The American: A Middle Western Legend Read Free

country, and they had an ancient folk-knowledge of war, which Pete somehow shared. It was a visitation, like the plague or the pox, and though they were used in it, it never concerned them. Once, however, when Pete drove to town with Bjornson, there was a patriotic rally on the main street of Little Washington. A unit of the 33rd Ohio National Guard was preparing to march off to the war. They stood in the dusty street, fourteen of them lined up very straight, blue uniforms, red sashes, while old Meyerburg, who kept the feed store, addressed the crowd in German. Then Stacy, the justice of the peace, spoke in English, and then old Fritz Anderson, veteran of the Revolution, white-bearded and just a little drunk, told about the Battle of Bunker Hill. As the number of Revolutionary veterans narrowed, the number of battles in which the remaining had participated increased, and by now Anderson’s lexicon included just about every engagement, large or small.
    Peter asked Bjornson what was the Revolution, and Bjornson, on not too certain ground, said it was a war like this one, but a long time ago. A drum began to play, a long roll, a short roll, and then a rat-a-tat-tat, over and over. The National Guard began to march, and some of them picked up a tune, “Susybell was from Kentucky, a loose-limbed gal an’ durn unlucky.” Pete leaped from the wagon and ran after them, Bjornson shouting, “Hey, Pete, hey, where are you going?”
    Asking the soldiers, “How old you got to be? How old you got to be?” Pete kept pace with them, until Bjornson grabbed him by the shirt and said, “This I’ll tell your father.”
    â€œHow old you got to be?”
    The soldiers, most of them freckled farm boys, well under twenty grinned at Pete and advised him, “To hell with the old Dutchman. Come along, kid.”
    And though he drove back to the farm with Bjornson, the words echoed and reechoed, “Come along, kid, come along, kid, come along, kid”; the quality of warmth which had accompanied the offhand phrase magnifying itself more and more, developing a richness like old wine, “Come along, kid,” one comrade to another, “Come along.” Nothing like that had ever been said to him before; nothing like that had ever happened before.

VI
    â€œI’m going to war,” he told the father.
    He was not given to many words; sometimes, in a week, he spoke to the father only once or twice, to the mother no more, and only a little more to his brothers and sisters.
    â€œYes,” the father said. “You stay here. The work—”
    â€œI’m going to war,” Pete said. “To war. That’s all. I made up my mind—I’m going.”
    And seeing that he meant it, that in his words there was neither doubt nor hesitation nor indecision, the father measured his son, as for the first time and very likely the first time, measured him up and down and sidewise too, the short legs, the hard muscles, the ugly face, the brush hair, and the split lip and the son’s eyes met the father’s in return appraisal, telling him—No more beatings. I am a man, you hear me, a man. Then the father said:
    â€œWhen you go, you go. All right. Until you go, you do your work. You work, you hear me?”
    â€œI hear you,” Pete said.
    So for another year, he bided his time and worked; it did not occur to him that the war might be over, for by now war was a natural condition on the land, just as rain was and snow was. Inside his head, a dream developed, and for the first time he knew a curiosity for his country. The war was in the south, and he would ask questions concerning the south, or sing Dixie to himself, “Look away, look away, look away down south in Dixie,” where there was no summer, no winter, only balm and blue skies and pink pelicans. There were beautiful women, and who knew what might not happen to a soldier? The rhythm of his body was different