Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge

  Ah, what becomes of young hearts, warm weather, singing throats? And is victory no more enduring than defeat? Where are they all now, commander and commanded! Were they ever real, and was I one of them, bearing in my weatherstained knapsack the unseen grail of the Republic! Then, sing it as we used to sing it

  November 26—1864

  FIFTY

  THOUSAND STRONG ON THE EARTH OF GEORGIA,

  the Army of the West awakened from its sleep. The vague fabric of a dream Corporal Johnny Shawnessy had been dreaming collapsed under the buglenotes fast crowding in the dawn.

  He awakened. He was with the Army, they were to be up and marching soon, and there would be another day crammed with fiercely jocund images, as the Army of the West flowed on four roads toward Savannah on the sea.

  Hawkfaced, naked except for his jackboots, Professor Jerusalem Webster Stiles was striding toward the dawncolored east on rakethin legs, chanting:

  —Then up, then up, brave gallants all,

  And don your helms amain.

  Death’s couriers, Fame and Honor, call

  Us to the field again.

  On both sides of the road the Army was getting ready to leave the night encampment. Johnny smelled bacon frying. Aroma of coffee fumed in his nostrils. Later he shook a skilletful of corncakes while the Perfessor held the coffeepot.

  Flash Perkins drove up the road in a wagon crammed with provisions. Parthenia was sitting on the seat beside him, and Joe and the old man were in back. Flash whistled as he jumped down and walked over to the camp. He flung his big feet sideways. His coat was unbuttoned. His high, hard nasal voice jabbed Johnny’s ears.

  —Say, are you fellers part of this yere big Army I been hearin’ tell about?

  As usual everyone was glad to see Flash.

  —What’s the matter? Decide to march with us poor whites for a while?

  —I brung you poor bastards a little food, Flash said.

  —What a yuh got?

  —Chicken, goose, pig, lard, little ever’thing. What’ll yuh have?

  —If you don’t mind, I’ll have a little of that dark meat there, the Perfessor said.

  The men were cheerful as they sat around the fire eating breakfast. The sun found them still roasting chickens on their bayonets. The air was warm and bright.

  —Jack, you and the Perfessor come with me today, Flash said, and I’ll show you some fun.

  Johnny had been wanting to go with Sherman’s bummers. Foragers who operated independent of all command, they stripped the countryside of its riches and made the name of Sherman execrated on both sides of the Army’s path. For a week and a half now the Army had been marching from Atlanta, and during this time Flash Perkins had spent only one day—the first—with his company. Since then he and the other bummers had moved on the Army’s flanks and front, returning when they pleased, sometimes mounted on mules, sometimes driving wagons, always loaded with provisions—the fat of the land. There were regular foragers, too, usually fifty from each brigade, duly officered, but the bummers were without regular status. Fabulous stories were told by and about them—how they made themselves rich in a few nights by the pillage of buried treasures, how they went among the plantations acting the part of God’s lieutenants, emancipating hordes of slaves, how they sometimes gathered in swarms without officers and fought detachments of the Georgia militia.

  Flash, the Perfessor, and Johnny set out on foot, the two soldiers equipped with lean knapsacks, muskets, and forty rounds, the Perfessor armed with an old service revolver.

  As they passed along the road, they saw the Army preparing to abandon camp. Hundreds of wagons were assembling for the day’s march. The soldiers were packing on their haversacks and blanketrolls and lining up in loosely ordered columns. Fires were burning out on the low hills and among the woods. Thousands of bearded, bluecoated soldiers had sprung from this ground where they had lain for a night and to which they would never return. Regimental bands played, men sang, horses neighed. Drums were beating on a hundred hills. Like history endowed with visible form, this many-featured mass was slowly unfolding from its sleep and would go on grandly with a thousand unrecorded collisions and adventures through the blue shining of another day and toward another campfire in the night. For the first time the War had found a deep, straight channel.

  The three men soon turned down a side lane and slipped off through a forest. They found a road and went on until mid-morning without incident. Now and then from a break in the woods, at a great distance, they could see the Army. It was good to see the thin line of it proceeding, to know that it was there, vaguely parallel to them, advancing.

  There seemed to be no danger in the woods and fields of Georgia. The country was pleasant, green, and firm in the dry weather.

  About noon, they saw a plantation house beside a road running at right angles to the course of the Army. They came up to it through a long yard. A woman was standing on the porch, white with anger. Halfway down the lane, Johnny stopped and said,

  —Maybe we better not bother her. I thought these places were deserted.

  —There’s gener’ly a woman around to yipe at you while you pluck the place, Flash said. I don’t mind ’em. It’s fun to pull their feathers and hear ’em squawk.

  When they reached the porch, the woman had gone inside. A dead dog lay in the yard. Two soldiers came out of the house, carrying a chest.

  —Come on, boys, they said. They’s plenty more where this come from.

  Around behind the house, soldiers were digging up the yard.

  —We didn’t git started early enough, Flash said.

  He pushed open the back door. The woman they had seen before came out.

  —Murderers! she said in a voice of cold hatred. Thieves! Do you call yourselves soldiers!

  —Ma’am, Flash said, would you direct me to the pantry?

  —Go on, she said. Wreck everything. Take everything. You’ll never beat the South that way. You, there—can’t you stop these men?

  —Who, me? the Perfessor said. Madame, I’m only here in the capacity of a spectator. Alas, war is at best a dreadful thing. May we trouble you for a drink of water?

  Johnny and the Perfessor skittered around the corner of a shed to the pump.

  Several curious Negroes were watching the men dig for buried plate and money. A middle-aged white man in shabby civilian attire watched the process, chuckling.

  —You boys sho is busy, he said. Dog bite it, eberywhere people been sayin’, Jest wait’ll the militia hems ole Sherman in. They’ll cut ’im to pieces. ‘Pears to me you boys am still pretty much uncut. Look here, have y’all tried over there behind the woodshed?

  —Obligin’ cuss, a soldier said. Say, Uncle, you don’t sound like no fire-eatin’ Reb to me.

  —Dog bite it, the man said, I’m tired of this war. I had my bellyful long ago. Have y’all looked down the well?

  Glass shattered, and Flash Perkins stuck his grinning, shaggy head out of a cellar window.

  —This here cellar’s full a liquor, he said. Here, I’ll throw it out.

  He began to shove bottles through the opening. Several soldiers came around and drank freely. They went on spading up the garden. Johnny and the Perfessor walked down to the Negro quarters. A group of slaves came out and watched them, not saying much.

  —You there, Uncle, the Perfessor said to an old black man. Do you know who we are?

  —I reckon youse some of Gennul Sherman’s men, the old man said.

  —Well, do you know what we’re here for?

  —Yassuh, the old man said. Dey say hit’s the yar ob jubilee.

  —That’s right, Uncle, Johnny said. You’re free now. You don’t have to work without pay any more.

  They heard an explosion of angry voices behind them, and returning to the house found an old white-haired man standing at the corner of the house. He had a pistol in his hand. His mouth trembled, and his hands shook.

  —Go on and git out a here, he said. Goddamyankees. Git back
where you belong. This land don’t belong to you and never will.

  —Better put that pistol down, Grampa, one of the soldiers said.

  —I’m a-tellin’ you to git.

  The woman came out and took the old man by the hand.

  —Come on, she said. Come on in, Papa. They’ll murder you.

  —Listen, you ole bastard, one of the men said, we didn’t start this war. You folks would a been let alone, but you had to go and fire on the flag.

  —Goddamn the flag! the old man said. I ain’t never been a Union man, and never will!

  One of the soldiers slipped up behind him. The old man whirled and would have fired, but another forager slipping up from the other side grabbed his arm. One soldier tore the gun away from him, and the other knocked him down.

  —Go on, git out, you old bastard, he said, before you git hurt.

  —Come on, several of the soldiers said roughly, let’s burn this place up and git out a here.

  The old man sobbed weakly and yelled something, and the woman led him into the house.

  —I hate you! she said, turning to the soldiers. You’ll never beat us! Never! We’ll hate you to our dying days.

  —Let’s go, the Perfessor said. This is no business for gentlemen to be engaged in.

  Flash came out of the barn driving a wagon. They filled it up with hams, pots of lard, live chickens tied in bunches by the legs, turkeys, geese, a hog, several bottles of liquor. They opened a bottle of wine and drank it as they drove off. Johnny kept trying to forget the hatred in the woman’s eyes and voice. They drove for a long time down little roads and stopped at two other places where they got some more provisions. At one a very pretty girl stood and watched them, saucy and proud.

  —What do you expect to do with us after you beat us? she asked.

  —Nothing, Johnny said. If you’d just let yourselves get beat, we’d quit and draw off. Come back in the Union, that’s all, and free your slaves.

  —What do you expect to do with the Nigroes when they’re free? the girl said.

  —Educate them, Johnny said. Set them to work like human beings, getting their own wages.

  —Well, the young woman said, you may beat us, but you can never rule us.

  —Madame, the Perfessor said, describing a deep bow, Beauty rules and is not ruled.

  —You ugly jackanapes! she said, what are you doing here? You aren’t even in uniform. Just along for the fun, I suppose.

  —Pardon me, the Perfessor said, I see you have some newspapers there. May I borrow one?

  They picked up several newspapers lying on a table and carried them off.

  When they were in the wagon again, Johnny said,

  —I don’t see how we can ever reconcile them.

  —That was a pretty little Rebel, the Perfessor said. I’d love to reconcile her.

  They had dinner in an abandoned plantation house close to the line of march. They stopped the wagon in the yard and went inside the house. Other bummers had already been there, and the place was a shambles. Flash built a fire in the fireplace, and they dragged up a table and prepared to eat. Flash and Johnny set about preparing a broiled turkey, while the Perfessor read aloud to them from the newspapers. Several other soldiers came into the room while they were there, and one of them banged on a bayonet-scarred piano.

  There was much loud singing, shouting, cursing, drunken mirth. Several of the men came downstairs with velvet curtains draped around their shoulders.

  —Well, shet mah mouf! the Perfessor said. These heah Southuhn newspapuhs shuah ah declamatoruh sheets.

  He read in a stagey Southern accent:

  —TO THE PEOPLE OF GEORGIA

  Arise for the defense of your native soil! Rally round your patriotic Governor and gallant soldiers! Obstruct and destroy all the roads in Sherman’s front, flank, and rear, and his army will soon starve in your midst.

  —Please brown that turkey a little more on the back, Johnny said to Flash.

  —Be confident. Be resolute. Trust in an overruling Providence, and success will crown your efforts. I hasten to join you in the defense of your homes and firesides.

  G. T. BEAUREGARD

  CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI

  November 18, 1864

  —Boys, let’s enjoy ourselves while we may, Johnny said. Beauregard is coming!

  —TO THE PEOPLE OF GEORGIA

  read the Perfessor,

  You have now the best opportunity ever yet presented to destroy the enemy. Put everything at the disposal of our generals; remove all provisions from the path of the invader, and put all obstructions in his path.

  Every citizen with his gun, and every negro with his spade and axe, can do the work of a soldier. You can destroy the enemy by retarding his march.

  Georgians, be firm! Act promptly, and fear not!

  B. H. HILL, Senator.

  I most cordially approve the above.

  JAMES A. SEDDON, Secretary of War.

  —We done licked everything else, Flash said. It’d be kind of fun to take on this here B. H. Hill and the Secretary of War.

  —I’m ashamed of you boys, the Perfessor said. Listen to this:

  ATROCITIES BY THE UNION SCUM

  ——

  SHERMAN’S MEN LOOT, RAPE, AND MURDER

  Let every Southron in whose patriot breast still palpitates a heart not insusceptible to the claims of outraged womanhood rally to the sacred Cause. We long ago knew that the Yankees were cowards and thieves. It is with regret we learn that they are also rapists, arsonists, defilers of everything sacred to hearth, home, and God. Reports emerging from the devastated areas in the rear of Sherman’s Army reveal, alas! beyond any doubt the bestiality of these vulturesque and blood-dripping ruffians from the north. Houses ransacked, old men murdered, women outraged, children slain and thrown down wells, every species of atrocity known to the stained and sanguinary story of human depravity has been surpassed a hundredfold by the work of these gory Goths that now rage unchecked on the fair soil of Georgia.

  —Boys, the Perfessor said, you see: you’ve been found out. The press is ubiquitous, all-seeing, impartial. Your names are branded forever in the sheets of shame.

  —Tell you the truth, raping ain’t been very good lately, Flash said. I only raped six women yesterday and two today. You raped anybody lately, Perfessor?

  —Hardly anything to mention, the Perfessor said. A few old ladies in hedgerows. I’ve got somewhat out of the habit lately. How about you, John?

  —I’ve been observing a Lent, Johnny said, and have limited myself to two rapes a day. Of course, sometimes the Devil tempts me, and I rape before I think.

  The Perfessor was in form. He lay on a sofa delicately gouging its velvet flanks with his pocketknife. He put his booted feet on a bust of John C. Calhoun, which some soldier had crowned with a chamberpot. He had a bottle in his hand from which now and then, sitting up, he tipped a little liquor on the potted pate of the preWar South’s greatest statesman.

  —Senator Calhoun, seh, he said, addressing the bust, you see now the result of your pernicious subtleties. Give me another leg off that turkey, Private Perkins.

  Flash tore a turkey kg loose and handed it to the Perfessor, who shook the leg under the statue’s nose.

  —Mr. Calhoun, seh, your people are conquered and your land is laid waste, and it’s all your own fault. You have awakened the spirit of rapine and conquest, seh, in a race long accustomed to the ways of peace. This goddamyankee, seh, this simple farmboy, this placid mechanic, contained a sleeping demon. You tapped him with a sword, and he sprang up beating his breast, waving his dagger, brandishing his torch. Laughing with white teeth, he strides through the wreck of your fair South, seh. Seh, the gory Goth was a skittish virgin to him. Ages of puritan repression, seh, have made him more terrible than Attila. Tear me a breast from that chicken, Orville.

  The Perfessor tossed a halfchewed bone at the bust and accepted half a chicken from Flash.

  —Senator and gentlemen, he said, war
is a good life. Men are only happy when they are feeding, fluting, or fighting, and war gives them an opportunity to do all three at once. Fellow Goths, man’s eternal urge to war was expressed once and for all by the greatest conqueror in History, Genghis Khan. You will remember, Senator and Private Perkins, how one day the great Mongol asked his lieutenants what they considered the greatest happiness of a man. The greatest happiness of a man, said one, is to ride out on a fast horse when the grass is small and a hawk on the arm. That is good, the Conqueror said, but it is not the best. The greatest happiness of a man is to break his enemies, to drive them before him, to take from them all that is theirs, to hear the weeping of their widows and their orphans, to hold between his knees their swiftest horses, and to press in his arms the most beautiful of their women.

  The Perfessor gnashed his white teeth on a chicken bone and shook soundlessly.

  There was a wisp of smoke coming from the back of the house.

  —Damn house is on fire, Flash said.

  —Well, boys, let’s get on with our raping, the Perfessor said.

  He paused long enough to pick three volumes from a bookcase and followed Flash and the others outside. The back of the house was burning famously. They watched it for a while and then climbed into the wagon, the Perfessor declaiming,

  —I warmed both hands before the fire of life,

  It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

  As they started off, they heard a sound of hooves on the road behind.

  —Calvary! Flash said.

  He turned around and stood up in the wagon.

  —Jinks—it’s Rebel!

  Johnny hit the road just behind the Perfessor and rolled into a ditch. He trained his rifle on the leader of the oncoming troop of horsemen. There were about twenty. Several shots came from around the house, and one of the Rebels fell from his horse. The others rode swiftly into a little grove.

  —Let’s get hell out of here, boys, the Perfessor said crisply.

  Just then the Rebels came out of the woods, dismounted. They began to advance, firing in a skirmish line.