The Better Country



  The Better Country

  by S. Scott Johnson

  Copyright 2011 by S. Scott Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Cover design by Kevin Levick

  Edited by Laura Johnson

  Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Learn more information at https://sscottjohnson.wordpress.com/

  The Better Country

  All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

  Hebrews 11: 13-16

  ****

  The rhythmic sounds of katydids calmed the weary soldiers and ushered in the night. The forest smoldered from the earlier conflict, the horrific battle along the Orange Turnpike. The cries of the burning wounded had finally ceased, rescue attempts complete. On the far corner of the camp, a harmonica played a soft melody. The flickering campfire magically glowed against the blank paper as the Yankee chaplain struggled to join his thoughts with ink.

  “You goin’ to stare at that there paper all night? Get some sleep, Brother Web. You earned it.”

  “What’s that, Billy—you say something?” asked the exhausted minister.

  “Who ya writin’?” asked the sergeant.

  The reverend stuck his finger in his ear and shook it. “Darn cannons! This confounded ringing just won’t go away. If you must know—and it’s really none of your business—but if you must know, it’s a young lady.”

  “A lady? But I thought you took a vow,” said Billy.

  “I’m no priest, boy. Don’t you know that? I’m allowed to fall in love, even get married. Just afraid the ‘married’ part’s not going to happen.”

  “What do ya mean by that?” asked Billy.

  “Nothing. Never mind. I’m trying to think,” he said impatiently. Reverend Webster Cole gazed at the paper some more, but the pen never moved. The moans of hurt men kept stealing away his focus.

  “Put up a good fight today, didn’t we, Brother Web? Whipped some Johnnies somethin’ fierce.”

  “Now, that you did, my boy. I watched you carry the flag bravely, most bravely. By the way, how’s that wound? I can change the bandage if you need it.” The reverend felt guilty for snapping at the young man.

  The flag bearer grimaced when he touched the patched-up area. Minutes-old blood had seeped through the dressing, coagulating as nature intended, leaving a crimson badge of honor just above the left elbow.

  “Still a might tender. Thanks, but I’ll be fine...” Billy paused and threw on a stern look. “Those dogs! They’re demons I tell ya! Hope we sent a few more Rebs to hell today. Felt like I was gettin’ really close myself.”

  “Come on, you don’t want to see anyone go to hell—do you? I don’t agree with their stance, but I’d like to think I’ll see some in the heavenly country. I will see you there too—right?”

  “Sorry, Reverend. They won’t get sympathy from me. They’ve killed too many of my friends here lately.” Reverend Cole smiled at the young lad and admired him. Billy reminded him of his 21 year-old nephew. The young soldier returned to his usual, pleasant demeanor. “The ball just grazed me. Doc said I’d do fine. Just need to change this dressin’ every so often.”

  “It hasn’t hurt your music abilities. Why’d you stop playing? Come on now; this war could use a little reprieve. How about ‘Rock of Ages’?”

  Billy blew softly on the shiny little instrument, and the reverend laid down his pad and pen. Times like this had to be savored, times of tranquility sandwiched between chaos and killing, battle cries and screams of death, sounds of a world spinning to a stop, a slow death. The war had been a bloody one, no end in sight. Many young men lay sprawled across the battlefield, too many to pray for and comfort. His work seemed overwhelming, simply impossible to be everywhere, to hold a hand as the body went limp, to watch the light burn out of a man’s eyes, to hear his final whispered words. He couldn’t take it anymore. In his mind, he had to make a tangible contribution. He must join the fight.

  ****

  As Billy continued to play, Reverend Cole picked up the pen and commenced to write his letter. His thoughts started to gel, activating the hand, then the fingers, now moving the pen along.

  ****

  My Dearest Samantha,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you my love, more than you can know. I realized that today would have been our wedding day. Sadness fills my heart, Dear. It’s been a year and five days since I left you. I’m sorry, Sam. I had to go. I know I didn’t give you fair warning, but I feared you might’ve talked me out of the idea.

  I couldn’t bear to look at my congregation any longer. My words felt empty as I stared into the questioning eyes, the eyes of widows and orphans. Half of my male members, sons, fathers, and grandfathers would never be coming back. I pray I left them in good hands with Reverend Blanchard. He seemed to be a caring fellow. I trust that you still feel at home in that loving church. Their love for you is a true testament to their faith and their commitment to our Lord.

  I feel that God has led me here. I like to think that I’m not just preaching that God’s will be done, but He’s involved me in the execution of that plan, a plan that will hopefully unite our nation and remove the cruel darkness and injustice of slavery. This sin has surely brought God’s curse down on us. You know how I’ve dreamed of a better nation that will embrace equality for all men. Oh, Sam how I have prayed and prayed. I cannot pray any longer. I must go beside these men and join the smoky fields. I can no longer watch helplessly from safe-haven hilltops and spectate through the glass. Forgive me, my dear. Surely you will notice the evidence of tears that make the ink run. This war will never end, and I fear I shall not return. I suppose that our union was never meant to be in this life. Therefore, I release you from our short-lived bond. Go in peace my love, and move on with your life.

  I love you my darling,

  Web

  ****

  Billy finished playing the ageless hymn and then set the harmonica down. He stood up in pain and walked to the campfire where he grabbed a coffee pot. The aroma infused the air, beating back the scent of conflict as the young sergeant poured a cup and then a second. He motioned one of the cups towards Cole.

  “Thanks, Billy. You got a gift. So, how does someone so talented get caught up in such a crazy war?”

  “Volunteered. I joined August 10th, 1862. The 24th Michigan’s a fine unit. Don’t let anyone tell ya different. There ain’t no better fightin’ men. I’m proud to carry the colors for ‘em—darn proud.”

  “I’ve seen you in action. You’re a brave young man, and you’ve held many battles together. You should be proud.”

  “Don’t get too carried away, Brother Web.” Billy stared at his beloved Union flag standing proudly in its cradle. He stroked one of the worn, white stars, dropped his head and trembled slightly.

  “What, Billy? What is it?”

  “Reverend, ya got to keep this between you and me. You swear?”

  “All right,” the reverend said.

  “I’m
not as brave as ya think. Heck, the first time or two, I wanted to run like a coward; thought I was goin’ insane. I still get scared. The fear won’t go away.”

  “I hear you, son. I get scared too,” the reverend paused and asked, “What can I do?”

  “Pray for me,” said Billy.

  “Okay. For what shall I pray?”

  The boy—no, young man—pulled off his blue hat, revealing short curls of red hair. He slowly sat down by the fire, streams of tears running down his cheeks. “Look, my luck’s runnin’ out. I’m a big target on the field.” He stopped for a minute, taking another sip of coffee and wiped away the tears. “Those Grays want to take my flag. They want to steal it and rip it to pieces. Those blasted Johnnies.”

  “Death stares us all in the face sooner or later. I’m more afraid of how I’ll die than the actual dying,” said the reverend. “Just praying it’s quick.”

  “You’re sayin’ you’re ready to die?”

  “Well, I’m not trying to hurry it along, but yes, I’m ready to meet my maker. I’m sure of that.”

  “You may be ready, brother Web, but, I’m twenty-one years old. I want to get married, have some kids, start me a farm. No offense, but you haven’t seen the dangers up close, like I have. Every stinkin’ battle too. I’m lucky to have come this far.”

  “No luck about it, boy. God’s with you. And I’m praying for you. You’ll have your farm—you’ll see.” Reverend Cole patted his side pocket, feeling for a different letter he had written two days back. This letter was addressed to his brother whom he longed to see one last time. Cole often dreamed of the days the two of them fished from sunrise to sunset, peaceful times, times that seemed eternal. His brother had also drawn him into much mischief, and he tried to suppress memories of those rebellious years when all the pleasures of life seemed ripe for the taking. But where had the time gone? Though a good bit older than Billy, he too wanted to get married, start a family, and create another generation of brothers and family bonds. It seemed now that time had outrun his wants and desires, bringing him closer to life’s great divide.

  Cole rose, walked a few steps and kneeled beside the down-hearted soldier. For several seconds, the Yankee preacher twisted and fiddled with his black, handlebar mustache. “I’ve got something I need to tell you, Billy.” Billy looked at him, puzzled.

  “What’s that: Jesus comin’ back tomorrow?” said the young sergeant.

  The reverend slapped Billy’s shoulder and laughed hard. “Man, I wish that were true.” He stopped a minute and lifted his face toward the stars, thinking that maybe it could be true. The face tilted back down, as he folded his arms. “No, what I was going to say is: I’m joining your color guard.”

  “You’re doin’ what?” Billy looked shocked, angry and slightly pleased, all at the same time. “You don’t know the first thing about fightin’, Rev. Are you insane?”

  “I know, I know. But I’ve given it a lot of thought. Got permission from Nelson earlier this afternoon. It may be hard to believe, but I’m a darn good shot with a musket.”

  Billy was standing now, the tears gone, the night sounds had suddenly hushed. “Try bein’ a good shot when half-crazed men are bearin’ down on ya. Try bein’ a good shot when you can’t see three feet in front of ya. It ain’t easy, Brother Web. It’s stupid. You sure you want to do this? Downright stupid, I say.”

  “Yes, I do. Of course I do. Now, Billy Harris stop trying to talk me out of it. My mind’s made up, and there’s not a bloody thing you can do about it.” Reverend Cole calmed his shaking finger, as he quietly collected his fire-and-brimstone emotions, his mouth and jaw still quivering in the glow of the dancing flames. His mind flashed back to his wandering years, the years before he met Jesus. Cole was an able wrestler and boxer. He drank, cussed, and caroused, and he could easily beat any man in his home state. He prided himself on a keeping a calm head and—his skills, skills that always won out over strength and brute force. He wondered: would those skills serve him in the setting of battle. But no one needed to know about those times; those days were gone. God, the greatest wrestler of all time, had pinned him down and subdued his soul.

  Billy’s questioning scowl slowly morphed into a smile. Across the fading campfire, he extended his hand to the preacher. “Welcome to the color guard, Brother Web. Let me guess: you’re one of those Pentecostal preachers.”

  The reverend rolled his eyes and sighed. “No—Methodist actually.”

  Eventually, the campfire diminished into faintly glowing embers, and the coffee grew cold. Both men yawned and quietly walked to their tents. Tomorrow would be a big day. The regiment would be on the march. General Grant would continue to fight; he would see the war through to the end.

  ****

  Tomorrow came sooner than they expected. At 1:30 a.m., the call went out for the men to “fall in.” They quickly gathered and packed their gear. Billy, Reverend Cole and the other members of the color guard walked to the front of the procession. Captain Nelson waited for them as his skittish horse gyrated along the road.

  Billy attempted to hand the reverend a plug of chewing tobacco. Cole waved his hand and kindly refused the offer. “It’s pretty weird seein’ you carry a gun. You know how to load that thing?” asked Billy. The young man spewed a volley of tobacco juice on the poorly-lit ground.

  “Billy, I’ve told you once already. I know how to handle it. Now, where in the blazes are we going?”

  “Can hardly see him in that lantern light, but I think I see Captain Nelson just ahead. Maybe he’ll give us the skinny. Looks like the 24th is a leadin’ the march.”

  The captain looked impatient and eyed the men strangely as they fell in. “Harris.” He regarded Billy by tipping his hat. I see you made it, Mr.—I mean—Reverend Cole.”

  “Morning, Captain Nelson.”

  “You boys need to get moving because we’re leading this march. You’ll set the pace and by God be on the alert,” said Captain Nelson as he checked his revolver. The horse’s withers twitched with a curious anticipation. The young, proud commander holstered the pistol and then firmly tugged on his gloves.

  “Where we headed, Captain?” Billy spoke up, as he held the flag steady.

  “Spotsylvania, a ten mile march from here. Hoping to get around Lee and move closer to Richmond.”

  “How about the rumor goin’ round?” Billy asked Captain Nelson.

  “What rumor?”

  “I heard General Longstreet was shot bad.”

  “That’s no rumor; it’s the honest-to-God truth,” Nelson responded proudly. “Ought to take the wind out of Lee’s sails—at least for a while.”

  “Captain?” Billy was being fairly bold with the questions.

  “What, Harris? We need to get going.” The Captain pulled back the reins and turned the horse sideways, indicating his desire to start moving.

  “You sure Brother Web needs to do this?” The reverend frowned and leveled an offensive stare at the assertive soldier.

  “Cole’s made his decision. I need every available man to get in this fight. What the devil you complaining for? He’s goin’ to be protecting your hide.”

  Billy kept his focus on the Captain, avoiding Cole’s steady glare. “That’s just it, sir. Who’s goin’ to protect the reverend’s hide?” With a warped smile, Billy twisted his head slightly toward the flustered Yankee preacher.

  Nelson gave a short chuckle, and the reverend relaxed. “He’ll do fine, Harris. Don’t you feel the odds improving? He is a reverend last time I checked,” he said, sarcastically. “Harris, not that I’m much of a religious man, I just hope God, fate or something’s on our side this morning. We need all the help we can get.” The Captain turned and ordered the march to begin.

  “So, no vote of confidence,” said Cole.

  “Don’t get riled up Rev. Just lookin’ out for ya, that’s all. But now that you’re goin’
a do this thing, I expect ya to keep those Grays off me … and maybe send a few to hell ... or heaven, but I doubt it.”

  “Don’t worry, Billy. I have your back—and your front. And don’t listen to what the Captain said. God’s in control last time I checked—not fate. He’s got a purpose in everything; you can bet on that.”

  “If you say so, Brother Web. You’re not fixin’ to preach a sermon are ya?”

  “Why … I just might. Nothing you can do about it either.”

  ****

  Through the night, the march grew more difficult. Rain pummeled the advancing Fifth Corp as it slithered slowly along the Brock Road, winding its way toward its prey. The sacred Virginia soil caked to the men’s boots, the weary feet shriveled and soaked inside them. Several soldiers collapsed along the way, exhausted from the walking and earlier battles. The cavalry encountered many challenges as they cleared the way for the infantry, but the Fifth Corp pushed through, and just after dawn they approached a place called Laurel Hill.

  “Do something for me, Billy? Would you?” The reverend slipped his hand inside his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  He handed the envelope to Billy who, reluctantly, took it. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s a letter to my brother, my only brother. I’m hoping he’s still alive.” The 24th Michigan continued to march; the intensity of battlefield noise grew stronger.

  “Why didn’t you put it in the mail?” asked Billy.