Raintree County (89 page)

—Good-by, Johnny. And come back safe.

—Good-by, Mamma! Good-by, everyone! he said. I'll come back.

He got his luggage from someone and climbed into the coach. As he sat down, the train started. The station was flowing backward, the platform was passing. He put his face to the open window and leaned out. On the platform stood a tall, fragile man with sparse, whitening hair and a small, bony woman with dark reddish hair, bonnet askew. They waved, smiled, wept, they slipped backward, their faces became indistinct, a green water flowed over them, their forms were smaller, smaller, still waving. Abruptly a block of buildings thrust them from view.

Johnny Shawnessy, twenty-four years old, turned his face to the back of the wooden bench in the nearly empty coach. He wept.

He wept for the farewell that he was saying.

Farewell to Raintree County. Farewell to all its lost horizons in spring and summer, brown roads of peace, broad fields flowing with grass and corn.

Where had the long days gone? It had seemed that they would be forever. But the train passing behind the land at evening had been calling to him all the time, calling him beyond the private square of young illusion. Awaken, it had said. Did you think that you could be a child forever on the breast of the maternal and sustaining earth? Arise to the call of your brothers gone before. Arise, young man, bearing the shield of conscience, badge of your ancient heritage.

And now farewell. The days of blood and iron may give you back again, but it will never be the same. The train will pass at evening and make its wailing diphthong of danger and adventure beyond the great oak forest, but it will never be the same. Where is the thing that you were seeking? Perhaps you have already known and lost it. Perhaps you knew it all the time in the long summers before the War, in the peace of the wide meadows of your home. Perhaps you knew it always in the birdlike swiftness and quick voice of your mother, who was young once on this changing earth called Raintree County. Perhaps you knew it in the devotions of your father, a gentie
minister of grace and good. Perhaps you found it in the noisy holidays, election days, Saturday nights, cornhuskings, harvestings, barbecues.

Farewell to that more innocent and youthful Raintree County. And to its lost young hero. For he is there—he hunts the shape of beauty by the river, ignorant of defeat and death.

But farewell, too, a long farewell to a house divided and to the memory of two children, lost in the woods a long time ago.

What is the source of all these tears? They are risen from a secret place, a brackish river drowning in its flood the seeds, cries, tumults of a thousand days. Alas for all that is lost on the human river, the mortal and repentant river!

Farewell! The dispassionate train is chugging through the stations, leaving the land behind. Perhaps you will come back. Didn't you hear the prayer uttered to a just God to bring you home again?

And so farewell to Raintree County, farewell to your great home! Your love was deeper than you knew. The river of your life flowed from a more distant source than you suspected. It rises still, a devious flood between green banks of summer. It is there forever, tracing a prophecy across the earth.

Farewell. These tears dissolve the ancient boundaries. The old words blur and flow. Farewell.

At Beardstown, his eyes were dry. He felt unnaturally calm. By the time he had reached Indianapolis, he might as well have been weeks away from Raintree County. The violence of his emotion at parting had made him free. The memory of the last time he had been in this station only a little over a week ago, hunting two lost children, briefly chilled his new excitement. But that memory, like the tears of the morning, could never be any more distant than it was now.

In the best Johnny Shawnessy tradition, he began to see a certain grandeur in his act of departure from Raintree County to the wars, and a certain humor.

SETH A SOLDIER
!
WAR CAN'T LAST LONG NOW
!
(Epic Fragment from the
Free Enquirer
.)

Those who have followed the fortunes of that congenial cornstalk, Seth Twigs, will be eager to know that the fabulous bumpkin has at
last offered his services to the United States Army. To be more exact, the long arm of the draft finally found him in his hide-out on the Shawmucky, where he had planned to sit out the War with a barrel of cider, an old bird dog, and a pack of greasy cards.

Tuesday last, it is reported, Seth made his way to the great Western metropolis of Indianapolis. Descending in the station, he was at first somewhat bewildered by the beehive bustle of the City, but with characteristic rustic acumen, he quickly adjusted himself to the situation. Standing on the steps of the State Capitol and indicating with a sweep of his scrannel arm the metropolitan vistas of Indianapolis, Seth was delivered of this pungent epigram: ‘Danwebster warn't nothin' to this. To be puffickly frank, I am consterbobulated.'

Surrounded by reporters and well-wishers, Seth answered several questions with all his usual pith and point.

‘How long do you think the War will last, Mr. Twigs?'

‘I figger it'll take me at least three weeks to git muh fightin' gear in order,' Seth replied.

‘Do you have any particular strategy for bringing the Rebels to their knees?'

‘From what I heerd, the Southerners is all frightful chivillerous. I sidjest we put our purtiest gals in uniform and arm 'em with banjos and handcuffs. They can't do no wuss than the men has.'

‘What is your candid opinion of the draft?'

‘The feller that caught me was the fastest runner I ever seen.'

‘Are you for or against Lincoln?'

‘Who's he?'

‘The President'

‘What in blazes happened to old Andy Jackson?'

Later, it is reported, Seth spent an interesting and instructive day visiting sites of historic and cultural . . .

Confusion filled the city. A few days before, the Rebel raider, John Hunt Morgan, had crossed the Ohio River and had begun a daring cavalry invasion of Southern Indiana, closely pursued by a troop of Union cavalry. The Governor had made a hurried call for emergency militia, and the entire state south of Indianapolis had risen in arms. The raid had already been diverted from the State Capital and was visibly weakening as it approached the Ohio border. But there was still tension and excitement in Indianapolis.

In the Recruiting Office, a number of men, mostly younger than Johnny, were standing around waiting to interview an officer who stood behind a desk. Johnny took his place at the back of the line.
Something hit him solidly between the shoulders, knocking his hat off, and a hornloud voice brayed laughter into his ears.

—Well, hogtie me, if it ain't Jack Shawnessy!

—Hello there! Johnny said.

He turned around, still trying to get his breath, and there stood Flash Perkins, grinning in a great arrogant beard. His forehead shifted into ridges of excitement. His fierce blue eyes were childishly happy.

—Well, I'll be skinned and stretched on a board! Flash said. Put ‘er there, Jack!

No one else had ever called him Jack. Johnny stood and wrung Flash's hand as hard as he could to keep his own from being broken.

—What are you doin' here, Jack?

—Enlisting.

—Well, I'll be a ringtailed jackass! So am I. Hey, Corporal, look here, we want some action around here.

The officer behind the counter was a tired-looking sergeant.

—Keep in line and take your turn, boys, he said.

—Hell, git a move on! Flash said, we want to git into your goddam war.

—If you're so anxious, why didn't you get into it before? the officer said.

—Shucks, we on'y jist found out about it in Raintree County, Flash said. It'll soon be over now, boy.

—Where you been, Flash? Johnny said in a low voice, trying to get him quieted down. I don't think I've seen you since the Fourth of July Race in ‘59.

—I been West, Jack. Hell, I been doin' a little ever'thing. Minin', scoutin', fightin' Injuns. I finely decided this war gone on long enough, so back I come to the County. Figger me enlistin' on the same day with you! Maybe we'll git into the same cumpney.

Johnny was sorry that he had run into Flash. In a way, he had hoped to make a complete break with everyone and everything he had known. But he seemed fated to pick up reminders of himself wherever he went.

Flash hadn't changed much. Apparently nothing had happened to knock the wildness out of him. He had a big Western hat, spurred boots, a pearlhandled revolver on his hip.

—I don't know why you want to go into the Army, boy, the officer said to Flash, when he reached the desk. They'll start by disarming you.

—I mean to keep this tool on me, General, Flash said.

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

—Sign here, boys, and come back tomorrow morning same time. You'll get your medical examination then and swore in.

—Jack and I want in the same cumpney, pardner, Flash said. Be sure to write that down.

Johnny didn't remember expressing this wish, but he let it pass.

Outside, he felt embarrassed as he saw that Flash intended to stick with him. Everyone they passed turned and stared.

—Boy, am I glad to git back to Indiana! Flash said. Shucks, they ain't got no civilization nor nothin' out there, Jack. You wouldn't believe it. Cuss it, they ain't a beautiful gal west a the Mississip. You have to pay as you enter, and then they're all leather and cusswords. Christ, I been dyin' to git back to God's country. That rough life is O. K. for a while, but soon or later, Jack, you feel a hankerin' for the cumpney of culteevated people. Hi, girls.

Two young women, passing, dipped their parasols and walked swiftly by with fluttering eyelids.

—Say, maybe we could hitch onto them fancy fillies and git our trunks hauled, Flash said. Ha, Ha!

He hit Johnny between the shoulderblades and turned around. The girls were looking back with genuine alarm.

—That reminds me, Johnny said, I'll have to say good-by now, Flash. There's a girl here in the city I want to get in touch with. I'll see you tomorrow morning.

—If she's got a friend, I don't mind comin' along.

—No, this is private. Thanks just the same.

—Listen, I got a room at the Greer House, Flash said. If you ain't got no place to stay, you can come in there with me. Shucks, bring your woman along if you want to.

—Thanks, Johnny said. I may turn up tonight—but alone. So long.

It seemed to Johnny that life was full of repetitions and corrections of itself as he walked to an address on Pennsylvania Avenue and knocked on the door of a plain white house, set back a little from the street.

The door opened, and Nell Gaither appeared. She was stunningly got up, cool and pale in a green dress with an immense hoop. She looked imperially ladylike, her head held proudly and tilted a little to one side in a gesture of gracious condescension. Her full-formed, lovely mouth made a shining contrast with the powdered whiteness of her cheeks.

—Hello, Johnny.

She stepped out and put her hand in his. Her mouth curved into a smile of tenderness and pleasure, showing her fine white teeth; and her eyes, suddenly green as she stepped from the dusk of the house into the warm light, glowed with veiled excitement. A feeling of warmth and sweetness coursed through him as he touched and held the small passive hand.

—Hello, Nell. Did you get my letter?

—Yes, just this morning, Johnny. I'm glad you wanted to see me before you left for the War. By the way, Garwood's here, dropped in unexpectedly. We've—we've been practically engaged, you know, have been for over a month, and I——

Johnny was still holding her hand and looking at her. As he listened to her measured, low voice and watched her small face in the summer light and smelled the faint, flowery odor of her powder, he felt a little dizzy.

—It's all right, Nell, he said. I just wanted to see you before I went.

—Johnny, I'm terribly sorry about what happened.

—It's all right, Johnny said. It's all over now.

There were footsteps in the hall, and Garwood Jones came to the door.

—Jesus, John, how are you, boy! Garwood said.

Johnny shook hands with Garwood and went into the parlor, listening to some sonorously delivered condolences. Garwood was sleekly splendid in a new suit. He had a diamond stickpin in his cravat. He had a cane and gloves. Apparently, being a young Copperhead congressman was a lucrative calling.

—Well, I hate to see you get into this mess, sprout, Garwood said affectionately. You're just throwing your life away, but I suppose you know what you're doing. Say, I got an idea.

Garwood took his arm from around Johnny's shoulders and lit a cigar.

—Nell, suppose we take this boy out and show him a good time before the Army gets him. God knows it'll be the last fun he'll have for a while. Send him off with a beautiful memory.

—I think that would be nice, Nell said. If Johnny would like.

—Now then, Garwood said, suppose we get another woman—one of the girls who works with you at the Christian Commission, Nell, and——

—No, Johnny said. I don't want that. Just the three of us.

—Well, all right, Garwood said. If you want it that way, Nell and I would be delighted. We'll take the boy out, buy him a dinner, get him good and drunk, and turn him over to the Army rarin' to go. I want it understood that this is on me, every bit of it. I'll pay till it hurts. Nothing's too good for our boy John.

It started with a few drinks at a place Garwood knew. Then they walked over to the Capitol, where Garwood wanted to hear some speeches. In the yard of the Capitol Building, hundreds of people milled around a makeshift platform on which some dignitaries, military and civilian, were speaking to honor a volunteer regiment about to entrain for active duty on the front.