Home from the Hill (6 page)

Was it any wonder then that it had changed our tone considerably when, a couple of years before that incident, the Captain first brought Theron in to sit with us on the corner of the square? It was rather as if he had brought Mrs. Hannah. Other boys had moved in from the fringes and taken their places among the men, and most of them, in the beginning, had seemed disappointed and embarrassed and would look down, look away and pretend not to have heard, when the passing of some girl would put a stop to the hunting talk and bring out a coarse remark. But from the start, with Theron Hunnicutt there, such things were seldom said. It was not merely that we sensed the Captain would not like it, or more obscurely, that Mrs. Hannah would not have. It was also because the boy himself made us feel ashamed to do it, and this he did not so much by making us feel that he was too good, as that we ourselves were. Shyly, delicately—since praise to the face is open disgrace—he let us know what we had meant in his life, and it came out bit by bit that we, a more mortal lot than whom you would have to go far to find, had all figured to him as a kind of assembly of lesser gods surrounding that god of a father of his. He told us stories about ourselves, stories in which we were heroes, most often things we ourselves had long ago forgotten and never had seen much heroic in; but listening to him tell it over, with his dark, humorless, intense young face, you got the feeling that you
had
looked pretty good on that occasion, and that it
was
something memorable. It was a little like reading about yourself in a book, an old book, in old-fashioned and formal language full of words that amused and yet pleased and at the same time embarrassed you a little just because they both amused and pleased, words like
courageous, valiant
, even
fortitude
, even
steadfast
, words he got from his reading in Scott, Marryat, Cooper, and Southern historians of The Lost Cause. When he told you of a time when you had been more courageous, more loyal, more valiant than you knew perfectly well you ever had been, it shamed you into resolving to live up to his notion of you in future. In that boy's stories you always came off well somehow, bigger than lifesize, even when it was a story
on
you; if you were a fool, you were an epic fool. He made you feel you had taken it too much for granted, being a member of this fine body of men like yourself. You did not want to say or do anything that would hurt his regard for you or the fresh regard he had given you for yourself.

You could not help liking him—even if he was conceited. And he was conceited. He was not brash or smart-alecky, not show-off. He did not have to impress his self-assurance on others to know he had it. He just took things for granted, as he took for granted right away that his rightful place was among the hunting men. He felt he still had to prove that right, but to prove it only to them. Of other men, and of all boys his own age, he was unconscious. He was not disdainful of boys his age—just unconscious of them. And he did behave very grown-up. At twelve he had all the certainty of a crown prince as to precisely what his role in life was to be, and he judged from the example of his father, down to the smallest detail, exactly how he would fill it. It gave him a kind of miniature pomposity, but you could not help liking him. For one thing there was that earnestness of his. Even for a boy, he took things seriously. Because of his strong sense of the high expectations held of him, he had a time forgiving himself for any mistake he made. And though not so hard on others as on himself, he made high demands on others too. What made this appealing, as well as just a little touching, was that so far as he could see as yet, nobody fell short of his high demands. Narrow and intolerant, as boys will be, he could feel pity, but he could not separate it from contempt. He could not feel very much pity for someone and go on thinking of him as a friend. Oh, he was conceited, but not so conceited that he could pardon in others what he could not pardon in himself.

And he
was
humorless. He could be sold the most useless things told the most outlandish lies; then, too trusting to believe it or too proud to admit it, had to be told he'd been had. He was subjected to all the old as well as hundreds of spur-of-the-moment pranks, sent after a pint of pigeon's milk, a left-handed monkey wrench, etc.—that sly leg-pulling, that mountain-style April-foolery that seems all the more delicious the hoarier the device by which the victim is taken in. He could take it and come back for more, had a bottomless fund of trust, and did not harbor any resentment. But instead of being let off because of his spirit, being such an unwearying sucker—irresistible, with those big credulous black eyes and solemn face—he was put through the whole bag of tricks, the entire accumulated tradition. And so one day on the square we began to talk about snipe hunting. God help us now, him dead at nineteen and not even at rest in his grave, but when he rose to the bait that day we looked at each other in unbelieving delight: Lord God, he hadn't even heard of
that
one!

Dick began it. “Been snipe hunting any time lately, Bob?”

“Snipe hunting! I golly!” exclaimed Bob. “Naw, Dick, I haven't, I'm sorry to say. You?”

“I been thinking of going. Just haven't got around to it somehow or other.”

“My, I haven't been on a good snipe hunt in I don't know how long!” said Bob, while his eyes clouded over with fond memories.

Then Dick, with a squint at the weather, said, “Good snipe day today if you ast me.”

“Why, yeah. This is snipe weather.”

Said Dick, “You 'member the time we—”

“Haw! Do I! That was a time!”

Then after a little silence, Dick said, “Well, what do you say to it?”

Bob looked around at the men, not seeming to see the eager, hopeful boy near him, and said, “Any you fellows be interested in going on a snipe hunt?”

“Why,” said Joe, “I was hoping you wouldn't leave me out.” And George, “Count me in!” And Ben, “I'm game.” And Hank, “Can I come, fellows? I ain't been snipe hunting in years.”

“Well, I don't know, Hank. That's five already.”

“Aw, let me, Bob. One more won't hurt.”

“Well, what do you say, Dick? Can we let old Hank in?”

“Well, I don't know. They's five already.”

“Aw, come on, Dick. You know me.”

“Well, all right. But no more now.”

And then we waited for the fish to nibble. But we had overdone it; he was so impressed he did not dare. So George said, “Oh, tarnation!” We had learned to use innocent cuss words in his presence and now thought it was just killing sport to utter them with much force, as if conscious of using a mighty hard word. “Tar-
nation!
” said George. “I can't. I forgot, I got to see a man about a dog.”

So then Theron worked up his courage and said, “Mr. Macaulay, you don't suppose—” And then he gave up, conscious of all the eyes upon him and overcome with awe at his own presumption—or perhaps stung in advance at the prospect of being denied.

“What's that, son?” said Dick Macaulay.

“Oh, never mind.”

But he wanted to go too bad not to give it another try. “I was going to ask if you would please let me come along, Mr. Macaulay. I'd just watch and keep out of the way, and with Mr. Stradum not going after all it wouldn't be any more than you had meant to take. But I don't suppose you all would want … just a boy … tagging along. Would you?”

For the longest time Mr. Macaulay said nothing. As a matter of fact, Dick himself said afterwards—but that was afterwards—that he had been considering calling the whole thing off. But to Theron he looked as if he was trying, with difficulty because it was such a shock, to find a kind way of saying no.

He turned to Bob. “Mr. Edsall, would you mind very much if I was to come along?”

Mr. Edsall said it was all right as far as he was concerned, and interceded with Mr. Macaulay for him. “Let the boy come along, Dick. He won't take up any extra room.”

“Sure, Dick,” said one of the others. “Let him come. Remember your own first snipe hunt.”

At last Mr. Macaulay said well, all right. But for them to remember he had been against it, in case it turned out like he expected it would.

You went hunting for snipe at sundown, around water-holes, stockponds, he was told. He agreed to meet us. We did not have to tell him not to tell anybody. This was a secret he was delighted to keep. Bring no gun, he was told, and he was not surprised that on his first hunt he was not to be allowed to shoot. He met us on the square as the sun was sinking behind the west side buildings, and we drove out to a farm four or five miles from town.

Nobody, he observed, carried a gun. He did not want to seem over-curious, and certainly not critical, and every fresh evidence of his green-ness seemed to cause Mr. Macaulay acute disgust and to confirm him in his belief that a great mistake had been made in letting that boy tag along. But it was some distance from the road down to the pond, and on the way he could not resist asking about the guns. You didn't use a gun to hunt snipe, he learned, and was made to feel ridiculous that he had not known it, but for the moment he learned nothing more.

It was just getting dusk when we reached the pond.

Suddenly Bob Edsall came out with, “Dick, why don't we let Theron here be catcher.”

“Catcher!” cried Mr. Macaulay in astonishment. “Let him be
catcher
! I wasn't even sure he ought to have been brought along in the first place, now you ask me why don't we let him be
catcher
!”

Obviously “catcher” was the choice job, and Theron did not resent Mr. Macaulay's outrage, but rather agreed with him that he had been done favor enough this first time just to have been brought. Nor did he want there to be any quarrel over him. “It's all right, Mr. Edsall,” he said. “I'm happy just to be here. I don't mind if I'm not catcher.”

But Mr. Edsall wouldn't hear of it. “Aw, gee whillikers, Dick!” he expostulated.

“Now watch your language,” said Mr. Macaulay sternly.

We others were fit to bust.

“I apologize, men,” said Mr. Edsall. “But I swear, Dick! Excuse me again. I mean, I swear! You seem to have forgot you was ever a boy yourself. This is his first snipe hunt. Come on now, let him be catcher. So what, if he don't get quite as many birds as you or me would? There'll still be enough for all.”

“But, Mr. Edsall, I don't mind a bit,” Theron implored. “I'd rather
not
be catcher. Really.”

And just then, with a weary sigh, Mr. Macaulay gave in. Theron, realizing the degree to which he was acting contrary to his better judgment, was mighty grateful to him.

He felt somewhat skeptical when told that we would all go down into the woods and drive the birds up and that all he had to do was stand on the edge of the pond and whistle—like this: Mr. Edsal whistled to show him—short, rapid little peeps—and hold the towsack open wide and the driven birds would fly right into it. But the jacksnipe was a very slow-witted bird, he was told, and who was he, a mere boy, only there on sufferance and now being allowed to be catcher, to doubt the word of grown men and experienced snipe hunters?

So we left him holding the bag and went down through the woods and cut back to the car, and half an hour later joined the gang on the corner in town. It was a little after eight. Your usual snipe hunter took just about fifteen minutes of listening to himself whistle like a fool to catch on, and an hour to get back; but this was one gullible boy, so we figured double the time for him, and figured it would be about nine-thirty when he came in. The word had been passed around earlier in the day—we had picked a Saturday night when the Captain was known to have business—and quite a crowd was waiting to see Theron come home with his tail between his legs.

But by a quarter of ten he had not shown up; nor had he by ten-fifteen. It was decided that he had taken the long way home rather than face us by coming through the square. He was that proud.

At ten-thirty the Captain appeared, a worried look on his face which made it almost unnecessary for him to say, “Any you men seen my boy? He hasn't come home, and his mama is worried.”

We were afraid to tell, but more afraid to think what might happen if any harm had come to the boy on his way home. So we told, and offered to go with him to pick Theron up.

He was nowhere on the road. We stole glances at each other in the light from the dashboard. Nobody said a word. When we reached the gate of the farm, the Captain stopped the car and switched off the ignition and let us sit there for a minute listening to each other breathe before saying, “Well?”

It was just to start moving again and as a way of stalling, or maybe it was just to say anything at all, not because there was any sense in it, now, going on three hours since we had left him there, that somebody suggested going back down to the pond. It was a dangerous suggestion to make to the Captain, that his boy was so slow he would still be waiting for us there. But he said nothing and started the car and would simply have crashed through the gate if Ben had not jumped out of the back seat and run to open it, and jumped aside barely in time, then leapt on to the running-board, knowing he was not going to be stopped for, but knowing better than to let himself be left behind as a way of getting out of it. We bounced down the cow lane like a ship in a storm, the headlights shooting out over the ground, then flung against the sky. We bumped our heads on the top, and one of us held on to Ben out on the running board.

The land began to dip, and, dropping down, the lights picked up the dark water. The land levelled and the beam of light rose and swung across the pond and as the Captain spun the wheel the beam ran along the water's edge until it found Theron. He was sitting. Now he got to his feet and drew himself up straight and proud. The Captain switched off the ignition, but did not move, so we did not either.