Now Eli Willard was selling firearms right and left, in defiance of Jacob, who was fuming and on the verge of demolishing Eli Willard and his wagon. His own brother Noah had been the first to buy a Sharps rifle, and was already demonstrating how he could shoot the eye out of a squirrel from eight hats off.
Jacob couldn’t stand it. Finally he demanded of Eli Willard, “Don’t you know there’s a War on?”
“All the more reason,” Eli Willard retorted.
“War?” Noah said. “What war?”
“Yeah, what war?” the other men joined in.
Jacob wondered how to explain it, or even whether or not to try. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them; that had been his policy for two years. But how much longer could he protect his people from the strife of the nation?
“Why don’t you tell them?” he said to Eli Willard. “You’re a Yankee.”
“Are you a Rebel?” Eli Willard asked him.
“Hell no,” Jacob declared, “but I aint exactly a Yankee either.”
“Well, then,” Eli Willard began, “you see, gentlemen, it’s like this…”
That night Noah sat in his treehouse, fondling his new Sharps rifle and puzzling over what Eli Willard had said. From what we know of Noah, by now, we can assume that he was struck with wonder, no, that he was positively dumbfounded, at the idea of the whole country splitting in two, and of men killing each other. We would not be going too far to imagine that his gaze fell upon the opposite wing of his treehouse and his mind dwelt fleetingly on a different kind of bigeminality: of disjunction, separation, disunion.
Jacob too, in his dogtrot, was taking note of the bigeminality of his dwelling and thinking about how even countries can be divided. His trouble was that he was caught in the wrong wing of the House. And like Noah too, he was fondling a new Sharps rifle.
Chapter six
The prairie schooner, or conestoga wagon, which our example clearly is not, was the prototypical mobile home, although it was less a home than a vehicle to those who used it, and those were all heading west. Conestoga wagons may have been built in the Ozarks, but were not used there, save in passing. The Ozark’s first true mobile home, in the modern sense of that term, i.e., a vehicle more often immobile than mobile although capable of the latter, is illustrated to the left. We do not know who built it, nor whether it was actually built in the Ozarks proper, although that was where it traveled.
The driver was an immature youth called Moon Satterfield. He was silent and humorless; we know very little about him, except that he did not like Stay More, and was eager to move on. The wagon was parked at Stay More for less than two weeks.
The occupant of the other of the two interior chambers of this mobile home (yes, it too was apparently bigeminal) was a barely post-adolescent damsel named Viridiana Boatright, called “Virdie.”
We know much more about her than about Moon Satterfield, but still we do not know exactly who her employers were. When she first arrived in Stay More, it was “norated” around town that a cat wagon had fetched up just outside the village, but two peculiarities were soon noted about this cat wagon: (1) there was only one cat in it, and (2) she wasn’t charging anything. She dispensed her voluptuous favors to any and all willing and able Stay More men, and most of the hot-blooded boys of the town wanted in too, but she wasn’t taking anyone under eighteen, although some of the bolder lads lied about their age to get in. The reason Virdie wasn’t taking anyone under eighteen wasn’t known, but presently it was rumored that she was recruiting, or trying to recruit, soldiers to the cause of the Confederate States of America. When Jacob Ingledew heard this rumor, he went to her at once, waited a minute until her current prospect came out of the wagon, then barged in on her. “Now lookee here, young lady…” he began, wagging his finger in her face, but she threw her soft arms around his neck and buried her full lips beneath his earlobe. He tried to separate himself from her, but she gyrated her hips against his, pressing and stroking and fluttering, and darting her tongue into his ear, which caused his legs to fail him, so that she quite easily pulled him down to her bed.
When she was finished with him, she asked, “Now weren’t thet a heap o’ fun?” Jacob had to allow that it was, that by his three standards of measure, Fanshaw’s squaw, Sarah his wife, and the lady in Little Rock, Virdie Boatright was the best of them all. “Yeah, but I don’t aim to jine up with the Rebels, and I don’t want the menfolks of this here town to jine up neither, so you’d better jist get on back to wharever ye come from.” Virdie laughed. She had a right pleasant and womanly laugh, Jacob had to allow.
“Who,” she asked, “are you to be talkin so big?” “I’m the mayor of this here town,” Jacob informed her, “and what I say gener’ly goes.” “Air ye now?” Virdie exclaimed, her face lighting up right winsomely, Jacob had to allow. “The mayor! Wal, I declare! I never had me a mayor afore. In thet case, let’s do it again!” and before Jacob could protest she spread him out on her bed and employed her full stock of novel therapies to revive and temper his root, whereupon she clambered atop him. He’d never had a woman on top of him before and at first he resented her usurpation of his rightful position, as if, by taking over from him, she symbolized her intention of taking over the town from him. But as she churned and squirmed, rising and falling gently and then less gently and then much less gently, Jacob reflected that this wasn’t such a bad idea after all, that there was no earthly reason why a man and a woman shouldn’t take turns, trade places ever now and again, and equalize the work, if, as in the case, the woman enjoyed it as much as the man. Virdie cried out, a long low groan, but she didn’t stop, and Jacob realized that if she kept on going like that he might very well cry out himself. But just then a voice outside the wagon called “JAKE! AIR YE IN THAR?” and he knew it was Sarah. “ANSWER ME!” she requested, so he did. “Yeah, I’m in here, but I’ll be right out.” He was bucking beneath the weight of Virdie in an effort to finish. “WHAT’RE YE DOIN IN THAR, JAKE?” Sarah wanted to know. “I’m havin words—” he panted “—with this here Rebel foe.” He was nearly there, although he realized that the wagon must be visibly shaking. Virdie suddenly stuffed her dress into her mouth, but it was not enough to keep another one of her long groans from coming out. “JAKE!” Sarah hollered. “YOU AINT A-HURTING HER, AIR YE?” “Jist a little,” he answered, “to teach her a lesson.” And then he got there, rapturously, reflecting, Godalmighty, if I could git this reg’lar, maybe I’d jine the Rebels after all. Virdie climbed off him, smiling, and while he was buttoning his pants she kept her arms around him and her lips on his face and neck. He moved away from her to the door, opened it, and turned back to say to her, so Sarah could hear: “And jist remember what I said: no menfolks of Stay More air fightin on the Rebel side!” He meant it too.
But soon he heard a rumor that most of the men in Limestone Valley, to the south of Stay More, which had been Virdie Boatright’s previous “stand” (or “recline”) before coming to Stay More, had joined the Confederate army, or at least were preparing to fight as guerrillas on the Southern side. When he heard this, he issued an order of assembly for all men of Stay More, who dutifully gathered at the appointed time in the yard of Jacob’s dogtrot. Some of the men brought their wives and children, but he sent these away, declaring that the meeting was for men only. Then he addressed them, saying, “Nearly all you fellers bought new shootin arns from Eli Willard, and so did I. You heared what he said about all the rest o’ the country splittin off to fight. Now there’s that ’ere loose womarn come to town, Virdie Boatright, tryin to git you fellers to jine the Rebels. Most of you fellers have sampled what she’s givin away free—” Here he was interrupted by a general clamor of hand-clapping, hip-slapping, lip-smacking, finger-snapping, whistling, and grunts of pleasure.
“Maybe you’ve heared,” he went on, “that her perticular campaign, or whatever you’d call it, has converted Limestone Valley to the Rebels. That means we’ve got the enemy numberin up right over yon mountain�
�” He gestured to the south. “Unless—” and his eyes moved slowly from man to man “—unless some of you fellers don’t consider the Rebels enemies no more.” He paused, then demanded, “Wal? How many of you has she recruited?” To his astonishment, every man jack of them raised their hands, including, to his dismay and disbelief, his own brother Noah. “Noey?!” he exclaimed, turning to him. “Godalmighty, you wouldn’t be funnin me, would ye? Don’t give me that! Says who? Tell me another. Hooey! Can you tie that? Don’t make me laugh! I wasn’t born yestiddy. Git along with ye. My foot. What do you mean, anyhow? I won’t buy that. Like hell you did. Where do you get that stuff? You’re full of beans. Noey, fer cryin out loud, air ye shore ye heared my question right?”
“What does ‘recruit’ mean?” Noah asked.
“That means she has got ye to pledge or promise to jine the Rebel army.”
“Aw, naw!” Noah protested. “She never done that to me.”
“Me neither,” chorused several of the others.
“Wal, then,” Jacob asked, “how many of you has she made pledge or promise to jine the Rebel army?” Not a single man raised his hand. “Wal, what in thunderation did y’all think I meant by ‘recruit’?” He addressed this question to the men at large, but his eyes were on Noah, and Noah only blushed and hemmed and hawed. Jacob turned to Gilbert Swain. “What did you think I meant?”
“Aw, heck,” Gilbert said, “like you jist said, most of us fellers has sampled what she’s givin away free. Boy howdy, she’s done recruited me four times already!”
“But don’t she say nothin ’bout the Rebel army?” Jacob wanted to know.
“Not a word to me,” Gilbert claimed.
“Nor me neither,” chorused the others.
“Hmm,” uttered Jacob, shaking his head. “Wal, supposin she does. Any of you fellers want to fight fer the Rebels?”
They all shook their heads, declaring, “Not me!” and “Nor me neither!”
“Wal, then, the question is: do we want to remain neutral or do we want to fight for the Union if those boys down in Limestone Valley try to start somethin?” A lively and formal debate was organized, which lasted for the rest of the afternoon. At the end a vote was taken, and the majority favored neutrality. Jacob dismissed the gathering, but took Noah aside and said to him, “Noey, honest injun, no buts about it, shore-nuff, really-truly, straight-up-and-down, tell me the pint-blank truth: did thet thar Virdie Boatright actually git ye inter her wagon?”
“Naw,” said Noah.
“I didn’t think so. But you said she ‘recruited’ you…”
“I never got inter her wagon,” Noah declared, “but she clumb up inter my house.”
“Did she now?” Jacob said. “And then what?”
“Wal…” Noah hesitated. “She tole me her name, and I tole her mine.”
“Is that so?” Jacob said. “And then what?”
“She ast me did I live all alone by myself up in thet tree.”
“Do tell?” Jacob said. “And then what?”
“She ast me did I keer to git a little lovin.”
“Golly moses,” Jacob said. “And then what?”
“I tole her I never had none afore.”
“Indeedy,” Jacob said. “And then what?”
“Aw…” Noah protested. “You know.”
“Naw, I caint imagine,” Jacob declared. “Tell me.”
So Noah told him, in some hesitant detail, which we may omit here, how Virdie Boatright succeeded in an undertaking which any woman other than she could never have accomplished. It was not easy, and it was not quick. But Noah’s half-century of virginity was sacrificed, or, if that is not the word, expropriated, or, if that is not the word, it was dispossessed; in any case, for that one time in his life at least, he didn’t have it anymore.
“What’d it feel like?” Jacob wanted to know.
“Shitfire,” Noah said.
“Wal?” Jacob persisted. “What did it feel like?”
“That’s it,” Noah said. “Shitfire. It felt like shitfire.”
“Oh,” Jacob said.
In the days following, bits of war news trickled into Stay More: the Confederate Army of Arkansas had boldly invaded Missouri and defeated the Federal Army at Wilson’s Creek, but had retreated back into Arkansas, where, in the hills and valleys of Pea Ridge in northwestern Arkansas, it met again a regrouped and larger Federal Army, and, after several days of fierce fighting, was beaten, although it was rumored that the Rebels still considered themselves in full control of Arkansas. A few men from Limestone Valley claimed to have been involved on the Rebel side at Pea Ridge. So far as Jacob could tell, none of the men of Stay More were showing any signs of joining the Rebels. Not then, anyway. But they were clearly restless, particularly the younger men. Jacob felt pretty restless himself, and wondered if he was too old to enlist in the army.
The men of Stay More, including Jacob, began to exhibit open signs of their restlessness: they could be seen kicking fence posts, dogs, and even occasionally a small child. They each developed a nervous tic of smashing one fist into the palm of the other hand. They swore more often than usual. Whittling was no longer therapeutic enough, although they denuded the forests with their whittling. Soon the younger men began fighting one another with their hands and teeth. Jacob’s sense of community responsibility never deserted him, and he attempted to organize energetic games of Base Ball to channel the aggressive energy of the men, but, as referee of the games, he often found himself losing his temper and kicking somebody. If only, Jacob thought, if only he could talk to Sarah and get her to realize that if she would let him have her more often then he would be all right. Better yet, if he could persuade Sarah to talk to the womenfolk of Stay More and convince them to be more yielding to their husbands, then all of the men of Stay More would be all right. But Jacob had never been able to talk to Sarah about sex, and never would, until the last day of his life. He considered, briefly, talking instead to Lizzie Swain, who, now in her sixties, was virtually the matriarch of the village. Lizzie could easily call a meeting of all the womenfolk and perhaps persuade them to open their thighs more often for their husbands.
But Jacob realized that he could no more broach such a topic with Lizzie than he could have asked her, years earlier, to have her bull service his cow. So instead he organized a Public Works Project: all of the men were to take their sledgehammers and smash boulders into gravel, and pave the road from Stay More to Jasper with crushed gravel. This project kept them busy for a while, but when they had graveled the road as far as Jasper they discovered that Virdie Boatright’s wagon was parked off the courthouse square. When they tried to get in, she wouldn’t let them, not even Jacob. There were just too many men in Jasper, she told him. She couldn’t “accommodate” any more.
The Stay Morons cursed and smacked their fists into their palms and went on back to Stay More, where they resumed kicking posts and dogs with a vengeance, and Jacob exercised his brains to think of something else for them to do, but then he got angry with himself for wasting so much of his good thought on those worthless clods, and, being angry with himself, he kicked a post so hard he broke his foot. The foot was slow to heal, and he couldn’t walk at all, but it didn’t matter anyway, because he, along with every last man who had worked so hard crushing rocks for the road to Jasper, suddenly came down with the frakes. The entire able-bodied male population of Stay More (numbering in that year approximately forty-six) came down with the frakes!
Most of them were of the opinion that it was a venereal disease contracted from Virdie Boatright, and in some parts of the Ozarks even today there are people who stubbornly persist in believing that the frakes is a venereal disease, but Noah Ingledew, who had had the frakes before while still a virgin, knew that it was not, and tried to assure his fellows that it was not, but most of them went on believing (or rather lay bedridden convinced) that Virdie Boatright was responsible. It was commonly, even if atrociously, believed in the Ozarks that the only cure
for a venereal disease is to transmit it to a person of the opposite sex, and the men of Stay More yearned desperately for this cure, which could not be had for two reasons: (1) no female was willing to lie with a man infested with the frakes, and (2) no male infested with the frakes was potent while he had the frakes.
One would think—one would like to think—that the extreme lassitude and sense of utter futility which come as the aftermath of the frakes would have disencumbered these men of their aggressions, their restless incipient martiality. But it did not happen that way. True, all of the men did feel weak and futile, but they still felt restless and belligerent. A dangerous combination. Since they were all bedridden and could no longer kick posts and dogs (although they could still smash one fist into the palm of the other hand, and frequently did) they were reduced to such acts as tearing their bedcovers and gnashing the bedposts. Naturally the womenfolk were dismayed and, although the frakes had cleared up and the men were potent again, the women all refused to sleep with the men, which made the men rend their bedcovers all the harder and chomp the bedposts all the fiercer, and this vicious cycle continued until there was not one whole quilt or blanket in Stay More, nor one bedpost still standing.
The day came at last when the men could leave their beds and move about, whereupon, although they still felt weak and futile, they resumed kicking posts and dogs and an occasional child, and fighting one another with hands and teeth. The women sulked and held many quilting bees at which they complained everlastingly to one another of what monsters their husbands were, and took a collective vow to have no further relations with their husbands until the men stopped being so mean, which made the men all the meaner, and so on.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 93