When Johnny Came Marching Home (21 page)

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.

"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 father 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."

"You know I'm going to have to tell him what you told us," I said. "I don't expect he'll be very pleased about that."

Chantal gave out a little huff. "He'll be madder'n a hornet. You ain't gotta tell him where I'm at, do ya?"

"I'll tell him you said you were headed for Burlington."

She gave a curt nod. "I'd be pleased if ya told my momma that I'll write ta her," she said.

"I'll tell her."

 

* * *

 

I left Chantal in my father's care, tied Rusty's horse to my saddle horn, and headed up to Sherman's Hollow. The wind had picked up and I could feel a hint of winter in the air. Within weeks, certainly by Thanksgiving, the snow would be deep around us, signaling that it was time for us to get out and shoot our winter deer. I smiled at the thought, and at the idea of the coming holiday. Thanksgiving was only declared a national holiday two years ago, and already Vermonter's were using it to mark the true start of winter. "As if we had to," I said to my horse Jezebel, thinking that snow up to your hind end should be enough of a signal in itself.

When I pulled into the LeRoche dooryard Mrs. LeRoche came rushing out her front door, wringing an apron with her hands. "Did ya find Chantal?" she asked. "Is she hurt?"

"She's fine," I said. "She asked me to bring your horse back and to tell you she'll write to you."

"Where is she?" Mrs. LeRoche was somewhere in her early-to-mid forties, although she looked a bit older. She had graying brown hair and doelike brown eyes that she had given to her daughter, and I could see that she had once been a handsome young woman. She smoothed out her apron over a well-worn calico dress and looked suddenly relieved.

"She told me she was going to Burlington to look for a job," I said. "She also said she didn't want her father to know where she was."

"I won't tell him," she snapped. "Damn that man and his temper."

"She's going to take a room with Mrs. Edwards, until she can get herself into Burlington."

"It's good she's getting off on her own," she sighed. "It's time. She an' her papa are like a cat an' a dog." She looked up at me. "But he loves her. He jus' don' know how ta handle her. I kep' tellin' him that nobody knows how ta handle a girl that age, but he din' believe me."

"Chantal told my father and me that he gave Johnny Harris a thumping right around the time Johnny died. She said she overheard him telling you that."

Mrs. LeRoche pressed her lips together. "She ought not be talkin' bad 'bout her papa. It's what the Bible says, an' she knows it."

"Did he tell you that?" I asked.

She stared me down. "Tha's somethin' you gonna have ta talk ta Rusty about. I don' know nothin' else 'bout it."

"Is he out in his woodlot?"

"He is."

I untied the horse and handed down the rope.

"Thank ya fer bringin' our horse back, an' fer tellin' me 'bout Chantal," she said. "I'll be ridin' inta town tomorra ta see her."

She didn't say it, but I suspected she'd wait until Rusty had headed out to his woodlot before she went into town.

 

* * *

 

I followed the sound of axes until I found Rusty and his sons, along with two hired hands, felling a stand of tall pines. As I did on my last visit, I tied Jezebel well away from any falling timber and walked to where the men were working.

Rusty saw me approaching and guided me off to one side.

"You sure do a lotta movin' about fer a fella with one arm," he said, watching me to see how I'd taken his jibe.