When Johnny Came Marching Home Read online

  * * *

  We reached Billy Lucie's dooryard and dismounted. He came out on the porch and invited us in for coffee.

  "The missus an' me din' go ta church this mornin'." He lowered his voice. "Ta be honest, the missus don' care much for it when Walter Johnson tries ta preach." He gave my father and me a wink. "I don' much care who it is, God help me, I jus' don' like any kinda preachin'."

  My father laughed dutifully and told Billy we were there to talk to Bobby Suggs. He explained that we had found Suggs in the Harris barn the previous night, claiming he was looking for a satchel of clothing.

  Billy just shook his head. "He shoulda stuck with findin' his clothes."

  "Why is that?" I asked.

  "Cause he dragged his sorry ass home jus' a coupla hours ago all beaten ta hell," Billy said. "After he left you folks he musta ridden up ta Sherman Hollow. He tol' me Rusty LeRoche caught him with his daughter Chantal, an' beat the tar outta him." Billy smiled. "Suggs said he woke up in Rusty's woodlot this mornin' an' dragged hisself to his horse. I guess Rusty jus' thumped him good an' proper an' left him out there fer the coyotes ta find. Maybe it'll teach him ta keep his britches buttoned, but I doubt it."

  "Any point in us tryin' ta talk to him?" my father asked.

  Billy shrugged. "Ya got plenty of time fer a cup of coffee. I don' think he's goin' anywhere fer a while. Probably up there layin' in his bunk."

  * * *

  We rode up to the bunkhouse an hour later and, as Billy had predicted, found Suggs snoring in his bed. My father had to lightly kick the sole of his foot three times before Bobby stirred enough to open one eye.

  "Why ya kickin' me?" he asked. Slowly, he opened the other eye, then added: "Don't it look like I been kicked enough fer one day?"

  "This happen after you left the Harris barn?" I asked.

  "Tha's right." He drew a heavy breath. "Have some mercy an' lemme sleep."

  "Who did this ta ya?" my father asked, letting Suggs know there would be no rest until our questions were answered.

  "It was that crazy man, Rusty LeRoche."

  "Whatcha do ta make him that mad?"

  Suggs gave my father a contemptuous sneer. "I stopped by ta see his daughter. Las' time I was there she tol' me where her room was an' which window I could tap on ta git her ta come out. So I did it, an' sure enough she came out. But two minutes later so did her daddy, all pissed off an' comin' out the door, still pullin' on his britches an' growlin' like a damn bear."

  "And he thumped you," I said.

  Suggs glared at me. "I never even had no chance ta fight back. He came at me wit an axe handle and swung at both my elbows before I could even raise my hands. It hurt so bad I din' wanna do nothin' but lay down an' cover up my head."

  From the look of his face Suggs had been equally unsuccessful at covering his head. The left side was a deep purple and swollen to twice its normal size.

  "Sounds ta me that ya pretty much got whatcha deserved," my father said.

  "So he jus' gits away with it, an' a war veteran like me . . ." He paused to glare at me. "A war veteran with medals as good as your'n jus' gits beat on anytime some backwoods trash feels like doin' it."

  My father shook his head in disbelief. "My God, man, ya was on the man's property well after dark, tryin' ta get in his daughter's britches. Ya know that girl's only seventeen years ol'."

  "Ol' enough where I comes from," Suggs said.

  "Seems like Mr. LeRoche doesn't agree with you." It did my heart good seeing Suggs battered all to hell, but I fought to keep it out of my voice. "We looked for your satchel," I said, changing tack. "We didn't find it. Why do you think that is?"

  "How the hell do I know?" he growled. "Maybe the reverend or his missus took it inta his house. Maybe Johnny did. I left it there afore he died."

  I smiled down at him. "We'll check on that when the reverend gets back."

  "Go right ahead. Go an' investigate where my satchel is. You'll find out I'm tellin' ya true." He did his best to glare at me again, but with his misshapen face it didn't quite come off. "You gonna investigate Rusty LeRoche?"

  "Investigate him for what?" I asked.

  "For beatin' the hell outta me!" he shouted.

  "Seems ta me ya was trespassin' . . . jus like ya was at the Harris's barn," my father said.

  "Maybe I'll take a ride up to Sherman Hollow and see if Mr. LeRoche wants to sign a trespass complaint," I said.

  Suggs laid back and gave me an open-mouthed stare. "I don't believe this. This is bullshit, an' you is shovelin' it real heavy right on top a me."

  "Sorry ya feel that way, son," my father said. "We got a little problem with a murder we're tryin' ta solve. So I guess you'll jus' haveta put up with us fer a spell. An' like we tol' ya afore, don' plan on goin' no place until we tell ya yer free ta travel."

  * * *

  Chantilly Plantation, Virginia, 1862

  "I knows dat Chantilly Plantation," Jemma said. "So's I kin help ya. Dat's da place I'z at till I runs away." She had come to me when the column had camped for the night. She had climbed aboard one of the wagons before we left and had hidden herself away until we stopped. I looked at her now in disbelief, surprised she had followed. We were moving into unsecured territory. Should she be caught she'd at best be whipped and enslaved again. At worst she could be hobbled or even hung.

  "Jemma, it's too dangerous for you to be here, but I don't know how to get you back to our main army. They may have even moved by now. If the Rebs catch you—"

  "I'z hadda come, an' I'z knows I kin help ya, Massah Fosta."

  I had told Jemma repeatedly not to call me master, but it was something she'd done her entire life with white men, a habit that was apparently too difficult to break.

  She hesitated and bent in closer to me. "Dere's dis tunnel dat runs outta a root cellah da's back by da cabins da darkies lives in. It runs on back inna woods. Ya goes in back dere an' dat tunnel will bring ya right up close so's ya can see ever'thin da's goin' on in da big house." She hesitated a moment. "When ya dere you's kin do somfin' fer Jemma iffen ya wants."

  "What's that, Jemma? What can I do for you?"

  "Massah, my sistah, she still dere. Her name's Alva. Ya kin git a darkie ta bring her to ya, an' den ya kin bring her back ta me. She be lil'; she don' takes up no room at all."

  I let out a deep breath. I tried to think how I'd feel if someone I loved, a child, was enslaved, and I thought, like Jemma, I'd risk anything to free them. I didn't want to dash her hopes but I doubted we'd be able to help her. I reached out and touched her shoulder. "I don't know if we'll get to the plantation, but if we do, and if I can find this tunnel without endangering the men, I'll see what can be done for Alva."

  Jemma grabbed a twig from the ground and smoothed out a patch of dirt. "I makes ya a map shows how ta fine dis tunnel," she said. "It be real easy, Massah Fosta. Real easy."

  * * *

  We found Jackson's army encamped on a hill just southeast of Chantilly Plantation. My ten-man reconnaissance unit had struck out just before nine o'clock in a steady downpour and had finally located the Rebs at midnight just as the rain ended. My map identified the place as Ox Hill and showed the plantation just beyond. Circling the location on the map, I handed it to one of my men.

  "You get this back to the brigade so they'll know where to attack in the morning." I turned to Abel and Johnny. "I want you two to come with me. The rest of you stay here and keep watch on the encampment. If for any reason they move before dawn, you send word back to the brigade. We should be back long before that, but in case we aren't . . . well, you know what to do."

  "Where we goin'?" Johnny asked.

  "We're going up to the plantation. I suspect the officers will be taking their comforts there, and we'll also be able to see if more troops are laying back in support."

  "How we gonna get up close to that plantation without gittin' our asses blown off?" Abel demanded.

  I smiled at him. "My ass isn't as big as yours, so I'm
not worried. Besides, Jemma told me a way to sneak in close to the house without being seen."

  "How the hell did she know that?" Johnny asked.

  "She was a slave here," I said simply.

  They were suddenly silent. It was the first time we'd been confronted with a place where someone we knew had been enslaved.

  * * *

  We came to the copse of pine just north of the main house where Jemma claimed the entrance to the tunnel was hidden. We had skirted the plantation but had not come upon another body of Reb troops, save a small detachment of cavalry guarding the main plantation house. It confirmed my suspicions that the ranking officers had taken up residence in the house.

  Inside the copse of trees an old castaway door lay on the ground, partially covered in vines and debris.

  "The tunnel's supposed to be under that door," I said. "She claimed the slaves dug it as a way to get far away from the house when they tried to escape. It leads into a root cellar, and we should come up against the back of a chest that we'll have to push out of the way. The root cellar is right next to the slave quarters behind the main house."

  With Abel's help I removed the brush and vines covering the door and pulled it off to one side. There was a hole beneath large enough for a man to fit through, but I had no idea how far it dropped. I got down on my belly and leaned into the hole and lit a match. It appeared to be about a six-foot drop, and there were some boards fitted into the dirt walls to use as a ladder. I handed Abel my Spencer rifle and dropped into the hole, then turned back and told him to pass me all three rifles, after making sure they were unloaded. I grinned up at him. "Don't need another hole in my ass cause you got clumsy."

  I leaned Abel and Johnny's Spencers against the wall, took my own, dropped to my knees, and began to crawl forward. The tunnel was about four feet high and the walls were barely wide enough for my shoulders to fit through. As I crawled I could hear some animals scurrying ahead and assumed the tunnel had become home to a pack of wood rats. I didn't want to think of what else might have scurried or slithered inside and quickly came to the realization that I would never make a living as a miner.

  It felt as though I'd been inching forward for more than an hour, although it couldn't have been more than ten minutes, when I came up against a solid wood surface. I laid down my rifle and pushed as hard as I could. Slowly the wood moved back, and I found myself facing the interior of a large root cellar. I pushed the wooden chest to one side, then stepped into the cellar proper. Abel and Johnny crawled out behind me and began looking around.

  Johnny immediately started searching for food; he found a jar of peaches, opened it, and began eating them using his knife as a fork. Abel followed suit. "Damn, these are good," he said.

  "Make sure you take the empty jar out of here when we leave," I said. "We don't wanna let on there's a tunnel back there, and we sure don't wanna get some fieldhand whipped for stealing peaches."

  The root cellar was cool and dark, and when I opened the outside door warm humid air hit my face. I peered up at the house. There were about a dozen horses tied together and I guessed they belonged to the men who were guarding Jackson and his senior officers. As I watched for a sentry patrol, an old Negro came shambling out of the nearest slave cabin, using a single crutch to propel him toward a battered outhouse with a door that hung loosely on one hinge.

  I ducked back into the root cellar. "We got a job to do," I said to the others. "Jemma's little sister is here, and Jemma wants her to be free like she is. I told her we'd get her out if we could."

  I had expected them to object, but nothing came. Finally Johnny nodded his head. "Yeah, let's do it," he said.

  "You betcha," Abel said. "Let's get her the hell outta here."

  I smiled at both of them. "Okay. Johnny, you cover us from this door. Abel, an old Negro man just went in the outhouse. We're gonna have him show us where this child is."

  We cut across the rear yard and reached the outhouse just as the old man came out. He was painfully thin and his clothes were little more than rags. He had tightly curled white hair and a scraggly white beard and one of his ankles had been hobbled—smashed by a hammer so he could not walk without the support of a crutch. It was something, I'd learned, that was often done to slaves who'd been recaptured after running away. I clamped a hand over his mouth and raised a finger to my lips. He nodded beneath my hand, his eyes wide and terrified.

  "Father, we're friends of Jemma, a girl who used to work here. Did you know her?" I whispered.

  He nodded his head beneath my hand and his eyes grew calmer. I took my hand away.

  "We're here to get her sister. A girl named Alva. Do you know her, and can you take us to her?"

  A sense of pride swept through the old man's face and his back seemed to grow straighter. "I knows her," he whispered. "Y'all come wit me."

  He led us to the third cabin in a row of weather-beaten structures and turned back to us. "Y'all wait."

  Abel and I crouched down beside the door he had entered, giving ourselves as much cover as possible. He was back within two minutes, a little girl no more than seven or eight standing beside him, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  The old man bent down and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You go wit dees mens, Alva. Dey gonna take ya ta Jemma."

  The little girl nodded, still sleepy. She had large brown eyes and the same creamy complexion as her sister. The old man leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You's gonna be free, girl." There were tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

  Abel handed me his rifle and scooped the girl up and pressed her against his chest.

  "Thank you, sir," I said.

  "Y'all go fight dem Rebs," he whispered. "Y'all fight dem and make us all free."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

  Reverend Harris came home early on Monday morning, several days before he was expected. He had left his wife with relatives, in hopes they could help her overcome her grief, and when he answered my knock it was clear he could have used the help himself. In the short time since Johnny's funeral he seemed to have fared badly. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep and there were deep fissures at the corners of his mouth. His hair seemed whiter than I remembered and his clothing hung loosely on his body. He appeared to have aged ten years in the short time since his son's death.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Reverend Harris," I began.

  He waved my comment away. "I'm always pleased to see you, Jubal." He smiled weakly. "We were called to this church when Johnny was three years old. That's twenty-three years ago, and you've been part of my church family all that time. Come in, and tell me how I can help you."

  I followed him into the sitting room where Johnny's body had been laid out in his Army of the Potomac uniform. The room had a closed-up, musty smell and I wondered how much it had been used since Reverend Harris had buried his only child.

  I was guided to a horsehair sofa and the pastor took a Queen Anne chair directly across from me.

  "Are you familiar with a friend of Johnny's from the war, a man named Bobby Suggs?" I asked.

  "Yes, I am. But I'm not certain he was a friend of Johnny's."

  I was surprised by his comment. "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, I was here when he arrived in town, and I must confess that Johnny didn't seem all that pleased to see him. I overheard this Suggs boy asking Johnny if we could put him up for a few days, and Johnny said flat-out there wasn't any room for him here. He even told him he couldn't stay in the barn, and when I asked Johnny about it later he was adamant that he did not want this Suggs fellow staying anywhere near him." Reverend Harris placed his forearms on his knees and leaned forward. "It was such an unchristian act that it shocked me. We have never turned anyone away from this house, even travelers who we didn't know."

  "Did he and Johnny have any kind of argument?"

  "I wouldn't call it an argument, but I saw them talking a bit intensely about something, although I couldn't
hear what it involved. It was my impression that Suggs was getting a bit agitated. It seemed as though he wanted a response from my son, and was upset that Johnny just dismissed whatever they were talking about."

  "My father and I found Bobby Suggs in your barn on Saturday night. He claimed he was looking for a satchel that had some of his clothes in it."

  Reverend Harris sat back. "Yes, I have that satchel. Johnny told him he could leave it in the barn while he searched for work. When my wife heard that, she insisted the satchel be brought into the house. We get field mice in the barn this time of year and she was afraid they'd get into the satchel and ruin whatever was inside.

  "How long ago was this?"

  "About a week before Johnny . . . passed on."

  I was disappointed to hear that Suggs had been telling the truth, but still clung to the fact that he and Johnny had argued before Johnny was killed. "I'd like to look at the satchel," I said. "I'd also like to look around Johnny's room, just to see if I can find out what he and Suggs were arguing about."

  "Of course, you're welcome to look at anything that might help you find my son's . . ." He struggled to finish the sentence. "Find the person who killed my boy." He paused and looked at me with a sense of urgency. "But please understand, Jubal, I really can't say they were arguing. I never heard what they were saying; I only noted their demeanors toward each other."

  "I understand. Walter Johnson noticed the same thing outside his store. He said it seemed as though Suggs was demanding something and Johnny just laughed at him. So I'd like to look around to put my mind to rest."

  Reverend Harris went into another room and returned with a carpetbag satchel. I opened it and rummaged inside. It was stuffed with clothing, including the wool shirt Suggs had told me about. There was also a map of Vermont, and I opened it and noted some crude penciled lines marking his route—first to Jericho, a town to our north, and then to Jerusalem's Landing.

  I returned the maps to the bag and told Reverend Harris that Suggs would be stopping by later in the week to pick it up. Then I asked him to take me up to Johnny's room.