When Johnny Came Marching Home

by William Heffernan

  I stared at her, shocked that she would even ask. "No. Never," I said.

  She let out her breath, relieved to hear me say it aloud. She looked down in her lap and then back at me. "I wouldn't have believed you if you said he had."

  She reached over and placed her hand on my cheek, then leaned up and kissed my lips softly. "I love you, Jubal." She leaned back and stared into my eyes. "Do you love me?"

  "Yes," I said. "I think I always have . . . but . . ."

  She raised her hand to my lips and stopped me from saying more. "Will you walk me home?" she asked.

  * * *

  As we approached the store a wagon came toward us down the main road, spewing up a column of dust. I stared at it, hardly believing what I saw. Josiah was behind the reigns and seated next to him were Jemma and her sister Alva. Josiah pulled to a stop beside us.

  "Jemma, Alva, what a pleasant surprise," I said.

  "We jus' come onna train, Massah Jubal," Jemma said.

  "It was wunnerful," Alva added.

  "Josiah done sended us tickets. We gonna live here wit y'all," Jemma said.

  Josiah sat there with a broad smile spread across his face.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

  "I wasn't sure she'd come," Josiah said.

  Jemma leaned her head against his shoulder.

  I gestured toward Rebecca. "This is Rebecca. She's Abel's sister."

  "How do, Miz Rebecca?" Jemma said. "I'z so sorry 'bout yer brudder. He was da one dat save my sista, him an' Massah Jubal an' Massah Johnny."

  "Thank you for your sympathy," Rebecca said. "Abel wrote me all about you." She turned to Alva. "Especially you, Alva. You're just as beautiful as he said. Welcome to Jerusalem's Landing."

  "We gots ta git goin'," Josiah said.

  "Come back down later, so I can introduce the ladies to my father." I looked at Jemma and Alva in turn. "But you both have to stop callin' people massah," I added.

  "And come to the store too," Rebecca said. "My brother wrote my father about you both and I know he'd like to meet you."

  "I tanks ya fer da welcome, Miz Rebecca," Jemma said.

  "Just call me Rebecca, please."

  "We be back down," Josiah said. "Maybe t'nite, but fer sure tomorra."

  As the wagon pulled away, Rebecca commented, "That little girl, she's lovely, just like Abel said."

  I nodded. "He loved that little girl. He told me he was going to bring her home for your mother to spoil."

  "And now she's here," Rebecca said. "Now I can spoil her."

  * * *

  Centreville, Virginia, 1862

  We were part of a detachment sent off to guard the final construction of the Centreville Military Railroad. Our unit was now under the command of General Ambrose Burnside, who had replaced General McClellan as commander of the Army of the Potomac. According to the newspapers, President Lincoln had been displeased by McClellan's "lack of initiative" in pursuing the Confederate Army following Lee's defeat at Sharpsburg. Instead, McClellan had chosen to regroup and replenish his supplies, allowing Lee's battered army to escape to the south.

  Now, as far as I could tell, Burnside was doing the same thing, but it was fine with my men and me. We were encamped on a high hill that overlooked the entire valley, with a clear view of any advancing enemy forces. To this point there had been none, and we contented ourselves with quiet patrols of the town and the surrounding countryside and with warm campfires at night to take the chill off the November evenings.

  We had just finished breakfast when Bobby Suggs came into our camp looking for Johnny, quickly pulling him aside and jabbering at him. When he walked back to our campfire Johnny's face was filled with consternation. "Bobby says the talk is that we'll all be headin' south in a week or so. He says we're gonna join up with the rest of the Army of the Potomac fer a big push on ta Richmond, an' that Lee is massing his troops at Fredericksburg to stop us."

  We were sitting about twenty-five miles west of Washington. Fredericksburg was another fifty miles south, and Richmond another fifty miles beyond that. The railroad we were guarding could easily be connected with another rail line that would bring our supplies straight in behind us to support an assault on Fredericksburg.

  "What Bobby's saying makes sense," I noted. "The newspapers say that Mr. Lincoln wants us to give 'em hell."

  Johnny's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, well, let Mr. Lincoln give 'em hell. I thought we'd get this railroad duty longer'n that," he said.

  Abel let out a loud belch and grinned. "You know what they say, Johnny. If the officers see ya gettin' comfortable, they gonna change what yer doin'."

  Johnny shook his head. He was clearly depressed over the news. He inclined his head toward Suggs, who was still standing off to one side. "Bobby's goin' on a patrol aroun' some of the farms. He asked me to go with him. That okay with you?"

  Bobby had been made a corporal for reasons that mystified me and now had charge of a group of men who looked about as trustworthy as he did. But Johnny seemed to need a diversion. "That's all right with me," I said. "We're going on patrol in the town about two hours from now. Try and join up with us."

  Johnny nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem ta git back by then, less we run into some trouble."

  "Watch yourself," I said.

  When Johnny had left, Abel brought me a cup of coffee. "Ya think Suggs knows what he's talkin' about?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "It makes sense, given what I've read in the papers. The papers claim that Mr. Lincoln replaced McClellan because he thought he was too cautious."

  Abel snorted. "Hell, at Antietam they sez there was 2,000 Union boys killed and 9,500 wounded. That sure don't sound very cautious ta me. Far as I'm concerned they kin get a helluva lot more cautious than they was."

  I sat sipping my coffee and thinking about all the Union bodies we had carried off for individual burials, and the mass graves that had been dug for the Rebel dead. The Reb casualties had been only half of our own, despite the fact that their forces had been greatly outnumbered. But the worst thing for me had been the wounded—Reb and Union alike. The field hospitals were like charnel houses, the screams of agony filling the surgical tents as men's limbs were cut from their bodies without benefit of anything more than a shot of whiskey to ease the pain. I'd come to hate each time I had to bring a wounded soldier there, its dirt floors always slick with blood, the air rife with the stench of open wounds and burst bowels, and when I was finally sent away from our main encampment and its field hospital, I had left with a sense of relief, as though I had escaped from that one small part of the horrors we lived with day after day, week after week.

  * * *

  Abel and I and the remainder of my squad began our patrol at noon. We had been given a section of town that ran along the main road and included the church and most of the stores. The road itself was narrow and made of well-packed, heat-hardened dirt. The Rebs had fortified the area the previous year, and again during the spring, using the existing railroad to supply its troops. Now it was in Union hands and we were doing essentially the same thing, the only difference being that we were doing it under the hate-filled eyes of die-hard Virginians.

  I kept my men spread out as we walked through the town, half on one side of the street, the other half on the other, with a good five paces between each man, each rifle brandishing a bayonet. The men knew to keep their eyes on the windows, especially those on a second floor or attic, but there had been only a few instances of sniping, each of which had ended with a Reb soldier or sympathizer being captured or killed.

  As we passed a grocery store a one-armed man wearing a battered Reb field cap spat a wad of tobacco juice at the foot of one of my men and quickly found a bayonet pointed at his throat.

  The man seemed as battered and beaten as his hat, his loose sleeve flapping in the breeze, his tired blue eyes glaring all the hatred he could muster. He had not shaved in days, and he had not washed his face. He was a sad sight, but he remained defiant.

&n
bsp; "You gonna use that there bayonet, bluebelly?" he sneered. "Killin' a one-armed man oughtta be jus' 'bout yer speed. Probably go 'bout stabbin' our wounded boys on the battlefield. Oh yeah, I seen yer kind do it lotsa times."

  I stepped in and pushed the bayonet up. "Let it go," I said to my man, whose name was George Sutton.

  "He spits at me one more time, he's gonna be one dead Reb," Sutton said. He was young, not even twenty, and he'd just been sent to us as a replacement.

  I looked at the man and spoke softly. "You lose that arm in the fighting?" I asked.

  He gave me a curt nod. "But I killed me some bluebellies afore they got me," he said gruffly.

  "We've all killed ourselves some boys," I said. "Too many, on both sides. We don't need you to be killin' us, or us to be killin' you. You did your part, so let's leave it be."

  The man glanced at his empty sleeve and then back at me, the hate even heavier in his eyes. "I don't need yer pity, bluebelly. Y'all kin save it fer yer own."

  "Fair enough," I replied. "Let's keep moving, men."

  When we reached the church there was a group of woman standing outside. They were of varying ages, from elderly to quite young. One of the younger women raised her nose as we approached. "Momma, we should be goin' on home," she said. "There's a powerful bad smell comin' our way."

  Abel, always the jester, couldn't resist. He stared at the young woman open-mouthed. She was tall and slender, with ringlets of brown hair cascading to her pale blue dress, her dark blue eyes and high cheekbones the epitome of Southern womanhood.

  "What's it that smells so bad, young lady?" he called.

  The woman turned and looked down her nose at him. "It smells a bit like Yankee, which is one step lower than pig."

  "Ooh-ie!" Abel shouted. "I guess some of us done forgot ta take our baths. Sorry 'bout that, ma'am."

  The young woman smiled in spite of herself, and as we moved past I saw Abel wink at her, causing the woman to spin on her heel.

  I walked up beside him. "Abel, you will definitely get yourself shot one of these days."

  "Oh Lordy, if I have to go, I'd sure like it to be a beautiful woman who does me in. Tha's sure 'nuff a lot better'n bein' kilt by some old Reb smells as bad as I do."

  We checked the areas behind the stores, some of which had barns and storage sheds, for any contraband that might have been smuggled in and stashed away, but the area seemed clear. On the way back the man who had spit at one of my men was gone, and I halted the squad and told them they could go into the stores provided they went two at a time. Several of the men, Abel and I included, went into the grocery store to see if there were any foodstuffs we could buy.

  The interior of the store was dark and cool with a middle-aged man and woman standing behind the counter. Abel went right up to them, and started off by telling them that his mother and father ran a store not unlike this one, except that it was up in northern Vermont.

  "This sure 'nuff reminds me of home," he said. "Ya got any food we kin buy?"

  The woman stared at him, unsmiling. The man twisted his mouth unpleasantly. "Ain't much that hasn't already been stolen," he said.

  "We ain't lookin' ta steal nothin'," Abel said. "We get anythin', we'll pay ya fair an' square, jus' like we'd do at home."

  I walked up beside him. "My men don't pilfer," I said. "Anything they take, they'll pay for."

  The woman let out a breath through her nose, giving her strong opinion about my promise of payment; the man just shifted his weight.

  "We got some country ham, but it's a bit salty fer Yankee tastes," he said. "An' we got some soda crackers, some coffee, a few eggs. Tha's 'bout it, far as food goes."

  "Ya got any candy?" Abel asked, his voice filled with expectation.

  The man reached under the counter and took out a jar half-filled with peppermint sticks that looked a bit stale and worse for wear.

  "Oh, yes," Abel said. "Lemme have a coupla them. I ain't had no candy in the longest time."

  The man extended the jar and Abel took two sticks.

  "That'll be two cents," the man said.

  Abel grinned at him and placed two pennies on the counter. "Sorry, but I only got Union money."

  "It'll do," the storekeeper said, his expression remaining rigid.

  Abel and I went outside and stopped on the porch.

  "He sure wasn't a very friendly sort," he said.

  "Makes me wonder if maybe he and his wife lost somebody in his war." I looked Abel in the eye. "Imagine how your father and mother might be if they lost someone, and some Reb soldier came waltzing into their store."

  "Yeah, I never thought of it that way. But I sure as hell hope it weren't me they lost. Or Rebecca neither." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Then ya couldn't be my brother-in-law."

  We met up with Johnny an hour later. He came up the street with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, his rifle held down at his side.

  "What have you got there?" I asked.

  He grinned at me. "We went by this farm, had some chickens runnin' aroun' in the yard. There's two less chickens runnin' now."

  "I hope you paid the farmer."

  "Weren't nobody there," he said.

  "Prob'ly hidin' from Yankee thieves," Abel said.

  Johnny chuckled at him. "Got me a pair of nice warm gloves too. When yer hands are all froze-up this winter, mine'll be nice an' warm."

  "Glad to hear it," I said. "What else did you and Suggs pilfer?"

  "It ain't pilferin', it's the spoils a war. These folks run off an' leave their stuff behind, if I don't take it somebody else'll come along an' poof, it'll be gone."

  Abel made a show of scratching his chin. "I wonder what yer daddy would say about that."

  "Well, when I get home, I'll ask him," Johnny said. "In the meantime I aim ta have a full belly an' warm hands."

  "That's straight from the mouth of the preacher's son," Abel responded. "An' I say amen to that."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

  I was seated at the kitchen table going over some fence line disputes that my father and I would have to resolve in the coming week, along with some past-due taxes we needed to collect. We had fallen behind in our regular work because of Johnny Harris's murder, and our regular work was what paid our bills. As my father had explained last night, we had to hunker down and do it if we planned to eat next month.

  He had just come in to the kitchen, which was also our makeshift office, when someone began pounding on our back door.

  "My Lord, somebody sure wants ta knock that door down," he said, pouring a mug of coffee. When he had finished he went to the door and opened it and was immediately confronted by Chantal LeRoche.

  "I need ta make a complaint agin' my papa," she said without preamble.

  "Well, ya bring yerself inside an' tell us what this here is all about," my father replied.

  I stood as Chantal approached and pulled a chair away from the table. "Please sit down," I said.

  Her hair was combed along her cheeks and she was wearing a simple brown dress that buttoned to her throat, and I thought it was the first modest clothing I had seen her wear. Right now she stared at me as though no one had ever shown her any display of manners before.

  "My oh my, now ain't you the gentleman, Jubal Foster," she said as she approached the table.

  "My boy's been ta college," my father said. "Talks real fancy an' knows his manners. He's been teachin' me, but ya know what they say 'bout ol' dogs."

  My father couldn't stop himself from grinning, and Chantal realized he was having his fun with me.

  "Please sit down," I said again.

  She took a chair and my father sat next to her. "Now what's this all about, lil' girl?"

  "First off, I ain't no lil' girl. I'm seventeen," she said. "Second off, my papa keeps on beatin' the hell outta me." She pulled her hair back from the side of her face and offered up a sizable bruise as evidence.

  "An' why's he doin' that?" my f
ather asked.

  "He don' want me walkin' or talkin' with any boys, but them boys come by anyways, even after he's run 'em off, an' he jus' gets madder'n the devil. An' if he can't get hold a them he takes it out on me."

  "Well, ya listen to me, dear. I'm about yer papa's age, so we prob'ly see things pretty much the same way. An' I'm thinkin' that maybe he jus' wants ta keep ya from bein' taken advantage of." He gave her a long look. "Ya know what I mean?"

  "I know whatcha mean," she said, stiffening. "But that ain't his bizness. Tha's my bizness."

  "Well, dear, as long as ya live in yer papa's house, it's sure enough his business. Now, I kin go up there an' talk ta him, but iffen I arrested him fer hittin' ya, the judge is prob'ly gonna tell me I gone too far an' up an' send yer papa on home."

  "Well, why don' ya arrest him for all the boys he beat up on? I know he beat up on Johnny Harris, an' maybe it was even him that went an' kilt that poor boy."

  "What makes you think that?" I asked, interested now.

  "I heard him talkin' ta my mama. They was talkin' low an' it was hard ta hear good, but I heard my daddy say how he caught up with Johnny an' gave him what fer. I'm thinkin' now that maybe it was more'n jus' a thumpin'."

  "When was that?" I asked.

  "Right afore I heard that Johnny was kilt."

  I glanced at my father.

  "Ya better go on up and have a talk with Rusty," my father said. "I'll take care of our other business."

  "I ain't goin' back home," Chantal snapped.

  "Where ya goin'?" my father asked.

  "I don' know, but I can't go back."

  My father scratched his head. "Well, there's Mrs. Edwards, I suppose. She rents out rooms ta drummers an' timber buyers who are passin' through."

  "How much she charge?" Chantal asked.

  "Coupla dollars a week, I think. But she gives ya breakfast an' dinner. Kin ya afford that?"

  "I got some money," she said. "Not much, but some. I needs ta get ta Burlington an' get me a job at the mill."

  "How did you get here?" I asked.

  "I took one a Papa's horses. If yer goin' up there I'd 'preciate it if ya'd take it back ta him."