The Better Country

by Scott Johnson

  “I can’t trust it on this one. Someone’s got to hand deliver it or make sure he gets it.”

  “What’s his name, and where’s he live?” Billy asked.

  “Joseph Cole. Goes by Joe. He joined the Confederate Army in January, 1863.” The reverend paused and tried to read Billy’s expression. “You heard me right.”

  Billy furrowed his freckled brow. “What?”

  “Look Billy, I guess you should know this: I’m a native Virginian. Now, don’t jump to any conclusions. Listen …”

  “You’re from Virginia? And your brother’s a Johnnie? Now aren’t you full of surprises? No way—can’t help ya. Not goin’ to aide a Reb. No, sir!”

  “Come on, Billy. Would you do this for me? He’s my brother for Heaven’s sake. We’re on the same side here, okay. Michigan’s my home, always will be.” The reverend’s eyes begged Billy to reconsider.

  The young soldier looked forward and marched silently for a hundred yards or so. The chasm of hate between Blue and Gray seemed infinitely large. Soon, Billy’s conscience pricked him as he rethought his last words. Friendship can be much stronger than hate. “I guess I’ve heard that happenin’ before, brother against brother. But … I’ve never met anyone who fell into that pickle. You guys close?”

  “Use to be. Had a huge argument—well, actually a fight—and then we parted ways. My uncle told me he was fighting in the western campaigns. Can’t confirm it, but I think he may have been captured by the Federals, somewhere in Mississippi.”

  “Sounds like a whopper of a fight. Course, I can’t picture you fightin’,” said Billy.

  “It’s not something I’m proud of, believe me. Billy, he beat a slave to death—right in front of me. And I didn’t lift a finger until the deed was done. Then, I lost it. I layed into him hard, real hard—nearly killed him with my bare hands.”

  “So let me guess,” Billy said, “you ran away from home.”

  “You got it—and never looked back. I did stay in touch with Mom and Dad. But I had no interest in farming or harming my fellow man. My parents died about five years ago. Then my little sister passed.”

  “You think you guys can patch things up? asked Billy.

  “Doubt it. Seriously doubt it. He’d never accept my fiancé, Samantha. Not in a million years!”

  “What’s wrong with your fiancé?” asked Billy.

  The reverend paused and carefully processed that last question. “That’s another story for another march.”

  Billy looked down at the envelope and stuffed it inside his coat pocket. “Anything I need to know about this here letter, Brother Web?”

  With his free hand, the reverend twirled the handsome mustache. He then adjusted his blue hat and said, “Got to make my peace with him. You know, just in case …”

  Billy interrupted. “Nothin’s goin’ to happen to ya, Rev. You’ve got to protect my skin—remember? Heck, your chances of gettin’ through this got to be better than mine.”

  “Just promise me when this war’s over, you’ll get him the letter. Look for the Cole family farm in Duffields, Virginia, a few miles north of Charlestown. Of course, I’ll pay you for your time and expense.”

  “Hold your money, Brother Web. No, I bet ya … I bet ya money I’ll be giving this here letter back to ya when it’s all said and done. You watch.”

  “Billy, I’m not a gambling man.”

  ****

  As the 24th Michigan rounded the bend a great clearing opened before them. Great plumes of earth rocketed to the skies as both sides shelled the other’s position. The scenes of carnage made the reverend’s heart quake, and suddenly second thoughts flooded his mind. Could he really take another man’s life? For years he preached staunchly, “Thou shalt not kill.” He comforted himself with other scripture that condoned killing for the right reason; however, did his reasons fall into this category? After all, his counterparts on the other side had concluded that they fought for the right reasons. Then the ugliness and wickedness of the slave trade illumined his mind, the sight of scourged backs and merciless hangings, the separation of families and cruelties unimaginable. Why had not his fellow clergy, particularly southern clergy, taken a greater stand against the sin of slavery? Somehow he knew this senseless conflict was part of God’s judgment on the nation. His fluid thoughts quickly solidified. No—the cause was right; the Union must be preserved, and evil institutions must be destroyed. A new country would rise from the ash heap of war.

  “You ready, Brother Web? Here comes Captain Nelson, and he has a mission written all over that cocky little face.” Billy stood at attention as Nelson brought the horse to a sudden, sliding halt.

  “Listen up men! I need you to move to the crest of that hill and form a line. Stay low. Don’t make a move until I give the order.” Nelson barked commands loudly to overcome the sounds of artillery.

  The men moved at a quick pace, leaping over a brushy hedgerow, the only obstacle in their way. Hot lead whined above their heads, growing louder and the earth shook more violently with each step forward. They crouched down and lined up along the lengthy, grassy berm. Just ahead of them other companies were charging the Confederate’s picket line, not more than 40 rods distance. Captain Nelson galloped back and forth along the line behind the men, yelling orders from his clean, well-crafted saddle.

  “Get ready men! Fix bayonets!”

  Minnie balls were now skirting across the berm’s surface. One man suddenly screamed as a .58 caliber ball sailed through his eye socket, blowing out the back of his skull. His cries were short and his suffering brief. Reverend Cole’s prayers and sympathies went out to the young man, but he had to remain focused. He must guard the colors and prevent them from hitting the ground.

  “Ready! Company—charge!” Nelson screamed the order at the top of his lungs.

  Each soldier leaped up and darted toward the Confederate line. Reverend Cole stayed to Billy’s left as the whole company swept across the body-strewn field, moving like a mighty raptor, wings out swept, the Union flag leading the way. Each man’s battle cry amplified into one unified terror, a terror that flew ahead of them, making the Confederates weak-kneed. Already diminished by the previous charge, a few gray-suited soldiers began to retreat. The reverend fell behind his swiftly running flag bearer. He was letting Billy down.

  Another member of the color guard, Ambrose Mathews, moved in beside the young sergeant. The reverend ran directly behind Mathews. Seconds later, the preacher glided through a spray of blood, the taste of it mingled with his salty sweat and saliva. A bullet had severed Ambrose's carotid artery, toppling him face down into the ripped-up ground. Webster Cole instantly jumped over the fallen soldier and sped up, joining Billy’s side, his heart flooding his body with pure adrenaline.

  Billy’s so-called demons had arrived to meet the army chaplain. Without thinking, Cole fired his one shot into the gray wall. One man fell and another took his place. A rifle butt caught him just under the ear, knocking him down. He rolled to his feet and jabbed the bayonet into the shoulder of the relentless Reb. Blood ran down the cold steel, lubricating it for more unfortunate lads. He quickly blocked another aggressive strike, dispatching two more Grays. Hot lead grazed his side, making him cringe and unleash an agonizing cry. Pain and anger awakened old memories, and the skills of prior seasons raced back into his veins. In the wake of his survivalist instincts, bodies lay reeling across the killing fields. This was not a boxing match, but a fight to the death.

  “There, Rev! See the break in the line? They’re fallin’ apart!” Billy yelled.

  “I’m here, Billy. I’m here—no worries. Keep moving forward. We’ve got ‘em now.”

  The enemy entrenchments lay just a few yards ahead. Billy aimed the flag proudly toward the Rebel stronghold, streaming it majestically, turning it into a beacon of victory. To the Federal’s dismay, the cannon fire began to increase. Clods of f
resh clay rained over them. One explosion came too close.

  ****

  “Billy ...” Cole whispered the name and stirred, opening his eyes to face a dead soldier with no lower jaw. It was not the man he sought. His mind became tangled with reality and hallucination. There was Samantha in all her beauty, reaching out to him, the smooth ebony skin contrasting with the pure white dress. She sang a well-known spiritual, her angelic voice drowning out the chaos. He stretched out his hand, and it passed through her hand as if she were an apparition. The bullets had no affect on her. As the shelling subsided, the visions disintegrated, revealing the bleak truth.

  “Billy! Billy!” He yelled the color bearer’s name as he shook off the dizzying, percussive assault. His sparkling brown eyes fell into focus, and a portal opened within the swirling, noxious fumes. Intuition told him to look back. A soldier rarely looks behind him on the battlefield, and what the reverend saw next sent a wave of panic down his spine. Men in blue were running, retreating. Something had gone terribly wrong. No, he must not look back, only forward.

  He turned, again finding the opening in the man-made storm. He could just barely make out Billy’s ever-forward thrust toward the Confederate line. However, after a second look, something didn’t seem right. The flag wasn’t actually moving anymore, and it wavered, as if to kiss the ground. Picking up his rifle, the preacher catapulted forward, leaping toward his unprotected friend. As he neared the boy, Cole noticed a sinister gray-suited soldier advancing like a ghost. The ghost was reloading, trying to finish off the young lad. Thick layers of smoke hid the Rebel’s face.

  “I’m coming, Billy! Hang on!” shouted Cole.

  Billy still lived, but lay there, disabled by the bullet that had just broken his right femur. As the tattered Union flag angled closer to the Virginia soil, he came close to passing out.

  “No! No! Billy!” The reverend screamed like a mad man, and rushed to inflict all his fury upon the lone Confederate soldier.

  “No … you … don’t!” Cole thrust the crimson-colored bayonet into the chest of the surprised Rebel. The skewered soldier crumbled, and his knees hit the ground. A familiar face fell out of the war clouds. The reverend drew back, his eyes gaping. The face of the unfortunate soldier was much like his with the dimpled chin, a long pointed nose and wide, prominent cheekbones, the Cole family cheekbones.

  “Joe …” The reverend whispered in disbelief, “Joseph … no … no. It can’t be. Can’t be you.” Cole pulled out the bayonet and gently laid his brother back, propping his head against a cold corpse. Quickly, he took a handkerchief and pressed against the wound, now a free-flowing fountain.

  “Web … that you, Web?” Joseph stared dimly into the eyes of his brother.

  “It’s me brother. I’m here,” said the reverend.

  The dying soldier began to cough, occasionally gasping for more air. “Webster … that really you?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Joseph. I’m so sorry. This can’t be happening.” The tears were streaming down the preacher’s cheeks, washing clean channels through the dirt, sweat and dried blood.

  “No, don’t blame yourself, Web. Don’t you dare.”

  “Forgive me, brother. I never saw your face,” said Web.

  “I forgive ya, Web. Forgave ya a long time ago…” He paused and coughed. “Just look at you …” Joe grabbed Web’s forearm tightly and wept.

  The two brothers said their last goodbyes, attempting to make every word count. The reverend had so much he wanted to tell his brother, so many apologies to make, so many wrongs to right. They were so divided. Both men held different views on God and how the nation should be governed. Web wished he had been a more loving brother, a kinder, gentler brother. It was then that he saw it: unity and freedom could never be fully attained in this world, the Shadowlands, the place of the toilsome Curse. No one could live a perfect life. Relationships, the nation, nothing would be perfect in this life. Only God could set things right, renew them as they should be.

  “I can’t feel my legs, Web. Why … the sky’s already dark. Is it evening?”

  “Hold on, Joe. You’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t lie to me. We both know...” Joseph coughed up more blood; the unsteady, rattling breathing vibrated his pierced chest.

  Web stroked his brother’s grimy hair and tried to give him whiskey to dull the pain. Joseph couldn’t hold it down. His body began to relax.

  “What’s to become of me, Web?”

  “Try not to talk, Joe. Here, take some more whiskey.” The Confederate private pushed the flask away.

  Joe continued, “Will I see you again?”

  Web struggled to hold back the tears. “We’ll be together, Joe. You, me, Mom and Dad. Together forever. Our little sister’s there too. You’ll see. You have to believe that.”

  “You sure?” asked Joe. “I’m no good, ya know.”

  “Just believe, my brother. Just believe!” Web held Joseph’s hand firmly, assuming his chaplain duties once again. “Remember the thief, that blessed thief who hung by our Savior’s side. Remember what our Lord said, ‘Today you will be with me in paradise.’ Think on those simple words, Joseph and believe them.”

  “Listen, Web. Ya hear it?”

  “What, brother … what is it?” Web looked perplexed.

  “Music … I hear music.” Web broke down with a wail, punching the ground, hugging his brother tight. Having witnessed the last breath of many soldiers, he knew the calling card of Heaven, of angelic hosts, the escorts to that distant, glorious land.

  Kissing Joseph on the forehead, he said, “Goodbye, brother. See you in Glory.” Joe breathed his last, and the reverend closed the soldier’s eyelids. A faint gladness and glow rested on Joe’s face.

  Decades before, they had played war together, equipped with toy guns and infinite imaginations. They had harmed each other with sounds and invisible blades, pretending to die a thousand times. Then they had fantasized about real battles and thought of death and destruction as glorious things. If only life remained innocent child’s play, but all men eventually grow up, leaving their immature notions behind. Cole now realized that life is always about growing-up and moving toward something better, to realizing a larger and more majestic reality, to experiencing true freedom and change.

  ****

  A battle gives a man very little time to think, much less to grieve. Cole’s thoughts returned to the young flag bearer, only ten yards behind him. Billy was now unconscious as cannon fire escalated. The Union flag lay completely on the ground, folded, mangled and dirty. The reverend quickly tied a tourniquet just above the soldier’s ghastly wound. Within seconds, a new rally of battle cries sounded behind him. Looking back, he saw a wave of unscathed blue uniforms heading his way. He reached down and picked up the unguarded stars and stripes. As the brave chaplain waved the flag before the fresh troops, a new energy invaded the field. Cole turned around to face his enemy. Raising his eyes to the heavens, he remembered the words of Samson, “Oh Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, Oh God.” When the last word left his lips, a sweet, other-worldly music filled his ears. Reverend Cole leveled his gaze to the oncoming assault; he then smiled and stepped towards the better country.

  The End

  About the Author

  Scott grew up in a community called Upatoi, just east of Columbus, Georgia. Living in the country, he learned to appreciate the outdoors and God's handiwork. An engineer by trade, he currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, son and daughter. Through his writing, Scott seeks to entertain and encourage others to grow in their faith and in their love for each other.

  Scott enjoys history and learning about the American Civil War. His interest in the Civil War grew when he learned about his ancestors who fought on both sides. When time permits, he continues to research his family history and visit Civil War battlefie
ld sites.

  If you’ve enjoyed “The Better Country”, Scott invites you to check out his debut novel, “The Guide.” To learn more about his novel and read excerpts, please visit his website:

  https://sscottjohnson.wordpress.com/

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