Author’s note: “Weekend Short” is a recurring column profiling short stories. Analysis from the readership is encouraged in the comments section.
Welcome to the weekend!
There exist men of such vitality that it is impossible, not only to love them, but also to be just a bit glad to see the back of them as they fly off to the next conquest or achievement. Jack London (John Griffith Chaney) was one such man. In the course of his 40 years, he managed to attain one of the rarest titles: celebrity author in his own time.
His combination of output and quality had much to do with it — and he was a good-looking, romantic figure to boot. London would go on to write 50 books and hundreds of short stories and articles between the ages of 24 and his death at 40. In his youth, London subscribed to “Anglo-Saxon Socialism,” the idea the post-capitalism idyll could be achieved only after Anglo-Saxons outproduced the rest of the world. This theory quite the turgid soup of early 20th-century eugenics, race concern, and economic theory.
Still, one can understand London to be less an ideologue and more generally frustrated with the treatment of his fellow man by what powers existed in his time, be they corporate or the state. A modernist and naturalist, he believed man belonged in nature away from the “Machine Age” — an aversion to industrialization he had in common with J. R. R. Tolkien. The common man’s anxiety about a globalized economy and technological advances continues to this day. But has war changed with it?
Let’s consider. “War,” written in 1913, is intentionally vague about the time and conflict in which the participants are taking part. I read the setting as the Civil War, but it could have easily been about European or Asian conflicts of the time. One of London’s talents was universalizing small, distant moments. What we know is that there are carbines and a scout on patrol.
London writes:
He was a young man, not more than twenty-four or five, and he might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so catlike and tense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the movements of twigs and branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward through the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side. And as he watched, so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of heavy guns from far to the west. This had been sounding monotonously in his ears for hours, and only its cessation would have aroused his notice. For he had business closer to hand. Across his saddle-bow was balanced a carbine.
You can read the rest here, listen to it here, and purchase a copy here.
First, appreciation for this line, “He was appalled by his own loneliness. The pulse of war that beat from the West suggested the companionship of battling thousands; here was naught but silence, and himself, and possible death-dealing bullets from a myriad ambushes.” The bravery of the scout, as likely to be killed by his side as the enemy, is often taken for granted. Unlike the man in the regiment, however, the scout has enough liberty in which to bring about his own end through failure to observe. Easier it is, it seems to me, to be ordered into a deadly situation than to die knowing I could have prevented the situation if only I’d acted as I should have earlier.
And there was that opportunity at the stream to kill the man who’d eventually kill our protagonist. But how was he to know? Here we see London’s modernist philosophy most clearly — there is no cosmic justice. The scout is not saved for having saved the other. By acting against natural order (Kill the Enemy), the scout has doomed himself. Further, there’s nothing to separate these men from other creatures moving through the trees — we see this in the description of man and horse side by side and the vision of the red-haired man’s beard. Beasts, all, no matter what might be passing through the protagonist’s mind.
The final image of the “burst of red-cheeked apples” seems a deft touch to communicate brain splatter — the only thinker in the story punished for daring to show mercy.
What say you? Many thanks to Andy for the suggestion.
It’s Grandma Abel’s birthday today! I won’t say how old, but rest assured, she’s a marvel for her age (or any age). I’ve learned more about God’s sacrificial love from her than just about anyone. The family is surprising her with a party up at the cottage, so there’ll be about two casseroles, a cake, and three pans of sides per person. The Abels have our own tier of membership with Costco. Please do wish her well in the comment section, if you’re of a mind to.
Other than that, my little brother is home on leave from the Air Force. He takes great pleasure in asking how unpleasant Navy living was and then regales me with stories of his working hours, beachfront apartment in Rota, Spain, and a reasonable chain of command. “Must be nice,” said every poor shmuck in the Marines, Navy, and Army.
Here’s the Hayde Bluegrass Orchestra with “Wayfaring Stranger”:
I’m just a poor wayfaring strangerTraveling through this world belowThere is no sickness, no toil, no dangerIn that bright land to which I go
Author’s note: If there’s a short story you’d like to see discussed in the coming weeks, please send your suggestion to label@nationalreview.com.