Raintree County (92 page)

He listened to the sound of cicadas in the trees, watched turtles sunning themselves on distant stones, smelled the fishy smell of the river. He had become primitive, fully at home. The river purified him from soldiering.

—What do they call this yere river? Natie Franklin asked. ‘Tain't the Wabash, is it?

Flash Perkins laughed brutally.

—No, son, it's the Mississip, he yelled.

—It's the White River, Johnny said.

—Don't look white to me, Natie said, swimming away to cover his embarrassment.

White river—Wa-pi-ha-ni. He thought of the continuous web of the Indian waters drawn southward to the huge ventricle of the Gulf—Shawmucky, Wapihani, Wabash, Ohio, Mississippi. Somewhere down the woven republic of these shining streets of water, Rebel soldiers were swimming too, splashing the water, smelling the cold green smell, making jokes and laughing.

After a while, the five soldiers swam across the river and climbed up the bank on the other side. They lay down to sun on the soft grass and talked. They felt hungry, discussed food, agreed that they got better cooking at home, expressed a general discontent with the Army.

—No wonder we ain't winnin' this war any faster, Flash Perkins said. You can't win it by diggin' privies. Fide known what a hell of a time it takes to git into the fightin', I'd a never volunteered. Why don't Lincoln git some generals with guts!

—We'd better get back to camp, Jesse Gardner said.

—What was the last time you had a woman, Natie? Flash said.

The boy laughed uncertainly.

—Shucks, I don't know.

—Fie don't git a woman before long, I'm gonna desert, Flash said.

Flash described in some detail what he would do with a pretty girl if he had one. He lay in the sun, talking endlessly, cursing, laughing, teasing the others. Nothing seemed to appall him or give him pause. He was still the most affirmative being Johnny Shawnessy had ever seen, his blue eyes glancing insolence, his forehead ridging up as he laughed his hard, wild laughter. The Army hadn't tamed him. He shook off discipline like the pale water from his supply knit arms and shoulders. He seemed to have no past for regret or future for anxiety. Rarely, during the training period, Johnny had seen a shadow of perplexity touch Flash's face, the eyes go suddenly blank and childlike. But a moment later the bearded, mocking mouth would bare its locked teeth, the forehead would ridge up, and there would follow the crude jest, the horselaugh, or the blow.

The talk of women, food, homefolks, and soldiering went on and on. It was an old talk, this talk of soldiers, destroyers and founders of republics. But older still was the river itself, and the language of its stream drawn from a remote source and distant ages. The river was eternal fixity, container of eternal change. The same bare forms had dropped their clanking weapons and swum in the Rubicon, the Tiber, the Danube, and the Nile. Man bled, lusted, fought, swam, coupled, shrieked, died, decayed in his old battlegrounds and camps beside the impassive waters. Lover and beloved, killer and killed—deep mounds claimed them all. Beyond, on the upland was a camp rectangularly Latin, an ancient formal ground. The legionaries of a new republic were preparing to add white bones and rusty weapons to the old debris of war along the rivers of the world. What did men seek in the fierce pastimes of war and love? What
palely lovely flesh whose murmurous name was lost in the conundrum of the river?

A week after Johnny had begun soldiering, on an afternoon when visitors were permitted, Nell Gaither and Garwood Jones had come to camp to see him. Garwood had made some robust jests about Johnny's uniform and had stopped to talk with the commanding officer about legislation for improving the lot of the Brave Defenders of the Flag.

Meanwhile, Johnny had shown Nell around the camp—that is, they had walked through it and out of it and down to the river. Once out of sight, they held hands and walked to the trestle. There they put their arms around each other and made a number of vows. Nell would wait until Johnny got out of the Army, and some way they would work things out. They would write to each other faithfully and regularly. Meanwhile when Johnny got a leave, he would let her know and call for her at the house on Pennsylvania Avenue.

They were so entirely lost in one another that they could hardly talk but simply stood in the deep green shadow under the railroad trestle and held each other tightly, while Johnny kissed Nell's curved red mouth over and over. Her eyes were a swimming greenness close to his own in the river air. Her whitefleshed body twisted in his arms, tenderly responsive.

Johnny was aware that it was one of his epic moments, with nothing to mar the perfection of feeling. He knew that his humble uniform was a badge of valor to Nell; in her arms he became in truth, briefly, what he was supposed to be—the young preserver and defender. They had found each other thus momentarily in a greater Raintree County. Now they wore a costume called the Civil War, but it was summer, and the river made its old reedwoven music near them.

Later on, a train came thundering toward the trestle. They remained wordlessly embraced, as Johnny leaned back against one of the huge uprights of the trestle and watched the black wheels grinding over. Soot dropped in the still air. Stink of coalgas killed the subtle life-scents of the river. The valley of the river was filled up with the iron unhappy shriek of the whistle. Johnny felt the woman in his arms tighten and tremble. But when the train had passed, she laughed, and then, as it was very late, they had walked back to camp.

Back in camp, Garwood had thumped Johnny on the back and had said,

—John, you sure look a scream in that monkey suit.

Johnny and Nell gravely shook hands at parting. Garwood drove off in a fancy buggy, and Nell leaned out and waved her parasol at Johnny. Her small face receding in the summer evening had reminded him of a photographic image that he had tossed into the Shawmucky some years before on a December night. The eyes shone mistily. The mouth, curved with love and compassion, was like something painted on marble and made to come alive. The parasol gently rose and fell. The face leaning out had finally withdrawn into the buggy, and Johnny had gone back into the camp.

Now he remembered all this as he lay with his comrades in the sunlight by the river. He was also thinking about the leave that was promised him for that evening.

—If a woman come walkin' down that path, Jessica, Flash was saying, what would you do?

—What path? Natie said.

—That path, Flash said, rising on his elbow and pointing down a path that wound away from the river toward a road junction and some houses.

He remained pointing, his eyes naive and troubled, and then his forehead made ridges, his lips curled, and he said,

—Jehosaphat! they
is
a woman walkin' down that path!

The five soldiers stood up and ran down the bank and plunged into the river. When they came up puffing and blowing, hiding in water up to their chins, there were two women standing on the bank looking at them. The women were garishly dressed. One, a thin, homely girl, who was pulling back on her companion's hand, didn't appear to be over seventeen. The other was a well-fleshed young woman in her twenties. Only her bold, hard look, Johnny thought, kept her from being pretty. Her mouth was permanently turned up on the left side, more sneer than smile. Her eyes, large with distinct lashes, stared with unashamed interest.

—I told you we shouldn't have come, Jesse Gardner said.

—Come on in, girls! Flash yelled. The water's fine!

The older of the two girls stood smiling and tapping her right shoetoe with her parasol. She nodded her head and wrinkled up
her nose derisively. Johnny noticed that her shoe was all scuffed and old. He could see her ankle.

—You boys soldiers? she said.

—We aim to be, Flash said, acting as spokesman. You like soldiers?

—Maybe, the girl said.

The younger girl whispered something to her companion, and they talked in low voices heatedly for a moment.

—Those girls are no good, Jesse whispered.

His teeth were chattering, and he was very pale.

—You know what I think? he said. I think they're——

—Say, girls, how about a little fun? Flash said.

He was standing up with his shoulders clear of the water, his teeth bared, his beard dripping.

—Whadda yuh mean? the older girl said, appraisingly, still tapping her shoetoe.

—You know what I mean, Flash said.

The younger one engaged the other in another whispered discussion.

—Not me, Johnny said. Leave me out of this, Flash.

—Me too, said the other boys.

—I'm just stringin' 'em along, Flash whispered. Shucks, this'll be fun.

The woman said,

—You really mean it? You ain't just kiddin'?

—Do I look like I'm kiddin'? Flash said.

The girl looked thoughtfully up and down the river.

—You got any money?

—Sure, Flash said. How much you want?

—O, I don't know, the girl said, tapping her shoe. All of you—or just——

—Sure, sure, Flash said.

—Five dollars maybe? the girl said. That's just . . .

SOMETHING FOR THE BOYS
(Epic Fragment from the
Free Enquirer
)

The local citizenry have done everything in their power to make the soldiers feel at home. Literally nothing is too good for ‘the boys,'
as they are universally called. With one common charitable impulse, the people of the City have agreed to show their gratitude for the lads who are risking their all so that the folks at home may still enjoy those creature comforts to which they are accustomed. . . .

Flash suddenly gave a loud, savage laugh.

—Hell, where would I git five dollars!

He bared his teeth and laughed louder, beating his ribs.

—Five dollars! Hell, I didn't say the whole camp. Five dollars!

Johnny hated Flash. He blushed with shame and pity for the girls on the bank and for himself and all mankind.

—Come on, Flash, he said. Let them go.

—Five dollars! Flash yelled. Jesus, whadda yuh think we are—generals!

The woman slowly blushed through her painted cheeks. Her underlip protruded like an angry child's. The skinny younger girl plucked at her sleeve, saying,

—Come on, Lizzie, let's go.

The older girl shook herself free.

—Goddamn you! she said. You goddam soldiers are no good!

—What language! Flash yelled. Five dollars! That's a good one. I was goin' to charge you.

—That to you! the girl said, with an upswung motion of her skirt.

—You girls go away from here, Jesse Gardner said in a loud, high voice. Go on away. Can't you see we haven't got any clothes on?

—You tell her, Jessica, Flash said, still laughing.

—Listen, runt, the woman said to Jesse, I hope you and loudmouth don't desert before the Rebs gits a chance at yuh. You're all yeller, all you soldiers.

—Aw, shet up! Flash said. Go on and git out a here.

—I'd like to see you make me leave, the girl said.

—Stick around then, Flash said, if you want an eyeful.

He started swimming and walking toward the opposite shore where the uniforms were, and reaching the shallow water, stood up and walked out.

The other girl had moved on down the path, but the talkative one held her ground and laughed, squeezing her sides. She screamed with laughter. She beat her ribs.

—Aw, shet up, Flash said.

—Come on, Tom Conway said, let's make a rush for it.

Johnny, Tom, and Natie followed Flash out and got behind some bushes. The girl was still standing on the far side laughing.

—Go home to your maws, you runts, she said.

—What a whore! Flash said. Say, look at Jessica, would yuh!

Jesse Gardner was still in the river.

—Go on away, he said pleadingly to the girl. Please go away.

The girl stood and looked at him.

—Please go away, he said. Haven't you got any decency?

Flash began to laugh again.

—Come on, boys, let's git dressed. We got to dig those crap-houses. Hey, Jessica!

Jesse looked at Flash. His blue lips trembled.

—Listen, Jessica, Flash said, we got to go now. If the Captain asks about you, I'll jist tell ‘im that the last time I seen you, you was down here with a couple whores.

—Please go away, Jesse said to the woman.

—Why, you little chickenbreasted runt, the girl said, I wouldn't even
spit
on you!

—Come on out, Johnny called. It won't kill you.

—I won't do it, Jesse said. Make her go away.

—Do you think I want to see you! the girl said. You soldiers are no damn good.

She turned and walked away without looking back.

Jesse came out of the water, trembling with indignation.

—Why—why—why—those girls would as soon look at a man naked as—as—as——

Flash doubled up laughing.

—Put yer dress on, Jessica, let's go back.

Jesse made a rush at Flash and hit him in the face. Flash grabbed him by the arm and flung him down hard in a clump of bushes. Johnny and the others kept Jesse from trying to renew the fight. There was bad feeling all around except for Flash, who was still laughing as they went back to the camp.

When they reached the place where they had been digging, Captain Bazzle was standing there waiting for them.

—You men disobeyed regulations, he said. Where were you?

As usual, he was deadly in earnest, his voice high and nervous.

—We went swimming, sir, Johnny said. Just a dip to cool off.

—It doesn't seem like a big matter to you, the Captain said, but how do you expect us to win this war if soldiers disobey regulations whenever they want to? What if the frontline soldiers felt they could run off any time they wanted a little recreation?

—If we was frontline soldiers, Flash said, we'd be doin' somethin' besides diggin' holes.