John Matheus, "General Drums" (1927) (short story)
By JOHN MATHEUS
THE drums were beating incantation over the tops of the pines, through,the witching moss festoons of oily-leaved magnolias. The throbbing tones hugged the low earth, too, like the sultry heat beneath the Southern moon, beguiling men from normal ways of thinking. Little fears lurked in hallucinating shadows, unnamed trepidations and bold, brazen dread.
Memories came thumping, drubbing, rubbing the soft, somnolent night.
The drums caught Charles Pringle in their tentacles, as he stumbled along Yazoo road, his wide-toed army shoes kicking up yellow flakes of dust. War came to engulf him in all the menace of its terror. Again the boom of 75's, the tatoo of machine guns, the shriek and whine of shells. Startled in him was that latent impulse to flatten his trim form into the earth, color of khaki, color of him.
The silence and the loneliness coveted his composure, envied his anticipated happiness. Out from them leaped the sullen drumming. The weird opalescence was filled with ghostly armies. They came even though he shut his eyes, transcending material vision. So many things he remembered and Jimmy Spiles, handsome, yellow Jimmie Spiles, white teeth flashing, curly hair awry.
But Jimmie was dead in France. He knew that.
The moon was a golden chandelier and its light was argent, silvering the memories of the many times he had dreamed of just this hour, when he should be walking down Yazoo Road to Malissy's house, alone, the only suitor now for her olive brown hand.
Up from the shadows of tall trees and fronded shrubs, loomed faint, familiar outlines-picket fence, shining white, triangle of rambling roses, pyramid of japonica bush, the high, flat- roofed porch and ancient house with wide weather-boarding, planed by slaves with their hands. Time by way of wage for that unrequited labor had swept away the old master and his clan, had left the heritage in plebian black hands emancipated.
That reckoning had been settled long ago; two wars had devastated since then, spreading the oblivion of changing interests over rancorous feelings. And now Charles Pringle was coming back on an August night, when the moon was full.
He was not the same trifling, unsophisticated plow boy of the Yazoo bottoms. He had seen much of the world in eighteen months and the vision had made him wise and cunning. Inoculated with the virus of murder by hard-boiled second lieutenants in bustling cantonments, where healthy, human animals were trained to kill, then thrown on the firing line, the very fibre of his being had been branded by it all. One torturing, inerasable memory, standing out in bold relief, had sensitized chords of his nature which the echoes of the drum beats touched to responsive vibrations-wild drum beats, pounding in the night!
Malissy, herself, came to the door when he knocked, standing before him, graceful as a magnolia, with its ivory-petaled flowers blooming.
"Charlie Pringle! Charlie Pringle!" she cried, giving vent to the demonstrative quality of her African blood.
He remained on the threshold, twirling his over-sea cap in his big hands, grinning and joyous to hear her mocking bird voice echoing his name.
Then she burst into tears, into hysterical weeping, summoning forth her gray-haired squaw-faced grandma.
"Laws a-mussy, what is agwine on hyah," she spluttered.
Seeing the familiar face of Charlie Pringle in unfamiliar clothes, she stopped, surveying him from head to foot.
"Howdy, chile. Yo' back heah! De Lawd allus teks de righteous an' leabs debils tuh repent. How yo', son? Come in. What yo', ca'in' on fo' dat away, Malissy?"
"But-but-granny, yo'-Ah can't help it. Po' Jimmie. To think he might be here too an' we-we-jes' married."
"'Twas de Lawd's way, honey," soothed the old woman soberly.
"Yo' aint been home yit, Charlie?"
"Naw. Don't spose pap's special anxious 'bout seein' me, sence ah knocked him out the night ' fo' we all lef' fo' camp."
"Yo' ought to been ashamed, strikin' yo' own pappy."
"It were de licker that made me done it," said Charlie, hanging his head, hypo- critically.
"Charlie, what did he say? What did he do? How did it happen?" questioned Malissy, eyes swollen with weeping.
"Dey say ol' man Spiles don' gone nummy in de haid, sence he got dat ar deespatch fum Washington, tellin' him 'bout Jimmie bein' kilt. He was br'r Spiles onliest daughter's son. Po' chile! Po' chile! Hit's turrible-lostin' he's girl when Jimmie was bo'n, dough what evah buckra man war Jimmie's daddy, don' gi' de ol' man a pow'ful heap o' money. Didn't he done built him a new cabin? Wha' he git de dollahs to do' at?"
The gossipy reminiscence of old age would have wandered on and on, if Malissy's sharp voice had not broken in.
"Granny, let him talk, let him tell me."
Charlie Pringle began his story with the sneaking satisfaction that he could command attention now, that he was important because he held a secret and no one should ever know that secret, unless he willed to tell it.
"We all lef' No'folk sudden one night 'bout ten o'clock. Come ' roun' woke us all up an' down tuh de wharf we went. Jimmy jokin' an' laughin' lak he always was.'
Malissy sighed and sobbed afresh.
"We was sick pretty near all de time goin' across de watah. Sich waves and hearin' shootin' at submarines."
"When we all landed we stood around half a day- pourin' down rain, waitin' to git somein' t'eat. Then they took us tuh de woods whar we camped and drilled some mo'. In about two weeks we broke camp, took freight cars. We rid all night. De nex' day say we wasn't in them trenches!"
"Jimmy sho' war skeert," he eyed Malissy covertly.
"Then one mo'nin' dey tol' us tuh get ready-we was goin' ovah de top. "
He went into the details of the military manoeuvers while the two women listened, trying to comprehend the technique of the art of killing.
"Dat white man blew his whistle an' ovah we went, yellin', screamin'. I dis- remember anything mo' ontell ah saw Jimmy fall - bullet hit him in de haid. He never said nary a word, jes' lay there a- jerkin' and---"
He stopped short. A breeze from the woods bore the beating of the drums.
"Tha' ' tis. Jes' ez Ah was sayin', ol' man Spiles beatin' fo' Jimmy, gone nummy in de haid."
"Hunh!" ejaculated Charlie, rolling his eyes, "Ah mus' be goin' now. Guess pappy may be glad tuh see me aftah so long. Ah'll be back tuh tell you mo', 'bout tuh-morrow night."
Malissy was too weak to move. Her grandmother escorted their visitor to the door. The moonlight shadowed his form, doggedly treading towards town.
The returned soldiers were all heroes in the eyes of Negro town. The bravado and loquacity of Charlie Pringle even found favor in the sight of his grieved and mistreated parent. He forgave the prodigal and enjoyed basking in the glow of his son's present greatness.
Overgrown black boys from all sides flocked into town, strutting in khaki and putees, never to look upon life again as in the old days.
There was a mass meeting in honor of the soldiers' return in Ebenezer Baptist Church, where speeches were made and ice cream was served. Then until wee hours of the morning a dance swayed in K. of P. Hall with raucous blare of string and wind instruments.
Charlie Pringle did not go to the church, but he was present at the dance, that is he was, until an old man entered, shuffling his big feet over the smooth floor, peering and peeping into people's faces with queer, bloodshot eyes, filmed with watery scum of weakness. He was an eccentric old man, with the face of a black Punch, long, beaked nose and under lip projecting. He apologetically elbowed through the crowd, showing toothless, blue black gums.
The older Negroes addressed him in skirting, awesome tones, "Howdy, Gen'ral Spiles. "
The younger folk, with their passions mounting in the dance's revelry, paid him little thought.
He began to talk loudly in a cracked, squeaking voice :
"Any yo' all seen Jimmie. Yo' know Jimmie, mah po' gran'son, Jimmie Spiles. He done aint come back. Wha's ' at Cha'lie Pringle. Ah wants tuh ax him 'bout Jimmie. Yes, Ah was a gen'ral in de Union A'my, fit in de battle o' Vicksburg, beatin' drums, beatin' drums -callin' up speerits tuh hep us- beatin' drums---"
This was why Charlie Pringle went out the back door and some minutes later entered Negro town pool room, with its sawdust box spittoons and cabbage smelling "eatin' house" across the hall.
September passed and October came. Charlie Pringle found himself on many nights sitting on Malissy's porch. She, with sad brown eyes; he, with cunning in his gaze.
"Yo' nevah wan' tuh lissen tuh me," he was protesting one night, " less A'hm talkin' 'bout Jimmie Spiles. Always Jimmie."
"Well wasn't he my husban'?"
"An' ain't he dead, too?"
"Not in mah heart," said Malissy rising.
"But, but Malissy, Ah- Ah laks yo'."
"Go 'way, Charlie, an' yo' his frien' too."
He grabbed the girl in fierce desire and kissed her.
The sting of her strong, brown hand still burned on his cheek, when he bolted away, muttering, "Always Jimmy. Jimmy livin' an' Jimmie dead!"
The first armistice day celebration provoked great excitement in town. Preparations were made to observe the anniversary of the occasion with fitting aplomb. The local leaders began to spread advertisments and work up spirit from the first of November. The editor of the town paper wrote patriotic editorials urging one hundred percent participation.
Then came the question that always caused trouble. The colored ex-soldiers had asked to be allowed to march in the parade. They had also asked for the privilege of allowing some one to represent their only dead member, Jimmy Spiles, that he might march in memory of the departed.
Much discussion followed among the whites. There was some talk of allowing the Negro ex-soldiers and ex-stevedores to march in the rear. Some such request or suggestion had been made, but no answer was ever sent back.
Charlie Pringle had been picked out by the colored committee to represent his dead buddy. He turned quite ashy and vowed he never could do it, because, because.—
So the colored people compromised and voted to celebrate at the K. of P. Hall with a monstrous Armistice Night Ball.
When the eleventh of November came the public schools were closed, the stores and workshops. Main street, with its ramshackled line of one and two story buildings put on decoration of bunting and American flags.
Promptly at ten o'clock the parade appeared. At the head marched the local band. The strident notes of Dixie floated in the morning breeze. The crowd rushed to the curb. Black faces peered as best as they could behind the barrage of their white fellow townsmen.
Down the street marched the pride of the home town, dressed in their old doughboy uniforms and cheered enthusiastically by the patriotic watchers.
Ten paraded for the boys who had not come back. They bore banners with the names of the martyrs written in gold stars.
Then when everyone thought the parade had passed and the excited people were pushing toward the Court House Square where Lawyer Chester was to give the oration of the day, who should appear, togged in all the faded, ragged splendor of an old blue Union Army uniform, the trousers bagging down over the brogans, the coat buckled tightly around the middle, crowned by a bespangled hat with gold cords- who should appear but old man Spiles.
He marched with a strange erectness and alacrity. His old beaked nose seemed to beget a subtle fierceness as some smouldering ember trying to flare up once more before going out entirely.
He was beating a drum, making it reverberate with martial briskness and exuding a dignity worthy of all the faded tinsel.
There rose a great shout of hilarious laughter.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! He!
He! He! He!"
"Old man Spiles."
"Howdy, uncle. Howdy, General Drums."
But on he went.
"Ah'm marchin', yessah, Ah'm marchin'," he quacked. "Ah'm marchin' fo' Jimmie, Jimmie Spiles. He war in de wah. Yessay, mah gran'chile ain't come back. "
General Drums was the crowning excitement of the morning. The Negro spectators looked with popping eyes. Charlie Pringle saw and dodged around the corner.
"A Yankee uniform," someone shouted.
It was like waving a red flag before a bull.
The jests became menacing. Somebody threw a stone, but the old man never wavered.
The tone of the crowd became more and more hostile.
"Let that old darkey alone," shouted a stentorian voice at the threatening crowd.
It was Lawyer Chester himself, jumping from his Cadillac, his wavy brown hair brushed back from his high forehead, bearing his middle years with fresh vigor of early manhood.
"Gentlemen, yo' all wouldn't harm a crazy old uncle, would you?”
A chorus of laughter greeted his query, good nature prevailed and the crowd drew back shouting, "General Drums, General Drums, where'd you learn to beat them there drums?"
"Jes' bo'n dat away, chilluns. Yessah, bo'n wif a caul I was.'
"What do yo' mean, what are yo' doing this for, uncle?" the lawyer turned to the old man.
"Ah'm marchin' fo' Jimmy Spiles," he answered simply, peering at his questioner.
He seemed then to recognize him, for he took off his hat and standing, gave the military salute.
Lawyer Chester turned pale under his coat of tan. He reached in his pocket and put something in the old man's right hand, encumbered with drum sticks.
"Take this and go home," he commanded sharply.
Schooled long in obeisance to the white man's will, old General Drums doffed his hat again, but quickly put it back, and beginning to beat quite lustily, marched on, tramping in the dust a twenty dollar bill.
"Ah'm marchin' fo' Jimmie Spiles," he quacked over and over again.
Then Lawyer Chester reached for the money, swearing softly, and mopped his fine, high forehead and went away to the Court House Square to deliver his oration.
Dusty Main Street was deserted and only the red, white and blue bunting glared and the flags of the United States of America fluttered in the near noonday sun.
Charlie Pringle showed up at Malissy's house, with his wheedling air and lecherous gaze, begging the girl to come to the Armistice Ball with him. She refused.
"Go on, chile," encouraged her grandmother. "Yo' don't do nothin' but set ' roun' here a-moppin' and a - drizzlin' roun '. Go out and enjoy yo'self one ebenin'."
So Fate played into Charlie Pringle's hand.
"Why don't you fix up in your best, Malissy?" said he.
"If yo' don't wan' to go with me as Ah am, yo' don't need to tek me atall," said the girl.
He dared not say more.
Malissy found the dance not at all in keeping with her sombre thoughts. In the first place she had come against her better judgment to a public dance when she innately shrank from the raw promiscuity of the males who presumed a familiarity she resented.
Jimmie had been of a different sort. In the second place she mistrusted this persistent and audacious pursuit of Charlie Pringle and regretted yielding in this instance, for he might construe her acquiescence as privilege for irrefutable concessions. Then she had a general misgiving of his motives and reliability.
But once in the Negro town and inside the crowded hall the intimate contact with the hilarity of the crowd and intoxication of the semi-barbaric music began to weave their subtle web around her.
She had purposely refused to dress her best, fearing the consequences of attracting too much attention, holding back under the leash of her self imposed restraint. But the fact that she had been a war bride and was now a war widow, gave her unwittingly in the eyes of admiring beaux the advantage of prestige.
Thus she was lead to dance with many partners, defying the furious scowls of Charlie Pringle and thereby asserting her none too complete surrender to his wishes. He chafed under the gnawing fire of jealousy.
Always a creature of sudden caprice Malissy became smitten with inexplicable remorse. A desire to leave at once urged her to the act. There was nothing for her escort to do save follow.
It was nearing midnight. The moon had come up late and was shedding its magic opalescence over the metamorphosed country. The road was deserted. The air felt refreshing after the crowded heat of the dance hall. Clumps of pines became visible by and by and the sweetly fragrant magnolias.
"Malissy," suddenly blurted out her moody partner, "are yo' goin' tuh marry me?"
"No," snapped Malissy. "How many times must Ah tell yo'. Yo' posin' as po' Jimmie's best frien'."
"Oh, damn Jimmie," snarled Pringle, wild, steaming fury rising in him.
Malissy turned with heaving bosom, "Don't ever come near me again, yo' dirty viper."
"Yo're goin' to be sorry fo' that, Miss Uppity," was the hot rejoinder.
He grappled with the woman.
"Yo're mine an' Ah'll have yo' or Ah'll know the reason why. Ah've done too much tuh git yo '. Yo '- Ah shan't be outdid. "
Malissy became calm and quiet in her terror. Interpreting her change as submission he was melting from his fiery mood, when noises came loping out of the night, a vague whirring, indicating distance but no sense of direction. With increasing intensity it was closing in upon them.
Neither stirred. Malissy felt a coldness clutching at her heart. Her fear of the man merged into the greater apprehension of the unknown. She felt the strong, lithe body pressed against her go limp.
The approaching sound grew intelligible. It was the drums, that ungodly rhythm was the drums. And that shrill, cracked quavering was saying, "Jimmy Spiles."
And while the drums beat on there came a popping as of guns and Charlie Pringle saw the glare of the battle again and heard the roar of musketry. And behind them all loomed that inerasable memory which made him gaze ahead with glassy stare and point with trembling finger.
As Malissy turned, a cloud passed over the moon, but she could see a form in the shadows and a face, her husband's face, dead Jimmy Spile's face, pale, curly hair awry. Then Charlie Pringle's courage snapped.
"Save me, Malissy, " he screamed. Tell him to go away. Ah thought that bullet in the back killed him. It might a been a German bullet, but Ah couldn't wait. I did it fo' yo'. I swear tuh Gawd, Ah did it fo' yo '. Ah'm leavin '. Tell him Ah'm leavin'."
Footsteps approached and the drums.
A voice cried, "Stop that damn beating, Spiles. What's the matter with yo'."
The grey cloud drifted from the pallid moon. They saw the form of Lawyer Chester, hat in hand.
Charlie Pringle's face was working like an epileptic's in a fit.
"Beatin' fo' Jimmy Spiles. Bof us been in de ahmy.'
"You skunk," shouted Lawyer Chester, pushing Charlie Pringle from Malissy's side, "I'll give you three hours to be on your way out of Yazoo bottom. If I ever catch sight of your sneaking hulk yo'll hang for murder."
Charlie Pringle stood rooted to the spot, abashed by the shadow of the hangman's noose, speechless, more terrified than if he had seen the accusing wraith of Jimmie Spiles.
"General, I'm going to take you home. "
"Yessah," and the old man doffed his hat.
"Come here, girl," he commanded and guided the prostrated girl with the gesture of a gentleman.
He put her in his car.
"No back firing," he soliloquized, looking at his engine, "because I want to take you to your grandmother, girl, without any more disturbance. "
And old man Spiles sat in the rear, hugging his drums.
Published in Ebony and Topaz, 1927