Butchery of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  In the grand scheme of things, Lee’s plans failed, but this battle is now referred to as the high-water mark of the Confederacy. From this point forward, victory for the South was unachievable. How many lives could have been saved, had the Confederacy realized then that further continuation of the war was a terrible waste.

  It is now believed that this battle had a profound impact upon John Jackson, causing memories which remained with him for the rest of his life. Of course, John Jackson wasn’t the only one damaged by the terrible consequences of the battle at Gettysburg. As of the publication date of this book, it is sixty-two years since that terrible battle was contested, and there are still many survivors who continue to bear the scars, as does, indeed, our entire nation.—ED.]

  “Hold it up for a moment, will you, Professor?” Wes asked, his voice coming through the intercom box. “I have to set up a new disc.”

  “Very well, tell us when you are ready,” Professor Armbruster replied. Then, taking his finger away from the toggle switch that activated the intercom, he spoke to Smoke.

  “Jackson went all through the war without sustaining any wounds, didn’t he?”

  “It depends on what you call wounds,” Smoke said. “He had the kind of wounds that you can’t see.”

  “Traumatic shock.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jackson, undoubtedly, suffered from a syndrome known as traumatic shock. Last year, Dr. Walter Bradford Cannon, a noted physiologist, published a book on this very subject. It refers to a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma, such as being in a war.”

  “Yes. I’ve never heard of that term before, but it certainly had an effect on him.”

  “You know, one of the things that I found most interesting in my research on John Jackson is that he did have a college degree,” Professor Armbruster said. “But he never used that degree. Instead, he lived for many years in the wilds of Montana and Colorado.”

  Smoke chuckled. “I think the fact that John was an educated man did surprise a few people. But it wasn’t something that ever got in the way.”

  “Got in the way?” Professor Armbruster replied. “What an odd thing to say, suggesting that, somehow, an education might get in the way.”

  “Professor, could you see any of your contemporaries in academia doing what John Jackson did? And I’m not talking about his vendetta with the Crow, I mean the many years he lived in the mountains, surviving off the land.”

  “No,” Armbruster agreed. “No, to be honest with you, Mr. Jensen, I don’t know that I, or any of my peers, could do that.”

  “It’s because your education would get in the way,” Smoke said. “You have learned to expect certain privileges as your due, because of your academic position. It is always hard for anyone to function in a milieu that is vastly different from the environment to which they have become accustomed. John Jackson was able to do this.”

  “I must confess, Mr. Jensen, that, given what I have read and heard about you, that I am—and please don’t think this to be patronizing, because I don’t mean it that way—but your language, your deportment, is considerably different from what I expected. Have I missed something in my research? Did you attend college?”

  Smoke laughed. “Yes, the University of Sally.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My wife was a schoolteacher when I met her. She never quit learning, or teaching. And she shared it all with me.”

  “Well, I must congratulate her. She did a wonderful job with you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’m ready when you are, Professor,” Wes said.

  “Thank you, Wes. Give me a sign when you put down the stylus.”

  Wes held his finger up, then brought it down.

  “As we finished with the last recording disc you were telling us about John Jackson’s war experiences. Tell us, Smoke, did his war experiences have any effect on his personality?”

  “Yes,” Smoke answered. “And that was especially so after the war. It was as if he were having a more difficult time being a civilian during peacetime, than he had being a soldier at war.”

  Again, Smoke began telling the story, and again Professor Armbruster found himself transported beyond time and place so that he was an eyewitness, almost a participant, to the events as they transpired.

  Media, Pennsylvania—September 1865

  With a history that goes back to William Penn, Media is one of the oldest, continuously occupied settlements in Pennsylvania. Served by the West Chester and Philadelphia Railroad, it was only twelve miles from the city of Philadelphia. And, because of the railroad and its proximity to the city, it was a summer resort for well-to-do Philadelphians.

  Father Nathaniel Jackson, rector of Christ Episcopal Church, drummed his fingers on the desk in his study as he stared at his son.

  “Why would you do such a thing, John? Is it your intention to embarrass the church? Is it your intention to embarrass me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would you say such a thing in the men’s Bible study?”

  John didn’t answer.

  “Do you really think that the reason so many men were killed during the war was because God went fishing?”

  John remained silent.

  “God went fishing?” Father Jackson shouted at the top of his voice, slamming his hand down on the desk so hard that a bookend fell over and several books slid off onto the floor.

  John started to pick up the books.

  “Leave them!” his father said loudly.

  John sat up again.

  “Have you nothing to say to me, John?”

  “Well, didn’t Jesus tell Paul that He would make him a fisher of men?” John asked with a smile.

  Father Jackson stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at his son. “Don’t you blaspheme! Don’t you dare blaspheme!”

  “I’m sorry,” John said contritely.

  “What were you thinking, John? When you disrupted the men’s Bible study, what were you thinking?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I am an Episcopal priest, John. And like all men of the cloth, I listen to the deepest fears, the most private sins, and the most earnest questions of my parishioners. Do you really think I can’t listen to the problems of my own son? And you do have problems, John. You have manifested those problems ever since you returned from the war. You are not the same man who left.”

  “Pop, over three million men participated in that war, twenty percent of them were killed, and another twenty percent were wounded. How could anybody have gone through that hell, and returned as the same man who left?”

  “You aren’t the only member of this church who went to war, John. No one else seems to have the same degree of restlessness that you do.”

  “Are you talking about Frank Gilbert, who spent the war in Philadelphia recruiting other men to die? Are you talking about Mark Davidson, who spent his war in Washington? Or maybe Milt Goodpasture, who commanded a militia company that never left Delaware County?”

  “They all did their part,” Father Jackson said.

  “Tell me one other member of this church who killed a dozen men—sons, husbands, fathers—good men—whose only sin was to be wearing a different color uniform. Tell me one other man in this church who had to wipe from his face the blood and brain matter of his best friend who had just had half his head blown off while standing right beside him. Tell me one other man in this church who shit in his pants because he was slitting the throat of another human being, and he didn’t have the opportunity to go find someplace to relieve himself.”

  “John, there is no need for you to be vulgar about this. If you are going to discuss it, please be Christian enough to use civil language,” Father Jackson scolded.

  “Civil language? Civil language?” John shouted. “I’m talking to you about hell! Do you understand that? You preach about hell, you offer salvation to keep yo
ur flock from hell, but have you ever seen hell? Because I have seen it. I have not only seen it, I have lived there! And you complain because I am not using civil language? Well you tell me, Father Jackson—and I’m asking you as my priest, and not as my father—just how does a person describe hell, in civil language?”

  The small brick building sat alongside the railroad track, not a part of, but directly adjacent to the passenger depot. The sign on the front of the building read: PENNSYLVANIA FREIGHT BROKERAGE. And though they handled railroad freight, they also handled freight that was moved by wagon, riverboat, and ship.

  It was near the end of a busy day, and John was separating the bills of lading into the type of transportation required. Many of the shipments would use multiple means of transport before reaching their final destination.

  John’s place of employment was behind a counter that separated the entrance from the rest of the building. From this position he dealt with the public, assessing their shipment needs, suggesting the best solution for them, then, once the requirement was established, he would make all the necessary arrangements for them. He found the job boring, but for the time being it was the only job he could find. He had studied to be a teacher; the original idea was for him to start a school that was associated with Christ Episcopal Church. And, had there not been a war, he would no doubt now be the headmaster of the school, perhaps with one of his own children enrolled.

  But when he returned to Media he was in no mood to teach school. By his own admission, at this point in his life, he would not be a good role model for children.

  Eric Coopersmith, owner of the Pennsylvania Freight Brokerage company, stepped into the area behind the counter and looked over at John, who, by now, had four stacks of shipping documents.

  “Mr. Jackson, did you tell Mr. Poindexter to go to hell?”

  “Not exactly,” John replied. “What I told him was that I was quite adept at processing shipping requirements as to carrier and destination, and I would be happy to arrange his transportation to hell.”

  “Did you think that was an appropriate response to a paying customer?”

  “I thought it might be a little more appropriate than knocking him on his ass,” John said.

  “I see.”

  “Is this conversation going somewhere, Mr. Coopersmith? Or is it just your purpose to chastise me?”

  “Oh, yes, it is going somewhere, Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we just can’t use you anymore. You don’t fit in with the others.”

  “Fit in? What is there to fit in?”

  “Were this the first incident, I would be inclined to overlook it. But this type of behavior has become far too common. In addition, our customers have told me they don’t like to deal with you. There is a sense of melancholy about you that they find disturbing. Don’t bother to come back tomorrow.”

  The oldest and most privileged of the city’s old-guard clubs was located at 1301 Walnut Street. It was the club to which the most elite members of Philadelphia society belonged, and by education and social standing, John Jackson would have been considered a shoo-in for membership.

  But on this day, shortly after he lost his job with the Pennsylvania Freight Brokerage, he was sitting in the outer sanctum of the club. He had been denied any deeper penetration into the building because that was reserved for members only, and he was not yet a member. He had every intention of rectifying that, however, and had applied for membership, having acquired all the necessary sponsors and recommendations. He was now waiting for the results.

  He was reading a newspaper, but all the while keeping an eye on the door that led into the inner sanctum, looking for Morgan Phillips, who was his sponsor.

  The expression on Phillips’s face told John all he needed to know.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Phillips said by way of beginning. “But I have put your name in for membership three times. I’m afraid the rules of the Philadelphia Club are quite specific. You have been blackballed three times. You are not eligible to have your name submitted again.”

  There was no specific reason given for John’s being blackballed. But John knew that it was not necessary for any reason to be given. It was sufficient reason for him to be denied entry in the club if even one person made the arbitrary decision that he didn’t want John to be a member.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” Phillips said, apologizing again.

  John went directly from the Philadelphia Club to Ye Olde Ale House, where, despite its name, one could also buy whiskey. And that’s what John did, bought several whiskeys. It didn’t take him too long to get drunk, and the drunker he got, the more generous a tipper he became. As a result he had at least three of the ladies at the bar hanging on his every word.

  “Fired! I was fired from a job any moron could do, but I can’t do it anymore because I was fired,” John said.

  “Honey, any man who would fire you is a fool,” one of the young women said.

  “Yeah, he musht be a fool,” John said, slurring the words. “The very idea not lettin’ me join their club. Well I din’t want to be in their damn club in the firsht place. All it is, is a bunch of old stuffed shirts sittin’ around a fireplace talkin’ real quiet so’s the devil doesn’t find out where they are ’n come get ’em.”

  “Join their club? Honey, I thought we were talking about you gettin’ fired,” one of the girls said.

  “My own father.”

  “Your own father fired you?” the first girl asked.

  “Or wouldn’t let you in the club?” a second girl asked.

  “No. He’s an Episcopal priest,” John said, filling his glass and tossing it down, neat.

  John was two days sober when he stepped up onto the wide, columned porch, and pulled the cord than hung alongside the door. He could hear the bell reverberating through the house. The home belonged to Swayne Manning, and it was one of the largest and most stately mansions in Chester Hill, one of Philadelphia’s most elegant neighborhoods.

  The butler answered the doorbell.

  “Hello, Morris,” John said as he started to step inside.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Morris said, moving to block John. “But I have been asked to prevent you from entering.”

  “What? Morris, what are you talking about? What do you mean I can’t come in? Is Lucinda here?”

  “Miss Lucinda is not receiving, sir.”

  “Why not? Morris, is something wrong? Is she ill? Has she been in an accident? If so, I must see her.”

  “No, sir, nothing like that, I’m glad to say. She asks that I give you this letter.”

  Morris handed an envelope to John, who recognized at once the very small, but exceptionally neat penmanship of Lucinda Manning. He recognized it because she had sent many letters to him during the war.

  “May I come in to read it?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

  “Morris, you know damn well that if I really wanted to come in that there is no way you can stop me.”

  “Yes, sir, I am well aware of that, Mr. Jackson. But it is my hope that you will be gentleman enough not to force your way in where you are not wanted.”

  “I’m not wanted? Is that what the letter says?”

  “I have no way of knowing what the letter says, sir. But, as I say, I have been asked to deny you entrance.”

  “Yeah,” John said. “All right.” He turned away from the door, then drove off. He was at least a mile away when he stopped, then opened the letter.

  Dear John,

  This is a difficult letter for me to write, but I have been thinking of it for the entire year since you returned from the war. You have asked me many times when I would consent to marry you. Here is my answer.

  I will never marry you. I know it is something that we had planned on, and though we were going to get married as soon as you graduated from college, it was you who suggested that we put it off until after the war. Of course at the time, neither of us realized how long the war would be.

  I waited fo
r you throughout the long war, I was faithful to you, and I maintained a correspondence. But I think now that you were right in suggesting that we wait, because the John Jackson who returned from the war is not the John Jackson I fell in love with.

  I think it would be best, John, if we not see each other again. I wish you all the best.

  Fondly,

  Lucinda

  Old Main Building

  “Yes, the way you are describing John Jackson is certainly indicative of someone with traumatic shock,” Professor Armbruster said. “I imagine that losing his job, and his fiancée, could well drive him to come west to lose himself in the mountains.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t come west right away,” Smoke said. “It was another four years before he showed up in the Rockies.”

  “What did he do during those years? Did he stay in Pennsylvania?”

  “No,” Smoke answered. He chuckled. “He joined the French Foreign Legion.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Paris, France—April 1867

  It was a brisk day in mid-April and John stopped out front, and looked at the sign on the outside of the building.

  OFFICE DE RECRUTEMENT MILITAIRE

  DE LA

  LÉGION ÉTRANGÈRE FRANÇAISE

  He was met just inside the door by someone in the uniform of a noncommissioned officer.

  “Bist du gekommen, um die Französisch Fremdenlegion?”

  “I beg your pardon?” John replied.

  “Oh, you are English. I thought you were German.”

  “I am American.”

  “American, you say? And you have come to join the Foreign Legion?”

  “Yes.”