Raintree County (108 page)

Did any of us ever go back to Raintree County after that War?

O, martyrs, waiting for a resurrection, bearded, blasphemous saints, clotted harvest of a hundred fields! March with us too on Pennsylvania Avenue! Rise with us too

around the Capitol Building in Washington, boisterously the Western Army rose. Early in the morning legions of Westerners stirred from bivouac, putting on battlegear for the last time as an army. Metal flashed in the clean sunlight, harness jingjingjingled, hooves rang on pavement. The morning streets, already filled with flags and faces, carried the manifold tremendous sound of an army preparing for a march.

On sidewalks, lawns, and open fields, the Army breakfasted. Soldiers polished their metal and tried to make their uniforms presentable, but they couldn't change the look of veteran toughness and careless savvy that hundreds of miles of marching and fighting had given. They talked of the coming parade in raucous Western voices, shouting back and forth from camp to camp. Then they began to crowd toward the streets in response to the marshalling bugles.

—Got to look dandy for the ladies.

—Hey, Bob, you goin' to trim your facefuzz?

—I've had it tied up in curlpapers all night. I'm just about to let it down.

—When does this damn fuss start?

—Any time now. We don't leave till about the middle of the thing.

—Hey, Johnny, where you goin' now that you're mustered out?

—Back to Indiana.

—I mean after that. What you goin' to
do?

—Haven't decided yet. What are you going to do?

—I'm goin' West.

—Ain't anybody goin' to stay in the Army?

—All of a sudden, they ain't goin' to be no Army.

At nine o'clock, a gun boomed to signal the beginning of the
parade. The head of the column, with General Sherman and his staff leading the way, marched out on Pennsylvania Avenue. Johnny's company waited in shade. The song of the leading band dwindled in the bannered distance and was presently drowned in the blare of another band near-by starting up and moving off. Band after band marched out with the troops. The great marching songs of the War pursued each other in overlapping waves down the milelong stretch of the Avenue. Minute by minute, the thick crowds of soldiers around the Capitol continued to feed their mass into the flagbright channel. The men in Johnny's brigade chafed restlessly.

—I pretty near forgot how to march. Reckon I can still keep step?

—The head of the column must be about in front of the stand.

—What kind of a stand is it?

—Why every great man alive is settin' on it. It's right in front a the President's House, and the President is on it, and Grant, and the whole dern Cabinet.

At high noon, three hours after the Review had begun, Johnny's brigade fell in and marched out of the lawns south of the Capitol and into the Avenue.

Marching before the Capitol, Johnny saw steps, walls, terraces black with people. The same great crowds from all over the land who had seen the Army of the Potomac march on the preceding day were there to see the Western Army. As his own company debouched onto the Avenue, Johnny had a lateral view of the column along its whole length from the Capitol to the Treasury Building at the far end of the street. On either side crowds made solid walls, sometimes flowing out from the sidewalks and touching the marchers. Flags fluttered from windows, housetops, towers. Hands waved. Hats went up. Garlands of flowers pitched from windows. Down the Avenue, the ranks became a solid stream of brightness riding on a bed of blue between vague banks of faces.

Then Corporal Johnny Shawnessy was marching with his comrades down the straight of the Avenue, on the last mile of the two thousand he had marched from Chattanooga to the Last Encampment. It was eyes front and shoulders back for the bronzed young saviors of the Republic; it was a strict dress on the guides; it was a rhythm of long strides, thirty-six inches to the take, the ground-devouring tramp of the Western Armies, the longest martial stride in the world.

—When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!

A girl ran out, pointing to the regimental banner and shouting,

—Hello, boys! Here's a delegation of Indiana people!

Several young ladies screamed, recognizing the flag of an Indiana regiment. The crowd laughed, egging the girls on.

—Kiss 'em, dearie.

—Give 'em a hug for me.

Flowers pelted the soldiers. One excited girl ran into the ranks of the marchers. Her arms clung around Johnny's neck, she kissed him, the crowd cheered.

—I'm from Evansville. Where you from, honey?

—We'll give him a hearty welcome then,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

The men will cheer, the boys will shout,

The ladies they will all turn out.

And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

Play on, strong horns of the Republic. Beat, drums of exultation. Receive us in your garland arms, young women of the Republic, pelt our lips with kisses: we have come home from battle. We have come back from the gray days and the many deaths.

—The old church-bell will peal with joy,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

To welcome home our darling boy,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

The village lads and lasses say

With roses they will strew the way. . . .

Corporal Johnny Shawnessy didn't look to right or left. He was thinking of his return to Freehaven. He would arrange things so as to arrive on a Saturday when the Court House Square would be jammed with people. He wouldn't tell anyone of his coming. Then, in a casual way, he would drop in at the newspaper office. His friends would swarm around him, shaking his hands, slapping him on the back, asking questions about the Great March. Then he
would step outside. T. D., Ellen, and the girls would be sitting in the old wagon at the accustomed place, eating their lunch. Ellen's vivid eyes would pop with surprise, and she would clap her hands and jump down and run to him.

—Why, it's Johnny! O, dear God! he's back!

She would kiss him and cling to him in her small fierce strength.

—Johnny! How thin you are! You poor child!

T. D. would come over blinking, smiling, leaning far back, taking an unusually hopeful view of the whole situation. Everyone would help Johnny into the wagon as if shielding him from something.

But the best of all was that Nell Gaither would be sitting in a buggy on another part of the Square. Her wide green eyes would be all shining with tender excitement, and her full, flowerlike mouth would curve into that radiant, promiseful smile.

—Hello, Johnny.

He could hear the name said like a caress. He would walk over to the buggy, thin and pale in his uniform. Gravely she would offer her little hand, and gravely he would take it.

—Hello, Nell. How have you been?

—Just fine, Johnny.

The Square and its holiday hundreds and its immense, victorious tumult would be gone, the Great War and its memories would be dispelled like phantoms of an uneasy sleep, and he would be floating again on the wide green river of summer toiling with a white oar lakeward. This time for certain he would find the Raintree, and life's young hero would have the golden apples.

Blow on, bright bugles of the Republic. Beat, drums of triumph and crowding exultation.

Flags fluttered from the windows. Branches of trees brushed against him passing. Children shouted. Girls waved from housetops. The band had struck up a new tune.

—Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong,
While we were marching through Georgia.

As the jaunty music of this new song swept along the Avenue, the crowd roared its approval. Washington was getting its first view of the men who had marched from Atlanta to the sea.

—How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound!
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!
How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,
While we were marching through Georgia.

In the rear of Johnny's company came a motley crowd of contrabands, shouting and dancing, laughed at by the crowd and laughing back. The Army had not yet entirely lost the black human baggage that it had acquired on its famous march. The commissary wagons came by, crowded with Negroes, cooks, campfollowers. Chickens clucked, geese quacked, turkeys gobbled; full jugs, pots, tubs, barrels shook on the loaded wagons. Bummers rode by on donkeys.

—'Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!'
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
While we were marching through Georgia.

The regimental flags, flapping bullettorn, moved steady and proud. In the streets, people looking at the faces of the soldiers said again and again,

—How young they are!

—We will rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom. . . .

Ugly brick and frame buildings—groceries, hotels, brothels, banks, clothing stores, junkshops, saloons, bedizened with banners and bunting—flowed by on either side.

He moved through a valley of thronging faces. He had come two thousand miles, mostly by foot, from Raintree County to the Nation's Capital. He had discovered the greatest of all the court houses, the most significant of all the Main Streets.

—The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!

Corporal Johnny Shawnessy felt the presence of a grandiose idea in the confusion of Pennsylvania Avenue, in the rhythms of the Grand Review, in the huddled waste of the Capital City—an answer to the conundrum of the Individual and the Republic, a perfection of feeling, an abiding purpose. If now he could only say what it was! But instead, he kept thinking lines and magnitudes, coiled shapes
of rivers, faces of people, music of marching songs, outstretched arms of girls.

He felt no vengeance or hatred any longer. In the best tradition of the Shawnessys—who always forgave too easily—he found himself including in his vision of the Republic all the soldiers North and South. By a wry trick of Fate, geography, and ancient institutions, both North and South had fought for liberty, a sacred cause.

The end of the Avenue was close now. The crowds were thicker. The trolley tracks were bright under his feet. The shouting of the crowd increased. The stone shape of the Treasury Building was just above him. Behind an iron railing hundreds of people waved handkerchiefs and flags. In their midst, the black box of a photographer looked down at the scene. The bayonets moved to the turning. They turned. Corporal Johnny Shawnessy was passing out of the Avenue. He had completed the last long mile. The turning column had fixed itself in the dark chemistry of time, young men holding aloft victorious banners.

In front of the Presidential Mansion, he could see the long stand, hung with flags and bunting, with the names of famous battles of the War upon it. The band played more strongly. The guides called for a perfect alignment. He could see General Sherman, standing proudly at attention, Grant and President Andrew Johnson, and several other notables.

—Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee.

Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free.

He passed the stand, marched down a sidestreet, and halted. The Grand Review was over.

The regiments broke up. The soldiers moved slowly and confusedly in the unpaved streets around the Executive Mansion, thousands of young men, suddenlv ill at ease in their uniforms, laughing and telling each other how drunk they would get that night.

In the quiet evening, Johnny went back to the camp in streets where soldiers and civilians mingled. He began to feel lost and insecure as flags drooped in the setting sun, and a few bands played in far streets. The Army was breaking up. It was about time to take the uniform off and go back home.

There was a surprise waiting for him in camp. While he was at mess, a stranger in black civilian garb' came up and, stopping near him, said,

—Did anyone here know a boy named John Shawnessy?

—Yes, sir, Johnny said, I'm John Shawnessy.

The man gave him a peculiar look.

—No joking, son—this is serious, he said. Now, this boy's folks back home asked me to find out anything I could about how the boy died, and I promised to check up. This is his regiment, I believe.

—I'm John Shawnessy, Johnny said, getting up from the table. I'm not dead.

The stranger, a short, bald man, with cavernous black eyes, said,

—You aren't foolin' me, are you, boy?

—No, sir, Johnny said, laughing nervously. I'm very much in earnest.

The soldiers crowded around.

—This here is John Shawnessy, mister. No doubt about that.

—Well, sir, the man said, if what you say is true, there's been a mistake then, and there's going to be some folks back home in Raintree County mighty happy.

The stranger, for his part, looked vaguely unhappy and disappointed.

—You were reported dead, son, he said accusingly. All the papers carried it.

—Dead! Johnny said. Why, I wrote a letter less than a month ago, and—

—Makes no difference, the man said. You were reported dead.

He said it in an argumentative way.

—Who are you? Johnny said.

—I'm Peter Greenow, the man said. I've taken up the practice of law in Freehaven since you left. Just a week ago, when it became known I was going to Washington for the Review, your dad, T. D. Shawnessy, and other citizens, got in touch with me and asked me to find out anything I could about your death.

—I'm
not
dead, Johnny said.

The stranger looked skeptical.

—The papers carried the news of it last November 18, he said. That was over six months ago.

—But I don't understand, Johnny said. I wrote a letter from Savannah and another from here about a month ago.

He ran his mind back over the past few months. He had written his folks a letter in late October of the preceding year. The Army had left Atlanta in mid-November. For a month, the Army had been lost to the world, and no mail had been sent. At Savannah, he had received a few letters from home written before the middle of November, and from Savannah, he had written and mailed a letter home. Then the Army had cut communications again and had started North. When he was wounded near Columbia, he had been too sick for weeks to write. He had been transported by boat to Washington, where he had been hospitalized. He had got up only once, on the day of the President's assassination, and had suffered a relapse that had kept him in bed for better than another month. He had written another letter during this time, meanwhile wondering why he hadn't heard from his folks but supposing it was because of the vicissitudes of Sherman's Army and his own absence from his regiment. Only a few days ago, he had been mustered out, but had got permission to march with his regiment, though still weak from dysentery and fever.