Some Came Running

by James Jones

  They took the second route. Dave didn’t care, and said so, and when ’Bama came to the junction he decided it by turning them off toward Shelbyville. It was 113 miles to Huntsville, Alabama, and they reached it before eleven. There they stopped for a sandwich and a bottle of beer, the first food they had eaten since the sandwiches in the hotel, and Dave noticed for the first time consciously something he had been aware of only vaguely in Nashville: They were in The South. Capital letters.

  The total overall effect of it upon him was to instill in him a feeling of nervous apprehension. It had been noticeable in Nashville, this peculiarly Southern quality, but there it had had its edges rubbed off somewhat against the North. But here in Huntsville, it stuck out like a winter cardinal after a snowfall. For one thing, there seemed a tremendous suppressed violence among the men, in the expressionless faces, even when they laughed. Everybody seemed almost waiting to get into some kind of a fight, solely to relieve the tension, and the aura they emanated seemed to hang over the whole town like a dark cloud.

  Dave had had the feeling before, in the South, and he could only think with relief of when they would get to Florida; but ’Bama seemed to be totally in his element. Another thing, his semi-western style hat no longer looked out of place because almost all the men here wore them, too. The same thing applied to his square shouldered suit and topcoat. Apparently, he knew Huntsville well, because he drove them right to a place where they could get a beer and a sandwich; and inside he joked and talked happily with everybody, and they did the same with him. From Nashville on, he had been talking with a gradually more and more pronounced Southern accent, and in the lunch counter it became even more noticeable. He was obviously pleased to be there; and yet as the accent grew, the look of suppressed violence about him that he always had about him grew more noticeable, too. Dave felt an intense relief when they were back out on the road and there had been no fights.

  ’Bama had filled the tank up again in Huntsville; he always did that whenever he stopped; cuts down on the condensation in the tank, he said. And when they were out on the highway again, he let go of the wheel several times and watched it closely.

  “What did you do that for?” Dave asked him.

  “Checkin the tars. If one tar’s low, it’ll pull the cahr,” he said. “It’s a good thing to do ever now and thin.”

  Dave filed the information away. He did not say anything about what he had felt back in Huntsville, at least not then.

  But it was not too much later that ’Bama—in an indirect way—brought it up himself. They had passed Guntersville, and were almost to Gadsden, when ’Bama suddenly began to talk about, of all things, the Civil War.

  Did Dave know who Old Bedford Forrest was? he wanted to know. Yes, Dave knew; he had read a book about him once. Well right here, Gadsden, ’Bama said, was where Forrest chased Streight’s Raiders through; did Dave remember about that? Dave didn’t. He had a vague memory of the term Streight’s Raiders, but that was all. The single book on Forrest he had read had been years ago, out in LA with Francine. But as ’Bama talking enthusiastically began to sketch out the story for him it began to come back to Dave.

  ’Bama, it turned out, was a considerable student of the Civil War. Especially of the campaigns of Nathan Bedford Forrest. His old granddaddy had been a trooper under Forrest, and after the war he had bought every book on the war and on Forrest that he could find. When he died he had left all his books to the youngest of all his grandsons; “That was me,” ’Bama grinned. ’Bama had been fourteen and a freshman in high school in Birmingham. “I think that’s why he give me the books. He made me promise him I’d graduate from high school before he’d leave me the books. I was the only one in the family who eveh did, and I guess he wanted to be sure I could read ’em myself. I still got all them books,” ’Bama grinned. “They’re all down at the farm up home.”

  Dave realized that he was probably hearing things about ’Bama Dillert that nobody else in Parkman had ever heard before. And what was more, he was suddenly intensely interested; he was learning about the kind of Southerners he had seen back there in Huntsville and been afraid of, and he wanted more. When ’Bama stopped, he described for him the book he had read in the Los Angeles Public Library. He already had a hunch ’Bama might have it.

  “It was sort of a grayish-brownish book; with big red letters on it: Life of General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Written by Worth, or Wenth or something like that.”

  “Wyeth,” ’Bama said. “Dr John A Wyeth. Yeah, I got that one. Published in 1899.”

  “That’s it! Why, hell, man, you’ve got a valuable book there! When I read it in LA, they wouldn’t even let me take it outside the library it was so valuable.”

  “Yeah?” ’Bama said. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

  “Why, it must be worth thirty or thirty-five dollars anyway.”

  “Thirty or thirty-five dollars!” ’Bama snorted. “Hell, that’s peanuts.”

  “You’ve got a distorted idea of what’s valuable in a book.”

  “Valuable is valuable,” ’Bama said. “And thirty or thirty-five bucks ain’t very valuable.”

  “In a book, it is.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t sell mine for a couple hundred. Or any of the rest of them,” he said. “You know something?” he said after a minute, looking around at the country. “Nobody today ever pays any attention to the Western Campaigns. All they talk about is Old Lee and the campaigns in Virginia. But the Civil War was won—and lost—in the West; not in Virginia. If you’d of ever studied it, you’d see.”

  “I don’t know much about the Civil War,” Dave said, “and what little I do know is all about Virginia.”

  “Shore, that’s the way everybody is,” ’Bama said. “Well, the biggest mistake they ever made was puttin the capital in Richmond so close to the North. They should have left it in Mongomry. And the second biggest mistake, was ever lettin them capture the Mississippi River. Yes, sir, the war was won—and lost—in the West.

  He shrugged and then paused a moment, the big black car shooting on down the road as he thought. “I figure it was all sort of fate,” ’Bama said. “I don’t think the United States was meant to be broken up into two little countries; where would we be today? But you know,” he said, “there was only two real geniuses came out of the war, and that’s Forrest and Jackson. There was a lot of great generals, but there was only those two real geniuses. Even Old Lee wasn’t a real genius, I don’t think.

  “You know,” he said, “I think it would be a fine thing if someday—when the very last two survivin members of the Northern and Southern Armies finally died—they would bury them together, in one grave at Arlington, and put one big monument over both of them. They could say something like: Here, United in Death, Lie the Last Two Survivin Members of the Northern and Southern Armies in the War of 1865.”

  Dave, who all this time had been making mental notes that he should read more about the Civil War, and who was also still feeling the embarrassment of through no fault of his own having been born into the winning side, suddenly and in spite of his previously conceived dislike of ’Bama, felt something touch him so strongly that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Simultaneously, he realized he could talk to ’Bama about the men in Huntsville if he wanted to; and also, that if he didn’t do it now the opportunity might not ever come up again.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think it would be a fine idea.”

  ’Bama nodded. “I think it would really be a fine idea. In fact,” ’Bama said, grinning, “in fact, I think it would be so fine that if I didn’t have so much else to do, I believe I’d try to start an organization to get somethin done about it. But then, a two-bit tinhorn gambler wouldn’t carry much weight with the DAR or the American Historical Society,” he grinned. “I ain’t respectable enough for somethin like that.”

  “We ain’t neither one of us,” Dave said. “Listen, you know I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

  “Yeah?”
<
br />   “But I didn’t know if I ought to.”

  “Shoot. Rattle ’em and roll.”

  “Well, when we stopped back there in Huntsville I noticed something about—almost—all the men. They looked—mean; like killers. Like they’d cut your heart out at the drop of a hat—and not only that but would be proud of it. And especially, if it was a Northerner.”

  ’Bama threw his head back and laughed. “That’s just because you don’t know them. Yore strangers with them. But if you had lived with them a long time and got to know them—and they got to know you—you’d find they wasn’t any different from any other people. Little more closemouthed, is all.”

  “I don’t mind admittin I felt a definite sense of relief when we got back out on the road,” Dave said.

  “Yeah?” ’Bama said, looking at him. “Well now, I never felt any of that. How much do you reckon was all in your own mind?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something: When I first moved up North to Parkman, I thought everbody was goin to hate me. I expected to be in fights and maybe even get run out of the town. But what actually happened was, everybody liked me just because I was from the South. I was a sort of a curiosity, you know? Well now, if you moved down there to Huntsville, that’s probly just about what would happen with you. Their lives are no stranger to them than your life up North is to you.”

  “Maybe so,” Dave said. “But there’s still a difference. I can feel it.”

  “Shore, there’s a difference. But not near as much as everybody thinks. The whole difference is that the South is more ignorant. No, what I mean is backward. They’re more backward than the North.”

  “They all look like they’re still fightin the Civil War,” Dave said.

  “No, they’re not still fightin the war,” ’Bama said. “But they are still fightin the Reconstruction. That’s why they’re backward. They ain’t recovered from it yet. And bein backward, they’re more simple, see? More primitive. That’s what scares you,” he grinned. “Their emotions are closer to the surface— No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is they’re more ready to act on their emotions. If you insult them, they won’t argue with you. They’ll fight you. That’s what you feel; ain’t it?” he grinned, “and what frightens you.”

  “Maybe so,” Dave said.

  “Course I ain’t like that anymore myself,” ’Bama said. “I’m more sophisticated. But I’ve lived with them and I know what they’re like, and they’re good people. If they’re yore friends, they’ll give you anything they got; and you can count on them for friends a lot more than you can most people in the North. Well, that’s natural, see? Because they’re more simple.

  “Now if you moved down in the South, nobody’d bother you any unless maybe you said something out of the way, and even then they probly wouldn’t do nothin unless they were drunk, but if they were drunk, they might stick a knife in you. But it wouldn’t just be for nothing. And if afterwards, it all turned out to be some kind of a misunderstanding, they’d be the first ones to admit it and feel sorry because you were dead.”

  “Yeah; but what good would that do the guy who was dead?”

  “I didn’t say it would do him any good,” ’Bama said. “I just said that was the way they are.”

  “What about the Negroes, though?” Dave said.

  “Well-l-l,” ’Bama said, and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know if you’d understand it. The truth is, most Southerners love niggers a lot more than any white people in the North do. And most niggers love them more, too. Hell, they live with them; the niggers fix their food and make their beds and take care of their kids; they don’t mind that. But at the same time, they love them as individuals, they are scared of them as a group, see? It’s sort of what you might call an inbred fear, handed down from generation to generation, because back durin the Reconstruction, the Northerners who come down to get in on the gravy, they put a bunch of dumb no-count niggers, niggers without no education, into different offices and let them run things.”

  “I’ve read about all that,” Dave said.

  “Yeah. Well, you probly still don’t realize what a godawful mess it made out of everything. And besides that, it hurt their pride in the South. And they still remember that, see? It’s a genu-ine fear. But that don’t mean they don’t like niggers as individuals, see?—if they’re likeable that is.” ’Bama yawned, and after a moment said, “Let’s stop up ahead and get another sanwich and a beer. I’m gettin tard, and havin a sanwich and beer always helps to keep me awake for a while.”

  After the stop, they went right on, heading for Columbus, Georgia, now. Increasingly now ’Bama was having to stop for a sandwich and a beer to keep himself awake. Dave, who had already had two naps and wasn’t sleepy, sat looking out at the wheeling Southern landscape. His stubborn dislike of ’Bama was all gone now, dispersed by the talk about the South. The whole thing was so kind of unbelieveable that for the first time in his life he felt he had an understanding of Southerners and what they were really like; and the conception opened up such limitless prospects for thinking that he could hardly contain his enthusiasm. It was all really so simple, the way ’Bama explained it! Why, hell! it opened up all kinds of— But how would you write it? Set it in some bar? and show two guys drunk? and getting in some vain, ridiculous fight? and then show that both were sorry afterwards and neither one really holds it against the other? Christ, what a story that would make just in itself.

  But then! Then, if you took that, and imposed upon it the modern-day Northerner’s viewpoint, by putting it all down as seen through the eyes of some Northern narrator who had no understanding of what was happening at all? A kind of pleased disbelief that he could think up such a story idea spread a glow all through Dave, but then something tugged at his mind, telling him it wasn’t somehow quite the right vehicle yet. At least, not quite.

  Beside him ’Bama yawned again, and then shook his head back and forth. “I’m gonna have to stop for another sanwich and beer up here ahead. My eyes ain’t trackin.” He had been without sleep at least twenty-four hours, and possibly for as much as thirty-six, Dave calculated.

  “You want to stop somewhere?” he asked. “Or have me drive awhile?”

  “Not yet,” ’Bama said. It was evidently some point of pride. They reached Columbus, Georgia, about an hour after dark. He held out that long before he had to give up.

  “Guess I’m gonna have to let you drive for a while,” he said after they had pulled into the gas station. He sounded almost apologetic, as if he had let Dave down in some way by not driving all the way to Miami without rest.

  “Would you rather stop someplace and sleep?” Dave said.

  “Nah,” he said.

  They changed over in the station, and before Dave had got them out through Columbus, ’Bama was sound asleep, his hat tipped over his eyes.

  Dave drove very carefully, never going much over fifty, feeling a strong sense of responsibility for ’Bama’s car. He drove along letting his mind dwell on his story about Southerners. He wanted to do it because it was a concept, a phenomenon, he had never seen before, and not only that, had never seen handled anywhere in print before. It was something that existed, and he wanted to depict it. Whenever he thought about it it filled him with a sparking excitement that was half vanity and half a humble fear that he wouldn’t be able to do it justice, and on top of that an acidulous delight at being able to shard some cherished belief to bits.

  ’Bama slept for slightly over an hour and then woke up refreshed and proceeded to straighten himself up a little in the seat, raising his hat brim just enough to compensate for the change of position, and then folded his arms. He did not move again, and did not offer to take over the driving, and there then began an almost monosyllabic lesson in highway driving that in the end finally made Dave as expert a road driver as anyone who ever took to the highway. ’Bama dozed, and yet never did the opportunity to laconically
criticize an error get past him.

  “Dim yore lights whenever you run up behind a car.” . . .

  “Always flick yore lights a couple times before you pass.” . . .

  “Always dim as soon as an oncomin car’s in range of yore lights.” . . .

  “Let off on the gas, that’s a truck. See the three lights?” . . .

  And whenever another car passed them and Dave did not immediately dim his lights, ’Bama was always there with his injunction as soon as the car was past them: “Dim yore lights whenever a car passes you. You’ll blind him in his mirrors.” He never missed.

  In all, Dave drove three hours, before they changed back over. Then ’Bama crawled back under the wheel and they were off again. It was shortly after eight o’clock, the next morning that they pulled up to gas in the little town of Dering in Central Florida, and Dave suddenly got the rest of his Southerner story just handed to him.

  It all started with the man who serviced their car. He was a big man, maybe six foot two and weighing maybe two-twenty, young, maybe thirty-five, with the brooding dark eyes and heavy black hair that marked him for a black-Irish Southerner with maybe some Indian blood, and he was leaning against the gas pumps in dungarees and a T-shirt and Eisenhower jacket as they drove into the station. His name it turned out, was Jim Custis, and he could claim a direct relationship to the blood of Martha Custis Washington, and he taught algebra at Dering College. He told ’Bama all this while he filled the tank and cleaned the windshield and looked at the oil. He did not, it turned out, work in the filling station, but was just loafing there today because it was run by a friend of his and there was no school as this was Christmas holidays and Dering College was celebrating its Centennial. He seemed strangely friendly, as did ’Bama to him, as if the two of them had been drawn together by some invisible spark; but then when ’Bama went on to explain that he had Custis blood himself—and was able to trace his lineage back to some branch that Jim Custis was able to recognize—then the strange dark man really warmed up to them. Anything they wanted was theirs, by God. He would even show them around the campus if they wanted and explain the Centennial to them. Had they seen the folk play yet? Did they want a drink? The county was dry, of course, but he knew where he could get them some.