Across Five Aprils Read Online Free PDF Page B

that some of ’em must not ha’ been comf‘table with them words ‘a peculiar institution.’ ”
    “Well then, I’ll ask you this: if tomorrow every slave in the South had his freedom and come up North, would yore abolitionists git the crocodile tears sloshed out of their eyes so they could take the black man by the hand? Would they say, ‘We’ll see that you git good-payin’ work fitted to what you’re able to do—we’ll see that you’re well housed and clothed—we want you to come to our churches and yore children to come to our schools—why, we danged near fergit the difference in the colors of our skins because we air so almighty full of brotherly love!’ Would it be like that in yore northern cities, Cousin John?”
    “It ain’t like that fer the masses of white people in our northern cities—nor in the southern cities either. And yet, there ain’t a white man, lean-bellied and hopeless as so many of them are, that would change lots with a slave belongin’ to the kindest master in the South.”
    Then Bill spoke for the first time, his eyes still on the yellow light of the lamp.
    “Slavery, I hate. But it is with us, and them that should suffer fer the evil they brought to our shores air long dead. What I want us to answer in this year of 1861 is this, John: does the trouble over slavery come because men’s hearts is purer above the Mason-Dixon line? Or does slavery throw a shadder over greed and keep that greed from showin’ up quite so bare and ugly?”
    Wilse Graham seemed to leap at Bill’s question. “You’re right, Cousin Bill. It’s greed, not slavery, that’s stirrin’ up this trouble. And as fer human goodness—men’s hearts is jest as black today as in the Roman times when they nailed slaves to crosses by the hunderd and left’em there to point up a lesson.”
    Matt Creighton shook his head. “Human nature ain’t any better one side of a political line than on the other—we all know that—but human nature, the all-over picture of it, is better than it was a thousand—five hundred—even a hundred years ago. There is an awakenin’ inside us of human decency and responsibility. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t grieve fer the children I’ve buried; I wouldn’t look for’ard to the manhood of this youngest one.”
    Jethro felt as if he were bursting with the tumult inside him. The thought of war had given him a secret delight only a matter of hours before; it had meant something of the same kind of joy he had known while watching the young men race their horses up and down the road past the cabin on a Sunday afternoon; or it had meant the kind of excitement that was half-terror when, in the early days of the school term, he had watched Shadrach Yale fight a local bully who was trying to break up classes. Jethro had been half beside himself as he watched the young master feint and parry and finally knock his opponent flat on the frozen ground of the schoolyard. For weeks after that Jethro had practiced secretly at punching an old horsecollar, a sack of oats, anything, even the thin air. He had felt his face grow hot with fury as he battered at his imaginary assailant, and he had felt strong and satisfied afterward as if the fight had sparked some inner reservoir of well-being. War, he had thought, must give men that same feeling of strength and fulfillment. He had sympathized with Tom and Eb, and he had been angered at his father’s command for silence when they grew loud and vehement in their demands for war.
    Suddenly he was deeply troubled. He groped toward an understanding of something that was far beyond the excitement of guns and shouting men; but he could not find words to define what he felt, and that lack left him in a turmoil of frustration. He wanted to weep, but one endured a lot before he disgraced himself in that way. He closed his eyes for a second and swayed a little on his chair.
    Jenny was at his shoulder then, pouring more milk into the tin cup