood,alongwithwhateveritwasthat had given him theextra height and theunaccountablewidthofhisshoulders, some goadingspark of rebellion, somefierce, hot distillate of thejungleitself.Then one day he wasgone. He did not saywhere he was going, or

even that he was leaving;he just went. Then tenyears later he turned upagain, with a bad legwound from the Battle ofNew Orleans. He was ayear mending. Then hespent another year tryingto make up for lost time.But it did not go right.There were still thecockfights and the grogshops and the women

under thehill,but theoldlifehadpalledonhim.Hewas thirty-nine, abachelor,well intomiddleage,andapparently ithadallcometonothing.Then he found what hehadbeenseekingfromthestart, though he did notknowhewaslookingforituntil some time after hefound it. Just before hisfortieth birthday—in the

springof1818;Mississippihad entered the Union inDecember—he rode intothe northern wildernesswithtwotrapperswhohadcome to town on theirannualspree.Thistimehewasgonea littleover twoyears. Shortly after thetreaty of Doaks Standopened five and a halfmillion acres of Choctawland across the middle of

thestate,hereappearedathis father’s house.Hewasin buckskins, his hairshoulderlength.Next day he was gonefor good, with ten of hisfather’s Negroes and fivethousanddollarsingoldinhis saddle-bags. He hadcome back to claim hislegacy, to take this nowinsteadofhis share in theJameson estate when the

oldmandied.Thebrotherswere willing, since itwouldmeanalargersharefor them when the timecame. The fatherconsidered itadown-rightbargain; he would havegiven twice that amountfor Isaac’s guarantee tostay away from Natchezwithhisescapadesandhisdamage to the name. Hesaid, “If youwant to play

prodigal it’s all right withme. But mind you: whenyoure swilling with swineand chomping the husks,dontcutyoureyesaroundin my direction. Therewont be any lamp in thewindow, or fatted calfeither.Thisisall.”It was all Isaac wanted,

apparently.Betweensunupand nightfall of thefollowing day—a Sunday,

early in June—they rolledfortymiles along the roadconnecting hamlets northof Natchez. Sundown ofthe third day they madecamp on the near bank oftheYazoo,gazingdownoffthe Walnut Hills, andWednesday they enteredthedelta,aflatlandbakedgray by the sun whereverit exposed itself, whichwas rare, from under the

intertwined branches ofsycamores andwater oaksandcottonwoodsandelms.Grass grew so thick thateventhebroadtiresoftheConestoga left nomark ofpassage. Slow, circuitouscreeks,coveredwithdustyscum and steaming in theheat, drained east andsouth, away from theriver, each doubling backon itself in convulsive

loopsandcoilslikeasnakefightinglice.Forfourdaysthen, while the Negroesclutched desperately atseats and stanchions in adin of creaking wood andclatteringmetal (they hadbeen warehouse hands,townspeople,andonesthebrothers could easiestspare at that) the wagonlurchedthroughthicketsofscrub oak and stunted

willow and over fallentrunks and rotted stumps.It had apitching roll, likethat of a ship riding aheavy swell, whichactuallydid causemost ofthe Negroes to becomeseasickfourhundredmilesfromsaltwater.They followed no trail,for there was no trail tofollow. There was onlyIsaac,whorodeaclaybank

mare as far out front asvisibility allowed,sometimes half a mile,sometimes ten feet, andeveninthelattercasetheysometimes followed notthe sight of him but thesound of snapping limbsand Isaac’s cursing. Oftentheyhadtodismountwithaxes and chop through.Just before noon of theeighth day, Sunday again,

they struck the southernendofalake,veeredright,then left, and continuednorthward along itseastern shore. Two hourslater Isaac reined in themare,andwhenthewagondrew abreast he signaledfor a halt. A wind hadrisen, ruffling the lake;through the screen ofcypresses the waves werebright like little hatchets

inthesunlight.“Allright,”he said. “You can get thegear unloaded. We arehome.”Thatwas thebeginning.

During the next ten yearshe was joined by othersdrawn from the southandeast tonew landavailableat ninety cents an acrewith few questions asked.The eighteen hundredacres of Isaac’s original

claim were increased tothirty-two hundred in1826 when his neighborsnorth and south wentbroke in the crash. Twoyears later, thoughhehadnamed his ten-square-mileplantation Solitaire inconfirmation of hisbachelorintentions,hegotmarried. It happenedalmost accidentally. Shewas the youngest of four

daughters; the other threewerealreadymarried,andshe herself was more orlessengagedatthetimetothe blacksmith’s assistant,twodoorsdownthestreet.Her father kept a tavern,andfromtimeto timeshetook her turn at the tap.Isaac found her tendingbar one warm springevening when he rodedown for a drink. He had

seenherbefore,ofcourse,though he had not reallynoticed. Now he did. Heparticularly admired herarms,whichwerebaredtothe elbows, and her thickyellowhair,wornshoulderlength. That night he hadtroublegettingtosleep.Atlast he dropped off,however. He did notdream,butwhenhewokehethoughtimmediatelyof

her.Whats this? he askedhimself.HereturnedtotheInn that evening, and thenext. By then he haddecided. He spoke to thefather first. “I’mwilling ifKaty is,” the innkeepersaid.Theweddingwasheldat

the Tavern and theblacksmith’s youngassistant was there,bulging his biceps, drunk

forthefirsttimeinhislife.He got into three fightsthat day, though not withIsaac.

2

Thatended the firstphaseof his life, the fifty yearsspent running hard aftertrouble in any form, firstamong men—river bulliesat Natchez-under-the-Hill,

painted Creeks at BurntCorn, British regulars atNewOrleans;hehadtriedthemall—andthenagainstthecat-andsnake-infestedjunglesoftheSouth.Isaac,however, was not awarethatithadendeduntiltwoyears later, after DancingRabbit opened theremainingnorthernsectionof the state to settlers,when his neighbors, small

farmersandplantersalike,were selling their claimsfor whatever they couldget, packing their cartsand Conestogas, andheadingnorthintotherichnewlandthatlaybetweenthelakeandtheTennesseeline.Itwasthen,aftertheyhad gone and he hadstayed,thatIsaacknewhiswilderness thirst had beenslaked.

What bound him finallyand forever to this earth,however—and he knew it—was thebirth of his sonin August, 1833, the yearthestarsfell.MrsJamesonnamed him Clive, not forany particular reason; shejustlikedthename.Intheten following years shebore six more children.They were all girls andwere all either born dead

or died within a week.They lay inacedargrove,beneath a row of crosses.She had become apleasant-faced, bustlingwoman,ratherfull-bodied,expendingherenergyonadetermination.tokeeptheJameson house the finestonthelake.This took some doing:

for, though nowhere nearthe extent it would reach

ten years later in theexpansiveearly ’50s,therewas already plenty ofcompetition. Cotton wascoming into its own, andthe lake country was adistrict of big plantations,thousand- and two- andthree-thousand-acre placeswhich the owners ruledlike barons. When thesmallfarmers,settlerswhohadfollowedIsaacintothe

region after the DoaksStand treaty opened theland, moved away to thenorthafterDancingRabbit—usually with no morethan they had had whentheyarrived,awagonandateamofmulesoroxen,arifleandacoupleofsticksof furniture, a hound ortwo and a crate ofchickens or shoats, a wifeand a stair-stepped parcel

of children in linsey-woolsey, and perhaps awidowed mother ormother-in-law—theirclaimsweregobbledupbythose who stayed, as wellasbyotherswhomovedinon their heels. These last,the second wave ofcomers, were essentiallybusinessmen.Theyhadnogift (or, for that matter,desire) for ringing trees

and rooting stumps; theirgift was rather fororganization. They couldjuggle figures and balancebooks and put the profitswhere they earned moreprofits. Eli Whitney madethem rich and now theybegantobuild finehousesto show it, calling themWestoakHallandWaverlyand Briartree, proud-sounding names in

imitation of those in thetide-water counties ofVirginia,thoughinfacttheVirginians were fewamong them. They weremostly Kentuckians andNorth Carolinians, arrivedbywayofEastMississippior the river, and for themost part they were notyounger sons ofestablished families, sentforth with the parental

blessing and gold in theirsaddlebags.Many of themdid not know theirgrandparents’ names, andsome of them had neverknowntheirfathers.Isaac’soriginalL-shaped

structure, which he andthe ten slaves had put upin 1820 soon after theirarrival,hadgrownnowtoa two-story mansion witha brick portico and

concrete pillars; the roofhad been raised so thatnowallthebedroomswereupstairs. Itwas still calledSolitaire though the namenolongerfit.Isaachimselfhad grown handsomerwithage.Hewasstillabigman, six feet four, but helooked slimmer and,somehow, even fitter andmore hale. Gray hairbecame him. Dressed

habitually in broadclothandstarchedlinen,hehadastiffness,aformalitythatresembled an outwardshow of self-satisfactionand pride. In 1848, whenhe was seventy, peopleseeinghimonthestreetinIthaca, with his straight-backedmannerofwalkingand his careful way ofplanting his feet, wouldpoint him out to visitors.

“That’sIkeJameson,”theywould say. “He was thefirstman into these parts.Fine-looking,ainthe.Howoldwouldyoutakehimtobe?” The visitor wouldguess at fifty, fifty-five,and his hostwould laugh.“Seventy.Seventy,byGod.Youdneverthinkit,wouldyou?tolookathim.”In September of thatyear he sent his son, who

had reached fifteen themonth before, to theVirginia Military Institute.This was at the boy’sinsistence, and Isaac waswilling: not because hewanted him to become asoldier(hewantednosuchthing; he had known toomany soldiers inhis time)butbecauseinpreparationfor the life of a planter itdidnotmuchmatterwhat

formtheschoolingtook.Infact amilitary school wasprobably best, since theboywouldbelesslikelytobecome seriously involvedwithbooks.Ayoungman’strueeducationbeganwhenhe was through withschoolandhadcomebackhometolearntherunningof the plantation, theparticular temper andwhimsofcottonaswellas

the temper and whims ofthepeoplewhoworked it,meaningNegroes. Besides,the Mexican War wasrecently over. Young menthroughouttheSouthwereadmiringGeneralWinfieldScott and old Rough-and-Ready Taylor, CaptainBragg the artillerymanwho “gave them a littlemore grape,” and ColonelDavis from down near

Natchez who formed hisregiment, the MississippiRifles, in a V at BuenaVista and won the battlewithasinglecharge.Early in June, nine

months later, when Isaacwent to Bristol to meethim at the station, Clivewas in uniform, thebuttons bright againstblack facings on the slate-gray cloth. All down the

platform, people werelooking at him. Isaac wasimpressed.“Ideclare,boy,youlookalmostgrowntome.”“Hello, papa,” he said,and extended his hand.Always before that theyhadkissed.ThreeJuries later,whenhe came home fromgraduation, tall, slim,handsome, blond,

nineteen,hewasthecatchofthelake.Itwasnotonlyhis looks; he could beamusing, too, as forinstancewhen he gave animitation of hismathematics instructor, T.J.Jackson,whowoundupeverylecturecoveredwithchalkdustandperspirationand who sometimesbecame so interested insolving algebra and

trigonometry problemsthatheforgotthestudentswere present and juststoodtherereasoningwithhimself and Euclid. Clivehad much success withthis; “Give us ProfessorJackson,” they would beghim in houses along thelake. Soon, however, hissocialhorizonwidened.Hewasoneoftherealcatchesofthedelta.IsaacandMrs

Jameson were impressed,and so were the variousgirls; but the ones whoweremost impressedwerethe girls’ mothers. Theypreened their daughters,set their caps, and laidtheirsnares.Atdancesandoutings he moved amongthem, attentive, grave,pleasant, quite consciousof the advantages of hisposition.

Isaac was amused, buthe was also rather awed.Hisownyouthhadbeensodifferent. Past seventy,nearing eighty, he couldlookbackonalifedividedneatly into two unequalcompartments, the firstcontaining fifty years ofwildness and the secondcontaining twenty-odd—nearly thirty—years ofdomesticity,withmarriage

like an airtight doorbetween them. Now,thoughhedidnotknowitand could have donenothing about it anyhow,he was moving towardanotherdoorwhich led toa third compartment, lessroomy than either of theother two, with a closeratmosphere, even stiflingin the end, and moredifferent from both of the

previous two than thosetwo had been differentfromeachother.Inasensebeyond longevity he ledthreelivesinone.Since 1850, the year ofthe Compromise, plantersin the lake region hadbeentalkingdisunion.Asatopic for discussion it hadcrowded out the weatherand even the cottonmarket. Seated on their

verandas or in theirparlors,clutchingjulepsintheir fists, they blustered.They had built their finebig neo-Tidewater houses,displaying them to theirneighbors and whoeverpassed along the lakesideroad, each as a sort ofpatent of nobility, a claimto traditions and ancestrywhich they for the mostpartlacked.Insecurityhad

bred a semblance ofsecurity,untilnownoonequestioned their right toanything at all. WhenLincoln was nominated in1860 they took it as apointed insult. Not thattheybelievedhewouldbeelected; no; “Never in allthis world,” they said.“Those abolitionistscoundrels just want toflauntthisapeinourfaces

for the purpose ofwatching our reaction.Yes.Well,we’llshowthemsomething in the haventbargainedfor, if theydontwatch out. Let them bewarned,” they addedsolemnly.They admired the spirit

and emulated the mannerof the Texas senator, anex-SouthCarolinianwithareputation as a duelist,

who said to his Northernfellow-senators, smiling ashe said it though not infriendliness at all: “Thedifficultybetweenyouandus, gentlemen, is that youwillnotsendtherightsortof people here. Why willyou not send eitherChristiansorgentlemen?”“Wigfall knows how to

treat them,” the planterssaid.“Afewmorelikehim

and Preston Brooks andwe’d have this hoorawhushed.”But Isaac, who hadfought under AndrewJackson at New Orleansand followed his politicsever since,believed in theUnion in much the sameway as Jackson hadbelieved in it. He thoughtsectional differences couldbesolvedbetterwithinthe

Union than outside it. Atfirsthewouldsayso,withthe others watching himhot-eyed over the frostedrim of goblets. Later hesaw that it was no use.Like much of the rest ofthe nation, they weredetermined to haveviolence as the answer tosomedeep-seatedneed, asactualasthirst.Clive took little or no

part in these discussionswhichwent on all aroundhim. He had come homefrom the Institute with asoldier’s training, but nowhe was busy learning thelifeof aplanter; the slate-gray uniforms and thetactics texts had beenfolded away in a trunkwiththeunbloodedsword.He was closer to hismother than he was to

Isaac.Hewasquiet,indeedsomewhat vague in hismanner, with gentle eyes;his way now was verylittle different, in fact,from theway inwhichhehad moved among theBristolmatronsandfannedtheirhopeswithhisalmostcasual attentiveness. Heloved horses and spentmuch of his time in thestables. Behind the

softness of his eyes andvoicetherewassomethingwild that matched thewildness of horses, andthis was where he mostresembledhisfather.Then Lincoln was

elected—the planters hadsaid it would neverhappen; “Never in all thisworld,” they said—andSouth Carolina seceded,followedwithintwoweeks

byMississippiandthentheothers among the DeepSouth fire-eater states.That was in January.Moderationwasgonenow,what little had remained.Clive evenheard from theInstitute that thechalkdusty ProfessorJackson, a Mexican Warveteranhimself,hadstoodup in chapel and made aspeech; “Draw the sword

and throw away thescabbard!”hehadcried.Itdid not sound at all likehim, but anything wasbelievable in these times.Twomonthslater,amonthbefore Sumter, Clive rodeoff as captainof a cavalrytroop formed by the lakeplanters and their sons.With their wagons, theirspare mounts and bodyservants,theymadealong

column; their ornamentsflashedinthesunlight.Nearly all of them

returned within fourmonths, not as a unit butin straggling twos andthrees.Itwasthecommonend of such ‘elite’organizations; they hadnotexpectedwartobelikethat.Theexcitementlastednot even as long as theglitter of their collar

ornaments. Once it wasgone they thought theymightaswellcomehome.Theyhad seenno fightinganyhow. It was mostlydrill and guard mount,patrolling encampmentswhile the infantry slept,moving from place toplace, then back again.The glory had departed,andsodidthey.WhenClivecamehome,

hisuniformandsabersasha bit faded from theweather,Isaaccameouttomeet him in the yard,looking somehow moremilitaryinbroadcloththanhisson looked inuniform.Theystoodlookingateachother. “How did it go?”Isaacaskedhim.“It went all right,

considering. There justwasntanythingtodo.”

“You wanted it anotherway.Wasthatit?”“Ididntwantittheway

it was. We disbandedpiecemeal, man by man.Theywould comeand saythey were leaving. Thentheyd leave. Finally therewere less than a dozen ofus; so we left too. Wemadeitofficial.”They stood facing each

other in the hot summer

sunlight; First Manassashad been fought twoweeks ago. Clive wassmiling. Isaac did notsmile. “And what are yougoing to do now?” heasked.“Stayhereandfarmtheplace?”“Imight.”“So?”“Imight.…”“So?”“No, papa. I’ll go back.

Butdifferent.”“So,”Isaacsaid.He stayed tendays, andthen he left again. Thistimehewentalone.Withintwo years Clive Jamesonwas one of the saintednamesof theConfederacy.Itbeganwhenhecameoutof Donelson with Forrest,escaping through icybackwater saddle-skirtdeep. Then he

distinguished himself atShiloh, leading a cavalrycharge against the PeachOrchard and another atFallen Timbers after thebattle; Beauregard citedhimasoneoftheheroesofthat field. By the time ofVicksburg, in the summerof ’63, newspapers werebeginning to print thestory of his life. Southernaccounts always

mentionedhishavingbeenborntheyearthestarsfell;Starborn, one called him,and the others took it up.Poetesses laureate in ahundred backwoodscounties submitted verseinwhichtheytoldhowhehad streamed down toearthlikeameteortosavethe South; they mademuchoftheflamingwake.Northern accounts, on the

otherhand,mademuchofthe fact that his motherhad tended bar in herfather’staproom.He never wrote. They

didnotseehimagainuntillate in ’63 when he waswounded at Chickamauga,hisfifthbuthisfirstreallyserious wound, and wasbrought home in anambulance to recover. Hewasstillayoungman,just

pasthis thirtiethbirthday,but he looked older thanhis years. It was as if thefurnace of war had bakedthe flesh of his hard,handsome face, which bynowwas tacked in replicaon cabin walls, badlyreproduced pen-and-inksketches clipped fromnewspapers, and moonedover by girls in atticbedrooms. The softness

had gone from his eyesand voice. He did notresemble himself; heresembled his pictures.Having him at Solitairewaslikehavingasegmentof some actual blastedbattlefield at hand. Hismother,afteranhourwithhim, came away shakingherhead.“Whathavetheydone to my boy?” sheasked.

“He’sahero,”Isaacsaid.He had seen and knownheroes before. “What didyouexpect?”Clive mended fast,

however, and soon afterthe first of the year herode away. They heard ofhisraidintoKentuckythatspring—‘brilliant’ was theword that appeared mostfrequently in thenewspaper accounts; the

columns bristled with it,alongside ‘gallant’—and inJunehe ledhisbrigade inthe attack that crumpledGrierson’s flank at Brice’sCrossroads and sent theinvadersstumblingbacktoMemphis.Thepaperswerefullofit,proseandverse.Mrs Jameson sealed off

the upper story of herhouse.Sheand Isaac liveddownstairs. She was fifty-

six, an active, bustlingwoman who got thingsdone. She still had theyellow hair and even thebeautifully rounded arms,but she was subject todizzy spells, which shecalled the Vapors, andduring such an attack hermind would wander. Shewould imagine the warwas over andher sonwasdead. A moment later,

though, she would sighand say, “I’m glad he’sdoingwell,butIwishtheywould lethimcomehomeforawhile.Ireallydo.”She never thought of

him theway he had beenwhen he was there withhis Chickamauga wound.In her mind she saw himas he had been when herode away that first time,in the spring of ’61, with

the soft voice and gentleeyes, or as he was in thedaguerreotype which shekept on the night tablebesideherbed.Ithadbeentakenwhenhewasachild;hewore button shoes andribbed stockings and ajacketofwateredsilk,andthere was a small-boysweetness in his face.Sometimes in the nightIsaac would wake to find

the candle burning at thebedside and Mrs Jamesonsitting bolt upright,propped on three pillows,with the picture in herhands. There would betearsinhereyes,andifhespoketoheratsuchatimeshewouldturnandlookathim with the face of astranger.On a hot July morningshewaswaxingthedining

roomtable—ataskshehadalwaysreservedforherselfbecause it gave her aparticular pleasure—whensuddenlyshepausedandapeculiar expression cameover her face, theexpression of someoneabout to sneeze. Then shedid; she sneezed loudly.“God bless me,” she said,automatically, and wenton with her work,

applying the wax in long,evenstrokes.Presentlysheraised one hand to herforehead, palm outward,fingers relaxed. “I feel sodizzy,” she said. Shelooked frightened. Isaacreachedherjustasshefell.He carried her to a couchin the living room andknelt beside her, pattingher wrists. Her breathcame in harsh stertorous

groans.“Katy!” Isaac kept

saying. “Katy, dont youknowme?”She did not know him;

she did not knowanything. Foam keptforming on her lips andIsaac wiped it away withhis handkerchief. TwoNegroes stood in thebackground. There wasnothing theycoulddo.All

the doctors were off towar, but that was just aswell since there wasnothing they could havedone either. It was acerebral hemorrhage andshediedwithinfourhours.Nextdaytheyburiedherin the cedar grove, at thenear end of the row ofsmall, weathered crosses.Isaac was dry-eyed at theburial;hedidnot seem to

understand what hadhappened. He wasbewildered at last bymortality, by a world inwhich a person couldsneezeandsay,“Godblessme:Ifeeldizzy,”andthenbedead.Hewaseighty-sixyearsold.

3

All but three of the slaves

had left by then, gone ontheir own or as dish-washers and ditch-diggerswith the Union armieswhich had roamed thedistrictatwillandwithoutreal opposition since early’64. There was Edward,thebutler,whowasalmostseventy, the last of theoriginaltenwhohadcomewith Isaac in theConestoga north from

Natchez. He was stonedeaf,atall,straight-backedNegro, mute andinscrutablebehindhiswallof dignity and deafness.The other two werewomen; both were old,one lame (she did thecooking,whattherewastocook) and the other half-witted. These three livedin one of the cabins thatformed a double row,

called theQuarters, half amilebehindthehouse.Theother cabins were empty,beginning to dry rot fromdisuse, and the streetbetween the rows,formerly grassless,polishedbygenerationsofbare feet until it wasalmost as smooth andshiny as a ballroom floor,wasbeginningtospringupin weeds. When Mrs

Jameson died EdwardmovedintothehousewithIsaac.Fiveweeks later thetwo women joined thembecauseaFederalplatoon,out on patrol, burned thequarters.That was in August.

Near sundowntheplatoonmadebivouacinapasturenear thehouse.The cooksset up their kitchen andsentoutathree-mandetail

for firewood. They weretearing up the floorboardsin one of the cabins, theplanks making sudden,ripping sounds likemusketry,whenoneofthesoldiers happened toglance up and see a tallyellow woman, her facepitted with old smallpoxscars, standing in thedoorway watching them.Sheclaspedherwristsover

her stomach and watchedthem gravely. It gave hima start, finding her therelike that without havingheardherapproach.“Yawl bed not be doing

that,” she said when thesoldierlookedather.The others paused too,

now. They stood leaningforward with half-rippedplanks in their hands.Theiruniformsweredusty,

stillsweatyfrommarchingall that afternoon. “Whynot,aunty?” the first said.His speech was Southern,though obviously fromnorthofMississippi.“I’ll tell Mars Ike andhe’ll tell his boy: thatswhy. And the genril he’llcome back and git you,too, what time he hearsyou messing with hisbelongings like you

doing.”They resumed theirwork, tearing up thefloorboards with asplintering, ripping sound,and the sunlight slantingthrough the westernwindow was filled withdust-motes. Then one ofthem said casually, “Whatgeneral would that be,aunty?”“Genril Cli Jameson,

MarsIke’sboy.YouseeifIdont.”Againtheypaused,once

morewiththeendsofhalf-ripped planks in theirhands.Butthistimeitwasdifferent. They looked ather,allthreetogether,andsomething like joy wasregistered on their faces.“Does this belong to him,that house and all theseshanties?”

“Does indeed, and youbest quit or I’ll tell him.I’m a mind to tell himanyhow, the way yawlacting.”“Well,” the first said,

still notmoving, still bentforward.“Well,well.Whatdoyouknow.”Then he moved. He

finished prizing up theplankhehadholdof,tooka jackknife from his

pocket, one of the bighorn-handled ones thesuttlers sold in suchvolumeeverypayday,andbegan to peel shavingsfromtheedgeoftheplank.It was cypress, long sincecured, and the shavingscame off straight andclean, a rich pink almostred. The other twowatched him for amoment, puzzled. Then

theyunderstoodandbegantodothesame,takingouttheir knives and peelingshavings from otherplanks. They worked insilence, all three together.They were from aTennessee Union regiment—what their enemiescalled home-madeYankees. All three hadweek-oldbeards.“That damned butcher,”

the third said.Hehadnotspoken until now. “Aint itfunny what luck willsometimes throw yourway?”The woman watched

them withoutunderstanding, still withher hands crossed on thebulge of her stomach,while one of the soldiersscrapedtheshavingsintoasmallpileinonecornerof

the room. He laid planksacross it, first the splitonesandthenwholeones,buildingatepeeoflumber.Whenhehad finished thishe took a tinder box fromthe pocket of his blouse,then bent and struck it sothatashowerofsparksfellinto the heart of the littleheaped-up pile of cypressshavings.Atfirstitmerelysmoked and glowed.

Suddenly a flame leapedup, bright yellow, thenorange, then rose-colored,licking the wall of thecabin.“Yawl bed not be doing

that,” the woman saidagain,hervoiceas flat,asinflectionless as at thestart.The soldiers stood

watching the fire.When itwas burning nicely they

gathereduptheremainderof their ripped-upfloorboardsandstartedforthepasturewherebynowthecookhadbeguntobeatwith a big spoon againstthebottomofadishpantohurry them along. Onepaused at the foot of thesteps, turning with thebundle of planks on hisshoulder. The othersstopped beyond him,

looking back and smilingas he spoke. “Tell himthats for Fort Pillow,aunty. Tell him it’s fromthe friend of a man whowasthere.”Fifteen minutes later

Isaac and Edward and thelame cook, and presentlythehalf-wittedwomantoo,stood on the back galleryand watched the quartersburn. “I told um not to,

plain as I’m standing heretalking to you rightnow,”the woman said. Therewasnowind,notabreath;the flames went straightupwithasucking,roaringsound like the rush ofsomethingpassingatgreatspeed. Even deaf Edward,though he could not hearit,feltitsdeepmurmuringwhoosh against his face.He turned his head this

wayandthat,asifhehadrecoveredhishearingafterallthoseyearsofsilence.TheFederalplatoon,themen in collarless fatigueblousesandgalluses,manyof them smoking pipeswhile they waited forsupper, gathered at theback of the pasture towatch the progress of thefire. They leaned theirelbows on the top rail of

the fence,andas theduskcame on and the flamesspreadfromcabintocabinalong the double row,flickering brighter andbrighter on their faces,they made jokes at oneanother up and down theline. Soon the cook beatagainon thedishpanwiththe spoon and they linedup with messkits in theirhands.Thefireburnedon.

Itburned steadily into thenight, its red glowreflected against theunderside of the pall ofsmoke hanging over theplantation. From time totime a roof fell in,occasionally two together,andabrightrushofsparksflew upward in a fierycolumnthat stoodsteadilyuprightforalongmoment,substantial as a glittering

pillar of jeweled brasssupporting the blackoverhangofsmoke,beforeitpaledandfadedandwasgone.Next morning when

Isaac came out of thehousehefoundthepastureempty, the soldiers gone,with only an unclosedlatrine and a few charredsticks of the cook-fire toshow they had been there

atall.Hewalkeddown towhere the quarters hadbeen,and therewereonlythe foundation stones andthe toppled chimneys, thebricks still hot among thecooling ashes. The cabinshad been built during theten-year bachelor periodbetweenhisarrivalandhismarriage—sixteen cabins,two rows of eight, put upduring the ten-year span

by a five-man buildingteam who snaked the bigcypresses out of a slough,split them with axes andcrosscut saws for timbersand planks and shinglesand evenpegs to save thecost of nails. They hadbeen good cabins, snug inwinter, cool in summer,builttolast;theyhadseenforty years of living anddying, laughing and

weeping, arrival anddeparture. Now theyweregone, burned overnight,casualtiesofthewar.Ashe turned at the end

ofthedoublerow,startingback, a great wearinesscame over him. He stoodthere for a moment, armsloose at his sides, thenreturned to the house. Hewent up the steps andacross the gallery. In the

kitchen a strange thinghappenedtohim.The cook was boiling

something on the stove,stirring it with a long-handled spoon, and as hecame past he intended toask her, ‘Is breakfastready?’ But that was notwhat he said.He said, “Isbreckusriding?”“Sir?”He tried again. “Has

breadabiding?”“Sir?” The cook looked

at him. She had turnedsideways, still bentforward over the pot, andthe spoon dripped a thinwhite liquid. It wascornmealmush;shewouldboil it to a thickerconsistence, then cook itinto cakes to be servedwith sorghum. With hercrooked leg, bowed back,

and lips collapsed abouther toothless mouth sothat her nose and chinwere brought into nearconjunction,sheresembledawitch.“Sir?”shesaid.Isaacmade a gesture of

impatience and went ontoward the front of thehouse. His arms and legswere trembling; therewasa pulsing sensation in hishead, immediately behind

his eyes, a throbbingproduced by pressure.Somethingishappeningtome! he thought. He couldthinkthewordsclearly:‘Isbreakfastready?’butwhenhe tried to say them theycame out wrong. Wordscame out that were noteven in his mind as hespoke. Something hashappened to me! hethought.

These were the firstsignsofmotoraphasia,thewordscomingwrong fromhis tongue.Theywerenotalways wrong; sometimeshe could speak with notrouble at all. But sooneror later a word or aphrase, unconnected withwhat he intended to say,would substitute itself.Thenthelamecookorthehalf-witted woman, who

was supposed to be thehousemaid but whoactually did nothing,would look at him withpuzzled eyes. “Sir?” theywould say, feelingawkward. They did notknow whether it was amishaporajoke;theydidnot know whether toworryortolaugh.SoIsaacavoided them, preferringthe company of Edward,

who did not hear himanyhow, whether thewords were correct orwrong, accurate orgarbled.Mostly, though, he kept

to himself, avoiding anyneed for speech. Hisfavorite pastime now wasto walk eastward beyondtheburnt-outquartersandon to where a Choctawvillagehadbeen,apottery

centerwithitsclaydepositwhich he in his turn hadusedformakingbricks.Heremembered the Indiansfromfiftyyearsago,goingnorth in their filthyblankets, braves andsquaws, dispossessed by araceofmenwhowerenotonly more cunning butwho backed their cunningwith gunpowder andwhiskey. They were gone

now,casualtiesnotofwarbut of progress, obsolete,and had left no sign oftheir passing except theshards of pottery andarrowheads turned up byplowmen, the Indianmounds scattered atrandomaboutthelandforarcheologists to guess at,and an occasional lift tothecheekbonesinaNegrofaceandacocoatinttothe

skin.Isaac had never been

one for abstract thinking;but now, reft of hisvocationbythewar,ofhiswife by death, and ofspeech by whatever hadgripped his brain andtongue, he asked himselfcertainquestions.Itwasasif, now that he could nolonger voice them, thewords came to him with

great clarity of mind.Remembering the Indiandays, the exodus, heapplied what heremembered to thepresent, tohimself.Was itall for nothing, thedistances, the ambition,and the labor?Heandhiskind, the pioneers, theland-grabbing hungryroughshod men who hadhad, like the flatboat river

bullies before them, thatcurious combination ofbravado and deadlyearnestness, loving a fightfor the sake of the fightitselfandnot theoutcome—were they to disappear,having served theirpurpose, and leave nomore trace than theChoctaws? If so, wherewasthedignityofman,tobethrownasidelikethis,a

worn-out tool? Heremembered the landas itwaswhenhe first came,agreat endless greenexpanse of trees,motionlessunderthepressof summer or tossing andgroaning in the winds ofspring and fall. He ringedthem,felledthem,draggedthem out; he fired thestumpssothattheairwashazedwiththebluesmoke

of their burning, and thenhe had made his lakesidedream a reality; theplowmencame,thecottonsprouted, and heprospered; until now. Theearth, he thought, theearth endures. He gropedfor the answer, dealingwith such abstractsimplicities for the firsttimesincechildhood,backbeforememory.Theearth,

he thought, and the earthgoes back to the sun; thatwaswhereitbegan.Thereisnolaw,noreasonexceptthe sun, and the sundoesnt care. Its onlyconcern is its brightness;we feed that brightnesslikestrawsdroppedintoitsflame. Fire! he thoughtsuddenly. It all goes backtofire!At last he gave up the

walks and spent his daysin a big armchair in theparlor, keeping thecurtains drawn. He hadnothingtodowithanyonebut the deaf butler, withwhomspeechwasnotonlyunnecessary butimpossible. Edwardbrought him food on atray, such as it was—mostlythecakesofboiled-downgruel,withsorghum

andanoccasionalpieceofsidemeat—but Isaacscarcelytouchedit.Helostweight; the flesh hunglooseonhisbigframe;histempleswere concave, hiseyes far back in theirsockets. Sometimes, alonein thedarkenedparlor,hetriedtoformwordsaloud,listeningtowhatcameoutwhenhespoke.But itwasworse than ever. Often,

now, the soundswere notevenwords. I’m talking inthe tongues, he thought,remembering the revivalsand sanctifyings he hadattended around Natchezas a youngman, a scofferon the lookout forexcitement. He had seenand heard wholecreekbanks full of peoplewrithing and speakinggibberish—’the tongues’

theycalledit;theyclaimedto understand each otherin such fits. God hadtouchedthem,theysaid.MaybeGodhadtouched

him too, he thought. Hehad never been religious,neverhaving felt theneedfor it—not even now,whenageneralrevivalwasspreading through thearmies and the civilianpopulation of the South—

yet he knew nothing ofaphasia,eitherbynameorcontact, and it seemed tohim there must be somereason why he had beenstricken like the fanaticson the creekbank; theremust be some connection.But if it was God it waspunishment, since it hadnotcomethroughfaith.Hemust be under judgment,just as maybe the whole

nation was, having tosufferforthedoublesinofslavery and mistreatmentof the land. Presently,however, this passed andhe let it go; he stoppedconsidering it at all, andhe stopped trying to talk.He went back to hisprevious conviction. No,no, he thought, alone inthe parlor with thecurtainsdrawn.It’sthesun

and we go back there,backtofire.In late October, a time

of heat—the long hotsummer of ’64 had held;dust was everywhere overthe empty fields—he wassittinginthearmchairandhe heard footsteps on thedriveway. There was achink of spurs, then boot-heels coming hard up thefront steps. They crossed

theveranda.Foramomentthere was silence, then arapping of knucklesagainst the door jamb. Avoice: “Hello!” Anothersilence, somehow morepregnant than the onebefore.Andthen:“Hellointhere!”To Isaac all this seemed

so loud that even Edwardmust have heard it. Butwhen he turned and

lookedathimhesawthatthe butlerwas still lockedbehind his wall ofdeafness; he stood besideIsaac’s chair, lookingmoroselyatnothingatall.He had a toothache andthecookhadputawadofcotton soaked in camphorinside his cheek, bindingthe bulged jaw with adinner napkin tied at thecrown of his head. It was

oneofMrsJameson’sbestpieces of linen, big andheavy,andthetwocornersofthefoldednapkinstoodupstifflyfromtheknot.WhileIsaacwatched,the

Negro turned his facetoward the door, his eyescoming suddenly widewith surprise. Then Isaacheard the voice again, thecrisp Northern accent:“Didnt you hear me out

there?” Footstepsapproached and the voicebeganagain,repeatingthequestion, but was cut offby a surprised intake ofbreath. Then Isaac sawhim. A Federal officer,complete with sword andsash and buttons stampedUS, stood on the hearth.They looked at oneanother.Isaacsawthattheofficer

was a young man—ratherhard-looking, however, asifthefacehadbeenbakedin the same crucible thathad hardened and glazedthefaceofhissonClive—and he thought: It’ssomethingthewardoestothem; North and South,they get this way after atime because nowdays thewarsgoontoolong.Thenas they looked at each

other, one on the hearthandtheotherinthechair,Isaacknewwhytheofficerwas there. He steadiedhimselftospeak,intendingto say, ‘Haveyoucome toburnmyhouse?’Butitdidnotcomeoutthatway;hespokeagaininthetongues.The lieutenant, whose

rank Isaac saw when hebent forward, listened toEdward’s explanation of

thegarbledlanguage,thensaid carefully: “I havecome to give you notice,notification.” He paused,cleared his throat, andcontinued. He spokecarefully,notasifhewerechoosinghiswords,butasif from a memorizedspeech. “In reprisal forsniping, by a party orparties unknown, againstthe gunboat Starlight at

sundown yesterday, Iinform you now, by orderof Colonel Nathan Frisbie,United States Army, thatthis house has beenselectedtobeburned.Youhave exactly twentyminutes.”Isaac sat watching the

hard young face, themoving lips, the bars onthe shoulders. The lipsstopped, stern-set, but he

still watched. “Fire,” hesaidorintendedtosay.“Itallbeganandendsinfire.”

Full inour faces thebiglow blood-red disk of thesun rested its rim on thelevee,likeacoinbalancedlengthwise on a knifeedge. We marchedwestward through awilderness of briers and

canebrakes, along a roadthat had been cleared bytheplantersintheirpalmydays tohaul cotton to thesteamboat landing forshipment to New Orleans.The column had roundedthe head of the lake andturned toward the riverwherethegunboatwaited.Four miles in our rear,beyond the lake, thereflection of the burning

house was a rose-and-violet glow to match thesunsetinourfront.Irodebesidethecolonel

attheheadandthetroopsplodded behind in acolumn of fours. Theymarched at ease, theirboots stirring the dust sothat those in the centerwere hidden from thewaist down and those atthe tail showed only their

headsandshoulders.Theirrifle barrels, canted in alldirections, caught theruddy,almostlevelraysofthe sun; the bayonets,fixed, appeared to havebeen blooded. They kepttheir heads lowered, theirmouths tight shut,breathing through theirnoses. The only soundswere the more or lesssteadyclinkofequipment,

the soft clop clop ofhorses’ hoofs, and theshuffle of shoes in thedust. It somehow had anair of unreality in thefailinglight.While the upper half of

thesunstillshowedabovethedarkknife edgeof thelevee we approached alive-oak spreading itslimbsaboveagrassyspacebeside the road. Colonel

Frisbie drew rein andraisedonearmto signalahalt.Thetroopscametoajumbled stop, like freightcars. Then the sergeantadvancedandstoodbesidethe colonel’s horse,waiting.Hewas shortandmuscular, thick-chestedand very black, with solittle neck that his headseemed to rest directly onhis shoulders. “Ten

minutes,” the colonel toldhim.The sergeant saluted,holding it stiffly until thecolonel returned it, thenfaced about. The troopsstood in the dust of theroad.Hedrewhimselfup,takingadeepbreath.“De-tail: ten shut!” He glared.“Ground—harms!”Dismounting, thecolonel smiled. “Good

man,” he said. “Thatcomes of having trainedhimmyself.”“Yessir,”Isaid.The platoon fell out,coming apart almostunwillingly, likesomething comingunglued. Colonel Frisbieoften declared that,properly trained and led,Negro troops made “thefinest soldiers on the

planet, bar none,” andwhen he was givencommand of the Starlighthe set out to prove hiscontention by supplyingthe proper training andleadership. Now he wassatisfied; it was no longeratheory,itwasafact.Thecorporal-orderly took ourhorses andwe crossed thegrass and sat with ourbacks against the trunk of

the live-oak. Iwasglad torestmyknee.High in the branches a

blue jay shrilled andchattered. The colonellooked up, searching, andfinally found him. “IsnttodayFriday?”“Yessir,”Isaid.“Thoughtso.Thenhere’s

another case of thesepeople not knowing whattheyretalkingabout.They

sayyouneverseeajayonaFridaybecause thats theday theyre all in hellgetting instructions fromthedevil.Andtheybelieveit,too—Idontexaggerate.”He nodded. Ever since hehadheardthefablehehadbeenspendingagoodpartof every Friday watchingfor a blue jay. It botheredhim for a while that hecould not find one. But

now he had, and he feltbetter; he could move onto something else, someother old wives’ tale todisprove. “I supposewhilewe’re whipping therebelliousness out of themwe’d do well to take outsome of the superstitionalongwithit.Hey?”“Yessir,”Isaid.HewentontalkingandI

went on saying Yes sir

every time I heard hisvoice rise to a question.But I was not listening; Icould not have repeated awordhesaidjustthen.Mymind was back on theother side of the lake,wherethereflectionoftheburning house grewbrighter against thedarkling sky—remembering, then andnow:

WhenIhad finishedmyrecitation—“selected to beburned. You have exactlytwenty minutes”—the oldman looked up at me outof a face that was olderthan time. He sank backinto the chair. “Far,” hesaid;“Itgoesbacktoofar,”and gave no other signthathehadunderstoodoreven heard what I said. Ileft the house, went back

down the driveway towherethetroopscrouchedin loose circles, preparingtoeatthebreadandmeat,themiddaymeal theyhadbrought in theirhaversacks.Colonel Frisbie was

waiting. “What did theysayinthere?”heasked.“Itwasanoldman.…”“Well?”“Sir?”

“Whatdidhesay?”“He didnt say anything.

Hejustsatthere.”“Oh?” the colonel said,

turning to accept apacketof sandwiches from theorderly. This was officers’food. “Well. Maybe foroncewe’vefoundonewhoadmits he deserves whathe’s going to get. Ormaybe it’s not his.” Heopened the packet,

selected a sandwich, andextended the rest towardme. “Here.” I shook myhead but he insisted. “Goon. Take one.” I took one—itwasmutton—then satwith it untasted in myhand.The colonel ate rapidly

andefficiently,movinghisjawwithasteadysidewisethrustandtakingsipsfromhis canteenbetweenbites.

When he had eaten asecond sandwich he tookout hiswatch, opened theheavysilvercase,andlaidit face-up on his knee.Soonafterwardshepickedit up again; he rose,brushed crumbs from thebreast of his uniform,looked hard at the watchfor a few more seconds,then snapped it shut withasharp,decisiveclick.

“All right, Mr Lundy,”hesaid.“Time’sup.”I reentered the housewith the sergeant and tenofthemen.FromthehallIsaw the butler stillstanding in the parlorbeside the fanback chairwhere theoldmansat.Ata sign from the sergeant,two of the soldiers tookposition on opposite sidesofthechair,thenliftedthe

oldman,chairandall,andcarried him through thehall, out of the door andacross the porch, and sethim down at the foot ofthe lawn, near the roadandfacingthefrontofthehouse. The butler walkedalongside,hispink-palmedhands fluttering in timewith the tails of his claw-hammer coat, makinggestures of caution.

“Keerful, yawl,” he keptsaying in the cracked, off-key voice of the deaf. “Bekeerful,now.”Thenapkin-end rabbit ears hadbroken.One fell sideways,along his jaw, and theother down over his face.Heslappedatitfromtimetotimetoget itoutofhiseyes ashe stoodwatchingthe soldiers set the chairdown.

What followed wasfamiliar enough; we haddone this at many pointsalong the river betweenVicksburg and Memphis,the Walnut Hills and theLower Chickasaw Bluff,better than two dozentimes in the course of ayear. The soldiers wentfrom room to room,ripping curtains from thewindows and splintering

furniture and bed-slats forkindling. When thesergeant reported thepreparations complete, Imadea tourof inspection,upstairs and down—theupstairs had been closedoff for some time now;dust was everywhere,except in one roomwhichapparently was used byoneof theservants.Athisshoutedcommand,soldiers

in half a dozen roomsstruck matchessimultaneously. (A matchwas still a rarity but wereceivedaspecialissueforourwork,bigsulphuronesthatsputteredatfirstwithagreatdealof smokeandstench till they burnedpast the chemical tip.)Then one by one theyreturned and reported tothe sergeant. The sergeant

in turn reported to me,and I gave the order toretire. It was like combat,and all quite military;Colonel Frisbie hadworked out the procedureinacompanyorderayearago, with subparagraphsunder paragraphs and atime-schedule runningdownthemargin.From the lawn, where

we turned to watch, the

house appeared aspeaceful,asundisturbedasit had been before weentered. But soon, oneafter another, wisps ofsmoke began to laze out,and presently a lick offlame darted and curledfromoneofthedownstairswindows. As I stoodwatching the flamesbeginto catch, I let my eyewander over the front of

thehouseand I sawatanupper window the headand shoulders of a Negrowoman. I could see herplainly, even the smallpoxscars on her face. She didnot seem excited. In factshe seemed quite calm,even decorous, sittingthere lookingoutover thelawnwherethesoldiersbynow were beginning toshout and point: “Look

yonder!Lookupyonder!”I ran toward the house.

The smoke and flameswere mostly from thedraperies and splinteredfurniture, I saw as Ienteredthehallagain,butthe smoke was thickenough to sendme into afit of coughing and I sawthe staircase through ahaze of tears. Climbing ata stumbling run I reached

theupperhall.The smokewas less dense here; Imanaged to choose thedoor to the properbedroom. It was notlocked, as I had feared itmight be. I was about tokick it in, but then I triedthe knob and it cameopen.The woman sat in arocking chair beside thewindow. She had hidden

behind some clothes in acloset while we searchedand set fire to the house;then she had taken herseat by the window, andfrom time to time—thegesture was almost coy,coquettish—sheraisedonehand to wave at all thesoldiers on the lawn.“Look yonder! Look upyonder!”theystillshouted,pointing, and she waved

back, flirtatious. When Istumbled into the room,halfblindedbysmoke,sheturned and looked at mewithout surprise; I evenhad the impression thatshe had been waiting formetojoinher.“Shame,” she said

solemnly. She wagged afinger at me. “Shame onyou, captain, for trying toburnMarsIke’sfinehouse.

Iseenyou.”The tears cleared and I

found myself looking intothe woman’s eyes. Theywere dark brown, almostblack,theyellowedwhitesflickedwithlittlepointsofred, and completely mad.Trapped in a burninghouse with a ravinglunatic: it was somethingout of a nightmare. I waswondering how to get her

to leave, whether to useforce or try to persuadeher, when she solvedeverything by saying in ahoarse whisper, as if infear of being overheard:“Sh.Lessusgitoutofhere,fotheyburnsit.”Inodded,afraid to speak becausewhatever I said mightcause her to change hermind.Ievenbentforward,adopting her air of

conspiracy. “Wait,” shesaid.“I’llgitmythings.”While the flames

crackled in an adjoiningroom,reallycatchingnow,shegotwhatshecalledher‘things’—a big, brass-hinged family Bible and acracked porcelainchamberpot with a designof overlapping rose leavesabout its rim—and wewent downstairs together

through the smoke,whichwas considerably thickernow.“Looktomeliketheydone already started toburn it,” she said. As wecame out onto the lawnthesoldiersgaveacheer.ButIdidnotfeelheroic.

For one thing, there hadbeen small risk involved;and foranother, even thatsmall risk had frightenedme badly. The house

continuedtosmoulderandsmoke, though littletongues of flame lickedmurmurous at the sills.This went on for whatseemed a very long time,myself thinking as Iwatched:Goon,burn!Getitover;burn!Andthen,asifinanswer,agreatbillowof flame rushed from adownstairs window, thenanother from another and

another, rushing, soaring,crackling like laughter,untilthewholefrontofthehouse was swathed inflames. It did notmurmurnow.Itroared.Thosenearestthehouse,

myself among them, gaveback from the press ofheat. It came in a rollingwave; our earswere filledwith the roaring until wegot far enough back to

hear a commotion inprogress at the oppositeend of the lawn, near theroad. Turning, we sawwhathadhappened.Theoldmaninthechair

was making some sort ofdisturbance, jerking hisarmsandlegsandwagginghis head. He had beenquiet up to this time, butnow he appeared to bemaking a violent speech.

The soldiers had crowdedaround, nudging eachotherandcraningoveroneanother’s shoulders for abetter view. Then I gotthere and I saw what itwas. He was having astroke, perhaps a heartattack. The butler, stillwearingtheabsurdnapkinbandage about his jaws,stood on one side of thechair;hebentovertheold

man,hishandsouttowardhim. On the other sideweretwowomen.Onewaslame andwitchlike exceptthat now her eyes wereroundwithfright,thewayno witch’s ever where; Ihad not seen her before.The other was the madwoman I had brought outof the burning house. Shestill clutched the brass-hinged Bible under one

arm, and with the othershe had drawn back thechamberpot, holding it bythe wire handle andthreatening the soldieronlookers with it. It washeavy and substantiallooking, despite the crackdown its curved flank—aformidable weapon.Brandishingit,sheshoutedatthesoldiers.“Shame!” she cried, not

at all in the playful toneshe had used when shesaidthewordtomeinthehouse a few minutesbefore. She was reallyangry now. Her smallpox-pitted face was distortedbyrage,andhereyeswerewilder than ever. “Whyntyou bluebelly hellions lethim be? Wicked! Callingyourself soldiers. Burnersisallyouis.Aintyouhurt

him enough aready?Shameonyou!”By the time I got there,

however,theoldmanwaspastbeinghurtbyanyone.The frenzy was finished,whether it came from theheart or the brain. Heslumped in the chair, hislegs thrust forward, kneesstiff,andhisarmsdroppedlimp at his flanks, insidethe chair arms. The only

sign of life was the harshbreathing and the wide,staringeyes;hewasgoing.Soon the breathingstopped, too, and I saw inthe dead eyes astereoscopic reflection ofthe burning houserepeated in doubleminiature. Behind me theflames soared higher,roaring, crackling. Thelame woman dropped to

her knees and began towail.These were things I

knewwould staywithmealways, the sound of thatscream,thetwinreflectionin those eyes. They werewith me now as ColonelFrisbie stood over me,repeating my name:“Lundy. Mr Lundy!” Ilooked up, like a manbrought suddenly out of

sleep, and saw himstandingstraddle-leggedinhighdustyboots.”“Sir?”“Come on, Lieutenant.

Time to go.” He turnedand then looked back.“Whats the matter withyou?”“Yes, sir,” I said, not

having heard the wordsthemselves, only thequestioningtone.

He turned back, andnowforthefirsttimeinallthe months I had knownhim, the pretense wasgone;hewasamanalone.“Whats the matter?” hesaid.“Dontyoulikeme?”It was out, and as soon

as he had said it I couldsee that he had surprisedhimselfevenmorethanhehad surprised me. Hewished he could call the

question back. But hestood there, still naked totheelements.“Yessir,” I said.“Ihave

come to feel very close toyou through these pastfourteenmonths.”I got up and walked to

wheretheorderlyheldourhorses. Colonel Frisbiecame on behindme; for amomentIhadalmostlikedhim;Godknowshehadhis

problems;butnowhewashimself again. The troopshad already fallen intocolumn on the road. Wemarched,and the sunwascompletely gone. Behindustheglowofburninghadspread along the easternsky. As we marchedwestward through a bluedusk the glow receded,drawingituponitself.Thecolonel lit another cigar;

its smoke had a strong,tarry smell as its ruby tipshone and paled, on andoff and on and off, like asignal lamp. When heturned in the saddle,looking back, leathercreakedabovethemuffledclopping of hoofs in thecoolingdust.“Looks lower,” he said.

He smoked, still lookingback. The cigar glowed. I

knewhewaswatchingme,thinking aboutmy answerto his question; he hadntquite understood it yet.Then he turned to thefront again. “Catch quick,burn slow. Thats the waythoseoldonesalwaysgo.”I did not answer. I didnotlookback.Aswewentupthelevee,having crossed theswampy, canebrake region

that lay between the riverandthelake—awildernessbelonginglesstomenthanto bears and deer,alligators and moccasins,weird-screaming birds andinsects that ticked likeclocks in the brush—thecolonel drew rein andturned his horse aside forthe troops to pass. I tookposition alongside him onthe crest, facing east

toward where thereflection had shrunk to alow dome of red. Thensuddenly, as we lookedacross the wilderness andthe lake, the housecollapsed and loosed afountain of sparks, a tallcolumn of fire that stoodupright for a longminute,solid as a pillar outlinedclearly against thebackdrop of the night. It

rose and held and faded,andtheglowwaslessthanbefore, no more than agleam.“Roof fell in,” the

colonel said. “Thats all,hey?”I did not answer. I was

seeing in my mind thedead face, the eyes withtheirtwinreflection;Iwashearing the lame womanscream; I was trying to

remember something outof the Book of Job: Yetmanisbornuntotrouble,asthesparksflyupward. And:Man that is bornofwomanis of few days, and full oftrouble.Hecomethforthlikea flower, and is cut down:he fleeth also as a shadow,and continueth not. I wasstill trying to rememberthe words, but could not,whenthelastofthetroops

filed past. The words Irememberedwerethoseofthe mad woman on thelawn. “Calling yourselfsoldiers,” she said.“Burners is all you is.” Itwitched the reins,following Colonel Frisbiedownthewesternslopeofthe levee, over the gang-plank and onto thegunboatagain.

HomecomingAnExcerptfromOurselvestoKnow

JOHNO’HARA

A few weeks after theFourth of July the noontrain brought home twomenwho had been in the

great battle atGettysburg.Although they woreuniforms they did notseem to be soldiers; theywere more like men seenriding home in a wagonafter an accident at thecolliery.Theirbeardswereuntrimmed, their jacketsspottedandhalfbuttoned,andoneofthemcouldnotputonhiscapbecausehishead was wrapped in

bandage. The other hadlostafootandhispant-legwas folded over andpinned. He could notmanagehis crutch comingdown the steps of thecoachandcalledout:“Willsome son of a bitch giveme a hand?” But beforeanyonecouldreachhimhelost his balance and fellforward, knockingdownamanandwomanwhohad

gone to help him. Thesoldier with the bandagedheadignoredtheconfusionat his feet and shouted:“Where’s Mary? Mary,where the hell are you,Goddamnyoutohell.”“HereIam,John.HereIam,”criedawomaninthecrowd.“Well,comeandgetme,Goddamnyou,woman.”Thecrowdthenrealized

that although the man’seyeswere not covered, hewas blind. The remainingcivilian members of thefife and drum corps wereon hand to escort thewounded men to theirhomes, but no one nowthought of a welcomingparade.Thefifersputtheirinstruments back in theirboots and the drummersslung their drums over

their shoulders and soonthe station platform wasdeserted.

ThePrivateHistoryofaCampaignThatFailed

MARKTWAIN

You have heard from agreat many people whodidsomethinginthewar,1isitnotfairandrightthatyou listen a littlemoment

to onewho started out todo something in it, butdidn’t? Thousands enteredthewar,gotjustatasteofit, and then stepped outagain permanently. These,bytheirverynumbers,arerespectable and arethereforeentitledtoasortofavoice—notaloudonebut a modest one, not aboastful one but anapologeticone.Theyought

not to be allowed muchspaceamongbetterpeople—people who didsomething. I grant that,but they ought at least tobe allowed to state whythey didn’t do anythingand also to explain theprocess by which theydidn’t do anything. Surelythis kind of light musthaveasortofvalue.Out West there was a

good deal of confusion inmen’s minds during thefirst months of the greattrouble—a good deal ofunsettledness, of leaningfirst this way, then that,thentheotherway.Itwashard for us to get ourbearings.Icalltomindaninstance of this. I waspiloting on theMississippiwhen the news came thatSouth Carolina had gone

out of the Union on the20th of December, 1860.My pilotmatewas aNewYorker. Hewas strong fortheUnion;sowasI.Buthewould not listen to mewith any patience; myloyalty was smirched, tohiseye,becausemyfatherhadownedslaves.Isaidinpalliationof this dark factthatIhadheardmyfathersay, some years before he

died, that slavery was agreat wrong and that hewould free the solitaryNegrohethenownedifhecouldthinkitrighttogiveaway the property of thefamily when he was sostraitened in means. Mymate retorted that amereimpulse was nothing—anybody could pretend toa good impulse, andwenton decrying my Unionism

and libeling my ancestry.A month later thesecession atmosphere hadconsiderably thickened ontheLowerMississippiandIbecamearebel; sodidhe.We were together in NewOrleans the 26th ofJanuary, when LouisianawentoutoftheUnion.Hedid his full share of therebel shouting but wasbitterly opposed to letting

medomine.HesaidthatIcame of bad stock—of afather who had beenwilling to set slaves free.In the following summerhe was piloting a Federalgunboat and shouting fortheUnionagainandIwasintheConfederatearmy.Iheld his note for someborrowed money. He wasone of the most uprightmen I ever knew but he

repudiated that notewithouthesitationbecauseIwas a rebel and the sonof a man who ownedslaves.In that summer of 1861

the firstwashof thewaveof war broke upon theshores of Missouri. Ourstate was invaded by theUnion forces. They tookpossession of St. Louis,Jefferson Barracks, and

some other points. TheGovernor, Claib Jackson,issued his proclamationcalling out fifty thousandmilitia to repel theinvader.I was visiting in the

small town where myboyhood had been spent,Hannibal, Marion County.Several of us got togetherin a secret place by nightand formed ourselves into

a military company. OneTom Lyman, a youngfellow of a good deal ofspirit but of no militaryexperience, was madecaptain; I was madesecond lieutenant.Wehadnofirstlieutenant;Idonotknow why; it was longago. Therewere fifteen ofus. By the advice of aninnocent connected withtheorganizationwecalled

ourselves the MarionRangers. I do notremember that any onefoundfaultwiththename.I did not; I thought itsounded quite well. Theyoung fellow whoproposed this title wasperhaps a fair sample ofthe kind of stuff we weremade of. He was young,ignorant, good-natured,well-meaning, trivial, full

of romance, and given toreading chivalric novelsand singing forlorn love-ditties. He had somepatheticlittlenickel-platedaristocratic instincts anddetested his name, whichwas Dunlap; detested itpartly because it wasnearly as common in thatregionasSmithbutmainlybecause it had a plebeiansound to his ear. So he

tried to ennoble it bywriting it in this way:d’Unlap. That contentedhis eye but left his earunsatisfied, for peoplegave the new name thesame old pronunciation—emphasison the frontendof it. He then did thebravest thing that can beimagined,a thing tomakeone shiver when oneremembershow theworld

isgiventoresentingshamsand affectations, he begantowritehisnameso:d’UnLap. And he waitedpatiently through the longstorm of mud that wasflung at this work of artand he had his reward atlast, for he lived to seethat name accepted andtheemphasisputwherehewanted it by people whohadknownhimallhislife,

and to whom the tribe ofDunlaps had been asfamiliarastherainandthesunshineforfortyyears.Sosureofvictoryatlastisthecourage that canwait. Hesaid he had found byconsulting some ancientFrench chronicles that thename was rightly andoriginally written d’UnLap, and said that if itwere translated into

English it would meanPeterson: Lap, Latin orGreek,hesaid,forstoneorrock, same as the Frenchpierre,thatistosay,Peter:d’,oforfrom;un,aorone;hence, d’Un Lap, of orfrom a stone or a Peter;that is to say, onewho isthesonofastone,thesonof a Peter—Peterson. Ourmilitia company were notlearned and the

explanation confusedthem; so they called himPeterson Dunlap. Heproved useful to us in hisway;henamedourcampsfor us and he generallystruckanamethatwas“noslouch,”astheboyssaid.Thatisonesampleofus.

Another was Ed Stevens,son of the town jeweler,trim-built, handsome,graceful, neat as a cat;

bright,educated,butgivenoverentirelytofun.Therewasnothingseriousinlifeto him. As far as he wasconcerned, this militaryexpedition of ours wassimply a holiday. I shouldsay that about half of uslookeduponitinthesameway; not consciously,perhaps, butunconsciously.Wedidnotthink;wewerenotcapable

of it. As formyself, I wasfull of unreasoning joy tobe done with turning outof bed at midnight andfour in the morning for awhile, grateful to have achange, new scenes, newoccupations, a newinterest. In my thoughtsthatwasasfarasIwent;Ididnotgointothedetails;as a rule one doesn’t attwenty-four.

Another sample wasSmith, the blacksmith’sapprentice. This vastdonkeyhadsomepluck,ofaslowandsluggishnature,but a soft heart; at onetime he would knock ahorse down for someimproprietyandatanotherhe would get homesickand cry. However, he hadone ultimate credit to hisaccountwhich some of us

hadn’t;hestucktothewarandwaskilled inbattleatlast.Jo Bowers, another

sample,wasahuge,good-natured, flax-headedlubber, lazy, sentimental,full of harmless brag, agrumbler by nature; anexperienced, industrious,ambitious, andoftenquitepicturesque liar and yetnotasuccessfulone,forhe

had had no intelligenttraining but was allowedtocomeupjustanyway.This life was seriousenough to him, andseldomsatisfactory.Buthewas a good fellow,anyway, and the boys allliked him. He was madeorderly sergeant; Stevenswasmadecorporal.These samples will

answer—and they are

quite fair ones. Well, thisherd of cattle started forthe war. What could youexpect of them? They didaswell as they knewhowbut,really,whatwasjustlyto be expected of them?Nothing,Ishouldsay.Thatiswhattheydid.We waited for a darknight, for caution andsecrecy were necessary;then toward midnight we

stole in couples and fromvarious directions to theGriffith place, beyond thetown; from that point weset out together on foot.Hannibal lies at theextreme southeasterncorner of Marion County,on the Mississippi River;ourobjectivepointwasthehamletofNewLondon,tenmiles away, in RallsCounty.

The first hour was allfun, all idle nonsense andlaughter. But that couldnotbekeptup.Thesteadytrudging came to be likework, the play hadsomehow oozed out of it,the stillness of the woodsand the sombernessof thenight began to throw adepressing influence overthespiritsoftheboys,andpresently the talking died

out and each person shuthimself up in his ownthoughts. During the lasthalf of the second hournobodysaidaword.Now we approached alog farm-house where,according to report, therewasaguardof fiveUnionsoldiers. Lyman called ahaltandthere,inthedeepgloom of the overhangingbranches, he began to

whisper a plan of assaultupon that house, whichmade the gloom moredepressing than it wasbefore. It was a crucialmoment;we realizedwitha cold suddenness thatherewasnojest—wewerestanding face to facewithactualwar.Wewereequalto the occasion. In ourresponse there was nohesitation, no indecision:

we said that if Lymanwanted to meddle withthosesoldiers,hecouldgoahead anddo it, but if hewaited for us to followhim,hewouldwaitalongtime.Lyman urged, pleaded,

tried to shame us, but ithad no effect. Our coursewasplain,ourmindsweremade up: we would flankthe farm-house—go out

around.Andthatwaswhatwedid.We struck into the

woodsandentereduponaroughtime,stumblingoverroots, getting tangled invines and torn by briers.Atlastwereachedanopenplace in a safe region andsat down, blown and hot,to cool off and nurse ourscratches and bruises.Lyman was annoyed but

the rest of us werecheerful; we had flankedthe farm-house, we hadmade our first militarymovement and it was asuccess;wehadnothingtofretabout,wewerefeelingjust the otherway.Horse-play and laughing beganagain; the expedition wasbecome a holiday froliconcemore.Then we had two more

hoursofdull trudgingandultimate silence anddepression; then aboutdawn we straggled intoNew London, soiled, heel-blistered, fagged with ourlittlemarch, and all of usexcept Stevens in a sourand raspy humor andprivatelydownonthewar.WestackedourshabbyoldshotgunsinColonelRalls’sbarn and then went in a

bodyandbreakfastedwiththat veteran of theMexican War. Afterwardhe took us to a distantmeadow, and there in theshadeofatreewelistenedtoanold-fashionedspeechfrom him, full ofgunpowder and glory, fullof that adjective-piling,mixed metaphor andwindy declamation whichwere regarded as

eloquence in that ancienttime and that remoteregion; and thenhe sworeus on the Bible to befaithful to the State ofMissouri and drive allinvaders from her soil, nomatterwhence theymightcome or under what flagthey might march. Thismixedusconsiderablyandwecouldnotmakeoutjustwhat service we were

embarked in, but ColonelRalls, the practisedpolitician and phrase-juggler, was not similarlyin doubt; he knew quiteclearly that he hadinvestedusinthecauseofthe SouthernConfederacy.He closed the solemnitiesby belting around me theswordwhichhisneighbor,Colonel Brown, had wornatBuenaVistaandMolino

del Rey; and heaccompanied this actwithanotherimpressiveblast.Thenwe formed in lineofbattleandmarchedfourmiles to a shady andpleasantpieceofwoodsonthe border of the far-reaching expanses of aflowery prairie. It was anenchanting region for war—ourkindofwar.We pierced the forest

abouthalfamileandtookup a strong position,withsome low, rocky, andwooded hills behind usandapurling,limpidcreekin front. Straightway halfthe command were inswimming and the otherhalf fishing. The ass withtheFrenchnamegavethisposition a romantic titlebutitwastoolong,sotheboys shortened and

simplifiedittoCampRalls.We occupied an oldmaple-sugar camp, whosehalf-rotted troughs werestill propped against thetrees. A long corn-cribserved for sleeping-quarters for the battalion.On our left, half a mileaway, were Mason’s farmand house, and he was afriendtothecause.Shortlyafter noon the farmers

began to arrive fromseveral directions withmules and horses for ouruse,andthesetheylentusfor as long as the warmight last, which theyjudged would be aboutthreemonths.Theanimalswereofallsizes,allcolors,and all breeds. Theyweremainly young and frisky,and nobody in thecommand could stay on

themlongatatime,forwewere town boys andignorant of horsemanship.The creature that fell tomysharewasaverysmallmule,andyetsoquickandactive that it could throwmewithout difficulty, andit did this whenever I goton it. Then it would bray—stretching its neck out,laying its ears back, andspreading its jaws till you

could see down to itsworks. It was adisagreeable animal inevery way. If I took it bythebridleandtriedtoleaditoffthegrounds,itwouldsit down and brace backandnoonecouldbudgeit.However, I was notentirely destitute ofmilitary resources and Idid presently manage tospoil this game, for I had

seen many a steamboataground in my time andknewatrickortwowhicheven a grounded mulewould be obliged torespect. There was a wellby the corn-crib; so Isubstituted thirty fathomof rope for thebridle,andfetchedhimhomewiththewindlass.I will anticipate heresufficiently to say thatwe

did learn to ride aftersome days’ practice, butnever well. We could notlearn to like our animals;theywerenot choiceonesand most of them hadannoying peculiarities ofone kind or another.Stevens’s horse wouldcarry him, when he wasnot noticing, under thehuge excrescences whichformonthetrunksofoak-

trees,andwipehimoutofthe saddle; in this wayStevens got several badhurts. Sergeant Bowers’shorse was very large andtall, with slim, long legs,and looked like a railroadbridge. His size enabledhimtoreachallabout,andas far as he wanted to,with his head; so he wasalways biting Bowers’slegs.On themarch, in the

sun, Bowers slept a gooddeal, and as soon as thehorse recognized that hewasasleephewouldreacharound and bite him onthe leg. His legs wereblack and bluewith bites.This was the only thingthat could evermake himswearbut thisalwaysdid;wheneverhishorsebithimhe always swore, and ofcourse Stevens, who

laughed at everything,laughedat thisandwouldeven get into suchconvulsions over it as tolose his balance and falloff his horse; and thenBowers, already irritatedby the pain of the horse-bite, would resent thelaughter with hardlanguage,andtherewouldbeaquarrel;sothathorsemade no end of trouble

and bad blood in thecommand.However,Iwillgetbackto where I was—our firstafternoon in the sugar-camp. The sugar-troughscameveryhandyashorse-troughsandwehadplentyofcorntofillthemwith.Iordered Sergeant Bowersto feed my mule, but hesaid that if I reckoned hewent to war to be a dry-

nursetoamuleitwouldn’ttakeme very long to findoutmymistake.Ibelievedthat this wasinsubordination but I wasfull of uncertainties abouteverythingmilitary,andsoI let the thing pass andwent and ordered Smith,the blacksmith’sapprentice, to feed themule; but he merely gaveme a large, cold, sarcastic

grin, suchasanostensiblyseven-year-old horse givesyou when you lift his lipand find he is fourteen,andturnedhisbackonme.I thenwent to thecaptainand asked if it were notright and proper andmilitaryformetohaveanorderly.Hesaiditwasbutas there was only oneorderlyinthecorps,itwasbut right that he himself

shouldhaveBowersonhisstaff. Bowers said hewouldn’t serve onanybody’s staff, and ifanybody thought he couldmake him, let him try it.So, of course, the thinghad to be dropped; therewasnootherway.Next, nobody wouldcook; it was considered adegradation;sowehadnodinner.We lazied the rest

of the pleasant afternoonaway, some dozing underthe trees, some smokingcob-pipes and talkingsweetheartsandwar,someplaying games. By latesupper-timeallhandswerefamished and to meet thedifficulty all hands turnedtoonanequalfooting,andgatheredwood,built fires,and cooked the meal.Afterward everything was

smooth for a while; thentroublebrokeoutbetweenthe corporal and thesergeant, each claiming torank the other. Nobodyknew which was thehigher office; so Lymanhadtosettlethematterbymaking the rank of bothofficers equal. Thecommanderofanignorantcrew like that has manytroubles and vexations

which probably do notoccur in the regular armyat all. However, with thesong-singing and yarn-spinningaroundthecamp-fire, everything presentlybecame serene again, andby and by we raked thecorndownlevelinoneendofthecribandallwenttobedon it, tyingahorse tothedoor,sothathewouldneigh if any one tried to

getin.1We had some

horsemanship drill everyforenoon;then,afternoons,werodeoffhereandtherein squadsa fewmiles andvisited the farmers’ girls,and had a youthful goodtime and got an honestgooddinnerorsupper,andthenhomeagain tocamp,happyandcontent.For a time life was idly

delicious, it was perfect;there was nothing to marit. Then came somefarmerswithanalarmoneday. They said it wasrumored that the enemywere advancing in ourdirectionfromoverHyde’sprairie. The result was asharp stir among us, andgeneral consternation. Itwas a rude awakeningfrom our pleasant trance.

The rumor was but arumor—nothing definiteabout it; so in theconfusionwedidnotknowwhich way to retreat.Lyman was for notretreating at all in theseuncertain circumstances,but he found that if hetried to maintain thatattitude he would farebadly, for the commandwere in no humor to put

up with insubordination.So he yielded the pointand called a council ofwar, to consist of himselfand the three otherofficers; but the privatesmade such a fuss aboutbeing leftout thatwehadto allow them to remain,for they were alreadypresentanddoingthemostof the talking too. Thequestion was, which way

to retreat; but all were soflurried that nobodyseemed to have even aguess to offer. ExceptLyman. He explained in afew calm words that,inasmuch as the enemywere approaching fromover Hyde’s prairie, ourcourse was simple: all wehad to do was not toretreat toward him; anyother direction would

answer our needsperfectly. Everybody sawinamomenthowtruethiswas, and how wise, soLyman got a great manycompliments. It was nowdecidedthatweshouldfallbackonMason’sfarm.Itwasafterdarkbythistime and as we could notknowhowsoontheenemymight arrive, it did notseembesttotrytotakethe

horsesand thingswithus;so we only took the gunsand ammunition, andstarted at once. The routewas very rough and hillyand rocky, and presentlythe night grew very blackand rain began to fall; sowehadatroublesometimeof it, struggling andstumbling along in thedark, and soon someperson slipped and fell,

and then the next personbehind stumbledoverhimand fell, and so did therest, one after the other;and then Bowers came,with thekegofpowder inhis arms, while thecommand were all mixedtogether,armsandlegs,onthe muddy slope, and sohefell,ofcourse,withthekeg, and this started thewhole detachment down

thehillinabody,andtheylanded in thebrookat thebottominapile,andeachthat was undermostpulling the hair andscratchingandbitingthosethat were on top of him,and those thatwerebeingscratched and bittenscratching and biting therest in their turn, and allsaying they would diebefore theywouldevergo

to war again if they evergot out of this brook thistime and the invadermight rot for all theycared, and the countryalong with him—and allsuch talk as that, whichwas dismal to hear andtake part in, in suchsmothered,lowvoices,andsuch a grisly dark placeand so wet, and theenemy, maybe, coming

anymoment.The keg of powder waslost, and the guns too; sothe growling andcomplaining continuedstraight along while thebrigadepawedaround thepasty hillside and sloppedaround in the brookhunting for these things;consequently we lostconsiderable time at this,andthenweheardasound

and held our breath andlistened, and it seemed tobe the enemy coming,though it couldhavebeena cow, for it had a coughlikeacow;butwedidnotwait but left a couple ofgunsbehindandstruckoutfor Mason’s again asbriskly as we couldscramble along in thedark. But we got lostpresently among the

rugged little ravines andwasted a deal of timefinding the way again, soitwasafterninewhenwereached Mason’s stile atlast; and then before wecould open ourmouths togive the countersignseveral dogs camebounding over the fencewith great riot and noise,and each of them took asoldier by the slack of his

trousersandbegantobackawaywith him.We couldnotshootthedogswithoutendangering the personsthey were attached to; sowehadtolookonhelplessat what was perhaps themost mortifying spectacleof the Civil War. Therewas light enough and tospare, for theMasons hadnow runout on theporchwith candles in their

hands. The old man andhis son came and undidthedogswithoutdifficulty,all but Bowers’s; but theycouldn’t undo his dog,they didn’t know hiscombination;hewasofthebullkindandseemedtobeset with a Yale time-lock,but they got him loose atlast with some scaldingwater, of which Bowersgothisshareandreturned

thanks. Peterson Dunlapafterward made up a finenameforthisengagement,and also for the nightmarch which preceded it,but both have long agofadedoutofmymemory.We now went into the

house and they began toask us a world ofquestions, whereby itpresentlycameoutthatwedid not know anything

concerning who or whatwewere running from; sothe old gentleman madehimselfveryfrankandsaidwewereacuriousbreedofsoldiers and guessed wecould be depended on toend up the war in time,because no governmentcouldstandtheexpenseoftheshoe-leatherweshouldcost it trying to follow usaround. “Marion Rangers!

good name, b’gosh!” saidhe. And wanted to knowwhy we hadn’t had apicket-guard at the placewheretheroadenteredtheprairie,andwhywehadn’tsent out a scouting partyto spy out the enemy andbringusanaccountofhisstrength,andsoon,beforejumping up andstampedingoutofastrongposition upon a mere

vague rumor—and so on,and so forth, till hemadeus all feel shabbier thanthe dogs had done, nothalf so enthusiasticallywelcome. So we went tobed shamed and low-spirited, except Stevens.Soon Stevens began todevise a garment forBowers which could bemade to automaticallydisplay his battle-scars to

the grateful or concealthem from the envious,accordingtohisoccasions,but Bowers was in nohumor for this, so therewas a fight and when itwasoverStevenshadsomebattle-scars of his own tothinkabout.Then we got a little

sleep.Butafterallwehadgone through, ouractivitieswerenotoverfor

the night, for about twoo’clock in themorningweheard a shout of warningfrom down the lane,accompanied by a chorusfromallthedogs,andinamomenteverybodywasupand flying around to findout what the alarm wasabout. The alarmistwas ahorsemanwhogavenoticethat a detachment ofUnion soldiers was on its

way from Hannibal withorderstocaptureandhanganybands likeourswhichit could find, and saidwehad no time to lose.Farmer Mason was in aflurrythistimehimself.Hehurriedusoutofthehousewith all haste, and sentoneofhisNegroeswithusto show us where to hideourselves and our telltaleguns among the ravines

half a mile away. It wasrainingheavily.We struck down thelane, then across somerocky pasture-land whichoffered good advantagesfor stumbling;consequently we weredown in themudmost ofthetime,andeverytimeaman went down heblackguarded thewar andthe people that started it

and everybody connectedwith it, and gave himselfthe master dose of all forbeing so foolish as to gointo it.At lastwe reachedthe wooded mouth of aravine, and there wehuddled ourselves underthe streaming trees andsenttheNegrobackhome.Itwasadismalandheart-breaking time. We werelike to be drowned with

therain,deafenedwiththehowling wind and thebooming thunder, andblindedbythelightning.Itwas indeed a wild night.The drenching we weregetting was miseryenough, but a deepermisery still was thereflection that the haltermight end us before wewereadayolder.Adeathof this shameful sort had

notoccurredtousasbeingamong the possibilities ofwar. It took the romanceall out of the campaignand turned our dreams ofglory into a repulsivenightmare.Asfordoubtingthatsobarbarousanorderhadbeengiven,notoneofusdidthat.The long night wore

itself out at last, and thentheNegrocametouswith

the news that the alarmhadmanifestlybeenafalseone and that breakfastwould soon be ready.Straightwaywewerelight-hearted again, and theworld was bright and lifeasfullofhopeandpromiseas ever—for we wereyoungthen.Howlongagothat was! Twenty-fouryears.The mongrel child of

philology named thenight’s refuge CampDevastation and no soulobjected.TheMasonsgaveus a Missouri countrybreakfast in Missourianabundance,andweneededit:hotbiscuits,hot“wheatbread,” prettily criss-crossedinalatticepatternon top, hot corn-pone,fried chicken, bacon,coffee, eggs, milk,

buttermilk, etc., and theworld may be confidentlychallenged to furnish theequal of such a breakfast,as it is cooked in theSouth.We stayed several daysat Mason’s, and after alltheseyearsthememoryofthe dullness and stillnessand lifelessness of thatslumberous farm-housestilloppressesmyspiritas

with a sense of thepresence of death andmourning. There wasnothing to do, nothing tothink about; there was nointerest in life. The malepartofthehouseholdwereaway in the fieldsallday,thewomenwerebusyandoutofoursight;therewasnosoundbuttheplaintivewailing of a spinning-wheel, forever moaning

out from some distantroom, the most lonesomesound in nature, a soundsteeped and sodden withhomesickness and theemptiness of life. Thefamily went to bed aboutdark every night, and aswe were not invited tointrude any new customswe naturally followedtheirs.Thosenightswereahundred years long to

youths accustomed tobeing up till twelve. Welay awake and miserabletill that hour every time,andgrewoldanddecrepitwaiting through the stilleternities for the clock-strikes. This was no placefortownboys.Soatlastitwas with something verylike joy that we receivednewsthattheenemywereonourtrackagain.Witha

new birth of the oldwarriorspiritwesprangtoourplacesinlineofbattleand fell back on CampRalls.Captain Lyman hadtakenahint fromMason’stalk, and he now gaveorders that our campshould be guarded againstsurprise by the posting ofpickets. I was ordered toplaceapicket at the forks

of the road in Hyde’sprairie. Night shut downblack and threatening. ItoldSergeantBowerstogoout to that place and staytillmidnightand, justas Iwas expecting, he said hewouldn’t do it. I tried toget others to go but allrefused. Some excusedthemselves on account ofthe weather, but the restwere frank enough to say

they wouldn’t go in anykindofweather.Thiskindof thing sounds odd now,and impossible, but therewasnosurpriseinitatthetime. On the contrary, itseemedaperfectlynaturalthing to do. There werescores of little campsscattered over Missouriwhere the same thingwashappening. These campswere composed of young

men who had been bornand reared to a sturdyindependence, and whodid not know what itmeant to be orderedaroundbyTom,Dick,andHarry, whom they hadknown familiarly all theirlives in the village or onthefarm.Itisquitewithinthe probabilities that thissamethingwashappeningall over the South. James

Redpath recognized thejustice of this assumptionand furnished thefollowing instance insupport of it. During ashort stay in EastTennessee he was in acitizen colonel’s tent oneday talking, when a bigprivate appeared at thedoor and, without saluteor other circumlocution,saidtothecolonel:

“Say, Jim, I’m a-goin’homeforafewdays.”“Whatfor?”“Well,Ihain’tb’enthere

forarightsmartwhileandI’dliketoseehowthingsiscomin’on.”“How long are you

goingtobegone?”“’Bouttwoweeks.”“Well, don’t be gone

longer than that, and getbacksoonerifyoucan.”

That was all, and thecitizenofficer resumedhisconversation where theprivate had broken it off.This was in the firstmonths of the war, ofcourse. The camps in ourpart of Missouri wereunder Brigadier-GeneralThomasH.Harris.Hewasa townsman of ours, afirst-rate fellow and wellliked, but we had all

familiarly known him asthe sole and modest-salaried operator in ourtelegraph-office, where hehad to send about onedespatch a week inordinary times and twowhen there was a rush ofbusiness; consequently,when he appeared in ourmidstonedayonthewing,and delivered a militarycommandofsomesortina

large military fashion,nobody was surprised atthe responsewhichhegotfrom the assembledsoldiery:“Oh, now, what’ll you

taketodon’t,TomHarris?”It was quite the natural

thing. One might justlyimagine that we werehopeless material for war.And so we seemed in ourignorant state, but there

were those amonguswhoafterwardlearnedthegrimtrade, learnedtoobeylikemachines, becamevaluable soldiers; foughtall through the war, andcame out at the end withexcellent records. One oftheveryboyswhorefusedto go out on picket dutythat night and called mean ass for thinking hewould expose himself to

dangerinsuchafoolhardyway, had becomedistinguished forintrepiditybeforehewasayearolder.I did secure my picket

that night, not byauthority but bydiplomacy.IgotBowerstogo by agreeing toexchange ranks with himfor the timebeing,andgoalongandstandthewatch

with him as hissubordinate.Westayedoutthere a couple of drearyhours in the pitchydarkness and the rain,withnothingtomodifythedreariness but Bowers’smonotonous growlings atthe war and the weather;thenwebegantonodandpresently found it next toimpossible to stay in thesaddle, sowegaveup the

tedious jobandwentbackto the camp withoutwaiting for the reliefguard.We rode intocampwithout interruption orobjection from anybodyandtheenemycouldhavedone the same, for therewere no sentries.Everybody was asleep; atmidnight there wasnobody to send outanother picket, so none

wassent.Wenevertriedtoestablish a watch at nightagain, as far as Iremember, but wegenerallykeptapicketoutinthedaytime.In that camp the whole

commandsleptonthecornin the big corn-crib andtherewasusuallyageneralrow before morning, forthe place was full of ratsand they would scramble

over the boys’ bodies andfaces, annoying andirritating everybody, andnow and then theywouldbite some one’s toe, andthepersonwhoownedthetoe would start up andmagnify his English andbegintothrowcorninthedark.Theearswerehalfasheavy as bricks andwhenthey struck theyhurt.Thepersons struck would

respond and inside of fiveminutes everyman wouldbe locked in a death-gripwith his neighbor. Therewas a grievous deal ofbloodshedinthecorn-cribbut this was all that wasspilt while I was in thewar. No, that is not quitetrue. But for onecircumstance it wouldhavebeenall. Iwill cometothatnow.

Our scares werefrequent. Every few daysrumors would come thatthe enemy wereapproaching. In thesecases we always fell backon some other camp ofours; we never stayedwhere we were. But therumors always turned outtobe false, soat lastevenwe began to growindifferent to them. One

night aNegrowas sent toour corn-crib with thesame old warning, theenemywashoveringinourneighborhood.We all saidlethimhover.Weresolvedto stay still and becomfortable. It was a finewarlike resolution, andnodoubtweallfeltthestirofit in our veins—for amoment. We had beenhaving a very jolly time,

thatwas fullofhorse-playandschoolboyhilarity,butthatcooleddownnowandpresently the fast-waningfire of forced jokes andforced laughs died outaltogether and thecompany became silent.Silent and nervous. Andsoon uneasy—worried—apprehensive.Wehadsaidwe would stay and wewerecommitted.Wecould

havebeenpersuadedtogobut there was nobodybraveenoughtosuggestit.An almost noiselessmovementpresentlybeganin the dark by a generalbut unvoiced impulse.When the movement wascompletedeachmanknewthat he was not the onlyperson who had crept tothe frontwallandhadhiseyeatacrackbetweenthe

logs. No, we were allthere, all there with ourhearts in our throats andstaring out toward thesugar-troughs where theforest footpath camethrough. It was late andthere was a deep woodsystillnesseverywhere.Therewas a veiled moonlight,whichwasonlyjuststrongenough to enable us tomark the general shapeof

objects. Presently amuffled sound caught ourears and we recognized itas the hoof-beats of ahorseorhorses.And rightawaya figure appeared inthe forest path; it couldhavebeenmadeofsmoke,its mass had so littlesharpnessofoutline.Itwasamanonhorsebackanditseemed to me that therewere others behind him. I

got hold of a gun in thedark, and pushed itthrough a crack betweenthe logs, hardly knowingwhatIwasdoing,Iwassodazed with fright.Somebody said “Fire!” Ipulled the trigger. Iseemed to see a hundredflashesandhearahundredreports; then I saw theman fall down out of thesaddle. My first feeling

was of surprisedgratification; my firstimpulsewasanapprentice-sportsman’simpulsetorunand pick up his game.Somebody said, hardlyaudibly,“Good—we’vegothim!—wait for the rest.”But therestdidnotcome.We waited—listened—stillnomore came. There wasnot a sound, not thewhisper of a leaf; just

perfect stillness, anuncanny kind of stillnesswhich was all the moreuncannyonaccountofthedamp, earthy, late-nightsmells now rising andpervading it. Then,wondering, we creptstealthily out andapproached the man.When we got to him themoon revealed himdistinctly.Hewaslyingon

his back with his armsabroad, his mouth wasopenandhischestheavingwith long gasps, and hiswhite shirt-front was allsplashed with blood. Thethought shot through methatIwasamurderer,thatIhadkilledaman,amanwho had never done meany harm. That was thecoldest sensation thateverwent throughmymarrow.

I was down by him in amoment, helplesslystroking his forehead, andI would have givenanything then—my ownlife freely—to make himagain what he had beenfive minutes before. Andall the boys seemed to befeeling in the same way;theyhungoverhim,fullofpitying interest, and triedall theycould tohelphim

and said all sorts ofregretful things. They hadforgotten all about theenemy, they thought onlyof this one forlorn unit ofthe foe. Once myimagination persuadedmethat the dying man gavemea reproachful lookoutofhisshadowyeyes,anditseemed tome that I couldrather he had stabbedmethan done that. He

muttered and mumbledlikeadreamerinhissleepabout his wife and hischild,andIthoughtwithanew despair, “This thingthat I have done does notendwithhim;itfallsuponthem too, and they neverdid me any harm, anymorethanhe.”Inalittlewhilethemanwasdead.Hewaskilledinwar, killed in fair and

legitimate war, killed inbattle,asyoumaysay,andyet he was as sincerelymourned by the opposingforce as if he had beentheir brother. The boysstood there a half-hoursorrowing over him andrecalling thedetailsof thetragedy, and wonderingwhohemightbeandifhewere a spy, and sayingthat if it were to do over

again theywouldnothurthim unless he attackedthem first. It soon cameout thatminewasnot theonlyshotfired;therewerefive others, a division oftheguiltwhichwasagreatrelief to me since it insomedegreelightenedanddiminished the burden Iwas carrying. There weresixshotsfiredatoncebutIwas not inmy rightmind

atthetime,andmyheatedimaginationhadmagnifiedmyoneshotintoavolley.The man was not in

uniform and was notarmed. He was a strangerinthecountry,thatwasallwe ever found out abouthim. The thought of himgot to preying upon meeverynight;Icouldnotgetridof it. I couldnotdriveitaway, the takingof that

unoffending life seemedsuch a wanton thing. Andit seemed an epitome ofwar, that all warmust bejust that the killing ofstrangers against whomyou feel no personalanimosity,strangerswhominothercircumstancesyouwould help if you foundthem in trouble, and whowould help you if youneeded it. My campaign

was spoiled. It seemed tome that I was not rightlyequipped for this awfulbusiness, that war wasintendedformenandIfora child’s nurse. I resolvedto retire from thisavocation of shamsoldiership while I couldsave some remnant of myself-respect. These morbidthoughts clung to meagainst reason, for at

bottom I did not believe Ihadtouchedthatman.Thelaw of probabilitiesdecreedmeguiltlessofhisblood for in all my smallexperiencewithgunsIhadnever hit anything I hadtried to hit and I knew Ihad done my best to hithim. Yet there was nosolace in the thought.Against a diseasedimaginationdemonstration

goesfornothing.The rest of my war

experience was of a piecewith what I have alreadytold of it. We keptmonotonously falling backupononecamporanotherand eating up the farmersand their families. Theyought to have shot us; onthecontrary, theywereashospitably kind andcourteous to us as if we

had deserved it. In one ofthese camps we found AbGrimes, an UpperMississippi pilot whoafterward became famousas a dare-devil rebel spy,whosecareerbristledwithdesperate adventures. Thelook and style of hiscomrades suggested thattheyhadnotcomeintothewar to play and theirdeeds made good the

conjecture later. Theywere fine horsemen andgood revolver shots, buttheir favorite armwas thelasso. Eachhadone at hispommel and could snatcha man out of the saddlewith it every time, on afull gallop, at anyreasonabledistance.In another camp the

chief was a fierce andprofane old blacksmith of

sixtyandhehadfurnishedhis twenty recruits withgigantic home-madebowie-knives, tobeswungwith two hands like themachetesof the Isthmus. Itwas a grisly spectacle tosee that earnest bandpractising theirmurderouscutsandslashesunder theeyeofthatremorselessoldfanatic.Thelastcampwhichwe

fell back upon was in ahollow near the village ofFloridawhere I was born,in Monroe County. Herewe were warned one daythat a Union colonel wassweepingdownonuswitha whole regiment at hisheel. This lookeddecidedly serious. Ourboys went apart andconsulted; then we wentback and told the other

companiespresentthatthewarwas a disappointmenttousandweweregoingtodisband.Theyweregettingready themselves to fallback on some place orother, and we were onlywaiting for General TomHarris, who was expectedto arrive at any moment,so they tried to persuadeustowaitalittlewhilebutthemajorityofussaidno,

we were accustomed tofalling back and didn’tneed any of Tom Harris’shelp, we could get alongperfectlywellwithouthimand save time, too. Soabout half of our fifteen,includingmyself,mountedandleftontheinstant;theothers yielded topersuasion and stayed—stayedthroughthewar.An hour later we met

General Harris on theroad, with two or threepeopleinhiscompany,hisstaff probably, but wecould not tell; none ofthem were in uniform;uniforms had not comeinto vogue among us yet.Harrisorderedusbackbutwe told him there was aUnioncolonelcomingwitha whole regiment in hiswake and it looked as if

there was going to be adisturbance, so we hadconcludedtogohome.Heragedalittlebut itwasofno use, our minds weremadeup.Wehaddoneourshare,hadkilledoneman,exterminated one army,such as itwas; let himgoand kill the rest and thatwould end the war. I didnot see that brisk younggeneral again until last

year;thenhewaswearingwhitehairandwhiskers.In time I came to knowthat Union colonel whosecoming frightened me outofthewarandcrippledtheSouthern cause to thatextent—General Grant. Icamewithinafewhoursofseeinghimwhenhewasasunknown as I wasmyself;at a time when anybodycouldhavesaid,“Grant?—

Ulysses S.Grant? I donotremember hearing thename before.” It seemsdifficult to realize thatthere was once a timewhensucharemarkcouldbe rationally made butthere was, and I waswithin a few miles of theplaceandtheoccasiontoo,though proceeding in theotherdirection.The thoughtful will not

throw this war paper ofminelightlyasideasbeingvalueless.Ithasthisvalue:itisanotunfairpictureofwhatwentoninmanyandmanyamilitiacampinthefirst months of therebellion, when the greenrecruits were withoutdiscipline, without thesteadying and hearteninginfluence of trainedleaders, when all their

circumstances were newand strange and chargedwith exaggerated terrors,and before the invaluableexperience of actualcollision in the field hadturned them from rabbitsintosoldiers.Ifthissideofthe picture of that earlyday has not before beenput into history, thenhistory has been to thatdegree incomplete, for it

had and has its rightfulplace there. There wasmore Bull Run materialscatteredthroughtheearlycampsofthiscountrythanexhibited itself at BullRun.Andyetitlearneditstradepresentlyandhelpedto fight the great battleslater.Icouldhavebecomea soldier myself if I hadwaited.Ihadgotpartofitlearned, I knew more

about retreating than theman that inventedretreating.

1 In “Battles and Leaders of theCivil War,” then running in theCentury.—Ed.1 Itwasalwaysmyimpressionthatthatwaswhat the horsewas thereforandIknowthat itwasalso theimpression of at least one other ofthe command, forwe talked about

it at the time and admired themilitaryingenuityofthedevice;butwhen I was out West three yearsago,IwastoldbyMr.A.G.Fuqua,amemberofourcompany,thatthehorsewashis, thattheleavinghimtied at the door was a matter ofmere forgetfulness, and that toattribute it to intelligent inventionwas to give him quite too muchcredit.Insupportofhispositionhecalled my attention to thesuggestivefactthattheartificewas

not employed again. I had notthoughtofthatbefore.

SecondInaugural

ABRAHAMLINCOLN

Washington,D.C.March4,1865

Fellow-Countrymen:At thissecondappearingtotaketheoath of the Presidentialoffice there is less occasion

for an extended addressthan there was at the first.Then a statement somewhatin detail of a course to bepursued seemed fitting andproper. Now, at theexpiration of four years,during which publicdeclarations have beenconstantly called forth oneverypointandphaseofthegreat contest which stillabsorbs the attention and

engrosses theenergiesof thenation, little that is newcould be presented. Theprogress of our arms, uponwhich all else chieflydepends,isaswellknowntothe public as tomyself, andit is, I trust, reasonablysatisfactoryandencouragingtoall.Withhighhopeforthefuture, no prediction inregardtoitisventured.On the occasion

corresponding to this fouryears ago all thoughts wereanxiously directed to animpending civil war. Alldreaded it, all sought toavertit.Whiletheinauguraladdress was being deliveredfrom this place, devotedaltogether to saving theUnion without war,insurgent agentswere in thecity seeking to destroy itwithout war—seeking to

dissolve the Union anddivideeffectsbynegotiation.Bothpartiesdeprecatedwar,butoneofthemwouldmakewar rather than let thenationsurvive;andtheotherwould accept war ratherthan let it perish. And thewarcame.One eighth of the whole

population were coloredslaves, not distributedgenerallyovertheUnionbut

localized in the southernpart of it. These slavesconstituted a peculiar andpowerful interest. All knewthat this interest wassomehow the cause of thewar. To strengthen,perpetuate, and extend thisinterest was the object forwhich the insurgents wouldrend the Union, even bywar; while the governmentclaimednoright todomore

thantorestricttheterritorialenlargementofit.Neitherpartyexpectedforthewarthemagnitudeortheduration which it hasalready attained. Neitheranticipatedthatthecauseofthe conflict might ceasewhen, or even before, theconflict itself should cease.Each looked for an easiertriumph, and a result lessfundamental and

astounding. Both read thesame Bible and pray to thesameGod,andeachinvokesHis aid against the other. Itmay seem strange that anymen should dare to ask ajust God’s assistance inwringing their bread fromthe sweat of other men’sfaces, but let us judge not,that we be not judged. Theprayersofbothcouldnotbeanswered—that of neither

hasbeenansweredfully.TheAlmightyhasHisown

purposes. “Woe unto theworld because of offenses;for it must needs be thatoffenses come, but woe tothat man by whom theoffense cometh.” Ifwe shallsuppose that Americanslavery is one of thoseoffenses which, in theprovidence of God, mustneeds come, but which,

having continued throughHis appointed time,Henowwillstoremove,andthatHegives to both North andSouththisterriblewarasthewoe due to those by whomthe offense came, shall wediscern therein anydeparture from those divineattributeswhichthebelieversin a living God alwaysascribe to Him? Fondly dowe hope, fervently do we

pray, that this mightyscourgeofwarmayspeedilypassaway.Yet, ifGodwillsthat it continue until all thewealth piled by thebondsman’s two hundredandfiftyyearsofunrequitedtoil shall be sunk, and untilevery drop of blood drawnwith the lash shall be paidby another drawn with thesword, as was said threethousand years ago, so still

it must be said “thejudgments of the Lord aretrue and righteousaltogether.”Withmalice towardnone,

with charity for all, withfirmnessintheright,asGodgives us to see the right, letus strive on to finish thework we are in, to bind upthenation’swounds,tocarefor him who shall haveborne the battle and for his

widow and his orphan—todo all which may achieveand cherish a just andlasting peace amongourselves and with allnations.

SHELBYFOOTE

Although he now makeshis home in Memphis,Tennessee, Shelby Footecomes from a long line ofMississippians. He wasborn in Greenville,Mississippi, and attendedschool there until heentered the University of

North Carolina. DuringWorldWar IIhe served inthe European theater as acaptain of field artillery.He haswritten six novels:Tournament, Follow MeDown,LoveinaDrySeason,Shiloh, JordanCounty, andSeptember, September. Hewas awarded threeGuggenheim fellowshipsduring the course ofwriting his monumental

three-volume history, TheCivilWar:ANarrative.