The Fathers, page 8
Mr Broadacre stood out a little from the others at the edge of the platform, a megaphone in one hand and in the other a handkerchief with which he wiped his brow. He looked pale and nervous and he turned for a whispered moment to Brother Semmes, who shook his head emphatically; Mr Broadacre, more ill at ease than ever, prepared to address the crowd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. He closed his lips and clamped his jaws to rearrange the tobacco juice in his mouth. He had evidently, in his anxiety, forgotten to spit before he rose. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He pronounced the gen in the antique way as if it were jane. ‘It has been my high privilege since the inauguration of these ceremonies some years past to act as principal arbiter of the contest. But first I desire to express my gratitude to you all for consenting to be my guests. It is beyond disputation that the chivalry of this County is unsurpassed in our State, which in turn is unsurpassed in the world for cultivation of the manly arts of Nimrod and of Mars — the hunting field and the field of war, those two great’ — he paused, he gulped, and I knew he had swallowed it — ‘those great and ancient preoccupations of manhood handed on by our English sires as eminently befitting the notice of janetlemen.’ He paused again. There was the absent look in his face. The sound of his own voice had restored his equanimity. ‘But if this is true of you, young janetlemen,’ and he bowed to the riders, ‘where shall I find the eloquence to praise the ladies, without whom your efforts here today in this contest were in vain? It is the ladies alone who are the repositories, nay, the gyuardians of our virtues, it is they, it is for them that you have achieved this brilliant performance.’ He looked uneasy for an instant, then he shouted: ‘The ladies! God bless the ladies!’ The men in the pavilion applauded and the horsemen cheered.
The speaker was now paler than he had ever been. I wondered what the tobacco juice was doing in his stomach. Gazing up the line, I saw John Langton. He had tossed his lance to the ground, and sitting with one leg thrown over his horse’s neck he was talking to a negro man, in insolent contempt of the ceremonies. Mr Broadacre gestured to the crowd for their attention, moving the palm of his raised hand before him.
‘I now come to the decision of the judges.’ There was that complete hush again. ‘It has been a most difficult decision, one that has taxed our judgment to the utmost. The contest, on the part of two of the knights, has been the most brilliant ever witnessed on this field. In the number of points these two knights have achieved a tie in winning the maximum. Since, in this anomaly, it is a part of our duty to decide the tie, we have considered some of the finer points of the respective performances of the Orange and Black rider and the Purple and Gold.’ He stopped and surveyed the riders. ‘Will the Orange and Black knight please approach the platform!’
There was a burst of applause while in the upper rows of the pavilion people stood up to see who the Orange and Black knight would reveal himself to be. Mr Broadacre took advantage of the interval to mop his forehead and to drink from a long glass some liquid that I thought was colored a slight amber.
George Posey had ridden round back of the line. As he came to the center the riders parted and swung back upon a broken half-circle; he stood alone before the judges.
‘Dismount!’ said Mr Broadacre in a military voice.
The negro man who had fixed the rings on the hook stepped forward and took George Posey’s lance, holding the mare as, with one swing of his right leg, he gently dropped his big frame to the turf.
Another man had dismounted next to George Posey. He had moved up the line when the shifting of position had taken place. Something like a gasp rose from the pavilion as he moved forward directly in the path of the Orange and Black knight. He didn’t walk around him. He raised his hand and pushed him out of the way. With a quick turn of his head George Posey tried to see what had happened, but his hood must have obstructed his vision. He pulled the hood off.
John Langton was addressing the judges.
‘You goin’ to give this feller the prize?’
Mr Broadacre’s sleepy eyes were popping out of his head as Brother Semmes leaned to him and whispered. If he was whispering advice, I do not know; it was not carried out. George Posey took one stride towards John Langton, his right arm extended, the palm out; he reached around Langton’s neck and grabbed his shirt-front. He jerked him to him, stooped, and with that one arm raised him off the ground. Then, as if he were pitching a sack of meal, he tossed him away into a heap.
John Langton lay on his back and I saw in his dazed face, as he tried to rise, that he was drunk.
Scattered applause came from a few persons in the pavilion but it had no conviction in it, and it died away. Sister Susan was holding her handkerchief over her eyes. Lucy Sterrett giggled, and Minta Lewis, with her tongue as usual too big for her mouth, was mumbling in Susan’s ear, until Susan turned impatiently and said, ‘Be quiet, Minta.’ I felt a hand on my shoulder. Cousin John Semmes was leaning over the rail. ‘Son, there’s goin’ to be trouble. You better tell Semmes I’ll see the girls home.’
I had no time to answer him. John Langton lay in mortified isolation. In the sullen droop of his mouth I could see his humiliation at being supine on the ground; but he could not get up; there was nothing he could do once he had regained his feet. George Posey gazed at him a moment out of his cold, bland eyes, then turned and bowed to Mr Broadacre.
Mr Broadacre gulped. A galvanic jerk of his Adam’s apple signaled the swallowing of his quid. But there was no loss of dignity. He clutched his megaphone and raised his hand whilst John Langton got to his feet and disappeared into a small group of men who were dismounting; they led him around behind the judges.
‘It is my privilege, sir,’ began Mr Broadacre, then he glanced over his shoulder at Brother Semmes, who whispered in his ear. ‘It is my privilege to announce the winner of the Fairfax tournament for the year 1858. That fortunate gentleman stands now before me — Mr George Posey of Georgetown who has been with us today as the guest of our friend Mr Semmes Buchan. I place the crown of laurel in his hand.’
From somewhere in his rear he brought forth a small wreath of laurel that somebody must have made a trip to the Bull Run Mountains to get. He held it before him triumphantly, as if it were a rabbit out of a hat. He handed it to George Posey, who bowed again.
‘We now await the winning knight’s pleasure. We are ready to hear the name of the lady with whom he intends to share his honors.’
George Posey moved to the edge of the platform and spoke in a low voice. Mr Broadacre nodded.
‘Miss Susie Buchan will please rise.’
I looked around. She had not yet risen but everybody near her had, and amid the growing applause Cousin John Semmes stepped forward and taking her hand brought her to her feet. She looked pale and inscrutable, and I thought: Sister Susan is not blushing, as any other girl would, and I have never seen her blush. Cousin John, holding the tips of her fingers, led her along the narrow aisle to the end of the pavilion, down the steps, and across the track where with a flourish of his hat he delivered the fingers into the hand of Mr Broadacre. That harassed gentleman gracefully drew her up on the low platform into a chair that had been pushed forward. With the floating motion imparted to the female figure by the hoop skirt, she glided backward as if she were on roller skates, and as she sat down the expanse of the white flowered poplin collapsed about her like a tent. Every curl of the vast cluster at the back of her neck was in place and a white rose dangled artfully from the crown of her hair.
George Posey, his face in profile, had not moved a muscle during this ceremony: it was composure, not control. There was the vague smile about his mouth and the too narrow eyes moved in his motionless head in order to see, I thought, what these antic people would do next. He lifted the wreath and stared at it as if he had not seen it before.
Cousin John had backed off; he stood watching George Posey. Everybody was watching him. He did not move. Mr Broadacre gazed at him and his mouth sagged into that look of astonished indigestion which seemed to be his sole emotion. He looked like a family portrait. Susan raised her eyes casually and George Posey looked again at the wreath, a little ruefully, and I felt that he was about to do something ridiculous, and I think he felt it too.
He stood before her and bowed, and lifting the wreath as Susan leaned forward to receive it, according to custom, on her head, he hesitated, looked around him, and then dropped the wreath into her lap. He drew himself up to his full height and laughed!
Susan sat a moment holding the wreath, her eyebrows lifted, gazing at nothing. She turned her head to Mr Broadacre and I saw her lips move, and Mr Broadacre’s mouth fell open as he stood again erect. He raised his hand for the attention of the crowd, which had been amazed and silent, but his gesture broke the tension, and a loud murmur filled the air. He looked frantic and at last he shouted in a voice that everybody heard.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen! Miss Susie Buchan has been crowned he stopped to wet his lips — ‘has been — Miss Susie Buchan has been designated the Queen of Love and Beauty! She will receive the homage of her subjects!’
He faded away into the rear of the platform. Sister Susan smiled and held her hand out to George Posey who took it and led her to the ground. The crowd broke in all directions. Cousin John shook hands with George Posey and kissed sister’s hand. By the time I had got across the track a small group had gathered round them. I stood a little to one side. But Susan saw me. She looked very happy as she motioned me to her.
‘Lacy, there won’t be room for you with us. You go find Uncle Lanus.’
A few steps away Will Lewis and Jim Mason were talking in low tones. Before I could answer Sister, Will addressed her.
‘Susie,’ he said, ‘the girls say they must go now. You must excuse them.’ The girls were the Langton girls, John’s sisters; I saw them over by the pavilion talking to Brother Semmes. ‘They can’t wait for you.’
‘Very well, Will, and I shall excuse you too.’ Her lips tightened and the lids of her eyes flickered as the blood left her face.
Brother Semmes came over and was standing by Susan, and he had opened his mouth to address George Posey when Jim Mason said:
‘Mr Posey, I am sorry to say to you that John Langton has asked me to deliver a message. He will meet you immediately at any place you choose.’
Sister was gazing at George and he returned her look with a glance.
‘Miss Susie,’ he said, ‘if Mr Semmes will stay with you for a few minutes …’
‘Of course he will.’ She looked at Cousin John, then at Jim Mason. ‘Jim Mason, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
Brother Semmes was speaking. ‘Jim, you leave us a minute. I’ll bring you George’s answer.’
‘It won’t be necessary, Semmes,’ George Posey said. ‘I’ll meet Langton at the upper end of the Pavilion as soon as I can get there.’ I looked towards the upper end; it was deserted; only a few people remained near the lower end and they were leaving. Susan was paler than the handkerchief she held to her mouth. She spoke to Jim Mason again.
‘Jim Mason, you know that John Langton is a scoundrel, he always has been.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘It’s because Mr Posey is a stranger.’
Mason hung his head and ignored her. ‘Mr Posey,’ he said, ‘the challenger, you know, does not choose the weapon.’
‘I don’t choose any,’ said George Posey. ‘Let him bring the whole government arsenal.’ I was aware of a change in him: his tone was casual and remote. Mason was staring at him. ‘Well, Mr Mason, are you waiting for something?’ George asked.
Jim Mason was rubbing his hands uneasily. ‘I only thought,’ he said, ‘that you might care to choose some less public place.’
‘I don’t want a less public place,’ said George Posey. ‘I’d prefer the Court House yard.’ Jim Mason left them. George Posey bowed to sister, walked a few paces to his negro, Joe, who was holding his horse, and taking from him his hat and his blue coat started for the upper end of the pavilion. Without a word Semmes followed, and I backed off against the judges’ platform, slid around it and ran, out of sight of Susan and Cousin John, up the track where I met Brother Semmes at the end of the pavilion.
‘Get away from here,’ he said, but he went on and I trailed him around the end of the pavilion. I ducked under the scaffolding and lay on the ground out of sight. George Posey was standing not twenty paces away, his hands on his hips, staring at two men who were talking earnestly just out of earshot down towards the lower end of the pavilion.
I smelt the acrid smell of tobacco smoke. I turned and saw Winston Broadacre, so near I could almost touch him, lying on his side smoking a long cigar. Then he saw me. ‘God damn,’ he said. ‘Son of a bitch. Bastard. Say, Buchan, cain’t you cuss? Jesus Christ.’ He lay on his elbow gazing at me with a smirk. ‘You want some of it?’ ‘Some of what,’ I said. There was a stir farther back under the pavilion. I saw the mulatto wench I had seen earlier with the small negro; she was lying on her back and the boy, crouching in the grass, his eyes like fried eggs, was grinning. ‘She’ll let you have it,’ Winston said. ‘I don’t want none,’ I said.
Winston was gazing at me curiously. ‘Say, what you doin’ here?’ he said.
‘You’ll see in a minute,’ I said. ‘Look!’ and I pointed at George Posey, who had moved farther away but retained his former posture. The two men had separated, one of them, John Langton, remaining alone about thirty paces from George Posey; he was slashing the clover with his crop. The declining sun was full in his twitching, bloodless face.
The other man, Jim Mason, was gesticulating to Brother Semmes midway between the two enemies. ‘I know it, Semmes,’ he said, ‘it’s John’s fault, he started it. But why didn’t Posey wait and challenge him?’
‘Every man must do as he thinks best,’ Semmes said.
‘He oughtn’t t’have put Langton in a position to do the challenging. He oughtn’t t’have embarrassed Susan by throwing him down.’
‘Jim,’ said Semmes, ‘we’re old friends. But I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘Excuse me, Semmes.’ He paused. ‘Won’t Posey apologize? It’s going to be mighty serious.’
‘No. He won’t apologize. Langton started it and the apology is due from him.’
Jim Mason took from under his coat a flat black leather case. ‘We might as well get them started.’ He walked towards Langton. Semmes called George Posey, and all four of them met for the parley. They talked in undertones, then Mason stepped off ten paces and with his heel drew a line in the turf. He came back and opened the case, producing two pistols with long blue barrels. Langton stared at them sullenly and taking one of them examined the priming; he dropped it to his side and glared at the turf.
George Posey as he took his weapon bowed as if he were acknowledging a glass of water. He looked at Jim Mason. ‘Do we get a practice shot?’ he said. ‘It’s not my pistol.’
‘If you demand it,’ said Mason. ‘It’ll bring a crowd.’
George Posey removed his hat, stooped and picked up some dirt between his fingers, and smudged the side of the hat. ‘Semmes,’ he said, ‘put it down on the line, please.’ Semmes put it on the line that Mason had marked off, and stepped aside. George Posey raised the pistol and taking instantaneous aim, fired. The bullet drilled a hole in the hat and the smudge disappeared.
‘I’ll reload,’ said Mason.
George Posey looked at him. He moved the pistol towards him, the smile on his mouth, but he suddenly drew back. The smile vanished, his eyes narrowed. He raised the pistol and tossed it in our direction. It hit the scaffolding and bounced over my head; it lay within reach, under the pavilion. I saw the powder stain at the muzzle.
George Posey raised his right arm and fingered his lapel. The arm went rigid, the fingers became a fist that shot out like a catapult. It caught John Langton on the chin. I heard the crack like the limb of a pine breaking in the wind. Langton fell back and as he rolled over on his face I saw that it was covered with blood.
I looked at the pistol lying by me in the grass, then at Winston. ‘We better get away from here,’ I said. The negroes had gone. Winston grabbed the pistol and crawled under the front of the pavilion. I didn’t see him again.
‘Is he all right?’ said Brother Semmes to Jim Mason who, leaning over John Langton, was wiping the blood from his face.
‘He’ll be all right,’ said Mason. He stood up and looked George Posey in the eye. ‘Mr Posey, I did not in the least approve of Langton’s rudeness to you and it was equally insulting to the judges.’ He glanced at the prone figure. ‘I never did like Langton, from the time we were boys. But that ain’t the point.’ He turned to Semmes. ‘Mr Posey agreed to come out here and there was only one thing to come for. Not for this.’ He grimaced at the still unconscious man, who began to flex his arms. He opened his eyes, forced himself to a sitting posture, and stared unseeingly at the three men. Mason seized him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. ‘I’ll get him home,’ Mason said. ‘Where’s that other pistol?’ he said suddenly.
George Posey looked directly towards me and but for the fading light he must have seen me through the tall grass and clover. He looked at Semmes, his head back, the glance falling at an angle from his great height. That was the first time I ever saw George Posey look at anybody that way, and I wanted to ask him if there was something I could do, some errand for him, something I might perform that would lift me out of ordinary life. Brother Semmes had caught his glance and stood irresolute. I thought: he ought to be helping Mason with John Langton. He turned on his heel and walked rapidly in my direction. I crawled farther under the pavilion and got out on the other side.
There was rabbit-eyed Joe. He was holding the bay mare just where George Posey had left him.
‘Who’s kilt?’ he asked.
‘Nobody,’ I said. ‘Where’s Miss Susie?’
The negro did not reply but drew his lips back like a bad dog. At the upper end of the pavilion Brother Semmes and George Posey had just appeared. Blind Joe led the horse towards them, and when we were all together we started, without a word, across the meadow towards the Broadacre house. Our walk was soundless, only the faint thud of the mare’s feet in the clover giving us a kind of fixture round which our senses could become regular again. The sun was high on the distant trees of the yard. Around me the even light glowed in the green and I felt it as the late chill of spring.
