“Do you know him?” I asked.
“I know him all right. But he don’t know me.” Uncle Burley watched the game warden for a minute, and then he said, “He thinks we did that dynamiting.”
The game warden came on down the path. “Howdy,” he said.
Uncle Burley told him good evening.
The game warden said he was from out of the county, just driving through, and had heard we might have some fish for sale.
“We don’t sell fish,” Uncle Burley said.
But the game warden wouldn’t stop at that. He’d laid his trap for us, and he had to try to catch us in it. “I’m sure this is the right place,” he said. “The fellow at the store directed me here. He said you’d been catching a lot of fish.”
Uncle Burley frowned when he heard that, and I began to get scared. If the game warden had been to the store there was no telling what Beriah had said to him. And Big Ellis had borrowed our boat to bring in the fish William killed. I was afraid we were half caught already.
“We do all our fishing for fun,” Uncle Burley said.
“Well,” the game warden said, “if you’ve got more fish than you can use, I’d like to buy a few pounds.”
Uncle Burley looked down at the boat, scratching his cheek. “How many fish do you need?”
“About fifteen pounds.”
Uncle Burley thought a minute and said, “Well, we’ll have to go get some then.”
The game warden turned his head and coughed. “Do you mind if I go along?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” Uncle Burley said. He went to the porch and picked up the other half stick of William’s dynamite.
The three of us got into the boat and rowed out to the middle of the river.
Uncle Burley looked at the game warden. “About fifteen pounds, you say?”
The game warden said yes, that would be plenty.
Uncle Burley lit the fuse and watched it splutter for a second or two, then he dropped it under the game warden’s feet.
The game warden jerked back and stared at Uncle Burley. He couldn’t believe it. But Uncle Burley didn’t give him any help. He just smiled, as if we had all the time in the world. The game warden snatched the dynamite and threw it down the river. He shut his eyes until the blast went off.
We picked up the fish we’d killed and rowed to the bank.
Uncle Burley said he judged we had at least fifty pounds of fish, and he offered them all to the game warden for ten cents a pound.
The game warden didn’t say anything. We strung the fish and he helped us carry them to the road and put them in the trunk of his car.
When we got the fish loaded he took out his billfold and handed Uncle Burley three dollar bills. He said that was all the money he had with him, and he wondered if we’d trust him to pay the rest of it when he came through that way again. Uncle Burley told him that would be fine.
We stood in the road and watched him drive away.
“It’s a shame we had to mistreat him,” Uncle Burley said.
I knew how he felt. There was no reason for what we’d done, except that we’d all wound up together in the same mess. We’d been having a good time, and now we’d ruined it. “It takes the pleasure out of fishing,” I said.
“It sure does.” He folded the money and put it in his pocket. “Well, let’s go home. We’ve stayed a day too long already.”
“What about the fish fry?” I asked.
“It’s called off,” he said. “I’m tired of fish.”
We put things in order at the house and took the lines up and pulled the boat out of the river. It was getting late. We strung what fish we had left and started home.
When we came to the store we saw that Beriah had hung our fish outside the door so everybody could see it. Flies were swarming over it, and several men were standing there looking and talking.
As we passed one of them called, “Is this your fish, Burley?”
“It’s Beriah’s fish,” Uncle Burley said.
Chapter 4
THERE WERE SIX of us in the tobacco harvest—Grandpa and Daddy and Uncle Burley and Gander Loyd and Brother and I—swapping back and forth from Grandpa’s crop to Daddy’s to Gander’s, taking tobacco from each as it got ripe from one day to the next; hurrying, because it was a late season and everybody was anxious and on the lookout for frost or rain.
The weather had changed a little toward fall at the end of the first five or six days—the mornings cool and brisk and clear, baking-hot in the middle of the day, and cool again late in the afternoons. Morning was the best part of the day, when we worked the sleep and stiffness off, and joked and laughed around the wagons, loading what we’d cut the day before and left in the patch overnight to wilt, and riding the loaded wagons down the ridges to the barns. The heat built up toward noon, and we stopped a half hour or so for dinner. Then the long hot afternoon when we just stood it, driving ourselves to quitting time. After supper was over we sat and talked around the table until we couldn’t put off sleep any longer, then slept to daylight, when Grandpa called us out of bed. After the first days, when our tiredness had got to be more than a night’s rest could cure, we dreamed of work, moving through the ripe and golden rows in our sleep until morning. During the day we’d begun to notice the little whirlwinds full of dust and dried tobacco leaves that were a sure sign it was getting close to fall.
We’d worked almost an hour past dinnertime, Daddy pushing us, trying to make up the time we’d lost when he let his team jerk a load off the wagon early in the morning. He stood on the wagon, cursing, mad at himself and at us and at the team, and grieved because what he’d done could have been avoided and because the sun wouldn’t stop to let him make up the time, building the load again and calling on us to move faster than we could move. And he pushed us through the rest of the morning, until we quit and ate green beans and potatoes and fried ham and corn bread at the big table in Grandma’s kitchen.
Daddy finished eating before any of us and slammed out of the house again, and Grandpa picked up his hat and followed him, hurrying to catch up. Grandpa had been like Daddy once; and now he was old and could only do a boy’s work—drive a team or carry water or do the other odds and ends of jobs that saved time for the men who were stronger, cursing the walking cane that he had to depend on a little more every year. He hated to be old and was ashamed of his weakness, because he was work-brittle; what had driven him to work all his life had used up his strength and outlasted it. And even though he was proud of Daddy for taking his place as well as he had, you could tell sometimes that he grieved.
He sat on the edge of the wagon bed while we drove back up the ridge to the tobacco patch, holding his hat in his lap, looking out over the river valley.
We stopped the wagon under a walnut tree at the edge of the patch, and sat down in the shade to sharpen the cutting tools. Uncle Burley used the file and handed it to Gander, then he rolled a smoke and sat looking at the sun beat through the hot air outside the shade.
“You know,” he said, “when the first fellow that owned this cut the trees off of it and dragged the logs and brush away and grubbed out the stumps and plowed it and planted a crop on it and an Indian came along and shot him, that son of a bitch was better off.”
Gander stopped filing and snickered, his whole face tilting up in the direction of the eye that was out. He filed again, saying over to himself what Uncle Burley had said, and passed the file on to Daddy.
Daddy set the blade against his knee and ran the file across it carefully, stopping to feel the edge with his thumb. “Well,” he said, “you work on this damned old dirt and sweat over it and worry about it, and then one day they’ll shovel it in your face, and that’ll be the end of it.”
Grandpa prodded the cane into the ground between his feet, looking out at the sun. “Ah Lord,” he said.
Brother used the file and passed it to me, and I used it while the rest of them stood up and began to move out of the shade toward the patch.
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Daddy turned around and looked at me. “Come on, Nathan. You’ll file the damned thing right down to the handle.” He was half joking, wanting the others to hear too, wanting to make it up to us for losing his temper that morning; but still not able to spare any of us.
I laid the file on the wagon and followed them.
Daddy picked up the first stick in his row and stuck it in the ground. “Take a row, boys. Move fast, but be careful.” He leaned and cut a stalk and speared it, then another one. “Do your damnedest. That’s all a mule can do. I wouldn’t ask a man to do more.”
He warmed to it, talking himself and us into the work, talking against the dread of heat and sweat and tiredness that always came after dinner and that he felt too. We took a row apiece and followed him toward the other side of the patch.
“Show it to me, boys,” he was saying. “Make me know it.”
I watched him out the corner of my eye, working himself into the motion of it, his shoulders swaying in the row ahead of us. He worked without waste or strain, bending over his movement.
“Ah boys, when the sweat runs it quits hurting.” The sound of his voice had changed—not talking to us anymore, but a kind of singing his own skill and speed and endurance.
I quit watching him and let myself into the work. Sweat stuck my shirt to my back. And a wide swath opened behind us to the edge of the patch.
The afternoon went on, hot and clear, the ground soaking up the heat and throwing it back in our faces. We cut one row and went back and started another. When we ran out of water Grandpa took the jug to the house and filled it. We stopped to drink, and worked again. The rows were long, and the tiredness wore down into our shoulders and backs and legs.
It was lonely to work that way, bending over your own shadow, without energy enough to talk or listen or do anything but push yourself into the row. Uncle Burley and Gander and Brother and I worked along together, not to talk, but for what little comfort it was to hear somebody working next to us, and so we could walk back together to the starting end and joke a little at the water jug.
And Daddy led us. He gained a row, and passed us again, not stopping to drink as often as we did, and not saying much. Only now and then he’d sing out to us, “Follow me, boys—you’ll wear diamonds,” or, “It won’t be as long as it has been.”
By five o’clock we could see it was the best day’s work we’d done since we started. That made us feel good, and we worked faster, looking forward to quitting time when we could talk about what we’d done and brag on ourselves a little.
Daddy finished a row ahead of the rest of us and came back to where we were. He stood there with his hands on his hips, grinning at us and watching us work.
“Well,” he said, “the old man’s laying right in there, right there in front all day long. When the sun comes up in the morning and when it goes down at night he’s right there, laying ’em in the shade.”
It was a challenge, not so much to Gander and Uncle Burley because they had their pace and stuck to it and wouldn’t pay any attention to him, but to Brother and me.
He joked sometimes about how one day we’d be able to do more than he could. “One of these days they’ll go by the old man,” he’d say. “They won’t even look at him. They’ll say, ‘We’re coming, old man,’ and there won’t be a thing for me to do but get over.” And he usually wound up, “But, by God, they’ll have to have the wind in their shirttails when they do it. I’ll tell them that. When they go past me they’ll look back and know they’ve been someplace.”
And Brother and I had thought about it and talked about it between ourselves. In a way passing him would be the finest thing we could do, and the thing we could be proudest of. But in another way it would be bad, because it would kill him to have to get out of the way for anybody. We’d told each other that we might never do it, even when we were able, because of that. And both of us knew that if the time ever came it would be a hard thing to do, and a risky one. Once we’d passed him we could never be behind again. We’d have to stay in front, and it was a lonely and a troublesome place.
But once or twice a year, and nearly always during tobacco cutting, he’d have to challenge us. He’d tease us into it. He’d stop and wait for us to get close to him, the way an old fox will sometimes stop to wait on the dogs; then race with us for the love of it, and beat us for the love of it. He had to have somebody pushing him to really feel himself ahead. And always one of us would have to try him. After the race started we forgot what we’d thought about it and went after him for all we were worth; and he’d hold his lead, working as if he had to stay in front forever.
He stood there grinning, waiting to see if one of us would answer him. Then he looked at Brother and said, “Did you notice how that gap between us keeps widening?”
“You’d better go on back to work and be quiet,” Uncle Burley told him. “One of these days you’ll ask for it and they’ll give it to you.”
Daddy said, “They’ve got to move faster than they’re moving now if they do it.” As he started away he looked back and said, “When the old man’s dead and gone I want you all to walk in front of the coffin so you’ll know what the country looks like out in front of him.”
He went on to the other side of the patch then and got a drink out of the water jug and sat there smoking, watching us.
Brother led us to the end, and when we started back Daddy got up and took the next row. Uncle Burley and Gander and I went to get a drink, and by the time we got to the jug, Brother was already in the row next to Daddy’s, starting after him.
Uncle Burley unscrewed the top of the jug and handed it to Gander to drink first, then squatted on his heels watching Daddy and Brother. “There they go,” he said.
“It’s bad enough to have to work,” Gander said, “without trying to kill each other at it.”
Daddy glanced over his shoulder and saw that Brother was after him. “Well, look who’s coming. If it’s not old Tom. Going to put it on the old man today. Look at him come.”
It was an old song. We’d been hearing it ever since we’d been big enough to threaten him. Sometimes when we raced with him he’d talk us into a mistake, and then just loaf along in front of us, talking and laughing at us, until finally we’d have to quit. But it didn’t seem to be bothering Brother. He was holding his own.
“Brother’s staying with him,” I said.
“He’s getting more apt to beat him every year,” Uncle Burley said. “And it’ll never stop until he finally does. It was the same way between your daddy and grandpa. For a while there it got to be a race between them just to be breathing.”
“Look at the boy coming on,” Daddy said. “Look at him lay it on the stick. He don’t talk about it, but he’s thinking it. Thinking, ‘Go ahead and talk, old man. Your day is done. I’m coming after you. Just go ahead and talk while I’m coming on.’ Ah, the old man knows. And the old man’s going on. The boy may be coming. But the old man’s going. Right out in front where he always is. Nobody been to the end of the row ahead of him. And damn few can get there very soon afterwards.”
I put the top back on the jug and followed Uncle Burley and Gander into the next rows. We worked along behind them, watching them in the corners of our eyes. They held together, the distance between them strained tight, until sooner or later it would have to break and go one way or the other.
The strain of it suited Daddy. He was happy in it, as if he’d just made the world over to suit himself, feeling the demand on his strength and endurance close to him, and feeling himself good enough. He’d had to work hard for so long, pushed by creditors and seasons and weather, until now it was a habit. That had made him what he was. That was the way he knew himself, and he needed it.
We could hear him, working up the row ahead of us:
“He ain’t the boss, he’s the boss’s son,
But he’s going to be boss when the boss is done.
“But I tell you, boys, it’s going to be a long time yet. T
he old man’s going through the middle of a lot of days yet with the whole pack behind him. I tell you, boys, when he’s dead and gone they’ll be standing in line to see what the country looks like without him wheeling and dealing in the middle of it. And it’ll be a sight they never saw before.”
They finished their rows and went back and started again. Brother couldn’t gain any ground, but he wasn’t losing any either. That was beginning to bother Daddy, and he quit talking so much. Brother was just coming up to the pace that Daddy had been working in since noon, and that was in his favor. But watching from where we were, it didn’t look as if Daddy was even hurrying. He’d made every movement so many times that he could do it almost without thinking about it, as naturally as he walked. It was like watching a machine that could go on at the same speed until it got dark and the lights went out in the houses at bedtime, and on through the night until the lights came on again before sunup. The race had lasted longer than it ever had before, and I began to dread the finish of it.
Uncle Burley straightened up and watched them for a minute, wiping his face with his sleeve. “They’re getting serious about it, ain’t they? I’ve seen friendlier dogfights.”
“I wish they’d quit,” I said.
He laughed. “The last one to drop dead is the winner.”
It was getting on toward sundown, and turning cooler. The sun slanted red across the green and gold of the tobacco, filling the spaces between rows with shadows.
Then I heard Brother cursing. He’d made a mislick and it took him three tries to fix it.
“That looks like the end of it,” Uncle Burley said. “He’s let himself get flustered.”
Daddy took up his song again. “Some people just can’t work without floundering and falling around at it. But there’s always one who can do it all day long and never miss a lick.” He kept talking and kept working, and we could see that he was beginning to move away from Brother.