Raintree County (2 page)

July 20, 1848 E
VERYTHING WAS STILL ON THE WIDE FIELDS

1848-1852 A
FABULOUS AND FORGOTTEN SECRET WAS WRITTEN

July 4, 1854 A
BIG CROWD OF PEOPLE

Summer, 1856 F
LOWING FROM DISTANT TO DISTANT SUMMER, THE RIVER

September 6, 1856 ‘F
ATHER
, C
OME
O
UT OF
T
HAT
O
LD
S
ALOON
'

1857-1859 H
OW A QUAINT VISITOR ARRIVED

May 16, 1859 T
HE PLATEGLASS WINDOW OF THE SALOON

June 1, 1859 L
EGENDS IN A
C
LASS
-D
AY
A
LBUM

June 18, 1859 T
HE ROMANTIC, ILLSTARRED, WONDERFUL, WICKED
C
LASS
P
ICNIC

June 18, 1859
TWO CREATURES PLAYING WHITELY IN A RIVERPOOL

July 4, 1859 T
HE RACE TO DETERMINE THE FASTEST RUNNER IN
R
AINTREE
C
OUNTY

July 4, 1859 B
ARE EXCEPT FOR A CHAPLET OF OAKLEAVES

Summer, 1859 H
OW THAT WAS A SUMMER OF DROUGHT

October 19, 1859 A
LETTER AT THE
P
OST
O
FFICE WAS ALWAYS A BIG EVENT

November, 1859 H
OW THE ROCK HAD LAIN THERE ALWAYS

November 22, 1859 T
HE SCENT OF WITHERED SUMMERS HOVERED

December 1-2, 1859 D
AWN AND ITS DAY OF LONG FAREWELL

December 2, 1859 D
OWN THE RIVER FOR YOU, MY BOY

1859-1860 FAR, F
AR AWAY TO AN EVERBLOOMING SUMMER

1860-1861 T
HE HOUSE
, S
USANNA'S TALL HOUSE

April 12-14, 1861 I
N THE DAWN, IN THE RED DAWN

1861-1863 ‘A
LL'S QUIET ALONG THE
P
OTOMAC
'

July 2-4, 1863 L
OST CHILDREN OF A LOST REPUBLIC

July 4-—1863 A
N
O
LD SOUTHERN
M
ELODRAMA

1857-1863 H
OW IN HER OLDEST AWARENESS OF BEING ALIVE

July 13, 1863 J
OHNNY
S
HAWNESSY'S DEPARTURE FOR THE WAR

Summer, 1863 W
HAT FACES HE SAW IN THE CAMPS

September 19-21, 1863—C
HICKAMAUGA, THE STAFF OFFICER SAID

November 22, 1863 W
AR HAD COME TO THIS HOLLOW BETWEEN HILLS

November 25, 1863—H
URRAAAAHHHH
! T
HE CRY SMOTE HIM

November 14-16, 1864 P
ROGRESS THROUGH DOOMED
A
TLANTA

November 26, 1864 F
IFTY THOUSAND STRONG ON THE EARTH OF
G
EORGIA

February 17, 1865 H
ANDS POINTING AND GESTURING
, F
LASH
P
ERKINS

April 14, 1865 W
EARING A BATTLE WOUND, SCARCE HEALED

May 24, 1865 F
ROM THE LAST ENCAMPMENT IN A HUNDRED FIELDS

May 31, 1865 W
HEN
J
OHNNY CAME MARCHING HOME AGAIN

May 1, 1866 T
HE SOFT SPRING WEATHER OF
R
AINTREE
C
OUNTY

June 1, 1876 T
HE
N
EW
C
OURT
H
OUSE WAS BY FAR THE MOST

1865-1876 H
OW THE FIRST ELEVEN YEARS FOLLOWING THE
G
REAT
W
AR

July 4, 1876 O
N THE MORNING THAT
A
MERICA WAS A HUNDRED YEARS OLD

July, 1876 P
LEASANT TO THE EYES DURING THE
C
ENTENNIAL
S
UMMER

1876-1877 H
OW HE CAME TO THE
C
ITY OF
N
EW
Y
ORK

July 21-22, 1877 H
OW THE
G
REAT
S
TRIKE CAME UPON THE LAND

July 25, 1877 B
EFORE THE
F
OOTLIGHTS AND
B
EHIND THE
S
CENES

July-August, 1877 A
MESSAGE FOR HIM TO COME BACK HOME

August, 1877 ‘COMETO PARADISE LAKE'

1877-1878 A
CONTEST FOR HER SOUL

July 4, 1878 W
AITING FOR
P
A TO COME HOME

Pre-Historic A
STRANGE LIGHT WAS OVER EVERYTHING

1880-1890 H
OW ONCE UPON A TIME A LITTLE GIRL

1890-1892 T
HE
R
OAD, THE GREAT BROAD
R
OAD, THE
N
ATIONAL
R
OAD

Raintree County

A Great Day

FOR RAINTREE COUNTY
(Epic Fragment from the
Free Enquirer,
July 4, 1892)

Y
ES, SIR
, here's the Glorious Fourth again. And here's our special Semicentennial Edition of the
Free Enquirer,
fifty pages crowded with memories of fifty years since we published the first copy of this newspaper in 1842. And, friends, what a half-century it has been! While the
Enquirer
has been growing from a little four-page weekly to a daily paper of twice the size, the population of these United States has quadrupled and the territory governed under the Institutions of Freedom has been extended from sea to shining sea. In those fifty years the Great West has been conquered, and the Frontier has been closed. The Union has been preserved in the bloodiest war of all time. The Black Man has been emancipated. Giant new industries have been created. The Golden Spike has been driven at Promontory Point, binding ocean to ocean in bands of steel. Free Education has been brought to the masses. Cities have blossomed from the desert. Inventions of all kinds, from telephones to electric lights, have put us in a world that Jules Verne himself couldn't have foreseen in 1842.

Folks, it has been an Era of Progress unexampled in the annals of mankind, and all of it has been made possible by the great doctrines on which this Republic was founded on July 4, 1776.

During those fifty years, we haven't exactly stood still here in Raintree County. Freehaven has grown from a little country town to a bustling city of ten thousand. The Old Court House of 1842 could be put into the court room of the present imposing edifice, one of the finest in the State of Indiana. And we challenge any section of comparable size in this Republic to show a more distinguished progeny of great men than our own little county has produced.

If anybody doubts the above statement, let him take a look at what is going on in the little town of Waycross down in good old Short-water Township. The eyes of the whole nation are fixed on that little rural community today. The celebration there to honor the homecoming of Senator Garwood B. Jones is a striking testimonial to the vitality of our democratic institutions. While we have often opposed Senator Jones on political grounds, we would be the last to diminish the lustre of his name or the distinction he has brought upon the county of his birth. We had hoped that the Senator would see fit to make his homecoming address here in the County Seat, but no one can doubt the political wisdom of Garwood's decision to speak in his birthplace, a town of two hundred inhabitants, as the opening move in his campaign for reelection. It's a dramatic gesture, and the Senior Senator from Indiana needs all his vote-winning sagacity, not only to defeat the rising tide of Populism this year, but to further his wellknown ambition to achieve the Presidency in 1896.

Nor is the Senator the only nationally known figure in Waycross today. His friend and ours, another Raintree County boy, Mr. Cassius P. Carney, the famous multimillionaire, is expected to be there. And our own great war hero, General Jacob J. Jackson, is going to lead a march of G.A.R. veterans to point up the pension issue. There are rumors of other celebrities coming on the Senator's special train, and all in all it looks like the little town of Waycross will have dern near as many famous people in it today as Washington, D. C. If the celebrated Stanley set out to explore this dark continent tomorrow for the Greatest Living American, he could do worse than get off a train in Waycross to ask his famous question. . . .

Mr. John Wickliff Shawnessy

I
PRESUME?

—Yes?

His voice was tentative as he looked for the woman who had spoken from the dusk of the little post office. The whole thing seemed vaguely implausible. A short while ago, he had left his house to take part in the welcoming exercises for the Senator, whose train was expected momentarily in the Waycross Station. Walking west on the National Road, he had joined the crowd that poured from three directions into the south arm of the cross formed by the County and National roads. A swollen tide of parasols and derby hats blurred and brightened around the Station. Except on Sundays, he had never seen over ten people at once along this street, and he had been afraid that he might not be able to reach the platform where he was to greet the Senator. Near the Station, the crowd had been so dense that he could hardly move. Women in dowdy summer gowns jockeyed his nervous loins. Citizens with gold fobs and heavy canes thrust, butted, cursed. A band blared fitfully. Firecrackers crumped under skirts of women, rumps of horses. From the struggling column of bodies, bared teeth and bulgy eyes stuck suddenly.

Then he had found himself looking into the glass doorpane of the Post Office, where his own face had looked back at him, youthfully innocent for his fifty-three years, brows lifted in discovery, long blue eyes narrowed in the sunlight, dark hair smouldering with inherent redness. He had just begun to smooth his big mustaches and adjust the poet's tie at his throat when the crowd shoved him against the door. It had opened abruptly, and stepping inside on a sudden impulse, he had heard the woman's question.

Now he shut the door, drowning the noise of the crowd to a confused murmur.

—I was expecting you, Johnny, the woman said in the same husky voice. Where have you been?

—I was just on my way to greet the Senator, he said. Is there—is there some mail for me?

He walked slowly toward the distribution window, where in the darkness a face was looking out at him.

—Some letters carved on stone, the voice said. The fragments of forgotten language. I take my pen in hand and seat myself——

The woman was lying on a stone slab that extended dimly into the space where the window usually was. She lay on her stomach, chin, propped on hands. Her hair was a dark gold, unloosened. Her eyes were a great cat's, feminine, fountain-green, enigmatic. A dim smile curved her lips.

She was naked, her body palely flowing back from him in an attitude of languor.

He was disturbed by this unexpected, this triumphant nakedness. He was aroused to memory and desire by the stately back and generously sculptured flanks.

—How do you like my costume, Johnny? she asked, her voice tinged with mockery.

—Very becoming, he said.

Her husky laughter filled the room, echoing down the vague recess into which she lay. He hadn't noticed before that the slab was a stone couch, curling into huge paws under her head. He was trying to understand what her reappearance meant on this memorial day.

Watching him with wistful eyes, she had begun to bind up her hair, fastening it behind her ears with silver coins.