50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 2, The East Read online

  My wife cries and holds the baby. The cameras catch me hugging her; ain’t life great. After a bit the party ends and people drift away. My fifteen minutes of fame are up. Medford comes up and pumps my hand. “Great job, Blevins.” Another camera catches that shot. I’ll have to buy the picture from that guy and have it framed.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “When you get done here with all the hoopla, stop by my office, okay?”

  “Sure.” He turns and heads into the precinct.

  Next the cops congratulate me… sorta.

  “Hey, Blevins, nice job on the Smart Car.” Jackson says. His way of being nice.

  “You may notice the cruiser got almost no damage,” I shoot back. “Little tin can.”

  Carter says, “Maybe if you stopped him sooner, you could’ve avoided the chase through town.”

  I groan. Monday morning quarterbacking. Someone slaps me on the back. I turn. Perkins. “Great job, man. And I owe you an apology. I should have stopped the guy.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he says. “I could have stood up there with you, getting the medal and the plaque and the accolades.” He smiles, a thin one. I can tell he hides the pain behind his smile. Too bad. “So no more traffic control for you.”

  “Nope.”

  Perkins shoves his hands in his pockets and I see it. The self-recrimination of not doing the right thing, and knowing he’ll be directing traffic for a line-up of cars that extends to his retirement. “Well, congratulations.” No handshake.

  “Thanks.”

  He spins and trudges away, hands in his pockets, his shoulders telling the story. I turn and walk inside the precinct. Cops congratulate me in almost a line as I make my way to Medford’s office. I shake hands, nod, smile, and keep moving. Going to be fun to have Medford make nice to me.

  I knock on the door and hear, “Come in.”

  “You wanted to talk to me, sir?”

  “Yes. Sit down.” He indicates the chair.

  He rocks back in his chair and looks at the ceiling. “Blevins, you disobeyed my orders, jeopardized the safety of the people of Smyrna, are responsible for the wreck of Joyce Ramsey’s car, Mrs. McGillicutty’s car, and violated the trust of this precinct.”

  I should have known better. I thought this would end it? Medford goes on, apparently needing enough time to drill me back down from the award ceremony. The lights are down, everyone’s gone home, and now I’ll be on traffic control until Christ returns.

  ~

  Perkins pops three fries in his mouth. “So that’s the way he left it, huh?”

  “Yep. ‘Traffic control, a thousand years.’ His words to my ear.”

  “Well, it don’t negate the party, the medal, the necklace thing.”

  “I suppose not, but it’s raining just as hard, whether I have a medal or not.” The droplets trickle down the glass of the fast food place, diffusing the view of Perkins’ car. He stuffs another floral arrangement of fries in his mouth. “No getting it past him, huh?”

  “Not unless I bribe the mayor.” I take a bite of hamburger and chew, thinking. Swallow. “Wait.”

  He stops chewing. “What?”

  “The mayor.”

  He gulps the mess. “You ain’t bribing no mayor.”

  “No. But with all the press and fame I’ve gotten, I’m going to run for mayor.”

  Maryland

  Sometimes you’re not ready for something and it cuts your heart out. We toured a battlefield and I saw a plaque with a picture of a ten-year-old boy, a soldier in the Civil War. How could that be? The Civil War took the phrase, ‘War is hell’ to a new level. My boy is older.

  Warning, rated R for violence and bloodshed. It’s the Civil War. They didn’t play patty cake.

  DISPATCH

  September 16, 1862

  Jonathan squatted by the fire. Every dry spot was taken by soldiers and even if they weren’t he’d be expected to leave it open for one. Pincer Pete sat on an upturned log beside him and whittled on an oak branch, sending slices of wood onto the smoky fire.

  “I just wish I could fight, you know?” Jonathan watched a ragtag troop walk past, their long guns over their shoulders.

  “You don’t know what yer askin’ there. You been in a battle yet?”

  “No, sir. This’d be my first one.”

  “Well, it’s like lookin’ into the eyes of the devil, I tell ya. Only for men of experience.”

  “How could I get experience if I don’t fight? Sometime you fought your first battle.”

  Pete stopped whittling and worked his fingers on his left hand like a lobster, injured from a previous skirmish. He dug in his pack and took out a wad of tobacco, cut off a chunk and held it out to Jonathan. “Want some?”

  He shook his head.

  Pete stared off into the woods. “I suppose I did fight my first battle. A lifetime ago. I remember it well, too. But I tell ya, it marks a man. Changes him. Never the same.” He resumed whittling, the pincer hand clamped on the stick. “It’s pure evil. Better for you bein’ a dispatch and all. Stay behind the lines. Important job, too. Got to git messages to the powers that be, know what I mean?”

  “All I know is we need guns to fight the Confederates, more is better.”

  “In due time. The good book says, ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles.’”

  Jonathan watched him as he quietly sliced the wood, making a pointed spear. He sharpened it to a conical shape, the tip as sharp as a pin. Pete spun it and it turned smoothly. Handed it to Jonathan. “Take this. Dispatch cain’t have weapons or if you git captured you might git yerself killed. That’s just a stick.”

  “Jonathan! Boy! Come here.” The sentry waved him over. He stuck the toy bayonet into his belt. I’ll use it for firewood. He turned his attention to the tent.

  Who you calling boy? hung on the tip of his tongue, as the phrase ‘discretion is the better part of valor’ kept him from a verbal or physical attack.

  “Inside.” The sentry opened the tent, soaked from the previous night’s rainfall. The interior smelled of mildew and fear.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A soldier wrote a letter as he sat in front of the general. The man paced and dictated:

  “I have logistics in place to attack at first light tomorrow. General Hooker’s Corps will cross the bridge first and probe the enemy’s positions. With adequate information, we will have prepared an overwhelming attack of the Confederate Army. Sincerely, Brigadier General George G. Meade.” The soldier finished and spun it around. General Meade signed it and the man rolled it up, handing it to Jonathan. “Boy, take this to General Hooker. You know where he is?”

  He struggled not to wince at the term ‘boy.’ “No, sir.”

  “You came through the pass with us, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember the Boonsborough Turnpike?”

  He nodded.

  “And the Pry House. It’s around a quarter mile off of it. Go there and either give this to General Hooker or go wherever they tell you he went. Then get right back here. Stay high over the hill and stay out of the conflict; you hear, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.” He took the offered document.

  “Waste no time and get back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jonathan tucked the letter inside his shirt as he strode to his horse, Winny, and untied the reins. He mounted and turned to the trail. Who you calling boy? I can fight like anyone, and here I am, a dispatch. “Come on, girl,” he clucked his tongue and flicked the reins. She started at a slow walk. The sharpened stick jabbed him and he shoved it back a bit. “Come on now.” Even the horse doesn’t seem to respect me. He gave her a few light kicks and she trotted. They headed up over the hill, finding the trail from yesterday’s troop movement, a simple find as thousands of troops and supplies beat the road into submission. Soon his upper body got cold from the air while the
horse worked up a sweat beneath him. The trip would take a couple of hours, as he needed to maneuver around troops still arriving and moving to strike zones.

  As he rode onward, as the soldiers ignored him. He waved weakly to a few, then gave up the attempt. Dispatch. The lowest of the low.

  He ducked under low hanging branches as the woods grew thicker near the creek. At the water’s edge, he got off the horse and led her to drink. “Not too much now. Don’t want you gettin’ a belly full.” He remounted and forded the creek, the water chilling his feet. At the opposite shore he stopped and dumped out his boots. Both socks were worn almost through, but he counted himself lucky to have socks. “Come on, Winny.” Even my horse has a pathetic name. Why can’t she be Lightning or Blazing Horse or something?

  They arrived at the camp and maneuvered through troops, supply wagons, and cannons to the General’s quarters, another tent. Jonathan got off his horse and tied her to a tree. He strode to the tent and said to the sentry, “Message for General Hooker.”

  The man held out his hand. “Give it to me, boy.”

  If he hadn’t said ‘boy,’ Jonathan might have relinquished it. He shook his head. “I’m to deliver it to the General.”

  “No, you ain’t. You’re dispatch. Boy.” He held out his hand.

  Sighing, Jonathan handed him the letter.

  “Wait over there.” The man pointed to a stump.

  “I’ll wait right here.”

  The man swung his arm back like he would backhand Jonathan, so he turned and scooted to the stump. The sentry turned and opened the tent flap. A minute passed and then a voice yelled, “Meade, confound that man! He should have attacked today. That cowardly, worthless, chicken-hearted weasel. Now Lee has time to bring troops from Sharpsburg and God knows what we can do with them now. Where’s the dispatch? Bring him in here.”

  Jonathan saw the sentry open the flap and wave him over. He took his time, easing up and ambling over to the tent, smiling at the man as he walked by.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When did your troops arrive at Antietam Creek?”

  “We got there last night, sir.”

  The general smacked the table. “Then why didn’t they attack today, at daylight?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Jonathan leaned back on one leg to avoid being struck. However, the man just marched back and forth, hurling expletives and fuming.

  “Leary. Write this down.” A soldier sat at the table, pen in hand.

  “To General Meade. Your failure to initiate an attack this morning is irresponsible and may result in numerous unnecessary casualties. You are to begin conflagrations... uh, what time is it? Stop writing.” He looked at his pocket watch. “One p.m. By the time you get back it’s two or later... confound it! Okay, continue; you are to begin conflagrations at daylight tomorrow. Anything less will be considered treasonous. Major General Joseph Hooker.”

  Leary finished the document. McClellan took it and handed it to Jonathan. “Make sure your leader gets this. Make haste.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jonathan exited the tent as the general muttered, “These men will cost us the war. I need good men.”

  I’m a good man. He mounted Winny, swung around and kicked her flanks. They trotted out of the camp. They got to the road and settled into a pace and he stared at the path ahead. I am a man, why can’t I fight? The Union needs more men, why not me? Anyone can be dispatch. He replayed the same thoughts over and over, ignoring his surroundings.

  Until a man stopped them.

  The man stepped into the road, his hand up, grabbing Winny’s reins as she slowed. “Whoa, boy. Where you going in such a hurry?”

  Jonathan gasped. He wore a Confederate uniform.

  He tried to speak but it came out a croak. Clearing his throat, he said, “To General Meade, sir.” Fool! Why did I tell him the truth?

  “Well, how about that? Step down here and let’s have a look at you.” As he dismounted, the soldier looked him up and down. “You a soldier... boy?”

  “N-no, sir. I’m a dispatch. Just a boy, sir.”

  “Just a boy...” he scratched the back of his head. “Look like a Union soldier to me. Why ain’t you in uniform?”

  “Because I’m j-just a d-dispatch. Sir.”

  He peered at his saddle. “Any arms?”

  “No, sir.”

  The soldier walked toward him and Jonathan backed up until he bumped against Winny’s saddle. “Well, you looked to be in a mighty big rush. If you’re dispatch, then you must be carryin’ a message.” He looked down the road from where Jonathan came. “The question is, where’d y’all come from, where is General Meade, and what’s the message?” As he spoke, he moved his face closer until Jonathan could smell old hardtack on his breath.

  The words ran out like rain through a downspout. “I came from General McClellan’s with this message.” He tore the letter from inside his shirt and held it for the man. He took it and read it.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like the Union’s gonna have a little party at the bridge. How about that? Thank you, boy. You done real good. Probably get a statue of you at Richmond when the war’s over.” He patted him on shoulder. “Let’s just walk your horse over to our spot and we’ll wait for Jenkins. Get this message to General Lee. Take the reins and walk ahead of me. We just gotta get through some brush here.”

  Jonathan took the reins and followed the man’s verbal directions.

  Fool! Why didn’t I ride right past? Or tell him I was just passing through? He didn’t even show his arms. I could have outrun him. And I gave him the letter. I might as well have sounded the trumpet of my arrival. Why don’t I just jump on Winny and ride away?

  Yet he knew the answer. He was a boy. In a man’s war. A cowardly, frightened boy. Not a shot fired, and he rolled over with his feet in the air. They continued down the hill and crouched through dense brush. Winny balked. “Easy girl. Come on.” He coaxed her onward. The brush cleared for a small area where another soldier stood with his rifle pointed at them.

  “Easy, Clem, it’s only me. Got me a dispatch.”

  Clem eased his weapon down. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Meade is going to try to take the middle bridge tomorrow. Got a letter from General McClellan says so.” He showed the letter to Clem, who took it and read it.

  “How about that? Why don’t I take this letter over the creek and get it to General Lee? You can wait here. Or should I take the prisoner with me?”

  “I don’t know. Slow you down. Ain’t worth much for prisoner exchange or nuthin’. We’ll wait here ’til you git back. Figger out what to do with him.”

  “Take it to A.P Hill. Just watch out for Sumner’s men. They’ve gathered at this side.”

  “Will do.” Clem stuffed the letter in his shirt just like Jonathan had done and headed downhill toward the river.

  The soldier motioned to a tree. “Tie yer horse.” Jonathan complied. “Sit.” He motioned toward a log and sat himself. Jonathan sat beside him but not too close. The stick jabbed his side.

  The stick.

  He possessed a weapon.

  “Sorry we ain’t got no fire. Bein’s we’re in enemy territory we gotta lay low, you know? Keep yer voice down, too, or ah’ll have ta gag ya.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So where ya from, boy?”

  “Rhode Island.”

  “Ah. A rogue from Rogue’s Island.”

  Jonathan eased the stick up an inch at a time. “Where you from?” Keep him talking and distracted.

  “Savannah, Georgia. Pretty there. Miss home. You?”

  “Yes, sir, I miss it a lot.” The stick wiggled loose. Don’t drop it. “Hot in the summer in Savannah, I hear.”

  “Yeah. And the skeeters will carry you off.” The man stared at the ground at his feet.

  Jonathan gripped the stick. Look the other way.

  “But it’s pretty. Get over to the ocean, with those cool breezes off the water. Nighttime the sky full of star
s. We get this war over and I am gettin’ back.”

  He turned his head.

  Jonathan stuck the weapon into the side of his neck. The man screamed and stood. Jonathan jerked it out and stabbed him in the thigh. The man cursed and grabbed Jonathan’s wrist. Jonathan threw himself against him and the man tripped over the log. Jonathan fell onto him, stabbing him, a grazing slash on the cheek. The man howled and scrambled to get to his feet. Jonathan stabbed again, hitting him in the center of his throat, and blood shot out onto Jonathan’s face. The man hugged him and rolled over, kneeling on his arms. Jonathan squirmed under his weight as blood gushed out onto him. The man’s breathing became ragged as air and blood spewed from his neck.

  Somehow the man grabbed for the stick, wrestled it out of Jonathan’s fingers, and swung down toward his head, but he shifted and the stick grazed his temple. Jonathan pushed up and the man fell over on his back, gasping and sputtering out the hole, his mouth wide open as blood filled it. He twisted the stick out of the man’s hand and drove it into his chest. The man lifted and curled around the wound, then fell back, silent. Jonathan stood and took two steps back, then fell to the ground. He stood again and walked to the man, expecting him to jump up and attack him, but the man remained still in death.

  Jonathan struggled to control his breathing, his hands on his thighs. What a hideous, horrible mess! Winny snorted and bucked. He ran to her and calmed her as best he could, patting her neck. She could feel his tension and it didn’t help.

  He looked at his hands, covered in blood. Getting on his hands and knees, he wiped them in the dirt. He looked around and found the soldier’s backpack. Opening it, he found an old undershirt and wiped the blood off his hands. He wiped his face with his sleeve and found more blood. His? Mine? He wiped it off. Sat on the log. Couldn’t stop the heavy breathing. His shirt got cold and wet. He looked down and realized it was the man’s blood. The shirt stuck to his stomach. The man lay still, the stick pointing toward the sky. Jonathan grabbed the stick and tried to pull it out. It stuck fast. He gave a mighty jerk and pulled it out. He wiped it on the shirt as well and stuck the weapon back in his belt.