The Sherrod house stood on a rise of ground above the river. The
spring freshets never reached it, not even the famous one of ’98. The
front of the house faced the long red dirt track that led up to the
crossroads, and the back of it looked down on the river. The house
had never been painted, the clapboards had weathered an even gray,
and here and there patches of green moss clung to the roof and the
chimney bricks. Henry and William owned it jointly, together with the
sixty-acre farm on either side of it.
Henry knew nothing of farming. When he was in his teens he had gone
away to work on one of the river steamers. In those days, twenty years
ago, steamers ran from across the sound, and up the river as far as
Jamesville, the town below the Sherrod place. There were no steamboats
on the river now. The railroad had built a long trestle across the
sound and put them all out of business. The old _Plymouth_, that Henry
had gone out on, was lying, a rotting hulk, at Adamton. The boat’s
trip from Adamton across the sound and up the river to Jamesville had
required a day. Then she was tied up at the dock until next morning
when her captain backed her around and headed her downstream and again
across the sound to Adamton. The railroad now hauled the cotton and
tobacco, and an occasional crop of peanuts from Jamesville to Adamton
in three hours.
Henry had been fat even as a young man. He had a jolly laugh and took
life pretty much as he found it. He knew a lot of drummer jokes,
collected from travelers on the _Plymouth_. He told them to the old
folks and to Will whenever he came to the farm to spend a night. Will
listened to them with ill grace and Henry was forced to believe Will
jealous of him. He wooed Will with presents bought in the superior
stores of Adamton, and if he discovered Will was “courting” a town
girl, he stopped going to see her himself. He had a long talk with Will
when the old people died. He said if Will wanted him to he would give
up his job and come home, but Will said he didn’t need any river man
around. So Henry had kept on with the _Plymouth_.
The farm was a lonely place and Will’s fine enthusiasm for farming
by himself soon wore itself out. He decided to get married and went
“courting” Annie Spruill, the daughter of a neighboring farmer. He
drove to her house in a shiny new buggy and a suit of clothes Henry had
bought for him over in Adamton. Will had intended painting the house
and making many improvements when he brought Annie home, but the spring
freshet in the river ruined his corn that year, and afterwards he never
seemed to get around to it.
Annie had been a pretty girl when Will married her. In those days she
had bright brown eyes and black hair, but the eyes dimmed and ceased
to sparkle after a few years on the farm with Will. The work was
heavy, and Will, his disposition never good, fretted with his seeming
ill-luck, rarely provided her with any of the things women like. He had
drunk corn whiskey, and as Annie lost her good looks and became a drab
creature who rarely spoke, he drank worse. His unfaithfulness to her
was known throughout the county.
Annie’s children died at birth. They were thin infants, old beyond the
knowledge of mortals. She had wept noisily for the first and a little
less for the second. She was carrying the third when Henry came home
to stay. A doctor in Adamton had told him he was losing his eyesight.
Will said he had been “kicked out of his job.” Annie was glad to have
him. He never lost his temper and he helped her around the house until
the blindness was upon him. He was resigned and at first made a joke
of his affliction. He sat in his rocking chair, never seeming to care
whether he moved again or not. He told Annie all the drummer jokes and
made her laugh long and loudly. He learned to knit and he sent away to
a mail order house for a fiddle. He taught himself to play “Pop Goes
the Weasel.”
Annie’s third child was born. Henry held it in his arms until the tiny
overburdened heart ceased beating in thumps. He could not see the
age-old little face, nor the coppery spots on its forehead, but he knew
something was wrong.
Doctor White in Jamesville told Will that he and Annie must not have
any more children, and that he was to come to town for treatment. Will
listened to him in sulky silence--and never went.
Farm labor became harder to get. A great many farm hands had gone
north, lured by rumors of higher wages. Will rented out part of the
farm to a negro tenant. This man had a still down in the hollow and
Will bought molasses for him and sold the finished “monkey rum” in
Jamesville. It was only a small business, for Will had no money to buy
off the county officers and run the still on a large scale, but it was
quite big enough to furnish him with all he and his town friends wanted
to drink. Three or four times a week he drove into town with a jug
under the seat of the buggy and, after he had disposed of it, spent the
evening lounging around the drug store and talking to the girls from
the tobacco stemmery. He spent his money buying them silk stockings and
cheap perfume.
During all this time Henry sat on at the farm, moving only when
necessity drove him. He grew stouter. He rarely told a drummer joke;
Annie knew them all, so there was no need. His clothes were worn and
shiny with grease from the food he spilled upon them. He had put his
fiddle away. He told Annie he had heard that people born on the river
came home to die on it.