“Who is that?” said Horne after a while.
Melvin said, “I don’t know. She must have moved in while I was away. There used to be some people named Teefey who lived there. They had an airedale.”
“Does she water those flowers every night?”
“I guess she does,” Melvin said. “I see her every night about this time.”
“She sure as hell makes a project out of it,” Horne said. “I thought all the civilians were growing beets or some damn thing,” he added reflectively.
“They grow beets in the back yard, flowers in the front.”
“What does she do after she gets through sprinkling them?”
“She goes inside.”
They watched until she had finished watering and gone inside.
“There’s advantages to life in the city,” Horne said. “That was a real nice little scene. On the farm you don’t see your neighbors.” He straightened up enough to loosen his belt, then relaxed and puffed on the cigar, blinking with good humor and occasionally turning his head aside in order to spit in the shrubbery.
“I couldn’t find much to do here,” Melvin said.
“I couldn’t either,” Horne said. “Soon as the old man let me off work I’d shower and drive the truck to town. I used to know a lot of people at the pool hall, but I guess they’re in the Army or someplace. Civilian life seemed unnatural. They got us conditioned, the way I figure. Like the saltpeter in the chow—they got us right where they want us.”
“Where who does?” asked Melvin, looking at him with interest.
“Why, you know,” said Horne patiently, “the people who operate this circus. They condition us, see. Like you don’t care about liberty any more, all you want to do is get back to the base. See?”
“I didn’t say anything about liberty.”
“Well,” Horne said, and paused to think, “that’s irrelevant. The point is, we’re conditioned. It’s one hell of a note. It scares me. As a matter of fact, I might as well tell you now, I’m thinking seriously of resigning from the program. I’ve about had it. It isn’t worth the strain. Do you follow me?”
Melvin thought about it and then said, “No.”
“Well, here. The point is, maybe we get through the program finally and receive our wings. So then what happens? They ship us off to the Pacific and we get shot down like ducks. What’s the future in that? None! I think I may quit,” he added. “I’m serious.”
“Are you really?”
“Yes, I am. Nobody’s going to play me for a sucker.”
“But they’d just send you to boot camp and you’d wind up in the Pacific anyhow, as a seaman instead of a pilot. What would that get you?”
“I don’t know,” Horne said. “But I think I’ll resign. I don’t like this program.”
“I don’t know anybody who does. I don’t think I’d like boot camp either, though.”
“Listen, why don’t you quit, too?” Horne said. “We could get out of this miserable program. All we’d have to do is fill out some forms.”
“I don’t want to quit.”
“You don’t want to quit?” said Horne, looking at him in astonishment. “You’re always complaining about it. I never in my life heard anybody bitch so much about the program. Come on,” he said eagerly, “let’s quit, what do you say?”
“No, I don’t want to quit. I decided I’d be a naval aviator, so I’m going to. I can’t see any reason to quit.”
“What better reason do you need than that if you go flying out to the Pacific you’ll get your damn head shot off?”
“I might not.”
“Might not what?”
“Get shot.”
“You might not, but on the other hand there’s certainly a good chance you will. We’d be fools to go on with this. Just look at the statistics. Remember what happened to those guys in Torpedo Eight? One man out of thirty comes back alive. Twenty-nine out of thirty get killed on a single mission! Holy smoke, what kind of odds is that?”
“You think that’s a good reason to quit?”
“I swear there are times I don’t understand you,” Horne said after a moment.
“It’s dangerous, I admit. The point is, we’re at war. What if everybody quit? What would happen then? What if nobody wanted to fight? The Japs and the Nazis would be over here in a minute.”
Horne was annoyed by this reasoning; he frowned and spat into the lilacs. A few minutes later the screen door opened and Jake Isaacs came out.
“Horne doesn’t like the war,” said Melvin.
“Who can blame him? Nothing on earth is more dreadful. We all pray to God it will soon be over. In the meantime you can take courage from the thought you are doing what I was not able to do—make the world safe for democracy.”
“Sir, do you think that’s possible?” Horne asked.
“Certainly! I have no doubt.”
“You thought so in nineteen seventeen, didn’t you, sir?”
“It was the peace we lost, not the war. That’s invariably the way. Politicians lose the opportunity which was gained at such terrible cost. Let’s hope things will be different this time. But first of all, we must win the war. Peace isn’t negotiated until the battles are over. I remember my grandfather, years ago, telling me about the Civil War and how much everyone looked forward to peace, the same as today. The fighting then was just as dreadful. Our family lived in a small town called Lexington which was the scene of a famous three-day battle. I used to play on that battlefield when I was a boy.”
“Is that a fact! Well, that must have been very interesting.”
“Yes, indeed. I often imagined myself a Confederate officer.”
“I remember Melvin once telling me you were from the South.”
“Missourians, more properly. We’ve been here three generations. Lexington is only a few miles from Kansas City.”
“I didn’t realize the Civil War extended this far north.”
“Definitely. My grandfather rode with the great Confederate general, Joseph Shelby. History books mention Jeb Stuart’s cavalry riding around McClellan’s army, but General Shelby rode around the entire state of Missouri with only eight hundred men, burning and plundering Union depots, pursued for a month by ten thousand Federal troops who were unable to stop him. It was one of the most amazing military actions of all time. Ten thousand Union soldiers were diverted from Chattanooga because of Shelby’s raiders, who were instantly recognizable by the red sumac in their hats. I once saw the general when he came to visit my grandparents. Very definitely the war extended this far north. Tomorrow is Sunday. If you and Melvin have no plans I would enjoy showing you the battleground at Lexington.”
“We haven’t exactly got any plans,” Melvin said. He turned to Horne. “Do you want to go?”
“I’d like to see it, hell yes. But what about gas rationing?”
“This is a special occasion. I consider it a privilege and a pleasure.”
The next day shortly before noon they turned up the winding road to Lexington. It had been raining, but the sky was now almost clear. The river ran high, with a deep yellowish sheen, like chocolate or milky coffee, thick with silt. From the bottomlands came an odor of hay and livestock. A few birds soared in the summer wind above the cliff.
They drove through the center of the town, past the old courthouse where a cannonball was embedded in one of the pillars, and soon came to a field where two stone portals were linked by a rusty chain. No trees grew on the field, which was choked with briar and weeds.
“There should be a memorial here,” Jake Isaacs said. “A plaque, at least.” He pointed to a shallow gully nearly filled with brambles. “That was a trench. It was quite deep when I was a boy. I couldn’t see over the top. But every year the snow melts, and then the rain—soon nobody will know what happened here. And the long ridge there! You see? Earthworks thrown up by Union defenders for protection against cannonballs and grapeshot from Confederate guns down by the river.” He picked his way thro
ugh the field. Melvin and Sam Horne followed, and all at once found themselves on a precipice above the Missouri, which rippled muddily, reflecting nothing as it widened and flowed around the bend toward Jefferson City and St. Louis to join the Mississippi.
“There the Confederate boats were moored, by the willows. The soldiers came up this ravine, from bush to bush, under fire from the Union men where we are standing. Melvin, your great-grandfather was wounded here, shot in the throat as he crawled over the ramparts with his hunting knife. Two of his five brothers died on this field, one of them killed while trying to remove a thorn from his hand. A third brother was badly burned when a cannon exploded.” Jake Isaacs did not say anything more for several minutes, but walked back and forth with his arms folded, looking down the ravine. Suddenly he turned and pointed to a yellow house which stood by itself on the other side of the road. “That was the Claibourne home. It’s now a museum. It may be open to visitors. We’ll see.” He nimbly hopped over a trench and began to make his way through the thickets.
“So those were the good old days,” Melvin said, and jumped the trench. An instant later Horne landed beside him.
They were met at the door by a woman of about forty who smelled of vinegar and beer and had a large mole on the tip of her nose. She was wearing an old quilted housecoat and carpet slippers, and with one hand she held a bath towel around her head. As they stepped inside the house she said without apology, “Washin’ my hair, men.” She nodded toward a long oak table where there was a visitors’ register and a cigar box with a slit in the lid. “Twenty-five cents apiece,” she said, settling the towel on her head. Carefully she watched them put the money in the box and sign the register. Then she began to speak in a shrill and remote voice; and her voice seemed to belong to the river, as though she had lived beside it so many years, and intimately observed it, and had known it like a husband.
“This here home was erected in the year eighteen and thirty-four with the funds of William Amadeus Claibourne of the famous hemp-growin’ family, towards the end of his long life a gallant Confederate officer. There’s an ell to the rear, as you’ll presently see, and a gallery as well. Woodwork is of unpainted walnut. Each of the twenty-four rooms contains a fireplace. Yonder is the circular stair, entirely of walnut same as here, and we’ll ascend shortly. Follow me, men.” She shuffled into a room lined with display cases, on each of which was a hand-lettered card forbidding visitors to lean on the glass.
“Durin’ the battle this house was first occupied by Federals, being some hundred yards west of the inner line of their entrenchments. Along about noon, September eighteen, this house was captured by a rebel detachment, being retaken by Yankees some two hours after, and captured once more by the rebels along about four o’clock. Both parties suffered severe loss of life and equipment in these attacks. Here, now, you see a device from the coat of a Federal captain, while in the cabinet by the hearth we are proud to possess the homespun suit wore on that day by a fourteen-year-old Southern boy mustered into service. The child’s body was found doubled acrossed the railin’ in the central hall-way, a Yankee dagger plunged full to the hilt in his heart. This coat is of homespun wool, the buttons carved of wood by the boy’s nigra mammy, according to the family which still lives beyond the hill towards Waverly. Notice the stain on the coat, which was made by his life’s blood.”
She walked into the adjoining room and stood there feeling her hair and gazing across the river and the plains while they looked at the exhibits. She resumed speaking when they approached.
“Claibourne house was purchased by public subscription in the year nineteen and twenty-eight. Upper floor has not yet been restored. United Daughters of the Confederacy, as well as Daughters of the American Revolution, have been very helpful. We possess many types of souvenirs, such as furniture, pictures, guns, swords, countless flags and pistols, and much army equipment of all types. ’Tis said as how a hive of Italian bees was maintained by Colonel Claibourne on the attic floor, a hole being augered through the wall for their convenience.”
She walked between two flags, through a door and into the central hall, giving an account of the battle over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.
“This town, in common with other river ports, was captured by Union troops to prevent the branches of the Confederacy from joining. In a valiant effort to break this chain of ports, immediately following the battle of Wilson’s Creek, General Sterling Price marched his army upon Lexington. The Yankees was engaged in throwing up breastworks, visible to this day, when they was informed the Southern army was upon them.”
She paused, breathing heavily, looked quite frankly and shrewdly at Horne, as though her thoughts had been on him from the beginning, and then resumed climbing the stairs.
“With troops on three sides of the entrenchments General Price demanded immediate surrender. However the Union man, Colonel Mulligan, did refuse, whereupon the battle for Lexington commenced. Firing took up on the morning of September eighteen and continued without cessation some fifty-two hours. On the morning of September twenty the Confederates constructed a movable breastwork of hemp bales saturated in water to withstand the heated shot, and taking cover behind them bales they did advance to within fifty yards of the Union line. The Yankee colonel’s handwrit report of his men dying from frenziedly wrestling for water, and a-drinkin’ it with horrible avidity, gives you all a glimpse of the nature of this battle. Come nightfall the situation was deemed hopeless and the white flag was raised. The battle for Lexington ended in a Southern victory. Needless to say, we was glad. Now follow me, men.”
They had stopped on the second floor. She started up again, pausing several times to get her breath, and said “Whooee!” once and laughed.
At the top of the house, on the fourth floor, she leaned on the railing. “Right sorry,” she said when she was able to speak. “Gettin’ old, it looks like.” She patted the rail for emphasis and led them into a corner where she bent and pointed to a gash in the wall. “Mark made by a bayonet after passing through a man’s body. Smears of blood on the baseboard, as well as the fact that the mark is no more’n a few inches off the floor give indication the soldier was injured and lying helpless when mortally wounded by the bayonet.”
She straightened up, adjusted the towel around her head, and dramatically pointed to a hole in the roof.
“Cannonball came a-crashin’ through—ho!” she cried, and clapped her hands. “Yes, sir. Come spang through yonder, eighty some years ago. Look sharp and you’ll see how the timber inside is weather-stained from exposure to the elements. From the ravine it come. It was fired by the Confederate battery and it struck and bounced from directly overhead and then proceeded to roll down the staircase to the third-floor landing. We have it yet in the basement with other articles of similar nature.”
She returned to the railing, which was disfigured as though a row of cigars had been left burning on it. “Fighting within the house commenced on the ground floor. Gradually the defenders was driven up the way we just come, up here into the attic. There are ninety-nine steps. Defenders contested every step without exception. After the struggle most of those who was captured alive was executed here, ropes being placed about their necks, and hands bound tightly behind their bodies. They was then lifted up by the victors and dropped. These marks you see is the burn of the hangman’s rope. The victims went hurtlin’ down and ’tis claimed they frequently did a somersault upwards with their necks broke. Most likely the landings and stairs was crowded with invaders resting after the terrible battle and watching the hanging. They was a few given a chance for life—they was let jump. Bayonets was placed upright on the floor, so not too many survived. Both armies alike treated prisoners in this cruel fashion. Look down the stairwell. Look down, men. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’ve been here before, thank you,” Jake said. “I don’t care to look again.”
Melvin and Horne cautiously peered over the railing.
“See the bloodstains on
the varnished boards? A lifetime they have been there, as dark as midnight, men, and fearsome as ever. ’Tis said all blood will flow again on Judgment Day.”
It was late afternoon when they left the Claibourne house and drove along the Dover road, past sycamore and oak and silver maple and red ash trees, homes with mansard roofs and leaded casement windows, orchards and cornfields.
Jake Isaacs stopped the car in front of an abandoned Colonial farmhouse. It was the house where he was born.
The windows were broken, the front door stood half-open. The lawn was rankly overgrown.
“There was the apple orchard,” he said, pointing into the shadows beyond the house, “and those crumbling walls on the other side of the fence were the slave quarters. From the roof of one of those cabins, Melvin, your grandfather, who was eight years old at that time, watched the Union and Confederate armies struggling for possession of the cliff. He always used to enjoy telling me about it. He was able to distinguish the flags and pennants tilting first one way and then another, and insisted he could hear the neighing of horses, the explosions, and the notes of a bugle whenever the wind veered, and long after the firing ceased could smell the burnt powder. What an experience for a boy! Watching the growth of a nation.”
He walked across the lawn to the deserted house. Melvin and Horne followed.
The interior of the house had been stripped. The walls were bare and streaked. From the ceiling hung a chain; the chandelier was gone. The slab of marble which formed the mantel had been carried off. There was not a sound. Melvin looked through the twin arches toward what once had been the dining room and saw that the floor had rotted away. Weeds thrust between the moldering boards. Moss grew in the gloomy corners. He listened intently. A shaft of late sunlight entered obliquely through a window frame. There was everywhere the silence of night and decay; yet he had the impression that at any moment the crystal chandelier and the great marble mantel might reappear and a fire blaze on the hearth and the rooms fill with ghostly women and Confederate officers, and the vanished spinet would play a minuet while they danced and spoke of General Beauregard or the battle of Shiloh.
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