Woe to Live On: A Novel Read online

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  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  To all my family, here and now, long gone or still dreamed, who do, did, or will take stands on every which side of That Old Mountain, with love and gratitude.

  The author wishes to thank the Copernicus Foundation and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop for the assistance provided by a James A. Michener Fellowship.

  FOREWORD

  First off, let me say that most American novelists would not have attempted to write this book. They wouldn’t have the courage to tell a story where racial epithets are common and, even worse, a major character is a black man who fights for the Confederacy. It would not matter that the offensive language was true to the time period and place or that the black soldier was based on a member of Quantrill’s Raiders, a man who can be seen in a 1904 reunion photograph. These are parts of history a good many people would prefer remain unacknowledged, and those people will resent an author for bringing such matters to light.

  Readers wishing for a romanticized lament for “the lost cause” will be equally resentful. Woodrell’s Confederates are not men of honor who observe the gentlemanly rules of warfare. These soldiers plunder, kill unarmed civilians, and torture their captives. Their mode of warfare is ambush or trickery, even dressing in Union blue to surprise the enemy. The nobility of Southern womanhood is seen in light of a couple rutting on a dirt floor. The only cause the men fight for is vengeance. Their loyalty is to each other, but within the ranks there is hatred and killing. The puritanical, whether on the left or right of the political spectrum, prefer a world without ambiguity or paradox. Woodrell, like all the best artists, is an outlier. His quest in Woe to Live On is to render the world as it was, not as we wish it to have been.

  “War means fighting, and fighting means killing,” Bedford Forrest said. Jake Roedel, the novel’s narrator, learns the truth of Forrest’s comment all too well. Jake knows that in such times even “mercy has treachery in it.” Which brings us to the central question raised in Woe to Live On: Is it possible for a man to retain his humanity in an inhuman time, and if not, at least to regain that humanity after a war ends? As Jake puts it, “Our struggle had carried us into a new territory of the soul, where we found new versions of our selves.” Woe to Live On provides an answer that is neither nihilistic nor sentimental—and is sometimes contradicted in the novel itself—but nevertheless is one that I find satisfying and true to the complexity of the human heart.

  There is so much more to praise about this novel—its perfect pacing, the memorable characters, the seamless meshing of history and imagination, but what I admire most in Woe to Live On is the language. There is not a moment when the words feel outside the time and place. Words such as scotched and codded abound. The similes are colorful but they fit the characters’ rural backgrounds: “That was clear as cow patties on a snowbank”; “You done did the milkin’, might as well lap the cream.” The syntax and formality in Jake’s telling is true to letters written by Civil War soldiers: “I believed I could not be hit, so absent had I decided myself to be” and “… wondering how many of our dinner companions would share our meals no more.”

  The horror of war is vividly rendered. This is not a book for the fainthearted. Men kill and are killed, and the reader is spared few details. A scene where a wife’s love letter is read aloud to a dying Union soldier is particularly harrowing. But amid the carnage there are moments of lyrical wonder and beauty. One of my favorites is when Jake, hiding out in a barn, observes “the shafts of light spearing down through cracks and illuminating all the grainy debris in the air.” It is a moment that brings to mind another soldier, Tolstoy’s Prince Andre, who, fallen on the battlefield, sees the sky as though for the first time. Beauty and wonder yet abide in the novel’s world. And a belief that, even in the worst of times, we are capable of moments of grace and forgiveness, “that aloneness would not be our fate.”

  Daniel Woodrell is one of America’s best writers, and Woe to Live On is one of his finest achievements. The reissue of this novel is cause for celebration.

  —Ron Rash

  BOOK ONE

  Playing war is played out!

  —CHARLES R. JENNISON OF JENNISON’S JAYHAWKERS

  1

  WE RODE ACROSS the hillocks and vales of Missouri, hiding in uniforms of Yankee blue. Our scouts were out left flank and right flank, while Pitt Mackeson and me formed the point. The night had been long and arduous, the horses were lathered to the withers and dust was caking mud to our jackets. We had been aided through the night by busthead whiskey and our breaths blasphemed the scent of early morning spring. Blossoms had begun a cautious bloom on dogwood trees, and grass broke beneath hooves to impart rich, green odor. The Sni-A-Bar flowed to the west, a slight creek more than a river, but a comfort to tongues dried gamy and horses hard rode. We were making our way down the slope to it, through a copse of hickory trees full of housewife squirrels gossiping at our passing, when we saw a wagon halted near the stream.

  There was a man holding a hat for his hitched team to drink from, and a woman, a girl in red flannel and a boy who was splashing about at the water’s edge, raising mud. The man’s voice boomed to scold the boy for this, as he had yet to drink. The language of his bark put him in peril.

  “Dutchman,” Mackeson said, then spit. “Goddamn lop-eared St. Louis Dutchman.” Mackeson was American and had no use for foreigners, and only a little for me. He had eyes that were not set level in his hatchet face, so that he saw you top and bottom in one glance. I watched him close when crowds of guns were banging, and kept him to my front.

  “Let us bring Black John up,” I said.

  I turned in my saddle and raised my right hand above me, waved a circle with it, then pointed ahead. The main group was trailing us by some distance, so we had to pause while Black John brought the boys up. When they were abreast of us the files parted and Black John took one column of blue to the right, and Coleman Younger took the other to the left.

  This movement caused some noise. The Dutchman was made alert by the rumble of hooves but had no chance to escape us. We tightened our circle about the wagon, made certain the family was alone, then dismounted.

  The family crusted around the Dutchman, not in fear, but to introduce themselves. Our uniforms were a relief to them, for they did not look closely at our mismatched trousers and our hats that had rebel locks trailing below them. This was a common mistake and we took pleasure in prompting it.

  Most of the boys couldn’t be excited by a single man, so they led their mounts to the stream, renewed their friendship with whiskey and generally tomfooled about near the water. Black John Ambrose, Mackeson, me and a few others confronted the Dutchman. He offered his hand to Black John, whose stiff height, bristly black curls and hard-set face made his leadership plain.

  “Wilhelm Schnellenberger,” the Dutchman said.

  Black John did not extend his own hand, but spit, as Americans are wont to do when confident of their might.

  “Are you secesh?” Black John asked, ever so coaxingly. “Are you southern man?”

  “Nein,” the Dutchman responded. He gradually dropped his hand back to his side. “No secesh. Union man.”

  I spit, then pawed th
e glob with my boot.

  “Dutchman,” Mackeson said. “Lop-eared Dutchman.”

  “Are you certain you are not at all secesh?” Black John asked once more, his lips split in a manner that might be a grin.

  “No, no, no,” the apple-headed Dutchman answered. His baffled immigrant eyes wandered among us. He smiled. “No secesh. No secesh. Union man.”

  The woman, the girl and the boy nodded in agreement, the boy beginning to study our uniforms. He was about four years younger than me and looked to be a smart sprout despite his snubbed nose and loose jaw. I kept a watch on him.

  Black John pursed his lips and poised to speak, like a preacher caught breathless between the good news and the bad.

  Some of the fellows were in the shallows kicking a stick to and fro, trying to keep it in the air, whiskey to the winner. It was a poetry moment: water, whiskey, no danger, a friendly sun in the sky, larks and laughter.

  “Aw, hell,” Black John said. “Stretch his neck. And be sharp about it.”

  The woman had some American, and the Dutchman had enough anyway, for when she flung her arms about him wailing, he sunk to his knees. His head lolled back on his neck and his face went white. He began mumbling about his god, and I was thinking how his god must’ve missed the boat from Hamburg, for he was not near handy enough to be of use in this land.

  Mackeson goaded me. “What’s he babblin’?”

  “He is praying to Abe Lincoln,” I answered.

  A rope was needed. Coleman Younger had a good one but would not lend it as it was new, so we used mine. Mackeson formed it into a noose with seven coils rather than thirteen, for he had no inclination to bring bad luck onto himself. Thirteen is proper, though, and some things ought to be done right. I raised this issue.

  “You do it then, Dutchy,” Mackeson said, tossing the seven-coiled rope to me. “Bad luck’ll not change your course anyhow.”

  The rope burned between my fingers as I worked to make the Dutchman’s end a proper one. The situation had sunk in on the family and they had become dull. The Dutchman saw something in me and began to speak. He leaned toward me and wiggle-waggled in that alien tongue of ours. I acted put upon by having thus to illustrate my skill in oddball dialects, lest I be watched for signs of pride in the use of my parents’ language.

  “We care nothing for the war,” the Dutchman said. He had lost his hysterics for the moment and seemed nearly sensible. I respected that, but fitted the noose with thirteen coils around his neck. “We are for Utah Territory. Utah. This is not a war in Utah, we learn.”

  “This war is everywhere,” I said.

  “I am no Negro-stealer. I am barrel maker.”

  “You are Union.”

  “Nein. I am for Utah Territory.”

  I gave the long end of the rope to Mackeson, as I knew he wanted it. He threw it high up over a cottonwood branch, then tied it to the trunk.

  Jack Bull Chiles was standing between Mackeson and the water; and as he was my near brother, raised on the same bit of earth, he hustled the Dutchman toward the wagon for me. Some of the other boys joined him, and they lifted the center of attention to the seat of the wagon, startling the team, and setting off screeches of metal on wood, mules and women.

  I stepped back from the wagon’s path, then turned to Black John.

  “He says he is not a Union man,” I told him. I was flat with my voice, giving the comment no more weight than a remark on the weather. “He was codded by our costumes.”

  “Sure he says that,” Mackeson said. “Dutchman don’t mean ‘fool.’ ”

  “Now he says he is sympathetic to our cause, does he?” Black John said. He was remounted and others were following suit. “Well, he should’ve hung by his convictions rather than live by the lie.” Black John swelled himself with a heavy breath, then nodded to Mackeson. “He’s just a goddamn Dutchman anyhow, and I don’t much care.”

  Mackeson winked meanly at Schnellenberger, then stepped past him and slapped the mules on the rump.

  The immigrant swung, and not summer-evening peaceful, but frantic.

  “One less Dutchman,” Coleman Younger said.

  They all watched me, as they always did when wrong-hearted Dutchmen were converted by us. They were watching me even as they faced away, or giggled. Such an audience compelled me to act, so I mounted my big bay slowly, elaborately cool about the affair.

  The woman was grieved beyond utterance, her eyes wide and her mouth open and trembling, as if she would scream but could not. The little girl was curled in behind Mutter’s big skirts, whimpering.

  The boy I watched, as I’d pegged him for smart. With his hands hanging limp at his sides he walked beneath his father’s dancing boots, then gave a cry and made a move to loosen the rope about the cottonwood trunk. He was close to fourteen and still foreign to his toes.

  I gave no warning but the cocking of my Navy Colt and booked the boy passage with his father. He did not turn, and the ball tore him between the blades. His death was instant.

  My face was profound, I hoped, when I faced Black John.

  “Pups make hounds,” I said. “And there are hounds enough.”

  Black John nodded, then said solemnly, “Jake Roedel, you are a rare Dutchman.”

  Pitt Mackeson glared at me wrinkle-nosed, as if I were something hogs had vomited.

  “Did you see that?” he asked. “Shot the boy in the back! Couldn’t shoot him face-to-face. Goddamn Dutchman! Why’d you back-shoot him?”

  “I am tender toward boys,” I said. “But I would put a ball in your face, Mackeson, should affairs so dictate.”

  There was a silence that gave off steam, then Black John repeated himself on the sort of Dutchman I was and we rode away in the silence of the family’s pain.

  Jack Bull sidled his blue-black mount next to mine and we rode together. My near brother had a squared forehead and a narrow chin and manly brown eyes atop an uncrushed nose. The effect was pleasing to most folks. His dark hair had length, and his long, lean body was capable of quickness, but only after careful thought.

  “You want to watch that man,” he said quietly.

  I was positioned so that Pitt Mackeson’s sweat-targeted blades were ever visible to me. He seemed to know it and took great interest in what he had just ridden past.

  “I believe I can,” I said. “He needs hurting.”

  “Aw,” Jack Bull said. “You expect too much of him. He is dumb and mean and snaky, but he is a good Yankee-killer.” Jack Bull had, by virtue of the station to which he’d been born, an air of educated understanding about him. “You must admit that he is a fine Yankee-killer.”

  “He is a good killer, Jack Bull. And this season he kills Yankees.”

  “Comrades can be made of less,” he responded. “Keep it in mind.”

  I had many comrades who were made of nothing but the same. I saw the truth of it and would not squawk that they were not made of more.

  Our course took us into the bottoms of the Blackwater River. The land was moist there, and the roads were heavy. We were unmilitary in our formation but watchful of everything.

  Near on to noon we came to a small farm and halted. We scanned the scene and saw nothing of threat in it.

  “Some of you boys go make us known,” Black John commanded. Cave Wyatt, Riley Crawford, Bill House and Silas Mills rode directly to the door and hailed the inhabitants.

  An old woman soon came onto the porch. Her dress was gray and thick and smudged, and her boots carried mud.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  Most of the country men in this county were loyal to the South and necessary to us, so rough tactics were held back until sympathy had a chance to win.

  “Why, we are southern men,” Cave said. “And hungry.”

  “You don’t look like southern men,” the old woman said back. “How do I know?”

  Riley Crawford was from this county, and being not over sixteen he had a trustworthy face. Jayhawkers had tortured his father with devilish
rope tricks and, thus left fatherless, Riley had grown into a killer young.

  He spoke. “Woman, my name is Crawford. One of the Six-Point Creek Crawfords—do you know me?”

  The woman stomped the mud from her boots on the planks of the porch, then nodded.

  “I knew the father,” she said. “Him and plenty more. Come on and eat as what we have.”

  We went into the yard and dismounted. The nips of whiskey had built us all appetites, so we were lazy about posting pickets. This was often the case.

  We numbered twenty-one men. The woman, who had the name of Clark, was kept hopping. She brought us trays of biscuits and molasses, coffee and milk.

  I went to the kitchen to assist her, as I had no vanity about cooking work.

  “Are you alone here?” I asked her.

  Her face was round and pleasant, but aged by the times. Skin sagged at her throat, yet there was tightness about the eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. Then, jolted by the thought of her lie, “No. My man is at Arkansas with Shelby. My son is in the barn.”

  “Is he grown?”

  “He was,” she said. “He gave up a leg at Wilson’s Creek. I keep him hid away.” She grabbed a biscuit tray and turned from me. “Jayhawkers have been about here. They would kill him.”

  “He should come with us.”

  “No,” she said, and shook her head. “He won’t fight. He is done with that.”

  In the front room I ate with the men, all squatted about the floor. Our many pistols scraped the floorboards and made sitting thus a skill, but no complaints were ever made of that.

  I hunkered next to Jack Bull as usual, and Arch Clay, Bill House and Cave, who looked at me from his plate and said, “You are an interestin’ foreigner, Jake.”

  “Why is that?” I asked amiably, as Cave often had me on with jokes.

  He wiped a molasses drool from his brown beard and answered, “Because you are loyal to here and not there. Uncommon.”