William Faulkner: Flags in the Dust

Flags in the Dust, then, may or may not be a better work of art than Sartoris; but few will dispute that it is a more complete fictional document of a time and place in history—or that it is a better introduction to the grand and complex southern world that William Faulkner was to write about until he died.

DOUGLAS DAY

University of Virginia

February, 1973

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Old man Falls roared: “Cunnel was settin’ thar in a cheer, his sock feet propped on the po’ch railin’, smokin’ this hyer very pipe. Old Louvinia was settin’ on the steps, shellin’ a bowl of peas fer supper. And a feller was glad to git even peas sometimes, in them days. And you was settin’ back agin’ the post. They wa’nt nobody else thar ‘cep’ yo’ aunt, the one ‘fo’ Miss Jenny come. Cunnel had sont them two gals to Memphis to yo’ gran’pappy when he fust went away. You was ‘bout half-grown, I reckon. How old was you then, Bayard?”

“Fourteen,” old Bayard answered.

“Hey?”

“Fourteen,” Bayard shouted. “Do I have to tell you that every time you tell me this damn story?”

“And thar you all was a-settin’,” old man Falls continued, unruffled, “when they turned in at the gate and come trottin’ up the carriage drive.

“Old Louvinia drapped the bowl of peas and let out one squawk, but Cunnel shet her up and tole her to run and git his boots and pistols and have ‘em ready at the back do’, and you lit out fer the barn to saddle that stallion. And when them Yankees rid up and stopped—they stopped right whar that flower bed is now—they wa’nt nobody on the po’ch butCunnel, a-settin’ thar like he never even heard tell of no Yankees.

“The Yankees they set thar on the hosses, talkin’ ‘mongst theyselves if this was the right house or not, and Cunnel settin’ thar with his sock feet on the railin’, gawkin’ at ‘em like a hillbilly. The Yankee officer he tole one man to ride back to the barn and look for that ‘ere stallion, then he says to Cunnel:

“‘Say, Johnny, whar do the rebel, John Sartoris, live?’

“ ‘Lives down the road a piece,’ Cunnel says, not battin’ a eye even’. ‘Bout two mile,’ he says. ‘But you won’t find ‘im now. He’s away fightin’ the Yanks agin.’

“‘Well, I reckon you better come and show us the way, anyhow,’ the Yankee officer says.

“So Cunnel he got up slow and tole ‘em to let ‘im git his shoes and walkin’ stick, and limped into the house, leavin’ ‘em a-settin’ thar waitin’.

“Soon’s he was out of sight he run. Old Louvinia was waitin’ at the back do’ with his coat and boots and pistols and a snack of cawn bread. That ‘ere other Yankee had rid into the barn, and Cunnel taken the things from Louvinia and wropped ‘em up in the coat and started acrost the back yard like he was jest takin’ a walk. ‘Bout that time the Yankee come to the barn door.

“ They ain’t no stock hyera-tall,’ the Yank says.

“ ‘I reckon not,’ Cunnel says. ‘Cap’m says fer you to come on back,’ he says, goin’ on. He could feel that ‘ere Yank a-watchin’‘im, lookin’ right ‘twixt his shoulder blades, whar the bullet would hit. Cunnel says that was the hardest thing he ever done in his life, walkin’ on thar acrost that lot with his back to’ads that Yankee without breakin’ into a run. He was aimin’ to’ads the corner of the barn, whar hecould git the house between ‘em, and Cunnel says hit seemed like he’d been a-walkin’ a year without gettin’ no closer and not darin’ to look back. Cunnel says he wasn’t even thinkin’ of nothin’‘cep’ he was glad the gals wa’nt at home. He says he never give a thought to yo’ aunt back thar in the house, because he says she was a full-blood Sartoris and she was a match fer any dozen Yankees.

“Then the Yank hollered at him, but Cunnel kep’ right on, not lookin’ back nor nothin’. Then the Yank hollered agin and Cunnel says he could hyear the hoss movin’ and he decided hit was time to stir his shanks. He made the corner of the barn jest as the Yank shot the fust time, and by the time the Yank got to the corner, he was in the hawg-lot, a-tearin’ through the jimson weeds to’ads the creek whar you was waitin’ with the stallion, hid in the willers.

“And thar you was a-standin’, holdin’ the hoss and that ‘ere Yankee patrol yellin’ up behind, until Cunnel got his boots on. And then he tole you to tell yo’ aunt he wouldn’t be home fer supper.”

As usual old man Falls had brought John Sartoris into the room with him. Freed as he was of time, he was a far more definite presence in the room than the two of them cemented by deafness to a dead time and drawn thin by the slow attenuation of days. He seemed to stand above them, all around them, with his bearded, hawklike face and the bold glamor of his dream.

Old Bayard sat with his feet braced against the side of the fireplace, holding the pipe in his hand. The bowl was ornately carved and it was charred with much usage, and on the bit were the prints of his father’s teeth.

“What’re you giving it to me for, after all this time?” he said.

“Well, I reckon I’ve kep’ it long as Cunnel aimed fer me to,” old man Falls answered. “A po’ house ain’t no place fer anything of his’n, Bayard,” he added. He sat bent forward, elbows on knees, chewing his tobacco for a while.

“Not fer a pipe of his’n,” he said. “Hit ‘ud be different ef ‘twas him, hisself now. Wouldn’t no place be a po’ house whar he was at; But that ‘ere thing that belonged to him, hit ‘ud be takin’ a advantage of him after he’s gone.” Old man Falls chewed his tobacco for a while. “I’m goin’ on ninety-fo’ year old, Bayard,” he said.

He spat neatly into the fireplace and drew the back of his hand across his month.

“A thing he toted in his pocket and got enjoyment outen, in them days. Hit’d be different, I reckon, while we was a-buildin’ the railroad. He said often enough in them days we was all goin’ to be in the po’ house by Saturday night. Or cemetery, mo’ likely, him ridin’ up and down the track with a saddle-bag full of money night and day, keepin’ jest one cross-tie ahead of the po’ house, like he said. That ‘us when hit changed. When he had to start killin’ folks. Them two carpet-baggers stirrin’ up niggers to vote, that he walked right into the room whar they was a-settin’ behind a table, with they pistols layin’ on the table, and that robber and that other feller he kilt, all with that same dang der’nger. When a feller has to start killin’ folks, he ‘most always has to keep on killin’‘em. And when he does, he’s already dead hisself.”

It showed on his brow, the dark shadow of fatality and doom, that night when he sat beneath the candles in his dining room and turned a wine glass in his fingers while he talked to his son. The railroad was finished, and today he had been elected to the legislature after a hard and bitter fight, and on his brow lay the shadow of his doom and a little weariness.

“And so,” he said, “Redlaw’ll kill me tomorrow, for I shall be unarmed. I’m tired of killing men...Pass the wine. Bayard.”

After old man Falls had gathered up his small parcels and gone old Bayard sat for some time, the pipe in his hand, rubbing the bowl slowly with his thumb. But presently John Sartoris too had departed; withdrawn rather, to that place where the peaceful dead contemplate their frustrated days, and old Bayard dropped his feet to the floor and rose and thrust the pipe into his pocket and took a cigar from the humidor on the mantel. As he struck the match the door behind him opened and a man wearing a green eye-shade entered and approached.