When Johnny Came Marching Home

by William Heffernan

  There were still many, of course, who were determined to fight us to the end. We came across one at a rope ferry set up on the river. When we arrived, ready to cross, the operator told us boldly that he only ferried Confederate troops and Confederate citizens, that Yankees could either go twelve miles downriver to the bridge, or swim.

  The man was short and skinny with scraggly gray hair and beard and several missing teeth, someone who clearly preferred to keep any form of civilization at a safe distance—what we would call a "woodchuck" in Vermont.

  "Sir, I am standing here with ten men who are armed to the teeth, and you are telling me we can swim the river if we want to cross to the other side. Am I right about that?"

  Abel walked up beside me.

  "Tha's what I'm sayin'," the ferry operator replied.

  I pointed at a large tree about ten yards from the ferry. "Now, if I stood you against that tree and lined up my men as a firing squad, do you think you might change your mind? Because if you didn't we could just shoot your cantankerous old ass and pull ourselves across, now couldn't we?"

  The ferry operator, who looked to be in his sixties, spit a wad of tobacco off to one side. "Ya'd waste that many bullets?"

  "We're from the North," I said, exasperated. "We have a helluva lot of bullets."

  "Better use 'em then, cause I ain't takin' ya."

  Abel started to laugh. "I don't think yer scarin' 'em, Jubal."

  Johnny joined us. "What the hell is goin' on?"

  "This ol' geezer says he won't take us across. Says we kin swim," Abel said.

  Johnny removed his sidearm and cocked the hammer. "I'll jus' shoot the damn Reb an' we'll do it ourselves."

  I placed my hand on the barrel of Johnny's pistol and pushed it down. "Put the Colt away," I said. I glanced at a ramshackle cabin off to my left, assuming it was a shelter, maybe even a place the old man used as a home. I turned to Abel. "Take him over to that cabin and tie the dumb son of a bitch up . . . Maybe some Rebs will come along and cut you loose. Or maybe they'll just take what you've got in your pockets. I don't really care. You are a crazy old man and I don't have time to fool with you."

  The old man spit out another wad of tobacco juice and grinned at me. "Yankee," he said, "y'all kin go shit in your hats."

  Abel started to laugh again. "Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch," he said. "Ever'body in the South is crazy as hell."

  * * *

  We took a southerly route through a region of small farms and rundown plantations. We were just east of the area known as the Wilderness, almost all of it now badly scarred by the artillery duels that had taken place there.

  We met another unit coming toward us on the same road. Their sergeant explained that they had crossed the river farther south and were now working their way north. I noticed he was commanding the group Bobby Suggs and his friends were a part of, and that Johnny was standing off to one side talking to them.

  The sergeant said his name was Riddle and claimed he had seen nothing but a small group of what appeared to be deserters. "Took off inta the Wilderness when they saw us," he said.

  "We've come about ten miles since we crossed on the rope ferry north of us," I reported. "We haven't seen even that much activity."

  I wished him luck and called to my men. They assembled quickly, all but Johnny, and I had to shout for him again before he pulled himself away from Bobby Suggs. They were too far away to be sure, but Suggs seemed to be showing Johnny something that he quickly returned to a pocket when he saw me watching.

  "We're going to push into the Wilderness and head south another five miles or so," I explained when Johnny had finally joined us. "Then we'll head back to the river and cross at the stone bridge. We should be back at camp by suppertime."

  As the men started to cross an open field, headed for the dense scrub forest that lay ahead, I moved up beside Johnny. "What did Suggs have to say?" I asked.

  Johnny shrugged his shoulders. "Nothin' much. He was jus' tellin' me how borin' the patrol was so far. Sounded like they been havin' the same luck as us."

  "What was he showing you?" I had grown suspicious of anything Suggs did.

  "What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

  "He was showing you something. I just wanted to know what it was."

  Johnny shook his head. "T'was an ol' Reb compass he found. Said he thought it might fetch a price, but if not, he was gonna keep it as a war souvenir." He hesitated a moment. "Ya sure do got a bug up yer ass 'bout Suggs. How come?"

  "I don't trust him," I said. "I don't trust him as far as I can spit."

  * * *

  We moved through the Wilderness, my men keeping line of sight to the man on their left, the brush so thick in places that we could be no more than five feet apart to still maintain eye contact. I spread the men out where I could do it safely, but those places were few and far between, and I didn't want any of my men lost, and I certainly didn't want them mistaken for a Reb and shot.

  I gave up after five miles and cut back to the east, reckoning that we could reach the river in another two miles or so. As we came out of the thick brush there was a moderate-sized farm up ahead, and I decided to make for it so the men could replenish their canteens and take a much needed rest. When we drew closer the devastation was apparent. The first body we came across was a young black woman, clearly a slave, her dress pulled up and the bodice ripped, exposing both her breasts and vagina. She had been raped and strangled and her brown eyes bulged from her face and her tongue protruded from her open mouth. She was no more than sixteen or seventeen.

  I reached down and touched her cheek. It was cold. I lifted her arm and found it still limber; there was no sign of stiffening.

  Abel and Johnny came up beside me. "She's only been dead a few hours," I said.

  "Musta been them Reb deserters," Johnny said. "I heard they treat runaway slaves pretty much like this."

  "This girl was no runaway," I countered. "She was here on this farm." I turned to Abel and saw the hurt in his eyes. He was thinking of Jemma and little Alva, I guessed. "Pass the word to the men to keep an eye out. They see anybody, Reb or Union, they're to keep their rifles trained and ready until I have a chance to question them."

  "What are we gonna do 'bout her?" Abel asked.

  "We'll bury her before we leave," I said.

  We found three more women who'd been raped and killed, along with two children whose heads had been bashed in, probably by rifle butts. One of the children, a little girl no more than four, had been hit so savagely that there was nothing left of her small face.

  Inside the house we found a white man and woman, both somewhere in their fifties. The man lay in the hallway. He'd been shot and then bayoneted repeatedly. The woman's body was in the dining room. She appeared to have been shot while running away, her body having skidded across the bare wood floor after she fell, leaving a swath of blood behind her.

  I checked them both and found that, like the Negroes outside, their deaths had been fairly recent.

  Johnny came down the stairs from the second floor. "Whoever done it cleaned the place out pretty good," he said. "Even dumped the mattress on the floor. I guess they was lookin' fer any money these folks had hid." He was staring at the woman's body as he spoke. She was about the same age as his mother, but he didn't seem to make the connection. A few years ago he would have, I thought.

  "We'll bury them all before we pull out," I said.

  "Damn, we gonna miss supper we do that," Johnny objected.

  "We'll bury them all," I repeated sternly. "Tell the others and get started."

  I went outside and began checking the bodies again. I gently turned over the body of a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old. His smooth brown face was frozen in pain and his hands were balled up in two small fists. He had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and stomach. I guessed it had been done with a knife, not a bayonet, because the wounds did not go entirely through his small body.

  I reached out to open his hands so I could
fold them across his chest. As I opened his right hand a brass button fell to the ground. It held the letters U.S. I picked it up. It was identical to the one on my own tunic. I placed it in my pocket.

  * * *

  We returned to camp shortly after seven, and while the men scrounged what food they could find, I went to our lieutenant's tent and asked permission to speak with him. He was new to the unit, having fought in the Western campaign under General Grant. There, he had been severely wounded and had lost his right arm. It was rumored among the other junior officers that he had begged to keep his commission and return to the fighting. The rumors claimed he was seeking revenge against the Rebs for the loss of his arm. He was from Ohio and his name was Arthur Nettles.

  "What did you find out there, Foster?" Lieutenant Nettles asked. I told him about the absence of any Rebel troops, although I had come across a Sergeant Riddle who claimed to have seen some deserters. Then I told him about the farm we had stumbled across and the evidence of rape and murder that we'd found there.

  "Probably those Reb deserters Sergeant Riddle saw," he said.

  I handed him the tunic button I had found. "This was in the hand of a dead young slave boy. He was no more than seven or eight."

  He stared at it for several moments. "I'll look into it," he said. "What did you do with the bodies?"

  "We buried them, sir. I can show you where."

  He ignored my offer, saying: "Good, good. It was the Christian thing to do."

  "My men and I can give you statements about the number and the conditions of the bodies," I offered, unwilling to let it go.

  "I'll get back to you on that, sergeant. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." It was a dismissal, so I saluted and left the tent.

  I returned to my unit and found that Abel had brought me a plateful of food he had found somewhere. I thanked him and sat down next to him, exhausted, and began to eat.

  "What'd the lieutenant say?" he asked.

  I picked at the food on my plate. "We buried the bodies, and the lieutenant is about to bury my report."

  Abel shook his head. "It ain't right."

  "No," I said, "it's not. But there isn't much in this war that is."

  * * *

  I found Sergeant Riddle the next morning and told him what my men and I had come across. He just nodded and made no comment.

  "I guess you didn't stop at that farm," I said.

  "Passed more'n a few farms, but din' go inta any less we saw somethin' 'spicious aroun' 'em. We saw anythin' like 'at, we'd check fer Rebs. From what ya tell me, this 'un din' show any life at all."

  "You see any other Union troops?"

  Riddle shook his head. "Jus' you boys."

  I told him about the Union tunic button I'd found in the boy's hand.

  He took a deep breath. "Lemme tell ya somethin', Foster. My men been fightin' fer months, some of 'em even been fightin' fer years. They seen their friends blown all ta hell, jus' like yer boys have. They seen 'em bayoneted by Rebs chargin' their lines. They been talkin' to a boy one minute, turned away, an' then found that same boy wit his head blowed off when they looked back. Far as I'm concerned, they wanna kill them some Reb lovers, I ain't gonna worry myself 'bout it."

  "These were children, small children, and slave women. The couple inside the house were older. I didn't see any weapons laying near them."

  "Whoever done it prob'ly took the knives an' guns they had," Riddle said.

  "And the children and the young women?"

  "War's hard, Foster."

  "Riddle, you tell your men that if I find them pulling off a raid like that, I won't stand by and tell them that war is hard. I will blow their asses to kingdom come."

  Riddle nodded. "I'll be sure ta tell 'em, Foster. I surely will."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

  My father and I sat across the supper table from each other enjoying our final cup of coffee. My father lit up a pipe and waved away the initial cloud of smoke that encircled his head.

  "I wanna axe ya somethin', Jubal."

  "What is it you want to know?"

  He took a drag on his pipe and blew out a perfect smoke ring. "You gonna axe that girl ta marry ya?"

  "Rebecca?"

  "Ain't seen ya moonin' over no other." He smiled broadly. "Are ya?"

  "I'd like to."

  "Thank the Lord I din' raise no stupid son," he said.

  "I think she'll say yes."

  He started to chuckle. "Say yes? She'll have ya hog-tied two minutes after ya open yer mouth. Girl's been plannin' on this fer years."

  "You think Mr. Johnson will approve?" I glanced down at my empty sleeve.

  "Don' ya worry 'bout that. I think he's plumb scared ya won't axe her. Only one worries 'bout that bum arm a yourn is you." He reached into his shirt pocket and placed two rings on the table. One had a small red stone in it; the other was a solid gold band. He slid them toward me.

  I had never seen either before. "Were these—?"

  "Your momma's," he said. "The one with the lil' ruby in it, I give ta her when she said she'd marry me. The t'other was her weddin' band. I been keepin' 'em for ya. Don' worry if they don' fit, we kin have 'em fixed up at the jewelers in Burlington."

  I kept staring at the rings, visualizing photographs of the mother I only vaguely remembered, trying to imagine her accepting a ring from a much younger father, then later holding me in her arms with the wedding band on her finger.

  "How do ya feel 'bout doin' it?" my father asked.

  "I guess it scares me a little."

  "Ya'd be a damn fool if it din'," he said. "Scary thing, takin' a wife. Yer all footloose an' fancy-free an' all of a sudden there's somebody else dependin' on ya." He took another long drag on his pipe. "Then comes a chil', an' tha's even scarier."

  I smiled across the table at him. "You trying to talk me into it, or out of it?"

  "Son, if I kin talk ya outta it, then sweet young Rebecca ain't the gal fer ya."

  "You won't talk me out of it," I said. "I'll go see Mr. Johnson in the morning, and ask his permission to speak to Rebecca."

  My father's eyes glistened with tears. It was the first time I had seen that happen. "I wish yer momma was here," he said. "She sure would be proud."

  * * *

  Everyone was in the store when I arrived the next morning. Rebecca and Mary were waiting on more than the usual number of customers and Walter Johnson was busy stocking shelves. Even Josiah had been hired to haul boxes of goods in from the barn.

  "Looks like land office business," I said as I approached Walter. I nodded to Josiah as he dropped off a box containing sacks of dried beans.

  "Folks'r jus' stockin' up fer the first snowfall," Walter said.

  I waited until he'd placed the last sack of dried beans on the shelf. "I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Johnson. Privately, if possible."

  "This 'bout Johnny Harris?" he asked.

  "No sir. This is a personal matter that I need to speak to you about."

  Walter Johnson's eyes brightened. "Best we go upstairs," he said. "Ladies kin handle the store." He went to the rear door and called to Josiah, who had gone for another sack. "I'm gonna be upstairs fer a bit, Josiah. You kin rest up a spell."

  He ushered me into the upstairs parlor and offered me coffee, which I declined. I perched nervously on the edge of a small, fragile chair, which creaked under my weight. Walter took a heavy chair stuffed with horsehair and folded his hands across his protruding belly. As always I was taken by how much Abel had resembled him, and thought again that this was how he would have looked had he been allowed to live into his fifties.

  "What kin I do fer ya, Jubal?" he asked.

  I shifted nervously. "I don't know what else to do, except to come right out with it. I'd like your permission to ask Rebecca if she'll marry me."

  A slow smile spread across Walter's face. He unfolded his hands, sat forward, and slapped his knees. "Damn, if that ain't wunnerful n
ews. Of course ya have my permission ta ask her. I think we both know what her answer'll be." His smile suddenly disappeared. "God, I wish Abel was here ta see this day. Did ya know that he wrote ta me, tellin' me he thought he was gonna have ya as a brother-in-law when the war was over?"

  "No, I didn't know about the letter, but he told me the same thing."

  "He loved ya, Jubal. He loved ya like ya was his own blood."

  "I know he did, Walter. I hope he knew I loved him too."

  Walter forced the smile to return. "When do ya plan to . . . well . . . talk ta Rebecca?"

  "I thought I'd see if she'd take a buggy ride with me this afternoon," I said.

  "Ya got a pretty spot picked out, do ya?"

  "Yes sir, I do."

  He winked at me. "Well, I guess I better give her the afternoon off."

  We went downstairs and found Josiah standing just inside the rear door.

  "Time ta get back ta work, Josiah," Walter said. "Bring me in a barrel of coffee beans."

  "Yes sir," Josiah replied, gesturing with his head that I should come outside.

  I went out the back door and followed Josiah into the barn.

  "What is it, Josiah?" I asked.

  He led me to an area in the rear of the barn, where I could tell he had recently moved some goods. He pointed toward two remaining boxes. "Look behind them boxes," he said.

  I did as he asked and saw an awl up against the barn wall.

  "Looks like dere's dried blood on it," he said. "Blood startin' at the point an' goin' right up ta the hilt."