When Johnny Came Marching Home (3 page)

"I'm gonna jump in," Johnny whispered.

The ledge was thirty feet above the pool, which was a good twelve feet deep, and we normally entered it by jumping from the ledge rather than climb down the twisting, rocky trail that led to the river.

"You can't," Abel whispered back.

"We'll all jump," Johnny insisted. "One at a time, just like always."

"They'll skin us if we do," I said.

"We'll jus' tell 'em we never saw 'em down there." Johnny grinned at us. "Don' ya wanna see 'em up close?" He paused, putting on a serious face. "Anybody who don' jump after me is a sissy fer all time."

With that he scrambled to his feet, let out a whoop, just as he always did, and leaped from the ledge, his thin arms flailing in the air. As soon as he hit the water, Abel was up whooping and jumping after him, and I wasn't sure if it was from fear of being a sissy for all time, or really wanting to see the women up close. I jumped third, and deep down I knew my reason and it had nothing to do with being called a sissy.

By the time I surfaced the young women were screaming at us, calling us peeping Toms and claiming that their brothers would come after us and thump us good. Close up I recognized them. They were from a farm that lay halfway along the road to Richmond that I had stopped at once with my father. They did indeed have brothers, one that was well into his twenties, an unlikely sort to hunt down the sons of a local lawman, a minister, and a storekeeper, and a second one who was younger and smaller than us.

Johnny immediately started to smooth things over, his eyes never leaving the women. "We never saw ya. Honest ta God, we never did. We always come here an' jump straight in," he pleaded.

One of the women followed his gaze which was fixed on the outline of her breasts and the erect nipples that pressed against her wet shift. She got to her feet and brazenly put her hands on her hips. "Well, ya sure are seein' us now," she snapped. "So ya better turn away while we get ourselves dressed. I know who ya are; I know who yer daddy is too. I've been ta his church. An' I've got a mind ta ride on down ta Jerusalem's Landing an' tell him whatcha done."

Johnny was treading water, but raised his hands in surrender. "I'm turnin' aroun', I'm turnin' aroun'." He glanced at us, fighting to keep a grin off his face. "You boys turn aroun' too," he said. "We gotta give these here ladies some privacy."

The women got dressed, whispering to each other as they did, and I was confident there would be no consequences for our prank, and certainly no brothers coming to thump us. Women and girls who grew up on farms had seen pretty much everything when it came to animals going at each other, so there was very little that embarrassed them. We, however, were village boys and anything even hinting at sex was a great curiosity.

Later, when the women were gone, we were still laughing and talking about our adventure. Johnny summed it all up in typical fashion.

"Did ya see the bosoms on that one who was yellin' at us?" he asked. "I'm surprised her pa ain't put her in the barn an' turned her into a milker."

 

* * *

 

Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

I answered the knock on my door and found Rebecca standing there.

"Reverend Harris and his wife just got home," she said. "My father and his new wife are waiting for you to get there and then they'll stop by to be with them."

"I thought you were going with your father," I said.

"He preferred that his wife go with him." There was an edge to her voice and I thought I understood why.

Rebecca's mother had died seven months ago. When word had come about Abel's death she'd become deeply depressed. Some said she'd died of a broken heart, others believed that her son being buried in far-off Virginia had driven her to despair. In any event she had jumped or fallen into the river and drowned. I had been in a military hospital for almost a year, recovering from my wounds, then assigned as a clerk to the medical staff, and by the time I returned home Rebecca's father had remarried, telling friends that he needed a wife to help him with the store.

Rebecca's stepmother was a war widow herself, her young husband having died early in the conflict. She was not much older than I, and Walter Johnson's remarriage to a young widow so soon after his first wife's death had set local tongues wagging. It was something that had obviously hurt his only remaining child as well.

Seeing Rebecca's pain I wanted to reach out to her, draw her close to me with my one good arm, and comfort her, but knew I could not, certain Rebecca would not favor such an awkward gesture from a one-armed man.

"I'll walk you to the store," I said.

I had hoped my father would be back before the Harris's returned, but it was already nearing eight and I concluded that he had decided to spend the night in Richmond. There was a woman there he favored and I didn't begrudge him time with her. Still, telling the Harris's that their son had been murdered was something I would have liked to pass on to someone else.

The distance between my home and the Johnsons' store is no more than fifty yards, with the church and parsonage almost directly across the road. When we reached the store I stared at the lighted windows of the parsonage, trying to imagine what I would say when Reverend Harris or his wife answered the door.

Rebecca, who had not spoken since we started out, now seemed to intuitively understand my concern.

"Just tell them as simply as you can, Jubal," she said. "They'll be shocked by what you say, just as my family and I were shocked when we learned about Abel. They won't need details. They'll be too numbed to understand them anyway. Later, if they want to know more, you or your father can tell them." She paused and reached out to touch my good arm. "I'll tell my father and his wife that it's time for them to go to the Harris's."

I nodded, realizing that I didn't know Walter Johnson's new wife very well. I had spoken to her in their store, but only casually, and I suddenly wished there was some way Rebecca could take her place.

 

* * *

 

Walter Johnson and his wife Mary were already crossing the road when I knocked on the parsonage door, still wondering how I would deliver this terrible message to people I had known all my life.

I had spoken to Doc Pierce late in the afternoon and he confirmed that Johnny had been killed by a slender, rounded weapon akin to an ice pick or an awl, one thrust to the heart. Awls are used to make holes in wood or leather and I had not noticed any wood- or leather-work in the barn, and I knew the Harris's icebox was in a shed off the kitchen. I would check the barn again, but if nothing was found it would mean that whoever killed Johnny had probably brought the weapon with them, not picked it up in a moment of anger. I had thought about that for some time, and the more I did the more sense it seemed to make. Someone had brought a weapon with them out of fear that they might need it to defend themselves, or out of simple, cold-blooded hatred.

When the door opened Walter Johnson and his new wife were already standing behind me. They both seemed very nervous and distraught. Reverend Harris smiled at us, his eyes curious but not concerned.

"Jubal, Walter, Mary, what a surprise. Is something wrong? Do you need me to go somewhere with you?"

I realized what a natural response that was coming from a minister, given all the times people must have knocked at his door, asking him to come to the bedside of a sick or dying member of his church.

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Reverend," I began, deciding to heed Rebecca's advice.

Reverend Harris began to stutter. "Wha, what is it?" His eyes had grown fearful, his body rigid.

"It's about Johnny," I said. "He was killed today . . . murdered, by the looks of it. Josiah found him in the barn when he came to do some work for you."

Mrs. Harris had caught my words and came rushing across the room. "Virgil, what is he saying? Virgil! Not our Johnny. It's not our Johnny who's dead. Tell him it's not our Johnny!"

Reverend Harris put his arms around his wife, and Walter and his wife Mary immediately went to their sides. Mrs. Harris began to sob uncontrollably and Mary placed trembling hands on her back and arm, leading her to a sofa. Reverend Harris watched her for several moments, not seeming to know what to say or do. Finally he turned back to me.

"Where is my boy?" he asked.

"Doc has the body at his office," I said.

"I want to go to him."

I nodded, lowering my voice. "Doc has already . . . examined him . . . internally," I said. "It might be best if Mrs. Harris didn't come."

My words struck him like a slap and I saw him wince in pain. "Yes, I understand." He turned to Walter. "Can you and Mary stay with my wife?"

"Of course, Virgil," Walter said.

 

* * *

 

Johnny lay on an examination table, his body drained of color. Virgil Harris wept over his son as Doc Pierce briefly explained what had happened.

"I know it's of little comfort, Virgil, but I'm certain the boy died quickly and did not suffer."

The minister slowly nodded. "When can I take him for services and burial?" he asked, his voice soft and hoarse.

Doc glanced at me. "I have no further need of the body," he said. "I'm certain about the cause of death."

I turned to the minister. "I'll need to have access to your barn, but I won't need the body."

Doc stepped forward and placed his hands on Virgil Harris's shoulders. "You go ahead and get ready to bury your boy. I'll keep the body here until you're in need of it."

Chapter Three

Spotsylvania County, Virginia, 1864

We could hear them screaming as the flames roared all around. The wounded lay in the no-man's-land between the two armies, awaiting the next assault that would allow us to drag them to safety. Then the fire had started. I don't know if it was caused by a stray artillery shell, or if it was deliberately set by one side or the other. The Wilderness in Spotsylvania County was a nearly impenetrable area of scrub brush and forest, covering more than seventy square miles, and chosen as a point of conflict by Lee's Army of Northern Virginia to limit the effectiveness of the Union's superior artillery.

Abel and Johnny and I were holed up behind a fallen tree awaiting the command to again charge the Confederate line. But the fire had ended that. Now we just waited and listened as the wounded, Union and Rebels alike, screamed in horror as they burned to death in the raging brush fire.

"Somebody's gotta go help them boys." Abel was staring at me as he spoke, his face covered with dirt and ash, his eyes wide with the terror of what he was proposing. He looked behind us. "Where the hell's all our officers? Why ain't they sendin' us out ta git 'em?"

"They're keepin' their asses safe, jus' like always," Johnny snapped. "Jus' like all of us gotta do, else we'll be layin' out there gettin' burned up too."

Another scream reached my ears as the fire reached another soldier. It was long and sustained and filled with terror, and it cut me to my gut. "We gotta go and get anybody we can," I said. I looked at Abel and saw the fear in his eyes, the same fear I felt myself. Abel gave a short, brusque nod and I knew he was ready to go with me. I turned to Johnny, who stared at me as though I were speaking in a foreign tongue. I kicked him in the thigh. "Come on, while there's still smoke to give us cover." I had been promoted to sergeant several months earlier, so I outranked them both, and I made it sound as much like an order as I could.

Abel and I eased ourselves over the fallen tree and began to crawl forward. When we were halfway to the flaming brush I looked back and saw that Johnny had finally begun to follow.

Miraculously, no one fired a shot in our direction. Maybe the thick smoke hid us from the Rebels; maybe they were just glad to see someone going to the dying men, hoping just like us that the screaming would stop.

When we reached the fire we used our canteens to wet our bandannas and cover our noses and mouths. Even so the smoke pressed into our lungs and burned our eyes, and the heat from the burning brush made us feel like we were being roasted on a spit.

Abel and I each grabbed a soldier by the collar. Their uniforms were covered in ash and soot and you couldn't tell if they wore blue or gray, or even where or how badly they were wounded. They were breathing and peering up at us with pleading, fear-filled eyes, and that was all that mattered.

As I dragged my soldier back I passed Johnny. "Go get somebody. Nobody's shooting at us."

"Nobody's shootin' at
you
," Johnny growled back. "They're waitin' to blow
my
ass ta hell an' back."

We had made three trips to the fire before some officer saw us and ordered others to help, but by then the flames had overtaken the battlefield and the screams began to lessen and finally stop, and we knew there was no point in going out again, that there would be no one left to save.

When the smoke cleared the shooting started again, each side taking potshots at the other, the mercy we had felt an hour earlier disappearing with the smoke. We stayed low behind the log and I looked back at the boys we had pulled to safety. There were nearly a dozen and I could tell now that at least two wore Rebel uniforms. One of the Rebs stared back at me, a mixture of gratitude and confusion in his eyes. He had a wound in his belly and I could see his intestines oozing out from a tear in his shirt, and I knew the man would die. But at least he hadn't burned to death.

Johnny crawled up beside me and followed my gaze. "We sure wasted our time savin' him," he said.

I turned back to the field. The smoke was largely gone now, and I could see the burned bodies still steaming from the fire, and the smell of charred meat floated back to me. I drew a long, weary breath and then regretted that I had.

 

* * *

 

Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

My father came home the next morning. I explained what had happened, told him what I had done so far. He seemed satisfied, which pleased me, and we walked down the road to the Harris's barn so he could see where Johnny had been killed.