God's Little Acre

by Erskine Caldwell

  Chapter VII

  At noon the whistles of the cotton mills up and down the Valley blew for the midday shutdown. Everywhere else there was a sudden cessation of vibration, and the men and women came out of the buildings taking cotton from their ears. In the company town of Scottsville the people did not move from the chairs on their porches. It was noon, and it was dinner-time; but in Scottsville the people sat with contracted bellies and waited for the end of the strike.

  The woman in the yellow company house next door made a fire in the cook-stove and put on a pan of water to boil. Such as there was to eat, she and her husband and the children would devour without breaking the tightly drawn lines at the corners of their mouths. Each successive day was a victory; for eighteen months they had stood out against the mill, and they would never give in while there was hope.

  Rosamond suggested making a freezer of ice cream. “Will would like some when he comes back,” she said.

  Pluto was sent down the street for a cake of ice. He went to the store at the corner, hurrying down and back as fast as he could walk, while Rosamond was scalding the freezer and paring the peaches. He was frightened every second he was in the Valley. He was afraid somebody would jump at him from behind a tree and slash his throat from ear to ear, and even in the house he was afraid to sit with his back to a door or window.

  Darling Jill came out on the back porch while Rosamond was preparing the cream and sat down on a pillow in the ‘shade. She had combed her hair but had not pinned it up. It hung down her back, covering her shoulders, and reached almost to the floor. Rosamond had lent her a dressing gown, and she wore that over the towel and the black silk stockings supported by canary yellow garters.

  When Pluto returned with the cake of ice, the cream was ready to be frozen. He saw that it was up to him to turn the freezer.

  It was cool on the shaded back porch, now that the sun was passing over the house. There was a breeze that blew occasionally, and the ninety-degree temperature at midday was bearable. Broad, green, cool Horse Creek looked like an oblong lake down below, stretching for miles up and down the Valley.

  “I’ve got to be getting home,” Pluto said. “And that’s a fact.”

  “The voters won’t miss you,” Darling Jill told him. “They’ll be glad you’re not there today to worry them. Anyway, we’re not ready to go back yet.”

  “I missed yesterday, and the day before, and two or three days before that. And now I’m missing today, too.”

  “When we get back, I’ll campaign some for you, Pluto,” Darling Jill said. “I’ll get more votes than you will know what to do with.”

  “I wish I was back now, anyway,” he said. “And that’s a fact.”

  He turned the freezer faster, hoping to finish it in time to start back within the hour.

  “I wish Will would come back,” Rosamond said. “Do you suppose he’ll stay away this time--and never come home?”

  Darling Jill sighed and looked into the kitchen window of the yellow company house next door. The people over there were eating sandwiches and drinking iced tea. It made Darling Jill a little hungry to watch them eat.

  Rosamond thought the cream was getting stiff. Pluto was having difficulty in turning the freezer at the pace he had started, and the perspiration rolled from his face and his mouth hung open with exhaustion. He held the freezer with one hand and turned doggedly with the other.

  No one happened to be looking in that direction when Will stuck his head around the corner of the house and watched them for several minutes. When he saw that Pluto was freezing ice cream, he stepped around the corner and walked slowly down the path to the steps.

  “Why, there’s Will now,” Darling Jill said, seeing him first.

  Will stopped in his tracks and looked at Rosamond.

  “Will!” she cried.

  She jumped up and ran down the steps to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him frantically.

  “Will, are you all right?”

  He patted her shoulder and kissed her. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants he had borrowed somewhere, and he was barefooted and shirtless.

  Rosamond drew him up the steps and made him sit down in her chair. Pluto stopped turning the crank to look at him. He had not expected to see Will again for a long time.

  “The cream is stiff by this time, Pluto,” Rosamond said. “Take off the top while we’re getting the dishes and spoons. And be careful of the salt. Take out some of the ice before you forget it.”

  She was gone only a moment. Darling Jill took the large spoon and filled the dishes, and passed them around. Rosamond remained with Will, refusing to leave him again. He took a bite of the peach ice cream and smiled at her.

  “Did you hear anything about the mill opening?” she asked him.

  “No,” he replied.

  The women in the yellow company houses asked that every day, but the men always said they had heard nothing.

  “The other mills are still running, aren’t they?”

  “I reckon so,” he said.

  “When will ours start up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The thought of the other mills operating regularly stiffened Will. He sat up erectly and stared down at the broad green water. Horse Creek lay down there as calm as a smooth lake. The thought of the other mills in the Valley running night and day started a vivid picture that began to unroll across his eyes. He could see the ivy-walled cotton mill beside the green water. It was early morning, and the whistle blew, calling eager girls to work. They were never men, the people who entered the mill now; the mill wished to employ girls, because girls never rebelled against the harder work, the stretchingout, the longer hours, or the cutting of pay. Will could see the girls running to the mill in the early morning while the men stood in the streets looking, but helpless.

  All day long there was a quiet stillness about the ivywalled mill. The machinery did not hum so loudly when the girls operated it. The men made the mill hum with noise when they worked there. But when evening came, the doors were flung open and the girls ran out screaming in laughter. When they reached the street, they ran back to the ivy-covered walls and pressed their bodies against it and touched it with their lips. The men who had been standing idly before it all day long came and dragged them home and beat them unmercifully for their infidelity.

  Will woke up with a start to see Pluto and Rosamond and Darling Jill. He had been away, and when he returned, he was surprised to see them there. He rubbed his eyes and wondered if he had been asleep. He knew he had not been, though, because his dish was empty. It lay in his hands heavy and hard.

  “Christ,” he murmured.

  He remembered the time when the mill down below was running night and day. The men who worked in the mill looked tired and worn, but the girls were in love with the looms and the spindles and the flying lint. The wide-eyed girls on the inside of the ivy-walled mill looked like potted plants in bloom.

  Up and down the Valley lay the company towns and the ivy-walled cotton mills and the firm-bodied girls with eyes like morning-glories and the men stood on the hot streets looking at each other while they spat their lungs into the deep yellow dust of Carolina. He knew he could never get away from the blue-lighted mills at night and the bloody-lipped men on the streets and the unrest of the company towns. Nothing could drag him away from there now. He might go away and stay a while, but he would be restless and unhappy until he could return. He had to stay there and help his friends find some means of living. The mill streets could not exist without him; he had to stay and walk on them and watch the sun set on the mill at night and rise on it in the morning. In the mill streets of the Valley towns the breasts of girls were firm and erect. The cloth they wove under the blue lights clothed their bodies, but beneath the covering the motions of erect breasts were like the quick movements of hands in unrest. In the Valley towns beauty was begging, and the hunger of strong men was like the whimpering of beaten women.

  “Je
sus Christ,” he murmured under his breath.

  He looked up to find Darling Jill filling his empty dish with peach-flecked ice cream. Before she could turn and go away, Will grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. He kissed her cheek several times, squeezing her hand tightly.

  “For God’s sake don’t ever come over here and work in a mill,” he begged. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Darling Jill?”

  She started to laugh, but when she saw his face, she became anxious.

  “What’s the matter, Will? Are you sick?”

  “Oh, nothing is the matter,” he said, “but for God’s sake don’t ever go to work in a cotton mill.”

  Rosamond laid her hand on his and urged him to eat the cream before it melted.

  He closed his eyes and saw the yellow company houses stretched endlessly through Scottsville. In the rear of the houses he saw tight-lipped women sitting at kitchen windows with their backs to the cold cook-stoves. In the streets in front of the houses he saw the bloody-lipped men spitting their lungs into the yellow dust. As far as he could see, there were rows of ivy-walled mills beside broad cool Horse Creek, and in them the girls sang, drowning out the sound of moving machinery. The spinning mills and the fabric mills and the bleacheries were endless, and the eager girls with erect breasts and eyes like morning-glories ran in and out endlessly.

  “Pluto is going to take us over to Georgia,” Rosamond said softly. “You’ll have a good rest over there at home, Will. You’ll feel lots better when we come back.”

  He was glad then that they were going to Ty Ty’s for a while, but he hated to go away and leave the others there to sit and wait and stand Out against the mill. When he got back, he would feel much better, though; perhaps they could then break open the steel-barred doors of the mill and turn on the power. He would like to come back to the Valley and stand in the mill and hear the hum of machinery, even if there was to be no cloth woven any time soon.

  “All right,” he said. “When do we start, Pluto?”

  “I’m ready now,” Pluto said. “I’d like to get back in time to count some votes before supper.”

  Rosamond and Darling Jill went into the house to dress. Will and Pluto sat looking down at the green water below. It looked cool, and it did make the breeze feel cooler after passing over it. But the temperature was even under the cloudless sky. The grass and weeds wilted in the sun, and the dust that blew down from the cultivated uplands settled on the ground and on the buildings like powdered paint.

  Will went inside to take off the khaki pants and put on his own clothes.

  They were ready to start and had locked the house when Will saw someone coming up the street.

  “Where you going, Will?” the man asked, stopping and looking at them and at Pluto’s car.

  “Just over to Georgia for a day or two, Harry.”

  Will felt like a traitor, running off like that. He waited for Rosamond to go down the walk first.

  “Are you sure you’re not leaving for good, Will?” the man asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll be back in town in a few days, Harry. And when I get back, you’ll know it.”

  “All right, but don’t forget to come back. If everybody leaves, pretty soon the company is going to rush a crew of operators in here and start up without us. We’ve all got to stay here and hold out. If the mill ever once got started without us, we wouldn’t have a chance in the world. You know that, Will.”

  Will went down the walk and got in front of Rosamond. He walked down the street with the other man, talking to him in a low voice. They stopped several yards away and began arguing. Will would talk a little while, tapping the other man on the chest with his forefinger; the other man would nod his head and glance down at the ivy-walled mill below. They turned and walked a little further, both talking at the same time. When they stopped again, the other man began talking to Will, tapping him on the chest with his forefinger. Will nodded his head, shook it violently, nodded again.

  “We can’t let anybody go in there and wreck the machinery,” Will said. “Nobody wants to see that done.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been trying to tell you, Will. What we want to do is to go in there and turn the power on. When the company comes and sees what’s happening, they’ll either try to drive us out, or else get down to business.”

  “Now listen, Harry,” Will said, “when that power is turned on, nobody on God’s earth is going to shut it off. It’s going to stay turned on. If they try to turn it off, then we’ll--well, God damn it, Harry, the power is going to stay turned on.”

  “I’ve always been in favor of turning it on and never shutting it off. That’s what I’ve tried to tell the local, but what can you tell that son-of-a-bitch A.F.L.? Nothing! They’re drawing pay to keep us from working. When we start to work, the money will stop coming in here to pay them. Well, God damn it, Will, we’re nothing but suckers to listen to them talk about arbitration. Let the mill run three shifts, maybe four shifts, when we turn the power on, but keep it running all the time. We can turn out as much print cloth as the company can, maybe a lot more. But all of us will be working then, anyway. We can speed up after everybody gets back on the job. What we’re after now is turning on the power. And if they try to shut off the power, then we’ll get in there and--well, God damn it, Will, the power ain’t going to be shut off once we turn it on. Now, God damn it, Will, I’ve never been in favor of wrecking anything. You know that, and so does everybody else. That son-of-a-bitch A.F.L. started that talk when they heard we were thinking about turning the power on. All I’m after is running the mill.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying at every local meeting since the shutdown,” Will said. “The local is all hooped-up with the A.F.L. They’ve been saying nothing is going to get us our jobs back except arbitrating. I’ve never been in favor of that. You can’t talk to the company and get nothing but a one-sided answer. They’re not going to say a thing but ‘a dollar-ten.’ You know that as well as I do. And how in the hell can a man pay rent on these stinking privies we live in out of a dollar-ten? You tell me how it can be done, and I’ll be the first to vote for arbitrating. No, Sir. It just can’t be done.”

  “Well, I’m in favor of going in there and turning on the power. That’s what I’ve been saying all the time. I’ve never said anything else, and I never will.”

  Rosamond came part of the way and called Will. He turned away from the other man and asked what she wanted. He had forgotten all about the trip to Georgia.

  “Come on, Will,” she said. “Pluto is all up in the air about waiting so long to start. He’s running for sheriff back home, and he’s got to canvass for votes. You and Harry can finish that argument when we come back in a day or two.”

  He and Harry talked for several moments, and Will turned and followed Rosamond to the car. Darling Jill was in the driver’s seat, with Pluto beside her. Will sat down on the back seat with Rosamond. The motor had been idling for five minutes or longer while they waited.

  Will leaned out of the car to wave to Harry.

  “Try to get that meeting called for Friday night,” he shouted. “By God, we’ll show the A.F.L. and the company what we mean by turning the power on.”

  Darling Jill raced down the unpaved street and turned the corner recklessly. They were off in a cloud of dust that blew up and sifted thickly through the hot air to settle on the trees and front porches of the yellow company houses.

  They sped along the hot concrete toward Augusta, passing an almost endless cluster of company houses. They passed through the other company towns, slowing down in the restricted zones and looking out at the humming mills. They could see the men and girls through the open windows and they could almost hear the hum of the moving machinery behind the ivy-covered walls. AJong the streets there were few people to be seen. There were not nearly so many as there were on the streets of Scottsville.

  “Hurry up and let’s get to Augusta,” Will said. “I want to get out of the Valley as soon as this
car can take me out. I’m damn tired of looking at spinning mills and company houses every minute of the day and night.”

  He knew he was not tired of looking at them, or of living with them; it was the sight of so many open mills that irritated him.

  Graniteville, Warrenville, Langley, Bath, and Clearwater were left behind, and out of the Valley they raced over the hot concrete at seventy miles an hour. When they got to the top of Schultz Hill, they could look down over the dead city of Hamburg and see the muddy Savannah and, on the Georgia side, the wide flood plain on which Augusta was built. Up above it was The Hill, clustered with skyscraping resort hotels and three-story white residences.

  While coasting down the long hill toward the Fifth Street Bridge, Rosamond said something about Jim Leslie.

  “He lives in one of those fine houses on The Hill,” Will said. “Why doesn’t the son-of-a-bitch ever come to see us?”

  “Jim Leslie would come, if it wasn’t for his wife,” Rosamond said. “Gussie thinks she’s too good to speak to us. She makes Jim Leslie call us lint-heads.”

  “I’d rather be a God-forsaken lint-head and live in a yellow company house than be what she and Jim Leslie are. I’ve seen him on Broad Street and when I spoke to him, he’d turn around and run off so people wouldn’t see him talking to me.”

  “Jim Leslie didn’t use to be that way,” Rosamond said. “When he was a boy at home, he was just like all the rest of us. He married a society girl on The Hill, though, when he made a lot of money, and now he won’t have anything to do with us. He was a little different from the rest of us at the start, though. There was something about him--I don’t know what it was.”

  “Jim Leslie is a cotton broker,” Will said. “He got rich gambling on cotton futures. He didn’t make the money he’s got--he crooked it. You know what a cotton broker is, don’t you? Do you know why they’re called brokers?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they keep the farmers broke all the time. They lend a little money, and then they take the whole damn crop. Or else they suck the blood out of a man by running the price up and down forcing him to sell. That’s why they call them cotton brokers. And that’s what Jim Leslie Walden is. If he was my brother, I’d treat him just like I would treat a scab in Scottsville.”