"How'd it happen?" he asked.
"He was pulling fuses from the dynamite the Rebs had planted in our ammunition wagons," I explained. "They shot him when he was going for the last one."
"Was it you who got that last one?"
"No sir, Private Harris got it." I inclined my head toward Johnny, who had come up beside us.
"Good work, private." The lieutenant looked back at me. "Your sergeant was a brave man."
"Yes sir," I said, wondering if that would give any comfort to his wife and children when they learned they would never see their husband and father again. Then I thought of the previous night, and I wondered if Jim Lacey would still be alive if I had not done what I had.
Chapter Eleven
Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865
It was Saturday night and I was sitting at my kitchen table reading Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Life Among the Lowly. Critics said its powerful narrative proved false all Southern justifications of slavery. I had heard about the novel long before war broke out. It had been discussed extensively at the university. But the pressure of my studies had kept me from reading it then. Now, having experienced slavery with my own eyes, I wanted to do so; wanted to see how well Mrs. Stowe had captured the cold-hearted callousness of one man's enslavement of another.
A knock at my back door brought me to my feet and I reached for my pistol and moved toward it.
"Who's there?" I called.
"It's Doc, Jubal. Open up."
I stuck the pistol under my belt and swung the door back and Doc stepped into the kitchen, immediately taking notice of the pistol. "Good thing you've got that," he said. "Somebody's movin' around in the Harris's barn, and it's not Virgil or his missus. They're out of town, visiting family."
"Let me wake up my father, and we'll go down and have a look."
"I'll leave it to you, then," Doc said. "I'm too old and fat to start chasing house breakers. But if I hear any shooting I'll be over with my scattergun."
* * *
My father dressed quickly, strapped on his own pistol, and followed me out the door. "Probably some kids who know the Harris's are out of town, an' decided to mess about in their barn. But we gotta check an' see. Be jus' our luck to have Johnny's killer come back lookin' fer somethin' he thought he left behind."
We reached the parsonage within minutes and my father leaned in, speaking quietly: "You go aroun' one side of the parsonage an' I'll go aroun' t'other. Let's be as quiet as we can, but if ya run inta any trouble sing out so's I know where ya are. I'll do the same. I don't want us ta go shootin' at each other."
My father and I came up on the front entrance of the barn together, each of us taking one side of the wide door. I could see a lantern inside the barn, moving slowly toward the rear. There was a tall figure behind it, definitely not a child.
We stepped into the barn together, one to each side of the doorframe, our pistols drawn.
"This here's Jonas Foster, the town constable," my father called out. "I'm here with my deputy an' I need ya ta turn aroun' slow an' easy; then walk on over ta the door holdin' that lantern high so's we can see who ya are. There's two pistols leveled on ya so don't do nothin' foolish."
"I ain't got no gun," a voice called back. "I'm comin' to ya nice an' slow."
I recognized the voice, and as the dark figure inched closer Bobby Suggs's scraggly features came into view. My father recognized him as well and he guided Suggs outside with a wave of his pistol, leaving me to follow behind him.
"Whatcha doin' in my minister's barn?" my father demanded.
"I'm jus' lookin' fer somethin' I left here."
I came up behind him and ordered him to place his hands behind his head. Then I holstered my pistol and ran my hand along his body, until I finally found his knife in his right boot. I tossed it on the ground at my father's feet.
"An' what was it ya left cheer?" my father asked.
"Jus' an ol' satchel with some clothes in it," Suggs said. "There was a wool shirt that I wanted. It's getting' a bit cold up on Mr. Lucie's woodlot, 'specially at night, an' I wanted the shirt ta keep myself warm." Suggs had turned so he could see both of us and his eyes were darting from one to the other like a cornered weasel. And like a weasel I knew he could be dangerous, so I kept my hand on the butt of my pistol.
"You had on a wool shirt when I saw you up on Lucie's woodlot the other day," I said. "Red-and-black check if I remember correctly. That's not good enough to keep you warm?"
"It's dirty an' it was gettin' a bit ripe," Suggs answered. "Can't deny a man a clean shirt, can ya, Jubal?"
"We can deny him comin' inta a man's barn when that man ain't home," my father snapped.
"I knocked on the front door," Suggs pleaded. "When nobody answered I figgered it was okay, since the reverend done tol' me ta stop by anytime. I figgered he wouldn't mind, an' I din' wanna ride all the way back ta Mr. Lucie's woodlot then have ta come back down agin later."
"Did ya think ta come down an' see me or my son?" my father asked.
"What fer? It was jus' my clothes I was after."
My father stepped in closer to him. "You tellin' me ya din' know that this here barn is where Johnny Harris was murdered?"
Suggs spread both hands out at his sides and shook his head. "No, I din'. I swear it. I din' know nothin' 'bout Johnny gettin' killed in this here barn."
"Bullshit," I barked. "You want us to believe those men up at the woodlot don't know every detail of what happened? They're as gossipy as a bunch of old church ladies."
"I'm tellin' ya true, I din' even hear 'bout Johnny gettin' kilt till he was already buried in the ground, an' I put off comin' back fer my stuff outta respect fer his ma an' pa."
I took hold of his shirtfront. "Suggs, you are a first-class liar. You were a liar and a thief and a rapist when I knew you back in the war, and you haven't changed one bit. Where's your horse?"
"Tied up inside the barn."
"Why inside?" my father demanded. "You wanna make sure nobody knew you was here? A man had nothin' ta hide woulda left his horse tied out front."
"I wanted it ta have some water fer the trip back ta Lucie's place. Figured there'd be water here inna barn."
My father shook his head. "Man's got hisself an answer fer everythin', don't he though?"
I spun Suggs around. "Go get that horse and walk him out here real slow."
I followed Suggs inside the barn and watched him as he took the horse's reigns and led him outdoors. There were saddlebags behind the saddle and I told him to pull them down. When he did I saw the brand CFA on the horse's haunch.
"Stole this horse from the Rebs, did you?" I said.
Suggs glared at me. "Tha's right. Figured they owed it ta me fer the time I spent in their stinkin' prison. Man who owned 'em was layin' dead onna groun'. Was one a them Rebs din' wanna stop fightin'."
"So you shot him and took his horse."
"Seemed like the right thing ta do."
I wanted to draw back my fist and slam it into his face. "Was the war over when you shot him?" I asked instead.
"Was fer him," Suggs said.
"Answer the goddamn question," my father snapped.
"I don' know iffen the surrender were signed then or not. An' when that Reb reached fer his gun it din' matter ta me."
I opened the saddlebags, rummaged through them, and found nothing but an old Navy Colt that Suggs had brought home with him.
"Mr. Lucie don' allow no guns up at the woodlot," Suggs said, when he saw the pistol in my hand. "Says he don' want us shootin' each other. So's I keep it in there."
"You git on yer horse and git the hell outta here," my father said. "You come down in the daylight an' look fer yer things. An' ya do it when Reverend Harris is home an' gives ya permission ta go inta his barn."
"When'll he be back?" Suggs asked.
"Late next week. I catch ya here afore then, I'm gonna lock you up with the sheriff up ta Richmond."
We watched Suggs ride off an
d then started back to our house.
"I know ya don' believe what he said, but there really ain't much ta hold him on. What do ya think he was lookin' fer?" my father asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But I learned during the war not to believe anything that man says. I'm going back to search that barn again tomorrow."
* * *
Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1861
Reverend Harris stood high in his pulpit, hands spread at his sides as he looked down at us with pride. We were all wearing our new uniforms, all a rich, deep blue with shiny brass buttons, our blue field caps in our laps. We were leaving today for training, a march up to Richmond, then aboard a train that would take us down to Fort Ticonderoga, about seventy miles south in New York State.
Johnny and Abel and I were seated together. It seemed right to me that we were all going off to war together. Ever since we were small children we had been together most every day. We had gone to school together, gotten into mischief time and time again, gone to dances and church socials, and, as we grew older, prowled the woods searching out deer and rabbit, bear and grouse. The bond between us was one of brothers and I believed we would fight to the death for each other if that time ever came.
Strangely, the war to me was a different matter. I believed in its basic cause, keeping the Union together and ending slavery. I had been raised believing in those things. Reverend Harris was a staunch abolitionist and he had regularly railed from his pulpit about the evil of one man owning another. My father had agreed with him and I had grown up knowing that from time to time black men and women were sleeping in the Harris's barn, protected by my father as they readied themselves for the final trip up into Canada. It had seemed abhorrent to me, even as a child, that men and women had to flee their own country just because their skin was different from mine.
But still, the idea of killing for those beliefs seemed equally abhorrent. I would be freeing one class of man from the evils inflicted on him because he was born black, and to do so I would be taking the lives of other men because of the accident of their place of birth. The illogic madness of it came back to me again and again, but there was no resolution I could find.
We bowed our heads as Reverend Harris gave us his benediction, and then stood as the choir sang "Nearer My God to Thee." Our detachment was seated together on one side of the sanctuary, our friends and family on the other. I looked across as the choir sang and found Rebecca staring back at me. Like many of the other women, there were tears in her eyes. The men, by and large, gazed back at us with prideful stares. The emotions of the women were the wiser of the two, but I would only come to know that later.
At the end of the service we came together in the center aisle, each of us joining with our family and friends this final time. My father was with the Johnsons, so it was easy for me to be with both him and Rebecca, and I suspected he had planned it this way. He had a strong place in his heart for her.
We passed through the church doors, pausing to shake Reverend Harris's hand. When Johnny came through just ahead of us, the reverend stopped and hugged his son fiercely, the pride in what his son was doing quite evident.
My own father and I had talked quietly over breakfast. He had concluded our conversation simply.
"I know yer a brave boy . . . no, a brave man," he had said. "An' I want ya ta know that whatever ya have ta do, I'll support ya. But I want ya ta keep yerself safe, Jubal. I don't need ya bringin' home no medals. I just need ya ta bring yerself home."
It had been an awkward conversation, but one that was beautiful to me. Knowing my father loved me was a blessing I wished all men and boys could have.
We stepped out onto the grass in front of the church, and I watched as Mrs. Johnson held Abel tightly and stroked his cheeks. Rebecca hugged him, holding so long and so tight that his face began to redden with embarrassment.
When Rebecca turned to me, she stepped forward and put her arms around my waist. "I'll write to you every week, Jubal Foster, and I expect you to write me back." She raised herself up on her toes and placed her lips next to my ear. "I love you, Jubal," she whispered. "You keep yourself safe, and you come back to me. I don't want a life without you, so you make sure you bring yourself on home as soon as you can."
"I will," I said. "I can't imagine a life without you."
She leaned up again and kissed my lips. It was a lingering kiss that announced to everyone that there would be a life for us together when this war ended.
The sergeant who had been sent down to collect us ordered us into formation and started us off toward Richmond. I peered back over my shoulder and saw Rebecca and my father standing with the others waving us off.
"Eyes front," the sergeant growled, his face only inches from my own.
We marched on. When the sergeant moved to the rear of the column Abel spoke to me out of the side of his mouth.
"Saw ya kissin' my sister," he said.
"Wasn't the first time. And it sure as hell won't be the last."
Abel threw back his head and laughed.
"Quiet in the ranks!" the sergeant shouted.
We marched on.
* * *
Groveton, Virginia, 1862
I was promoted to sergeant to replace Jim Lacey, and based on my past success with the ammunition wagons was given the job of leading a reconnaissance unit to probe enemy lines. My lieutenant, a New Yorker named George Lewis, told me that the general staff felt we had been surprised too often by the cleverness of Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee, and they had adopted a plan for constant reconnaissance to blunt that problem. As I sat in camp watching Jemma sew on my stripes, I wondered what they expected me to do other than stumble about the woods and fields between our two lines in hopes of uncovering hidden Reb positions and troop movements.
Abel slid down next to me. I had made sure both he and Johnny were assigned to me, along with some other men I had faith in. I had also asked for Josiah, but had been told that Negroes could not be assigned to regular units. It was a question of not offending the white soldiers, who likely would object to fighting alongside colored troops. Lieutenant Lewis said the general staff also had no faith in the reliability of Negro troops.
I hadn't argued, having learned by now there was no point disputing any position the army took. I also knew the lieutenant's first reason was undoubtedly true—I'd heard enough anti-Negro remarks within our own ranks. But the second reason I found laughable. Josiah had been assigned to the hospital unit, and as such was expected to crawl out under heavy Reb fire to drag our wounded to safety, hardly a job for an unreliable Negro.
"So now that yer a big-time sergeant, what plans ya got fer us?" Abel asked.
I looked at him and grinned. "Well, I thought we'd start off with you polishing my boots."
"In a pig's ass. I let ya kiss my sister without thumpin' yer sorry self, but tha's as far as it goes. By the way, I got a letter from her. Did you get one?"
I patted my hip pocket. "Got it right here."
"Wanna let me read it?"
"I don't think so."
"Too much mushy stuff, huh?"
"Could be."
"Damn. This keeps up, I could end up havin' ya as a brother-in-law."
I smiled, but didn't respond.
Abel waited to see if I'd say anything, then went on: "So what're we gonna do in this here new unit? An' when're we gonna do it?"
I raised my chin in the general direction of the Reb lines. "We're gonna wander around in the woods out there and see if we can find those gray-coated bastards. We're going out tonight. They want us to check up on a place called Brawner's Farm. It's just south of Stony Ridge where we attacked Jackson's troops and got our tails kicked."
"Oh, tha's real good," Abel said. We're goin' back without the 60,000 men we had the first time an' see if we can do better." He paused to smile at me. "An' you gonna lead us."
"That's about it."
Abel started to laugh softly. "I ever tell ya how grand it is bein' parta t
his Grand Army of the Republic?"
* * *
We were laid up in a stretch of narrow woods that ran along the southeastern bank of Catharpin Creek. There was a wide field ahead of us, a field were men had died by the hundreds only days before. I had a long glass fixed on the main house on Brawner's Farm. There were sentries surrounding it, making me certain there were officers inside—high-ranking officers by the number of men standing guard.
"Damn, I wish we could get closer," I hissed.
Johnny was lying beside me. "We're damn well close enough," he whispered back. "Ever' time we get too close to them Rebs they try ta stick a bayonet in our gullets."
I could see by the glow of small fires that there were two encampments—one south of the farm, and another to the north. "We'll just wait to see who comes out of that house and where they head," I said. I had six men with me, stretched out in a line about ten feet apart. I had sent two more with Abel to scout an unfinished railroad spur that ran below Stony Ridge. The general staff wanted to know if it was complete enough to carry any trains that might be used to replenish Lee's supplies. One of the great advantages the North had was an extensive rail system that kept men and ammunition flowing, along with replacements for artillery pieces lost in battle. The South was often forced to move equipment by wagon, and that usually left their forces at a tactical disadvantage. Now they were struggling to correct that problem, but building railroads and fighting a war at the same time was an almost insurmountable task. Our generals intended to keep it that way.
Abel returned about an hour later and slid in next to me. "That railroad's lookin' pretty good," he said. "They got a bridge finished that takes the tracks over Bull Run, an' they's guardin' it like it was made a gold. Looks like they're plannin' a second bridge for wagons an' men, but it ain't near bein' finished yet."
"Sounds like something our generals might want to blow up," I said.
"Well, they better send a whole lotta men," Abel replied. "Those Rebs fer sure look like they wanna hold onta it."
When Johnny Came Marching Home Page 11
