Читать книгу The Collected Prose Works of Stephen Vincent Benét - Stephen Vincent Benét - Страница 12

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There was a town called Shady, Georgia, and a time that’s gone, and a boy named Jimmy Williams who was curious about things. Just a few years before the turn of the century it was, and that seems far away now. But Jimmy Williams was living in it, and it didn’t seem far away to him.

It was a small town, Shady, and sleepy, though it had two trains a day and they were putting through a new spur to Vickery Junction.

They’d dedicated the War Memorial in the Square, but, on market days, you’d still see oxcarts on Main Street. And once, when Jimmy Williams was five, there’d been a light fall of snow and the whole town had dropped its business and gone out to see it. He could still remember the feel of the snow in his hands, for it was the only snow he’d ever touched or seen.

He was a bright boy—maybe a little too bright for his age. He’d think about a thing till it seemed real to him—and that’s a dangerous gift. His father was the town doctor, and his father would try to show him the difference, but Doctor Williams was a right busy man. And the other Williams children were a good deal younger and his mother was busy with them. So Jimmy had more time to himself than most boys—and youth’s a dreamy time.

I reckon it was that got him interested in Old Man Cappalow, in the first place. Every town has its legends and characters, and Old Man Cappalow was one of Shady’s. He lived out of town, on the old Vincey place, all alone except for a light-colored Negro named Sam that he’d brought from Virginia with him; and the local Negroes wouldn’t pass along that road at night. That was partly because of Sam, who was supposed to be a conjure, but mostly on account of Old Man Cappalow. He’d come in the troubled times, right after the end of the war, and ever since then he’d kept himself to himself. Except that once a month he went down to the bank and drew money that came in a letter from Virginia. But how he spent it, nobody knew. Except that he had a treasure—every boy in Shady knew that.

Now and then, a gang of them would get bold and they’d rattle sticks along the sides of his fence and yell, “Old Man Cappalow! Where’s your money?” But then the light-colored Negro, Sam, would come out on the porch and look at them, and they’d run away. They didn’t want to be conjured, and you couldn’t be sure. But on the way home, they’d speculate and wonder about the treasure, and each time they speculated and wondered, it got bigger to them.

Some said it was the last treasure of the Confederacy, saved right up to the end to build a new Alabama, and that Old Man Cappalow had sneaked it out of Richmond when the city fell and kept it for himself; only now he didn’t dare spend it, for the mark of Cain was on every piece. And some said it came from the sea islands, where the pirates had left it, protected by h’ants and devils, and Old Man Cappalow had had to fight devils for it six days and six nights before he could take it away. And if you looked inside his shirt, you could see the long white marks where the devils had clawed him. Well, sir, some said one thing and some said another. But they all agreed it was there, and it got to be a byword among the boys of the town.

It used to bother Jimmy Williams tremendously. Because he knew his father worked hard, and yet sometimes he’d only get fifty cents a visit, and often enough he’d get nothing. And he knew his mother worked hard, and that most folks in Shady weren’t rich. And yet, all the time, there was that treasure, sitting out at Old Man Cappalow’s. He didn’t mean to steal it exactly. I don’t know just what he did intend to do about it. But the idea of it bothered him and stayed at the back of his mind. Till, finally, one summer when he was turned thirteen, he started making expeditions to the Cappalow place.

He’d go in the cool of the morning or the cool of the afternoon, and sometimes he’d be fighting Indians and Yankees on the way, because he was still a boy, and sometimes he was thinking what he’d be when he grew up, for he was starting to be a man. But he never told the other boys what he was doing—and that was the mixture of both. He’d slip from the road, out of sight of the house, and go along by the fence. Then he’d lie down in the grass and the weeds, and look at the house.

It had been quite a fine place once, but now the porch was sagging and there were mended places in the roof and paper pasted over broken windowpanes. But that didn’t mean much to Jimmy Williams; he was used to houses looking like that. There was a garden patch at the side, neat and well-kept, and sometimes he’d see the Negro, Sam, there, working. But what he looked at mostly was the side porch. For Old Man Cappalow would be sitting there.

He sat there, cool and icy-looking, in his white linen suit, on his cane chair, and now and then he’d have a leather-bound book in his hand, though he didn’t often read it. He didn’t move much, but he sat straight, his hands on his knees and his black eyes alive. There was something about his eyes that reminded Jimmy Williams of the windows of the house. They weren’t blind, indeed they were bright, but there was something living behind them that wasn’t usual. You didn’t expect them to be so black, with his white hair. Jimmy Williams had seen a governor once, on Memorial Day, but the governor didn’t look half as fine. This man was like a man made of ice—ice in the heat of the South. You could see he was old, but you couldn’t tell how old, or whether he’d ever die.

Once in a great while he’d come out and shoot at a mark. The mark was a kind of metal shield, nailed up on a post, and it had been painted once, but the paint had worn away. He’d hold the pistol very steady, and the bullets would go “whang, whang” on the metal, very loud in the stillness. Jimmy Williams would watch him and wonder if that was the way he’d fought with his devils, and speculate about all kinds of things.

All the same, he was only a boy, and though it was fun and scary, to get so near Old Man Cappalow without being seen, and he’d have a grand tale to tell the others, if he ever decided to tell it, he didn’t see any devils or any treasure. And probably he’d have given the whole business up in the end, boylike, if something hadn’t happened.

He was lying in the weeds by the fence, one warm afternoon, and, boylike, he fell asleep. And he was just in the middle of a dream where Old Man Cappalow was promising him a million dollars if he’d go to the devil to get it, when he was wakened by a rustle in the weeds and a voice that said, “White boy.”

Jimmy Williams rolled over and froze. For there, just half a dozen steps away from him, was the light-colored Negro, Sam, in his blue jeans, the way he worked in the garden patch, but looking like the butler at the club for all that.

I reckon if Jimmy Williams had been on his feet, he’d have run. But he wasn’t on his feet. And he told himself he didn’t mean to run, though his heart began to pound.

“White boy,” said the light-colored Negro, “Marse John see you from up at the house. He send you his obleegances and say will you step that way.” He spoke in a light, sweet voice, and there wasn’t a thing in his manners you could have objected to. But just for a minute, Jimmy Williams wondered if he was being conjured. And then he didn’t care. Because he was going to do what no boy in Shady had ever done. He was going to walk into Old Man Cappalow’s house and not be scared. He wasn’t going to be scared, though his heart kept pounding.

He scrambled to his feet and followed the line of the fence till he got to the driveway, the light-colored Negro just a little behind him. And when they got near the porch, Jimmy Williams stopped and took a leaf and wiped off his shoes, though he couldn’t have told you why. The Negro stood watching while he did it, perfectly at ease. Jimmy Williams could see that the Negro thought better of him for wiping off his shoes, but not much. And that made him mad, and he wanted to say, “I’m no white trash. My father’s a doctor,” but he knew better than to say it. He just wiped his shoes and the Negro stood and waited. Then the Negro took him around to the side porch, and there was Old Man Cappalow, sitting in his cane chair.

“White boy here, Marse John,” said the Negro in his low, sweet voice.

The old man lifted his head, and his black eyes looked at Jimmy Williams. It was a long stare and it went to Jimmy Williams’ backbone.

“Sit down, boy,” he said, at last, and his voice was friendly enough, but Jimmy Williams obeyed it. “You can go along, Sam,” he said, and Jimmy Williams sat on the edge of a cane chair and tried to feel comfortable. He didn’t do very well at it, but he tried.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the old man, after a while.

“Jimmy Williams, sir,” said Jimmy Williams. “I mean James Williams, Junior, sir.”

“Williams,” said the old man, and his black eyes glowed. “There was a Colonel Williams with the Sixty-fifth Virginia—or was it the Sixty-third? He came from Fairfax County and was quite of my opinion that we should have kept to primogeniture, in spite of Thomas Jefferson. But I doubt if you are kin.”

“No, sir,” said Jimmy Williams. “I mean, Father was with the Ninth Georgia. And he was a private. They were aiming to make him a corporal, he says, but they never got around to it. But he fit—he fought lots of Yankees. He fit tons of ’em. And I’ve seen his uniform. But now he’s a doctor instead.”

The old man seemed to look a little queer at that. “A doctor?” he said. “Well, some very reputable gentlemen have practiced medicine. There need be no loss of standing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy Williams. Then he couldn’t keep it back any longer: “Please, sir, were you ever clawed by the devil?” he said.

“Ha-hrrm!” said the old man, looking startled. “You’re a queer boy. And suppose I told you I had been?”

“I’d believe you,” said Jimmy Williams, and the old man laughed. He did it as if he wasn’t used to it, but he did it.

“Clawed by the devil!” he said. “Ha-hrrm! You’re a bold boy. I didn’t know they grew them nowadays. I’m surprised.” But he didn’t look angry, as Jimmy Williams had expected him to.

“Well,” said Jimmy Williams, “if you had been, I thought maybe you’d tell me about it. I’d be right interested. Or maybe let me see the clawmarks. I mean, if they’re there.”

“I can’t show you those,” said the old man, “though they’re deep and wide.” And he stared fiercely at Jimmy Williams. “But you weren’t afraid to come here and you wiped your shoes when you came. So I’ll show you something else.” He rose and was tall. “Come into the house,” he said.

So Jimmy Williams got up and went into the house with him. It was a big, cool, dim room they went into, and Jimmy Williams didn’t see much at first. But then his eyes began to get used to the dimness.

Well, there were plenty of houses in Shady where the rooms were cool and dim and the sword hung over the mantelpiece and the furniture was worn and old. It wasn’t that made the difference. But stepping into this house was somehow like stepping back into the past, though Jimmy Williams couldn’t have put it that way. He just knew it was full of beautiful things and grand things that didn’t quite fit it, and yet all belonged together. And they knew they were grand and stately, and yet there was dust in the air and a shadow on the wall. It was peaceful enough and handsome enough, yet it didn’t make Jimmy Williams feel comfortable, though he couldn’t have told you why.

“Well,” said the old man, moving about among shadows, “how do you like it, Mr. Williams?”

“It’s—I never saw anything like it,” said Jimmy Williams.

The old man seemed pleased. “Touch the things, boy,” he said. “Touch the things. They don’t mind being touched.”

So Jimmy Williams went around the room, staring at the miniatures and the pictures, and picking up one thing or another and putting it down. He was very careful and he didn’t break anything. And there were some wonderful things. There was a game of chess on a table—carved-ivory pieces—a game that people had started, but hadn’t finished. He didn’t touch those, though he wanted to, because he felt the people might not like it when they came back to finish their game. And yet, at the same time, he felt that if they ever did come back, they’d be dead, and that made him feel queerer. There were silver-mounted pistols, long-barreled, on a desk by a big silver inkwell; there was a quill pen made of a heron’s feather, and a silver sandbox beside it—there were all sorts of curious and interesting things. Finally Jimmy Williams stopped in front of a big, tall clock.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I don’t think that’s the right time.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” said the old man. “It’s always the right time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy Williams, “but it isn’t running.”

“Of course not,” said the old man. “They say you can’t put the clock back, but you can. I’ve put it back and I mean to keep it back. The others can do as they please. I warned them—I warned them in 1850, when they accepted the Compromise. I warned them there could be no compromise. Well, they would not be warned.”

“Was that bad of them, sir?” asked Jimmy Williams.

“It was misguided of them,” said the old man. “Misguided of them all.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Jimmy, but Jimmy Williams couldn’t help listening. “There can be no compromise with one’s class or one’s breeding or one’s sentiments,” the old man said. “Afterwards—well, there were gentlemen I knew who went to Guatemala or elsewhere. I do not blame them for it. But mine is another course.” He paused and glanced at the clock. Then he spoke in a different voice. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I fear I was growing heated. You will excuse me. I generally take some refreshment around this time in the afternoon. Perhaps you will join me, Mr. Williams?”

It didn’t seem to Jimmy Williams as if the silver hand bell in the old man’s hand had even stopped ringing before the Negro, Sam, came in with a tray. He had a queer kind of old-fashioned long coat on now, and a queer old-fashioned cravat, but his pants were the pants of his blue jeans. Jimmy Williams noticed that, but Old Man Cappalow didn’t seem to notice.

“Yes,” he said, “there are many traitors. Men I held in the greatest esteem have betrayed their class and their system. They have accepted ruin and domination in the name of advancement. But we will not speak of them now.” He took the frosted silver cup from the tray and motioned to Jimmy Williams that the small fluted glass was for him. “I shall ask you to rise, Mr. Williams,” he said. “We shall drink a toast.” He paused for a moment, standing straight. “To the Confederate States of America and damnation to all her enemies!” he said.

Jimmy Williams drank. He’d never drunk any wine before, except blackberry cordial, and this wine seemed to him powerfully thin and sour. But he felt grown up as he drank it, and that was a fine feeling.

“Every night of my life,” said the old man, “I drink that toast. And usually I drink it alone. But I am glad of your company, Mr. Williams.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy Williams, but all the same, he felt queer. For drinking the toast, somehow, had been very solemn, almost like being in church. But in church you didn’t exactly pray for other people’s damnation, though the preacher might get right excited over sin.

Well, then the two of them sat down again, and Old Man Cappalow began to talk of the great plantation days and the world as it used to be. Of course, Jimmy Williams had heard plenty of talk of that sort. But this was different. For the old man talked of those days as if they were still going on, not as if they were past. And as he talked, the whole room seemed to join in, with a thousand, sighing, small voices, stately and clear, till Jimmy Williams didn’t know whether he was on his head or his heels and it seemed quite natural to him to look at the fresh, crisp Richmond newspaper on the desk and see it was dated “June 14, 1859” instead of “June 14, 1897.” Well, maybe it was the wine, though he’d only had a thimbleful. But when Jimmy Williams went out into the sun again, he felt changed, and excited too. For he knew about Old Man Cappalow now, and he was just about the grandest person in the world.

The Negro went a little behind him, all the way to the gate, on soft feet. When they got there, the Negro opened the gate and spoke.

“Young marster,” he said, “I don’t know why Marse John took in his head to ask you up to the house. But we lives private, me and Marse John. We lives very private.” There was a curious pleading in his voice.

“I don’t tell tales,” said Jimmy Williams, and kicked at the fence.

“Yes, sir,” said the Negro, and he seemed relieved. “I knew you one of the right ones. I knew that. But we’se living very private till the big folks come back. We don’t want no tales spread before. And then we’se going back to Otranto, the way we should.”

“I know about Otranto. He told me,” said Jimmy Williams, catching his breath.

“Otranto Marse John’s plantation in Verginny,” said the Negro, as if he hadn’t heard. “He owns the river and the valley, the streams and the hills. We got four hundred field hands at Otranto and stables for sixty horses. But we can’t go back there till the big folks come back. Marse John say so, and he always speak the truth. But they’s goin’ to come back, a-shootin’ and pirootin’, they pistols at they sides. And every day I irons his Richmond paper for him and he reads about the old times. We got boxes and boxes of papers down in the cellar.” He paused. “And if he say the old days come back, it bound to be so,” he said. Again his voice held that curious pleading, “You remember, young marster,” he said. “You remember, white boy.”

“I told you I didn’t tell tales,” said Jimmy Williams. But after that, things were different for him. Because there’s one thing about a boy that age that most grown people forget. A boy that age can keep a secret in a way that’s perfectly astonishing. And he can go through queer hells and heavens you’ll never hear a word about, not even if you got him or bore him.

It was that way with Jimmy Williams; it mightn’t have been for another boy. It began like a game, and then it stopped being a game. For, of course, he went back to Old Man Cappalow’s. And the Negro, Sam, would show him up to the house and he’d sit in the dim room with the old man and drink the toast in the wine. And it wasn’t Old Man Cappalow any more; it was Col. John Leonidas Cappalow, who’d raised and equipped his own regiment and never surrendered. Only, when the time was ripe, he was going back to Otranto, and the old days would bloom again, and Jimmy Williams would be part of them.

When he shut his eyes at night, he could see Otranto and its porches, above the rolling river, great and stately; he could hear the sixty horses stamping in their stalls. He could see the pretty girls, in their wide skirts, coming down the glassy, proud staircases; he could see the fine, handsome gentlemen who ruled the earth and the richness of it without a thought of care. It was all like a storybook to Jimmy Williams—a storybook come true. And more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life, he wanted to be part of it.

The only thing was, it was hard to fit the people he really knew into the story. Now and then Colonel Cappalow would ask him gravely if he knew anyone else in Shady who was worthy of being trusted with the secret. Well, there were plenty of boys like Bob Miller and Tommy Vine, but somehow you couldn’t see them in the dim room. They’d fit in, all right, when the great days came back—they’d have to—but meanwhile—well, they might just take it for a tale. And then there was Carrie, the cook. She’d have to be a slave again, of course, and though Jimmy Williams didn’t imagine that she’d mind, now and then he had just a suspicion that she might. He didn’t ask her about it, but he had the suspicion.

It was even hard to fit Jimmy’s father in, with his little black bag and his rumpled clothes and his laugh. Jimmy couldn’t quite see his father going up the front steps of Otranto—not because he wasn’t a gentleman or grand enough, but because it just didn’t happen to be his kind of place. And then, his father didn’t really hate anybody, as far as Jimmy knew. But you had to hate people a good deal, if you wanted to follow Colonel Cappalow. You had to shoot at the mark and feel you were really shooting the enemy’s colors down. You had to believe that even people like General Lee had been wrong, because they hadn’t held out in the mountains and fought till everybody died. Well, it was hard to believe a wrong thing of General Lee, and Jimmy Williams didn’t quite manage it. He was willing to hate the Yankees and the Republicans—hate them hot and hard—but there weren’t any of them in Shady. Well, come to think of it, there was Mr. Rosen, at the dry-goods store, and Mr. Ailey, at the mill. They didn’t look very terrible and he was used to them, but he tried to hate them all he could. He got hold of the Rosen boy one day and rocked him home, but the Rosen boy cried, and Jimmy felt mean about it. But if he’d ever seen a real live Republican, with horns and a tail, he’d have done him a mortal injury—he felt sure he would.

And so the summer passed, and by the end of the summer Jimmy didn’t feel quite sure which was real—the times now or the times Colonel Cappalow talked about. For he’d dream about Otranto at night and think of it during the day. He’d ride back there on a black horse, at Colonel Cappalow’s left, and his saber would be long and shining. But if there was a change in him, there was a change in Colonel Cappalow too. He was a lot more excitable than he used to be, and when he talked to Jimmy sometimes, he’d call him by other names, and when he shot at the mark with the enemy’s colors on it, his eyes would blaze. So by that, and by the news he read out of the old papers, Jimmy suddenly got to know that the time was near at hand. They had the treasure all waiting, and soon they’d be ready to rise. And Colonel Cappalow filled out Jimmy Williams’ commission as captain in the army of the New Confederate States of America and presented it to him, with a speech. Jimmy Williams felt very proud of that commission, and hid it under a loose brick in his fireplace chimney, where it would be safe.

Well, then it came to the plans, and when Jimmy Williams first heard about them, he felt a little surprised. There were maps spread all over the big desk in the dim room now, and Colonel Cappalow moved pins and showed Jimmy strategy. And that was very exciting, and like a game. But first of all, they’d have to give a signal and strike a blow. You had to do that first, and then the country would rise. Well, Jimmy Williams could see the reason in that.

They were going into Shady and capture the post office first, and then the railroad station and, after that, they’d dynamite the railroad bridge to stop the trains, and Colonel Cappalow would read a proclamation from the steps of the courthouse. The only part Jimmy Williams didn’t like about it was killing the postmaster and the station agent, in case they resisted. Jimmy Williams felt pretty sure they would resist, particularly the station agent, who was a mean customer. And, somehow, killing people you knew wasn’t quite like killing Yankees and Republicans. The thought of it shook something in Jimmy’s mind and made it waver. But after that they’d march on Washington, and everything would be all right.

All the same, he’d sworn his oath and he was a commissioned officer in the army of the New Confederate States. So, when Colonel Cappalow gave him the pistol that morning, with the bullets and the powder, and explained how he was to keep watch at the door of the post office and shoot to kill if he had to, Jimmy said, “I shall execute the order, sir,” the way he’d been taught. After that, they’d go for the station agent and he’d have a chance for a lot more shooting. And it was all going to be for noon the next day.

Somehow, Jimmy Williams couldn’t quite believe it was going to be for noon the next day, even when he was loading the pistol in the woodshed of the Williams house, late that afternoon. And yet he saw, with a kind of horrible distinctness, that it was going to be. It might sound crazy to some, but not to him—Colonel Cappalow was a sure shot; he’d seen him shoot at the mark. He could see him shooting, now, and he wondered if a bullet went “whang” when it hit a man. And, just as he was fumbling with the bullets, the woodshed door opened suddenly and there was his father.

Well, naturally, Jimmy dropped the pistol and jumped. The pistol didn’t explode, for he’d forgotten it needed a cap. But with that moment something seemed to break inside Jimmy Williams. For it was the first time he’d really been afraid and ashamed in front of his father, and now he was ashamed and afraid. And then it was like waking up out of an illness, for his father saw his white face and said, “What’s the matter, son?” and the words began to come out of his mouth.

“Take it easy, son,” said his father, but Jimmy couldn’t take it easy. He told all about Otranto and Old Man Cappalow and hating the Yankees and killing the postmaster, all jumbled up and higgledy-piggledy. But Doctor Williams made sense of it. At first he smiled a little as he listened, but after a while he stopped smiling, and there was anger in his face. And when Jimmy was quite through, “Well, son,” he said, “I reckon we’ve let you run wild. But I never thought ...” He asked Jimmy a few quick questions, mostly about the dynamite, and he seemed relieved when Jimmy told him they were going to get it from the men who were blasting for the new spur track.

“And now, son,” he said, “when did you say this massacre was going to start?”

“Twelve o’clock at the post office,” said Jimmy. “But we weren’t going to massacre. It was just the folks that resisted—”

Doctor Williams made a sound in his throat. “Well,” he said, “you and I are going to take a ride in the country, Jimmy. No, we won’t tell your mother, I think.”

It was the last time Jimmy Williams went out to Old Man Cappalow’s, and he remembered that. His father didn’t say a word all the way, but once he felt in his back pocket for something he’d taken out of the drawer of his desk, and Jimmy remembered that too.

When they drove up in front of the house, his father gave the reins to Jimmy. “Stay in the buggy, Jimmy,” he said. “I’ll settle this.”

Then he got out of the buggy, a little awkwardly, for he was a heavy man, and Jimmy heard his feet scrunch on the gravel. Jimmy knew again, as he saw him go up the steps, that he wouldn’t have fitted in Otranto, and somehow he was glad.

The Negro, Sam, opened the door.

“Tell Colonel Cappalow Doctor Williams wishes to speak with him,” said Jimmy’s father, and Jimmy could see that his father’s neck was red.

“Colonel Cappalow not receivin’,” said Sam, in his light sweet voice, but Jimmy’s father spoke again.

“Tell Colonel Cappalow,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was something in it that Jimmy had never heard in that voice before. Sam looked for a moment and went inside the house.

Then Colonel Cappalow came to the door himself. There was red from the evening sun on his white suit and his white hair, and he looked tall and proud. He looked first at Jimmy’s father and then at Jimmy. And his voice said, quite coldly, and reasonably and clearly, “Traitor! All traitors!”

“You’ll oblige me by leaving the boy out of it,” said Jimmy’s father heavily. “This is 1897, sir, not 1860,” and for a moment there was something light and heady and dangerous in the air between them. Jimmy knew what his father had in his pocket then, and he sat stiff in the buggy and prayed for time to change and things to go away.

Then Colonel Cappalow put his hand to his forehead. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in an altered voice. “You mentioned a date?”

“I said it was 1897,” said Doctor Williams, standing square and stocky, “I said Marse Robert’s dead—God bless him!—and Jefferson Davis too. And before he died, Marse Robert said we ought to be at peace. The ladies can keep up the war as long as they see fit—that’s their privilege. But men ought to act like men.”

He stared for a moment at the high-chinned, sculptural face.

“Why, damn your soul!” he said, and it was less an oath than a prayer. “I was with the Ninth Georgia; I went through three campaigns. We fought till the day of Appomattox and it was we-uns’ fight.” Something rough and from the past had slipped back into his speech—something, too, that Jimmy Williams had never heard in it before. “We didn’t own niggers or plantations—the men I fought with. But when it was over, we reckoned it was over and we’d build up the land. Well, we’ve had a hard time to do it, but we’re hoeing corn. We’ve got something better to do than fill up a boy with a lot of magnolious notions and aim to shoot up a postmaster because there’s a Republican President. My God,” he said, and again it was less an oath than a prayer, “it was bad enough getting licked when you thought you couldn’t be—but when I look at you—well, hate stinks when it’s kept too long in the barrel, no matter how you dress it up and talk fine about it. I’m warning you. You keep your hands off my boy. Now, that’s enough.”

“Traitors,” said the old man vaguely, “all traitors.” Then a change came over his face and he stumbled forward as if he had stumbled over a stone. The Negro and the white man both sprang to him, but it was the Negro who caught him and lowered him to the ground. Then Jimmy Williams heard his father calling for his black bag, and his limbs were able to move again.

Doctor Williams came out of the bedroom, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes fell upon Jimmy Williams, crouched in front of the chessboard.

“He’s all right, son,” he said. “At least—he’s not all right. But he wasn’t in pain.”

Jimmy Williams shivered a little. “I heard him talking,” he said difficultly. “I heard him calling people things.”

“Yes,” said his father. “Well, you mustn’t think too much of that. You see, a man—” He stopped and began again, “Well, I’ve no doubt he was considerable of a man once. Only—well, there’s a Frenchman calls it a fixed idea. You let it get a hold of you ... and the way he was brought up. He got it in his head, you see—he couldn’t stand it that he might have been wrong about anything. And the hate—well, it’s not for a man. Not when it’s like that. Now, where’s that Nigra?”

Jimmy Williams shivered again; he did not want Sam back in the room. But when Sam came, he heard the Negro answer, politely.

“H’m,” said Doctor Williams. “Twice before. He should have had medical attention.”

“Marse John don’t believe in doctors,” said the low, sweet voice.

“He wouldn’t,” said Doctor Williams briefly. “Well, I’ll take the boy home now. But I’ll have to come back. I’m coroner for this county. You understand about that?”

“Yes, sir,” said the low, sweet voice, “I understand about that.” Then the Negro looked at the doctor. “Marse Williams,” he said, “I wouldn’t have let him do it. He thought he was bound to. But I wouldn’t have let him do it.”

“Well,” said the doctor. He thought, and again said, “Well.” Then he said, “Are there any relatives?”

“I take him back to Otranto,” said the Negro. “It belongs to another gentleman now, but Marse John got a right to lie there. That’s Verginny law, he told me.”

“So it is,” said the doctor. “I’d forgotten that.”

“He don’t want no relatives,” said the Negro. “He got nephews and nieces and all sorts of kin. But they went against him and he cut them right out of his mind. He don’t want no relatives.” He paused. “He cut everything out of his mind but the old days,” he said. “He start doing it right after the war. That’s why we come here. He don’t want no part nor portion of the present days. And they send him money from Verginny, but he only spend it the one way—except when we buy this place.” He smiled as if at a secret.

“But how?” said the doctor, staring at furniture and pictures.

“Jus’ one muleload from Otranto,” said the Negro, softly. “And I’d like to see anybody cross Marse John in the old days.” He coughed. “They’s just one thing, Marse Williams,” he said, in his suave voice. “I ain’t skeered of sittin’ up with Marse John. I always been with him. But it’s the money.”

“What money?” said Doctor Williams. “Well, that will go through the courts—”

“No, sir,” said the Negro patiently. “I mean Marse John’s special money that he spend the other money for. He got close to a millyum dollars in that blind closet under the stairs. And nobody dare come for it, as long as he’s strong and spry. But now I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Well,” said Doctor Williams, receiving the incredible fact, “I suppose we’d better see.”

It was as the Negro had said—a blind closet under the stairs, opened by an elementary sliding catch.

“There’s the millyum dollars,” said the Negro as the door swung back. He held the cheap glass lamp high—the wide roomy closet was piled from floor to ceiling with stacks of printed paper.

“H’m,” said Doctor Williams. “Yes, I thought so.... Have you ever seen a million dollars, son?”

“No, sir,” said Jimmy Williams.

“Well, take a look,” said his father. He slipped a note from a packet, and held it under the lamp.

“It says ‘One Thousand Dollars,’ ” said Jimmy Williams. “Oh!”

“Yes,” said his father gently. “And it also says ‘Confederate States of America’.... You don’t need to worry, Sam. The money’s perfectly safe. Nobody will come for it. Except, maybe, museums.”

“Yes, Marse Williams,” said Sam unquestioningly, accepting the white man’s word, now he had seen and judged the white man. He shut the closet.

On his way out, the doctor paused for a moment and looked at the Negro. He might have been thinking aloud—it seemed that way to Jimmy Williams.

“And why did you do it?” he said. “Well, that’s something we’ll never know. And what are you going to do, once you’ve taken him back to Otranto?”

“I got my arrangements, thank you, sir,” said the Negro.

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” said Jimmy Williams’ father. “But I wish I knew what they were.”

“I got my arrangements, gentlemen,” the Negro repeated, in his low, sweet voice. Then they left him, holding the lamp, with his tall shadow behind him.

“Maybe I oughtn’t to have left him,” said Jimmy Williams’ father, after a while, as the buggy jogged along. “He’s perfectly capable of setting fire to the place and burning it up as a sort of a funeral pyre. And maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he added, after a pause. Then he said, “Did you notice the chessmen? I wonder who played that game. It was stopped in the middle.” Then, after a while, he said, “I remember the smell of the burning woods in the Wilderness. And I remember Reconstruction. But Marse Robert was right, all the same. You can’t go back to the past. And hate’s the most expensive commodity in the world. It’s never been anything else, and I’ve seen a lot of it. We’ve got to realize that—got too much of it, still, as a nation.”

But Jimmy Williams was hardly listening. He was thinking it was good to be alone with his father in a buggy at night and good they didn’t have to live in Otranto after all.