he imagined that by about now she would about be getting back and finding the bed. he smiled to think of her finding it.
he drove down forest, across the viaduct, past the smoldering depot, and cut sharply left beneath the asylum and steeply downhill. the l&n yards lay along his left, faint skeins of steel, blocked shadows, little spumes of steam; he saw and heard the flickering shift of a signal, but he could no longer remember what that one meant. along his right were dark vacant lots, pale billboards, the darker blocks of small sleeping buildings, an occasional light. he would have eaten in one of these places, small, weakly lighted holes-in-the-wall, opaque with the smoke of overheated lard, some for negroes, some for whites, which served railroad men and the unexplainable nighthawks you found in any fair-sized town. you never saw a woman there, except sometimes behind a counter or sweating over a stove. he never used to talk when he went to them, but he enjoyed the feeling of conspiracy, and the sound of voices. if you went to the right ones, and if you were known, or looked like you could be trusted, you could get a shot or two of liquor, any hour of the night.
he ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the last of the molasses and coffee and bacon and eggs.
before long the city thinned out into the darkened evidences of that kind of flea-bitten semi-rurality which always peculiarly depressed him: mean little homes, and others inexplicably new and substantial, set too close together for any satisfying rural privacy or use, too far, too shapelessly apart to have adherence as any kind of community; mean little pieces of ill-cultivated land behind them, and alongside the road, between them, trash and slash and broken sheds and rained-out billboards: he passed a late, late streetcar, no passengers aboard, far out near the end of its run.
within two more minutes he had seen the last of this sort of thing. the darkness became at once more intimate and more hollow; the engine sounded different, a smooth, easy drone; budding limbs swelled up and swept with sudden speed through the last of the vivid light; the auto bored through the center of the darkness of the universe; its poring shafts of light, like an insect’s antennae, feeling into distinctness every relevant small obstacle and ease of passage, and very little else. he unbuttoned his vest and the top button of his trousers and settled back. after a few moments he wondered about taking off his coat; but the rhythm and momentum of night driving were too strongly persuasive to wish to break. he settled still more deeply, his eyes shifting gear constantly between the farthest reach of his lights and the nearest, and gave himself over entirely to the pleasures of the journey, and to its still undetermined but essentially grave significance.
it was just nearing daybreak when he came to the river; he had to rap several times on the window of the little shanty before the ferryman awoke.
“have to double the charge, mister, cross at night,” he said, intent on lighting his lantern.
“that’s all right.”
at the voice, he looked up, well awake for the first time. “oh, howdy thur,” he said.
“howdy.”
“you generally always come o’ sundays, yer womurn, couple o’ young-uns.”
“yeahp.”
he walked away, to the edge of the water, and holding his lantern low, examined the fit of his flatboat against the shore. then he raised the lantern and swung it, as a railroad man would; jay, who had left his engine running, braked it carefully down the steep, thickly tracked clay, and carefully aboard. he shut off his engine; the sudden silence was magical. he got out and helped the man block the wheels. “all ready here,” he said, straightening; but the man said nothing; he was already casting off. they both watched the brown water widen under the lantern light, apparently with equal appreciation. must be a nice job, jay reflected, as he nearly always did; except of course winter.
“run all winter?”
“eah,” said the man, warping his line.
“tain’t so bad,” he added after a moment, “only for sleet. i do mislike them sleety nights.”
both were silent. jay filled his pipe. as he struck a match he felt a difference in motion, a kind of dilation; the ferry was now warped into the bias of the current, which carried it, and the ferryman worked no more; he merely kept one hand on his line. the flat craft rode against the water like a hand on a breast. the water mumbled a little; during this part of the crossing, that was always the only sound. and by now, the surface of the river gave back light which could not as yet be as clearly discerned in the sky, and along both banks the trees which crowded the water like drinking cattle began to take on distinctness one from another. far back through the country along both sides of the river, roosters screamed. the violet sky shone gray; and now for the first time both men saw, on the opposite shore, a covered wagon, and a little figure motionless beside it.
“i god,” said the ferryman. “reckon how long they ben awaitin!” suddenly he became very busy with his line; he had to build sufficient momentum in cross-power to carry it past the middle of the stream, where the broadside current, at full strength, could lock both line and craft. jay hurried to help. “tsch right,” the man called him off, too busy for courtesy. jay quit. after a moment the man’s hauling became more casual. he turned, enough to meet jay’s eye. “f’wrn’t man enough to hanl that alone, wouldn’t be man enough to hanl the job,” he explained.
jay nodded, and watched the expanding light.
“hope tain’t no trouble, brung ya up hyer sich an hour,” the ferryman said.
jay had realized his curiosity, and respected his silence, at the first, and so, although the question slightly altered this respect, he answered, somehow pleased to be able to communicate it to an agent at once so near his sympathies, and so impersonal: “my paw. took at the heart. don’t know yet how bad tis.”
the man clacked his tongue like an old woman, shaking his head, and looking into the water. “that’s a mean way,” he said. suddenly he looked jay in the eyes: his own were strangely shy. then he looked again into the brown water, and continued to haul at the line.
“well, good luck,” he said. “much obliged,” said jay.
the wagon grew larger and larger, and now the dark, deeply lined faces of the man and woman became distinct: the sad, deeply lined faces of the profound country which seemed ancient even in early maturity and which always gave jay a sense of peace. the woman sat high above the mule; the flare of her deep bonnet had the shape of the flare of the wagon’s canopy. the man stood beside his wagon, one clayed boot cocked on the clayed hub. they gazed gravely into the eyes of the men on the ferry, and neither of them moved, or made any sign of salutation, until the craft was made fast.
“ben here long?” the ferryman asked.
the woman looked at him; after a moment the man, without moving his eyes, nodded.
“didn’t hear yer holler.”
after a moment the man said, “i hollered.”
the ferryman put out his lantern. he turned to jay. “twarn’t rightly a dark crossing, mister. i can’t charge ye but the daytime toll.”
“all right,” jay said, giving him fifteen cents. “and much obliged to you.” he put out his headlights and stooped to crank the car.
“hold awn, bud,” the wagoner called. jay looked up; the man took two quick strides and took control of the mule’s head. the wagoner nodded.
the engine was warm, and started easily; and though with every wrench of the crank a spasm of anguish wrenched the mule, once the engine leveled out the mule stood quietly, merely trembling. jay put it violently into low to get up the steep mud bank, giving the mule and wagon as wide a berth as possible, nodding his regret of the racket and his friendliness as he passed; their heads turned, the eyes which followed him could not forgive him his noise. at the top he filled his pipe and watched while the mule and wagon descended, the mule held at the head, his hocks sprung uneasily, hoofs prodding and finding base in the treacherous clay, rump bunched high, the wagon tilting, the block-brakes screeching on the broad iron rim.
poor damn devils, he thought. he was sure they were bound for the knoxville market. they had probably waited for the ferry as much as a couple of hours. they would be hopelessly late.
he waited out the lovely sight of the water gaping. the ferry took on its peculiar squareness, its look of exquisite silence. he looked at his watch. not so bad. he lighted his pipe and settled down to drive. he always felt different once he was across the river. this was the real, old, deep country, now. home country. the cabins looked different to him, a little older and poorer and simpler, a little more homelike; the trees and rocks seemed to come differently out of the ground; the air smelled different. before long now, he would know the worst; if it was the worst. quite unconsciously he felt much more deeply at leisure as he watched the flowing, freshly lighted country; and quite unconsciously he drove a little faster than before.
