He sat on the log with his head in his hands and struggled to compose himself. Stood and walked to the corpse, turned away, walked to where the other soldier had been, sat and tried to get his breathing normal once again. He wiped sweat off his brow.
Now what? Should I bury the body? Get back to Meade? Wait for the other soldier and kill him? He concluded that getting the message to Meade took priority over everything else. And he would tell Pincer Pete of the matter, who would know what they could do. He trotted up to Winny and saw blood on her neck. From where he patted her. Found the shirt and wiped her down.
They trotted into the camp and the soldiers stared at him. What are they looking at?
Pincer Pete stopped him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You are covered in blood.”
“It ain’t mine.” He dismounted. “I need to see General Meade.”
He peered at him, debating. Nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Pete escorted him to the tent. “So what happened to you?”
“A Confederate captured me.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain after the general.”
“I can’t wait.”
Jonathan gave General Meade the blistering message from General McClellan. Then Meade dismissed him. Pete waited outside the tent with some rags and a bucket. “Come with me.” He led him to the creek. “Take off your clothes. All of them.”
Jonathan removed his shirt and breeches, shocked at the amount of blood on them. They washed them in the creek, the blood flowing downstream in a cloud. Pete said, “Now you.” Jonathan dipped in the water and rinsed off. Pete handed him the rags to wipe off. He peered at his head. “You got a nasty cut there. How’d you get that?”
He pointed to the stick among the clothes. “Long story.”
“Let’s get you to the fire and get you dried off.”
They carried the clothes to the fire and hung them. Pete gave him a uniform.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Don’t ask. Just git dressed.” He obeyed and stood by the fire. “Sit. Now tell me what happened.”
Jonathan told the story. When he got to the part about stabbing him in the neck, he broke down and sobbed, his head against Pete’s chest. Pete patted his back and spoke soothing words. “That’s okay. That was scary, that’s for sure. You did real good. Doin’ good here, too.”
“There was so much blood. It was horrible. It was slippery, and the guy fell on me, and I was so scared.”
“The good book says, ‘Fear not, for I am with thee.’” Pete got him calmed down and offered him some coffee. Jonathan drank the bitter mud. “Hey listen,” Pete said, “I’m on cannon now, since I can’t work a rifle worth a hoot, what with this claw and all.” He held up his gnarled hand. “You suppose you can help load cannon shot tomorrow? I could use a good hand.”
“Ha ha ha, good hand.” Jonathan laughed. They both laughed, too long and too hard.
~
September 17
With the cannon in place, the men shoveled an embankment behind it to slow the recoil. They worked in the first light of dawn, to be ready at daylight. Pete did what he could but his hand restricted shoveling. Jonathan finished the earthworks and set the shovel down. “So how do we fire a cannon?”
“After the first shot, a guy is going to take this.” He showed him a mop-looking thing. “The sponge. He dips it in the water and wipes out the bore. This gets anything from igniting the powder before we want it to. Very important. Too little and it blows up on us. Too much and the powder gets wet. Then a man puts the powder cartridge into the muzzle. Then you will pack it in.” He held up a finger. “Very important. Not too tight, not too loose. Here’s how I want you to do it. Pack it three times, gently, each time saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then another man loads the canister.” He held up a cylindrical shaped black thing. “This works for shorter distances, but has steel balls in it. They explode out of it and provide a great deal of damage. Again, you need to pack it in. This time, pack it tight. Firm. Three times. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’ Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then cover your ears and watch where it goes. We learn from the first shot how to adjust for the second. When you ain’t loading, look around for anything—enemies, trees falling, fire, anything that may slow our work. Okay?”
Jonathan saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man.”
Jonathan chided himself. Man. He told that Confederate, ‘I’m just a boy. I’m just a dispatch.’ Poser. Crying into Pete’s chest yesterday. Hooker’s man, threatening a backhand, and he caved and gave him the message. Telling that soldier what he was doing. Stopping. Giving him the letter. Poser. Faker. Crying in Pete’s shirt.
Within the hour the fighting commenced. Jonathan packed the powder, then the shot. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The cannon bellowed, shooting backward, the canister exploding across the river and below them. Bodies flew and men screamed. Trees shredded and fell on men. Men flew through the air and landed on men. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Death and destruction reigned. Soil and rocks exploded and flew into the faces of men. Soldiers sweat from the heat of the cannon. Gunshots below, almost constant. He covered his ears from their cannon, but the others crashed nearby, the sound deafening.
Five times someone had to run to the creek for two buckets of water and return to cool the gun. Boom! In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Boom! The air got so thick with gunpowder that they couldn’t see the river. “Fire anyway!” Pete commanded. Boom! In the name... Boom! The faces of his comrades were black and streaked with sweat. The men worked together—wipe, load, pack, load, tamp, boom… wipe, load, pack, load, tamp, boom... on it went through the day as time stood still, the sun invisible through the black cloud, the claws of death reaching out and capturing man after man with musket balls and cannon rounds. In the name. Wounded cried, dying men gasped, and the black angel of death spread her wings over the men.
He packed and tamped, packed and tamped. Boom boom boom. Someone screamed in his ear but he couldn’t hear. He looked to see a black man yelling something. “Top. Top.”
Stop. He dropped the rammer. Now what do we do? Darkness crept in, a deeper pall than the smoke. They returned to the camp, tired and spent.
~
Jonathan sat by the fire as the flames consumed the wood, sparks flying into the black night. Pete sat beside him and patted his knee. “You done real good today.”
“Nah.”
“What? You done good.”
“Not really.”
“For the first day of service, I’d say you done well.”
“I screwed up a lot.”
“Like what.”
“Letting that reb capture me.”
“Oh, I suppose you should have known he’d jump out and stop you. Things like that happen.”
“I gave him the papers.”
“He’d of gotten them.”
“I shoulda run off.”
“The fourth plan worked well. You know, when you killed him.”
“I shoulda—”
“With a stick!” Pete stood. “With a stick. You took a rebel soldier down with a pointed piece of… of wood. That’s like... That’s like David and Goliath. With a stone. You took a rebel down with a stick. That sounds like a brave man thing to me.”
“I suppose.”
Pete sat beside him. “A lot happened today. A whole lot. Things change in a war. In one day. Like for instance, I saw you wince this morning when a man called you boy. Remember that?”
Seems a lifetime ago. “Yes, sir.”
“Heard anybody call you that since you came back covered in blood?”
Huh. “No, I can’t recall.”
“That’s because you’re a man. They saw the m
an do the man thing today. You earned their respect. You didn’t try to, you did what you had to do. Sometimes a situation comes up and anyone can tell if a man or a boy responded to it. Don’t matter how old you are, or what you did before the war.”
“I suppose it don’t, but still...”
Pete peered at Jonathan. “What? What did you do before the war?”
“What did you do?”
“I was a blacksmith. Okay now, what about you?”
“I can’t say.”
“Come on.”
“I was a... a paperboy.”
“A paperboy? How old are you?”
“Fifteen-years-old.”
“Fifteen?” Pete’s eyes got wide. “Fifteen?”
“Yessir.”
Pete whistled. “Oh, man. A fifteen-year-old man.”
West Virginia
I hate texting while driving, more so since riding a motorcycle so much. What is so important that it can’t wait? If it’s that important, pull over. The beginning of this story is taken from real life. To be fair, California leaves West Virginia in the dust when it comes to drivers texting.
TEXTER
Charley exited the Charleston Kroger’s with a bagful of groceries and walked to his parked 2006 Yamaha Road Star. The bike rumbled to life and warmed up while he jammed the groceries into his backpack. He donned his helmet and gloves, tossed a leg over, clicked it in gear, and wove his way out of the parking area. He waited behind a blue Toyota as the cars queued up to head West on McCorkle. The light turned green and the cars in the adjacent lane accelerated, but the Toyota crawled away.
“What’s the matter with this guy?” Charley muttered to no one. The light turned red just as he rode under it, following. Three cars, great. He glanced at his speedometer. Less than ten miles an hour. The lineup stopped again at another red light so he pulled alongside the blue car to see what could be wrong.
A woman. Texting. He honked his horn and she looked up, startled. Amazing, she must have been fifty-years-old. He held his hands up like, ‘What are you doing?’ She returned to her phone, punching the keys with even more ardor.
The nerve! It’s one thing to ignore traffic, text, and bump another car. But what if she ran into a bike? Charley knew he’d be on the ground, sliding along the pavement, grinding off skin. The light turned green and he honked again She lurched forward.
Just let it go. He knew better. She’d gotten the message. No, she hadn’t. After he honked she got right back to her stupid phone, didn’t she? He let her get ahead and swerved behind her. Put his bright lights on. It’s daylight, but so what? He’d follow her... home, or to work, anywhere and enlighten her on her dangerous behavior. He gripped the bars. When she moved to the right lane, he followed, and saw her look in the mirror. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m behind you,” he muttered. She stopped behind traffic for the 36th bridge light.
The light turned green and she turned, Charley right behind. Over the bridge they went, then onto I-64. What, you going to outrun me? She took it up to seventy and he saw her holding the phone up to her ear. Well, it’s a bit better than texting. She looked animated and waved her free hand as she talked. Perhaps if she spent as much time focused on her driving...
They passed the Greenbrier exit and after a mile or so the car slowed to forty. “What are you doing now, texting again?” he said aloud. She continued the snail’s pace for another five miles or so, tractor trailers rocketing past, buffeting Charley, the bike bucking the side draft. He watched his mirror, hoping no one else ran up on him while texting. What was she doing anyway?
The answer came in a black Ford pickup—big, with fat tires. The truck pulled alongside him and slowed to their pace. Charley glanced over and the guy waved, a ‘get over’ sort of signal. “Oh, God help us.” It must be her man. Great. He looked like a big guy. They had him pinned in, both in front and one side. Perhaps he could power brake, swerve left, out run them? But traffic built behind the truck, no place to go.
Enough. He pulled over to the shoulder, ready to fight if need be. Much safer with fists than pickups and bumpers. The woman matched his slowing speed and the pickup fell in behind him. Charley stopped. He got off and started to remove his gloves and helmet, then thought better of it. The gloves had carbon fiber knuckle protectors, an asset in a fight, and the helmet provided a safeguard.
Just as Charley turned, the guy put both hands on his chest and shoved. He stumbled over backward, the foot peg jamming into his back. He scrambled to his feet.
“What do you think you’re doing to my wife?” The guy demanded, hands on his hips.
Good time to put his head down and drive the helmet into his chest and chin. Charley stopped, however. Maybe talking might ease the situation. Just then she arrived, brown eyes flashing, and swung her purse at him, smacking the side of his helmet. While it didn’t hurt, it whiplashed his head. Charley twisted her purse from her hands and threw it down the hillside.
“Give me my purse!” she shouted.
The guy grabbed Charley’s arm. He pulled it out of his grip and yelled, “Stop!”
Somehow, it worked. Both ceased and desisted. “If I could speak for a moment.”
The guy breathed hard and the woman’s eyes shot flames of hatred, but they listened. “This better be good,” the guy said, “chasing my wife like you did.”
“I didn’t—okay, I did. Your wife was texting and driving.”
The flames in his eyes morphed into astonishment. “What?”
“Texting.”
His shoulders dropped. “She was texting. You’re sure?”
“Well, she had her head down, going eight miles an hour, then at the light she punched her phone and kept looking at it. We missed one light cycle. Looked like texting to me.”
His jaw hung down, mouth wide open. He turned to his wife. “Michelle. Were you texting?”
She licked her lips and nodded. “To Janice. I told her we’d be home tonight. It couldn’t wait.”
“Just pull over. We have talked about this. You can’t text when you drive.”
“It was important.”
He shook his head like if he did it hard enough the words would come back out and everything would be okay. Then he walked around the bike and down the hillside where he picked up her purse. As he ascended the hill, he rooted through it. “Where’s your keys?”
Michelle pointed behind her. “In the car.” Revelation dawned in her eyes. “Oh, no you don’t.” She trotted to the car but he beat her to it, pulled out the keys and held them above his head. She jumped for them, to no avail. “Let me have them.”
“No way. I’ve had it with this texting insanity.” He strode to the truck while she grabbed him and struggled to stop him, clawing for her purse and keys. Charley watched in astonishment as he shoved her away, fired up the truck and left, the tires screeching. She hurled curses at the receding truck. “You jerk!” she screamed and knelt on the shoulder of the road, crying.
Charley took off his gloves and helmet. He ran his hand through his hair and approached her. She looked pitiful, kneeling with her head down, her dark straight hair around her face, tears dripping onto her lap. He stood and waited for the floodwaters to recede.
She looked up at him, mascara blackening her cheeks. He dug a Kleenex out of his pocket. “Here.”
She took it and wiped her face, then saw the black mess on the tissue. “Oh, dear.” She stood and surveyed the surroundings, then spotted the bike. Tottering up to it with her high heels, she peered in the mirror. “Not good. Not good at all.” She worked at the mess for a while as Charley considered riding off and leaving her on the side of the road.
Bad idea.
“Say, it looks like you could use a ride. I suppose I could give you a lift.”
“On that?”
“Uh, yeah.” Charley figured that could be the stupidest question this week.
“Do you have a helmet?”
“Just one, sorry.”
Michelle c
rossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Well, yes it is. Just like texting.”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
That did it. “No you don’t understand.” He poked her chest. “You’re texting and endangering everyone around you, especially us motorcycles. Get your head up and drive, for crying out loud.” Beyond crying, the faucets opened up again. He didn’t care. “There isn’t anything that’s so important you can’t stop and text or wait. Stop being an idiot. Think!” He pointed at his head.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get everyone so riled up.”
Charley took a deep breath. “Just give the phone a rest, okay?”
“Well, now I have to. Greg has it.”
He leaned on the bike. No use. Some people are born stupid and just stay that way. He decided to take the high road.
“So do you want a ride?”
“Isn’t it illegal?”
“Yes!” he shouted, “and so is texting. Can you get that through your thick skull? Shall I just leave you here? What is the matter with you, anyway?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Just leave me here.”
Love to. “I can’t do that.”
“Well... okay. I’ve never ridden on a bike before.”
“It’s not difficult. You just sit on it.”
“’Kay.”
He took off his backpack. “You’ll have to wear this.”
“Why?”
“No room between us.”
“Oh.” She shrugged into the backpack and he tightened the straps. He put on his helmet and gloves. “Now get on.” She struggled to swing on, then said, “What do I hold on to?”
“Nothing. Or else me. If you’re afraid, just wrap your arms around me.” She grabbed both sides of his leather jacket and crushed them in her grip. She felt thin and light. He started the bike and she let out a yelp. “We’re going to take off fast,” he yelled over the traffic, “to get up to speed.”
“Oh, dear.”
He throttled up and shifted through the gears.
“Can we slow down?”
“No.” That’s what she gets for getting into this mess.
She wrapped her arms around his stomach. What a weird feeling, riding with the woman who started as his enemy. He rode for a mile or so then said, “Where are we going?”
“Take the highway 34 exit.”
He rode and Michelle yelled directions, her arms crushing his middle. A pickup rocketed past and she gasped. “Wasn’t he really close?” she yelled in the wind.
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 2, The East Page 5