When Johnny Came Marching Home

by William Heffernan

  The room Johnny had lived in most of his life overlooked the rear of the house and the woods beyond, and I recalled how he often told Abel and me about the deer he saw moving through the trees, claiming he could sit in his room with a rifle and keep his family in venison the whole year through if his father would let him.

  I hadn't been in Johnny's room for years, but I could not see much that had changed from the time when the three of us sat there planning our boyish adventures.

  I turned to Reverend Harris. "Is there a special place where he kept things?"

  "I don't know. Johnny was a bit standoffish when he returned." Tears began to well up in the reverend's eyes and he glanced away. "I always attributed it to the prison he'd been in. I've read that the men who were captured lived very primitive lives in the Confederate prisons, desperate lives, and that those who weren't dying of disease were slowly starving. The article said they became men who fought over scraps of food and who hid the barest of necessities from each other. It said they had to, or whatever they owned would be stolen. It was a question of survival." His voice broke but I couldn't tell if it was because of the suffering he knew his son had endured, or because of the way he had changed when he returned home. He walked to the door and turned back to me. "My son, he wasn't the same boy who left our home four years ago. All those things that happened to him, all those things . . ." He drew a deep breath, choosing not to finish the thought. "Please take all the time you need, Jubal. I'll be downstairs working on next Sunday's sermon. Let me know when you're finished."

  I sat on the edge of Johnny's bed just as I had so many times in the past, this time thinking of what lay ahead for Reverend Harris and his wife. The reverend, at least, appeared to recognize how much his son had changed. But he didn't know the half of it. He didn't know what a monster his son had become, and I wondered if I could do my job and find Johnny's killer, and keep him from ever finding out.

  I searched Johnny's room. His Navy Colt was under his pillow, fully loaded, and I took it out, removed the cylinder, and placed it in the drawer of a bedside table.

  I found several pictures we'd had taken by one of the many photographers covering the war, realizing I had prints of some of the same photos. The early ones showed the three of us together, smiling and looking very proud in our new uniforms. Those that came later showed battered men with drawn faces and fearful eyes. Some of Johnny's photos included Suggs and the other men he had joined up with, a group of men as monstrous as he became himself. At the bottom of the stack of pictures there was one more, one I had not expected to find, one that did not come from the war. It was of Mary Johnson, and the inscription on the other side read: From Mary, to Johnny with love. I put the photo in my jacket pocket.

  In the back of Johnny's closet I found a loose floorboard and I pried it up. Inside there was a gold pocket watch and some women's jewelry, things I assumed he had stolen on one of the scavenging raids he regularly conducted with Suggs and their gang. I was surprised he hadn't sold the items yet. Perhaps he hadn't had the opportunity, or perhaps he wanted more time to pass so it wouldn't be obvious they were stolen goods taken during the war. Like most of the men who pilfered the plantations that fell under Union control, he had made little secret of it whenever he returned to camp, but perhaps he had wanted to appear more civilized now that he had come home.

  I left the watch and jewelry on the bed stand and went downstairs to find Reverend Harris. I located him in his small study at the rear of the parsonage and knocked lightly on the open door.

  "Ah, Jubal," he said, looking up. "Are you finished? Did you find anything?"

  "I found Johnny's pistol. It was loaded, so I removed the cylinder and put it in his bed stand. I also found a watch and some jewelry that I expect he planned to give to you and your wife. I left it upstairs as well."

  He seemed to swell with pride at the thought of his son having hidden away gifts for his parents. "He was a good boy. In the end, he was a good boy."

  I just thanked him and left.

  * * *

  Washington, DC, 1862

  We had taken up defensive positions outside Washington, although none of our reconnaissance patrols indicated any attack was coming. The Battle of Chantilly had been like so many others, one that ended with no clear winner, only death and suffering on both sides. Based on the report my unit had sent back about the location of Stonewall Jackson's troops, General Pope had sent two brigades under Generals Isaac Stevens and Philip Kearny to block Jackson's advance. Despite being heavily outnumbered, Stevens chose to attack Ox Hill across a grassy field at the center of the Rebel column. The attack was initially successful, routing one Confederate brigade and flanking another before being driven back by a counterattack. General Stevens was killed during the assault, shot through the head by a Rebel sniper.

  Next, General Kearny attacked and maneuvered close to the Confederate line and engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat until the fight stalled. The general apparently became confused during the battle and rode into the Confederate lines and was also killed. The Union Army then withdrew to Germantown, but Jackson's forward progress had been stopped. General Pope, meanwhile, fearing that Jackson might quickly regroup, withdrew to defensive positions around Washington, where he was heavily criticized for showing a lack of leadership and initiative in the field. A short time later he was relieved of his command and his Army of Northern Virginia was dismantled, its men absorbed into General George McClellan's Army of the Potomac.

  To us it was all the same. The only difference was the name of the general sitting behind the lines deciding how many of us would be killed or maimed. Few thought the change from Pope to McClellan would have any real bearing on their lives. All they knew was that right now they were free of the carnage for a week or two while they guarded Washington from an attack that would never come.

  Josiah had come up to join us, all the wounded having been moved into the main military hospital in Washington, the field surgeons and nurses and litter-bearers given a chance to rest up before the battles resumed.

  Jemma and her sister Alva had remained close to us, and Josiah was showing great interest in both of them, feeding Jemma and the eight-year-old child stories about the beauty of Vermont—while never mentioning the long, cold winters—and the freedom everyone who lived there enjoyed regardless of their color. The latter was only partially true, of course. Like everywhere in the North, many Vermonters considered Negroes inferior, and while their children played and attended schools with white children, while they shopped freely in white-owned stores, Negroes were only hired for the most menial of jobs, and were forced to live separately from whites in places with names like Nigger Hill or Nigger Road or Nigger Hollow.

  * * *

  Abel and Johnny and I were enjoying the cool of the morning when Josiah came and sat beside us. Jemma was back by the campfire, brewing us coffee, and Josiah's eyes went straight to her.

  "She takin' good care a ya," he said. "She be grateful 'bout how ya saved her sister."

  "That lil' girl Alva's about the prettiest thing I ever seen," Abel said. "But she keeps callin' me Massah Abel, no matter how many times I tell her not ta."

  "Jemma tol' me that slaves gets beat they don' call all white men massah."

  "Maybe ya should tell her that don' happen here, that she don' have ta call us that," Johnny said. "Makes me feel like a damn Reb when she does it." He laughed. "If my father ever heard her, he'd pro'bly have a stroke, all the evils-of-slavery sermons he's given."

  Josiah shrugged. "I tol' her. I guess it's jus' hard ta give up whatcha done all yer life."

  Jemma came with two cups of steaming coffee, followed by little Alva who was carrying two more.

  Alva gave one cup to Josiah and the second to Abel. Then she sat down next to Abel and laid her head against his arm. Abel had carried her back through enemy lines, holding her pressed against his chest the whole time. When he had finally handed her over to a sobbing Jemma, he stood there with a big
grin spread across his face, all the weariness of battle draining away.

  I smiled at him. "You got yourself a girlfriend, Abel," I said.

  He smiled back at me. "Wish I could wrap her up an' take her home. My momma would spoil her real good."

  I winked at him. "Maybe Josiah will do that for you."

  Josiah smiled at Jemma. "Jus' might," he said. "If I kin talk her inta it."

  I looked at Jemma and saw that she had lowered her eyes and that a faint blush had come to her light-brown complexion.

  * * *

  It was midafternoon and we were still lazing about. Josiah had taken Jemma and Alva for a walk, promising to find a shop that sold sweets. I was just about to nod off to sleep when Bobby Suggs came up and squatted down in front of Johnny.

  "Some of the boys tol' me 'bout this sportin' house they found back there in town," he said. "Claim the ladies is real eager fer a good time an' weren't chargin' more'n a couple a dollars. I was thinkin' maybe I'd take a walk in an' give it a try. Any a you boys interested?"

  Johnny perked up and looked over at Abel and me. "Well, what you boys think?"

  "I sure would like ta be with a woman," Abel said. "But I sure ain't big on the idea of bein' with a whore who's been poked by half the regiment."

  Suggs scoffed at him. "Well, maybe one of them fancy ladies who lives in town will invite ya over ta test out her bed." He turned to me. "How about you, sergeant?"

  "I don't think so, Suggs. I've got some letters to write and some sleep to catch up on." I gave Johnny a questioning look.

  He popped up to his feet. "Well, I'm gonna have me a peek," he said.

  "You boys be careful," I warned, staring straight at Suggs. "The things you get away with out in the field will get you locked up here in Washington."

  Suggs held his hands out to his sides in an image of innocence. "Why, sergeant, all I wants is a little lovin'." He grinned at me. "An' maybe a drink or two."

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when Johnny returned to camp. It was a hot night and he lay on top of his bedroll and stared up at the sky.

  "Have yourself a good time?" I asked, keeping my voice low. Abel lay on my other side snoring lightly.

  Johnny didn't look at me. "It didn't turn out too good," he said. "The ladies was okay, a little older'n I expected, but okay."

  "So what was the problem?"

  "Bobby got hisself all liquored up, then got inta a big fight with one a the whores—claimed she laughed at him when he took off his britches—an' before I knew what was happenin' they was callin' the police an' we was runnin' out the door an' down the street. I din' think whores would be callin' the police, them doin' somethin' illegal an' all, but Bobby says they pay the police fer protection, an' if the police catch ya, they take their clubs ta ya real good."

  "You know exactly what Suggs did?" I asked.

  "He jus' said he gave the whore what she deserved. I figured he musta hit her. When he came ta get me he said we hadda get outta there fast, an' that the police would grab me if I din' hightail it with him, cause the whores knew we came there together."

  "You should stay away from Suggs," I said. "Sooner or later he's going to get caught, and I don't want to see you getting dragged down with him."

  "Oh, Bobby ain't bad. He jus' gets a little wild sometimes. 'Specially if he's been drinkin'."

  "I don't know him like you do," I said. "But what I do know, I don't like. He comes across like backwoods trash, and I haven't seen anything from him to change my mind."

  "You jus' gotta get ta know him," Johnny said. "He's a pretty smart fella in his own way."

  I rolled over and closed my eyes. "See you in the morning." Next to me Abel continued to snore peacefully.

  * * *

  The next morning we were cleaning and polishing our gear when a lieutenant I'd never seen before approached us.

  "We're looking for two men, sergeant, who were in an altercation at a certain type of establishment last night."

  I glanced at Johnny and noticed he had paled.

  "What exactly did these boys do?" I asked.

  "Well, this was a house of ill repute, and a pretty sleazy one at that, if you know what I mean. According to the police, one of our boys got upset and took a knife to a lady, cut her up pretty bad. The police said he was trying to slice her face, but he was so drunk she was able to fend off the attack. Her arms and hands got slashed up pretty bad. Afterward he ran off with another fellow he came there with. We were asked to get the names of any of our men who were out of camp last night so the police can talk to them."

  I stared back blankly. "Far as I know all my boys were in camp," I said. "We're pretty worn out. Everybody's sort of resting up."

  "I understand, sergeant." He took my arm and led me away from the others. "We're not terribly concerned about this whore, but we have to go through the motions for the sake of appearances. If any of your men know anyone who might have been involved, they should tell them to keep their heads down. General McClellan is a very moral man, and he would not appreciate having a member of his army involved."

  When the lieutenant left I pulled Johnny aside. "You better keep out of sight for the next few days," I said.

  "What about Bobby?" he asked.

  I gave him a long, hard stare. "I don't care what happens to Suggs. He's not part of our squad, and if I have anything to say about it, he never will be. You just lay low and let Suggs take care of himself."

  "Yeah, I will." As I turned to go Johnny grabbed my arm. "I din' know he cut her," he said. "He had blood on his arm, but I thought he only punched her. I appreciate whatcha done fer me."

  "Make sure I don't have to do it again," I said. "And make sure Suggs understands I didn't do any of it for him. If it were just him, I would have turned his ass over to the lieutenant and let him get what he deserves."

  "Bobby ain't a bad man, Jubal. He really ain't."

  "He cut a woman with a knife because she laughed at him. Yes, Johnny, he's a bad man. He's a very bad man."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jerusalem's Landing, Vermont, 1865

  When I left the parsonage I crossed the street to the Johnsons' store. As Rebecca had promised, Walter Johnson had already left for the Richmond railroad station to collect his incoming goods. Inside the store, Rebecca and Mary were behind the counter dealing with two customers with yet another waiting to be served. I went to the dry goods table and busied myself with a pile of winter shirts. This time Mary didn't cast any nervous glances my way, as she had the previous time I was there, likely assuming that I wanted to see Rebecca. Over the past few weeks the gossip mill had been churning about Rebecca and me, fueled by the ladies of the church and, I had no doubt, by my own father. I was the one person who seemed to know the least about it.

  But in this instance it served me well. Since my interrogation skills were at best minimal, the chance to catch Mary Johnson off-guard could only be a benefit. I waited until the last customer had left before I approached the counter.

  "Hello, Jubal," Rebecca said with a smile.

  I smiled back. "Hello." She was wearing the simple white dress I liked so much, and as always it brought out her reddish-blond hair and her soft green eyes.

  "Good morning, Jubal," Mary said, bringing me back.

  "Good morning. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time . . . in private?"

  Mary Johnson's eyes flicked nervously toward her stepdaughter. "Oh, Jubal, you can talk to me in front of Rebecca. That will be fine."

  "It would be best if I could speak to you alone." I put a note of firmness in my voice to let her know there was no other option.

  "Oh, Mary, go ahead with Jubal. I can watch the store alone."

  Rebecca had closed the door on any further excuses, and Mary smiled weakly. "Why don't we go up to our sitting room? I have some coffee on the stove and we'll be more comfortable."

  I followed Mary up the stairs to the Johnsons' apartment. The door opened into a short h
all with a coat closet, then directly into a wide area that included a large sitting room with a dining table off to one side and a kitchen directly beyond. To the rear, as I knew from childhood, there were three bedrooms, the one in which I had spent the most time now sadly empty.

  Mary hurried toward the kitchen. "Let me get you some coffee. How do you take it?"

  "Black is fine," I said.

  "All you young men came home from the war drinking black coffee, it seems. I just . . ." She seemed to catch herself, as though what she had said had given something away, then she moved ahead quickly. "It just seems that whenever you young men get coffee in the store you don't need any cream for it. Seems odd in a community with so many dairy farms."

  "There wasn't much cream on the battlefield," I explained, as she returned to the room with a mug of coffee. "We just got used to not having it."

  She gestured me toward a chair and took one opposite, her hands held in two tight balls in her lap. "Now, what can I help you with?"

  "I need to talk to you about your relationship with Johnny Harris," I said simply.

  Mary shifted in her chair. "Well, as I told you before, I hardly knew him, except for the times he came into the store. There really isn't much I can tell you."

  "Mrs. Johnson, Mary, I know your relationship was much deeper than that. I'm not looking for details; I'm looking for things you might know, things that might help me find Johnny's killer."

  She had been shaking her head as I spoke. "No, you're mistaken. I don't know who could have told you these things, but I assure you they are hateful lies. My God, if my husband ever heard them—"

  "Mary, I specifically waited until he was away for just that reason. I don't want to cause you any problems. I don't want to embarrass you in any way." I spoke the words slowly and deliberately, ending with: "But I need to know whatever you can tell me."