The Machineries of Joy - Ray Bradbury

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in like a well-ordered cavalry charge to the sand? Well, that was it, that’s what he wanted, that’s what was needed! Joby was his right hand and his left. He gave the orders, but Joby set the pace!

      So bring the right knee up and the right foot out and the left knee up and the left foot out. One following the other in good time, in brisk time. Move the blood up the body and make the head proud and the spine stiff and the jaw resolute. Focus the eye and set the teeth, flare the nostrils and tighten the hands, put steel armor all over the men, for blood moving fast in them does indeed make men feel as if they’d put on steel. He must keep at it, at it! Long and steady, steady and long! Then, even though shot or torn, those wounds got in hot blood—in blood he’d helped stir—would feel less pain. If their blood was cold, it would be more than slaughter, it would be murderous nightmare and pain best not told and no one to guess.

      The General spoke and stopped, letting his breath slack off. Then, after a moment, he said, “So there you are, that’s it. Will you do that, boy? Do you know now you’re general of the army when the General’s left behind?”

      The boy nodded mutely.

      “You’ll run them through for me then, boy?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good. And, God willing, many nights from tonight, many years from now, when you’re as old or far much older than me, when they ask you what you did in this awful time, you will tell them—one part humble and one part proud—‘I was the drummer boy at the battle of Owl Creek,’ or the Tennessee River, or maybe they’ll just name it after the church there. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Good grief, that has a beat and sound to it fitting for Mr. Long-fellow. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Who will ever hear those words and not know you, boy, or what you thought this night, or what you’ll think tomorrow or the next day when we must get up on our legs and move!”

      The general stood up. “Well, then. God bless you, boy. Good night.”

      “Good night, sir.”

      And, tobacco, brass, boot polish, salt sweat and leather, the man moved away through the grass.

      Joby lay for a moment, staring but unable to see where the man had gone.

      He swallowed. He wiped his eyes. He cleared his throat. He settled himself. Then, at last, very slowly and firmly, he turned the drum so that it faced up toward the sky.

      He lay next to it, his arm around it, feeling the tremor, the touch, the muted thunder as, all the rest of the April night in the year 1862, near the Tennessee River, not far from the Owl Creek, very close to the church named Shiloh, the peach blossoms fell on the drum.

      Hugh Fortnum woke to Saturday’s commotions and lay, eyes shut, savoring each in its turn.

      Below, bacon in a skillet; Cynthia waking him with fine cookings instead of cries.

      Across the hall, Tom actually taking a shower.

      Far off in the bumblebee dragonfly light, whose voice was already damning the weather, the time, and the tides? Mrs. Goodbody? Yes. That Christian giantess, six foot tall with her shoes off, the gardener extraordinary, the octogenarian dietitian and town philosopher.

      He rose, unhooked the screen and leaned out to hear her cry, “There! Take that! This’ll fix you! Hah!”

      “Happy Saturday, Mrs. Goodbodyl”

      The old woman froze in clouds of bug spray pumped from an immense gun.

      “Nonsense!” she shouted. “With these fiends and pests to watch for?”

      “What kind this time?” called Fortnum.

      “I don’t want to shout it to the jaybirds, but”—she glanced suspiciously around—“what would you say if I told you I was the first line of defense concerning flying saucers?”

      “Fine,” replied Fortnum. “There’ll be rockets between the worlds any year now.”

      “There already are!” She pumped, aiming the spray under the hedge. “There! Take that!”

      He pulled his head back in from the fresh day, somehow not as high-spirited as his first response had indicated. Poor soul, Mrs. Goodbody. Always the essence of reason. And now what? Old age?

      The doorbell rang.

      He grabbed his robe and was half down the stairs when he heard a voice say, “Special delivery. Fortnum?” and saw Cynthia turn from the front door, a small packet in her hand.

      “Special-delivery airmail for your son.”

      Tom was downstairs like a centipede.

      “Wow! That must be from the Great Bayou Novelty Greenhouse!”

      “I wish I were as excited about ordinary mail,” observed Fortnum.

      “Ordinary?!” Tom ripped the cord and paper wildly. “Don’t you read the back pages of Popular Mechanics? Well, here they are!”

      Everyone peered into the small open box.

      “Here,” said Fortnum, “what are?”

      “The Sylvan Glade Jumbo-Giant Guaranteed Growth Raise-Them-in-Your-Cellar-for-Big-Profit Mushrooms!”

      “Oh, of course,” said Fortnum. “How silly of me.”

      Cynthia squinted. “Those little teeny bits?”

      “‘Fabulous growth in twenty-four hours,’” Tom quoted from memory. “ ‘Plant them in your cellar …’ ”

      Fortnum and wife exchanged glances.

      “Well,” she admitted, “it’s better than frogs and green snakes.”

      “Sure is!” Tom ran.

      “Oh, Tom,” said Fortnum lightly.

      Tom paused at the cellar door.

      “Tom,” said his father. “Next time, fourth-class mail would do fine.”

      “Heck,” said Tom. “They must’ve made a mistake, thought I was some rich company. Airmail special, who can afford that?”

      The cellar door slammed.

      Fortnum, bemused, scanned the wrapper a moment then dropped it into the wastebasket. On his way to the kitchen, he opened the cellar door.

      Tom was already on his knees, digging with a hand rake in the dirt.

      He felt his wife beside him, breathing softly, looking down into the cool dimness.

      “Those are mushrooms, I hope. Not … toadstools?”

      Fortnum laughed. “Happy harvest, farmer!”

      Tom glanced up and waved.

      Fortnum shut the door, took his wife’s arm and walked her out to the kitchen, feeling fine.

      Toward noon, Fortnum was driving toward the nearest market when he saw Roger Willis, a fellow Rotarian and a teacher of biology at the town high school, waving urgently from the sidewalk.

      Fortnum pulled his car up and opened the door.

      “Hi, Roger, give you a lift?”

      Willis responded all too eagerly, jumping in and slamming the door.

      “Just the man I want to see. I’ve put off calling for days. Could you play psychiatrist for five minutes, God help you?”

      Fortnum examined his friend for a moment as he drove quietly on.

      “God help you, yes. Shoot.”

      Willis sat back and studied

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