What you do, Coral?
Nothing.
What you cussing about?
Nnnnn.
Where you been, Coral?
A-hunting.
What you get?
God damn bastard of a chicken hawk.
Oh, Coral. Such language as you use the while!
Well, look who’s a-talking! Maybe you got religion like old Grandad-Blow-His-Bottom-Out that you tolt me about?
No, I hain’t got no religion; but I like gentlemanly ways. When menfolks come to me to be entertained, I always ask them, if they be strangers, Will you please act like a gentleman and not cuss?
Well, I got that damn hawk, and I reckon he’s the one took so many of our fries.
Where you get him, Coral?
Swamp back of the hill.
Well, I reckon too that he’s the one, and I do thank you, sonny. You want to go purchase yourself a plug tobacco?
I still got some.
His mother was in the bedroom, and he could not see her, and suddenly for a special reason he was glad that there was no one else in that one room which served as dining room, kitchen, sitting room, and Coral’s bedroom. He dumped the bruised dead hawk upon the hearth and stood looking at it, and for some strange reason mirth came to him. Mirth came so seldom. Coral said loudly, God damn Yankee chicken hawk. He batted the hawk into the cold fireplace with his crutch.
—Like what they call a lodge.
—Freemasons?
—He guessed his daddy hadn’t been a Freemason, but he’d heard that his grandfather Tebbs was one.
—Jo Coppedge used to say, When I get growed I’m going to get to be a Mason, sure enough. You can go anywhere and do anything, and you got somebody to help you out. Take Yanks: Suppose you get yourself captured, and you say to a Yank— You give him that secret sign or utter them secret words. Then you got a friend for life.
—A lodge which only those who are shy a hand or a foot can belong to.
—Secret words?
—Secret sign? Tain’t so secret. Sign is: you got a leg that comes down, and suddenly there ain’t no foot on the end of it. Sign is: you got an arm that just ends short off. Like that damn Yankee Naz Stricker.
Even while he stood in contemplation of the disordered table and shelves, Coral heard his mother snoring in the next room. She snored like a man. The more finicky of her customers had complained about her snoring when sometimes the customer and the Widow Tebbs both fell asleep after their encounter, and then the customer was rudely awakened by the growling roar beside him. Coral had heard Captain Oxford Puckett laughing in The Crib. Hi, Mag, put the lid on it. You sound like a battery of brass Napoleons firing at will.
But now the hoarse throbbing from the next room spelled security for Coral’s endeavors. The wicked grin twitched on his thin bearded face. Wouldn’t Flory’s jaw fall off if he knew about this? Flory would plain fart. Opportunity to catch a Yankee—maybe to shoot him— Opportunity to get thirty dollars, even Secesh! It seemed to Coral that he was visiting a personal spite on Floral by the procedure which he planned. There was nothing in this world which he might enjoy more.
Well, toting the stuff was a problem. But soon his eye roved to his old army haversack, hanging on a peg beside the chimney. It was burdened with dust, soot, scraps of crumbled plaster accumulating during the months which had elapsed since the ministrations of Mrs. Dillard. A Yankee sack, a small one; he’d picked it up in 1863 in the woods near that place—what they call it? It was a hard word to say—Chan-cell-ors-ville. It said U.S. but half the belts and canteens and buckles and equipment in the Confederacy said U.S. Coral reached up, got the sack, opened it, expelled some mummified remains which turned out to be those of a mouse, and shook the sack vigorously. There.
Fried pork? Hell yes, there was a lot left on that platter. It was good; nice pink stripes in it, and fried just right, even though twas cold. Liberally Coral helped himself to the slabs. Black-eyed peas? Hell yes, a regular hopping John. The mass of peas in the huge brown bowl was studded generously with chunks of hog jowl. (Strangely as occurs, the Widow Tebbs, in her slatternly ways and in her slovenly ignorance, was an excellent cook. If one did not inquire too closely into sanitary conditions. When times were hard, times were hard. But times weren’t hard, at present, not for the widow. The menfolks liked a snack, many of them, afterward . . . they’d say, Missis, I could relish a plate of fried potatoes right now. Got any bacon handy? Maybe piece of pie, maybe cup of nice cold milk? I’ll pay extry.)
Coral found a torn Macon Telegraph and wrapped a mass of peas and hog jowl in that. Cold potatoes—sure enough. Chunk of pone—the Widow Tebbs’ pone was always crisp and well salted—when she had meal, when she had salt. Apple pie. Nearly half the pie left, and let Ma think that he’d eaten it all. I declare, she’d say. Coral, you going to eat me out of house and home.
Out in the yard Zoral said, Guh, guh, guh, and still he must be playing train, dragging that miserable chicken. Then a real train came grinding past, and smoke blew all the way to the Tebbs house, for the wind was rising. This week was unseasonably chilly, for March.
Knowledge of that wind posed a new problem for Coral. Loose boards on the roof rattled, it would be cold in the swamp tonight, it would be cold everywhere. Touch and consideration of the haversack brought his comrades back to him. He saw them, lounging in column; far long twisty roads, stones bulging out of clay to hurt you, blackened skillets fastened to the rifles, the spittle rolling in a hard hot ball when you spat into the dust. Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey so free, you done kilt my Pappy, God damn you, try me. He began humming as he moved with caution about the room, he was not humming loudly enough to awaken his mother. Which barrel? One over here: that was where she kept stuff. He grubbed around in the barrel, brought out a torn pair of drawers, some old skirts of Zoral’s, a gown which Laurel hadn’t taken with her. Here, by Jesus God. Union army coat to wear in the rain—one of those kind of oilcloth ones. Some visitor had left it in The Crib the year before; it had part of the cape missing, it wasn’t of too much account, but it would serve. And this here old quilt. Coral worked at the table, kneading quilt and raincoat into a familiar roll, passing the roll over his head and shoulder after he had donned the haversack, after he had tied the ends of the roll with raveling twine.
...Coral, she’d say some day, what went with that old green and white quilt?
Don’t know. Hain’t seen hide nor hair of it.
He found his old canteen, also U.S., and filled it with milk.
Canteen, blanket roll, haversack. Foooorward, ha. Jo Coppedge, Bunny Teasley, Kyle Leftwich, Darius Voyles. Gettysburg, Chancellorsville, South Mountain, little place name of something or other where they camped one night and where Darius Voyles shot himself through the heart because he was careless with his gun and forgot to draw the charge. Foooorward.
Once more Coral smiled his shameless smile. He recalled community gossip at Uncle Arch Yeoman’s.
—Yes, sir. Put you in jail.
—Worse’n that. Reckon they can hang you or shoot you.
—Says so in the lawbooks. Petey Rooks was a-telling me, and he can read, and he seen it plain in print. They call it giving aid and comfort to the enemy; and him who disobeys that law is liable to get himself hanged by the neck until dead. So Petey says.
So there was a law, was there? . . . Hang him? By God, he was a hero, kind of man senators and such talked about when they were speechifying. . . . He’d say, O.K. (Kind of speech he’d picked up when they was invading against the North: it meant, All right, Mister, that’s so, that’s true, that’s right with me, or something of that nature.) O.K. What you mean to do? Hack the other foot off’n me?
Nazareth Stricker. It did sound like Bible talk.
Coral, reared in a godless home, if he could have been said to have been reared, and if it could have been called
a home— Coral knew naught of the Scriptures. Lot of the boys in the army were mighty Scripturalish. Preacher came around sometimes, a-praying . . . and then, they sang hymns too. Jo Coppedge came from a farm up in Bibb, and he said his old man was a deacon of the church. Jo knew right smart about Saviours and Apostles and Testaments and such. He said, Cory, I’d admire to open the portal for you and make you see the Light. If’n you should go to your doom, Godless and in sin as you dwell, you will suffer in Eternal Torment forever and a day. Cepting you Believe on Me thou shalt not be Saved.
Well, now, what about them Yanks? Reckon they Believe?
That hain’t the point, Cory. Him that hearest on the Word and Believeth Not, and Accepteth Not, him also shall be Crucified alongside of Me. Or something like that. What my Pap always says, and I reckon they don’t come no more Godlier than he.
Aw, Jo, go pound salt up your butt.
But that Nazareth was a— Was a— By God. That was it. Nazareth was one of those Apostles or Disciples that Jo Coppedge was always talking about when he got going on religion, dad fetch him.
And there was that boy name of Apostle, got killed— Where? Got killed someplace or other, when they were tearing down that rail fence in front of their lines, acting as skirmishers. Yank shot him with one of those fancy long-range rifles, maybe had a telescope on it. Apostle Epperson. That was his name.
...O long dead burnt dried pastures with no herds feeding, O long tall bristly woodlands with winds converging, O dead dark chilly swamp with wind seeming to lift and sustain itself amid higher dignified trees and not coming low enough to riffle the water in solid black pools.
—Hey.
—You still laying here on this log? Them catch-dogs come along, going to grab you sure.
—Hey. God damn Yank! You want some rations?
The voice repeated the word, the voice said dully, Rations, but the wild blue eyes did not open to glimmer at him.
Set up, dad blast you.
Naz Stricker twisted into a sitting position, his eyes opened and he glared about. The first thing he saw was the haversack beside him from which Coral fished a wad of soggy newspaper. The wet paper fell apart, peas and hog jowl splashed in a mass upon the mossy bark of the log. Naz Stricker gave a cry. His single hand came shaking forward, turning itself into a claw as it came. The glinting eyes touched Coral Tebbs’ face in disbelief and then lowered again.
Well, you said you’d eat anything!
The claw dipped into food, peas and grease were dripping, the claw reached the mouth, a gnarl came from shrunken depths of Stricker’s throat even while his jaws clacked together and he made sucking sounds.
Reckon all you damn Yankees eat just like hogs.
Stricker wept while he chewed. Tears drained down over his blackened cheeks, they could not wash the grime coated there, they licked over grime and kept sliding. He blubbered between his bites.
This here canteen’s got milk in it.
The Yankee wailed in disbelief. Milk?
I hain’t a-storying you.
Stricker tried to remove the cap from the canteen with his one hand. Oh, God, Fumble Buttons, cried Coral in annoyance. He took back the canteen, unscrewed the cap and let it dangle by its rusty chain. He pushed the flask forward and Stricker’s dried lips opened trustingly. Coral had a dim thought of a baby seeking its mother’s breast . . . he held the canteen, tilting it gradually as the weight lessened, and the Yankee’s dark thin neck twitched with contractions of swallowing.
Needn’t take it all to once’t. It hain’t all the milk in the world. Just one canteen-full, you hog.
Nazareth Stricker munched pork, potatoes, pone; he ate the rest of the peas, he scraped them from the log with dancing fingers. Throughout the madness of this meal he kept making little chirrups and moanings. Tears still flowed.
God damndest bawl-baby ever I see. Do all you Yanks bawl like that?
I don’t know, mourned Naz Stricker, I don’t know. But his shrunken stomach could not accept this load, could not retain it for long. He began to retch, his whole body was torn with the struggle, his shoulders went into spasm, he turned and bent away across the fallen tree, and lost everything while Coral sat scowling.
Too much, said Stricker when he could speak again, too much.
You hadn’t no call to go a-wasting it.
Know what?
What?
The Yankee spoke with the astonishing vigor of those stockaders who lay on the boundary of death. Men scarcely able to wiggle their fingers had at times crawled up and belabored each other with clubs; yet within hours they were collapsed, they were cold.
In the stockade there’s fellows go around—hunting for the stuff that—other fellows have thrown up. And what’s passed—through them. Passed through their bodies.
What they want to do that for?
To eat it, you damn Rebel!
Don’t you call me no damn Rebel!
Guess you are—are one, aren’t you? Or were?
They sat staring; and it was as if the food which Stricker had wolfed and then rejected— The food had, in some odd way and in a matter of minutes— As if it had given him strength. He emerged from the status of a beast into the ranks of humanity.
If they do that, said Coral Tebbs at long last, then they got mighty dirty ways. Like a bunch of birds after horse-apples.
Reb—what’s your name?
Coral Tebbs.
Did you say Coral?
Yes, I said Coral. Hain’t I got a right to my own name? Here I go fetching rations to you, and right off you start making mock of me.
I wasn’t making mock, Coral. It’s—kind of—unusual—for a name.
Well, so’s your’n.
Twas my father’s name before me, and my grandfather’s.
Coral imagined Naz Stricker’s father and grandfather, he saw them as bearded Pennsylvanians peering dumbly from red farmhouses, watching in alarm the Confederates’ advance, fearful for safety of their livestock; well might they be fearful.
How’s your belly feel, Nazareth Stricker?
Feels better. Might— Could I have some more milk?
Coral offered the canteen, but this time Stricker held it for his own drinking. He stopped suddenly, lowering the canteen and saying, Don’t you—want any?
I done made a meal.
Stricker ate again, he ate more slowly, there was painful leisure in his approach to the morsels which remained. He ate half of a boiled potato, two more scraps of the fried pork; he looked at the large chunk of corn pone which was left, then stuffed it inside his shirt.
I got some pie, said Coral.
I can’t believe— Ain’t any pie on earth.
Oh, yes, there is, and Coral exhibited in triumph the great crushed chunk of it.
Stricker shook his head wearily. Wish I could. But I can’t.
Well, keep it safe till you can, said Coral gruffly.
Already, and in this limited acquaintanceship, a meeting of witches, Nazareth Stricker showed himself as a soldier. A thing was there: it was for him, he took it. A thing was not there: he went without. He did not pry and examine, he did not query, he accepted. Coral Tebbs had not summoned him to a Stated Communication of the fierce new Lodge . . . the Lodge went into session, though no gavel fell, and a mystic unseen sentinel gave the requisite number of knocks on the closed door, and announced that there was a Brother who desired permission to approach. The Brother was examined, he gave the Grip (it was a Grip to be managed with but one hand or foot, or perhaps with no hands or no feet); he responded properly to silent questions; he was found to be a Mutilated Militant in Good Standing, or in Good Sitting.
You live around here, Reb?
Out yonder. My old lady’s got a little place.
Your wife?
Naw, naw, naw. My Ma! I’m scarce eighteen.
> I’m twenty.
Yank, you got the shakes again. Here, I got this blanket roll . . . tain’t much of a coat but . . . and this here coverlid for to sleep in.
If I stay, the dogs might pick me up. But I can’t move. Yet.
I got to think about some other place for you. I’ll reason out a place. . . . Can’t take you to the house; Ma gets too many folks come a-calling. And then Flory trots himself over sometimes from the stockade. He’s in them Georgia Reserves. He’s my half-brother, the little scut. . . . Naz Stricker, I had a funny notion.
Such as?
Oh, spose like that smoke was all around, there by that wheatfield, second day of the battle. We was coming up on you, and you was trying to shove us back—
Guess I had the—same idea, Coral.
What was you a-shooting?
Springfields. Regular bullets, paper-cartridge type.
Reckon that’s what hit me. See, you could have fired, I could have fired, did fire, practically the same second.
It’s—unlikely.
But it could have happened.
Yes. Could.
Yank, you live in a brick house? When you’re to home?
Yes, I do.
Got one of them big funny barns out behind, sticking clean over the hillside?
No, we haven’t much of a barn. We—live in a little town. We’ve only a stable and buggy-shed, and the shop. Out back.
What kind of shop?
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