When Johnny Came Marching Home (2 page)

"What'd you say to her?" I asked, angry that Johnny had frightened her off that way.

Johnny grinned at me. "I tol' her that old nig was as white as a ghost an' as stiff as a board. Then I tol' her they was puttin' his body in Doc's icehouse an' that I'd take her down there later an' show her."

"You shouldn't of scared her," Abel said.

"No, you shouldn't of. That was dumb and mean-spirited," I snapped.

"Heck, it weren't nothin' ta be scared of," Johnny said. He was still grinning at us, unmoved by our anger. "It was jus' a dead man. It's the ones still walkin' aroun' ya gotta worry 'bout, least that's what my daddy always says."

Reluctantly, Abel and I nodded in agreement, thinking it the manly thing to do, yet deep inside something told me we were wrong. But we were too young to know that. We were only eleven and right then none of us knew how many dead men we would one day see.

Chapter One

Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

I came down the stairs using the banister for support, what remained of my left arm hanging limp and useless in the folded-up sleeve of my wool shirt. I had been home from the war for nearly six months, living off my father's charity, accepting his offer of a job as the town's deputy constable, and returning to my boyhood room in our small house.

My mother had died giving birth to a stillborn brother when I was only a child, so there had always been just the two of us in the house, and it had created a strong bond between my father and me. Yet the idea of accepting his—or anyone's—charity ground at me. Of course my father refused to think of it as charity. But it was. In addition to the occasional police duties, for which he received a small stipend, a town constable earns his keep by collecting delinquent taxes and settling disputes over fence lines or the ownership of livestock. He receives a small percentage of the taxes collected and fees from the county for his mediation of disputes, which otherwise would have to go to the courts in Burlington. As the elected constable he is allowed to hire deputies when needed, but the number of disputes and the amount of taxes remain constant and all concerned get paid out of the same pot. So in reality my father was giving his crippled son half his income, a fact he justified as something that gave him much needed time off in his approaching old age.

I entered the kitchen and went to the coffee pot my father had started earlier. He had left a note on the kitchen table, which also served as our office, explaining that he had ridden up to Richmond, a larger town to our north, to deposit tax revenues into the town bank account. It was a fairly long trip by horseback and it would be well into the afternoon before he returned.

I finished my coffee and decided to make myself useful and ride up to the Billingsley farm to iron out a dispute about some stray cattle. I slipped on a red-and-black checked jacket and a broad-brimmed Stetson and went out to the barn behind the house to saddle up my horse. As soon as I stepped outside the crisp autumn air assaulted my senses. There is nothing like autumn in Vermont's mountains. We were still a week or two from peak color, but already the hillsides were awash in the red and yellow and orange of the changing leaves. Those that had already fallen lay stiff with the early-morning frost and crunched underfoot as I made my way to the barn.

My horse, Jezebel, was an old bay mare who gave me a sad look as I pulled her saddle from a hook on the wall.

"Don't want to go out yet, eh, girl," I said, soothing her. "It's too early for you, is it? Well, it is for me too, but it's gotta be done." I noted that my father had given her oats and fresh hay before leaving, and I patted her side. "You need the exercise," I said. "You lay about the barn too much and you're getting to be a fat old lady."

Saddling a horse with one arm is a tricky proposition and had taken some practice to learn. But everything was a chore with one arm. Even half a missing limb affected your balance, sometimes making you stumble, always making you feel clumsy and inept. I was setting myself to heave the saddle onto Jezebel's haunches when a voice stopped me.

"Ya need ta be comin' with me, Jubal."

I turned and found Josiah Flood standing in the doorway of the barn. His brown face, under his old Union military cap, had a fearful look spread across it, something I had not seen since I lay wounded in his arms in a Virginia meadow.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's Johnny Harris. He's dead. Somebody's gone an' kilt him."

 

* * *

 

Johnny's body lay in the rear of the barn behind his father's church. He was on his back, a large bloodstain covering the front of his white shirt. I reached down and needlessly felt for a pulse in his neck. His arms were thrown out, making a cross of his body, and his upturned face held an expression of surprise. The deep blue eyes he had inherited from his father had not yet begun to fade, but they were no longer the eyes I had known since childhood, full of life and laughter and cynicism.

I could feel Josiah standing behind me, feel him staring past me at the body. When I turned back to him a look of angry satisfaction filled his face.

"I ain't sorry he's dead," he said. "I wished 'em dead ever since that day in Spotsylvania."

I nodded, knowing I felt much the same, although it was something I had never spoken aloud. "Don't go saying that to anybody else. They weren't there with us. They wouldn't understand."

He nodded, then looked down at his boots. "I'll keep my place," he said.

His words stung, but they were true enough that no reply was warranted.

"How did you happen on Johnny's body?" I asked, pushing past the unintended insult.

"I ran into Reverend Harris over ta the Johnsons' store las' night, an' he axed me if I could do some work here in the barn. When I came ta do it a bit ago, I found Johnny layin' here dead."

"Is Reverend Harris here?"

Josiah shook his head. "He tol' me him and his missus was goin' outta town las' night, an' that they wasn't gonna be back till tonight aroun' suppertime. Said I could come git my money then."

I bent over and unbuttoned Johnny's shirt. The wound beneath was in the center of his chest. It was thin and circular, but I couldn't tell if it had been caused by a small-caliber handgun or a puncture from a round-bladed tool or knife. I sat back on my haunches.

"You want I should run down the road an' git Doc Pierce?" Josiah asked, almost as if he were reading my thoughts.

"Yes, that would be good. We're gonna need him here to look at the body."

When Josiah left I began searching the area around the body to see if any weapon had been discarded. There was a pile of hay several feet away and I picked up a pitchfork that was leaning against a nearby wall and began raking through the top layer. Nothing appeared. Using the pitchfork to clear away any debris I encountered I searched the far reaches of the barn to see if anything had been thrown into a dark corner. Again, nothing.

A sound behind me caused me to turn. Rebecca Johnson stood framed by the opened double doors of the barn. One hand cupped her brow as she tried to see into the darkened interior. I hurried forward to stop her from entering.

"Jubal, it's you," she said as I came into the light. "Is it true? I met Josiah on the road and he told me Johnny Harris was dead."

I had loved Rebecca Johnson for years but had never mustered the courage to tell her. Yet, I believe she knew. When the war had come and her brother and Johnny and I had gone off to fight she had hugged me fiercely as we prepared to leave and made me promise I would come home to her. And she had written to me as well. Every time Abel received a letter there was one for me written in her graceful hand, telling me all the news from home and urging me to keep myself safe, and with each letter the love I felt for Rebecca deepened. Then came Spotsylvania, and what the generals called the Battle of the Wilderness, the place where Abel was killed and I was wounded, and where Johnny was captured and taken to Andersonville Prison. When I came home, half the man who had left four years earlier, I had barely spoken to Rebecca, not wanting to see the hurt and pity in her eyes as she looked at my mutilated body, not wanting to expose the love I felt for her and then await the rejection that was certain to come.

When I had left for the war, Rebecca was a nineteen-year-old girl who had already caught the eye of every young man in the surrounding towns. When I returned four years later, a deep maturity had taken hold of her, making her even more appealing, and I wondered if it was brought about by the death of her only brother and the subsequent loss of her grieving mother. But then, we had all matured. Death seems to have that effect.

Now, framed by the wide doorway, she was even more beautiful than I remembered, tall and slender, her delicate features framed by flowing reddish-blond hair and set off by soft green eyes.

I towered over her, having inherited much of my father's size, and I stood slightly to the side as I spoke to her, keeping my crippled arm away from her and as much out of view as possible. "Yes, it's true," I said. "It looks as though someone killed him."

She stared into my face, then glanced at the Navy Colt I had strapped to my hip after Josiah told me that someone had killed Johnny. She gazed past me into the darkened interior of the barn. "I'm not surprised someone killed him," she said. She looked back at me and took in the wonder that her words must have covered my face with. "He left here a pleasant boy and came home a very cruel man. Certainly you saw the difference."

I didn't know how to respond and was saved from further comment by the arrival of Josiah and Doc Pierce.

After directing Doc to the body I turned back to Rebecca. "I can't have anyone inside the barn," I said softly. "But I would like you to do me a favor."

She looked at me curiously. "What is that, Jubal?"

"I'd like to soften the blow for Reverend and Mrs. Harris as much as possible. They're due to return home this evening, and I wonder if you could keep a watch for them and send word to me when they get back. It would also be good if you and your father could be there when I tell them."

Rebecca nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll go sit with Mrs. Harris and I'm sure my father will want to go to Reverend Harris. Neither of them should be alone when you tell them."

I thanked Rebecca and began to turn away when she reached out and placed her hand on my right arm, stopping me. She stared into my face. "Jubal, have I done something to offend you?" she asked.

I was stunned by the unexpected question and I gave a clumsy, stammering reply. "Why no, no, you haven't . . . done anything."

"Then why do you avoid me, Jubal? Certainly you know how much I care for you. I grew up caring for you. But you've been so distant since you returned from the war."

I studied my boots, then spoke without raising my eyes to her. "Things are different. I'm different."

Her eyes became sad. "If your feelings for me have changed, I can accept that. I have no choice but to accept it. But if you're avoiding me because of your wound—"

I spoke quickly, stopping her before words of pity reached her lips. "I have to get back inside."

Rebecca kept her eyes fixed on mine. Then she reached up and brushed an unruly strand of curly brown hair from my forehead. "I understand, Jubal. I'll send for you when Reverend and Mrs. Harris get home."

I watched her turn and walk away, and I wondered if she could ever truly understand—if anyone could.

Doc Pierce was finishing his examination of the body when I squatted beside him. He glanced at me and shook his head. "It was a single wound, straight to the heart," he began.

Doc had aged over the years. Now close to sixty, his body had grown thick, while his hair had turned a snowy white and thinned considerably. His full cheeks were rosy, in part from the autumn chill, in larger part from a growing use of brandy in the evenings. Since the war began he had worked several days a week in a Burlington hospital, treating the returning wounded, and he told me after I too had returned that the insane waste he had witnessed had filled him with near total despair for the human race.

"Was it a small-caliber pistol?" I asked.

"No, definitely not a pistol. My best guess, until I can examine him more thoroughly, is a handheld weapon with a thin, round blade, perhaps an awl or an ice pick. Could even have been a fencer's foil, although I've never heard of one in these parts. But one thing's certain: it was a single thrust, straight through the breastbone and into the heart."

I peered down at Johnny's body. He still had traces of frailty from the months he had spent in Andersonville Prison, and the look of surprise was still frozen on his face. Did he know the person who had killed him? Was that the cause of the surprise?

"All those years of war, months and months in that wretched prison," Doc said. "And now, to have it end here in his own barn. It doesn't seem right. You'd think the boy had earned himself a long, quiet life."

I had always admired Doc. He was the most educated man in our village and one of the smartest I had ever known, and even at an early age I had recognized that and had tried to pattern my actions, even the way I spoke, after him. But his intelligence had failed him this time. Johnny had not earned himself a long, quiet life. This is what he'd earned. I glanced up at Josiah, standing behind Doc Pierce, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

Chapter Two

Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1853

The two young women had stripped down to their shifts and waded into the water. We had seen two farm horses tied to a tree on the road that ran along the top edge of the Huntington Gorge, and figured we'd find a couple of farm boys swimming in one of the many deep pools that dotted the river.

We had not expected this and the three of us were now lying on a ledge high above the deep pool in which the women were swimming, staring down at them, at the way their wet shifts pressed against their breasts and thighs as they climbed out of the pool and laid back on a large boulder.

We glanced at each other then back at the women. It was mid-July and ungodly hot and the sight of the women made it seem even hotter. We were fourteen and had seen very little of women's bodies and certainly nothing as erotically pleasing as this.