The big boys always stole his lunch at the school
And rubbed his nose in the dirt—and when he grew up
It was just the same. There was something under his face,
Something that said, “Come, bully me—I won’t bite.”
He couldn’t see it himself, but it must be there.
He was always going places and thinking, “This time,
They won’t find out.” But they always did find out
After a while. It had been that way at the store,
That way in the army, that way now as a spy.
Behind his eyes he built up a super-Shippy
Who ordered people around, loved glittering girls,
Threw out his chest and died for a bloody flag
And then revived to be thanked by gilt generals,
A schoolboy Shippy, eating the big boys’ lunch.
It was his totem. He visioned that Shippy now,
Reckless Shippy with papers sewed in his boots,
Slyly carrying fate through the Rebel lines
To some bright place where—
The off mule stumbled and brayed.
He cursed it whimperingly and jerked at the reins,
While his heart jerked, too. The super-Shippy was gone.
He was alone and scared and late on the road.
My God, but he was scared of being a spy
And the mute-faced woman in Richmond and war and life!
He had some papers sewn in his boots all right
And they’d look at the papers while he stood sweating before them,
Crumple them up and bully him with cross speech,
“Couldn’t you even find out where Heth’s men are?
Can’t you draw a map? You don’t know about Stonewall Jackson?
Why don’t you know it? What’s this ford by the church?
My God, man, what do you think you are out there for?
You’ll have to do better next time, I can tell you that.
We’ll send you over Route 7. We had a man there,
But he’s been reported killed—” He shuddered in vain,
Seeing a rope and a tree and a dangling weight
And the mute-faced woman sending a paper off
In somebody’s else’s boots, and somebody saying
In an ice-cream voice to another scared little man.
“Next time, you’ll try Route 7. We had a man there,
But he’s been reported killed—” Oh, there is a hole
Somewhere deep in the ground where the rabbits hide,
But I’ve never found it— They stuck up signs and a flag
And it was war and you went and got scared to death
By the roar and the yells and the people trying to kill you
Till anything else seemed better—and there you were,
Driving mules with papers sewn in your boots,
But people still wanting to kill you—and no way out.
If you deserted, the mute-faced woman would know
And that would be the worst—and if you went back,
It would be Bull Run and yelling and all that blood
When it made you sick to your stomach. Even at school
You always had to fight. There was no way out.
Sophy was sweet and Sophy was a good girl
And Sophy was the warm earth where the rabbits hide
Away from danger, letting their hearts go slow,
But you couldn’t stay with Sophy, you couldn’t stay,
And she’d say she’d be a good girl— but, in spite of himself,
He saw a big boy tearing a cardboard box
Apart, with greedy hands, in a bare school-yard,
Where a Shippy whimpered— “Oh, Soph, I’ll get you the scent,
Honest I will! Oh God, just let me get through,
Just this one time—and I’ll pray—I’ll be good—oh God,
Make these papers something they want!”
He clucked to his mules.
Another mile and he’d be out on the pike
And pretty safe for a while. His spirit returned
To building the super-Shippy from dust again.
His head began to nod with the sway of the cart. …
Half a dozen men rode out from a little clearing
And casually blocked the road. He pulled up his mules,
Staring around. He saw a face that he knew,
Now queer with triumph—Sophy filling a pail
And that gangling fellow lounging against the pump,
Hungry-eyed— It happened too fast to be scary.
You got stopped such a lot. It was only some new patrol.
“All the boys know me,” he said. “Yes, I got my pass.”
They took the pass but they did not give it back.
There was a waver shaking the dusty air,
The feel of a cord grown tauter. How dry his throat was!
He’d be driving on in a minute. “Well boys?” he said,
“Well, fellers?” They didn’t answer or look at him.
“I tell you that’s the man,” said the mountaineer.
The sergeant-feller looked dubiously at the rest,
Gentlemanly he looked like, a nice young feller
With his little black moustache and his thin, brown face,
He wouldn’t do anything mean. It would be all right.
Another man was paring his nails with a knife,
His face was merry and reckless—nice feller, too,
Feller to stand you a drink and talk gay with the girls,
Not anybody to hurt you or twist your wrist.
They were all nice fellers except for the mountaineer.
They were searching him now, but they didn’t do it mean.
He babbled to them all through it. “Now boys, now boys,
You’re making a big mistake, boys. They all know me,
They all know Charley the peddler.” The sergeant looked
Disgusted now—wonder why. Go ahead and look,
You’ll never find it—Sophy—bottle of scent—
A horrible voice was saying, “Pull off his boots,”
He fought like a frightened rat then, weeping and biting,
But they got him down and found the papers all right.
Luke Breckenridge observed them with startled eyes,
“Christ,” he thought, “so the skunk’s a spy after all.
Well, I told ’em so—but I didn’t reckon he was.
Little feist of a peddler, chasin’ my girl,
Wanted to scare him off so he wouldn’t come back—
Hell, they ought to make me a corporal now.”
He was pleased. Clay Wingate looked at the writhing man,
“Get up!” he said, in a hard voice, feeling sick.
But they had to drag it up before it would stand
And even then it still babbled. His throat was dry
But that was all right—it was going to be all right—
He was alive—he was Shippy—he knew a girl—
He was going to buy her a bottle of first-class scent.
It couldn’t all stop. He wasn’t ready to die.
He was willing enough to be friends and call it a joke.
Let them take the mules and the cart and hurt him a lot
Only not that—it was other spies who were hung,
Not
