Rare Earth/Chapter 7
Chapter VII
The life of Jethro Trent had been a veritable epic of planting. He had no existence that was not entwined with the soil. For more than a hundred years the Trents had all been farmers. There had been no single instance of one of them breaking away from the rock whence he was hewn. Nor is there recorded even an isolated suggestion of rebellion. It cannot be said that the Trent men had ever been happy. They were grim, gaunt, silent men, empire builders. They lacked the capacity for happiness. They did not joke nor dance nor sing. Perhaps in their silence they recorded contentment even as do trees in the cool night wind.
The Trents had been pioneers throughout the length and breadth of America. Never had there been a break in the chain, a sign of weakness, until the blindness of Scobee. Then at last there was a Trent who was practically helpless. It was a terrible blow to Jethro. His was not the kind of grief that could be alleviated by reading cloying books of courage. There was only one thing to which he could turn in his trouble, the only thing he understood—the soil. If it failed him, then indeed would he be desolated. But how could it do aught else but fail? The soil can give life but it cannot give sight.
Nevertheless Jethro turned to the soil with vast energy. In work alone can man find forgetfulness, hard physical toil that breaks down one's strength and even blunts one's remembrance. Perhaps it would be better if man were created without memory, the past to be forgotten completely. After all one need not believe in past things.
Now more than ever, if that were possible, Jethro remained in the fields. He seldom spoke to anyone. He worked alone. One of his means of deriving contentment had ever been to watch men working on their knees in the soil. But now he was denied even this comfort He wished to be alone, to be alone to think. And because he wished so hard for solitude, he often sought for it in vain. Neighbors commenced to call to him as they passed along the quiet roads. Men who had seldom even nodded to him paused to speak with him. People felt sorry for Jethro.
One such was Samuel Gage, a rather shiftless farmer whose place adjoined Jethro's on the south. As he was driving by in a rickety carriage, he stopped to talk awhile.
Jethro was amazed at the thinness of the horse. Every bone showed on the poor animal and it appeared as though it had not had a meal for weeks. Samuel Gage noticed Jethro's scowl at the condition of the horse and smiled.
"Don' blame me for the way this yere 'orse looks," he said. "Only bought the poor thing yesterday. Since that time I've done nothin' but feed it oats an' carrots. But all my efforts is no account. That 'ere 'orse is like a well. Yer can't fill 'im up. But I'm goin' to keep at it if it makes me bankrup'. A guy that is mean to a poor 'orse should ought to be hung."
"He certainly should," said Jethro grimly.
"Looks like we're a-goin' to have a spell of tol'able weather," drawled Mr. Gage.
"Yes," said Jethro shortly. There was little warmth in his tone. He hated useless prolonged conversation.
Then Mr. Gage leaned toward him. "Too bad about yer boy," he said dolefully. At that Jethro recoiled as though he had been cut with a whip. He drew his hand across his eyes. His face seemed more gaunt than ever. Was it possible that a Trent was receiving pity from his neighbors? Had that line of strong, tireless farmers dwindled down to being objects of pity? He didn't want sympathy. He felt like running away. Oh, to get away, far off in the fields, where there were no fool people, no simpering neighbors, just the wheat and the sky and a limitless immensity. He felt as though his head were bursting, as though he were going mad.
"Is there any 'ope?" asked Mr. Gage.
"Of course there is hope!" exclaimed Jethro vehemently. "Scobee's condition is but a passing thing. He'll only be blind temporarily. Just nervous reaction."
"Even that is bad enough," Mr. Gage reflected. "I feel sorry fer the boy. Nice lad. Didn't know him so well. Always sort o' dreamy I thought. Like 'is mother was. Still we all got troubles. Many are worse'n 'is. Take fer instance the case o' ole Lindy Joel. Poor ole colored mammy what lives 'bout a dozen mile or so down the road. Mighty sad case 'ers. Why, she 'ad little bit o' farm. 'Ouse not much bigger'n a shack. An' she 'ad one boy what thought 'is mammy was jus"bout everythin'. Wanted to make a swell farm fer 'er. Wanted she should be rich. Wanted she should even 'ave kid gloves to wear. Thought kid gloves was a emblem o' respec'ability. The boy's name was Enoch and that colored mammy was very 'appy. She used to watch 'er boy workin' in the fields. 'E were a good worker an' made quite a nice farm o' it. Then the War came. Enoch went. The colored mammy was lef' all alone. Night after night she waited for 'er boy. But 'e never cum back. Now the shack is a forlorn thing standin' in the center of a unplowed field. The mammy is like a black ghost. Even now she believes 'e's cornin' bacK. In the meantime there's the fields fergotten, neglected. Nobody to think about 'em."
As Samuel Gage finished speaking Jethro turned from him and walked off across the wheatland. He had forgotten his neighbor's very existence but he had not forgotten the story which he had heard. Samuel Gage gazed after him for a moment. He was not angry at the abrupt desertion. He was sorry, sorry for this rich master of the soil.
Slowly he shook his head. "Too bad," he muttered. "Too bad."
Meanwhile Jethro walked through the fields. The War had ruined the world. It had killed millions of men. Only that morning he had read the official list of the dead which a local paper had published.
| Russia | 1 700 000 |
| France | 1 385 000 |
| Italy | 482 000 |
| Great Britain | 900 000 |
| Serbia | 125 000 |
| Belgium | 102 000 |
| Rumania | 100 000 |
| Greece | 7 000 |
| United States | 116 492 |
| Germany | 1 600 000 |
| Austria-Hungary | 800 000 |
| Turkey | 250 000 |
| Bulgaria | 100 000 |
| Total | 7 667 492 |
The War had changed the history of the world. What would have happened to all those millions of men if they had lived? What would they have accomplished in the realms of medicine, of science, of art, of literature, of commerce? Is it possible to picture all the horrors and heartaches which those death figures represent? Can the world ever really be right again?
As Jethro walked aimlessly along, he murmured to himeslf, "Scobee, blind, that negro boy dead and a farm neglected."
Then abruptly he straightened up and emitted a frightful oath. "Whatever happens," he cried, "the soil must not suffer! The soil must be free! It is in no way to blame."