by R. J. Blacks
Sure, there were skirmishes around the periphery of Richmond and even one decisive battle in 1862 where 284 men died. But that was a cakewalk compared to the carnage elsewhere. From Shiloh, to Chickamauga, to Gettysburg, and from a dozen other battles, casualties mounted up to more than a half million, yet not until 1865, at which time the Confederates decided to abandon Richmond, was there any focused and sustained effort from either side to take out the other’s capital. Why?
One could argue it goes back to the idea of chivalry, a code of conduct assumed by the knights during the middle ages. The code specified that a person’s honor and place in society must always be respected in spite of the circumstances.
It’s an interesting theory, but I think it was more practical. For one thing, during most of the Civil War, the outcome was never certain. Although the north had a vastly superior war machine, well-equipped factories, and a plethora of scientists and engineers to work theory into practical weapons, the south had something the north had not bargained for, an abundance of determination. Northern troops consisted mainly of career soldiers and draftees who were being sent to a land with customs and practices so obscure to them it just as easily could have been foreign soil. But the Confederates were fighting for the most powerful motivator of all time, their own land and the personal safety of their families. In what would eventually become known as America’s bloodiest war, with almost double the American casualties of World War II or any other war that followed, where the blood of vibrant young men was turning beautiful and fertile farmland into vast cemeteries, valleys of death, the press of the time was awash in rumors, both true and imagined, of back-room deals and truces that might shape the outcome one way or another.
Bureaucrats and public servants, being practical men and realizing they could do little else to earn their daily bread, avoided making waves in the hope that should the opposing side win, they could find employment in the new administration. And that’s exactly what happened. At the conclusion of the war, many public figures, initially loyal to the south, were in fact rehired by the north to assist in the transition to a new Federal Government. So it appears that the actions of these men were not so much shaped by morals and ideology, but by money. And so it goes.
As we drive through Richmond, it’s easy to understand why it was chosen to be the capital of the Confederacy. In the 1860’s, it was the center of southern industrialization. It combined manufacturing, transportation, agriculture, banking, education, hospitals, and lively political discourse, all necessary ingredients to field a good war, within a compact five square mile area. And it did all that while maintaining an air of Southern traditionalism. Even today, 150 years later, parts of Richmond still have the look and feel of the traditional South. There are monuments and parks everywhere paying homage to fallen Civil War heroes. And many of the buildings have that decidedly “Southern” look, majestic white pillars decorating the front. Occasionally we would pass a house or business displaying a Confederate flag from a die-hard who has never given up on his beloved Dixie. But it was the weather more than anything that reminded me we were in the south. It was sunny and the temperature had risen to the low forty’s, balmy by Philadelphia standards for this time of year.
At about 6:00 PM we cross into North Carolina. The sun has dipped below the horizon and a chill is creeping into the air. We pass a sign for a public rest area.
“Could you pull in here?” I ask.
“Sure, I have to go too,” he says.
Will eases the Cruiser onto the exit ramp and into a heavily wooded parking area with hundred-foot oaks and maples, leafless due to the impending winter. Scattered between are a dozen towering pines, dropping their cones on cue for the upcoming Christmas season. Will parks the car. The rest area is deserted except for a black T-Bird with chrome wheels and North Carolina tags. The driver is nearby, propped up against a lamp pole, beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s about twenty-five, clean cut, wearing some type of designer jeans, Armani or something, and an elegant light-green shirt unbuttoned, revealing his chest. I pull on the handle to open the door; Will grabs my arm.
“What?” I say.
“Go straight to the bathroom and back. Don’t stop. Eyes down the whole time. Do you understand?”
“What’s wrong?”
“That guy... gives me the willies.”
“I’ve seen worse on campus.”
“Straight to the bathroom, eyes on the ground. Got it?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“We’ll go together,” he says.
Will and I exit the Cruiser and stroll to the restrooms. Will ducks into the men’s room and I head to the ladies room. Pushing open the door, I unconsciously glance at the man; he’s staring at me. We lock eyes for a microsecond then I rush inside allowing the restroom door to close behind me. I search for a clean stall then do what I came here to do. I unsnap the latch on the stall door, find a working sink, then rinse my hands. I reach for a paper towel when the man appears from behind the stall closest to the exit. He stands there grinning at me.
“Excuse me, this is the ladies room,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“Well, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I just want to know your name.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I already have someone.”
“You deserve better,” he says.
This guy obviously is not taking a hint so I throw a little authority into it.
“I suggest you leave, before someone sees you in here.”
“No one’s coming in here,” he says, locking the door latch from the inside.
I can’t believe this is happening. My heart pounds.
“My name’s Damon, what’s yours?”
I don’t believe him for a minute, but figure I should just play along. Maybe he’ll tire of the game and leave.
“Rose.”
“Rose... how interesting. Now we’re getting somewhere. They say roses have a real nice fragrance.”
He starts walking toward me.
I back away, but he keeps coming. I find myself getting deeper into the room, farther from the exit. I gather a look of determination and attempt to walk briskly around him. He blocks my path. I change course attempting to stay out of his reach, but he blocks my path again.
“My friend’s out there, you know. He’s going to come looking for me,” I say, attempting to scare him off.
“There’s no one out there. Your friend left.”
I think to myself, Will would never do that. Then again, maybe he sensed trouble and went to get help. I’ve got to play along, stall him as long as possible, until Will gets back. I attempt to throw him on the defensive.
“You’re not very nice,” I say.
“You’re the one with the attitude. I’m just trying to be friendly.” And then he starts moving toward me.
I point to a security camera bolted to the wall.
“Careful, they’re watching us.”
“It doesn’t work,” he says, his eyes fixed on me. “Someone cut the wire.”
I can see wires hanging from the camera, dangling in the air. Strange, I think to myself. He knew that without looking. I’m out of options, so I decide to go for it. I move as fast as I can, hoping to catch him off guard. All I need is a second to slip by. As I go by him, he body checks me slamming me against the wall. He presses my cheek against the concrete with his hand.
“Now you’re being ignorant,” he says.
He puts his full weight against me, pinning me against the wall. He twirls my hair for a few moments, and then, runs his thumb lightly around my lips.
“Blue hair, blue lipstick, blue nails. What other treats have you got for me?”
He starts kissing my neck, slides his hand over my breast, squeezes. I knee him in the groin with as much strength as I can muster. He winces, closes his eyes for a moment, then smacks me across the mouth with the back of his hand knocking me sideways.
“You’re jus
t not a very nice person,” he says.
He grabs my blouse, rips it open.
Then a sound. Someone is at the door, trying to open it. He looks at the door, and then looks back at me.
“Shhh,” he says. “They’ll go away.”
I scream.
He smacks me across the face again knocking me to the floor. I detect the unmistakable taste of blood on my lip.
I hear a “THUMP...THUMP...THUMP,” as if someone is heaving their entire body against the door. Damon stares at the door. Another “THUMP...THUMP...THUMP,” and finally the lock snaps. The door flies open hitting the wall with a crash. Will stumbles in, almost tripping over his feet. He sees me on the floor and Damon standing over me. Damon whips out a switchblade, and then points it at Will.
“Get on the floor, on your stomach.”
“Please, let’s not make this any worse than it is,” Will says. “Why don’t we all just walk away and pretend this never happened.”
“You don’t hear real well, do you old man?”
Damon grabs my hair, pulls my head back, and then puts the switchblade to my throat.
“On the floor... now... or I cut her.”
Will puts up his hands.
“Whoa, peace brother, no need for violence. I’m a man of faith.”
Will slowly reaches into his pocket, produces a Bible, and then opens it.
“Have you never heard it said, ‘Love your enemies and pray for those that persecute you.’”
Will smiles, holds out the Bible, and then motions Damon to take it. Damon glares at Will.
“Fuck you.”
Damon releases my hair allowing me to drop to the floor, and then, edges toward Will. He holds the knife at arm’s length pointing it at Will’s face.
“Someone needs to teach you a lesson.”
Will lowers his head and stares at the floor. He looks so helpless. He doesn’t move for what seems like an eternity. Damon edges his way closer, pointing the knife at his throat. Will closes the Bible and says something under his breath, like a prayer or something.
I feel the need to do something, but what? My lip is swollen and bleeding and I’m completely exhausted from the struggle. If only I had brought my cellphone with me. I think about making a mad dash for the door, but Damon is blocking my path and the light dancing off that lethal stiletto is enough to dissuade anyone from making a rash decision.
Damon circles Will, keeping his distance. He lunges the knife at him then stops, taunting him, like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill. It’s obvious that Damon thrives on terror, and in his perverted way he is trying to raise the stakes. But Will does nothing. He just stands there, head bowed down, and stares at the floor, like a lamb going to the slaughter.
“I love the sight of fresh blood,” Damon says. “Red things fascinate me.”
The expression on Damon’s face goes blank and his eyes glass over. He draws back the knife preparing for the final thrust and then steps toward Will.
“It’s time,” Will says.
With the flick of his wrist, like a world-class Frisbee player, Will hurls the Bible at Damon’s face. It smashes into Damon’s nose obscuring his vision, causing him to become disoriented for an instant, but that’s all Will needs. Will grabs the knife hand, twists it down, and then smashes it into a hand drier attached to the wall. Damon loses his grip causing the knife to fly across the room, bounce off the floor, slide for a bit, and finally come to rest up against the far wall.
Damon pushes Will away, attacks him like a kick-boxer. Will backs off momentarily, then with the elegance of a Karate master, spins Damon around and smashes his head into the wall. Damon drops to the floor, doesn’t move. Will picks up the Bible, dusts it off, kisses the cover.
“Amazing little book. Always comes through in my time of need,” he says.
Damon lies on the floor, eyes closed, doesn’t move. Will approaches me, helps me off the floor. I creep around the lifeless body maintaining as much distance as possible. Will follows close behind. As we approach the door, I glance at Damon one more time.
“Is he dead?” I ask.
Will stoops down, feels his pulse.
“No. Just knocked out. He’ll be okay.
“Maybe we should call 911.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Will strolls to the back wall, tears off a paper towel from one of those wall dispensers, and then, uses it to pick up the switchblade. He carefully folds the knife back together and then wraps the paper towel around it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Come on; let’s get out of here, before he comes to.” He takes my hand and then leads me out the door.
The parking lot is dark now except for a few areas illuminated by yellow sodium lights. I can see the black T-Bird, but there’s no one else around. I guess hardly anyone stops here on Sunday, at dinnertime, on a cold December night. I’m certain Damon knew that, and planned this, and we fell into his trap. If it wasn’t for Will, who knows where I’d be right now.
“Will... how’d you learn to fight like that?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“Later then?”
“Yeah, later.”
Will takes the knife wrapped in the paper towel and drops it down a drain.
“These toys belong in the sewer,” he says.
I nod in agreement and we retreat to the Cruiser. Will opens the driver’s door, slides into the seat, and then starts the engine. As I reach for the passenger door, the wind whips at the tear in my blouse exposing my bra. Suddenly I become disturbingly cognizant of the impression it would project if a stranger saw me in this tattered condition. I open the door, retrieve my jacket, and then struggle to put it on, still shaking from the incident. Will nervously revs the motor.
“Come on, we got to get out of here,” he barks.
“Okay!” I say gruffly, and then plop into my seat slamming the door.
Will backs out the Cruiser then speeds away onto the interstate.
“We’re lucky,” he says. “No one saw us.”
“Yeah,” I say, but then think about others that might be victimized by this psycho’s game, unsuspecting college students or retirees traveling to their winter retreats. Who knows where it could lead next time.
“Shouldn’t we file a police report?” I ask.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something strange about this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, this is not your typical hood,” he says. “He’s got a late model car, expensive clothes, and talks like he’s well educated.”
“Crooks come in all shapes and sizes,” I say.
“Yeah, but he’s got local tags so I got a hunch he lives around here. And that could mean he’s well connected.”
“Well connected?”
“Yeah, like he’s the son of a politician or judge or something. We file a police report and next thing you know, we’re the ones being charged with a crime.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure, but suppose the kid comes up with a story, says we tried to rob him or something. If you’re the Justice of the Peace, who you going to believe, the son of your best friend, or a couple of drifters?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Better just let it lie. Hopefully, someday, he’ll make a mistake and get his due.”
Will had a point. We were on a tight schedule and didn’t have the time or resources to prove our innocence should something bizarre happen. Being held up in a no-name town, where the locals had all the good cards, and we would be treated as the hostile intruders; it was not something I wanted to deal with right now. And even if everything went right, it could still end up costing us hundreds of dollars for food and lodging. Will was right; we had to let it lie.
But it bothered me to no end that this crazy guy was out there, stalking the
public, and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it. Even an anonymous phone call could be traced, and that wacko might have the resources to do it, especially if his father was a judge or politician. He didn’t seem like the type that would just walk away from this. His honor, or whatever his warped mind considered honor, was damaged. I’m certain, given the opportunity, he would evoke revenge in the most destructive manner he could conceive. And the thought of ever having to face him again frightens me. I remind myself that in a couple of hours we will be out of this state and beyond his influence. This whole dirty mess will be behind us; I will never have to deal with this again. And that makes me glad.
“How’s your lip?” Will asks.
“Hurts.”
“Wrap an ice cube in a napkin and press it against your lip. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
I reach into the cooler, retrieve an ice cube, then do as he says.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yeah, much better.”
I settle back, close my eyes, and try to get some much-needed rest. But it’s not to be. Will breaks the silence with the last thing I want to hear.
“I think that’s a cop car behind us.”
I sneak a peek and can clearly see the outline of the lights on the roof.
“Probably just happens to be going in our direction,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”
But I was worried. Who knew where he came from or what his motives were? I check again and notice the police cruiser is getting closer. The whole thing is making me nervous, but I keep telling myself there is no problem, just a coincidence. Then the police lights go on lighting up the entire highway and the cruiser pulls up right behind us. Will looks at me and shrugs: “I have to stop.”
I knew he was right; there was no chance we could outrun a police car, nor would it be wise to. It would give them a reason to arrest us and that would mean a trip to the police station, bringing us right back into that psycho’s grip.
Will eases the PT Cruiser onto the shoulder and turns off the engine. The highway is dark and foreboding save for an occasional car racing by in the passing lane. The patrol car pulls up behind us and directs a spotlight onto our vehicle. The officer in the driver’s seat gets out and strolls over to Will, all the time shining a flashlight around the inside of our vehicle as if he is searching for something. Will rolls down the window. I catch a glimpse of the officer’s badge as a passing car’s headlights reflect off it. He’s a North Carolina State Trooper and thank-goodness for that. I’m glad he’s not one of those local cops. I don’t know if it’s true, but up north, southern cops have a reputation of bending the law any way it suits them, all in the interest of law enforcement of course. The state police, on the other hand, have little interest in local issues and go pretty much by the book.
