Rare Earth/Chapter 17
Chapter XVII
It is the earth that guides the destinies of men. Where the soil is least productive and the crops are scant, man is the most savage. Those who spend their lives working in the fields absorb something of its strength. So had it been with Jethro Trent. Much of the strength of the soil had flowed into his veins. He was in tune with the soil. He understood its moods. And the soil responded. It was in tune with him.
And now once more in the farm of Linda Joel he had a great work before him. To make of that patch of desolation, a productive, cultivated place. He was thankful for the opportunity which had been unexpectedly supplied him. His own vast estates ran so smoothly, so systematically there was not much constructive planning for him to do. Many men were in his employ, men who had been trained under his tutelage.
There came a morning when by appointment Samuel Gage in his ramshackle carriage stopped at the house of Jethro Trent. Jethro was impatiently waiting for him. Silently he clambored in.
"Solved the diet of 'Eaps at last," chuckled Samuel Gage. "Very simple too. All I do is keep a feed bag on 'im all the time when 'e's 'ome. Sort o' wear 'im out, you know. It's workin' fine. Look at 'im. You used to be able to see all 'is ribs, now you can only see 'alf o' 'em. Those oats you sent 'im sure were good. Such swell oats they were I almost wished I was a 'orse."
"Glad you liked them," said Jethro. "I'll send you a few more bags. Don't know when I had such an abundant crop of anything as last year."
"It must o' made you mighty 'appy."
"Happy?" repeated Jethro slowly. "Happy? I don't know. I like to plant and to harvest It is good to watch things growing week after week. But possession afterward doesn't mean anything. I'd give all I possess if Scobee could get his eyesight back again."
"I thought you said there was 'ope!" broke in Samuel Gage. He was surprised at Jethro's tone of complete dejection.
Jethro straightened up. He gazed intently, almost fiercely at Samuel Gage as though conscious of his existence for the first time.
"Of course there is hope," he said harshly. "His blindness is only a temporary thing. But even that is bad enough. He'll be all right, you understand me, he'll be all right soon, able to see as well as anybody. God!"
His voice ended in a queer note, almost a sob. But the habitual hard mask of his face had resumed its composure. The soil had taught him to be infinitely patient A farmer's life is filled with many hours of waiting, of working and waiting. He is at the mercy of the elements, of cyclones, of drought, of frost and excess rain.
For awhile they drove along in silence. Then once more Jethro brought up the subject of Linda Joel toward whose home they were driving. He had cultivated the friendship of Samuel Gage with a set purpose in mind. All through his life he had bothered very little with friendship. To afford friends a man must indeed be rich. His one all-absorbing friend was the soil. Far out in the fields he was never alone. He had lived his life in almost eternal silence, almost perpetually outdoors. As a result he was as strong as an ox. His face was weather-beaten and bronzed until he appeared almost like an Indian. The priceless gift which the soil had given him was perfect health.
"Linda Joel," said Samuel Gage, "is a very interestin' woman. Despite 'er poverty she'd never turn a 'ungry person away. I don' think since she were a baby she ever done a mean thing. Enoch 'doted 'er. To 'im she were jus' about all right. It would 'ave been 'ard for any mother to 'ave a better son. 'E wasn't no nambypamby sort of a guy. Regular feller. And say, 'e were some worker, that kid. After 'is father's death 'e took over the management o' the farm. Couldn't a been more'n fourteen or fifteen. Course 'is ma 'elped 'im a lot. But Enoch were a marvel. Seems 'e couldn't go wrong. No matter what 'e did 'is crops come up laughin'. Leastways, Mam Linda said they laughed. They was so 'appy to see Enoch for the firs' time. And always as 'e worked in the fields 'e sang, jus' as 'is mother always sang, jus' as I hear 'is grandpap always sang before 'is cabin door in Caroliny."
"Strange," mused Jethro, "how negroes like to sing. I remember when they were laying a switch-track down near the station at Galvey, about a hundred negroes were working there and they never stopped singing. Every time I went into town they were singing. It sounded fine, too. They had good voices. It is rather nice to hear men singing at their work. It shows they are satisfied with their tasks. Guess the whole world would be better if there were more singing workers."
Jethro seldom entered into prolonged conversation without purpose but now he imagined that unless he talked a bit, also, Samuel Gage might cease. Had he been better acquainted with Samuel he would have known that this was impossible. His companion would continue talking even if he were traveling with the Sphinx. He did not desire replies. He was content merely to go on talking, talking.
"Perhaps," he continued, "Linda Joel wouldn't be so interestin' if she didn't 'ave a song in 'er 'eart. If yer meet 'er you can't 'elp likin"er. She's real like. Don' know 'ow to explain it. But I 'ave a feelin' there's somethin' fine about 'er, somethin' goin' to waste. There she is, a won'erful mother an' 'er son lost. A won'erful wife an' 'er 'usband dead. All alone she sits in 'er lonely 'ouse an' waits. For what, I dunno. She's a problem, right enough. But always I go back to 'er, always I continue going back. To sit an' talk to 'er somehow does me good. I'm proud I got 'er friendship. Yet 'ardly anybody else bothers with 'er. She is all alone. She should be back with 'er 'ome folks in Caroliny. Once I even offered to loan 'er the money to go. But she shook 'er 'ead. 'No use,' she said. 'Enoch was born in Chicago. For sixteen year 'e lived on this farm. Benda is buried 'neath a tree at the foot o' the pasture. This is all the 'ome I got. When I walk across the fields it's like I could see Enoch again walkin' behind the plow. So I can't go 'way. My men would be lonesome.'"
"Funny the way a bit of ground can grip you," commented Jethro. "I appreciate how Linda Joel feels and admire her for wanting to remain. It is her desire, you say, to keep the farm. Then we must see to it that the farm is thankful for her attitude. It must be made to keep her."
Linda Joel was seated on the porch when they arrived, a rather forlorn, stoop-shouldered creature. Although she was not so old in years, care and hardship had left their mark on her thin, care-worn face. Her hands were big and scrawny. The knuckles were enlarged and many of her finger-nails were broken with toil. She wore an ancient frayed black dress with a bit of white around the throat. About her shoulders although the day was warm she had a small blue shawl. Her hair was almost white, her lips almost colorless, which made the sallow olive whiteness of her face all the more pronounced. But it was the eyes of Linda which held the attention of Jethro Trent as Samuel Gage introduced them. They were, he thought, the blackest and loveliest eyes he had ever beheld—and the saddest. They were the one remnant that remained of Linda's once vivid, startling beauty.
"This yere's Jethro Trent," rambled Samuel Gage, by way of introduction, "farmer and all that. Knows more about the soil than any other guy in Illinois. Thought I'd bring 'im up yere with me to look the farm over. You know you really got a fine bit o' ground 'ere and it's a pity 'tain't cultivated. 'E's a good friend o' mine. I know as 'ow you'll get on well together 'cause he's been 'it kind o' rough-like, too, by the War. 'Is boy cum home blind."
"Only for a little while," broke in Jethro. The words of Samuel Gage made him wince. "But I'm mighty sorry about Enoch," he went on. "He was a fine boy."
"You mean you knew him?" As Linda spoke she rose to her feet and her hands clasped and unclasped spasmodically.
Jethro paused for a moment. Why tell her that he had never met Enoch in his life? Truth is a wonderful thing but it is often cruel, whereas a lie in the right place is ofttimes a blessing.
"Yes," he said, "I knew him. Used to meet him quite often down Galvey way. He always stopped to talk with me. I think you could almost say we were pretty good friends. He talked a great deal about you. Told me all the plans you and he were making together. He had his heart set on buying that ten acre piece that adjoins yours."
Linda was crying softly but there was a look in her eyes that almost made her beautiful, a glow of health seemed to return to her pallid cheeks.
"Yes," she whispered, "if he'd lived he'd o' bought it, too. His father died when he was fourteen years old. Fine man, his father, college man. Eddicated to be a civil engineer but he failed. Not because he weren't clever. He was wonderful but because his face was a few shades too dark. So here we came to this farm. And we were happy, very happy till he died. One night he jus' went to sleep and in the morning he didn't wake. He jus' slept on. It wasn't like as if he died. He simply burned up like an engine. Worked too hard. Gave all he had to the farm. Then Enoch took over the work of his pop. Well—" She waved her hand helplessly. "Well," she repeated shakily, "he wanted to continue his father's work. Wanted to make a place for me that folks would stop to gaze at as they passed. Wanted geraniums growing along the path that leads to the front door. Wanted flower beds about the house. Wanted to paint the house green with white window-frames. It was mighty nice to hear him talk. And he'd have done it too. Farm work never seemed to make him tired. He'd work long hours in the field and come home singin' and laughin'. There were many days when he didn't come in for a bite at noon and I used to take food out to him. Sometimes I walked about in the fields watching him work. 'Ma,' he used to say, 'some day I'm goin' to buy you kid gloves, the finest gloves there is.' He thought I wanted gloves when all I wanted was simply to watch him working in the fields. It made me feel good. Then the War came and he went away. He was all I had. But I wanted him to go the same as all the white boys were going. War doesn't care what color a man is. As long as he can be killed. A black man dies like as if he was white an' he suffers as much. And that's the end of everything. Enoch didn't come back. They know he was killed. Somebody saw him die. But there was a terrific battle and afterward his body was never found, at least never identified. It was like as if they couldn't kill him enough, over and over he was hit, even after he was dead. Seems strange they could waste so much ammunition on one boy that was black. In death he got more attention than he ever did in life. An' now I'm all alone."
As she spoke Linda slipped into the old broken chair and covered her face with her hands. Samuel Gage blew his nose rather guiltily and walked away toward the back of the house. He thought he'd leave the two alone. Jethro slipped to the steps at the foot of the old colored woman. The breeze sighed lazily through the tree-tops. Except for that one soft sound there was silence everywhere.
And Jethro said slowly, "Did you ever stop to think about 'The Unknown Soldier'? Each nation paying the highest tribute to one unknown boy who typifies all the youth that was sacrificed in France. Suppose the 'Unknown Soldier' was Enoch. Suppose all the nations of the world were honoring your boy, a colored boy. That is the beautiful thing about the pageant of 'The Unknown Soldier.' Every mother whose son did not come back can believe that 'The Unknown Soldier' is her boy. And of course he is."
Linda Joel could not speak. She put out a feeble, trembling hand and patted the shoulder of Jethro Trent. But she did not speak and Jethro was glad. What strange emotions were stirred within him? He felt more at peace than at any time since he had become aware of Scobee's blindness. What was the peculiar attraction that bound these two people of different worlds together? Why should he find peace on the doorstep of a poverty-stricken colored woman? And Linda too was oddly moved. She sighed deeply. There seemed to be a sweet perfume of flowers on the air. Was it poppies? Still there were no flowers blooming near the house. The sun beat down from a sky in which there was not a cloud. It fell in golden radiance about her shoulders. It warmed her heart.