When Johnny Came Marching Home

by William Heffernan

  "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.

  "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.