by Crowe (epub)
“What kind of things?”
Scratch smiled and again Johnny thought there were entirely too many teeth in that mouth of his. “Secret things.”
“And if I don’t?”
“And if you don’t,” said Scratch, sounding put off, “then you’re liable to start seeing things that aren’t really there. Happy?”
Johnny thought about it for a moment. Yeah, he thought that maybe he was happy enough, you know, for a guy with a golden arm that wouldn’t work, silver goat legs that had taken him away from home, and with a metal plate for a head.
“Very well,” Scratch said. “I have two things for you. First,” Scratch reached behind his back and pulled out a wide-brimmed hat, “to help you cover up.”
Johnny took the hat and stared at it. It could have been General Stuart’s hat, it looked so similar. Johnny placed the hat on his head and looked down at his reflection in the water. The shadow cast by the hat’s wide brim did a fair job of hiding the upper part of his face and eyes. At least the sun’s not shinin’ off the top of my head anymore.
Scratch reached behind his back again and this time pulled out a canvas bag. “War Department” was stenciled on the side. “I found this under a willow tree way back around Lawrenceville. Thought you might have left it there. I guess it’s time you get back to delivering these notices.”
Johnny took the bag from Scratch, unsure what to do. He lifted the flap and looked into the bag, saw the name “Emmit Pearson” staring back at him from the top of the bundle of envelopes. Johnny sighed, his heart heavy with sorrow. He closed the flap and made to hand the bag back to Mr. Scratch, who held up his hands and took a step away from Johnny.
“I don’t want it,” Johnny said.
“Hey,” said Scratch. “That’s not mine. You’re the one who signed up for this little mission.”
“But I don’t want it anymore,” said Johnny. “I’m tired of this… of all of it. I just want to go home now.”
“And I really don’t blame you,” said Scratch. “But you’ve got a duty to do. An army to serve.”
“I’ve done my time,” said Johnny. “I’m goin’ home.”
“No!” Scratch barked.
What had been a fine, clear day turned overcast. A cold wind blew, rustling the leaves on the trees. Johnny thought he felt an energy in the air like that which precedes a thunderstorm. Frightened, he took a step back from Mr. Scratch.
“Not yet,” Scratch growled from deep in his throat.
Johnny tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his own throat. “Why not?” he gulped.
Scratch’s face changed while varied emotions fought for control. The clouds overhead parted when his toothy smile returned.
“Look, I know that things haven’t always gone well since you joined the army.”
“Not since I got shot,” Johnny admitted.
“But,” said Scratch, “you’ve still got a job to do.”
Johnny followed Mr. Scratch’s gaze to the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. “But these letters don’t matter. Deliverin’ ‘em ain’t gonna bring these soldiers back.” As soon as he said it, a spark of hope ignited inside Johnny. He looked at Mr. Scratch, who had done so much for him, things that should have been impossible, and who knew so many things that Johnny had never even considered before. “Or will it?”
“No,” Scratch shook his head. “I don’t know of any kind of magic that can do that. But, those envelopes do have a different kind of magic.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. They have the power to bring closure to the families of those men. It won’t bring them back, but it just might bring them peace.” Scratch shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the restless dead.”
“Fine,” Johnny said. “I’ll drop it off in Richmond on my way home. Someone else can deliver them.”
“You see, the thing is… well, home is that way,” Scratch said, pointing northwest, “and Richmond is that way.” Scratch pointed southeast.
“What? I was just at Slabtown. Outside Fort Monroe.”
“I couldn’t very well leave you there with that angry mob roaming about,” said Scratch. “It seems your friend ---”
“He ain’t my friend,” interrupted Johnny.
“Well, it seems that the fine people of what you affectionately refer to as “Slabtown” thought that your associate bamboozled them. Taken their money and run. They were in no mood to trifle with, so I moved you from there and brought you here.”
Johnny looked around. There was nothing in particular that drew his attention. It looked like any of the many places in Virginia he had traveled to so far.
“It looks like you have a choice to make,” said Scratch. “Northwest will take you home where you can be with your Anna Lee. Southeast will take you back to Richmond, where you can hand in your bag and resign.” Scratch let out a deep, theatrical sigh. “If you’re really done with the fighting.”
Johnny slung the bag over his shoulder and adjusted his hat. “I am,” he said, heading off down the road.
One of the things that Grandpa Crowe had always been fond of saying was that when you took the time to think about them, seldom were our choices black and white or right and wrong. On the road again with legs that had been all ran out, time was one thing that Johnny Crowe had plenty of. There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to return home and be with Anna Lee, and that’s the direction he headed, but the sack full of envelopes slung over his shoulder weighed him down like an anchor. He couldn’t just toss the bag aside; he still had a responsibility to the army and to the families of the men whose names were written on those envelopes, men he had served alongside that paid the ultimate price. But going all the way back to Richmond would cost him time and effort that he would rather spend getting back home. What was he to do?
Johnny wrestled with the dilemma. He weighed his options as he saw them, but neither one jumped out as the obvious path he should take. He was a man torn between two emotions, his love for Anna Lee and his sense of duty. By heading northwest, he had already turned his back on the army, consequences be damned, but it was hard to continue forward when each step felt like further betrayal of his friends and fellow servicemen. When he stopped to rest, Johnny would open the sack and thumb through the envelopes, reading the names of the fallen. Each was an indictment against his decision to leave his task unfinished and return home.
On the third day of his journey, Johnny began to see his options in a different light. Perhaps that was the benefit of the ideas he had rattling around in his bronze head, or maybe that’s what Mr. Scratch had meant when he told Johnny that he would start to see what others could not. His choices weren’t limited to either returning home or going back to Richmond. He was a free man, and though he longed to return to the Knob, he had all the time in the world. Like the clouds that built on the horizon and foretold the coming storm, Johnny knew that some revelation lay just beyond his grasp and that if he kept his eye and ears open, that a new opportunity would present itself.
His steps were lighter while he walked north from Fredericksburg, the canvas bag bouncing on his hip. Rumor had it that the Confederate army was moving up into northern Virginia, driving the Federals back. Traveling north would both bring him closer to home as well as put him on a path to meet up with the Confederate forces. What he had seen at the Spotswood confirmed that most of the War Department was camped with the soldiers. Johnny could deliver the bag full of notices to the first officer he saw and tender his resignation, then swing around to the west and head for home.
His decision made, Johnny found the going much easier, even when August came, bringing the full heat of summer with it. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that Johnny didn’t feel nor mind the heat. In fact, the stifling heat wore on him very much, as it did every man on the march that summer.
He managed to bear the high temperatures well, knowing that every day brought him one closer to the day he would cross those blue mountains and look down on his home and the valley below.
But that’s not all he thought about during that hot march. Johnny was determined not to slip up this time and might even have gone a little overboard in making sure that he filled his head with something new every day. He studied the land and the names of the small towns that he passed. Anytime he encountered a farmer in his field or a businessman in town, Johnny stopped and asked questions, learning what he could about the war, preparing a field for harvest, running a smithy, or anything else that someone took the time to teach him. When asked for his opinion, Johnny considered the topic, then stated what he thought about the issue at hand. More and more often his opinions were met with a thoughtful nod from the other party while they mulled over a new point of view.
Sure, his lessons lengthened Johnny’s trip, but he was sure that he felt his mind expanding and the thoughts taking root and growing in new and exciting ways inside his bronze-capped head. Each day passed like the day before, the only real changes being that Johnny was growing smarter and the days were growing hotter. All that changed the day that Johnny reached the fighting at Manassas Junction.
Johnny had heard about the battle at Manassas the summer before, listening to the tales told second hand by the women in the market square. The stories they told sounded almost fantastic in a way. They told of how Colonel Jackson stood his ground and drove the Union soldiers all the way back to Washington D.C. The stories hadn’t interested Johnny much. He didn’t have much use for the way that the women in the market told stories, which were more gossip than news. Looking back now, with the horrors that he had seen and experienced first-hand, Johnny saw just how romanticized those stories had been. No one ever gave much thought in those stories to the wounded and dying.
He noticed right away that something was wrong. Even though the battle had been fought a year earlier, the land still had not healed. The grass was trampled low, as if the two armies had only just marched into position. Brown earth showed through where the land was scarred. The trees bore marks where the musket balls had impacted on their trunks or sheared away limbs. Poisoned, Johnny thought. The land is infected and can’t heal. Poisoned by the dead and what they did here. Would it be the same all over, where the men had fought and died? He didn’t know for sure, but Johnny thought it would be.
This land is cursed.
That was September 1, 1862. Johnny had no way of knowing that he had missed what became known as the Second Battle of Manassas in the South, called Bull Run in the North, by two days. Looking back, even if he had known, it wouldn’t have changed his mind about one thing; the land was definitely cursed.
As if in a dream, Johnny walked across the battlefield, staring at the devastation. The heat of the day and the gnawing in the pit of his stomach conspired to make him light-headed and a little dizzy. Johnny staggered across a clearing, his will bent on reaching the thin shade given by a line of trees just beyond the rise. He had covered about three quarters of the distance when the report of gunfire caused him to dive to the ground. Johnny crawled on his belly, dragging himself along with his one good arm toward the trees. He raised his head only once to gauge the distance he had left to cover, when he saw for the first time the line of Confederate soldiers spread out among the woods. The men took cover as a barrage of gunfire exploded around them, then rose and returned the volley, the puffs of smoke rising from their firearms a second before the sharp crack of the reports sounded. Through the smoke and the heat haze, the men took on an ephemeral form. The men ducked once more, shots fired from their front. Johnny put his head back down and scurried toward the cover afforded by the trees.
“Where’s your commanding officer?” Johnny called out when he reached the line of troops, but no one answered him. He looked up the hill, following the line of trees and Confederate soldiers. That’s where the officers’ll be, he thought. Up where they can see the battle. Keeping as low as he could, Johnny headed up the hill.
When he reached the top, Johnny looked around. There were no officers up here, which didn’t make any sense. From here, he saw the entire battlefield stretched out before him. Soldiers from both sides were positioned all along the grounds, firing but not advancing. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever that neither side was attempting to press forward. While he watched, puzzling over the scene, a musket ball whistled past his head.
“Better stay here and keep your ‘ead down,” said the nearest soldier. “Get it taken clean off, standin’ around like that.”
Johnny froze. He recognized the voice right away; there could be no mistaking it, he had heard it so many times before. “Emmit?”
Johnny studied his friend’s face, but Emmit seemed not to notice him. How’s he here? Johnny wondered. “You’re dead,” he whispered.
Johnny reached out with his good hand to touch his friend just as Emmit rose up and fired into the line of Federal troops. Johnny stopped, Emmit’s body passing right through Johnny’s outstretched hand. A wave of coldness washed over his fingers and up his arm, contrasting with the late afternoon heat that hung in the air. Emmit dropped down to reload, passing around Johnny’s hand and leaving it suspended in midair.
Johnny pulled his hand back and wiped the sweat from his bronze brow. I don’t get it, he thought. I tried real hard. I learned or thought of somethin’ new every single day. Sometimes more than one thing a day. How come this head and this eye are playin’ tricks on me?
Emmit turned and looked at Johnny. “Say, you look real familiar.”
Johnny sat down in the grass and looked up and down the line. The troops rose to fire and he followed their shots across the battlefield. There should have been some sign of the fighting: trees exploding in a shower of splinters, dirt flying up, anything. But there was nothing. What’s more, Johnny realized, no one ever gets hit by the gunfire.
Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the image. When he opened them again, the soldiers were still there. It’s all just a trick. I’m seein’ things that aren’t even here.
Johnny turned back to Emmit. “You’re not real.”
Emmit blinked. “‘Course I’m real,” he said. “If I’m not real, then… then…”
“You’re not real ‘cause you’re dead,” said Johnny. He opened the bag and pulled out the envelope with Emmit’s name on it. “ ‘Emmit Pearson’,” Johnny read aloud. “This is from the War Department. It’s for Sally. It says you was killed in battle.”
Emmit stared at the envelope in disbelief. He laid down his musket, oblivious to the fight going on around him, cause it ain’t real, thought Johnny, and reached out for the envelope. Instead of passing right through it, Emmit’s fingers closed on the envelope and he took it from Johnny’s hand. Johnny sat in stunned silence and watched Emmit slide his finger under the flap and open the envelope. He pulled out the paper inside, unfolded it and read it, Johnny watching his eyes scan the page.
“I’m dead,” Emmit said, looking up from the paper. “Sally know about this yet?”
Johnny shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”
Emmit nodded. “Poor gal,” he said. “Somethin’ like this just might ---”
“Kill her,” Johnny finished for him. “I know. I remembered what you said about her heart.” Johnny tapped his left breast with his good right hand. “I sat down and tried to figure out what to do, but it weren’t no good. I…” Johnny paused, “I cried. For you.”
“You were my friend,” said Emmit, realization dawning on his face. “Back in the camp outside Richmond.”
Johnny nodded, tears stinging his eyes. “That’s right.”
“But now I’m dead,” said Emmit. He looked at Johnny. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you dead, too?”
Johnny shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. I work for the War Department.”
The sounds of battle began to die away as the sun dipped low in the west. Around them, soldiers left their positions and headed away from the battlefield, fading into the evening shadows and out of sight.
“What’s going on here?” Another voice that Johnny recognized. He stood and spun around, snapping to attention and saluting Colonel Morris.
“I’m from the War Department, sir ---” began Johnny.
“You remember Johnny Crowe, Colonel,” Emmit said. “‘Brought me this.” Emmit handed the Colonel his letter. Colonel Morris read it, handed it back to Emmit, and looked at Johnny.
“This true?” the Colonel asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Johnny.
“I’m dead, Colonel,” said Emmit. “That means I don’t got to stay ‘ere no more.”
Colonel Morris frowned. “Well then, soldier,” said the Colonel, “you may consider your service to the Confederate army ended. You’re free to go.”
“Where you goin’ to go?” asked Johnny.
“Back ‘ome, I guess.” Emmit shrugged. “To see to my Sally. Give ‘er the news.”
Johnny nodded. He watched Emmit hesitate, then turn and walk away, not into the shadows as the other soldiers had, but in the opposite direction. Toward home.
“All right,” said Colonel Morris, looking at Johnny. “You’d better come with me.”
Johnny followed a step behind Colonel Morris. As they walked, Johnny reached out a hand and passed it through the Colonel’s body. So, he’s dead, too, thought Johnny. They walked among the shadows of the trees, caught between the dying light in the west and the light of the moon rising in the east. While the last of the daylight faded, the two stepped through the trees and into camp.
“So, my eyes ain’t playing tricks on me?” Johnny asked.
“No,” said the Colonel, “though I’m not sure how you can see us. No one else has been able to. I mean, we’re all dead here, after all.”